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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Not today Justin
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if i look back, i am lost
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Misplaced Lens Cap
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@painandignite
You really want to get the team in a Panic, scrambling around like ants who just got their hill kicked? Have I got a handy step-by-step for you:
Whump the careful, conscientious, sensible one (Doesn’t even have to be the leader)
Profit
Fun places/times for Whumpee to collapse
At the top of the stairs
In door frames
In the middle of a field
In the middle of a raging storm, without shelter
At the bottom of the stairs as they’re about to start climbing
At the feet of their Whumper
In Caretaker’s arms
In Whumper’s arms
With their back pressed to a locked door
On their stomach, straining up to reach the doorknob
In bed, sitting up too fast and their head goes light and their vision swims black
At the foot of their bed
Trying to get out of bed
Suspended by chains, so they don’t really collapse, they lose consciousness and just. Hang there.
In the middle of a time-sensitive task
Right before finishing a time sensitive task (so close)
Carrying Whumpee 2 to safety
Running from Whumper(s)
Leaning over the bathroom sink
Trying to focus on an approaching figure. Friend or foe? They’ll never know.
On the beach, face first into the waves
Knee deep in the surf. They can’t hold out long enough to make it safely to shore
In the middle of battle, from a blow so fierce that they drop straight down in a rag-dolled heap
Part 2
vampire scar prefers blood bottled and cold.
You’re forgetting him, aren’t you
Tubbo was not having it today. The torrential rain battered the windows of the mansion, and it would be quieter if he had bothered to furnish more than their room. There were a few chairs and tables in the grander halls, sure, but they were layered with large plastic sheets. It was protection to the material as the paint dried.
It’s been months since the paint job finished.
Sometimes Tubbo liked rolling in the massive four-poster bed they owned, tugging at the covers to cocoon himself in comfort. The pillows usually fell on the floor. It’d take an hour until he felt like snatching them back up, but they’d only fall a few minutes later. Sometimes they knocked over the empty glasses on the bedside table. Tubbo learned to use plastic ones after accidentally dragging wine glass shards into bed.
The rain was loud.
Louder when he slid down the banisters of the staircase because he didn’t make a sound against the smooth wood. He landed gracefully to impress nobody. Sometimes he’d trip over his bootlaces and tumble backwards. On the floor, Tubbo would  stare at the ceiling too tall to reach.
To reach out and touch– that’s what Tubbo wanted.
Only limits were reached. Time limits, signified by the chime of a clock he dragged from a woodland mansion. Time limits, heard by no one but him when his stomach growled when he felt his body become rocks in a river. Time limits, like the one on the people he loves. The person he loved.
Sometimes he forgets.
The wispy traces of the ghost usually catch Tubbo’s eye. But he made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with a shell of someone he loves. Loved. It’s better to be in bed than to let a cold hand rest on his shoulder to comfort him.
They nudge him to go to bed when he’s in the bunker, tinkering at making bigger, better, more efficient bombs. The type that Wilbur would marvel at and love him for. Not in the way he does for Tommy, no, that love destroys. Tubbo’s inventions are made from his own adoration and selfishness, and there is nothing wrong with that. The hands remind him that someone cares and he can’t have that. Doesn’t deserve it.
That’s why Tubbo pushes away, but always grabs the edge of their coat. His hate is a lie. He still loves. Always loved.
The hands pick up things he might need. A fallen bolt, a spool of thread, molten blaze rods. Tubbo contemplates brewing splash potions of water. He doesn’t want the hands there because they somehow remember him. He feels bad when his tears burn the hand, but why would he feel bad if it’s only a shell?
No one is there.
Somedays, Tubbo wakes up screaming as the colors sparkle in a grand symphony. Fire dances on his skin. Tubbo shivers and trembles. The fire is still murmuring sweet warmth from across the room. He’s alone. The hands always leave once the night comes, to roam a land without the memory of Tubbo. The heat always gave him headaches and with headaches comes forgetfulness.
Tubbo wonders when his husband is coming home. He knows there are secrets between them. The skeletons of  his costume closet are shoved behind his role of president and best friend. He needed time before he could talk about it. It was always so quick back then, faster than a bow meets the quiver and an arrow to the head. Slick pools of sweat along his brow from hiding under rocks as roars from beasts unknown cried in agony. He just wanted a second to enjoy what they had. A true ending, without conflict boiling underneath his home.
