#monkey got the typewriter again…

[red-might-be-dead]

hnuyuygfcvbhjuiy7t6r5edsxcv bnmkjiu8y7t6rdfcv bn mju876trfdc vnmjyfp i3ht8q3ioqiu h9r8g78r q878uweushtiyha8 ACT I SCENE I. A desert place. Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches FIRST WITCH When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH Where the place? Second Witch Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH I come, Graymalkin! SECOND WITCH Paddock calls. THIRD WITCH Anon. ALL Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. Exeunt SCENE II. A camp near Forres. Alarum within. Enter DUNCAN, MALCOLM, DONALBAIN, LENNOX, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant DUNCAN What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM This is the sergeant Who like a good and hardy soldier fought 'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. Sergeant Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers, that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald-- Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villanies of nature Do swarm upoUHF(wh9ug qv9u2t 94yt917583th81 hg jeiewusoegnvfiuwhdbfg uou2gj irreg skibiti tiolet

[trainingdummyrabbit]

i just think its Really Fucking Funny making little guys bc by all means you can look at them and look at my prior fixations and go "You Aint Fucking Slick" but it is entirely genuinely Completely By Accident but my dumb ass still saw patterns and went '^_^ hehe oh thatd be a fun nod even if it doesnt make much sense probably!' and then committed to the bit anyway, thus completing the circle of stupidity

[bulkyphrase]

Post-CACW Stony: a fic rec list

I've been on a Captain America: Civil War kick lately, and since I know that Steve-friendly CW Stony fic can be hard to find, I've put together a rec list!

I am thoroughly team cap, but these range from being anti-accords to just not getting into the issue, and all are Steve-friendly as long as you can accept a lot little loving Steve-whump.

Atlas by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 11,505 words)

Summary: They don't hear each other.

Eigengrau by vorkosigan (@the-vorkosigan) (Teen And Up Audiences, 16,811 words)

Summary: Tony is captured; he doesn't know by whom, or why. He doesn't know how much time has passed since. What he knows is, he can now hear something in the adjacent cell, and that 'something' sounds a lot like Steve Rogers.

Nights When the Wolves Are Silent, and Only the Moon Howls by Cluegirl, Defiler_Wyrm (@cluegrrl) (Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, 77,612 words)

Note: has a Stucky element too, but the relationship between Steve and Tony is the main focus.

Summary: “Could you drop all that stoic shit and be my freaking-the-hell-out wingman for just like, five seconds here?” Steve wasn’t sure he could think of anything he wanted less to do than to freak out about his wounds just then though, so he reached across his chest and gingerly patted Sam’s clenched knuckles. “It’ll be fine,” he promised, believing it. “Serum’s handled worse.” “You know, I actually believe you,” Sam allowed after a long second of glaring. “Which is deeply alarming, considering how much of your connective tissue I’ve touched in the last 4 hours. Now you wanna tell me what Russoff’s men did to you that made it look like you got mauled by a bear?” Steve flinched, then breathed the memory down to size. “Not a bear,” he murmured. “Wolves.”

More below the cut!

(trust me when i say) i'll get back to you by machi_kun (@machi-kun) (General Audiences, 1,549 words)

Summary: “Me and Rogers are not on speaking terms anymore.”

An Infinite Number Of Monkeys At Typewriters (Or, Steve and Tony Finally Get It Right) by JenTheSweetie (@jenthesweetie) (Mature, 18,864 words)

Summary: Tony blinked up at the face staring down at him. This was impossible. This was definitely 100% not possible, he had not just started giving a good morning handy to - “Steve?” After the events of Civil War, Tony and Steve wake up in bed next to each other in an alternate universe. It goes about as well as you'd expect it to.

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep by Cluegirl (@cluegrrl) (Mature, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 152,765 words)

Summary: They all made mistakes. They all have regrets. They all have nightmares, suspicions, and questions they'd like to ask. And they all left business behind them that was never quite finished. This is the story of how the Avengers ask those questions, get their answers, and come together like fucking adults to make things right again.

Bring Him Home by seventymilestobabylon (@seventymilestobabylon) (Explicit, 13,769 words)

Summary: Tony misses Steve very badly after the Accords. Some days he deals with it better than other days. (a fic featuring the booty call flip phone, minor kidnappings, and time jumps between chapters because the election has been happening and my brain has been too mush to make a proper plot)

Conjugal Visits by xtricks (Explicit, 4,252 words)

Summary: AU: Steve Rogers gets captured fairly soon after Civil War and sent to the Raft. Tony discovers that trying to appease your enemies doesn’t work and ends up a prisoner too.

Down Came the Rain by captainoutoftime (@captain-outoftime) (Explicit, 75,274 words)

Summary: A mission goes badly for Natasha, who is discovered de-aged to three years old. She recognizes no one, but every kid knows Captain America. When Tony grudgingly makes a call, Steve makes good on his promise to answer. Steve has to work together with Tony to take care of a traumatized child and figure out how to turn their itsy bitsy spider back into a Black Widow. Neither of them really want to talk about what happened in Siberia, but living in close quarters, they have to come to some sort of peace - even if it means addressing some feelings they'd rather not admit to having. As they work together to solve the problem of a re-emerging Red Room, Steve uncovers something he never expected to find again: family.

Hating Steve Rogers by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 16,243 words)

Summary: The thing about hating Steve Rogers is that it shouldn’t be easy - but it really, really is.

I Have Questions by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce) (@yourfadedglory) (Not Rated, 2,808 words)

Summary: There is only so much that Steve can carry. His legs quiver and his heart aches, he looks skyward, and in a startling moment of clarity he lets the shield go. Gouged and battered, it rings like a bell when it hits the stone floor. He wonders for a split moment if it will weigh on Tony the way it has weighed on him.

The Crying Game by fohatic (@fohatic) (Explicit, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, 36,403 words)

Summary: Steve Rogers stared at the dimly glowing digital screen of the little burner phone, rereading the text message as if it might somehow give away something he missed the first dozen times he scrutinized it. His frown only deepened, though, brows drawing together with consternation as the 88 characters only left him with an even more ponderous sense of uncertainty. If you meant what you wrote, I'll be at the Swissotel Sarajevo, 4/18. Presidential Suite. 9pm. Come alone. ...Nearly a year after Steve and Tony's fallout—and only weeks after press rumors that Tony and Pepper's engagement was inexplicably called off—Steve gets a message on the dedicated burner phone. Despite his instinctive reservations, he's compelled to answer the mysterious call. An approximately canon-compliant story.

the hope that kills you by meidui (@meidui) (Mature, 1,227 words)

Summary: Steve used to go on so much about freedom and choice. If we sign this, we surrender our right to choose. Some of the freedom he loved was big, big enough for him to lay his life down for over and over, and some of the freedom he loved was small, like the wind in his hair when he took his motorcycle out, but now he has to sob and take it when Tony sucks a deep flowering bruise where his prison uniform couldn’t possibly cover and whispers in his ear, “Who’s gonna help you now? Where are you gonna run?”

live for the hope of it all by meidui (@meidui) (Mature, No Archive Warnings Apply, 1,880 words)

Note: This is a sequel to the hope that kills you

Summary: “You can keep me here, can’t you?” Steve asks a little desperately as Tony kneels over him, spreading himself out all the better for Tony to take. He must have really hated his cell on the Raft, Tony thinks before he loses himself in Steve’s body, and for a little while, everything is the same as it has been for the past six months. It’s only after, in the dark and quiet of his own bedroom with Steve sprawled sleepy and heavy across his chest that Tony realises— This is their cell now.

