canned-goose-feathers - Tumblr blog

[canned-goose-feathers]

Hello hello! I've been reading your Prion AU and would like to offer a quick reminder that Scar and Cub are canonically cannibals, and this interaction exists. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyRZPoyTw2k&t=750s

Oh trust me, I know. The whole reason prion took over my brain was because a friend of mine showed me these clips and combined with Grian's start to season 9 I kind of went feral. Thanks for the info though!!!

[canned-goose-feathers]

In the future, criminals are sent into orbit in the farthest reaches of the universe. Specialized space prisons where the worst of humanity are imprisoned are literally every criminal's worst nightmare: solitary confinement, dead silence, mandatory technological labor (for the lucky folks back on Earth, of course.) And the silence, the silence is the worst. No noise is allowed due to the delicate technology the inmates are meant to work on; it's just another form of punishment, and it's probably complete bullshit, and it sucks.

Cellbit is sent to one of these space prisons after killing an old man. He says it was self defense, but the 26 stab wounds on the old man's body said otherwise. So it was off to prison for the second time in his life, and this time it's a prison he can't escape.

It's quiet. In space, no one can hear you scream. Everybody knows that.

Alone in his cell, Cellbit does his work, and he counts down the days to his parole hearing. He doesn't hear another soul for months on end save for the whispers of the guards passing him meals and instructions for the day. It's a terrible existence, but it beats the death penalty.

It's silent. The guards skip a day of his meals and instructions, and then two. It's nothing new, honestly, they're just as shitty as the rest of the prison is. Cellbit doesn't pay much attention, happily taking a nap for the first time in six months.

And then he hears a knock on his door.

[canned-goose-feathers]

So uh what if Etho and Bdubs' actually manage to be final two?

***

Etho was fraying at the edges. It was evident in the constant jittering of his hands, the churning of his stomach at the mere mention of food. There were days were he woke up so hyper aware of his surroundings that he wanted to pull himself apart, every sound echoing tenfold in his head, the cacophony drowning out every thought. It was suffocating, paralyzing and he could do nothing but to stay rooted to his spot on the edge of the bed, desperately trying to keep himself from unraveling completely. Bdubs usually kept his distance on these days and Etho was grateful for it. The thought of him hovering around him, or even worse, touching him in this state made his skin crawl.

There were other days, where he woke up but didn't feel like he did, a thick blanket of fog between him and the world. Etho had regarded these as his good days, even though he sometimes startled back into his body in strange places with no memory of how he'd gotten there. It was dangerous, of course, to be so disconnected from himself, from reality. Once he had found himself standing on Bdubs' side of the bed at night, hands hovering inches away from his throat. He had stopped thinking of these days as his good days after that and lived in silent, agonising fear that one day he would wake up to his hands around Bdubs' throat or a bloody knife in his hands.

It was on one of these days where he had snapped back to the sound of his own name ringing in his ears and a hand gripping the back of his jacket, choking him as he leaned precariously over the edge of a ravine. He had a moment to marvel at the swooping feeling of vertigo in his stomach before he was yanked back, nearly tumbling to the floor. Bdubs' hand was steady against his back.

"Woah there, watch your step." He said and pulled his hand away again. Etho turned around to face him.

"Bdubs." He rasped, his throat itching like he hadn't spoken in days. Judging by the way Bdubs' eyes lit up at the sound he probably hadn't.

"There you are." He whispered with a smile and reached up to cup Etho's face with his hands. "Thought I'd lost you there for a second."

It wasn't clear wether he was talking about the ravine or the static that was still threatening to suffocate him again.

"I'm still here." He muttered and let himself be pulled down into his arms.

That night, they spend two tense hours lying in silence, Etho feeling less like a human and more like a loose collection of strings, trying it's hardest not to shake apart, until Bdubs' finally gets up with a sigh and pulls him outside.

It's a moonless night, the star seemingly twice as bright in its absence and Etho is unsure if lying out here on the grass is better, his mind threatening to untether itself to float up into the endless sky above them. He clings to Bdubs' hand like a lifeline, the weight of the body next to him the only thing still grounding him in this world, in his own body.

