#and thank you tubbo lmao
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dozyrogue · 17 days ago
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Honestly getting dsmp lore was not something i expected in the year an age of 2024
Thx jack manifold an tommyinnit
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tubhole · 10 months ago
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SunnySideUp! (now with twice the number of dads!)
tubbo's outfit inspo: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/1086915691309620206/
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phatcatphergus · 11 months ago
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I think something so wonderful about sunny is that she is such a little girl. The admin that plays sunny does such a good job of giving her a distinct personality but in a way that everyone who was a little girl can identify with. I’ve seen so many people talk about how they acted like sunny did as a kid or would remember specific memories with their dad that they made as a kid that sunny and tubbos dynamic brought back to the surface.
Sunny being a little firecracker and “spoiled” girl while also being incredibly shy and kindhearted and wanting to be friends with everyone. The way she has an idea of what people like (money, fame, respect) and trying to demand that because she wants to be someone important and respected like a leader or princess would but still giving “poor” members diamonds to become rich because she would never want to turn away a potential friend.
It’s genuinely so sweet and beautiful that so many people can relive personal parts of their childhood as a little girl/kid and remember the good times and awkward time and see how they’ve grown as a person just from a Minecraft egg. It’s so fun to watch sunny interact with tubbo and think of how often I would “help” my dad with projects or how I would demand wearing a dress over a skirt because I wanted to look fancy for dinner.
It really just reminds me how we are all people and all experience similar things growing up. No one had the same situation, or the same family or even the same country, but we all had the same emotions and feelings and we can all identify with them by watching a Minecraft egg as silly as it sounds
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bcbryar · 18 days ago
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I just woke up to Tubbo in a maid dress I’m thinking so many thoughts right now
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Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. I'm gonna throw up. Oh my god. I've no words. Oh my god look at him. With the little thingie in his hair. O h my god. The things I need to do to him.
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tomfrogisblue · 3 months ago
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i wonder what it's like to play minecraft without random normal minecraft objects having been ruined for all time by various angsty cubitos
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benchtrioupdates · 2 years ago
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Tubbo posted on Twitter!
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painless-innit-colourful · 2 years ago
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Orpheus
(3k words, tw for canon-compliant suicide and mild self-harm, read it below or on my ao3)
Throughout his life, Wilbur Soot was a musician. In death, Wilbur Soot was a musician. In what came after...(Basically, if c!Wilbur had written all of Wilbur Soot's music in Dream SMP canon, how, and when.)
Full fic below :))
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He’d always been a musician.
His dad’s best friend used to call him Orpheus. He’d be about to leave, standing in the door frame and he’d call, “Orpheus?” down the hallway. Wilbur would shake his head and cross his arms and answer, “Yes?” “Don’t look back.”
He’d taught him confidence: how to hold his head up, how to keep his voice steady talking to a crowd and, most importantly, how to hold his own with someone that wanted to see him burn. Some lessons less applicable to his future plans, but Technoblade thought it important he knew these things. Even for a budding songwriter, pockets lined with scraps of paper shrouded in scrawled lyrics and chord structures.
“Regardless of whether they’re laughing at your poems or crying at your songs, you keep your eyes on the crowd. It’s a dangerous world out there; I don’t want to see Phil grieving you.” “Relax, Blade,” His guitar was laying precariously in his lap as he leant back, arms behind his head. “I’m hardly going far. I’m not going to start any trouble.” Techno’s eyes seemed to glint, the flames of the fire reflected in his irises as he watched Wilbur across the room. A log crackled and tumbled into the hearth with a beat that could fit cleanly in a two-four bar.
“Well, don’t let anyone convince you you’re any more or less than what you are.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You know yourself better than anyone: your strengths, your weaknesses, what drives you to keep writing and singing. If anyone tries to make a myth or a mess of you-” “‘Know thyself, know thy enemy,’ right?” His eyes glinted back, the righteous fire of oats unsown, youthful energy and boldness. Techno resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “You can hold your own, we both know that. Don’t let anyone convince you you can’t.” He paused, “Don’t turn around.”
Wilbur blew a long breath between his teeth, “If I write you a ballad, will you stop telling me that.” Techno just laughed.
Yes, he was always a musician, leaving home with his guitar hefted over his shoulders. Waving at his father and his friend. Techno made the ‘turn around’ sign as he left.
Open mic nights and tavern gigs didn’t satisfy the itch, the hunger inside to create, to share, to make something people would belt at the tops of their lungs long after the alcohol ran dry and the torches burnt low. In the end, it wasn’t even his melody. That part vexed him, partially - his biggest hit and it wasn’t his melody - but he hushed the musician inside and tucked his guitar lovingly into his enderchest, to be brought out on special occasions or when Tommy looked a little low.
Playing by the light of a campfire, within the walls of a nation he built, fought and died for, ran, was all he wanted to do. When the volume of paperwork was insurmountable, when the treaties didn’t write themselves, when he spent countless nights gripping a tear-stained pillow, listening to Tommy and Tubbo staying up half the night in the next room, praying he could keep them safe - those notes, those words were his sanctuary. People spoke of how it made him a down-to-earth ruler; the President sat among his people, leading them in a soft singalong of the anthem, but he didn’t do it for optics. He’s a poet, not a politician (how on earth did this happen) and it felt good to retreat behind his guitar for a while. It gave him perspective: how far he’d come, how much further he could still go. This was so much bigger than a kid writing lyrics by the campfire in the garden. The special place they sang of, he made that happen. Playing by the fire, he imagined the future: retired, moved on from a life of public service, but still playing. Resting under his redwood trees, resolutely strumming that old guitar, safe in the nation he made.
It’s a shame it didn’t last. He remained a musician, but there would be no playing with aged hands within the black and yellow walls.
His hands were cold. He had always strummed with his fingers before, but after moving into that ravine, he started using a pick. His melodies sloped into sharps and flats, shaking fingers unable to find the right fret.
“Ridiculous, aren’t I?” Techno stopped walking, glancing down at the skeletal figure of Wilbur, swamped in a trenchcoat and curled around the guitar Phil bought him for his sixteenth birthday. “All that time in L’Manberg, I said I wished I had more time to write and practice, now I’ve got it and I can’t even be happy with that!” “Well, they do say tragedy makes good art.” “Mmm,” Wilbur gazed up at the ceiling of their cavern home, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve found it hard to know what to write about. All this time I was saving up ideas and now I have all this time and nothing- nothing’s working.” “Keep… Yeah, keep working at it. You gotta persevere with it, or something.” “Sweat your guts out,” Wilbur gave him a forced grin. “You got it, Blade.”