The Phone by AvengersNewB (@avengersnewb) (Mature, 9,039 words)

Summary: Tony hates the flip phone Steve sends him, but he keeps it close at all times, and it never rings until it finally does and the news might help put things into perspective - Captain America : Civil War fix-it. or The phone can't take the place of your smile. [podfic added as chapter 2]

the things we invent when we are scared by nanasekei (@elcorhamletlive) (Not Rated, 18,305 words)

Summary: Steve is trapped in a dream machine, programmed to make him believe he's living his happiest fantasy. Tony goes inside to wake him up, but what he finds is a lot more complicated than he expected.

there's nothing but blue skies by Meatball42 (Mature, Major Character Death, 647 words)

Summary: “This isn’t good,” Steve said grimly.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

A. Caldwell: Resident Lover edition

ayyyye it's ya girl boy creature of questionable origins! originally I was going for a npc version of Ava, like they were a side character in RL, but honestly this design could work as my version of the MC (because, ya know, Ava was originally a self-insert who rapidly mutated into something else heehoo) also ignore my typo on their title. forgot to double check and it's too late now

Avaskian Caldwell: Miranda's (other) impersonal assistant

Mx. Caldwell was originally a student at Miranda's University, studying for their psychology degree, with the goal of being a counselor of sorts for future students. The official report states that their horrific injuries were the result of an accident that occurred off-campus, while Caldwell was running an errand for the student council. As a result, Mx. Caldwell suffered a brain injury, resulting in an unusual (and advanced) case of dysphasia, as well as increased sensitivity to sound. They now communicate almost exclusively through writing, which is less impaired than their speech, and wear special ear plugs meant to limit background noise without blocking out nearby voices. Headmistress Miranda graciously offered the former-student a job at the University, as a groundskeeper of sorts. Or, well, that's the official story...

Although few speak openly of such things, the rumors around campus indicate that Mx. Caldwell knowingly got entangled in a Cult while trying to track down an old friend. Supposedly, they betrayed the group's trust, and were cursed in retaliation. But if that is the case... why would the cult keep them around? As an example, perhaps? The truth is evasive as always, and unendingly complex.

Currently, the idea is that Avaskian's childhood friend attended the University, got involved in Alcina's secret society, goofed up real bad, tried to blackmail her way out of it, and got added to Alcina's sculpture collection. Ava questioned her sudden disappearance, despite not having been in active contact with said friend for some time. Just like in their OG story, they followed the trail, running into one of the cult's more remote ventures in the process. That sets up the bit for Ava's cult design, which I'm still working on.

Eventually, Ava made it to the university, got an invitation, emotionally manipulated their way into the thick of things (also by being intelligent, fast-thinking, and perceptive as hell), and eventually managed to put two and two together about their friend's fate. While they were unable to actually save their friend, they were able to essentially mercy-kill her, freeing her consciousness from the sculpture. Unfortunately, that meant betraying Alcina's trust...

Which is why Miranda definitely did curse them. Ava can no longer talk coherently, and is physically incapable of saying or writing several key words, to prevent them from openly revealing the cult's business. Technically, they can talk out loud, it's just... mostly nonsensical.

"Tongue twisting thoughts into scrambled egg salad. A typewriter monkey bowling for alphabet soup."

So, why did Miranda let them live?... Well, for one, they might not look like it, but they're already, like, 87% dead. Again, per their OG story (which I'm trying to adapt as seamlessly as possible), Ava's health regeneration is incredibly powerful, but uncontrollable. They literally drink poison tea (thanks Donna) to periodically give the regen something to do other than filling them with extra sets of organs. Ava manages to be resourceful, effective, and can mostly blend in without others realizing their inhuman strength.

But I think the biggest reason Miranda didn't outright kill them is that, to a degree, she recognizes a piece of herself in them. Someone who is ruthlessly persistent, utterly set on their goal, purely devoted to the one they want to protect. Ava wasn't able to save their person, but their loyalty is admirable, and Miranda knows just how to redirect it for her own purposes...

[yamisnuffles]

twenty questions for fic writers

Tagged by my best gal @feralkwe

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 46. I have a lot of fic that just lives on Tumblr or that was on older fic sites, so that's not really indicative of my total fic amount lol.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 338,924. Again, A LOT of one shots and stuff elsewhere.

3. What fandoms do you write for? On AO3, Dragon Age, Mass Effect, FFXIV, Skyrim, Good Omens, One Piece, and Star Wars

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Blitzed (GO 1941 smut and my first smut ever lol), The Altus Inquisitor (DAI AU, pretty much as it says on the tin), Get Closer To Me (GO S1 night at Crowley's place fic), Heartbeats (a series of one shots for a One Piece Corazon lives AU), and The Ecstasy of Anthony J Crowley (GO divinity kink smut fic)

5. Do you respond to comments? I try to! I didn't always but I'm trying to get better about that because I really appreciate each and every comment.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Uuuuuh, might be For Want of Words? It's GO post S2 and not fix it so it is not happy lol. Possibly Wicked White, which ends as Shadowbringers ends and thus isn't the happiest place for a WoL/Emet fic lol. Otherwise, they're series and neither finished but my Law as the new Corazon AU series was just bummers all the way down and, ironically, Too Much of a Good Thing gets progressively less... optimistic. Lots of sad smut and series I guess.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? If I resist making a smut joke, Just For Two is one of the fluffiest things I've ever written. Pure GO S1 fluff fic written for the fun of it.

8. Do you get hate on fics? Not really? I got an... indirectly cruel comment one time on something but people are generally very nice on the fics themselves.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Yes. The Good Omens kind lmao. I mean, I've branched out but it was the first fandom I wrote smut for and continues to be the one that gets the most. It hovers between that M and E rating for good reason. Very feelsy and in the case of GO, I love some religious symbolism lol. I like to weave it into longer works but I also happily write one shots (or try, sometimes it takes a few chapters to get to my one shot plans).