"Etho." Bdubs' says into the quiet and Etho rolls onto his side to look at him. There's a quiet, exhausted smile on the other's lips as he carefully reaches out to smooth his hand over Etho's forehead. He nearly winces at the contact, his skin burning where Bdubs' fingers slide over it. He still leans into the contact.

"I'm sorry." Etho forces out around the lump in his throat. Red static dances at the edges of his vision. "I don't think I can hold on any longer."

"It's okay." Bdubs whispers and leans forward to press a burning kiss to his temple. Etho let's go of his hand in favour of cupping Bdubs' face. He stares at him, searching for a hint of resentment, of anger, of anything that would make this any easier but there is nothing but understanding and forgiveness there. Etho has never loved him more than in this moment and he hates himself for it

"Thank you for trying anyway." Bdubs says and splays his fingers against Etho's cheek, wiping away the tears in the corner of his eyes. "I know it was hard for you."

"I'm sorry." Etho repeats, because it's the only thing he can say right now, the only thing he has left to say.

"It's alright." Bdubs says as he grabs Etho's wrist and pulls them down, forcing Etho's hands to curl around his throat. Red floods his vision as his fingers dig into the tissue, nails breaking the sensitive skin.

"I told you I wanted you to win anyways."

Etho squeezes.

[canned-goose-feathers]

title: HEATED DISPLAY — Goodtimes Gets Handsy with Stranger at Clockers Event

rating: explicit

warning(s): alcohol, drunk characters, mild smut

chapter(s): 1/1

relationship: scar/grian

summary:

"It seems like the Clockers aren't the only ones receiving donations tonight! Scar seen with a stranger at a Clockers sponsored event, and it looks like he just can't keep his hands to himself! They were spotted going off to a private room together, perhaps for a good time, away from public eye?"

or, the clockers are holding a sponsored party, and the bad boys decide to crash it. alcohol is involved, and with grian and scar it's an easy recipe for disaster.

read on ao3 here!

reblogs do more than likes!

coughs. hiiiiii. I am currently hiding under a rock while sick but! new mmau scarian fic woo! and it’s 😳lots of emotions in this one… and everything that follows this is… hoo boy. good luck :’D

[canned-goose-feathers]

im writing a little extra fic for when the last chapter is out

i hope itll answer some of your questions on scar! its just a small fic, around 1.5k words probably? im still editing and adding more lol

HEED THE TAGS when its posted

[canned-goose-feathers]

ADHD pro tip: Use psychological warfare on yourself.

For example, in order to do long tasks, like folding laundry, I put on the Mario Hat:

The main feature of the Mario hat is that my headset does not fit over it, so when The Bees™ try to put me back in front of the screen, the headset issue forces me to remember why I put the Mario hat on, and back to the task I go

As a bonus, the Mario hat is also a very clear indicator to my housemates that business is getting done, and they have learned not to distract me when I'm wearing the "goofy-ass cosplay hat"

It's not stupid if it works.

[canned-goose-feathers]

Pearl and Gem glance at each other. Then, as one, they glance back at Tango, who is, evidently, not Tango.

“Do we have an amnesiacold on our hands?” Gem asks. 

“Maybe,” says Pearl, glancing back at Tango again. “Tango, buddy, you feeling alright?”

“I—” Tango opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I mean, I’m a little under the weather, to tell you the truth—I ate a South African sausage and it disagreed with me.”

Pearl hums. “And it’s messed with your memory a bit, right?”

“Yes! I mean, no—I mean, how did you—?”

“Would you say that you have a bit of an amnesiacold, Tango?” asks Gem.

“Amnesiacold?”

“You know. Amnesiacold!” Gem says. “When you get sick and forget everything and feel like somebody else?” 

“Ah.” Tango pulls himself to shore. Frowns. “It’s more of an amnesia-food-poisoning, if I’m honest.”

Pearl winces. “Your poor digestive system.”

“It’s not very nice Pearl, I’ll tell you that much,” Tango says, voice low, one hand pressed against his stomach as he pulls a face.

“Okay, that’s enough, I don’t need to hear about your gut issues,” Gem interrupts. “But—you have an amnesiacold! You know, I was an amnesiacold last season.”

“You mean, you had an amnesiacold?”

