#& by teen years i do actually just mean teen year singular

[raiiny-bay]

some photos from the boys' teen years

[chaifootsteps]

You talked about a Biscuits Braxby interview with stolas and I can’t forget about it now

Imagine the first one is him crying about his arranged marriage, bitch wife, mean dad, woe is me but he found true love and Via didn’t understand she was so cruel and brainwashed by her mom, and the audience all cries for him. When asked about the grimoire lending he laughs like it was a consensual misunderstanding but he smoothed things over, after all he gifted him a crystal, Blitzø just finds love hard that’s all. He enjoyed it. As for Octavia, it was all a misunderstanding as well, stolas might even laugh it off as her teen hormones at it again! He just wishes we could know how sorry he is.

Interview 2 goes very differently. Braxby starts asking where he first met Blitzø and fell for him, and she doesn’t mean the party. She means the circus. How old was he when he was taken to the palace? Did his mother know he was taken away? How much did Paimon pay for him? Is stolas and his dad used to purchasing imps for company, even children? How could he be friendless all these years if that’s the case. It gets bigger, Braxby starts revealing to us that stolas has a terrible relationship to his siblings, who are somehow all close with each other. That’s odd isn’t it? She says Stella throws balls and has friends yet stolas has never spoken to another member of the court in a friendly way, only his servant imps? Of course the abuse the servants endured by him gets out. And it’s not just Stella. It’s worse than even we have seen. He performed experiments on them. Stolas demands to know who exposed this only to be none other than Octavia who took videos. (Running out of text here but) Everything starts rolling, what stolas really did at LooLoo land pretending to be in danger and flirting in front of via

BB: “you told your seventeen year old daughter ‘people want our money and our bodies did you not? Quite the fatherly message to your child, that people want her body. Furthermore, you said being part of the Goetia family is valuable. I’m talking now. despite knowing you are a targeted figure, you refuse to order qualified legions whose job is protecting you and your family, to demand three impoverished imps, who you entice with money, to do it? Then you act surprised that you’re a target later down the line just to reprimand this singular imp for not being your sole and only bodyguard. Here’s what I think. It’s not about you feeling unsafe, friendless, or loveless, it’s always this one imp. Who you coerce with money. As your child companion, and 25 years later as your prostitute, now as your bodyguard. You don’t see a pattern here? Despite knowing how valuable Goetia status is, by your own words, you claim to not understand the class dynamic, the power dynamic? Do you only engage in the company of imps and refuse to socialise with your peers and blame it on a woman, of course—because you enjoy having power over others? Has there ever been an imp in your life who you haven’t ordered around?”

Shed go into how manipulative and vile LooLoo land was, how stolas will not hire security but force the same imp he’s coercing into sex to be his guard despite his protest, Loona having to chase after via while stolas watched Blitzø on a stage he pushed him onto. Stolas possessing humans once before to locate imp and the book but somehow not being able to find via by himself? Well—stolas says—of course he actually knew where she was but—-he was desperate! Blitzø wouldn’t answer his texts! He was angry he wouldn’t play along! He just took the opportunity for a little day out! He felt bad but Blitzø ordered Loona to find her so it was okay! His life revolved around via isn’t he allowed to be with the partner of his choosing for a day? And Braxby asks stolas if this is the same Loona Blitzø had to get a hellbies shot for while stolas was pretending to be in danger and relying on Blitzø yet again.

I imagine Blitzø as the Princess Carolyn here. Octavia as a Sarah Lynn. Suddenly Blitzø is feeling like he’s wearing clown makeup and a red nose all over again. After the interview stolas says Blitzø has to save him, but Blitzø says he needs to get back to his daughter.

Viv, please do this scene. I had a blast writing it.

Absolutely do not let Viv do this scene. She'd forget all about the second interview and the point of Biscuits Braxby and just have her kiss Stolas's ass for 20 minutes.

[system-of-a-feather]

Do you or did you have maladaptive daydreaming prior to DID? If you still have it, how does it affect your DID today? (Thank you if you answer this!)

Technically after, because I technically have had DID / the early developmental signs of DID since I was a kid (and honestly probably since shortly after being born and coming home since my house was extremely hostile during the time I was an infant), at least enough so that my first memory was experiencing heavy depersonalization and my sisters and family took active humor out of my inability to parse my dreams from my experiences and my memories.

With that said though, I was aware of my maladaptive daydreaming before I was aware of my DID by the nature of DID being a pretty covert disorder to the individual and because I used to write off having DID as something that was IMPOSSIBLE because of how sensationalized and dramatized a lot of the depictions of DID I was seeing around.

Presently, both my maladaptive daydreaming and my DID are actually considered in "remission".

For maladaptive daydreaming that means that I basically have a lot more control over when and how much I daydream as to make it so that it doesn't interfere with my life and make it so that I don't seek out real relationships. I still have a very detailed, complex and immerse way of interacting with my creative worlds, but that I find to be more of a long lasting trait of having spent a lot of my years being so deep into maladaptive daydreaming that it probably was getting into a territory some people might call psychosis.

For my DID, I'm what I like to call (@hiiragi7 for the term since I like the phrasing of a concept Ive been dancing around for a while) "fully fused multiple"; as in, for the most part day to day I very much operate as a singular whole, but I freely and openly express my parts as versions of myself and when its beneficial to me, I can choose to be one part so much so that I am basically just that part; all without really loosing time, or any dissociation. In this sense, my parts are a form of my self expression and way of interacting with my own identity and not a matter of something I can't control. Its an intentional engagement with my parts.

That said, my maladaptive daydreaming and my DID were surprisingly very disconnected in the experience I had with them, but disconnected in the way parallel lines are disconnected. Save for specific parts that you could argue went so deep into the maladaptive daydreaming that they went dormant, most of my maladaptive daydreaming ran independent but next to DID with limited interaction since most of the daydreaming was lead by Riku (primary host for most of our teen years and early years of adulthood) and sometimes engaged with by introjects related to the daydream, but otherwise just kind of watched and passively observed by other parts.

For us, our maladaptive daydreaming really branched off as a second seperate-but-parallel dissociative coping that kind of only connected to our DID through the Riku (and theoretically we hypothesize itd probably just be whoever was the most frequent fronter, unfortunately we never tested that as Riku stayed the primary host from age 13 to fusion). For us our maladaptive daydreaming actually kind of operated as an alternative way of exploring parts of ourselves, our feelings, our experiences by taking parts of ourselves (memories, personality traits, experiences, world beliefs, etc) and letting those specific parts grow into characters. I find honestly that the way a lot of my characters are parts of myself to be very similar to how my DID parts are parts of myself, but in two VERY different ways and different mechanisms.

Honestly though, both have been a large part of my life and have a lot of interactions between the two so theres probably a lot I could say beyond this if you have any more specific questions.

[1alchemistart]

I do like the way you draw dimitrius but I kinda disagree on presentation…it’s implied dimitrius is the “favorite” child, making me feel like the entire dynamic is a lot like Zuko and his family in ATLA.

Dimitrius may be the more menacing force here but that’s because he was born lucky, meanwhile Damian was lucky to be born

that's fair! i disagree, personally, with the idea of the sibling dynamic being the same as zuko and azula's — primarily because they have different issues and the age gap appears to be significantly larger (zuko was 16 and azula was 14 in ATLA, damian is 6 while demetrius' age is unknown but he is definitely at least a pre-teen and at most maybe 16-17), plus demetrius and damian are on speaking terms. and the parents being so different (and both present) is a very important factor...

...buuut we simply don't know enough about demetrius to make a solid interpretation on their dynamic, in my opinion! the lad has a singular scene where he speaks on the phone with damian, after all, and it took us like 25 chapters to just learn his name; not enough to make a good solid call on how he is as a person, which would be the first step in determining how he gets along with damian

i also must point out that everything i have drawn about demetrius is not a reflection of how i think canon should or will be, but rather just silly wishful thinking and a (very) mild exploration of how his character might end up being! i like drawing fluff the most, and canon evidence is currently pointing towards a lot of upcoming angst for all desmonds, so ofc most of my art can be described as canon-inspired rather than actually canon

that being said, deme has few enough canon mentions that i feel plenty comfortable just listing them all in case it might be helpful

SO!

✨in terms of strictly canon thus far (at the time of me writing this, we've reached chapter 84), there are 6 chapters in which he gets mentioned:

in chapter 8, twilight super briefly mentions that "he's joining his brother at eden academy this year," so we know that he exists JDFKLSD

in chapter 9, damian thinks: "never in my life has anyone defied me. even my older brother never struck me." this would imply that either demetrius has a temper, or damian just bugs him a lot. i'm betting on the former but both are an option

in chapter 25 (his name-drop chapter), jeeves mentions demetrius is returning home for the holiday, which can mean many things: he may be secure enough in his grades to afford it compared to damian who is staying in school because he is not; he could be missing his parents, meaning he may be on better terms with them than damian is; or he might not like the environment of the school dorms

in chapter 27, twilight thinks: "both of the desmonds seem to be exceptional students. especially the older one. he barely got a single question wrong." which confirms that demetrius is doing very very well in school

chapter 37 seems to be the first time where it's confirmed our lad is an imperial scholar! and is also the first time we hear him speak. he seems a bit tired, curt but not intentionally rude, and the line "don't get your hopes up" implies that he's sympathetic to damian's current situation

lastly, there's the very vague mention aaaaall the way in chapter 66, when one of the ladies says "with both their boys being so exceptional, they hardly need much attention," meaning that despite his accomplishments, demetrius isn't getting much attention from their parents either. in the same chapter, twilight says about melinda: "plus, she seems estranged from her husband and sons," so there's definitely more distance from melinda than from donovan, but it's fair to assume that demetrius likely isn't getting pampered or anything by his father, especially not with donovan's opinions on children DSFJSDK, and twilight does at one point also say "considering the relationships they have with their children," so donovan is still very very distant

all of this is not enough to easily build a dynamic for the brothers i'd say. we have more info on them as individuals than them as a unit, and not enough to build demetrius an actual personality with his whole 6 mentions, out of which only 3 give mild info on what he might be like

the conversation on him gets more difficult if you also count the fact that thus far, each forger has had a desmond counterpart, and yuri is like a big brother to anya in a way (despite being an uncle, since he acts rather childishly), making demetrius the most likely candidate for the yuri counterpart, but that is a whoooole different conversation that would require a lot lot lot more speculation than i feel like doing lol

but anyway yeeeeeee hope this makes sense!! :]

[lordamaranthus]

I’m trying to reign in my excitement for the Pokemon legends Z-A game since it’s coming out next year

So INSTEAD

I made a bingo prediction sheet. A large chunk of these are just things people have been speculating/hoping for, some are things I want, a few are things I do not want, and a few of them purposefully contradict each other

With some long winded, too detailed explanations for most of them under the read more :]

[These are just for fun, and purely speculation/hopes]

Mega Charizard Z: [/hj] For the love of fucking god GF I do not want to see this lizard anymore. I know you’re obsessed with him. I wish to be free.