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? I don't think I've ever written a crossover. I've done crossover art but I tend to stay within a fandom for fic.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Again... I don't think so?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes! I used to write with my best friend a lot in high school and I adored it. It's one of the things I miss most about that friendship and, in general, something I miss doing.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship? Do I even have to say? Aziraphale/Crowley own my soul. That said, I do have the softest of soft spots for my Trev/Dorian and Shakarian. Also, Justice/Anders/Hawke because it burns with the added power of spite.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will? Ahahaha... *sweats nervously.* So many. I am determined to finish the Altus Inquisitor but it's hard to get my heart back into DA with good reason. I'd love to continue my various OP series but I doubt I ever will for a few reasons.

16. What are your writing strengths? Characterization. I work really hard on it. I obsess over it. There is nothing I think of more in any fandom than characterization lol. I'd also like to think I'm good with emotion and description.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Finishing anything ever. I'm a whimsical creature and if I'm not into something at the moment, it's really hard to get myself to focus on things. I also feel like a monkey with a typewriter any time I'm trying to write smut, but I think that's just the nature of the beast.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? I am really bad with languages so I try to just avoid it.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Jurassic Park! As a wee bab I wrote about a raptor ripping someone open and eating them lmao.

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written? Oh man, oh man, this is actually really hard for me. There are a lot of things I've written that I'm fond of for different reasons. I adore my AUs because I put so much of my soul into them to make them feel authentic. Various fics for various fandoms hit hard for different reasons. If I absolutely HAD TO choose, I'd say either The Altus Inquisitor, because Lucien is my baby and I genuinely enjoy rereading it, or Dig Down from my GO AU, which I feel like is just a strong short fic and best sums up that whole series. Both are hard to recommend though because one is chronically unfinished (I am trying!) and the other is smack dab in the middle of a series.

I tag anyone who wants to do this because I am too tired to think rn. Go forth with my blessing

[cheesey-rice]

I feel like in theory time has got to be a circle.

Like if you put aside relativity to us as humans the idea of before the big bang there was always nothing forever and after the heat death of the universe there will be always nothing forever kind of seems unlikely and is partially assumed based on our own need as humans to categorize distinct boundaries/intervals in order to easily process information. It would kind of make more sense if existence occurs in alternating waves with pre-bigbang/post-heatdeath nothingness. Theoretically if these waves of existence/nonexistence occur on an alternating schedule then the various existence points could cycle through a bunch of different variables of relationships between the various types of matter that compose existence.

With the assumption of infinite time, the alternating combinations of these existences mean that theoretically the pattern of exact existences could repeat in a manner copied such that essentially time is 'repeating' itself. Unless we have like a π situation actually? But then again π could like eventually repeat and we just don't know because it isn't really relevant to us to calculate out past the trillions. It might be a cool scifi premise to figure out how many permutations it takes for pi to repeat and then extrapolate that to this 'existence is a circle' mentality in the sense that how long does it take for something with 'infinite possibilities' to repeat an exact order and then that would be how far you would have to go to reach the existence generated to be exactly like your current one monkeys with a typewriter style, lol. But idk my point being that irl I think the default assumption that existence stops/starts at some point is a bit silly and it's more likely that existence past points of 'nothingness' loses meaning to us the same way calculating out all the digits of pi loses Relevancy to telling your math teacher what the area of a circle is. In that sense you can kinda just define existence by personal relevance the same way scientists do.

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Hey just wanted to say I’m soo excited for the new Strawhat stowaway chapter like I be lowkey just waiting for you to post. If anyone else posts I’m kinda like ehh, but I lovvveee your work! I also hope your doing well, love your posts!!

Thank you so so much, I'm honored and humbled 🥹🥰

Actually got a couple pages done on chapter 3 tonight before I started falling asleep at my computer. Today has been horrifically exhausting. If I don't get to bed soon then anything I shovel out is going to read like a team of half-trained monkeys with typewriters wrote it. Probably going to draft bits of it on my phone until I fall asleep and type them up properly in the morning.

Again, thank you!! Your support means more to me than I can convey with words ❤️ ❤️

[rayclubs]

The OP is being a little rude but their points are correct. AI is theft. If you were to take another person's songs without permission, cut them up and algorithmically stitch them back together without purpose or intent, and produce an approximation of that person's music style, then yes, that would be theft. AI is not borrowing individual pixels to integrate them into its own creation, it's scraping whole works to replicate the appearance of what it copies. There is no clearer definition of theft.

The second point that you don't like arguing about is actually the first point all over again. Since everything AI "makes" has been stolen from other creators, its energy consumption is also theft. AI cannot produce anything of value in the same way a monkey with a typewriter cannot produce anything of value. You can put a thousand monkeys in the room and vastly increase the chances of one of them eventually writing Romeo and Juliet, but it's been written before already, and now you've got to feed all those monkeys.

AI energy consumption is actually measured in TWh because it's unforgivably huge. It's measured per hour because you can't meaningfully measure it per work produced, because you can't divide by zero. I can tell you how many rotations per second my washing machine makes per KWh. You can't measure anything AI does in this manner except the size of the database it's learning from. Its only valid measurement scale is works stolen per kW wasted.

Videogames are different because you can play them. You can measure their value by hours played, joy experienced, and other metrics by which a work of art is normally judged. The same metrics do not apply to AI. Where human creative work has intent and purpose, AI has a theft algorithm.

AI people: we're just as much artists as you are, you gotta be so observant and go through so many correcting phases for the picture to look good uwu also AI people:

[poemsfornic]

Good they’re all gone

I can stand at this podium and say whatever I want out into the expressive darkness of the empty theatre it’s only empty until the fourth or fifth row after that it’s dark and maybe there’s some straggler someone sleeping or recently awakened who doesn’t know that this has been going on too long that it’s been silence for years that it’s time to wake up and say something again that it’s time to take the plug out and let it flow

“listen” i say “listen, if you say a lot some of it’s got to be good sometime that’s math. that’s monkeys at typewriters.” i say

the door opens somewhere in the back it’s impossible to know if someone is coming or going but it doesn’t matter it never did

[mihai-florescu]

sorry for all the asks i’m in full weirdo insane mode

just a couple days ago i thought abt ibayuzu banged out 2000+ words in one sitting like a monkey at a typewriter and got so burned out i couldn’t do anything else for days. finishing fist of idol + seeing the new shuffle has incurred this mode once again but it dont know if i have the strength to do it. god save my soul. i’m so normal about characters.

I enjoyed the elevator fic scene you sent me the other day sooo much but please dont burn out, the idols will still be here 4ever and ever, no need to rush it, i dont want your health to suffer bc of overwork

[osakanone]

I don't even want to have the fetish. Its like a software bug in my brain where I latched onto something completely absurd and nonsensical and it just kept going.

At some point the need exceeded the capacity for reality to deliver it.

Its mundane, impossible, and strange. Its like the penrose stairs of fetishes because it literally cannot happen, even though it can be conceptualized.

