#Also if I'm a little slow or rusty I apologize it's been a hot minute since I've written on here

[thehumcntyphccn]

if you're still taking those sentence starters: "you look like you could use a hand with that." or "oh god. please tell me you haven’t just heard me talk to myself." because i couldn't decide which one i liked better :3c (from @butchersbird)

"oh god. please tell me you haven’t just heard me talk to myself."

--

" I wouldn't say it's a bad thing. Some people say talking to yourself is a healthy way to express yourself! Well- when you don't have anyone else to talk to, of course. "

The tall blonde man has his head cocked to the side in an almost puppyish manner, not even trying to hide his meddling interests. His blues are wild and massive behind almost-amber lenses, as a rather stupid smile lounges on his lips. Something about him seemed obnoxiously pushed, perhaps even the smile on his face - yet despite the antics and the playful grin on his face, there's a bizarre and deep expression only his eyes played off that reads as more than just understanding.

" I hope I didn't bother you, friend. Just figure some of those words might not be easy to shrug off without an ear to listen; only if you wanted it. "

[normal-enderman]

I couldn't stop thinking about my favourite piece of cbeeduo art ever so I woke up and wrote a piece about Tubbo trying to emulate Schlatt and homoromantic tension in New L'Manburg at 3am. I would @ the artist who made it, but.... they fugckin dieded :(

Warning for probably ooc, I'm a "consume the media once and get fundamentally changed by it and then never have the emotional fortitude to consume it again" kinda guy, so it's been years since I watched the DreamSMP. I'm also rather rusty, so apologies for ham-fisted imagery and overabundance of crutch words.

Smoke from the cigarette between Tubbo’s fingers made its way in slow, lazy coils up to the darkwood ceiling somewhere up above, obscured by the thick nicotine haze that had already collected there. They'd been there for hours. The air was hot, humid, oppressive: they were due for a summer storm, but for weeks the storm hadn’t come. Sweat clung to the young president’s skin as he gazed up at the minutes man.

Ranboo met Tubbo’s one remaining eye, and Tubbo noted it, the way the usually shy and unimposing new employee met his gaze with something like determination, even as he looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Interesting. Tubbo filed the observation away for later.

His eye wandered lazily down from Ranboo’s face, to rest on his neat red tie.

A fist strangles a green tie, the sharp snap of Tubbo’s head being yanked down. “You lookin’ at me funny, kid? You got something to say? DON’T - fuckin’ answer that - everyone in this cabinet is fUCKIN’ USELESS-“

Tubbo took another puff of his cigarette, staring at the close weave of the red fabric. Schlatt had the guts, the nerve, the sheer strength of ego to enforce his will on people. How did one get up the nerve to become a man like that?

Tubbo glanced back at Ranboo’s face. Still so uncomfortable. He looked like he was barely able to force himself to hold Tubbo's gaze. Ranboo wasn’t a threat.

Tubbo could get away with doing anything he wanted to him, and Ranboo wouldn’t have the guts to complain, Tubbo thought. He caught the absent thought as it crossed his mind, and was almost surprised by it.

In one swift motion, Tubbo’s hand darted out and looped itself twice through Ranboo’s tie. A sharp snap, Ranboo’s claws scrabbling abortively at the desk to steady himself, and then they were face to face.

“You lookin’ at me funny, kid?” Drawled Tubbo. It was ridiculous. Ranboo was twice his size. They were the same age.

“N-no, Mr President” stammered Ranboo.

Tubbo put the cigarette between his teeth for a moment, took another drag, savouring the role reversal. He blew out smoke into Ranboo’s face. Ranboo coughed quietly.

Tubbo’s chewed his lip thoughtfully as his eye roved across Ranboo’s face, taking in his split-toned colouration, the delicate dusting of freckles across his cheeks, his skin raw and irritated by the sheen of perspiration that glistened on its surface. Ranboo’s eyes were wide and anxious, watching him like a rabbit in the headlights. He blinked slowly, and hard, scrunching up his face like a frightened cat before meeting Tubbo’s gaze again, trying desperately to appease, and Tubbo was lost for a moment in a startling kaleidoscope of red and green.

The cigarette smoke, the lack of sleep, the thick and sultry air, something was making a heady feeling come over Tubbo. Holding Ranboo in his hands was like a lifeline, like a hit of something strong, making him feel high, making his heart beat. Tubbo wondered if this was what power felt like. If this was how Schlatt felt.

He couldn’t tear his eye away.

He suddenly felt a little unsteady. Even though Ranboo was in his hands, at his mercy, he suddenly felt as though he was the one who was pinned down, a bug in a jar, restrained by those ruby-emerald eyes. Ranboo’s gaze softened, shifted somehow, even as his eyes remained fearfully locked onto Tubbo's face, the sudden change in the air palpable to both of them. Tubbo felt as though he was tumbling headlong into those eyes, into a tunnel of red and green that he couldn’t pull himself out of. He watched, enchanted, as a red and green blush bled across Ranboo’s cheeks. He felt his own cheeks prickling with heat, spreading up to his ears, and suddenly got the sense that this interaction was spiralling entirely out of control.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.  He had meant to yell at Ranboo, maybe rough him up a little if he could get up the nerve. At the thought of it, he felt nauseous. His mouth was dry. The hand still wrapped in bandages trembled, just for a moment, before he stifled it.

He let go of Ranboo’s tie.

“Well, alright then,” he muttered, breaking eye contact with Ranboo and curling away from him, cradling his cigarette. Ranboo straightened, wobbling a little. Tubbo couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Anyway,” said Tubbo brusquely, “carry on with what you were telling me, about those food supply reports.” He grabbed a pen. “We’re not done until it’s done.”

“O-oh, right!” Ranboo scrambled for his notes.

They don’t talk about it after that. At the very least, Tubbo considered, he has mastered Schlatt’s art of moving on without offering either apology or explanation. A small step on the journey to becoming the sort of man this country demands he be.