“No, I was one.” Gem winks. “Like—Tango has an amnesiacold. But you? You’re the amnesiacold. You know?”

Tango’s shoulders hike up with discomfort. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m Tango. And I think you guys should—should skadoodle somewhere else. Should bother-someone-else-ificate. Begone.” 

“I had an amnesiacold last season, you know,” Pearl says. “Gem was one. You can tell us, buddy, we’re not gonna tell anyone.”

“Promise,” Gem says with a nod. “This is a safe space! You don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not with us.”

Tango stares at them for a long, long moment, then sags, face falling. He looks exhausted, suddenly, and Pearl feels a rush of sympathy. It can’t be easy, being thrown into the game halfway through, with no context for anything.

“It’s been rough, dudes,” Tango says, voice cracking. “It’s been really really rough. I forgot how hard it was to get anything done on this server! There’s so much chaos, and—”

Wait.

“Ren?”

Not-Tango grins. “In the flesh,” he says with a bow of his head. “Or… not my flesh, exactly.” 

“Ren?” Gem asks, tilting her head in confusion.

“Oh, that’s right, you’ve never met…”

Gem and Ren peer at each other for a moment. “You do look familiar,” Ren says eventually.

“Yeah,” Gem agrees. “I mean, obviously you look familiar—you look like Tango!—but… yeah.” 

They stare at each other for a moment more.

“Maybe we met in a dream?” Ren says at last.

Gem nods. “Sure. Makes as much sense as anything else.”

Pearl glances between them, rocking awkwardly back on her heels. She clears her throat, drawing their attentions back to her. “Welcome back, buddy,” she says to Ren. “Good to see you again.”

“I wish that I could say the same,” Ren says morosely. “I thought I was—I was done, Pearl.” Now that she knows it's Ren, she can hear his cadence in Tango’s voice, voice dropping rough and low with drama as he bows his head. “I was done. No more games, not for the ol’ diggity dog. And now… Here I am!” He laughs a little, stretching out his arms to indicate the server at large. “In a body that’s not mine, in a world I’ve never seen, in a game I do not understand.”

“Oh, Ren…” Pearl frowns. She doesn’t know what to say. 

Gem jumps in. “Hey, it’s okay! It’s just one session, you know? You can do one session!”

“I suppose I must.” Ren looks up at them, jaw tightening. “If I am here—I suppose I must.”

“I’d never been in any of these games before I was Cleo for a bit last season,” Gem says. “So you have an advantage there! And, hey—maybe you can come back next season, and we can meet for real?”

Ren shifts uncomfortably. There’s something heavy hanging about him, something Pearl can’t quite understand. She remembers the last time she’d seen him, skull caved in from the dripstone spike dropped on his head. She remembers her own amnesiacold, the exhaustion that had dragged at her before it had settled in, the memories that had plagued her and just wouldn’t go away. And she wonders—

Just how exhausted would you have to be that your body would have to leave as well as the rest of your self?

Just how sick would you have to be before you didn’t want to come back?

Still, Ren steadies himself. Quirks Tango’s mouth into a smile. “Maybe,” he says, meeting Gem’s gaze. “That would be nice, to meet for real.”

[canned-goose-feathers]

Not to jump in on this post but this prompted me to go through my fics and look at the numbers, something I actively try not to do.

These are some of my most popular fics. The first is THE top, only because it was reblogged by theminecraftbee. I'm fully aware that I'm not as active as some, that I don't promo as much, I even don't think I'm the best writer. But... This doesn't want to make me write. God forbid I was younger and gave more of a shit about what people think, but even so it's incredibly disheartening to see something I spent time and energy on just... Die.

Everyone has said it, we can scream all we want about reblogging art and fics, but until tumblr as a whole starts to care about the time and energy and heart that artists and writers put into their work, this is gonna be the standard.

full offense mcytblr you guys SUCK at reblogging fancontent do better 🙏

[canned-goose-feathers]

Potential for Scar angst this episode was insane so I wrote this in one sitting. Alternate scene for when Grian finds Scar hiding out in his egg house :)

Here it is on Ao3

———

No one talks about it, but the tasks they’re given tend to mess with their head. There’s— There’s a pull, there, to comply. Scar still remembers the way his tongue had tangled on that first day, the way his throat had closed when he’d even thought about calling someone by their real name. He still remembers the sharp, punishing pain behind his eyes when he’d slipped up and said Mumbo’s.