Techno didn’t hear it himself - he had been at his secret base at the time, putting together experimental weapons and mostly trying to not blow himself up in close quarters. He heard what it had been, though, the next time he went to Pogtopia and Tommy Innit ran up to him.
“You didn’t put Wilbur up to this shit, did you?” “Tommy, what are you talking about. I haven’t been here in two days.” Tommy took the deepest breath known to man, dragging his fingers through his hair and finding a number of tangles on the way. “Wilbur’s- Wilbur’s gone a bit… A bit morbid, in his song-writing lately.” He laughed nervously. “I thought the singing about stalking government officials and comparing his heart to a bleeding - literally bleeding - keyboard, was weird, but now he’s going on about- about blowing up L’Manberg-” “Oh really?” “Yeah! It was this creepy two-chord tune about burning the place to the ground and he was playing it over and over for hours-”
He finally heard it himself a few days later, tucked between the usual laments on past lovers and agonising teenage angst - two chords, over and over, echoing through the cavern, Wilbur’s voice reverberating after it like the melody and accompaniment were chasing each other the length of the ravine. He listened to the words - the ones he could make out - and heard the smile in Wilbur’s voice as he bastardised the lyrics of his own nation’s national anthem. That was brilliant for Techno’s plans, but, still.
He had a feeling the musician hadn’t listened to him.
“How does the story end?” Wilbur had been fourteen when they’d met and every bit the child his father had made him out to be. Curious, reckless, idealistic, a dreamer, an intellectual and a poet. Techno saw trouble coming down the tracks before anyone else did. But not quite like this.
“Well, the doubts in his mind grew to be overwhelming. Orpheus looked back and Eurydice was there. He met her eyes… and she disappeared.” He watched Wilbur form a chord on the neck of the battered guitar they’d found abandoned in the woods with clawed fingers. “...Then what?” “That’s it. That’s the end.” Wilbur looked up, “What happened to Orpheus after?” Techno thought for a moment before he spoke, “Well, like most Greek myths, there are a few versions. Most of them agree that he walked the earth lamenting his tragedy, singing about it. His songs were so full of sorrow they made mothers miscarry and willow trees bow their boughs - that’s where they got weeping willows. After that… I think the general consensus was people got so sick of him making them all sad that a group of them tore him apart.” “Just- Just like that?” “Yeah. Just like that.”
Wilbur, even in the pit of his breakdown, spoke of a symphony. Once a musician, always a musician, it seemed. L’Manberg was his great, “unfinished” symphony, he said. He rambled on and on to Techno and Tommy and cave walls about movements and variations, weaving notes between the peaks and troughs of the story.
“The explosions will be like percussion, finishing the final movement - which is ironic of course, because it’s unfinished, intentionally so. The silence after-” He closed his eyes and stilled, imagining it, a smile growing. “Yes. I’d like to hear the silence after. That’s how it’s meant to end.” He turned, trenchcoat flying out, to face Techno again. “Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Ninth Symphony?”
He had been standing at the back of the crowd, Dream whispering nonsense in his ear, trying to rile him up. Truth was, he already knew exactly what he was going to say. He’s an orator. But as the hopeful L’Manbergian’s hung on Tubbo’s every word, he instead watched the figure near the front that had just stepped down from the stage. He observed the conflicted expression on Wilbur’s face. He’d just witnessed the paradox  - backing Techno’s anarchy, denouncing the government and rejecting the presidency in the same breath he used to smile at his boys and hand power to Tubbo.
He watched the doubt creep in. And Wilbur looked back, past Techno, eyes glazed over, towards the hill where he knew the button room to be.
And L’Manberg disappeared.
The guitar came and went repeatedly. He wasn’t even sure how he had it sometimes. It was better not to think. Because thinking meant remembering. Just play. Just let your shaking hands find the right frets in the dark while you stare at the insides of your eyelids because if he had to look at the damn advertisements in the train stations satirising his downfall one more time he would hurl the guitar onto the tracks again, and who knew how he even got the damn things in the first place
Wilbur used to hate barre chords with a burning passion. Just buy a fucking capo. Who even has an index finger that strong anyway. Ghostbur, however, loved them. Finally, for the first time since he was like sixteen, he felt like he was writing melodies that made sense. They just flowed out of him like the water running under the L’Manberg highways. Like someone else had written them, and they were songs he’d always known. He finally felt like a musician again. Phil, his father, sat nearby, listening to him play in the November evening air. The sky was overcast, but the lanterns (his lanterns!) shone overhead like stars, lighting up the quiet marketplace.
“You used to play like that when you were little,” Phil said softly as he played on. “The brighter chords and stuff.” “Mm,” It made Ghostbur glow, sharing his music with his father again. He couldn’t understand why Alivebur had wanted to hide his lyrics from him. “Play the one about- walking boots? Again.” “Hiking boots,” he said with a light laugh. “Yeah, that one.”
They wrote as a duo, subconsciously: like a pair of writers in a band wrestling for creative control while simultaneously stealing all of each other’s ideas. Ghostbur would argue the ‘hiking boots’ song was about his son. Wilbur shouted back: it was about Sally, it was about shattered families, yes, it was about Fundy but not in the way you bloody think! Ghostbur smiled and played the songs until his fingers would’ve bled, were they corporeal. Wilbur screamed at the walls of the station until his voice was completely gone, beating at the walls with his fists, bloodying his hands until they could no longer hold the neck of his guitar.
Gradually, his hands healed. He tossed the guitar away in his rages so he didn’t smash it against the tube station wall (though he had tried it a few times and found it incredibly cathartic). In his infinite patience, waiting in the dark for salvation that would never come, he played better music than ever before. He made a makeshift capo from a strip of fabric ripped from his shirt and a piece of a shattered sign and played weeping melodies in wonky thirds and fourths. Music was his salvation: this time from utter destructive madness. More than once he bit at the skin of his fingers ‘till they bled, then used them to write chord progressions on the wall in rusty blueish-brown. He hummed the harmony line to his melodies as he played them and wished for another instrument, a way to record; literally any of the things he knew he could never have in this homemade hell. The lonely busker spent a decade serenading the empty platform with his songs of brutal tragedy.
