how was i supposed to steer this ship?

— nlm!ctubbo roleplay blog!

[smokingcraters]

welcome to new l’manberg!

yet ANOTHER ctubbo blog run by @b1rdza !! asks welcome, no nsfw, don’t be a dick

this blog will have occasional themes of underage drug/alcohol use

note: takes place after tommy’s exile and before the execution of ctechno

tags:

#an amateur decree: talking tag

#citizens: asks and follower interaction

#lost (i always will be): catch-all angst tag

#i used to like the mornings: @/psychosomaticscrapbook

#ooc: out of character tag

#media: fanart and reblogs

#tw trigger. : self explanatory

[smokingcraters]

citizens,

applogies for the inactivity. lots of business ans decrees to keep me away from my girlblogging quota

[beckyblah]

The inauguration of one President Tubbo Underscore, painted during the reconstruction of New L’Manburg.

[knightobreath]

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

you really don’t have to be doing this for me, yknow. @smokingcraters

Oh, it's okay, uh... I just don't want you to—I don't know, get hurt? It's—it's not a problem or anything.

I just figured I'd—y'know... lend a hand? It's the polite thing to do, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

hah, yeah. hey, walk me home, will you..?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Yeah, yeah, sure. I just, uh, don’t know where you live—or, sorry, sorry. (Ranboo laughs awkwardly.)

You’re the president. You—you live in the white house. Sorry. Okay.

[smokingcraters]

yep. the fuckin white house

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Yep.

...

So, just—yeah, this way. It’s not too far, I think.

[smokingcraters]

mhm. (tubbo walks with ranboo, unsteadily swaying on his feet the whole way. he looks like shit, honestly. the dark circles beneath his eyes seem bone-deep, and his hair sticks up every which way.)

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

(Ranboo leads Tubbo along, keeping his eyes on the president more than the path. He’s bent at an awkward angle, but he doesn’t mind it, ready to stick a hand out if Tubbo needs one in a more literal way.)

(They reach the white house quickly.)

Do you have a key, or...

[smokingcraters]

i’ve got it from here, bossman. (tubbo pats ranboo’s shoulder awkwardly and hiccups.) but thanks.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Okay, uh... goodnight, Mr. President.

[smokingcraters]

..tubbo.

‘s just tubbo.

(he reaches out again, and his fingers clumsily smooth out ranboo’s collar before pulling away.) g’night.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

you really don’t have to be doing this for me, yknow. @smokingcraters

Oh, it's okay, uh... I just don't want you to—I don't know, get hurt? It's—it's not a problem or anything.

I just figured I'd—y'know... lend a hand? It's the polite thing to do, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

hah, yeah. hey, walk me home, will you..?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Yeah, yeah, sure. I just, uh, don’t know where you live—or, sorry, sorry. (Ranboo laughs awkwardly.)

You’re the president. You—you live in the white house. Sorry. Okay.

[smokingcraters]

yep. the fuckin white house

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Yep.

...

So, just—yeah, this way. It’s not too far, I think.

[smokingcraters]

mhm. (tubbo walks with ranboo, unsteadily swaying on his feet the whole way. he looks like shit, honestly. the dark circles beneath his eyes seem bone-deep, and his hair sticks up every which way.)

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

(Ranboo leads Tubbo along, keeping his eyes on the president more than the path. He’s bent at an awkward angle, but he doesn’t mind it, ready to stick a hand out if Tubbo needs one in a more literal way.)

(They reach the white house quickly.)

Do you have a key, or...

[smokingcraters]

i’ve got it from here, bossman. (tubbo pats ranboo’s shoulder awkwardly and hiccups.) but thanks.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

you really don’t have to be doing this for me, yknow. @smokingcraters

Oh, it's okay, uh... I just don't want you to—I don't know, get hurt? It's—it's not a problem or anything.

I just figured I'd—y'know... lend a hand? It's the polite thing to do, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

hah, yeah. hey, walk me home, will you..?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Yeah, yeah, sure. I just, uh, don’t know where you live—or, sorry, sorry. (Ranboo laughs awkwardly.)