There’s a sort of urgency, once the task has embedded itself into their minds. Scar feels it, that frenzied energy that sends him knocking down torches until he can finally hit the succeed button without doubt. The secrets pull at them, tug at them. Scar is trying not to compare it to an Evoker’s command, but it’s hard when the feeling is so similar. When trying to fight it now hurts the same as it did back then.

He’s been running for a long time when he finally collapses in Grian’s egg house, panting and sweating. The stupid helmet is still on his head, and every time he raises his hands to take it off there’s that same pain shooting through his head. Joel had told him to take it off, everyone had told him to take it off, so no matter how much he wants to he can’t. He can’t do anything that they want him to do.

None of them will want to ally, after this. He’s burned a lot of bridges, and while he’s not against a little arson now and again, he usually likes to have a choice. He values having a choice very much, ever since he and Cub had broken free all those years ago. He wishes Cub was here, now. It’s a cruel thing to hope for.

There’s a loose feather on the ground beside him, and he picks it up with trembling hands, twirling it between his fingers. It probably fell out when Grian was cleaning his wings. Preening, he’d called it, back in the desert. Scar hadn’t heard of it before. His own wings were the wispy gray of the vex, and even at that a pretty poor specimen. No preening required, and with a bit of magic to keep them hidden, it didn’t matter anyway.

The feather is still in his hand when Grian appears in the doorway, and Scar can only hold his breath.

———————————

Grian… did not do well underground. A creature of the sky scuttling around in caves was bound to come with its issues, and so by the time he gets out, he’s near starvation and has just over seven hearts left to his name. His wings feel grimy with dirt and dust, his legs weak and unable to sprint. His only consolation is that he’d had the good fortune to resurface relatively close to his base, and it’s with an unholy mixture of desperation and relief that he drags himself up the stairs to the egg.

He’s already stuffed about a dozen sweet berries into his mouth before he finally registers that Scar is there. He’s sitting in the corner behind the bed, quiet as anything, and alarm bells start sounding in Grian’s head. Scar usually has a presence that can’t be ignored. He seems almost diminished, now. It makes unease twist in his stomach.

“What are you doing in my house?” Grian asks, baffled.

He rounds the bed, and unease twists into full blown worry when he sees the way Scar is shaking, pupils small and breathing shallow, like he’s been running. He looks— hunted. Scared. Grian suddenly doubts he’s here to steal anything or cause trouble. He’s here hiding.

“Scar?” Grian says tentatively, crouching to eye level. “How are you doing, buddy?”

Scar looks even more panicked, if possible, his mouth opening and closing several times as if unsure what he should say — or what he’s allowed to say. Finally, Scar winces, a frustrated furrow between his eyebrows.

“…Neutral,” Scar says, a tired smile tugging at his mouth, not quite looking at him. “I mean— Good. No. Bad.”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Getting some mixed signals here, Scar.”

Scar sighs, and fidgets with something in his lap. “I’m— All of my allies are mad at me. The whole server is after me,” he says.

“Why?” Grian asks, because usually it takes a little bit longer for Scar to do something bad enough to warrant that type of server-wide behavior. Scar tilts his head forward as he sighs, and Grian realizes something else. “Why do you have a helmet on?”

Scar huffs a laugh that sounds more like a sob, and makes like he’s going to stand up, arms and legs moving in jerky, frantic movements. The feather he’d apparently been holding drifts to the floor, and Grian reaches out to grab Scar’s wrist without thinking.

“Everyone’s so concerned about the helmet,” Scar says, voice strangled and high. “It was an accident.”

“Why don’t you take it off?” Grian asks, genuinely confused, and Scar makes a noise like he’s been hit, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed, head in his shaking hands.

It’s his task, Grian thinks, dropping Scar’s wrist, brow furrowed. Something to do with his task.

“Never mind,” Grian says, and sits next to him, wings stretching behind them. “It’s fine, Scar, just— Why don’t you just sit down a minute.”