“Did you say you’d thought of a new one?” “I did, I just want to tweak my lyrics-” “You’re rewriting my words… You know you need author’s permission to do that.” Ghostbur swore the songs just popped into his head, often almost fully formed, only requiring minor tweaks. He ignored the whispers in his mind in the voice that sounded like his own. Listening to that voice hadn’t gotten Alivebur anywhere. “Originally, the bridge was about trains, but now I’m thinking that’s not very relevant to here, where there are no trains. So I- hold on… I got it.”
Wilbur just scowled as his ghost sang of “barriers on the highways”. My genius is being pilfered, he thought. He picked up his own guitar and played along.
“There’s a reason / L’Manberg puts barriers on the highways / There’s a reason / They fail…”
In Limbo, there was very little melodic sound. Sure, there were trains rattling through every few hours, the wind whistling in the tunnels, and he could always shout ‘till his echo bounced out of earshot, but there wasn’t a lot other than that to be heard. His guitar had been the one thing that kept him from going truly ‘round the bend.
Groaning, screeching, screaming, wailing, scratching, shrieking: it was technically the most horrible noise Wilbur had ever heard in either of his lives. Yet, he loved it. In the blur of the train journey back Wilbur wasn’t sure of much. He heard the ear-splitting screeching, saw the weeping ghost, threw up out of one of the train windows and screamed along to the great noise, harmonising with it the best he could until they burst from the tunnel, light streaming through the windows, so bright Wilbur thought he was dying again.
Several days later, Wilbur was still singing. Sopping wet from the rain, one drink deep in a rowdy tavern where the whole world was warm and beautiful. Dimly, he was aware some of the pub patrons were giving him stern looks, but he was too deeply in love with life to even fathom that he could leave her behind again. No, he was singing, he was happy- no, ecstatic, to be alive, and emboldened by this latest turn of good fortune. He was a musician, and though he hadn’t found his old guitar again yet, he wasn’t going to be discouraged. As if it were Fortune herself daring him, a man appeared by the bar with an instrument strapped to his back.
“Evening, good sir. I couldn’t help-” The stranger in the trenchcoat with the immovable grin did not wait for him to turn around before launching into some half-prepared spiel. “-but notice the bass on your back. Do you play?” “I do, I do.” “Well?” “Yes, I would say well.” Ash had not been expecting to be quizzed on his musical ability that night, but it was a frequent-enough occurrence that he wasn’t phased. Until- “That’s wonderful. Do you have a job.” “I- Yes. I work here, actually. It’s my night off today.” “That’s fantastic. Quit your job.” The stranger was either absolutely plastered or a complete maniac. He allowed him the benefit of the doubt, “Why?”
The stranger flipped a strand of wet hair out of his eyes, “Join my band. I’ve got a drummer and a guitarist. And I sing. I’ve already written some songs, they- the others liked them,” He stood a little taller. “I think you’ll find us a worthwhile endeavour.” Despite the fact this entire encounter was completely ridiculous, Ash was inclined to keep following the thread. “What kind of songs do you write?” “Oh, pretty standard stuff,” He laughed, practically glowing. “Being jealous of your ex’s new man, being afraid of the future, making fun of past presidents. That sort of material.” Ash quirked an eyebrow, “Which past presidents would those be?” The stranger, Soot, grinned, “Any of them. All of them.”
Soot stuck a hand out, “What’s your name?” They shook, “Ash. Yours?” A sly smile, “You already know it.”
“Just one more thing, Ash.” Soot’s eyes were more tired now, darting up from the comm name and number he was scrawling on a napkin in a sputtering red biro. “One rule. For the band. Once you’re on board, you ride it to the end. You keep your head up high and no matter what-” He finished the number, securing it with an exuberant dot, and handed it to Ash. “You don’t look back.” Ash nodded, “Sounds good to me.”
In life, death and that which came after, Wilbur had always been a musician.
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Taglist: @fruitpilled @zrenia @spaceheatertrash @waitblues @kinda-late-but-here-though @icyisweird @boomybelovd @thatfriendlyanon @rozugold
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freezethebeez · 2 years ago
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bit weird, but how are funeral practices different in the catalyst world? Because I feel like there’s an untapped angst potential in vampires turning their dead loved ones into soup. What’s more of an expression of grief than lettting your beloved’s dying cells become your cells, to convert a part of them to you and let them live on in all the parts of you forever? To one last time feel the warmth and flesh of your dead friend or lover before their bones are buried?
dead dove: do not eat? more like dead partner: turn him into soup but specifically the soup that your mother made and the one that he liked the most and have the most insane mental breakdown of all time while you eat it ^_^
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lowkeyrobin · 9 months ago
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hi pookie can I get an mcyt with reader that bakes?? Like they'll just come in on stream and give mcyts a fucking platter of baked goods lol
-🎀 anon
oooo yes omg!! thank you 🎀 anon! <3 got the whole gang in here for this one LOL
MCYT ; "in my baker era"
includes ; tommyinnit, ranboo, badlinu, nihachu, quackity, foolish gamers, slimecicle, & cellbit
warnings ; language, mentions of drugs
masterlist
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TOMMYINNIT
"Hi y/n- oh, thank you, darling!'
literally has the widest smile on his face
shows off the goods to the stream
"do these have any drugs in them? me n charlie are trying to sell drugs, y/n. we need more stock"
you hear charlie screaming through tommys headphones, "we need the grain, y/n! we need THE GRAIN"
bro is munching away on those cookies holy shit
he feeds chat as well dw
RANBOO
"Hey babe! Oh, thank you!"
does a whole 360 of the plate for chat 💀💀💀💀
"Oh my God, these are so fucking good"
"guys, y/ns in their baking era. can you write an album about that? please become Taylor swift for us"
"BAHHAHAHAH"
literally takes a picture as per usual and posts it to Twitter LMAO
he gets some fans to send you recipes you should try for a serious baking stream LMAO
BADLINU
"Hey love- oh, hi!"
all smiles and shit, he swears you have a sixth sense to know when people are hungry
"guys, y/n made me some bisexuality cake!" He giggles, showing off the tri-colored cake on the plate
he was making a video with harry, tubbo & tommy so everyone had their facecams on
it was like a three tier cake you made and cut out a slice for him
the inside was just the bi flag and the outside was plain white with some fun icing piper testing
he tries it and it's SO MOIST AND SOFT IT IS PERFECT.
there's just 5 raw minutes of him telling you how amazing this fucking cake is LMAO
QUACKITY
"Hey, I'm streaming ba- ohmyfuckinggodthankyou!!"
does a 360 of the plate for the camera
"Holy shit these look so fucking good, thank you so much, y/n"
he's literally just streaming on the qsmp with roeir and fit and he like games and eats the damn cookies at the same time LMFAO
"Dude I feel like I'm high, these are so good, what's in this shit?"