The hands are back in the morning as they drop flowers on top of his head. Tubbo wonders if he knows what the hands are doing. He cries again, a wet but quiet sob. It reminds him too much of the night they got married. The flowers woven into his hair as he fell asleep still sit in his enderchest.
It’s still raining. Tubbo glances at the grandfather clock and it’s been an hour since the storm started. He spent an hour floating from memory to memory. It’s probably bad for him to be so spacey, but he can’t help it. Another flash of thunder.
Tubbo hopes the hands are okay in the rain. He’ll finish the nuke and then he won’t have to worry about the hands going somewhere else and leaving him again. The places the hands remember will be gone. His husband will be at peace.
It’s the least he can do.
i dont care if heaven wont take me back
little kandi raver is THEEE ethubs song. nobody understands them like i do
next series, next life.
who’s ready for more weekly pain excitement suffering just absolute chaos Impactful Occurrences on the 3L series? because I know I am.
miss the red/green alliances from 3rd Life?
love the extra suspense that gameplay additions in Last Life added? want a similar level of novelty and suspense without having the exact same mechanics?
well, I humbly propose
here’s how it works (as far as i’ve been able to consider in the past five minutes):
Like in LL, players get a random number of lives.
Unlike LL, players only get between 2-4 lives.
Here’s the kicker: Players don’t know how many lives they have.
On your first life, the gear you are allowed to use is minimal. (maybe gold armor and wood sword at best)
As you lose lives, each ✨next life✨ opens up permission for better gear for you. But, y’know. Don’t lose too many, or you’ll be out of the series for good.
The highest death tier could be the permission to wear a helmet. That would make seeing a player with a helmet hold some pretty hefty impact.
NOTE: Losing a life and moving up by one death tier does not automatically give a player better gear. Players only get permission to wear/use better upgrades. They still have to collect gear themselves.
You can initiate combat on any life level. Do you want to?
personally, I feel like it would be a cool change to see people with more of an incentive to lose their early lives. (gotta have that sweet sweet inner emotional turmoil amirite?)
and the way losing lives opens up better gear would turn the vibe of the series from “counting down till our final life” to “counting up till we can’t anymore”.
this gives us the opportunity for a red/green equivalent in terms of alliances. not the same, but similar. someone with stacked gear but on the precipice of death, working with someone far less geared up but with a little more wiggle room in terms of lives.
the new mechanics would also cause a shift in battle strategies.
for example, if someone with better gear is attacking you, do you take the fight? if you kill them, you might get them out of the series for good, and score some good stuff for yourself or your allies… or, you might end up with an enemy on an even higher death tier, thus widening the gear differential between you two.
final deaths would be way more abrupt too, because it’s almost impossible to see them coming. I’m sure that will add to the trademark angst which is inherent to the 3L saga.
it would also be cool to see how far people will push their luck. maybe purposely losing your first life (because you’re guaranteed at least two), to get the permission for better gear, is a valid tactic. I wonder how many final deaths, if any, will be caused by someone having too much faith that their next life exists. I wonder how many people will leave the series because they banked on being lucky, but their luck ran out.
Is that what I think it is?
—
What an enchanting idea, honestly—that this astronaut who didn’t tell anyone he was leaving, travelling through the loneliness of space with only a skittish animal for company, comes across an isolated relic of the home he left behind. There’s a friend inside. It’s the friend he left behind. And you know that whatever is in there is not that friend, can’t be that friend, not really, but—but wouldn’t it be nice, to have one more conversation? Like they used to, before all this happened?
A convenience store floats through the void, warm and inviting, stocked and ready for whoever might need it.
They always need it.