Scar jerks to his feet, stumbling with the force of the movement until he catches himself on the wall, panting. Grian makes a noise in surprise, eyes wide in confusion as he looks at the tense line of Scar’s shoulders.

“I think I feel like standing,” Scar says, hoarse with forced humor.

“…Okay,” Grian says slowly, mind spinning. “You can stand, that’s fine, too.”

Scar sits back down, breathing like he’s run a marathon, annoyance flickering in his eyes like torchlight. Grian just stares.

“Nice bed,” Scar says, like nothing strange has happened. “Very soft.”

“Thanks,” Grian says flatly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Scar just shakes his head and closes his eyes, still breathing much too fast, hands fisted in the blanket they’re sitting on.

“Alright,” Grian says, letting himself relax a little bit, and he lays a hand on Scar’s arm. “Just breathe, Scar. It’s fine.”

A beat passes.

Scar stops breathing.

Grian looks over, questioning, and is met with eyes more panicked than Grian has ever seen before. Scar’s face is pale and his eyes are wide and terrified, a hand now raised up to his throat and starting to claw at the skin there. He is utterly silent, mouth opening and closing as he struggles, and Grian feels his own chest tighten, his own breathing quicken. He reaches for Scar with both hands, grabbing at him desperately as he tries to figure out what’s going on.

“Scar, breathe!” Grian shouts, but Scar only shakes his head violently and grabs right back at him, like he’s searching for support.

His task, what’s his task? Grian dives wildly into his memory for any clues, trying to make sense of the strange behavior from the past few minutes.

All at once, it hits him.

He’d asked Scar to sit, and he had stood. He had told Scar to stand, and he had sat. He had asked Scar to breathe, and he had stopped. It’s almost too obvious, looking back.

“Scar!” Grian shouts, panic forcing his voice louder. He ducks his head to meet Scar’s wet eyes with his own. “Scar, don’t breathe.”

Scar gasps and coughs, collapsing forward into Grian’s shoulder as he takes in greedy lungfuls of air, chest heaving and stuttering. A low whine of pain builds in Scar’s throat, and Grian just sits there and holds him, one hand on the back of his neck and one on his back. It’s hard to tell which one of them is shaking, but he suspects it’s probably both.

“I’m sorry,” Grian says, quieter now. “I’m sorry, Scar. I didn’t know.”

“…That’s kind of the point,” Scar says roughly, and coughs again. “Secret.”

Grian just sighs, and for a few minutes they sit there and breathe in the waning light.

“They keep telling me to take the helmet off,” Scar says, sounding distant and drained.

Grian feels a stab of sympathy and unwarranted anger. The others didn’t know, either. “Don’t,” Grian says. “Don’t take it off.”

A moment passes, and Scar reaches up with trembling hands to remove the helmet from his head. It makes a dull clanking sound when he drops it to the floor. Grian runs a comforting hand through his sweaty hair, and a bit of weight seems to leave Scar’s shoulders.

Fighting the pull of the tasks is difficult. If Scar had been able to focus enough, maybe he could have fought the impulse to stop breathing. Actively suffocating tended to make concentrating hard, though. He hadn’t had a chance. Not really.

“I’m going to fail this one,” Scar says, resigned.

“Maybe,” Grian allows, and thinks hard about how to word the next thing he wants to say.

“I don’t have any friends,” Grian says eventually, slowly. “I’m in the market.”

There. Nothing that could be construed as a command.

“Oh?” Scar says, muffled into Grian’s shoulder. “Me too.”

Grian hums, wings enclosing around them just a bit more. “How about that,” he says softly.

“How about that,” Scar repeats, tired but lighter.

Outside, the same stars as always hang over them, and they fall asleep without another word.

[canned-goose-feathers]

BigB brings a pickaxe down against the soft limestone. It's not dirt, or loam, or even sand, but it makes him think of a burrow. Something safe to hide in.

He knows he's acting strangely, knows the others didn't all beeline to complete their tasks. But the second he opened that letter anxiety wound up his spine, like seaweed ready to pull him under. So, y'know. Might as well deal with it now? He keeps digging.

Digging and saying hi to Scar and being mean to Scar so he leaves and digging and digging. The prickling fear under his skin only abates once he's well underground, in the coolness. Not 'all the way down' yet, but the tension in chest eases.