"cocaine"
"WHAT!? DID YOU JUST DRUG ME? GUYS, MY PARTNER DRUGGED ME, HELP"
you're just playing into the bit dw
best red velvet cookies he's ever eaten
CELLBIT
"Hey darling, what's up?"
you hand him the little strawberry shortcake and he just looks at you like 😍😍
turns to his stream and shoves the plate up to the camera all happy like "Oh my God look what they made for me!"
he eats the entirety of it on stream and asks you a bunch of questions
like how you made it, where you found the recipe, etc
he shares it with you too 💔🫶
NIHACHU
"Hi honey! Ooo, what's this called?"
"Chocolate mousse. it's a little thick because it's my first time making it but let me know if it's good"
she holds that little glass like it's her child
she tries it with a tiny spoon you gave her and she's like "oh my God this is amazing, y/n/n"
shows it off to the friends she's streaming with too
"send them more recipes guys, I wanna be spoiled with sweets!"
"thank you nikis viewers!! love you all"
FOOLISH GAMERS
when I tell you this man's face LIGHTS UP.
"you made me fudge? oh my God! I love you"
literally spends the next 15 minutes talking to you and gobbling the fudge down
"since when do you make fudge??"
"since I wanted to try" you shrug
"you should totally make some more... when you're not busy and if you want to!"
"Thank you y/n! everyone say thank you!"
SLIMECICLE
"Oh, hi y/n! thank you so much"
does a 360 for stream
"when did you find time to make this? I thought you were at work????"
"special treat" you shrug
you watch him run across the qsmp and go to ems bakery to sit inside and eat it 😭
he keeps you on stream for a while cause chat loves you n stuff 🫶🫶
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micanomancy · 1 year ago
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Oh I miss Tubbo and Fred… bring him back… I need Tubbo to do a “Rescuing Fred” stream right now
Update: well. fuck me. I will be deleting every single account of mine ever. And disappearing into the woods. And dying. Thank you for your time. https://x.com/tubbotwo/status/1730361830940315734?s=46&t=Nhxh1gnPT7WNTlzXdFyLdw thank you @spike-the-great for ruining my night. (Not really, I actually appreciate the alert lmao)
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chayannesegg · 9 months ago
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You broke down the Pierre and tubbo relationship perfectly!
It's honestly weird as someone who watches both how people can feel that Pierre doesn't care for tubbo, he does, he's just an annoying guy constantly/pos
Pierre told sunny to watch over tubbo, he wants the guy to be safe, and makes fun of him cause he does that too everyone he favors.
Meanwhile tubbo is taking this as world most annoying rivalry fhxgjxykd
haha thanks
i mean tbf pierre's vods are sub-restricted so it's hard to get his POV if you aren't paying attention, but like pierre so clearly loves tubbo lmao
he has no idea that tubbo is taking his actions as part of a broader pattern of disrespect to him (and honestly would NOT know how to show his affection otherwise)
it's kinda similar to how etoiles doesn't get why tubbo cares so much about what etoiles thinks of his money-making schemes imo. both etoiles and pierre have a shit-talking teasing relationship with tubbo but don't quite see how sensitive he can still be even if he participates in it (men lol). tho tubbo definitely cares more about etoiles' perception of him than pierre's.
anyway mild angst aside (i just can't help myself), pierre and tubbo's relationship is so funny and honestly quite sweet. i love seeing them interact
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tubborucho · 1 year ago
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Epilogue:
Team Soulfire genuinely is first in forever platonic dynamic I got obsessed with. I love a lot of them, but Blue Team… They are so special to me, I can’t explain it properly.
I loved each of them. Fact: Blue (before Green being dissolved) is the only team that had every single one of the members to log in AT LEAST once. Which is crazy, considering all the logging in problems we had some days. But it was awesome. Better than I could ever imagine.
Everything that they built together makes me smile even from thinking about it. The Old Base that constantly has been in use throughout the whole time no matter what. The New Base… The New Base genuinely feels like home. It’s been so cosy and pretty and safe. Nobody has found it at the end! It held it purpose til the last moment.
Trousers. Coco. Caramel. Bertie. Rupert. Scoob. Luffy. All the Little Buddies that supported Blue throughout the Purgatory. I will love you forever.
The discovery of the potential that Tubbo and Bad hold as a duo. Prime, I am PRAYING that Bad and Dapper are okay. I love them to death AND i need Tubbo spend more time with Dapper, I think they would be hilarious as a duo. Plus I just enjoy Tubbo and Bad’s interactions. Throughout the years of being on same SMPs and in the same events it was the first time they got to properly play with each other, and it’s amazing.
TINA!!! Omg, q!Tina, you will always be a legend. Man, I think she might share her the place of my second favorite resident with Bad now (first is Tubbo, obviously). I will definitely try to keep up with her character and lore further. She is amazing.
I can honestly talk about each and one of the members. I maybe will at some point. Right now I am genuinely in tears from all the emotional roller coaster it was. I don’t know how to move on, honestly. I hope people will keep making content with Team Soulfire, even if it’s over. I know I will at least make some web weaves. and check the tag religiously.
On that note, oh my god, thank you SO MUCH to everyone for this journey. We had a lot of rough moments with the toxicity, but overall I will not remember that when I think of those days, I will remember how many amazing people I got to properly interact with on the base of our cubitos being stuck together under the blue flag.
Genuinely, especially it goes to BBH Mains. Guys, no matter what happens between our cubitos further, it was an honor to stand by your side, and I hope you know I adore your guy and you all. And it makes me so happy to see so many positive reactions and posts about Tubbo and his cubito!
