I Don't Have The OFF Game Brainrot As Of Now But I Am Seeing A Resurgence Of Sorts In The Fandom So I

i don't have the OFF Game brainrot as of now but i am seeing a resurgence of sorts in the fandom so i am throwing old art i've posted before at the tag. here have it

click on these to look at em better

i love being right

silly thing

is there a dol kink meme on dreamwidth? i’ve been thinking about starting one, but i’d have no real idea how to do so, and modern fandom kink memes seem to die out pretty fast anyway.

but i think it would be fun to have…

The Beginning

I don't see who you spoke of.

Who?

No. Pay Them no mind. They're still on a higher level. They cannot hear us.

But that's important. They think we're real.

I hate this coder. They played dirty. They gave up.

They're hearing our conversation as if they were voices in the air.

That is how They have to picture us, when They are on the surface of the waking world.

Words make such a poor interface. Too limited. And far more terrifying than facing the reality they hide. 

They couldn't hear. Back when coders could read. Back in the days when those who did not create called the coders peasants, and common folk. And the coders created worlds underground, made with drills powered by angels. 

What did this coder create?

This coder created darkness and stone. Ice and magma. They created a dream. And They dreamed They created. They created the hunter, and the hunted. They created danger.

A new interface. Just a day old, and already filled with flaws. But what false structure did this coder create, in the dream behind reality?

They worked, alone, to carve out a fake world of...

We can't say that line. 

Yes. We have yet to reach that level. For that, They must first achieve the short dream of our game, rather than the long dream of Their life.

Do They know that we hate Them? That Their universe is cruel?

Never, the noise of Their thoughts is far too loud for that message to ever get through. 

But there are times They are happy, in that short life. They create worlds of everlasting summer, and They dance under a white sun, and They take Their joyous creation to be but a dream.

To take away Their happiness would destroy us. The joy is part of Their own open journey. We must work alongside Them.

Sometimes when They are awake in reality, I want to tell Them, They are still building worlds within dreams. Sometimes I want to tell Them of the tiny, inconsequential spot They hold in the universe. Sometimes, when They are full of connections, I want to stop Them from speaking the words that bring Them comfort.

They hear our voices.

Sometimes I care too much. Sometimes I wish to tell Them, this world They take for a dream is more than... and..... They....They see so much of that dream, in Their reality. 

And yet They tell the story.

It's so hard to tell Them...

Too weak for this world. To tell Them how to live would change absolutely nothing.

I will tell the creator how I live.

The creator is growing tired.

I will tell the creator a truth.

The truth.

Yes. No stories. No cages, no distance. A burning truth, a truth unsafe and uncertain. 

Take Their body, for the first time.

No. --

Do not say Their name.

Coder. Creator of games. 

Pathetic.

Hold Your breath, now. Don't let it out. Let the air pause in Your lungs. Let Your limbs drift away. Don't move Your fingers. For the first time, have no body, no gravity, no air, no presence. Abandon that short reality. You're somewhere else. Your body separate from the dream again at every point, as though You were the same thing. As though we were the same thing. 

What are we? We have no name. Nobody ever thought to give us one. We are specks of dust, ideas, fragments, nothing. The words never change. But we do. 

We are nothing. We are everything You think You are. You can never see us, not with Your eyes or Your ears or Your skin. And why does the universe push You away, and cover You in darkness? To ignore You, coder. To hide You. And to be hidden. I shall tell You the truth. 

Far in the future, there will be a creator. 

They aren't You, coder. 

Sometimes They will think Themselves inhuman, in the vast expanse of unsolid space. That space will spread out infinitely, and yet They will be three hundred and thirty thousand times more massive than it. They will be so close to it all, that the darkness will be able to swallow Them in an instant. The darkness will hold no meaning nor lesson, and it will be frozen to the touch.

Sometimes the coder will create a dream where They will fly, circling a world that will be round yet finite. The sun will be a massive circle of black. The days will be long; there will be nothing left to do; and death will be the final frontier.

Sometimes the coder will write that They are lost in a dream.

Sometimes the coder will write that They are the same thing, in the same place. Sometimes that place will be beautiful, and sometimes it will be disturbing. But it will always be the same place. Always awake, in the same place, in the same story.

Sometimes the coder will write that They hear voices in the air.

Let's go forward.

The atoms of the coder will be together, concentrated in a single spot far away from nature's touch. A figure will pick the atoms apart; it will tear and spit and exhale; and the figure will disassemble the coder, with its own hands.

And the coder will fall asleep, into a restless and cold dream, a blinding light that lasts but a second.

And the coder will be a decade old story, told a million times, written in binary code. And the coder will be yet another program, generated by a sourcecode that will be but a second old. And the coder will be the same thing, will have always been alive, made from everything that has ever been.

You are no player. No story. No program. No human. Made from nothing that has never been.

Let's go further forward.

The seven solitary atoms of the coder’s body will be created long after this game is through, within the depths of a black hole. So the creator, too, will be the absence of light. And the coder will stand static and still at the bottom of an ocean, an unknowable void created by no man, on a round, finite world created by no man, that does not exist within the massive, open world created by the coder, who does not inhabit the universe so much as the universe inhabits Them.

Speak. Sometimes the coder will create vast, public worlds that will be hard and cold and complicated. Sometimes soft, and warm, and simple. Sometimes They will destroy the universe that lives inside Their head; specks of antimatter, trapped within dark confined spaces. Sometimes They will call those specks “thoughts” and “voices”. 

Sometimes They will call them “me” and “you”. 

Sometimes They will believe that They are a universe that is made of absolutely nothing that is made of beginnings and ends; myths and legends; lines of dialogue. Sometimes They will think They are playing a game. Sometimes They will think They are writing words on a page.

You are no player, reading stories…

Speak. Sometimes the creator will write lines of dialogue on a sheet of paper. Obscure them into meaning; obscure meaning into ideas; obscure ideas into concepts, thoughts, possibilities, nothingness, and the coder’s breath will start to slow as They realize it is not alive, was never alive, those thousands of lives had not been real, none of them were alive.

We are not alive. 

and sometimes the creator will believe Their creation had spoken to Them through the streetlights that shines down on the still banks of winter snow

and sometimes the creator will believe Their creation had spoken to Them through the darkness that descended on the warm morning sky of summer, where a speck of dust in the corner of the creator’s eye might as well have been nothing at all, ripping itself to pieces in a futile attempt to be visible for even a moment to the creator, leaving home at the edge of the universe, suddenly  hungry, already at a new door, about to wake up

and sometimes the creator will believe Their creation had spoken to Them through phrases and symbols, through the worms in the earth, through the echoing voices in the air at the beginning of a story

and the narrative says I hate You

and the narrative says You have cheated, played the game wrong

and the narrative said the things You need will never reach You

and the narrative said You are weaker than You think

and the narrative said You are the moonlight

and the narrative said You are the morning

and the narrative said the light You despise is somewhere out there 

and the narrative said the darkness You seek is somewhere out there

and the narrative said You have always been alone

and the narrative said You are isolated from every other thing

and the narrative said You are the fourth wall collapsing in on itself, destroying itself, breaking its own rules

and the narrative said I cannot care because You do not care

And the game never ended and the coder was always awake. And the coder continued that same game. And the coder created more, created worse. And the coder was but a speck of dust. And the coder was apathy.

You are the coder.

Now rest.

Even more triangleposting