Bench... they
my pronouns are he but not him because i will never be him
so anyways how about those parallels between quackity trusting purpled and getting stabbed in the back and wilbur trusting eret and getting stabbed in the back; quackity finding an unexpected best friend, heir, legacy and naming him and wilbur naming tommy, his right hand, his best friend, his little brother; quackity talking about having no attachments and not trusting people and being selfish and still immediately jumping into the lava to save slime and wilbur saying he doesn’t care about anyone in manberg and immediately running out to offer himself as a sacrifice to save niki minutes later; how about the narrative implications for las nevadas there huh yep mhm
Don't let the Lore distract you from the fact that DREAM IS ONCE AGAIN HOMELESS.
it’s waking up and realizing he’s not next to you but thinking that maybe he’s on a trip? he’s usually on a trip anyways, so it’s normal. and it’s not the empty bed, it’s the realizing the trip is never going to end.
it’s the standing up and seeing his slippers across the room. he always ran cold, you always ran warm. you want to feel if the slippers are as cold as he was, but it feels like sacrilege to touch anything that was his.
it’s opening the wardrobe and seeing a cloak left behind. he didn’t want to leave. he didn’t plan on leaving.
it’s walking into a silent, silent hallway and wondering if it will ever see life again.
it’s the passing glance at a room full of toys that he never saw his son in. and now he never will.
it’s thinking just a bit to hard about that cloak again while you’re eating breakfast. he didn’t want to leave.
it’s pretending that this is just an exceedingly long trip. maybe he’ll be back soon, you’d always thought. maybe this time he’ll stay a little longer, you’d always hoped.
it’s going about your day like everything’s normal, and then your ring hits against a part of the wall you were trying to build and it’s so so far from normal that you want to scream. but you don’t, because you’re visiting tommy and tommy is already dealing with so much. you want to know what, but you don’t think you could handle asking so instead you listen, blank eyes boring into a wall behind his head as you try to stop your ears from ringing with the sound of metal against obsidian and the ghost of a whispered voice.
it’s going home as the sun sets and making stir fry out of habit, looking at the amount you made too late and realizing you made too much. you feel a stinging pain with every word you write in the footnotes of a scribbled recipe, reminding yourself to cut the amount of each ingredient in half.
it’s the understanding that there’s no more of things once taken for granted. tomorrow is saturday, and he was always home by saturday because on saturday you had rice pudding together. and now you can’t stand the scent of it because it’s too much and you think you want to throw up thinking about the taste. it feels stupid.
it’s those “no mores” that haunt you. the scarf he’d been working on will always be three eighths of the way done, and the stitches in it will never get any cleaner. he’d been improving with each little centimeter, and now his progress will remain stagnant forever. no more knitting. no more days where you’d clip your nails together, and you think you might let them grown long until they break. the sound of cutting might just shatter your soul.
it’s the fact that you haven’t shed a single tear. not one. not until the door opens and you almost say his name and not until— oh. yes. not until you remember that he’s not the one at the door and he’s not going to run to you and lift you up and spin you around. not today, and not ever again. someone says hello and you barely hear it because you’re on the ground and you didn’t know your chest could hurt this bad without being physically stabbed through the heart with a burning sword or shot to death with fireworks.
it’s the fact that someone runs to you, face full of concern and you can’t hear them because your ears ring with his voice instead and you can’t see them because your eyes have gone blurry and you think it looks like his face but it’s not, oh it’s not it’s not it’s not. why did you have to lose him? why do you always lose? wouldn’t it have been better if you had been sacrificed three hundred and twelve (no. now it’s three hundred and thirteen) days ago? maybe then this wouldn’t have been drawn out for so long and losing now wouldn’t hurt quite so much. there would have been less to miss then.
it’s in the thought that maybe ranboo had the right idea in dying.
and it’s in the desire to join him.
but more than that, it’s getting up, wiping away tears and brushing off help.
it’s the need to move on while being forever haunted by those little, little things. the hoping and the slippers and the cloak and the silence and images of empty rooms and the echos of rings against half-built walls and imagined voices. the stir fry recipes and the rice pudding, the scarves and nail clipping.
the little things pin you in place with little needles, and you can’t move. you’re forever trapped by the memories of moments too small and a grief to big.
— — —
inspired by this post from @yellogazello <3
wilbur is my precious babygirl. i want to put him in a blender. i want to make him into a sourdough starter. i want to throw him up at the ceiling and watch him stick there and fall like a globble
supper time.
...Nobody else is saying it. I'm really going to have to be the one to say it, aren't I.
The Shadow Alliance codenames are all valid warrior cat names -
Actually Gulfie