This was draining emotionally, but this also was amazing. I think I am still somewhat riding the high of the Amazing Victory of Blue That One Day lmao.
We will see how it goes.
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keirawantstocry · 10 months ago
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idk if this is gonna be any good and I'm not very good at explaining but I'm gonna try ahahah ok so like tubbo is like in some cold area or something and feels like he's dieing but if he's truly dieing he doesn't want to be alone so in the snow he shittly draws fit and pac holding hand then he puts his hands on their other hands so it's like they are all holding hands and he doesn't have to be alone in a sense um idk if this makes any sense but it like came to me and i had to share
Im allergic to sad endings so i made it go happy also dw it made total sense to me and now im realizing idk if you wanted me to write a fic or just share ur idea but um i wrote a fic lmao
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Everything was cold. Tubbo wasn’t sure he had a single sensation left in his body. He didn’t know where he was. All he knew was ice and snow. He was dying. He was dying. He was dying. Nothing was more sure to him at that moment. He was going to die here. With the few ounces of strength left in him he drug his finger through the snow, half in delirium. One circle, an egg, his daughter. Then he drew lines. Two little stick figures holding hands. He lost all sense of feeling then, only able to stare at the bright red of his fingers on the end of the stick finger’s arm. 
It was almost like he could feel it, the warmth of the other human body. That was when he knew he was truly fucked. All he could picture was Fit and Pac holding his hands while his eyes shuttered close. He tried. He really did. Struggled to keep his eyes open as the wind picked up and flung snow in his eyes. But in the end, his weakness took over. 
His next memory was warmth. Was this the afterlife? Peeling his eyes open slowly, he peered around at his surroundings. There was a fireplace. A crouched figure placing logs on a fire. 
“Fit?” Tubbo croaked in confusion. 
Fit jumped up from the fire and whirled to face him. “Fuck! Tubbo you’re awake oh thank God.” He flung himself at the man, wrapping his strong arms around him and pulling him up out of his seat. Tubbo couldn’t help but relax into his arms and start to sob. 
He felt another pair of arms wind around him, instantly recognizing them as Pac’s and his sobs grew louder. Tears and snot ran down his face in a disheveled mess. “Vai ficar tudo bem, meu amor.” 
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Fit soothed. “I’ve got you now and nothing is ever, EVER, gonna hurt you again.”
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cdroloisms · 10 months ago
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Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:
Dream sneaks into Pogtopia to see Wilbur
woo! managed to finish this in time. kinda unedited and kinda a mess but i've missed writing these guys; i'm deeefinitely in need of more practice to get c!wilbur's voice down, but hopefully this can be the start of me writing some more fic set earlier in the timeline, LMAO.
thanks @elmhat for the awesome event!! been epic to see people's submissions and i cant wait to see this continue. ur awesome &lt;3
c!dream meets up with c!wilbur to tell him about a change to their plans | 2.3k words
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<Dream> be there in 5 
The communicator in Wilbur’s hand casts a pale glow onto the palm of his hand, the only light he has to guide him as he paces the length of the hollowed-out room; it’s dark, zombies groaning somewhere outside, the dead singing their songs, shuffling through underbrush in the belly of the forest that surrounds Pogtopia. The air is musty in their little dugout, a claustrophobic awning of stone carved into the side of a hill, well-shadowed even during the day, the darkness swallowing the wan light of the comm in his hands now. He can barely see the floor underneath him as he walks, shuffling steps forward and back, ten paces each. He presses his hand against the wall, turning to the entrance and standing still. 
Phil always had a whole thing about light, Wilbur having grown up on lectures about light levels and spawn-proofing and the dangers of leaving cavities unlit while mining, had grilled him on different ways of keeping a room from becoming a death trap. Carpets, half-slabs, glass. How many times had he been warned of the danger presented by surprise creepers and dark corners? 
Phil had never been much of a fan of explosions. 
The main server is mostly well-lit, but the secrecy demanded by revolution effort means that the forest surrounding Pogtopia gets much darker. Not that he’s in the main ravine at the minute–with the amount of people coming and going as of late, Dream had wanted their meeting to be in a slightly more discreet location, and Wilbur had agreed. It was easy enough to slip away with Technoblade once again off to do his own thing and Tommy having run off to find Tubbo, and Wilbur had managed to arrive to the room sufficiently early before sunset to prevent himself from getting ambushed by mobs. 
He slips his hand into his coat pocket. Chekov’s gun is smooth and cold against the palm of his hand, polished wood and metal. He smooths the pads of his fingers down the barrel, over the trigger. He leaves it, pulling out a half-empty pack of cigarettes instead. His lighter provides a clearer view of the room, still empty. Dream is late. 
Dream is usually late, then again–it’s expected, really, with the way he runs around the server, always busy, always chasing down those plans of his, smart man that he is. Dream likes his secrets, his mystery, mask and armor all made to keep his cards close to his chest–Wilbur can hardly fault him for it, god no. Dream has what he wants, just as they all do, all of them tripping over themselves in their ambition, crabs in a bucket, the pledges to help the revolution coming from each one that jumps off of Schlatt’s sinking ship. He breathes in deep, smoke coating his lungs with tar. 
“Wilbur?” 
Light throws itself into the room from the entrance, rippling wildly as the fire on the end of Dream’s torch burns, casting wild shadows over his mask as he squeezes himself inside. Despite his armor, he has an uncanny knack for moving silently, cloak and hood pulled low over his head so that only the edge of the painted smile is visible. The torch is raised higher, moved left and right as Dream surveys the contents of the room around them. Wilbur smiles and tips his head towards him in greeting. 
“Dream, my man. How good to see you again.” 
“Wilbur…” Dream’s voice trails off. His head turns from one side to the other, making another anxious sweep of the room before refocusing on Wilbur, his hand moving to pull his hood down and then run his hand through his hair, having been pressed flat by the heavy fabric. The blank face of his mask stares back at Wilbur, tilting to the side like a confused dog as he shakes out his shoulders. “We…need to talk.” 
“Well? I’m all ears.” He gestures at himself, leaning against the wall of the room. Dream turns to look over his shoulder again. His armor glimmers, the light of the runes on their surface made more obvious in the dark. He bounces on the balls of his feet, reaches up once again to tug his fingers through his hair.