Finally, some measure of peace. BigB supposes the 'and quiet' has been there the whole time, and he laughs quietly at his own joke. Leans against the wall at the bottom of the pit to rest. He's tired and achy and a tiny bit mad. Of course his task would make him miss out on the chance for allies. Well, maybe if he keeps–

A ghostly hand swats past his head, nails sharp and flesh see-through.

BigB whips to the side, looks around, again, again, and sees nothing. Just faint dust motes and occasional grains of sand falling from above.

It's not even cold? Or whatever ghosts are supposed to make happen, he's not sure.

Sighing, BigB says, "If you're here to kill me, can you at least make it entertaining, man? This task sucks."

His voice bounces and echoes strangely off the stone around him. Nothing responds.

He gives a forced laugh, lowers his head, and keeps digging.

His peace is interrupted not too many minutes later, after he's clambered back to the top to gather more wood for picks. BigB hears footsteps, and then Grian slides the last few blocks down an incline of sand into the cave.

Grian grins at him. BigB smiles back, slow and easy. Last game they'd ended allies, and that has helped a lot to loosen tensions. Still not interested in a day 1 alliance, though. Doubt submerged in friendliness, he greets Grian and asks what he's up to.

"Just bouncing around! Day 1, you know how it is." Grian seems energized, a bit furtive– normal Grian stuff. He looks past BigB, and an indent appears between his eyebrows. "Uh, what's with the hole, B?"

He has a defensive answer lined up, something circuitous and confusing about Jimmy and broken mineshaft generation and new stripmining techniques. Can't let anyone know your secret, after all; even if Grian's sly smile indicates he's probably just going to joke a bit and let it go.

Instead, BigB opens his mouth, and the words that crawl out are, "I don't know, G, where do the tasks come from?"

It's not a question that makes sense, not really. The tasks don't have to come from anywhere! BigB may just be overthinking it, or underthinking it, or something. And he shouldn't have even said that, because it might be giving away his task. Why did he say that?

There's a fire behind the words, anger that scrapes and burns on its way out. He's not sure why that's there either.

Color high on his cheeks, Grian says, "I'm not sure, er– not sure, yeah."

BigB knows he's lying. To be fair, he thinks most people could tell Grian was lying– he's not very good at doing it on the spot.

The smells of acrid smoke and dirt and sea-salt are there and then gone. His hand tremors; he tucks it through a belt loop.

Tasks don't have to come from anywhere, except these aren't just tasks: they're secrets. This game would be called Task Life, or Goal Life, or something, if that was the important thing. He knows how careful Grian is with his words (words like safe and soulmate and mine, all used to very particular definitions).

BigB is familiar with what being one of Grian's secrets feels like. The letter in his pocket feels like a friend. He decides not to ask any more questions, because he's not sure what will come out.

"Okay, just gonna cook some fish, and then I'll be out of your hair." Grian steps past him and hunkers down in front of the furnace. BigB feels a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. He looks away.

When he looks back, he startles. Scar is right next to Grian, looming by his side.

Except this isn't Scar as he'd seen him earlier, standing around in a circle. BigB locks eyes with this other Scar, his eyes beady-bright crimson and set into a face wrapped in bandages. His hooded cloak is purple and embroidered, threads hanging ragged at the edges. The fabric around his neck is dark.

Slowly, movements jerky, Scar holds up a single bony finger in front of his mouth.

BigB's eyes flick down to Grian's back- does he not notice, in his periphery? Is he just ignoring this? Should he say something?

When he looks back up, the spectre is gone.

Standing in uncharacteristic silence, he awkwardly waits for Grian to collect the rest of his fish. Grian, happy to cause problems on purpose but allergic to tension he isn't the cause of, quickly folds and grabs the remaining fish with an "I'll get out of your hair, then."

They shuffle together to the entrance of the cave; he really needs to get some doors going in here.

Grian turns and fixes a stare just to his side, for a moment. BigB ignores it, and finally manages to shoo Grian off. He doesn't want to know who's haunting him.

Sighing, he shifts a pick into his hand and gets back to work. BigB finishes the task quickly after that, because when he pays attention the fear guides him. This task isn't about digging deep - it's about being hunted, about burrowing, tunneling.