And thus because of that gap, the fetish "died" because it became impossible to achieve gratification to.

It makes me wonder

Does a fetish have a life-cycle?

You just got so DANGEROUSLY close to making a description of it fall together by accident on the internet through casual banter.

I am completely baffled by this. It defies every law of everything I know. This is the monkeys with typewriters moment of my life.

I know this is a strange thing to talk about but I need to express, my mind has just been completely blown because again, I 100% did not expect anything REMOTELY like this to happen in a billion billion years.

I was even BANKING on that fact. I even named the phenomena of what it had done to me after a fucking celestial event in a desperate search for dignity and closure.

This is literally how I feel, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened:

I'm still not saying what it is. I practice self acceptance but I do not accept that about myself. It has nothing whatsoever to do with heat-death or celestial events and everything to do with the exchange the two of you just had.

I feel like such a total creep because you're not like, in on the joke and it won't make any sense to you, but I need to explain this is just incredibly funny to me.

Right now, I'm Frankenstein and its my Frankenstein's monster. And some how it just put itself back together and started walking spontaniously and then fell apart again.

I need to go find some sort of heavy bludgeoning weapon like alcohol to kill my braincells.

This is a lot to take in. I'm just so amused by this.

I can't stop laughing.

what if someone skyrim pickpocketed all the nut out your balls

[riddlemethispoetry]

Chaos Theory

trigger warning: sexual assault, but honestly, if you’re having a bad day, then skip this one. I think it’s important for me as an artist to use the platforms and stages I have access to and talk about safes spaces, rape culture, and sexual assault; particularly in the context of grassroots arts scenes that lack checks and balances. I’ve talked before about being assaulted by someone I saw as a mentor a few years ago, and more than anything I guess what I want is to push the message that if something feels off, then it’s probably not, but there’s no harm in checking. It might save someone from the worst thing of their lives. This is a dark poem, about the worst thing in my life. It is also about healing. Technically it came from PromptPosting Day Four, but it’s more than that.   Sometimes the tea cup breaks back together. This is the fundamental assumption of chaos theory;

That at some indeterminate link in a chain, a change in the flow from first cause can create the impossible.

The morning after my rape, I went to some cafe in suburbia where life went on, and time didn't stop, and

I bought a cappuccino.

On a superficial level, the idea of chaos is not dissimilar to the foundation of infinite,

The idea that if I run the same scenario endless times then I will achieve every possible permutation

of the expression of possible results. That if an infinite number of monkeys on

an infinite number of typewriters recreating Shakespeare, or the Bible, or

If I gave an infinite number of monkeys typewriters then one should write my autobiography as

a series of short stories; less analysis than every date than made me smile, and every heartbeat I wept, and

The morning after I was raped, I didn't cry, or smile and I was numb.

I don't know how you are meant to feel once you leave the room you are raped in,

I had thrown up afterwards like my body rejected the circumstance, or a poison;

like I had ingested everything sick in my arts scene and my body rejected it, threw it up again and again until

I thought I would die of dehydration. Poetry will always be the thing that got me raped.

It will always be something a mentor who pulled my hair back poured down my throat when I didn't want any more;

It will also be what saved my life. The difference between the idea of infinity and chaos is

the realm of possibility. The infinite encompasses all that is, and could be.

I imagine this is what God sees, or while he sat at his infinite typewriters, maybe that was all the stories he wrote, but

chaos theory implies the existence of miracles. It implies that a butterfly staying a heartbeat longer saves

the life of Archduke Ferdinand, or that a different recipe for Pepsi means the Russians are first to the moon,

and the morning afterward there were no miracles. I sat alone; tried to sip at some coffee. I remember the waitress as kind.

I remember staring at a pay phone after what had happened, and knowing no number I felt I could call.

I did not know how to explain what had happened without an autopsy, without being cut open,

having someone lift a scalpel past my lips to ask why I did not say no louder, to pull every word

I begged with out of my guts where the guilt for something I did not do wrong stays;

I did not know how to say how much I hurt without opening my ribs, lifting up my heart and saying look,

look what is left. Weigh it. I do not know if it will be heavier because of what it carries,

or lighter because of how much was taken. The existence of infinity implies that every possibility is a certainty, somewhere.

It suggests that somewhere, I never met the person who assaulted me. Elsewhere, I did not believe them

when they said if you come with me, then you will be safe. It is easy to torture yourself

with possibilities. As I sat in this little cafe, I remember my hand shaking.

It is strange the details you hold on to. After, I would go to a pay phone, to not know who to call.

My hands would shake, and I would drop it. Like I dropped a cup of coffee in a cafe,

like God had dropped my porcelain outline against the ground, let it shatter. I wonder if angels drew

in chalk where the stains of me used to be; if my shattered parts looked like ink splodges, or

if the fragments were a constellation. I wondered if they stared into the shattered glass like it was a night sky with dead stars they were seeking answers in because that’s how the pay phone looked to me, As I stared at a pay phone not knowing if I had anyone to call, or anything to say, or I don’t know if I wanted to talk to god, or if I spat every prayer into a pillow while I begged him to save me. Chaos theory is the applied theory of miracles. This time, somewhere else, the pay phone rings. Quietly, at the other end of the line, poetry or God says hey, I see you. There is enough heart left. You do not have to apologise for what you did not do, In this, you did nothing wrong. Somewhere, poetry takes my heart, and weighs it against a feather that looks like a quill. Somewhere, a tea cup comes back together. 

[fuckspn]

you know what actually i don’t blame teenage me for thinking season 8 was building to canon destiel, because even rewatching it now 8 years later, season 8 still absolutely seems like it’s building to canon destiel. every time the two of them appear together or are even mentioned together everything else in the narrative grinds to a halt in favor of expounding upon the depth of their feelings for each other, and it builds in intensity over the course of the season. i mean, the first half of the season has purgatory and the second half has thee crypt scene, naomi’s speech to dean about how she wishes cas felt the same way as him, the two of them fighting because, essentially, dean is hurt that cas left him again, and the season finale which drags dean away from sam and the main plot so he and cas can kiss and make up in a bar while 5 feet away a cupid causes a masculine guy who had previously been assumed to be straight to fall in love with another man. and not only that, but it’s such a contrast to the relatively light and jokey homoerotic undertones of their relationship in previous seasons that it comes across even more like the writers were actually telling a love story that they planned to bring to fruition in season 9. i didn’t fucking get queerbaited, i didn’t fall for some clever prank, i read the writing on the wall and just didn’t realize it was placed there by monkeys on infinite typewriters rather than deliberate storytelling choices.

like, it’s hard to remember here in this post-s15 world, but season 8 destiel was new. as much as i enjoy their relationship in seasons 4-7, i’ll freely admit a lot of the subtext is garden variety unintended homoeroticism produced when a show full of men with good cheekbones goes too hard with the misogyny and fails to come up with any female characters compelling enough to ship the male leads with. season 8 was the first time we really got a taste of the “we are actively and deliberately going to write dean and cas like a couple but fuck you if you notice it” flavor of destiel—of course we didn’t know yet that the fuck-you was coming! we didn’t have the context of seasons 9-15 to warn us that the ramping up of the romantic subtext didn’t mean anything! the first time lucy held the football for charlie brown he had no way of knowing that she was going to yank it away!