“It’s important.” No shit, Wilbur almost says, because for all that Dream might think that his mask hides everything he’s thinking, he’s never quite been as guarded with his body language as he might hope; the anxiety rolling off of every jerky movement is enough to set Wilbur’s teeth on edge as it is, never mind the long silences and hesitation, but he’s not stupid enough to think that that would get him anything resembling an answer. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, smiles wider, and spits out another curling thread of smoke.
“You’re an important man. I should hope so.” 
Dream pauses at that. His head does that tilt-thing again. “...alright.” 
“So? What is it? Do tell.” Has Dream decided to go against him? Perhaps. His enthusiasm with regards to their plan is more unpredictable than Wilbur had expected, sometimes perfectly willing, sometimes hesitant to agree to much of anything. But he had agreed, nonetheless, had provided the TNT that Wilbur has set sprawling underneath Manberg’s main stage; cold feet, now, would be rather unprecedented. Still, it’s Dream–very little can be discounted when Dream is in the picture, Wilbur knows. He places his hands in his pockets, thumbs hooked over the edge, pistol brushing against his fingertips. “I hate to push, but the suspense is killing me.” 
Dream takes another second, then reaches behind his head. Wilbur straightens where he’s standing, suddenly curious, as he removes his mask. 
He’s seen Dream without it only a few times–all able to be counted on one hand, this one included. The light of the torch illuminates his face from the chin up, cast shadows highlighting the contours of his skull, the contours of his cheeks, light catching under his brows. His features are delicate in a way that still surprises him, a smattering of freckles over the nose of his bridge made visible as he raises the torch higher. Dream’s eyes are a little wide, a little bloodshot. He bites his bottom lip, blinking twice in quick succession, eyes darting over the walls and then back to Wilbur’s face. 
“Schlatt called me. For a meeting earlier.” 
“Schlatt?” 
“He knows about the TNT.” 
Wilbur blinks. “Well, fuck.” 
“Look–Wilbur, look.” Dream makes a little move with his hands, shaking them out by the wrists. “It’s not–it’s not the end of. This, okay? But, he knows. I didn’t tell him. I don’t know how he found out, I don’t know if someone told him, I haven’t told anyone, but–he knows. We can still work with this.” 
“Schlatt knows?” He searches Dream’s face. He seems earnest, but god knows, but what would he have to gain from lying about this, anyway? Who else could’ve told him–Tommy? Tommy might not tell Schlatt directly, but Tommy has never been good with secrets, letting anyone and everyone in on everything with an apparent inability to control his own tongue–
“--but it’s, fine. The TNT is still there, the room is still intact. I checked some of the wiring and it doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with. Wilbur, are you listening to me?” 
Wilbur waves him off. “I’m listening. Just keep going.” 
“I don’t think we need to change anything with the TNT. Like, Schlatt’s just one guy. And his gear is shit. If he messes with the TNT, then we’ll–we’ll figure something out, but you know, I don’t even think he even, like, knows where it all is.” 
“Well, it’s kind of everywhere, so–” 
“–which is my point. It’s too deep, he’s still sitting on top of a bomb. There’s nothing–there’s nothing he can do.” Dream crosses his arms in front of his chest, still worrying his lip between his teeth. “I just thought you should know.” 
Schlatt knows. Schlatt knows–Wilbur paces against the wall of their room, ten paces forward and ten paces back. He crushes his cigarette underneath his boot, nails digging into his palm. 
“Well, Dream? Is that all?” 
Dream’s expression twists. His brows pinch together, lips pressed against each other and curling into a slight grimace, his expression giving too much away after spending so much time masked. 
“There’s…one more thing.” 
Wilbur scoffs. “Just spit it out, you prick.” 
Dream doesn’t even react to the insult, shoulders hunching up as he begins speaking. “Look…it’s just. My plans have…changed.” 
What? “I thought you just said that they didn’t?” 
“Our plans are the same. It’s just–Schlatt made me, an offer.” Dream shifts from foot to foot. He swallows, throat working, his eyes still bright and wide, pupils dilated with a thin circle of green around. Wilbur stares at him. He almost looks… “He’s got something. Important. He asked me to…join him, kind of, and he’d–give it to me.” 
“What?” 
“It’s not–look, Wilbur. Wilbur.” Dream raises his hands, palms out, a placating motion. “It’s not what you think, but I–I had to.” 
“You had to join Manberg.” 
“I’m not joining Manberg!” Dream runs his hand through his hair, eyes flashing. Wilbur is suddenly very aware of the axe on his back, the heavy plates of netherite armor. Eret, the button, it was never meant to be. “Why would I join Manberg, what–”
“So what’s this? What’s this then, Dream?” 
“Wilbur–”
“Because from where I’m standing, I have to say, it looks a lot like you’re betraying me.” 
“I am not–”
“That’s just like you. That’s just like you, isn’t it? Good ol’ Dream, mister 1000 IQ, outsmarting everyone–well-played, man, well-played! I really must congratulate you!” 
“Wilbur, can you just–”
“So what is this meeting then, Dream? Gotten cold feet, now that you’ve been discovered? You’re his little lackey now, is that it, his little lap dog–you’re gonna start another war? Put down another revolution, lead us all out to slaughter like last time, good for you, you motherfucker, is that the point of this farce? You’re here to kill me?” 
“Wilbur, can you just listen to me!” 
Dream’s voice is raised. Wilbur draws himself up to full height, Dream’s head craning up slightly as he crosses the room in front of him in two long strides. 
“What.” 
“I’m not. Joining Manberg.” Dream’s arms are crossed tightly in front of him, scowling slightly. It’s an expression not all that much unlike Tommy’s teenage petulance, a set jaw, eyes narrowed under furrowed brows. “There’s just–a peace treaty, right? I can’t just violate that. And now Schlatt knows. He’s asking for me to give him–gear.” 
“Gear, like what.” 
“Armor. Weapons, shields. Support in the incoming fight. You know, he’d already been paying Punz, the rest of the people in my country are already going to fight with him. And, whatever.” 
Wilbur rocks back on his heels. His skin itches, feeling antsy, so he goes back to pacing. “And?” 
“I meant what I said, earlier. This doesn’t change anything. The TNT is still there, we can still blow it up. It…doesn’t matter who wins the, the battle and stuff.” 
Wilbur sets his shoulders, turning back to look Dream in the eye. “Really. It doesn’t matter.” 