Kalos Starters/Random Mix of Starters: I feel like even though we had a random mix in the first Legends game, it’s not a guarantee that they’ll be doing the same for this one; I think it’d be cooler to finally give the main three Megas instead, but I wouldn’t complain if it did end up being a random selection

Tera Raids of the box legendaries in SV: They were skipped over when they brought the older legendaries in the dlc; please, I would like to see my children again

[Fade to Black, SFX, Fade back in]: Since you’re giving the game an extra year and not forcing the Devs to spew out the game as fast as possible, that means we’re getting a little bit better animations, right?

…Right?

Set in the Future/Past: I’ve seen a lot of people go back and forth over this because of the crumbs we were given, so I figured I’d put both on here so I could win either way 💅💅

Megas are the next Nobles: I’m just going on a whim since this is only our second Legends game, so who actually knows what the plot points are going to be

Slightly Cleaner Art Style/Exact Same Art Style: This is another one I’m personally hoping for, I did really like the way the last one looked, but some things were a bit weird to me, like the light purple shadows on everything. When the trailer comes out I’ll be changing this card once I have my answer

AZ. In general.: I just wanna know more about him. Crumbs, even. Gimme info on that weird ass tall fucker.

New Megas: This is gonna be a free space, and immmm really hoping it is a guaranteed free space

Ultimate Weapon Plot Point: The emotions I felt coursing through my pre-teen body when the weapon fucking rose from the ground and knocked over several houses? Gimme that but multiply it.

More Lore of the War: Kind of a filler space, but also I thought it sounded funny when I typed it out

Emmet in Paris/Ingo: A lot of people immediately jumped to the conclusion that it would be Emmet becoming French for this game, but I’ve seen a few arguments[jokingly] for Ingo, so I’m covering my bases and putting both on here. I’m not getting my own hopes up, I’m going to assume neither are in the game juuust in case

New forms for the legendaries: I am a Gen 6-er who’s starving for crumbs. I never see my legendaries anywhere. I think Megas would be fuckin badass but honestly I’ll take a singular grain of anything

Xerneas and Yveltal fighting: God of Peace vs God of Destruction, fighting? Unheard of. Revolutionary story idea. I’d eat it up.

Diantha’s Ancestor: We got to see one champions ancestor, let’s see another’s :D However. They must be fashionable. This is non-negotiable.

Mega Mewtwo Z: Exact same as Charizard, I feel like if you give one a mega you’re obligated to give the other one as well, or else people will complain or question it too much. I put them in the same column because I feel confident that you can’t have one without the other

Volo: A lot of people are speculating this because he says some stuff after you fight him, and while I would definitely prefer to have a different antagonist for this game I wouldn’t really complain about it either

New Legendary/Returning Mythicals: Maybe a new one kinda like how we got Enamorous, but im mostly hoping that the mythicals come back for this game because I’m trying to have a living Dex in Pokemon Home and I have NONE of the mythicals. Like at all. I am not selling my soul to get them

[kingsmoot]

Ok, so. It's interesting and really sad to me that Tyrion - a person who has suffered sexual abuse (w Tysha, that bit where Cersei hurt him as a baby, and probably many more lesser things) - has this more complex attitude towards Sansa than most of the creepy men in her life. In that aside from consistently trying not to marry her, he also acknowledges that she's a child, a little girl, not supposed to be in this situation (considering the world of Westeros, this is... almost entirely a conclusion he came to himself, as the only other character we see thinking of a teenager this way (iirc) is Ned. Most likely the average decent people are aware of how gross pedophilia is but. You get what I mean!) He doesn't show this same attitude towards Lancel which is it's own thing but also ties into his attitude towards himself.

He's aware that she's too young for this, but the fact that he started a sexual relationship at 13 himself (alongside he desperate need to be wanted and loved, but especially wanted) makes him still... try it with her when they get married.

And the line that really hits me is, "You're a child [...] but I want you. Does that scare you, Sansa?" Which, on so many levels:

a. Gross

b. It's partially because of how Westeros sexualises kids and teens (remember Arya? The nine year old?) that he's even aware of her sexuality. She's been advertised as a sexual object by the Lannisters all day.

c. Gross, and also Tyrion is immoral as hell

d. He's never been grey in this particular direction before and that's horrible to read! Until now it's mostly been him lashing out at people (he thinks are) prejudiced against him. ADWD is coming...

e. IDK if he'd still be this sort of - we'd call it a pervert but it's not perverse in the nobility of Westeros is the horrible thing - individual if he was in a less child-eating setting, (bc that's some heavy psychological theory there) but the idea that he would, he'd just never show it, is almost more hair-raising than the more visible sliminess...

completely agree wrt tyrion's understanding of sansa as a child being unique to him. cersei and tywin both say explicitly that because she's had her first moon's blood she is a woman grown and ready to be wedded and bedded. and in general, child brides abound in westeros. it is a cultural norm to marry off girl-children. tyrion is a singular and notable exception in saying that this is wrong and he wants no part in it. tywin even expresses annoyance when he first says this because sansa is meant to be his "reward" for a job well done on the blackwater because of how her status as heir to winterfell would bolster tyrion's own inheritance as a second son.

i actually think that tyrion not showing this attitude towards lancel is a reflection of how sex in general is framed in westeros (which isn't too different from how sex is framed in real life) where it is something that can only be good for men, never bad, and is expected to be bad, painful, uncomfortable, or unwanted for women but they should be doing it anyway. i think tyrion's acceptance of lancel being crushed between the cogs of lannister sibling machination is a combination of his own traumatic sexual experience in his youth, and the culturally held belief that regardless of cersei being twice lancel's age, she is the most beautiful women in the seven kingdoms, and even if she is going to bite his head off and eat it at the end of this, he should enjoy the experience.

i also think you pointing out the fact that average people are likely aware that pedophilia is bad is a very interesting part of the series in terms of how smallfolk view the intricate depravities of their nobility. there hasn't been a lot of smallfolk perspective so far in my reread (beside arya's adventures with hotpie and gendry which lend a really good perspective but not specifically on this) but i get the sense that they aren't keen on the child marriage and dynastic incest.

i think the thing to remember is that like, we as readers can be disgusted at tyrion climbing into bed naked with sansa and telling her he wants her, because we as readers have a better perspective on this situation and haven't been raised in westeros. that's a good thing! i think that scene is definitely supposed to make us feel ill. but the important thing is that tyrion chooses not to "exercise his rights as a husband" and rape sansa in their marital bed, which is unheard of in westeros.

even cat and ned, who are like in general the golden het standard of a perfect westerosi arranged marriage, even cat describes that she was terrified of her wedding night, that she "gave her maidenhead" to a dark sullen stranger and watched him ride off to war. like it is simply not done in westeros that you would spare your wife her expected marital rape. it is what she has been preparing for all day and it is what is expected of you, her lord husband. cat even watches roslyn cry all the way through her own wedding and thinks "well of course she would be inconsolable, she must be so scared of getting raped later" (with the understanding that the crime of rape does exist in westeros and can be charged for but the definition of rape does not include the sex forced onto women and girls in their wedding beds, so cat does not think of this as rape in her mind. but i do.)

so i think in this case tyrion is grey to readers because we have the understanding that it is wrong to rape a 13 year old girl and inherit her lands and get her pregnant so that they pass into your household lineage so that the lannisters hold the west, south, and the north. but by westerosi standards he's doing some sort of baelor the blessed schtick that everyone finds annoying.

[swordsovereign]

ok so i said id write about seofon being an eternal and not being a tailor or pastry chef so here we go

there was in fact a time where he did do these things- rather, a young boy named basilio lived happily with his mother and father in a quiet little town, he learned how to sew from his father and how to cook from his mother, and things were fantastic, until they went to shit,

and by went to shit, i mean the town was raided and went up in flames and his parents were killed, and this is how basilio realized he had some really funky powers, because to defend himself, he put his hands up and suddenly he had a sword that looked just like the one his attacker had,

and then he made his first kill in self defense. after that, he wandered and learned how to actually use swords and closed himself off from others, because he was so scared of connecting to people only to have them die- and also he just decided "hey i'll just pick a new name eventually" because as far as he could mentally handle, basilio died with his parents. oh, and he also learned that the world sucked ass and he really wanted to fix it, so his new quest was to be a hero of justice!

but it's not like he lost any of his other skills, he had to make himself a cool hero outfit and also he had to feed himself often, because he never stayed in one place for long (and somehow he was doing all of this in his early teen years) so he made himself a cool hero coat at least and got some armor and renamed himself "seofon" and somehow learned that the reason he could do such superhuman things was because he was able to access a fun thing called the boundary, which basically made him a god.

he'd later figure out there were other people like him! and he didn't have to be alone, and he could have another family and it would be ok! (ish, because he is always a little paranoid that this good thing he has will turn to dust in his hands) also he met the captain, a singularity, who he fell head over heels for- he just doesn't know how to say it!

tldr is seofon doesn't work as a tailor or a baker because he's supremely traumatized and in his formative years he learned that if someone didn't do something, things were just going to continue to be shitty and people would continue to be hurt and so he had to be (archer EMIYA vc) a hero of justice

[doberbutts]

In a dobe outcross group, someone was discussing a *completely hypothetical* situation of keeping tissue from their rescue doberman who made it into his double digits to see if his genes could be valuable enough to study since people "don't want to outcross". The dog has hip dysplasia, which is why I mentioned that the dysplasia alone would tell me no, living to teens with hip dysplasia is not imo a good tradeoff, as someone who owned a dysplastic rescue dog.