[airlock]

it's inadvisably early in the morning and I just finished watching a video talking about the public perception of Twilight over the years, and it got me thinking about some things that I figured I might as well inelegantly ramble about in my limited platform that one or two people like to read my text posts on

but before I take this to the inside of the readmore, I have a small confession to make. you see, when I was a teenager...

... I fucking hated Twilight actually. that's barely a confession, but hey, I told you it was going to be small

anyways, onto the disorganized reflections about the deceptively simple matter of disliking things in media and fandom, typed from my phone and likely riddled with tpyos

in this day and age, I think it's very unlikely you'll uncover a person, especially a mature one, who likes Twilight without at least harboring reservations over its more tres problematique aspects or the simple fact that they're not really the most fascinating thing that a monkey has ever committed to a typewriter. at the same time, though, the phenomenon of vociferously disliking twilight is long gone; for the most part, Twilight either your guilty pleasure, or something you don't think about very much at all anymore.

this has made it rather easy to construct the retrospective narrative that, even if being a twilight fan back in the day might have been a little bit cringey and embarassing, everyone who vocally disliked the books back then was someone pathetically hanging their entire identity onto bashing a thing just because teenage girls liked it.

now, I'm not here to stand in defense of the whole of the phenomenon that was Hating Twilight, because hoo boy, not all was right in that kingdom. it led to an immensurable quota of bullying and harassment, and much of it was rooted in sexism, queerphobia, machismo, the works. still, some part of me doesn't see how exactly it's fair to forgive Twilight for being imperfect while also casting that other coin of olden times only ever in the worst possible light. it's not an exact equivalence by any means, but I think it's something comparable.

it's also just kind of like... when I think about to what exactly I disliked so much about Twilight, when I try to get to the core of it in the most honest way I can... it comes down to the sparkly vampires. yeah. it's not that I hated it because it was effette (although I wholly admit that I was there on board with people taking the mockery in that direction), so much as that it seemed like this story was written about vampires that weren't vampires in any interesting way. not nocturnal bloodthirsty undead monsters, just attractive guys with a couple of superpowers. might as well have set it in smallville.

you might be thinking, that's such an unimportant thing. and it absolutely was! but nobody is any longer pretending like they had a deep and interesting reason for liking Twilight; why should it only be Valid (TM) to have disliked it all along if you were one of the people who actually had a good reason to feel that way?

there are certainly some things that the sentiment doesn't justify -- doesn't make it right to give the people who did like the books a hard time, and doesn't make it right to talk about these dislikes as if they are objective assessments of quality, to name a few things. again, it's not an exact equivalence. but I think this unwillingness to just let people have their petty, personal dislikes is one manifestation of a deeper and more insidious phenomenon in modern fandom culture.

one thing I also remember from those yonder days is that, from time to time, people would take me to task on why disliking Twilight seemed to matter so much to me. whether it be because of times when I was genuinely being uppity about it, or because of times when people simply projected this sense of caring very much at simple expressions of dislike and/or some rounds of having fun lambasting the disliked thing. at those times, I'd do the thing that many people did and fall back on concern trolling over the book's ostensible romanticization of abusive behavior. (which, to be clear, is not something I am now categorically saying Twilight doesn't do, I'm just now past the point of pretending like I know enough about the series to make such a serious accusation affirmatively. maybe I should have just stuck with calling out the part where a dude falls in love with a newborn. I know that that's a thing that happens, unfortunately)

thing is, that particular strain of behavior -- deflecting with social commentary as a response to being taken to task on your petty dislikes -- reminds me quite a bit of something else. like, say, the fact that most people in fandom these days are absolutely unwilling to ever admit they dislike something just because they do and instead always have to make it out to be a cause of social justice instead.

one of the bigger reasons why this happens is purity culture and the desirability of signaling wokeness to others even in situations where it does not fucken matter, but I think another of the biggest reasons is that, if someone simply does come out and say "yeah, I dislike the thing for reasons that aren't very deep", they tend to get responded to like they grew five heads. best case scenario, they get labeled a killjoy. worst case scenario, they get the woke-fu turned on them, because hmmmm, how suspicious that you dislike this character who is a minority of some sort. (if the character is not a minority of any sort, then naturally, people have written slash fic about him, therefore you are homophobic for disliking him. it always works!)

now, there is a certain amount of etiquette that is fundamental to not being a dick about disliking things -- the golden rule being that you don't ruin the fun for people who do like the thing -- but I think it's high time we recognized more broadly that pettiness creates as much community and life as love does. somewhere beneath all the chest-thumping and celebrity harassment, there were once people genuinely finding community in their shared distate for this tedious little book that it seemed like the world couldn't get over. I think that, whenever you give people that opportunity to bond over a shared dislike, they'll bite; it's better we just figure out how to wield this, with etiquette and honesty, and accept it. it's leaps and bounds better than making people feel like they have to destroy something before they're allowed not to like it.

hell, I'd say that the best thing out there is when fans and haters of a certain thing can still find common ground. can you imagine how thrilled I was when I heard about how the Twilight series apparently has a whole lot of more interesting-sounding side characters who were just unfortunately shunted to the background of The Love Triangle Of Mr. Obssessive, Ms. Everygirl, And Mr. Secretly Actually In Love With An Ovum?

[roseverdict]

More Than He Seems (Part 2)

snord help me i'm back on my

★·.·´~bullshit~`·.·★

i am but a monkey gifted with access to a typewriter and given no rules with which to constrain myself

this one's more a talky chapter, but we also get to see bill for the first time so there's that. stan is not a fan of the resident demon dorito.

warnings: not much. bodily possession of a nerd by everybody's least favorite piece of geometry. aforementioned geometry-in-a-nerd-suit proceeds to get tied up and he is Not Happy about it. more of stan's potty mouth.

part 1 here! ao3 version here!

〜〜〜〜〜〜

"His name is Bill Cipher. I first summoned him via reading an incantation recorded on a cave wall, deep within the cliffs surrounding this town." Ford began. "My original plan to take care of him was to make the trek up to the caves again and deface the summoning instructions. I had planned on waiting until you had the journal and were well away from the town, but since that's not happening any time soon-"

"You better believe it!"

"-I suppose I will have to account for your continued presence…I know I have enough supplies for a one-person trip there, but if both of us are to go and return, it will have to be postponed until there are enough supplies for the both of us."