He finishes it and turns in the quest book, receives his rewards. Resolutely, he does not look at the spectres trailing after his friends. It's fine if he just doesn't look, right? Yeah.

The rest of the session passes in a blur. At the end, trying to hang back and keep his eyes on the middle of the statue rather than any ghosts that may or may not exist, he hears Grian share his task.

Jokes no one would laugh at. Of course.

He idly considers a task based on his experiences in the last series. Something furtive and spy-based would be fun. Maybe something frog themed?

He does not think about what secrets his lives in the other games would want to share. Those seem like a late-game thing, anyways.

[canned-goose-feathers]

I don't know you yet.

You're there, in formless daydreams and an endless, unspeakable yearning.

I come home and I see your smile, your rolled eyes at my jokes, your lip curl as you talk about little thornpricks that something beastial in me wishes I could take away.

I feel my phone vibrate and dopamine floods my brain every time, a dog salivating at the sound of a bell, and my fingers itch for the next hour until I can read your voice.

I smell the salt-flower of your hair as I curl into you, my muscles wish nothing more than to convulse into you, my eyes close as I map you out by the beat of your heart in my ear.

I feel your lips touch the inside of my breast, your fingers press into the meat of my thigh, and think that I could stay here forever.

I cry with you, across from you, filled with hurt and pain and anger but still keening for you just like always.

I love without fear in a way that can't be done by those alone, your hand in mine and your honey-sweet voice in my ear, in my brain, in my heart.

I come home to the dog excited for my return and the house colder then I like it and nothing else.

I feel my phone vibrate and try to make a note to look later, unable to stop the spin of possibilities that confuses the chemicals in my brain into TV static.

I smell the must of too much dampness in the air, think, again, "I should fix that", my eyes close as I begin to file away my thoughts like books at a library.

I think of that which will become you in darkness, curled only around myself, seeking pleasure in formless, faceless stories.

I cry, curled in my chair with the world tilting at odd angles, for a you that might never be, and a me that ceases without you.

I love with the shaking steps of a fawn, unsure and still pushing forward, one tiny step after the other.

I don't know you yet, but when we meet, the you that is will be so much sweeter.

[canned-goose-feathers]

Fandom: Dream SMP Rating: Teen & Up Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Major Character Death Characters: Technoblade, Dream, Philza, Ranboo, Niki, Michael Underscore Beloved, Punz Status: complete Additional Tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, aftermath of torture, graphic descriptions of torture, panic attacks, self-harm, portrayal of cptsd, not canon compliant, disordered eating, more to be added

Summary:  as dream tries to come to terms with his new life in the aftermath of the prison, the peace that techno, phil, ranboo, and niki have tried to carve out for all of them in the arctic is shattered. now they have to find a way to rebuild it, through grief, guilt, and trauma.

oh, and they also have a baby piglin to babysit.

link to fic

[canned-goose-feathers]

Been in a bit of writing kick today!!

Sea creature Scar au by the wonderful @stiffyck who inspires me constantly!! Love sharing my thoughts with you king <33

Trigger warnings: body horror, emetophobia

It's been nearly five years, since he left them on that pathetic little island. The treasure wasn't what the tall tales had explained, it was a mix of fool's gold and scratched jewels. It looked so beautiful when he'd opened the lid of the box, but when he'd opened it again on the SS Flying Jellie miles from shore, distant shouting still faintly ringing in his ears, it'd be nearly empty. He didn't realize the true "treasure" that was in the box until weeks later. It started slowly, with his hair starting to fall out. It took only three months for the tentacles to start growing in. They started at his hairline, bulging under his skin. He thought he'd gone insane when they started to *move*. By the end of the year his hair was gone and replaced by a slimy writhing mass. He used their hats to hide it. Ironic really, considering he didn't even realize it was that horrible box that caused him to lose his hair until the gnawing regret that was eating him alive by abandoning them made his gaze linger for a little too long.