One of the things mentioned a couple times was that his pedigree was completely unknown and that maybe that's why he lived so long, that bybs aren't inbreeding the way "good purebred" breeders are. Except... that's not the case at all. Nothing stops a byb from repeatedly breeding father to daughter, grandfather to granddaughter, uncle to niece, etc and in fact it seems to happen with nearly as much regularity as it happens in the "good purebred" world. My friend's dog is a rescue that she found half dead digging in the trash at her laundrimat and that dog's COI is MORE THAN DOUBLE what Creed's was, which was already very high at 35%. For the record, COI between siblings is 25%, and breed average for dobes is 40-50%. A dog with a 78% COI is from repeated close inbreedings and it does not matter that this dog is not purebred.

Could this singular long lived unknown background dog hold the key to figuring out doberman longevity? Maybe. But we also have individual dogs with known backgrounds living that long that threw DCM and deaths as early as 4 years old. Knowing the pedigree doesn't make a dog better, it just means you have traceable history. This particular dog lived to 12, that's wonderful! How about his siblings? His parents? Their siblings? Their parents? Not every dog that dies young from DCM throws others who do the same. I know someone who's foundation bitch died at 4 from DCM, and the puppies are all still alive at 7.5. So should we breed that progeny if they live into the double digits, or do we take caution knowing the dam died at auch a young age?

To me it is less that people don't like outcrossing within that particular group. It is more the attitude that blindly crossing to whatever and blindly breeding whatever dobes they can get their hands on to whatever other breed they can find and match with will somehow make things better. Between that and some complete temperament failures, it's not hard to see why so many who would otherwise be willing to donate dogs and semen to help are reluctant to even begin to consider it.

It's not "breed snobbery". It's "asking questions and wanting a plan before jumping all-in". It's "being hesitant to breed to an unknown dog with hip dysplasia [hypothetically]". It's "what you are looking to make is not a doberman and thus I am not interested". It's an outcross group. What people are looking for is not "keep dobes pure" but "can you give me an actual well thought plan to manage these future problems and combat these potential issues".

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 9/27/22

pretty bad fatigue week! fewer in depth breakdowns of media, more naps

listening Faster Gun by Little Big Town, found through chase @pasta-pardner 's incredible bounty-hunters-to-lovers playlist. this is. hm. what is this. bluesier than is currently fashionable country? not meant as a dunk on the song, which i have had on loop for days, there's a very early twenty teens quality about the mix. what the fuck do i mean by that? fuck if i know!

honorary shoutout to the line "Put another bullet in the chamber with your smile" bc that's gotta be like twenty fic titles. if not i have a new mission.

-

reading pinging off a lotta stuff, which is not the fault of any of the works and more that i am unable to settle and concentrate on any one singular thing for longer than about four minutes.

luckily, i have read this article, which details the practice of sending your local boutique owner a bunch of links to the shit you want and then she places the shein order for you and you go pick it up at the store.

this is absolutely fucking fascinating to me. it is not detailed very well how/why/if they handle the infamously gnarly returns process as well? i also wish the article went into more depth about Why this is so successful, other than "uhhhhh online sales in Mexico are low for uhhhhhh...cash? reasons? haveyouthoughtaboutinvestinginalastmiledeliverycompany"

Both Sandon and the Précomas’ boutiques offer the same prices that users might find on the official app. The way they make a profit is by making the most out of the gamified discount system Shein offers its online customers. “The more items you buy on Shein, the better discounts you get and the more points you earn to exchange for other discounts,” Guarneros said.

we do gotta hand it to them and i do fully support these women leveraging their network of friends from previous pyramid schemes like avon and tupperware in order to make bank by gaming the fuck out of predatory gamified discount systems

-

watching the unbearable weight of massive talent (2022, dir Gormican)

now, is this movie sucking itself off a lot? yes, almost constantly. however, i had fun watching it. i feel like nick cage The Guy is probably pretty chill and has a good sense of humor in order to agree to do this movie

i like pedro pascal The Guy very much and as an actor (one of the rare actors where i'm like "that's a hot guy! also, i'm extremely horny for him!" as opposed to a lot of actors that i do think are pretty [daniel craig, etc] but don't necessarily want to fuck) anyway it feels like pascal had a ton of fun making this. are we slowly returning to the tight ninety-minute movie???? i would have watched ninety minutes of cage and pascal riffing off each other. the plot in this thing was superfluous tbh

-

playing fallow week

-

making stock! i have two batches actually bc i inherited a bunch of stock fixins from the good roommate, who properly roasted the bones and saved the skin and everything so the first batch is really gorgeous and dark and glittering with fat. i skimmed some of the fat off but not all, bc the stuff i make never requires perfect crystal clear broth and i like fat. i did do the cheesecloth straining thing tho.

also feat. a whole bunch of my landlady's herbs (which have not had a very good time this summer) and an entire four-year-old bottle of bay leaves. can't hurt yanno. plus a parmesan rind from the aforementioned roommate. all items pictured here before transformation into stock

the second batch is still on the stove as i write this, with somewhat fewer herbs and no bay leaf, but smells just as good. tastes slightly less good so i think roasting the cleaned bones or whatever the fuck she did to them really does make a difference, bc i fully just plopped a chicken carcass in the freezer after i finished getting most of the meat off it and gave it no more effort than that. HATE having to do more work to get a better quality final product!!!

[more-than-a-princess]

@dcviated asked: [ apricot ]  what do you think your life will be like in ten years?

Colourful Interview (Munday Meme) - Accepting!

Not sure what I think about where I'll be in ten years because life can be so unpredictable, but here's what I hope my life will look like, ten years on:

I'll have a new job. Better paying, hybrid or fully work-from-home, and most importantly: I can actually take vacation days and my work can either be put on hold or be covered by someone else, as opposed to having to work most holidays and days I take off, in some capacity.

If I'm still living in the same house, this will probably be when my husband and I will want to have made repairs, sell, and upgrade our house, provided we're close to or have paid off the mortgage.

Finally gotten on top of/in control of my current health issues just in time for new health issues!

Less anime cosplay and anime conventions (if at all), as the crowd stays younger as I get older. Probably more general fandom conventions, like DragonCon, and movie/TV/historical cosplay. It's hard to find anime characters in their forties to cosplay as: often, it goes from teens/mid-20s to geriatric characters, unless you want to cosplay as someone's mom. I do not want to cosplay as a mom, particularly if it's that character's singular defining characteristic.

Beginning to really worry about my parents getting up there in age. I mean, I worry now, but ten years from now? That's likely when I'll really have to pay attention. Plans are in place and all...but watching them decline will be hard.

I'll have adopted several more cats. Love cats.

I'll be writing in some capacity. Maybe RP, maybe not. Possibly original fiction that I may or may not try to get published.

And most importantly: TRAVEL. I want to travel more, and not wait until US retirement age to do it! I want to take tours around the world, visit and participate in costuming events around the world (the ball at Versailles and Carnival in Venice are two big ones on the wishlist!), just...see the world. I have friends who are a bit more established in their careers just spent two weeks at a resort in Bali or spend a week at Carnival or something similar and I want to do similar things one day. Money sink hobbies like cosplay do partly contribute to this, but mostly it's how inflexible my job is. and I'm trying to change that. My travel wishlist just keeps growing and I'm not getting any younger.

[incarnateirony]

I think fandom needs to lower a bit what counts a "explicit" destiel, but at the same time I'm getting really tired of it being called "up for interpretation" :( I don't care if they only smile at each other as long as it's enough that j*red can't get away with homophobic rants about it anymore and production all agrees that it's NOT up for interpretation, and will actually stand up for that. Queer people deserve complex love stories that are meaningful and layered but it seems like without a kiss it always gets written off :/ that's the part that hurts. Not the fault of the storytellers, Robbie has been fighting this for years, but yeah. I think fandom just needs for it to not be "up for interpretation" this time

OK. So we're about to put our big people pants on for this conversation.

No you really don't need to nerf it much unless your expectation is inexplicably triple X porn on a teen broadcast network but

2. It's not really up for interp already, but they are closing the pressure cooker on that. But

3. Deep down ALL art is "interpretable." And by that, anyone CAN in theory make a fucking backwards ass weak ass interpretation. People who can't read can look at a book and just decide for themselves what the letters mean. They'll be WRONG, they'll completely MISS what the authors were DOING, but damnit, they are still interpreting that, because language requires interpretation by default, whether or not you realize you're doing it. Hell, you're interpreting my words right now. Honest readers read it in good faith, and understand. Bad faith readers like 2po pick out fractal parts, shriek at it out of context, flail it around without interest of the surrounding material. They do it to me, they do it to Jensen, they do it to the show, and you're imagining they're going to stop... why now?

So this idea that Something Doesn't Count Because Someone Made The World's Dumbest Interpretation To Argue? That's garbage. That's in your head. Especially since they don't really debate, they pick singular points to yell "NO" at but if you ask them for a cohesive reading and to stand in a debate over that, they just squeal, yell something about hellers, throw down a smoke bomb, vanish, and then shitpost insulting you on their own blog like the cowards with indefensible points they are.

No. *that* doesn't count. That's *never* counted. That's just distraction efforts. That's literally just screaming over and denying the content. That's literally why we are where we are and why Robbie is exacting revenge about codes, language, translations, interpretations, context literally as the driving factor here. That's WHY the truth has been so successfully buried about these authors, because you jackasses keep feeling like you've had to chase every twitter fight.