"…okay, that'll keep the asshole out of other people's brains." Stan conceded, filing away the odd way Ford had phrased his plans for later. "That still doesn't answer my question, though. What about yours?"

"I'm…I'm not entirely sure it can be done." Ford's voice came out quiet and resigned. "When I trusted him, I trusted him so completely that I allowed him access until the end of time itself. Even though I have done my best to do damage control, I can't take that back."

Stan scowled at a particularly fresh stain on the far wall. "I call bullshit. There's gotta be something."

"If there is, I have yet to find it." Ford sighed, glancing away. "Aside from pie-in-the-sky 'plans' that aren't even feasible-!"

"And exactly how much sleep have you been getting?" Stan countered, turning his scowl on his brother. "You're not firing on all cylinders, Stanford. Get some rest if you can, and then give this mess another look. That's Problem-Solving 101!"

"But what about Cipher?" Ford protested, his face pale. "The moment I fall asleep, he'll swoop right in and, and-!"

"And, I'll deal with it." Stan cut him off. He shifted his shoulder slightly, the peas in the bag rustling. "I'm not gonna be getting any sleep for a while, anyway. If this 'Bill' guy starts causing trouble, I'll keep him in line and make sure he can't leave your body worse than how he got it. Once you wake back up, w-you'll be able to think more clearly."

When Ford next spoke, a long moment later, it was with a quiet, shaky, "You're sure?"

"Positive." Stan twisted his scowl into a self-assured smirk, forcing himself to not look as worried as he felt. "Now rest, Stanford! It's…wow, it's one in the morning!"

(Stan tried not to think about how easy it felt to slip back into the role of 'the one who told Ford to sleep like a sane person,' even after so many years.)

"Right. Right, I'll…I'll go rest." Ford stood up from the table and staggered to the doorway, his voice dropping to a cracking murmur. "I'll rest. I can rest now."

Stan swallowed, watching the shell of his brother stumble away. Hoboy.

There was still a part of him that wanted to keep yelling at Ford for what he'd let their pa do ten years ago, but it was quickly being overwhelmed by the growing need to get him back to full health.

Ford had only called him there because he needed something from him, the devil on Stan's shoulder insisted.

The angel on his other shoulder countered that Ford was in way over his head!

Ford had dug his own grave.

Ford didn't deserve to have an actual demon use him as a puppet for the rest of eternity!

Oh, curse his brotherly instincts!

Setting his bags of peas aside, he got up and trailed Ford to one of the open rooms, just in time to see him drop face-down onto an unmade bed in a dead faint, still dressed.

A blink later, Ford's body shot back up, and too-bright eyes and a too-wide grin twisted back to face Stan.

Hm. Yellow eyes and funky pupils. That'd be useful to remember.

"Well, well, well, hey there, little Fishy!" Ford's voice giggled, nasal and grating.

Stan crossed his arms and made himself a smidgen more imposing in the doorway. "I take it you're Bill, then?"

"Oh, you've heard of me!" Bill-Ford (Bord?) beamed, pressing Ford's fingers to his mouth in faux surprise. "My reputation precedes me!"

"Damn right it does." Stan snapped, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Let's get one thing straight. You don't get free reign of Ford's body anymore, got that?"

Bord raised an eyebrow at that, the malicious glee draining slightly from his stolen face. "Oh? And who are you to tell me what I can and can't do with this meatsack?"

"Simple."

Stan made himself tall enough that he could glare down his nose at Bord without it being too contrived.

"I'm his brother."

Bord smirked up at him, unfazed. "That didn't stop you from hurting him ten years ago!"

"You're supposed to be this all-seeing demon, aren'tcha?" Stan snarled. "You know as well as I do that that was an accident. Besides, Ford's letting me stay here, only God knows why, and I'm not about to let some asshole with an overinflated ego fuck him up if I have anything to say about it!"

"Oh, sure, we know that." Bord shrugged nonchalantly. "But Sixer doesn't! As far as he's aware, you saw him stretching his wings and decided you would cripple him so he could never leave y-!"

Stan's fist found itself buried in the doorway with a crunch of breaking wood, where Bord could see it plain as day.

"The moment I figure out a way to do that to you properly, that's you." Stan ground out, using his other hand to pull a cloth of some kind from his pocket. "Y'got that, you demented dorito?"

"You do seem to like punching things." Bord nodded as if considering Stan's threat, then smiled too widely again. "I wonder how long it'll take for Fordsy to decide you haven't changed! Do you think you'll be banned from Oregon in a month? What about a week? Maybe even-mmph?!"

Stan tied the gag around Ford's head with a silent apology to his brother, but outwardly, he just huffed. "That's enough outta you, I think."

Bord gave him an affronted glare, muffled shouts making their way from Ford's mouth as he tried to go after Stan. Stan, however, being as strong as he needed to be at any given moment, easily wrenched Ford's shaky, weakened arms behind his back and hefted Bord into the air. Bord started wriggling around like a toddler on Smile Dip, but Stan dropped him on Ford's mattress and set about restraining him with a businesslike efficiency.

Arms tied behind his back with the pillowcase? Check.

Legs tied together with the sheets? Check.

Blanket wrapped over Ford's chest and legs and under the mattress like the world's most cozy seatbelt? Check.

"Sleep tight, Bill." Stan smirked, stepping back and sitting on the nearby couch, leaning his elbows on his knees. "You're not going anywhere on my watch."

Bord screamed under the gag, but all that came out was a venomous "MRGHMPH!!!"

Stan chuckled darkly, shifting back into his usual shape. "Yeah, you'd better just deal with it. I'm making sure Ford gets a fucking good night's sleep, and nobody can stop me."

Bord glared at him, but aside from pulling at his restraints and muffled screeches, could do nothing to express his displeasure.

Stan almost gave himself a pat on the back, but his shoulder twinged at the idea.

Ah well. It was the thought that counted.

〜〜〜〜〜〜

Stanford found himself floating adrift in his house.

This was something he recognized immediately, though he hadn't done it in quite a while.

Usually, this only happened when Bill was in his body while he was awake.

Stanford crossed his arms and floated around warily. If Bill wanted to keep Stanford's body, he would have to fight him for it.

Muffled shouts slipped out from under one of the doors, cutting off his train of thought. Figuring Stanley had merely stubbed a toe or something, Stanford poked his head inside to investigate.

An exhausted-looking Stanley gave Stanford's body a deadpan glare from where he sat. "Seriously, you can quit fighting this whenever. Ford's not alone anymore, and you just gotta deal."

Bill bit out something that didn't quite make it past the gag in his stolen mouth, but in the Mindscape, Stanford could hear him loud and clear. "ONCE I GET OUT OF THESE BINDINGS, I'LL TEAR YOUR STILL-BEATING HEART OUT OF YOUR CHEST WITH MY BARE HANDS AND FEED IT TO YOU!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Stanley rolled his eyes, only for his eyebrows to shoot up as he stared in Stanford's direction.

