here's how it goes:
everyone spends valentine's day in DEEP denial. tubbo isn't dead, he CAN'T be. when they die they come back, that's how it is, how it's ALWAYS been. the island is hell but at least fatalities don't stick, except in specific cases and all of them in the same white shells. of course philza jokes, he's thinking about tubbo, he can't stop. he's expecting tubbo to jump out at any moment, he's expecting to go to fobo and see tubbo hidden in the basement throwing darts at a picture of fit and pac looking at each other, he's expecting to go back to the dungeon and the body is gone (he hopes). tubbo's not dead. he can't die. none of them can, just the eggs.
(it never takes this long to come back; he knows something is wrong)
here's how it goes:
tubbo tells the kids "i'm on my last life." the eggs have always had lives. i don't think some of them have ever understood that the players have infinite chances, with their insistence on protecting their caretakers from deaths like their caretakers do for them, charging back into the eye worker war, refusing to back out of a dangerous dungeon before their parents do, wanting to protect. i don't know if they understand that to the players, death is like spit in the face: unpleasant, sure, but no big deal.
tubbo tells the kids "i'm on my last life" and of course they believe him. death is their constant companion, no more than two doors down. some eggs are used to it being a breath away.
here's how it goes:
tubbo is dead. the children mourn him. the players are scared. defiant. they always are. who among them has died? dan, missing; spreen, gone; maximus... well there was no body, no announcement, surely-
(how long did it take pierre to accept it? to realize it? to take down the missing person posters? not a day. not a day.)
juanaflippa died and there was a court case to save her. bobby died and the whole server journeyed to save him. when is the last time the players have taken death lying down?
here's how it goes:
tubbo dies, and he dies unloved (fit's arm is stretched out to save him). he dies without purpose (sunny is there, she's waiting, she knows he won't move). he dies and no one cares (chayanne refuses to leave, his godfather, he failed his-)
here's how it goes:
the valentine's party is so loud but too quiet. there's a name in the air, even when no one is saying it
"wow sure is good tubbo isn't here" phil says (he's said this before, he'll say it again, but isn't it strange how many times? perhaps even he doesn't believe it. perhaps he's trying to convince himself.)
here's how it goes:
a creature with too many faces comes. it tells them the truth they won't face. tubbo is gone.
quesadilla island says, "not for long"
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On my second read of Harrow the Ninth, and I'm just highlighting all of the things that catch my attention.
Like this shit that's already happening literally on page 21
😭
Honorable mention from the same page:
Also wondering if anyone else interpreted this as the names of the 200 Ninth children all overlayed on top of each other before we figured out what was actually going on?
I did notice this on my first read, and it drove me crazy the whole fucking time wondering what it meant
ORTUS in a different fucking font 😭
The way Tazmuir uses the format of the printed word to support the storytelling makes me so happy.
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"I trust you with my life." for John and Sherlock
Let Me Count the Ways ask game
It had been a lousy day. Back-to-back patients that left him only fifteen minutes for lunch, someone had bumped into him on the way to work and he'd dropped his phone on the sidewalk and cracked the screen, and on top of everything else, it was pouring rain. As he hurried down Baker Street, all he could think about was sitting in his chair with a nice cup of tea. At the moment, he didn't even care if Sherlock was still stuck in the same cloud of gloom he'd been in all week. At least this latest bit of doldrums in their caseload had left Sherlock quiet, rather than bouncing off the walls and shrieking away on his violin.
Yes. Some quiet and warmth, that was all he needed.
As soon as John stepped through the front door and hung up his dripping raincoat, he realized it wasn't going to be as quiet as he'd hoped. The sound of the violin echoed down the stairwell to him, but at least it was an actual song this time, instead of erratic notes that belonged in the soundtrack of a horror movie.
Sherlock stood in front of the window in his dressing gown, playing what seemed like a complicated piece as he watched the rain fall. John thought he was beginning to get a sense of Sherlock's moods from what he chose to play. When he was really thinking hard, he would often play something from Bach or Vivaldi, as if its steady rhythm kept his mind focused. John didn't know much about music, but whatever Sherlock was playing right now sounded complex enough that it probably required more of his attention. Something to keep his mind occupied when there was nothing else at hand.