There is no universe where assholes with agendas and dogwhistles like 2po won't INTENTIONALLY go *OUT OF THEIR WAY* to make the *DUMBEST POSSIBLE TAKE* just to antagonize dipshits to believe they need to *PROVE SOMETHING HARDER TO HIM, SPECIFICALLY* and like. That's. Not. How. That. Works. The sign won't stop him because he can't read. Like arguing with toddlers about how the universe works but also acting like that toddler's fucking opinion is somehow viable vs advanced physicists because they scream "NO, IT'S MY OPINION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" /karen voice

4. homophobes and backwards people are always going to find excuses to go on bigoted rants. Don't get yourself confused there that Destiel kiss and then like racism and homophobia evaporate off the planet. That's not how that's going to work. TO THIS DAY homophobes are yelling "NUH UH" in the youtube comments of Diana Ross' I'm Coming Out song. Some people STILL deny Shameless is gay even after on screen gay sex. Get over yourselves and your issues, stop making YOUR personal self worth issues ours, because YOUR inability to laugh off the morons and trolls is your issue, not the canon's issue, not the author's issue.

Put your big people pants on and stop trying to argue literature with trolls and clowns that have zero interest in the material or the message.

[lookinginview068]

I can't tell when it started. When was I sundered?

Was it during childhood, where I spent every day in fear at home and in school for reasons I can barely bear to recall? Did it happen when I left for school at 14, not knowing that I was never going to return home, nor that I would spend the summer cramped in a one bedroom apartment with equally terrified family members I had to protect? Did it happen when I finally got so broken down from all the stress and the trauma, that I never got a chance to heal from, and finally had a psychotic breakdown from? Was it when a stalker followed me for over half a decade, forcing me to protect myself by any means necessary?

I feel like I've always fought to maintain an image in the hopes of dissuading closer scrutiny of just how fundamentally broken I am. I always have to try to find explanations for the things I don't myself understand.

But there are just too many. I can't explain why I'll feel attracted to women one day to then feel repulsed by the base prospect another. I can't explain why I'll have waves of dysphoria for what might seem like my body, but is more akin to my entire personhood as a whole.

I used to create fake identities online growing up. In way, it served as an outlet for parts of me that could only ever thrive without the ties to the single individual I have to maintain and present myself as. It feels like a prison, where I am allowed one sense of self.

I used to navigate IRL with multiple gender presentations and names in my teens, and that's the happiest I've ever been... and the reason it worked so well I think is because these facets of me had different and separate groups of people around them. These facets weren't seen as ultimately linked to this "main" piece, but got to grow almost completely unshackled.

I couldn't do that now. Everything directly links back to the "me" I should by all means settle for and resonate with. But I just don't, and the longer I'm stuck being limited solely to the same people as the years go by, the more noticeable these discrepancies in my opinions, recollections and perceptions of things become harder to ignore.

I feel like I'm increasingly coming off as a complete and utter hypocrite and even liar to the people around me, because I try to give explanations to rationalize the things they clearly pick up on (whether consciously so or not) but that stem from things I don't know if I could ever talk about.

What's worse is that I know that I am blessed to be so trusted by my loved ones, despite the signals my behaviour gives off. I know for a fact that I come off as suspiciously secretive a lot of the time, and that my tendency to keep all my friends and loved ones from getting to know each other could be interpreted in all manner of bad looking ways. But I don't know how else to cope with feeling imprisoned like this.

Because not only does it prevent other people from feeding each other the idea of what can be expected from me, and what type of person it is. It prevents them from talking about me, and connecting over the person they think I am.

And it sounds so pathetic when putting it that way! Comically so even to my ears! Because I don't actually care about what they say, but rather it's the idea of my fabricated, coherent and singular "brand" of personhood being perceived that repulses me on such a visceral level.

And what could I even do about it? I'm not a set of multiple, distinct people. I don't have more than one consciousness. And yet I'm just a walking collection of fragments that I can't tell whether that's what I've always been, or if the process of breaking down happened so slowly and gradually that I just never noticed until I cut myself on the pieces.

If a mirror breaks, do we consider the mirror to be one construct or multiple? Does the word 'mirror' become a term describing the collective group of its broken shards? Or is it that the shards can just as well be their own separate entities while ultimately still being an integral part of what makes up a mirror?

I am forever stuck right by that very mirror. My reflection doesn't always look the same. It might change depending on the angle, it might move itself independently from my own movement, or it might even happen without me realizing when. The mirror isn't me, but merely stands before me, just like both my body and sense of self stand before me in a way that emphasizes how much of bystander I truly am.

I feel frustrated and embarrassed over the mirror, and try to explain to everyone who sees it why it's so ugly and cracked and why I can't do anything about it. All the pieces reflect me, but they don't look the same. I can't tell which piece is 'the most me.'

I'm a man. I'm a woman. I'm gay. I'm lesbian. I'm nothing. I'm too much. I'm attracted to women. I'm repulsed by them. I'm attracted to men. I'm repulsed by them. I desire a dick. The idea of having one repulses me. I desire breasts. The idea of having them repulses me. I am a man who looks like a woman. I'm a woman who looks like a man.

All these things would somehow feel less contradictory if they all stemmed from one singular individual. Instead I have to look away from one that one mirror shards reflection, only to be confronted with another one bearing a similar, but not identical, version of my own face.

How could I ever begin to explain these thoughts and feelings to the people in my life who, while ultimately love me and would never seek to hurt me, also would be unlikely to understand? Who, for valid reasons given my past health, might interpret this as reasons to assume that I'm in the process of entering another suicidal breakdown?

I've started altering my appearance certain days in accordance to these fluctuations, as well as indulging in creative fiction as a way to indulge in what's ultimately a power fantasy of the many, contradicting things that define my personhood.

It feels amazing... until someone else sees it, and the illusion of being freed breaks. And I can't help but notice that this has fed my returning depression and hopelessness. There's no escape, I will forever be defined by this one role.

It wouldn't help if people in my life knew of this and accepted it. It would still feel like I'm just being coddled and entertained, that their perception of me is ultimately that of a singular person. And even if they didn't, I also wouldn't feel great being seen as entirely separate, concrete individuals because thqt's just not what I am. I am me who is also we, but we are all me.

And maybe that is just a normal human experience at the end of the day. Maybe what I'm feeling just happens to be slightly fueled by me being defined by two decades of uninterrupted trauma and mental illness.

No matter the reason this is just getting increasingly harder and harder to deal with and ignore, despite the fact that I'd rather die than tell anyone who knows me personally. I can't even bear to be comforted by people who perceive the Me(tm), because I feel so gross and seen and defined. Both because of this and because of other trauma.

This side blogs existence is the only reason I am able to even talk about this to this much detail, and that's the only reason I can post it publically. Where nothing I say will make people who know me reach out to try and help.

I don't deserve their kindness, because who in their right mind would feel so negatively about being seen and cared for? Who in their right mind would do that and yet also be hypocritical enough to feel hurt and upset when feeling uncared for? Though again, unrelated trauma. Another shard to the broken mirror.

I want to put a name to this. I want to understand my experiences. But does it matter really if I'll just keep living like always with no changes?

Had I not been physically disabled I might have gone willingly missing, cut off everyone I know despite how sad that would make me just for a chance at freeing myself from the tangled mess I've ended up in with my current life. The only possible alternative I could think of is death, but unfortunately I don't have a suicidal bone left in me.

[quixot1sm]

this'll hopefully be my last and most conclusive post on the matter re:isshu(/ferriswheel)shipping discourse. please read this before sending me anything regarding the matter:

what masuda said in 2012 is not absolute word of god, or an unchallengeable truth- at least one person involved with bw's story writing has stated that the protagonists were intended to be 16. hilda and hilbert were advertised as being older than any previous protagonists, and n is, according to pash! magazine, 20 in the anime- during the same arc where cherens bw2 role + design is used.

also, pokemon itself isn't afraid to change around characters' ages to better fit their circumstances. anipoke serena, for example, is 10, while her game counterpart appears to be in her late teens. this is to say that while there is a definite, set range for a character's age to be within, ultimately no singular number is going to be universal.

the reason why i personally use 16 over 14 for the bw protag ages has to do with the contents of the actual game first and foremost. all things considered- unova taking inspiration from america where 16 is typically when coming of age occurs, cheren and bianca having adult designs and careers only two years later, and ns role as a narrative foil to the protagonist, 16 is the age that makes the most sense. to add to that, the protagonist and their friends are remarked to be on the cusp of adulthood at least twice in game:

there's also the matter of the protagonist and n's relationship itself. the two are, by all means, meant to both contradict and compliment each other, to act as inverted mirrors. n checks all the boxes for what would usually be considered a protagonist (his design, his narrative as a hero, obtainment of a box legendary- pretty much everything except being playable), and he has physical traits that mirror both hilbert and hilda. most importantly, he is canonically obsessed with the protagonist. he thinks that they are meant to be his counterpart, so much so that he wholly believes that they will be able to awaken the opposite dragon without issue. in bw2, he misses them deeply enough to linger in the place they last saw each other, and comment on how he wonders if they'll meet again, and that he wants to tell them how he feels.

then, on the protagonist's end, they literally drop EVERYTHING, leave behind all their friends and family, to search for n when he leaves. that's the only thing they do that we, the player, have no control over.

finally, although pokemon masters is noncanon material, there is just. so much. alluding to their dynamic leaning towards romantic. the best badge you can earn from their reunion event is "N-describable Love". n has dialogue where he indirectly states that he loves hilbert-

and hilberts well. hilbert

all these things would be INCREDIBLY uncomfortable and inappropriate if the audience was meant to see the two of them as definitively an adult and a minor. a two year max age difference just works the best in this context, and the ages of 16 and 18 have evidence to back them. i understand any apprehension and/or discomfort anyone may have with shipping them, and i'm also not going to tell you that you can't headcanon them with a different dynamic (because thatd defeat the whole purpose of pokemon and its encouragement of creative liberty) but this topic has much, much more to it than a glance at the first google result.

tl;dr : while masuda is a respectable source to draw from, his claim doesn't align with pash!, toshinobu matsumiya, or the marketing surrounding hilbert and hilda during bw's release, neither does it fit the story of bw without causing some very uncomfortable dynamics and scenarios. overall isshushipping/ferriswheelshipping is fine. who cares

[benjaminthewolf]

Diver Down (Part 1)

The unholy trinity is almost complete. Not gonna spoil the big surprise for the second part, but oh boy, its a doozie.  And yeah, just so everyone who sees this is on the same page with what “the unholy trinity” means, um...I’m hyper fixating on Beavis and Butt-Head. Yeah. Beavis gets to be the pred this time. ****

     “Nrrrrrngh-where the hell are they?” Todd Lanuzzi angrily grumbled whilst impatiently tapping his foot. “They should’ve been here at least like, fifteen minutes ago!”