Stanford blinked and glanced behind him, but nothing there seemed to have caught Stanley's attention.

Stanley tilted his head. "That's new. Stanford, are you aware you're a ghost or something?"

Wait.

"You can see me?!" Stanford gasped.

"Okay, uh, those are definitely words you're trying to make with your mouth, but I can't hear a thing." Stanley stated. "I'm just gonna go out on a limb here and guess you weren't expecting me to see you?"

Stanford raised a finger to explain to him, but after his mind caught up with him, put it back down in favor of shrugging and nodding.

"Huh. Weird." Stanley frowned in thought before seemingly setting it aside. He gestured to where Stanford's body strained against his bedsheets in a vain attempt to get loose. "So, is Bill usually this scream-y?"

"I'LL SHOW YOU 'SCREAM-Y,' YOU OVERGROWN FISH STICK!"

Stanford swallowed and floated away from his body in the equivalent of a very large sidestep. He shrugged to Stanley again, wiggling his hand in a "so-so" motion.

Stanley nodded to himself. "Kinda. Got it. Are you as rested as you can be? This whole thing is an absolute clusterfuck, but I'm guessing since it's been a few hours and you're sorta conscious now, that's gonna be as much sleep as you'll be getting tonight."

Stanford rubbed the back of his neck, (a few hours? it wasn't a full night's sleep, but it was more than he'd been getting before!) but nodded again.

"Alright, then how do we get you back in there?" Stanley asked, pushing himself to his feet.

Stanford frowned, rubbing at his chin as he glanced at his body.

Bill grinned at him. "You don't honestly believe he's going to stay and help you, do you?"

Stanford levelled a glare at Bill, then turned to Stanley. He mimed throwing his fist into his palm, then pointed to Bill.

Stanley gaped. "You want me to knock him out? Stanford, I'm not exactly a lightweight! You'll be feeling it for days!"

Stanley did have a point. He always had been the champion boxer when they were children.

"Ooh, is Fishy gonna beat up his beloved brother?"

Then again, he'd really rather be in his body than let Bill run amok.

He nodded firmly, pointing harder at his body.

"…if you insist." Stanley finally conceded, his shoulders stiff as he stood and inched towards the mattress.

Bill just smirked beneath the gag. "Just you wait, Sixer! You'll be at each other's throats in no time! I WON'T EVEN HAVE TO DO ANYTH-!"

Stanley's fist met Stanford's chin, and Bill dropped to the mattress like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Lights out, you nutty nacho." Stanley muttered, shaking his hand out. He glanced back at Stanford. "Once you're back in there and untied, I'll get you some ice. You'll want it, trust me."

Stanford nodded and dove into his body, filling out his limbs with sensation once more-

-and hissing in pain as his chin yelled at him.

Stanley's voice reached him as if from across an ocean. "You with me, Stanford?"

Stanford managed a small nod, cracking his eyes open and croaking an, "I'm up," past the gag.

He caught sight of a Stanley-shaped blob leaning in and inspecting his eyes, then Stanley nodded and ungagged him before moving on to the restraints. "So, uh, if worst comes to worst and we have to do all that again, is there any way we can give Bill the boot without busting you up?"

"As of now, I don't quite know." Stanford admitted, pushing himself upright once Stanley freed his chest and wrists. "Theoretically, it should be possible to avoid it in the first place, but without any leads to go off of, we would just be running in circles, dancing to Bill's tune."

"Circles…" Stanley murmured, untying Stanford's legs. "…hey, isn't it a whole 'thing' to use circles in magic and stuff? Maybe there's some kind of spell that you can use to make your head a Bill-free zone?"

Stanford frowned in thought. "I don't think it would work to cast it directly on myself…perhaps I can figure out a way to Bill-proof the house itself? Oh, but the only thing that might work would be…ughhhhh…"

Stanley lifted an eyebrow and plopped down on the other end of the mattress. "What's the hold-up, Stanford?"

"I've been working on this problem for weeks, and so far the only potential solution I could think up involves…" Stanford shuddered.

"…attempting to appease the unicorns for a lock of their hair."

Stanley's eyebrows shot up at that. "Unicorns? Real, honest-to-God unicorns?"

"Yes." Stanford groaned. "And they're incredibly insistent that only one who is pure of heart is worthy to take their hair. I haven't tried asking them yet, since when I first discovered them I had no need for their hair, but after my dealings with Bill, I doubt they'll see me as worthy."

Stanley frowned. "Well, you're trying to fix your mistakes, aren't you? That's already way better than some people I've known. A lot of guys just see something they did wrong, whether they meant to or not, and they just bolt."

(Stanford had a feeling Stanley was talking about more than just unicorn hair.)

He shoved the thought aside. "Even so, I once bore witness to one of their Weighings of Heart, and they are very…thorough in their judgement."

"It's worth a shot, ain't it?"

"…yes, I suppose it is."

Stanley managed a lopsided grin. "Then for what it's worth, I say give it a go!"

[whump-only]

ON A LEASH

Woo! First @badthingshappenbingo post!! As a monkey with a typewriter, I’m honored to do this challenge! 💌 

tw: dehumanization, choking, collar, physical abuse, mention of dead animal, slavery universe 

Tagging the Gup crew, love y’all muchly!

@deluxewhump @eatyourdamnpears @inaridriscoll @whump-story-prompts @newbornwhumperfly

----------------------

His Master’s words rang in his ears: “Keep it on.”

Guppy picked at the collar in despair. It was itchy, as the durable nylon had frayed from years of use. Years of being worn by Master’s dog, who Guppy had buried that morning. Guppy had cringed shifting the collar off of the limp animal’s head, somehow fearing she would jump to life with an angry growl and snap of jaws. But of course she didn’t. And now the grimy object was around his neck. 

If the farmhands saw him wearing it, they’d be merciless. Maybe he could skip work, hide somewhere until Master let him take it off. That would surely lead to a beating from Ernest. Maybe he could just slip out of it, then put it back on around Master. But if Master caught him disobeying... just the thought made him breathlessly uncomfortable. Master had been in such a strange mood. Guppy chewed his lip, considering.   

Guppy ran from Master’s porch, then ducked behind the big tree. He felt along the collar, pulled the strap through the buckle, and it came loose. His fingers trembled as he hesitated to pull it free, feeling the hammering pulse in his neck, but finally did, just for now. 

The tags on the collar clinked quietly as he touched the thick material with his fingers, considering. He sat there, staring at the collar for an achingly vulnerable minute, head snapping up to see if he was being watched. He finally took a sharp breath. He couldn’t bring himself to put it back on, so that was that. He stuffed the collar into the waistband of his pants and ran to the fields where the harvesting was just beginning. 