“It doesn’t! It doesn’t matter. We have an agreement, that’s still like–a thing.” Dream’s hands close into fists, then open again. “I don’t like this, okay? I don’t like Schlatt–” Wilbur scoffs, “--and I don’t exactly want to work with him. But I have to. I swear, I really have to.” 
“Because, what. The treaty?” 
Dream shakes his head, expression still all twisted up like he’s eaten something sour. “He’s got. A book.”
Wilbur laughs outright at that. “A book.” 
“It’s–Wilbur, I swear. It’s important. I’ll, I might–I’ll–” Dream makes a frustrated sound, teeth clenched. “I have to get it.” 
“So you’re going to work for Schlatt.” Fuck it. Wilbur pulls out another cigarette, lighting it as he speaks. “You’re going to be the emperor’s little guard dog.” 
“I’m–”
“No, no, it makes sense. It’d be too boring for you otherwise, wouldn’t it? Not enough chaos, with everyone joining the rebellion.” He gestures with the cigarette, Dream’s eyes caught on it as it moves. “You want us all to fucking destroy ourselves, keep everyone weak, Manberg, Pogtopia–you don’t need to explain yourself, man, you’re a smart guy! Even out the playing field, join whatever team has the fewest players, keep yourself above it all. Bravo, really. Bravo.” 
Dream’s jaw works, but he stays silent. Wilbur smiles at him and breathes in a long drag of smoke. 
“Well, Dream. I very much appreciate our meeting together today, really. Really! This has been…enlightening. Is that all? Or do you have any other important information to tell me.” 
“...I’ll come around in a few days to tell the others. About, switching sides and whatever. And–the TNT is still going off, alright? No matter what.” 
Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Obviously.” 
Dream stares him down, Wilbur meeting his eyes evenly. He breaks eye contact first, looking down at the floor and tossing several stacks of TNT onto the ground between them. -
“Thank you, Dream. Until next time then.” 
Dream stares at him, blinks, his eyes wide and green, before he turns away. The torch disappears into his inventory as he walks to the exit of the room, silhouetted in the doorway as he presses the mask back over his face. Wilbur reaches into his pocket, draws out Chekhov’s gun, holds his arm straight in front of him, fingers wrapped around the pistol as Dream works at the straps behind his head. He keeps it held there, pointed at Dream’s back until the man slips into the night, the blurry reflection of the lit end of his cigarette vaguely visible in the dull metal. 
He’s not sure how long it is before a twinge to his arm makes him slip the unloaded gun back into his pocket. He sighs. He needs to start making his way back; after all, he still needs to think of a birthday present. 
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sugarcanehoes · 3 months ago
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hear me out...... Doomed yaoi tubscar.
And/or, like, tubbo has an arranged wedding with Tommy (LMAOO) and before tubbo has to say yes, scar gets in and runs away with tubbo in the Woods, and maybe they fuck afterwards.
-👾
i burst out laughing at the arranged wedding LMAO
(warning for cuckolding and scar being a little creepy. maybe. if you squint. he knows how to gaslight suspiciously younger boys into his kinks is all i’m saying)
but i think they should get through with the wedding.
it's what their parents want, right?, and it'll finally make them shut up about toby's seemingly unexisting love life (he just really knows how to keep things on the low), plus tommy is his childhood best friend, so it's fine. toby can survive that.
what he apparently can't survive, though, is the way scar keeps staring at him during the whole ceremony. scar is one of toby's father's closest friends, so of course he has a good seat, a good view, and toby gets hotter under his collar by the second; there isn't a single moment during the wedding in which he glances at scar's direction and scar isn't eyeing him, shamelessly devouring toby's figure, all large shoulders and toned legs, standing charmingly shorter than tommy despite his build.
"you can now kiss," and toby can feel scar's eyes burning the back of his skull as he leans forward and pecks tommy's mouth.
"that was a beautiful ceremony," scar says, wheeling closer to toby when everyone is too busy celebrating and drinking. toby is pretty sure he saw tommy - his husband - take off his tie and wrap it around harry's neck at some point.
toby lets out an unimpressed chuckle, "no, it wasn't. this fucking sucks," and sips on his third or fourth glass of champagne.
scar snickers, putting a warm palm on the small of toby's back, and toby's legs threaten to give out. "at least there's a honeymoon to look up to, hm? where are the lovebirds going?"
"nowhere," toby creaks out, looking down for the first time since the conversation started, just now seeing the everlasting smirk on scar's face. scar's eyebrows arch in interest, prompting toby to continue, and toby would be damned if he didn't follow what scar wanted him to do, "our parents just rented a cabin in the middle of the forest for three days. it's, like, fifteen minutes from here. nothing much."
"sounds good. relaxing, even," scar sneaks his hand to toby's waist, pulling him a bit closer, "i think being alone in the woods is exactly the type of honeymoon a newlywed couple wants."
"as if," toby chuckles, downing more champagne, "we'll probably just play videogames and sleep. we don't really see each other like that."
scar glances over the group of people laughing and dancing just a few meters away. it's not hard to find tommy, partly because of his height, partly because of his intense stare, something that borders a glare and pierces right through scar's head, something that mixes a boiling anger with a twist of uncertainty.
oh, yeah; good thing scar is double their age. toby might've never noticed, but scar sees right through both of them.
they might just need a little... push. and scar's more than willing to be the one to do so.
so when it's time for the couple to finally end the night and head for the cabin, scar gently offers himself to go with them, just to make sure everything at the rented cabin is fine, we don't want our freshly married angels to be stressed on their honeymoon, right? and toby's dad thanks scar over and over for his kindness as scar calls for an uber and follows toby's car to the cabin.
scar is nothing but a sweet talker, and, since they weren't really planning to consummate the wedding, toby invites scar to sleep over. it was late, after all.
"what is your deal?" tommy approaches scar in the living room. faintly, in the background, they can hear toby singing in the shower.
scar smiles, "my deal? what do you mean?"
"you know fucking well what i mean," tommy frowns, "why are you here? why were you groping my husba- my friend earlier?"
scar's smile gets bigger.
"you can say he's your husband, you know. it's the truth."
tommy falters. "uh, yeah, but- but we don't really-"
"see each other like that?" scar interrupts, "yeah, i’ve heard that before. but i find it hard to believe."
tommy blushes. scar pats the empty seat on his side, and tommy sits, eyes wide and unsure.