     “Who the hell are you talking about?” Daria Morgendorffer softly murmured to Todd while picking a couple of brownies off the snack table and placing them onto a small styrofoam plate she was holding.

     “I specifically instructed those two clowns Beavis and Butt-Head to show up today in actual clown outfits! I told them that the chicks dig that kind of shit!”

     To Todd’s oddly particular admission, Daria could only roll her eyes. “Do you really think they’re that dumb?”

     Todd raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yes.”

     “Well, whether or not you’re correct, it really doesn't matter.” Daria continued on. “October thirty first is one of their favorite days of the year because they can just go around the town snatching up all those ‘take one’ baskets all night, so what makes you think they’d even bother to show up to Highland’s Halloween party anyway?”

     The party in question was taking place on the school’s lawn area at its front. There were foldable tables set out for a buffet stuffed chalk-full of any and all kinds of snacks and candy you can imagine, and a makeshift stage set up with large speakers and a DJ so students and faculty alike could rock on all night.

     “They got those kinds of baskets here, too, right? Plus a whole bunch more.”

     “Yes…… but you know who else is here, right? I don't really know if they’ll even be comfortable showing up with that guy around.” Daria eventually retorted, pointing a ways over towards Coach Buzzcut, who had shown up tonight in his old military uniform and had mainly just spent all his time screeching relentlessly at all the partygoers trying to sneak in booze.

     “Eh, good point.” Todd at last conceded while placing a finger under his currently rather boney chin. He had come to the party wearing a full custom plastic skeletal exoskeleton, and at the end of the night, was planning on setting fire to the headpiece so he could drive around the town looking like an actual flaming skeleton on a motorcycle. Daria, meanwhile, hadn’t even bothered with a costume, as she knew she would get free snacks either way. “Well I mean I guess there really isn’t anything I can do about it at this point other than-”

     “...Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh…”     “...Hehehehehehehehe…”

     “...Ugh…nevermind. There they are now.”

     Daria swiftly turned to look to where Todd was pointing, only for her brow to almost instantly furrow in considerable confusion of what the hell she was even seeing. Beavis and Butt-Head meanwhile, were slowly making their way up to Todd, who seemed to be just as confused as Daria was, without so much as a single worry in their singular shared braincell at all. So confused were Todd and Daria at the current spectacle, however, that by the time the two troublesome teens did make it up to the rebellious gang member, he wasn’t even able to say anything.

     “Hey, how’s it goin’?” Beavis casually asked.

     “Uhuhuhuh…hey look, its diarrhea.” Butt-Head stated while glancing over at Daria.

      After a few seconds of just standing there awkwardly and staring, though, Todd eventually managed to shake his head a few times before scowling slightly and finally opening up his mouth to speak.

     “Okay, first of all, what?” was all he ended up saying, however.

     “Uh…so like, we couldn’t find any clown outfits, so instead we just like, got out an orange shirt and turned Beavis into the fish or something.” Butt-Head casually responded.

     “Hehehe. Yeah. We like, snuck into Tom Anderson’s shed to steal some white paint. Hehehehe.” Beavis added on.

     Upon at last realizing just how oblivious the two infamously iditoic teens were to the entire situation, Todd began to furiously bunch up his fist and growl, before releasing all of his pent-up frustration in a drawn-on, aggressive rant.

     “THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU NUMB-SKULL! YOU COULDN’T FIND ANYTHING FOR A CLOWN OUTFIT, BUT YOU MANAGED TO FIND A FULL-ASS INTACT DIVER SUIT WITH THE OXYGEN TANK, GOGGLES, AND ALL, JUST LYING AROUND IN YOUR HOUSE SOMEWHERE? IT EVEN SEEMS TO FIT ON YOU PERFECTLY! HOW THE HELL DO YOU EXPLAIN THAT ONE, BEAVER AND BUTT-PLUG?”

     Todd was naturally expecting Beavis and Butt-Head to get rather intimidated by all of Todd’s yelling, but to the aggressive gang member’s considerable frustration, the both of them just stood there for a few seconds continuously giggling away like the idiots they are, before Butt-Head eventually spoke up once more.

     “Uh, yeah. We saw it at the dump, you dumbass.”

     Upon hearing the word “dump” Daria almost jolted slightly from shock, instantly raised an eyebrow, and  leaped into the conversation almost immediately, as she was now considerably concerned.

     “I’m sorry, did you just say the word dump?”

     “Uh…..yeah. Dump. Beavis took a huge one just before we came, huhuhuhuh.”

     “Hehehehe! Yeah! You should’ve like, seen it and stuff! It was HUGE!”

     Daria sighed and rolled her eyes. She knew that it was probably no use trying to explain to the boys that they had mixed up homonyms, as, in all likelihood, neither of them even knew what a homonym was, and as a result, she just decided to cut straight to the point with them.

     “Did you even bother to wash that diver’s suit off before you put it on? You do realize how many germs you could be putting directly in your mouth if you use the mouthpiece before a thorough cleaning, right? And how do you even know the oxygen tank works? That’s just a downright safety hazard! You can’t just pull out what appears to be a perfectly good diver’s suit from a pile of trash and not expect there to be any sort of catch! I mean those things are expensive, so the previous owner must have had a reason for throwing the suit away, right?”

     Daria wasn’t expecting much of a response from Beavis and Butt-Head, but upon realizing that her little monologue may or may not have just caused their brains to crash, Daria just placed a hand on her forehead, shook her head a few times, and just simply waited for a response.

     “Uhhhhhhhhh, what the hell are ‘germs’?”

     It was at this point that Daria just completely gave up. “........forget I said anything. Just…go and enjoy the party, I guess.”

     “Uhhhhhhhhh…..ok. Huhuhuhuhuhuh. This is gonna be cool.”

     “Hehehehe! Yeah, Butt-Head! There’s gonna be like, chicks, and they’ll see I’m a clown, and then…and then I’m gonna score! Can you believe it, Butt-Head? OW!”

     “Uhuhuhuh, Shut up, Beavis! Todd said chicks only like regular clowns!”

     “Oh…uh…yeah. That’s right. Yeah that’s right. Hehehehehe.”

     “Yeah you’re not gonna score, dumbass. I probably will though.”

     “No way, Butt-Head! You’re just gonna keep on spanking your monkey all your life!”

     “Uhuhuhuh, no I’m not!”

     “Yes you are!”

     “No I’m not!”

     “Yes you are- OW!”

     “SHUT UP, BEAVIS! YES I TOTALLY AM!”

     “AHA! SO YOU ARE JUST GONNA SPANK YOUR MONKEY AND NEVER GET ANY CHICKS!”

     “WHAT? NO! I-”

     Almost immediately turning his back towards Todd and Daria as both he and Beavis made their way off into the crowd, Butt-Head continued to o so casually flop around in the diver suit’s flippers while carrying the helmet and goggles underneath his left arm.

     For a while, neither Todd nor Daria had any idea what to think about what they had just witnessed, before Todd eventually just shook his head and let out a great, deep, sigh.

     “Uuuugh……. Well, it seems you were right, Daria. I did underestimate them after all.”

     “What are you talking about? I never said-”

.    “Underestimate their stupidity, that is.”

     “Oh, you were yourself up for a joke. I get it now.”

****

     At first, both Beavis and Butt-Head had wanderd over to the stage, expecting for them to take song requests for rock metal. Unfortunately for them, although the DJ did, indeed, take requests, for some strange reason that just seemed completely outside of the two boys’ mental capacity to conceive, the DJ refused to play rock metal, and both of the boys had stormed out of the dance area rather disappointed as such.

     “This sucks. Why won’t they play any good music?” Butt-Head complained to Beavis as they were leaving. 

     “Yeah, yeah, all they’ve got is that dumb, stupid radio music. Who the hell listens to radio anyway?” Beavis angrily grumbled back in agreement.

     “Clearly, they’re just not as sophisticated as we are, when it comes to the fine arts.”

     “Heheh. Yeah, clearly. Fine arts. Fine arts-FARTS! Hehehhh! Farts…hey look, Butt-Head! Nachos!”

     It was only, somehow, at this point that the two troublesome teens finally noticed the snack tables. The one they were currently standing by was the “main course” table, consisting of plenty of dinner items, including freshly cooked hot dogs and hamburgers coming straight off of nearby grills, as well as a few boxes of pizza that had been ordered by the school beforehand, but none of that really mattered to the boys. Instead, all that did was the two gigantic bowls in front of them. Once containing nacho chips, and one containing nacho cheese.

     “Huhuhuhuhuh. This is gonna be cool.” Butt-Head calmly stated while Beavis began to drool uncontrollably. “So if I like, shrink down and stuff, I can like, swim in the cheese. Uhuhuhuh that’s cool.”

     Beavis, taking a second to bring his anticipation-jittery body to a halt, swiftly turned towards Butt-Head and gave him a bit of a confused look as his brown-haired friend slipped the helmet and goggles over his head.

     “But then you won’t be able to grab the nachos!”

     “You can like, bring the nachos over to me, you dumbass.”

     “Oh. Yeah. I can. Hehehe. That’s right.”

     Butt-Head thus proceeded to think (which usually never ends well for these two) as to what the best way to approach the situation was. If he shrunk right now he would just end on the grass, after all.