Guppy picked a spot on the edge, farthest away from Master’s house, and every minute or so looked up to check who was watching. At first the collar felt hot against his skin where it was hidden. But the hours rolled by and Master didn’t come out once. 

By lunch Guppy’d nearly forgotten about the collar. The beginning of lunch was always a perilous time, as Guppy had to wait for the others to get their food before he could take his ration and hide somewhere for the rest of the hour. This left him vulnerable to men who wanted a little entertainment with their meal. But that morning he was day dreaming about apples he’d pick from the tree near—

 “What’s this?” 

The words, spoken by Josh, froze Guppy’s breath. He was unable to turn, to look. His hand inched toward his wasteband... was it? 

“Hmm. ‘[dog name].’ Isn’t that Roberts’ dog?” Josh said. 

Guppy felt as though he’d die on the spot. The collar fell out... He tried to breathe through the overwhelming panic. To lose the collar to Josh of all people—

“Anyone know why this is here?” Josh said. 

Guppy’s throat nearly closed, but he managed to say, somewhat evenly, directly addressing the ground, “Ah. Sir, uh [dog name] died. Yesterday. Master had me bury her this morning. I must’ve dropped that. Can I have it back please?”

“And you kept it?” Josh said, inspecting the collar. 

“I— I have to give it to Master,” Guppy said, trying to hold his voice steady. 

“I can give it to him,” Josh said. Even though Guppy couldn’t look directly at Josh, he somehow knew Josh was grinning. 

“No! Sir— I can do it! Please. He—He told me to keep it. To keep it, uh safe for now. I can take—,” Guppy said quickly. 

“—To keep it safe, huh?” Josh said. “...Why are you acting so weird? Did you steal it?” 

“No!” Guppy said, perhaps a bit too loudly. He could sense the others were watching now. 

Josh drew close and Guppy tensed. Josh held out the collar, offering. Guppy grabbed for it but Josh yanked it out of reach. 

Josh then slowly offered the collar again. “I’ll give it back. But how about you try it on for us?” he said quietly in the dangerously playful tone that Guppy feared more than almost anything else. 

Grimacing, Guppy took the collar from Josh. “Okay.” What choice did he have?

With trembling hands, he draped it around his neck and then threaded the buckle. He felt himself burning red. 

“Not like that.” Josh grabbed the collar. Guppy winced as Josh pulled it one notch tighter. 

“Better,” Josh said, as Guppy squirmed from the sensation of feeling every breath.  

Josh stood back and clapped his hands. “Alright doggy, on your knees.”

Guppy nearly cried right then. He was trapped by the command, by the game. Guppy lowered himself onto his knees. 

“Aaall the way down,” Josh said, pushing down Guppy’s head. Guppy fell onto his hands heavily. 

“Good dog. I want you to bark after every command, got it?” said Josh. 

Guppy paused, feeling a rare embarrassment. “Yes— uh. W-woof?“ 

“Good dog!” Josh exclaimed and a smattering of applause broke out. Guppy felt a hot, nauseous shame. Now the other farmhands were putting down their lunches to watch. 

“Sit,” said Josh. Guppy, understanding the nature of this game and its particular humiliation, sat back, with a half-hearted “Woof.” A few murmurs of amusement erupted from the onlookers. A few had stood up and walked over to get a better look. 

“Good doggy. Roll over,” said Josh. Guppy considered this and lowered himself onto his side— Josh’s boot flew into his stomach. He yelped at the sharp pain and coughed horsely. 

“Too slow. And I didn’t hear you bark,” said Josh. 

“W-woof,” Guppy said shakily, completed the roll. Head-spinning, he sat back on his heels—

“—Did I say you could sit up?” Josh said. 

“Sorry.” Guppy dropped down to his hands again. The rules were becoming quite clear. Now if only they’d get bored with this...

“Hey! Here’s a leash for the doggy!” someone shouted.  

Guppy twitched miserably. He pretended to be keenly interested in the patch of grass between his hands as someone leaned over him and tugged on his collar, looping a rope through and knotting it.

Immediately Guppy was dragged backwards by the neck, breath yanked away from him. He clawed at the strangling collar, grey fizzling into his vision. Suddenly the pressure was released and he collapsed, gasped for air. He held his collar tightly, bracing for another yank, which sure enough came—

He half desperately crawled and was half dragged through the dirt. He was sure his head would be ripped off or he’d gone blind from the headache. He was finally released and immediately coughed so hard he nearly puked. He could only groan. 

The men were chattering over him, shouting over each other. Commands rained down from all sides: “Sit!” “Roll!” “Shake!” “Wag!”

Resigned, Guppy tried to keep up, tried to sort through the yelling. He flipped over, sat up, offered a hand. Get through. Get through. Get through. “W-Woof.” “Woof.” “Woof.”

“Dog! Dog!” Someone was trying to get his attention. He blinked stupidly. He focused on the object being waved in front of him— a shoe?

“Fetch doggy!”

The shoe was thrown, landed in the grass, and bounced out of sight, oh so far away. There was a brief silence where everyone looked at Guppy expectantly while Guppy prayed to die on the spot, momentarily forgetting the challenge.   

“Fetch! Fetch! Go get it, bitch!” the farmers jeered loudly, and someone kicked him forward. 

He crawled, or really hobbled, in the direction of the shoe, trying to move as fast as he could on his bruised knees. He picked up the old sneaker, but just as he expected, there were shouts of, “use your mouth!” 

Guppy sighed and took the shoe in his mouth. It tasted like dirt and it’s smell made his stomach lurch. The farmers cheered. He crawled back weakly and spit it out, gagging slightly. “Woof,” he said, woozily. More cheers. 

“Good dog! Hey, what do you say we give him a treat?” shouted Josh over the lively chatter. 

Guppy whimpered. He wanted to curl up, in the dark, away. He was tired. 

Something— was it tuna?— was dumped onto the ground in front of him. 

“Not hungry...” he whispered to himself, or maybe he just thought it. Before he could even react, his head was pushed down, smashed into the ground and held there. “Lick it up, dog.”

Suddenly the men got quiet, and his head was released. He glanced up to see Master glaring at him. He sat up quickly, wiping the wet off his face. 

“What the hell is this?” Master demanded. No one spoke up and Guppy wished he could vanish, be buried like that dog. 

“Get up, Guppy,” Master snapped. Guppy flew to his feet, trembling.

Master growled. “I pay you idiots to work the farm, not fuck around like children.”

Guppy flinched, unsure if he was in trouble. 

“Guppy. Go clean up,” Master said gruffly, “And take that collar off.” 

“Yes Master!” Guppy hobbled away. His knees stung, likely scraped open underneath all that dust. His head was spinning and his neck ached. But part of him was thrilled— perhaps, for once, Master’s anger would be channeled toward his tormentors. For once, in his defense.