You’re the president. You—you live in the white house. Sorry. Okay.

[smokingcraters]

yep. the fuckin white house

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Yep.

...

So, just—yeah, this way. It’s not too far, I think.

[smokingcraters]

mhm. (tubbo walks with ranboo, unsteadily swaying on his feet the whole way. he looks like shit, honestly. the dark circles beneath his eyes seem bone-deep, and his hair sticks up every which way.)

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

you really don’t have to be doing this for me, yknow. @smokingcraters

Oh, it's okay, uh... I just don't want you to—I don't know, get hurt? It's—it's not a problem or anything.

I just figured I'd—y'know... lend a hand? It's the polite thing to do, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

hah, yeah. hey, walk me home, will you..?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Yeah, yeah, sure. I just, uh, don’t know where you live—or, sorry, sorry. (Ranboo laughs awkwardly.)

You’re the president. You—you live in the white house. Sorry. Okay.

[smokingcraters]

yep. the fuckin white house

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

you really don’t have to be doing this for me, yknow. @smokingcraters

Oh, it's okay, uh... I just don't want you to—I don't know, get hurt? It's—it's not a problem or anything.

I just figured I'd—y'know... lend a hand? It's the polite thing to do, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

hah, yeah. hey, walk me home, will you..?

[smokingcraters]

Hi, Mr. President, uh, sir.

I just wanted to—uh. You're busy, sorry, sorry. I was just, you know, checking in. About tomorrow's meeting. I forgot to ask earlier, sorry.

@psychosomaticscrapbook

(tubbo scrambles to grab the wine bottle off of his desk and clumsily stows it at his feet.) uhh, i’mmnot— hic! i’m not busy. uhh.. just don’t worry about rhe meeting, minutes man. i’m probly gonna fuckin.. reschedule it. hic.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh, uh. Yep, okay. I’ll just—write—write that down. (Ranboo quickly scribbles a note in his book.)

...

Are you, um, okay? Mr. President?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo’s head is swimming so much that he can hardly decipher ranboo’s question. he realizes that, despite having hidden the wine bottle, his (third) empty glass is in plain sight.) ..uh-huh?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh—okay.

...

Do you—need... anything? Any help? I can just go, if you—if you want.

[smokingcraters]

no!

…i mean, uh.. no. you can- you can stay. (he pulls the wine bottle back out.) dyou drink? i could’ve sworn i had an extra glass around here or something..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Uh—I don’t... I don’t really know. I’ve never—had much. A—a bit, I guess.

I’ll stay. I can stay.

(Ranboo sits down in a chair by Tubbo’s desk.) So, um... do you—do you like wine?

[smokingcraters]

dunno why i’d be drinking it if it was- hic- shit. (tubbo rifles in the desk drawer and comes up with a whiskey glass. he smacks his head on the underside of the desk sitting back up.) fuck, ow. dammit.

(he unsteadily sets it down and pours the wine into the glass. some sloshes over the side, but tubbo hardly seems to notice or care.) there you are.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Thanks, uh, sir.

(Ranboo takes the glass and stares into it for a moment before taking a swig. He scrunches up his mouth but nods along.)

Yeah, uh... good—‘s good. Uh—tastes like... grapes.

Do you—usually do this? Uh, I mean, uh, drink. I mean alone. No, uh—Sorry, sorry, I mean, do you usually, like, drink wine? Like... wine tasting?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo snorts.) no, i’m drinking to get drunk.

not the most becoming trhing for a president, but hey. never stopped anyone before.

(usually three glasses of wine takes a little longer to get tubbo tipsy, but he must not have eaten anything today, because he’s already losing his filter. he finds his head sinking towards ranboo’s shoulder, and he’s powerless to stop it. he clutches his minutes man’s arm like a lifeline.)

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

I don’t think that’s... too bad. Good—good way to relax. I think. For some people. Uh—vices, yeah. Yep.