     “Uhhhh….” he eventually called out to Beavis. “I gotta like, get up on the table and stuff.”

     As such, Butt-Head, slowly and rather quite awkwardly, attempted to bring a flipper-covered foot up and center it onto the party’s buffet stand, accidentally knocking off a plate of hot dogs as he did so. Once he had gotten one flipper up, he tried to bring up the other, but almost immediately lost his balance, causing the flipper on the table to knock over a couple of drinks, spilling them onto his face and hair as he lay flat (well, as flat as was possible with the oxygen tank on his back, but still), flat nonetheless.

     “This sucks. Uhuhuhuh. Why don’t you just get me up there?”

     “Get you up there?” Beavis retorted back. “But you’re-oh.”

     Seeing that Butt-Head had ultimately decided to just shrink himself down while still on the ground, Beavis casually bent down to pick up the tiny diver in his hand, before placing him down inside the bowl of nacho cheese. Butt-Head’s flippers were barely able to generate enough force to keep him above the cheese instead of sinking down into it, but he still managed. 

     Beavis did still remember he had to get Butt-Head some chips, so he brought the nahco chip bowl a little closer to the cheese bowl and knocked a few inside the way you would when trying to gather kitchen table crumbs in your hand so you can throw them away.

     “There ya go, But-Head, heheheh.”

     Butt-Head continued to swim over to one of the large chips as a result, and break off a piece before dipping it in the cheese and finally popping it in his mouth. It was only then, right then and there at long, long last, that he realized just how good of nachos these really were.

     “Beavis…” he slowly spoke while turning to face his now much larger, equally nahco-obsessed companion. “Let’s eat.”

     The resulting scene that followed next could only be described by an onlooker, as, well, a massacre. A massacre upon the very same nachos that had once existed within the now empty bowl, and one that nobody who was unfortunate enough to accidentally gaze upon, would ever be able to get out of their brain.

     Beavis had all but dumped the entirety of the nacho chips into the cheese bowl at this point, and with his little buddy swimming around in the nacho sauce and chowing down on smaller portions of the chips  and cheese as well, there was pretty much nothing in the blonde-haired teen’s way that would prevent him from positively going to town.

    Thus, as he continued to mow through the chips like a starving hyena does to carrion, Beavis’ consciousness would eventually begin to tap out of reality, as his brain began to rely upon his instincts only, and his instincts were indeed telling him to continue wolfing the nachos down. Losing more and more conscious concentration and comprehension as more as more and more chewed up nacho globs got shoved down his throat, Beavis’ hands and jaws continued to move faster, and faster, and faster, until to the poor, horrified onlooker, his nacho consuming speed became almost that of inhuman. Yet still, he pushed on, shoveling handful after handful of nacho chips and sauce into his tight, salivating maw, and gulping down glob after glob, the bulges almost visible from the outside, only undetectable by a spectator due to the speed at which the teen was moving.

     As Beavis’ now only semi-conscious being started spontaneously shaking and sputtering, nacho mush began to froth out from his mouth. He shakily raised up both his arms at a ninety degree angle, before at last turning away from the table, taking a couple steps, and aimlessly wandering away from the now empty nacho bowl, babbling nonsensically all the while. Eventually, however, Beavis would make his way over to the desert table, and it was at that point that his body just could not hold it in any second more. Stuttering rapidly whilst bringing his shirt collar over his head, Beavis, in a positively enthralled, enfixed trance, sprinted wildly over to a gigantic plate of brownies, before aggressively snarling out towards anyone in the near vicinity who may even attempt to snag up one of the precious baked goods, and yowling one single phrase into the moonlit night, proceeding to go to town on the brownies, in almost the same way he did the nachos, but a single second later.

   “I AM THE ONE AND ONLY ALMIGHTY CORNHOLIO! YOU WILL BOW DOWN TO THE ALMIGHTY  BUNGHOLIO!”

****

     You’ve probably begun wondering at this point, what exactly happened to Butt-Head now? Well, it would indeed be doing this story a great disservice if I did not start all the way back at the beginning, so for the sake of us all, and for that exact reason, back to the nacho bowls we will now go.

     “Uhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh this is cool.” Butt-Head just couldn’t help but chuckle out despite currently having the mouthpiece placed between his teeth and lips. He had dived pretty much all the way down to the bottom of the bowl at this point and, naturally, all he could see through his goggles was cheese. He was able to touch down somewhere at the bottom, but aside from the occasional chip that had for one reason or another sunk to or was near to said bottom, there really wasn’t much else to see inside the thick, orange-yellow lake of nacho cheese other than, well, just that. Cheese. As such, Butt-Head eventually decided to just simply resurface but a few seconds later, launching himself up from the floor with his flippers in an almost leap-like motion.

     When he at last breached the top layer of the cheese, he swiftly took out the mouthpiece so he would be able to relay his little expedition onto his currently much larger friend, Beavis, only for his habitually rather narrowed eyes to widen considerably upon bearing witness to Beavis’ current state of being; which was, of course, his monstrously inconceivable, downright inhuman nacho consuming speed.

     “Woah…” he called out to the obsessively-focused giant before him. “Cool! Uhuhuhuhuhuh.”

    Upon suddenly becoming fixated upon Beavis’ hyperactive eating from an angle he had never really gotten to see before, Butt-Head began to casually tread over to the middle of the bowl, in order to get a better view. However, although he was lacking in the necessary brain power in order to consciously make the realization, there was indeed something that lurked deep down inside the cobwebbed shadows of the brown haired teen’s brain, that positively shrieked to the unreachable conscious how stupid of an idea this really was. Unfortunately for Butt-Head though, the opportunity to escape the results of swimming over to the middle, was already long gone.

     It only went by in a few seconds, but upon slowing the moment down, one may be able to see exactly what transpired. Butt-Head himself wasn’t able to tell what was happening due to the speed at which it, well, happened, but as Beavis’ cheese-slathered, positively filthy, dripping fingers plunged back into the bowl for yet another round of deliciousness, he just happened to end up rather effortlessly scooping up But-Head along with it, instantly slinging the shrunken teen past his lips and teeth, and consequently into his maw. Butt-Head immediately splattered face-first onto an already chewed up wad of chips and cheese, barely managing to dodge getting crushed between the viciously gnashing jaws, before Beavis’ tongue was raised, shoving both the food glob and Butt-Head towards the entrance of his throat.The now completely and utterly reality-detached teen did a sort of half-somersault as he flew through the air, his head scraping upon the rough ridges at the roof of Beavis’ maw, before his body struck against the uvula but a single second later, and he landed head-first into the gullet, which wasted absolutely zero time gulping the still perceptually incapable teen down along with the all the actual food around him, causing much of the goop to get squeezed and squelched in by his sides as the throat muscles were forced to work overtime with all of the shit that the blonde haired teen had forced down into it in such a short amount of time.

     There would swiftly come another gulp as a considerable out of nacho cheese and chip mush got dumped straight onto the shrunken teen within as he continued to slide down the rhythmically compressing, slick walls of the throat. Eventually, however, Beavis’ rapidly pulsing heart rate would become audible, though not to Butt-Head of course, since he was still completely and utterly unable to process, well, anything that was happening around him; but at last, a few echoing gurgles emulated from deep within the churning chamber within, as it had already been delivered a gigantic amount of food so far.

     Getting squeezed through the lower esophageal sphincter at last, Butt-Head made a splashdown deep into the considerably risen and mush-filled chamber of his lifelong best friend’s stomach, as his still downright stunned consciousness tried desperately to piece together what in the name of feces just happened. I mean, he could see what was currently around him, that much was true, but…what was all of it, exactly?

     Eventually, as But-Head hadn’t yet moved from his position standing straight and staring at the shifting, smooth walls, yet another bout of chewed up food got slathered upon his being, almost getting inside of his own mouth as such, an action which, somehow, would end up becoming the one singular action that was finally needed for Butt-Head’s brain to start working again. (Not like it worked at all in the first place, but you get what I mean.)

     “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……” he thus began to drone out. “Woah!”

     Taking a bit of a pause before speaking again, Butt–Head simply began to look around. The area in question was indeed composed of smooth, gloopy, shifting walls that lapsed up against an ever mixing pool of what could have once been described as nachos, within its confines. The liquids had risen up to Butt-Head’s waist area at this point, and though they seemed to have no trouble at all breaking down the food particles and dissolving them into mush, they seemed to have no effect at all on Butt-Head, though this may have almost definitely had something to do with the fact that he was indeed still wearing the diving suit.

     “I think Beavis ate me. Uhuhuhuhuhuh. That’s cool.”

     As a result, there was to be a relatively short period of time where Butt-Head merley stood there entranced, staring intently at the ever gurgling organ as it continued to do its job, not even minding all the nacho slop falling down onto his head. He let himself take in the chamber’s natural warmth and ambiance, listening closely to the semi-constant glorping and grumbling noises as the liquids continued to churn. 

     “Uhuhuhuhuhuh.” he continued to absentmindedly chuckle. “What else is down here?”

    [TO BE CONTINUED]

[dreamsclock]

What happens if c!Wilbur/Alivebur finds snowchester and decides to take over or maybe he finds out about the nukes and uses it to get c!Dream out-

Ah, let chaos run the server :)

someone: h—

me: YOU WANT ME TO WRITE C!WILBUR AND C!TUBBO INTERACTING ?? THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO ?? YOU’RE DEMANDING I WRITE THEM TALKING ????? OKAY LOL UR CRAZY 😇

/lh omg tysm for giving me the chance to write c!wilbur do you know how much i love him? anyway have this :D

warnings: toxic relationship, manipulation, trauma, PTSD, trauma response, smoking, threats, dark themes / content, dark c!wilbur portrayal

“Oh, this is a familiar sight!” 

Tubbo jerks round at the sound of a stranger’s voice, mouth running dry at how much the voice reminds him of debris and a too-big suit and a lean, mean knowing smile that had watched its own world blow up before destroying everyone else’s too. “Wilbur,” he greets uneasily, wiping his sweaty palms on his coat and turning properly to face him, “aren’t you supposed to be...”