John made a beeline for the kettle. While he waited for the water to boil, he crossed over to the fridge to grab the milk.
Only to discover they were out of milk.
And bread.
And eggs.
“Sherlock.” He ran his hand down his face, wiping off the last bits of rainwater. “You didn't go to the store, did you?”
Sherlock kept playing, fingers flying over his instrument with flawless precision.
“Sherlock!”
“What?” Sherlock snapped, stopping abruptly and whirling around to face him.
“I told you we were out of milk,” John said, trying and failing to keep his voice down. “I asked you to go to the store, and you said you would.”
“What? No, I didn't.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn't.”
“Yes, you did!” In the back of his mind, John was aware that they were starting to sound like children, but he couldn't stop. “I left you a list and everything!” He picked up the slip of paper on the kitchen table. It didn't seem to have moved since he'd left it there that morning.
“I doubt it,” Sherlock snapped, tucking his bow under his arm and stalking across the room. “I would have remembered something as simple as that.”
“Yeah, unless you 'deleted' it from your 'hard drive,'” John said, rolling his eyes as he passed the shopping list over. He'd even gone to the trouble of spelling out exactly which brands to get, to make it as simple and straightforward as possible so Sherlock wouldn't somehow end up getting shampoo instead of milk again.
The kettle switched off, and John turned to the cupboard where they kept the tea. With a sigh, he shuffled through the various options of herbal tea that wouldn't require milk. “I trust you with my life, but I can't even trust you to do the shopping....”
Sherlock didn't reply as John put the teabag in his mug and poured water over it. When he turned around to head for his chair, he found Sherlock standing stock-still in the doorway, staring blankly at him.
“Sherlock? You okay?”
He just continued to stare, one hand holding his violin in a precarious grip, one clutching the shopping list.
John waved his hand in front of Sherlock's eyes to get his attention. “Hello? Earth to Sherlock!”
Finally, Sherlock blinked and seemed to snap out of his reverie. “You...trust me with your life?”
John frowned. “Yes?” He waited for the punchline, the moment Sherlock would somehow turn it all around and end up mocking him.
Instead, Sherlock just blinked rapidly, as if the thought baffled him. “Really?”
“Yes. I think you've saved it enough times by now to have earned that, at least.”
Sherlock still looked flummoxed. “No, but you...truly? You really, honestly trust me with your life?”
“Yes. Now can I sit down, or are you going to make me stand here to drink my tea?”
With a start, Sherlock stepped aside and let John pass. John sat down in his comfortable chair with a sigh of relief and took his first sip. Chamomile hadn't been what he'd been craving all day, but it wasn't unpleasant. Maybe if the rain let up a little, he'd pop down to the corner store once he'd finished his tea and....
John followed Sherlock with his eyes as he slowly walked over to his chair and sat down, moving as gingerly as a bird-watcher trying not to frighten away a rare bird. He watched John as if he were the most fascinating specimen he'd ever seen.
Continuing to sip his tea, John determined not to let the staring faze him. He'd endured much worse from Sherlock, after all. He hadn't intended his words to have such an impact on Sherlock, but he supposed it wasn't a normal sort of thing for people to say in this day and age.
But then, nothing around Sherlock was ever 'normal.'
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SOMEONE ASKED YOU ABOUT THEIR REDHEAD FETISH?? WHAT? Please elaborate I’d love to hear about this .what.
I swear to god i just spent like 2 hours looking for my screenshots on this but alas i cannot find them and idk if it was before or after i started just not answering my weird asks and it was like 2 years ago (??) ( A year and a half maybe idk) so i dont really remember what exactly it said but it was WEIRD
I remember that I made a post about dying my hair red and cutting it and whatnot and like 15 minutes later getting an ask that was going on about how they love red heads and girls with red hair are their favorite people to fuck and and implied that i should post a picture of it i think ??? And then they said something along the lines of 'natural red heads are better but hair dyed red is good too' there was A LOT but thats all i can vaguely remember.
That wasnt my first like mean ask but it was my first weird/sexual one and i still think its one of the weirder ones ive gotten. Idk what the person thought they would get out of that. I want answers.
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