He spent weeks nauseous, spitting up blood that would turn black once it hit the deck and *bubble* as it dried. He didn't realize it stopped looking like blood until he'd spent a night drinking and had watched it cover his hands after leaving the shore too soon. That was the first night the rumors started, when he'd left the bar without a tip after someone had taken one of his hats off the pile as a joke. A tentacle slithered along his neck, normally hidden by the neat little stack, and had caught someone's attention. His boots were loud against the wooden pier, and his hands were raw from how he untied his ship by yanking on the knot until it gave. By year three his veins, once a dark dark blue, began to turn a sickly dark green. He realized that night that eventually, there will be nothing left of him. Not unless he stops the curse, or somehow is able to reverse it.

(His prayers whispered to the shrill night air have always felt unanswered. But they turned from unanswered to ignored.) His nightly prays began to sputter out after that. He knows only a god or deity could reverse what's been done, as only a god or deity could have *done* this in the first place. It becomes a mantra. He has to find them, he has to prove he is no longer heartless. That he has learned his lesson. Time ticks on slowly as he tries to grow prepared enough to look, but the amount of things he can find to do before that is growing slimmer and slimmer. The whispers at the back of his thoughts go ignored as he begins the trek, on the same date their own had began, four years after. There's something eating away at him, and his hands shake as he sails. His hands have always ached, but they've started to *burn* as he gets ever closer to the island. He doesn't know what he should expect, but he took off their hats and left them in long abandoned and neglected rooms. No one has been allowed to stay where they did, and he refuses to try. He boarded them up, at one point, but the nails would slowly pull out and be *placed* neatly in front of his door. He stopped trying after the third night it happened. His hair seems nervous, as his destination grows closer. No longer is it unruly and unmanageable, it seems almost *scared*. He doesn't want to think about why.

-

By the time he arrives, he's taken aback by the sheer *foliage*. The once barren island, with long snaking roots covering every shore and hiding in deep murky dark water, looks almost *pretty*. It's taken care of, and looks loved, in some strange way. It makes him uncomfortable. This isn't right, he must be at the wrong place. But the pier he once docked at is in the same place on his map, and the shores haven't changed, but they're *cleaner*. He hates it. He hates how nervous he is. He feels like the sea is rising inside of his torso and trying to pour out of his mouth. When he spits over the side of the hull, the taste of salt is undeniable. He goes through the long errands of docking, anchoring, and exiting his ship. His knees ache as he leaves his vessel and hit a long familiar uncaring wood.

[canned-goose-feathers]

i wanna post what i have but i haven't read over it and my beta reader is gone and i can't post any more snippets without giving it away FUCK

[canned-goose-feathers]

If you're a hermitcraft fan and haven't seen it's spreads, buh, how- Anyways it spreads au is made by the wonderful @foxxology

[canned-goose-feathers]

It's coming along. Very slowly, but it is coming. I keep getting distracted by Mollish's Unperson, which is SO good and you should read it if you have the time.

[canned-goose-feathers]

Wonderful. Anyway, inspired by @mollish-art 100% because the idea of a transformed ranboo has gripped my brain and won't let me go.

General idea is a continuation of generation loss, and the founder decides that no, ranboo hasn't outlived his usefulness, he has more to do and really, the TV monster needs to be refined

Which leads to ranboo being modified into a monstrous machine organism, with a tough of Kafka thrown in where ranboo comes to terms with his new existence, just in time to be thrown back into a new show.

Charlie was obviously the safest option for a Hero, and wow! The audience is so surprised he's alive! What a turnaround! And he doesn't seem to remember anything about ranboo. But the show must go on! (haven't decided what the show will be yet)

And ranboo is there, but Charlie can't see him (of course he can't, the Hero can never see showfall, not unless it's needed) and ranboo knows his orders (he's not a part of showfall, he's not) and he needs to stay out of the way (he needs to get Charlie out of here) and he's nothing more than a prop (he hurts so much and he's not a part of showfall, he's not."

Basically a lot of gore and non-con body modification as well as very much a lot of Franz Kafka because I'm obsessed with the idea of becoming something even you don't recognize and you're something horrific that people are scared of but you're still you, you swear but are you? Do you recognize what you've become?

I haven't fully decided the exact plot but it's going to be an exploration of Ranboo's transformation into Showfall and how he still, against all odds, keeps fucking going.

Does anyone want to hear the new Gen loss au