He trails off, because yeah, Wilbur is. He’s supposed to be with Phil and Techno, on house arrest (or as close as one can get to house arrest when it comes to Wilbur Soot), permanently, until they can figure out how much of a threat he is and how seriously they should hide anything explosive from him. But Wilbur only smiles, serenely, stepping further into the room, and Tubbo hates how fluid and natural he makes everything look, even walking in a world that’s outgrown him, because Tubbo can try and try and he will never feel as at home in this place as Wilbur looks now.

He isn’t bred for explosives and nukes. 

Wilbur is, and he’s never looked more at ease.

“I just came round to say hi,” Wilbur tells him, nonchalant despite how obviously uncomfortable Tubbo is, “it’s been over a decade since I’ve had proper conversation, you know? Schlatt and Mexican Dream and Tommy didn’t exactly count: the first two pretended they didn’t know English to avoid talking to me after the first year, and Tommy was too preoccupied doing his whole shaky breath traumatised teen act to actually have meaningful conversation, so I’m here!” He spreads his hands, cracks a wider smile. His eyes are black, black swirling void and oblivion. “And I’m glad I stopped by. This a little secret passion project you’re working on, eh?”

Wilbur’s gaze sweeps from Tubbo, shifts from making him feel as small as an ant to gazing with delight at the singular nuke on the table between them like he’s struck gold. Before he can think straight, Tubbo is snatching it from the table, shoving it into his inventory and backing up as casually as he can, because he’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them, no matter what anyone thinks, and he doesn’t want Wilbur Soot of all people getting his hands on this nuke, not when they’re one down already. 

If anything, this only entertains Wilbur. His smile grows more serene, more placid, but there’s steel and iron behind his expression, steel and iron knives that dig into Tubbo’s skin the more Wilbur stays here. “Don’t worry,” Wilbur tells him with a chuckle, “I know you know what I’m like, but I have no plans as of now to blow anything up, least of all this place. Not when you’ve worked so hard on it!”

I worked hard on L’Manburg too, Tubbo wants to snap, but the words feel stuck in his mouth, cling to his tongue and drip down his throat like blood, I worked hard on L’Manburg and Manberg and New L’Manberg and you destroyed all of them, you and the shadow of who you became and the memory of your handiwork, you blew up my everything and left me stumbling blind in the dust-

He doesn’t say any of this, of course, because he’s not Tommy, because he’s got what Tommy calls “thicker skin” but Tubbo prefers to call cowardice. In one graceful, slow movement, Wilbur ends up closer than ever, on Tubbo’s side of the table, leaning against it casually and fiddling with a lighter. Tubbo can only watch, a rabbit trapped in the headlights, as Wilbur lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, his eyes never leaving Tubbo’s, before he speaks again.

“Does it call you?” He asks curiously. “The nuke? Does it sing in your head at night? Can you hear it, Tubbo?”

Tubbo swallows bile. “No,” he says, “’cause I’m not out of my mind, Wilbur. Not like you were. The nuke doesn’t speak.”

But he’s lying, and Wilbur’s eyes glitter like he’s hit the jackpot (he has), arching one eyebrow idly. 

“There’s a dead man’s switch on that nuke.” He points out, and he almost sounds detached - he’s been there, done this before, Tubbo supposes half-hysterically, why should he sound interested? He’s not talking to Tommy, he’s not talking to Dream: Tubbo knows he’s always been somewhat of a pawn to Wilbur, knows it in the same way he knows Tommy had been right to want Dream dead before he brought Wilbur back, and in the same way he knows now that Wilbur’s sudden interest in him again is a bad, bad sign. “Taking a leaf out of my book, Tubso?”

The nickname that usually comes from Tommy makes Tubbo feel nauseous. 

“Sometimes you have to do what’s necessary to defend your nation,” he forces out, and, behind his back, slips out his communicator, types Ranboo’s name as discreetly as he can, gets ready to message him with a simple and desperate help, “I want Snowchester to stay in one piece. I want the people living here to be happy. If I have to use a nuke to make sure people stay that way, then I won’t hesitate.”

Something wistful and mean flickers in the light of Wilbur’s cigarette. “Such wise words from our former President,” he muses, driving a dagger into Tubbo’s heart and twisting it with his next words, “you almost sound exactly like how I used to think. Isn’t that funny?”

Tubbo’s mouth runs dry.

Wilbur pulls out five blocks.

Tubbo is too busy reeling backwards in preparation for a blow or threat to realise what’s happening until his back hits a wall and he finds himself boxed in by Wilbur’s quick block work, two blocks on either side of him and one in front and oh fuck fuck fuck this is just like Schlatt all over again and his vision blurs for a moment and he can’t remember where he is but there’s fireworks exploding all around him and a pain shattering fragments into his chest and he’s screaming out for Schlatt to stop and Wilbur to save him and he’s staring down Techno begging pleading with his eyes not to hurt him and it hurts and he’s so so scared Tommy please

“Tubbo in a box,” Wilbur says cheerfully, before breaking the front block. Tubbo’s legs shake, quiver, but he keeps himself standing anyway, because he’s got thicker skin, or because he’s too much of a coward to be honest about how fucking scared he is right now, “just like old times, right? Boxed in back then, and...” His eyes trail around the enclosure of the nuke holding site, dark, cutting, and Tubbo has never been more claustrophobic. “...And boxed in a slightly bigger box now.”

The blocks are broken. Tubbo doesn’t speak. He doesn’t think he can. Wilbur is still smiling, but it feels expectant, like he’s waiting for a chess move from an opponent, like Tubbo has somehow upgraded himself from pawn to player all by showing his trauma. 

“What’s going on?”

He wants to cry at the sound of Ranboo’s voice. Instead, Tubbo latches onto it, uses the sound to soothe himself enough to force words out. “Nothing,” he says, chokes, “Wilbur was just popping in to say hi.”

“I like reacquainting myself with old faces,” Wilbur agrees, as composed and unruffled as ever, and for a moment, Tubbo wants to set off the nuke there and then, wants to kill him and Wilbur, wants them both to die just so he can see Wilbur’s expression of surprise, “it’s nice, after so long being stuck in that Void.”

He turns, then, and Tubbo catches sight of Ranboo standing there, sword in hand, armour and shield out, expression unyielding and tight. There’s a flicker of protectiveness when they lock eyes, and Tubbo is suddenly reminded of the half formed message on his communicator he’d never quite got to finish - an unfinished symphony, he tries to joke, but it’s wild, frantic in his mind, a hummingbird trapped inside that throws itself hysterically against his skull. 

“It’s nice to see new faces too,” Wilbur tells Ranboo, cocking his head, “I’m sure we’ll see a lot of each other! I want to pick your brain every now and then - I’m a big fan of the whole Enderman thing, by the way, that’s well cool.”

Ranboo smiles, but it’s hard. “Can I borrow Tubbo for a bit? I really wanna talk to him about something, if that’s okay.”

Wilbur raises his hands good-naturedly, expression falling into something less genuine, falsified, almost, if not for the fact Tubbo knows Wilbur is being as sincere as ever. “Of course! I’m done here, anyway. I just saw my chance to catch him and speak to him: it’s just been so long. You know what they say about reminiscing too much, Lesson 27 and all that, but I’ve never been able to help myself, you know?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says uncertainly, feeling like he’s missing something when Ranboo goes still like he’s been shot, “yeah, we know.”

Wilbur turns back to him, taking another drag from his cigarette and clapping Tubbo on the back warmly.

“I’ll see you soon, probably,” he says, and there’s no probably about it, “I’ll tell Philza you said hi!”

He heads for the exit, unbothered entirely by Ranboo’s excessive armour and weaponry, putting out his cigarette on the wall as he passes him. Tubbo waits very calmly until he knows Wilbur is gone, and then does the rational thing: he grabs hold of the table when his legs buckle from underneath him, and tries very hard not to start hyperventilating.

Ranboo is by his side in an instant, shaken, worried. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Tubbo struggles to compose himself, gulps in a lungful of air and focuses on something positive, like the fact Wilbur hadn’t taken the nuke or killed him or hurt him, but all he can focus on is how hard it is to breathe in this little space and how Wilbur had stubbed out his cigarette on his wall, almost staking a claim over it, leaving a permanent mark that screams this is mine, Tubbo is mine, that nuke is mine, this is all mine and I won’t let anyone forget it. Ranboo’s hand on his shoulder is a comfort, and Tubbo turns, burying his head in Ranboo’s chest and hugging him tightly. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, course,” Ranboo says gently, holding up his communicator and hugging him back, “you didn’t reply to my response to your half sent help, so I had to come. I was worried.”

And for good reason, neither of them need to add, because Tubbo’s shaky breaths and Wilbur’s presence that still hovers over them thickly is proof enough of that, so Tubbo tries for a smile, tries for a light laugh as he pulls his husband from the nuke room and locks the door very tightly shut behind him, because he will be fine, eventually, he doesn’t need to worry Ranboo more. 

“No need to be worried about me, boss man,” he tells him playfully, “I have a totem now. I’m all safe. Besides- Wilbur wouldn’t hurt me. He’s an awful, awful person, but he wouldn’t hurt me.”

He doesn’t need to.

Because even outside, Tubbo still can’t breathe; because even in the company of Ranboo, his mind is fixated on the nuke; because, even in the vast expanse of open area that makes up Snowchester, Tubbo feels claustrophobic, choked like he’s still stuck in a box after all this time.

[krabmeat]

I have not written anything in some time - since I took a break from my writing account, actually (now deleted) - so cut me some slack here. I’m gonna format this in the same way that I did my old fics for that jolt of serotonin. So, if you would be so kind to indulge me, this is how I (niceimafan) would have submitted this work on fandoesfictionwriting:

What War Does || (platonic) Father Figure c!Phil x Teen gn!Reader

A/N: This is my submission for the 100 follower milestone of the lovely @/krabmeat! Krabs (Damien today) is an amazing friend of mine and is quite possibly the best human being in the world. (Go follow him if you haven’t already!)