"what are you afraid of?" scar asks, leaning his face on one hand, staring at tommy directly. tommy gulps and shrugs. "you gotta be careful. if you don't step up, someone's gonna steal toby from you."
"like who?" tommy utters before he can control himself.
scar just smirks.
“maybe that would actually help you,” scar goes on, watching tommy’s expression attentively, from the way his breath quivers to the bite on his lower lip, “seeing your husband with someone else. seeing toby in their arms, lost in pleasure, calling out for their name instead of yours. is that what you want, tommy?”
toby enters the living room, toweling his hair, “are you guys hungry? i think my dad left us some food in the fridge.”
tommy looks at him, then back at scar, and he’s out of breath already, face fully red and golden hairs stuck to his sweaty forehead, and he locks eyes with scar, and scar arches an eyebrow, and tommy licks his lips and nods.
from then on it’s easy, too fucking easy, and toby just needs a bit of talking through to let scar pull him closer and kiss him hungrily, a kiss so different from the single one toby shared with tommy at the wedding that tommy’s stomach sinks - and it’s so good.
when toby kneels down in front of scar, eager to have scar’s cock inside of his mouth, scar pets toby’s hair and says he’s such a good boy, there you go, good boy, toby, all the while staring directly at tommy’s widened eyes. not that tommy doesn’t have his hand down his pants, of course, but he’s not the focus.
and when toby is kissing scar’s face and neck, calling for scar, scar, scar like a prayer, scar is pretty sure he hears tommy groaning softly. toby cums more than once, getting rid of all of his pent-up frustration, moaning and grabbing onto scar like his life depends on it.
and when toby is done, chest heaving in ragged breaths and tears drying down his cheeks, he looks over his shoulder to where tommy is still sitting, with a wet spot on his pants and lips parted, and says, “oh, yeah. i forgot you were there.”
scar doesn’t miss how tommy’s cock jumps. he smirks, pulling toby in for a hug, and toby cuddles him instantly. scar looks at tommy and mouths a satisfied? to him.
tommy gets up silently and heads for the bathroom. scar chuckles under his breath, caressing toby’s back. 
their relationship would never be the same: either they would try and actually live like a married couple, or it would all go to shambles. 
but scar got what he wanted, so he doesn’t really care.
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moss-ridden-owl-creature · 4 months ago
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Introduction Post :DD
I don’t know exactly how to do this but I’m doing it anyways!
‼️BEFORE THE INTRO: please do not ask me for donations. I am a minor and cannot donate, and I will not put your posts on my blog. I do feel sympathy but I simply can not donate. Do not send donation asks as hospitals and severe injuries often shown are VERY triggering for me and can send me into panic attacks.‼️
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Name: Call me N, Mike, Percy, Owl or Halskë :) (generally don’t care)
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I’ll post my art once in while! Nothing on my blog in terms of interests is set in stone, but you will often see art from fandoms I’m in, or of my ocs/fursonas!
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theriotype: Tundra wolf! (Spiritual) hearttype: border collie! (Spiritual)
kintypes: Cryptidkin, dragonkin, crowkin! (These are either spiritual or/and emotional.)
Serial Designation N (MD) & Micheal Afton (FNaF) fictionkin! :D
‼️‼️IMPORTANT‼️‼️ I am overall chill with SD-N doubles! But please know, Micheal doubles (especially if you mention it in a kind of trying to be friends/moots with me sort of way), I AM WARY. I generally don’t wish to interact with Mike doubles as it makes me mildly uncomfortable. I will not engage in DMs, questions, ETC. with you. I’m sorry! (This is specifically for Micheal Afton doubles.)
Some form of relation/connection to the FNaF franchise besides a kintype. Potential hearthome or idk maybe I’m just sad about my family lmao (damn. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say in regards to the Aftons.)
THIS IS NOT A ROLEPLAY BLOG. THIS IS PURELY MY THOUGHTS AND DUMB SHIT. THAT WILL INCLUDE MY FICTIONKIN EXPERIENCES.
Fandoms: Grishaverse, Riordanverse, The MCU, Good Omens, The Folk of The Air, Murder Drones, FNaF, The Dream SMP (yes, I know some of the CCs are bad people, I supported very few of them. Tommy, Ranboo, Tubbo, Phil, and Techno were the only ones I actively watched outside of lore streams. This was a hyperfixation of mine and I am still very willing to talk about it because suddenly it’s been revived on Tumblr and now my page is full of C!Clingy duo. Please talk to be about it, I loved it and still do.) The Lunar Chronicles, The Hunger Games, The Song of Achilles, EPIC: The Musical, Aru Shah, Hamilton (technically), Warriors, Avatar: TLA, Iron Widow, The Furry fandom, and many others! (These are in no specific order)
I’m a batshit insane Kaz Brekker simp lol :)
Other things: I’m a furry (my fursona is named Halskë! I will post about these things.) I am diagnosed with ADHD, Slytherin, Cabin 7 (Apollo), I’m a fan of bones and taxidermy :) I also bow hunt large game such as antelope, deer, elk and big horned sheep :)
C!Technoblade (DSMP) kinnie! (Not a kintype!Just relate to the character:) )
Milo Rossi (Miniminuteman) fan :)
I am a diehard FNaF fan. I will talk about it for HOURS. I love FNaF. Mention it and I will vibrate at a frequency strong enough to shatter glass. So yes, please talk to me about it :)
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also please note, even if you are not in my DNI list, I do block freely, I do not stand for people who are constantly pessimistic. I don’t care if you’re pessimistic in general, myself am a realist, but what I mean by that is if you are more than 80% of the time just a negative being, I will most likely not interact with you. I am endo neutral. Don’t bring discourse to me.
another thing! My content is considerably 13+ (I will not respond to asks if you under 12 years old, as it makes me uncomfortable because tweens scare me.) and if you are older than 25, do not interact with me (EX: asks. The exception for this would be like if I follow you and send you an ask.), as you are between 10-5 years older than me. (The under 12 rule does not apply to those who are regressors, and regressors ARE allowed to interact with my content, but be warned, not all of my content is suitable for littles, be safe!)
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(Made by @uzihell here on Tumblr!) (FNaF plushie divider made by @sister-lucifer here on tumblr!)
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