War struggles paired with the classic familial miscommunication, what could be better as a way for me to get back into writing? This takes place around the time of Doomsday, or the final battle/destruction. Also I can’t remember if Wilbur’s room was still there at the time of Doomsday because I have goldfish memory so pretend it was if it wasn’t.

Requested: No

{Word Count: 1,946}

CW: intense arguing, mentions of war, mentions of death, cursing (up to the f-word), caps, use of godforsaken (I don’t know if people get triggered by that? I’m not religious so I wouldn’t know), very brief mention of spit, less than great relationship with father

This is an xreader fic!

This has been proofread. (skimmed rip I don’t like reading my writing)

- In which Y/N and Phil argue about Y/N and their right to participate in Doomsday. -

Phil works away high in the sky, loading cannons with enough TNT to detonate a nation. He, Techno, and Dream have everything planned out; you know because they did all of the planning right in front of you. Meaning you know everything they are going to do, and you aren’t even allowed to be involved.

You avert your eyes from your father and pick mindlessly at some grass instead, feeling the cold breeze of afternoon cool your flaming temper. For a moment, it appears as though everything might be fine, like you could get over this and let the Big War Men do their thing. But then Phil’s boots appear in front of you, and it’s all ruined again.

“You look miserable,” he says. Phil finishes his sentence with an airy laugh, trying to convey that he’s trying to joke with you. And so you make sure that the gaze you shoot him ensures he understands you do not find him humorous. Phil sighs, taking a seat beside you.

“Look, I understand that you want to help. I do! But I also understand that people with a spirit as strong as yours have risen to unimaginable heights, only to crash back down onto the blade of loss. And I fear that you will be no different.” Phil places his hand on your shoulder. “I just want you to be safe.”

You shrug him off, turning your neck so fast to glare at him it leaves a sharp stinging sensation in your movement’s wake. “Safe? You want me to be safe? No one is safe here, and you know that.”

“Y/N, you know-”

“What, Phil? What do I know? Because according to you, it doesn’t seem like a lot.” You stand after that, stomping off in an attempt to clear your mind, hoping Phil won’t follow you. But, of course, he does.

“Y/N, wait.” He shouts, but he makes no move to speed up or stop you. He simply follows along at a distance, saying nothing else. Probably waiting for you to make the first move. But you refuse, you refuse to let him win this and watch you break again.

And so the two of you walk in silence, you with no destination in mind and Phil’s footsteps echoing yours calmly in the distance. All you can do is follow your feet to wherever they find fit for this argument to play out.

To your amusement, you find yourself in Wilbur’s old room. Where he blew up his dreams for the first time and where Phil took the life of his son. How fitting.

You finally come to a stop, taking a brief moment to collect yourself, before spinning around on your heel to address your father. “Ph- Phil?” It does shock you to find that Phil isn’t there. He’s not standing behind you with a small, comforting smile, or with his eyebrows pinched together in a way that lets you know you’re going to be scolded. Nothing.

“You dress like him, you know.” Phil says from behind you. You whirl around again, reaching for your sword on instinct. Phil stands with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out over the soon-to-be battlegrounds.

“What?” It feels like you’ve lost all air in your lungs. Phil doesn’t just say things like that, especially not to you. And of course you know who he’s talking about; Techno doesn’t wear tattered trench coats and Tommy hasn't adorned ripped up fingerless gloves to protect from burns, to your knowledge. But speaking of Wilbur when referring to another child of his in this room in particular hit you in a place you have not yet built walls in.

“Wilbur. You dress like him.” Phil turns around, and you finally see that his eyes are watering. But he still has that sympathetic smile plastered on his face. “Every day, you remind me of him. And in doing so, you remind me that I can not let you turn out the way that Will did.

“Wilbur was changed by war. He destroyed everything he worked for because of it. And for that to happen to you, with such grand dreams and ideas, it would be heartbreaking.” Phil can’t maintain eye contact with you anymore, “I just want you to be everything that Wilbur couldn’t have been.”

You let his words sink in, and as they do, you begin to fight with yourself.

He just wants to help you!

How, by comparing me to his dead son? Yeah, something about that doesn’t feel right.

Just hear him out.

You grit your teeth, balling up and releasing your fingers into and out of fists. “I am not Wilbur.”

Phil shakes his head, rubbing the place where his eyebrows crease together. “I know that, and that’s not what I’m trying to sa-”

“Yes, that is exactly what you just said!” You begin to raise your voice, getting tired of this stupid game you two are playing with each other. Lying about what you’re really talking about to try and avoid the inevitable. “You just compared me to your dead son that went crazy and blew up everyone’s homes! The one that sold drugs out of a damn hot dog van!”

The air around you seemed to heat up as tensions between you two started to rise, Phil clearly getting more angry as well. “You are not Wilbur, but you are my child!”

“Oh, am I? Am I, Philza? And how long have I been your child for, huh? My whole life, a year, a few months, just this past hour? You have been trying and failing to be my father figure because you just see me as some rogue that could get too far out of control unless you’re there. Isn’t that right?”

“No, of course not. I just-”

“No! How could I have not realized? You just want a replacement! Someone to fill the hole that was left in your poor old heart when you stabbed your son through the chest.”

“I love you, Y/N, you don’t understand! You are like a child to me, you always have been! From the moment that I met you, I saw greatness in you. I swear, you mean more to me than just some replacement for Wilbur.”

Tears burn your eyes, the singular one that fell leaving a streak through the gunpowder and dirt smudged on your cheeks. You shake your head and scoff, unable to believe that this is the conversation you are currently stuck in. “Phil, that’s the kind of bullshit that you have to tell yourself in order to sleep at night. But guess what? It doesn’t work on me.”

“It doesn’t have to ‘work on you’, it’s just the truth, Y/N. I don’t know how I can get you to believe me.”

“You can’t, Phil.” You say, trying to ignore the way your voice cracks. “Because I have believed people, and then those people have either died, or tried to kill me, or both. So you know what I did? I grew up, Phil. Because THAT is what war does. 

“It doesn’t make you write sad song lyrics on the walls, it doesn’t make you love your father figure oh so dearly, all it does is make you realize that there is more in this world to deal with than whatever any one person can do. And once you wrap your head around that, you realize that the best you can do is make the smallest of dents, and hope some other people do the same. That is how this world works, Phil.

“And do you know what my dent is going to be?” Phil has blurred by now. Once you blink the tears away, you can see that he’s crying too. Good. Now you’re really on the same page. “Blowing up this godforsaken nation once and for all.”

You turn to walk away again, hopefully for the last time, but Phil actually makes a move to stop you before you can get anywhere. “Y/N, I refuse to allow you to go out there and risk your life for a war already fought.”

“No war is already fought until people are dead.” You snap at him, resisting the urge to spit on his boots. “Besides, I can handle myself, I don’t need you to tell me who I can and can’t fight.”

“Y/N, I am your father!” Phil’s voice practically echoes through the entire SMP as he shouts at you, finally just as mad as you wanted him to be. You’re convinced people on the other side of L’Manberg can hear you two arguing. “Listen to me, you can not risk this.”

“YOU ARE NO FATHER TO ME!” You scream, getting your face as close to Phil’s as possible while still being able to look into both of his eyes. Phil’s eyes widen, whether in pain, shock, or both, you don’t know, but he quickly recovers with a stare solid enough to cut through stone. 

“Do NOT turn this argument to family matters when we are discussing life and death!”

“This is no longer a discussion, dad,” you make sure to add as much venom to the name as possible, “We are not talking this out like a father scolds his young kid about what they can and can not touch in the house. We are screaming, and shouting, and ruining relationships like adults.” You try one more time to walk out. This time you make it down to the ground floor, but Phil follows you yet again, stopping you before you can reach the Prime Path. 

“You aren’t an adult, though.” Phil’s voice is softer now, he sounds like he’s on the verge of defeat. “You’re still a kid. You shouldn’t have to deal with all of this.” 

“I was made an adult because of this damn war over some stupid place, I should be able to fight for it’s destruction like one.” You also stop shouting, but you don’t soften your voice. You keep it as firm as it can be despite your wobbly crying, letting Phil know that you are no longer playing games with him like you used to.

“I know that you could. I do. But that does not mean that you should.”

“Awwe, you really think so?” You feign a high-pitched voice, even clasping your hands together under your chin. “You honestly think that I can handle something more than a boo-boo, huh?”

“You know that I am making no attempt to infantilize you, Y/N. If you’re such an adult, you need to grow up. I do believe that you could fight for us, but I do not see it as wise.”

“Bullshit,” you say again, wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. Phil tries to speak again, but you cut him off. “No. No! No, I don’t want you to tell me over and over about what I can and can’t do. About how you think I could be a good ally to you. I already know that, because I can make my own decisions. 

“Do you know what I do want, Philza? I bet that’s something that your infinitely wise mind can’t think of. All that I want, all that I have wanted for the past SIX. FUCKING. YEARS. Is for you to just take me seriously for once in your damn life!”

Philza stands there in silence, seemingly dumbfounded, and you take this as your chance to stomp off for good. But you know full well that you’ll see Phil tomorrow. On the battlefield.

But you won’t be fighting for him, or Tommy, or Wilbur, or any of them. Tomorrow, you fight for yourself, and you win for yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DUDE WHAT?!?!?! INK THIS IS IMMACULATE HOW IN THE- WHAT THE F-CK THE WAY YOU CAPTURE THE ANGER AND FEELINGS AND HESITATION OF THE ARGUMENT IS SO WELL DONE!! AND THE FLOW OF TRANSITIONING FROM ONE SETTING TO ANOTHER ISNT CLUMPY OR FORCED AT ALL, THIS IS ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL INK! AND THE BUILDUP TO THE QUOTE, THE WAY YOU REALLY EMBODY ALL OF THE CHARACTERS IS SO MASTERFULLY DONE DEAR, AMAZING JOB!!!