(Ranboo frowns.) Uh, Mr. President, are you—okay? Do you, um, need to go home?

[smokingcraters]

mm. i’ll be alright. (even so, there’s a slight tremor in his hands.) sorry. this is like, hic, grossly unprofessional, i know. hehe..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

It’s—it’s okay. I might just end up... forgetting about it, so—you don’t need to, you know, worry, uh.

(Ranboo takes another swig. He grimaces again at the burning on his tongue.)

I don’t really—mind, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

why’re you still at the office, anyway? ‘s like, fuckin, nearly ten.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

I just, uh, was getting some work done, I think. I wanted to make sure I had the—the schedule right, sorry.

Why... are you still here? Or—uh, sorry. You’re the president, you probably have, like, a ton of work.

[smokingcraters]

snrk. yeah, i do. (he sluggishly pulls away from ranboo with some difficulty.) it never ends, really. but i reckon ‘s better than the alternative.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

(Ranboo sets his drink down on the desk.) What’s—what’s the alternative?

[smokingcraters]

having like.. space to freakin think sbout it. yknow. nothing better to distract you from how poorly you’re running the country than running the country

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

(Ranboo falls silent for a few moments and picks at his cufflinks.)

I think... it’s going okay. But, uh, yeah. Yeah. If—if—if it’s... going bad... it’s nice to have—distractions.

...

I just, uh—I don’t you can really do much work right now... are you sure you don’t need to go home, sir?

[smokingcraters]

look at you, being a good influence on me. (his chair screeches against hardwood floor as tubbo stands up. he sways on his feet and suddenly grabs the corner of his desk, leaning on it for support.) ugh..

[smokingcraters]

Hi, Mr. President, uh, sir.

I just wanted to—uh. You're busy, sorry, sorry. I was just, you know, checking in. About tomorrow's meeting. I forgot to ask earlier, sorry.

@psychosomaticscrapbook

(tubbo scrambles to grab the wine bottle off of his desk and clumsily stows it at his feet.) uhh, i’mmnot— hic! i’m not busy. uhh.. just don’t worry about rhe meeting, minutes man. i’m probly gonna fuckin.. reschedule it. hic.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh, uh. Yep, okay. I’ll just—write—write that down. (Ranboo quickly scribbles a note in his book.)

...

Are you, um, okay? Mr. President?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo’s head is swimming so much that he can hardly decipher ranboo’s question. he realizes that, despite having hidden the wine bottle, his (third) empty glass is in plain sight.) ..uh-huh?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh—okay.

...

Do you—need... anything? Any help? I can just go, if you—if you want.

[smokingcraters]

no!

…i mean, uh.. no. you can- you can stay. (he pulls the wine bottle back out.) dyou drink? i could’ve sworn i had an extra glass around here or something..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Uh—I don’t... I don’t really know. I’ve never—had much. A—a bit, I guess.

I’ll stay. I can stay.

(Ranboo sits down in a chair by Tubbo’s desk.) So, um... do you—do you like wine?

[smokingcraters]

dunno why i’d be drinking it if it was- hic- shit. (tubbo rifles in the desk drawer and comes up with a whiskey glass. he smacks his head on the underside of the desk sitting back up.) fuck, ow. dammit.

(he unsteadily sets it down and pours the wine into the glass. some sloshes over the side, but tubbo hardly seems to notice or care.) there you are.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Thanks, uh, sir.

(Ranboo takes the glass and stares into it for a moment before taking a swig. He scrunches up his mouth but nods along.)

Yeah, uh... good—‘s good. Uh—tastes like... grapes.

Do you—usually do this? Uh, I mean, uh, drink. I mean alone. No, uh—Sorry, sorry, I mean, do you usually, like, drink wine? Like... wine tasting?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo snorts.) no, i’m drinking to get drunk.

not the most becoming trhing for a president, but hey. never stopped anyone before.

(usually three glasses of wine takes a little longer to get tubbo tipsy, but he must not have eaten anything today, because he’s already losing his filter. he finds his head sinking towards ranboo’s shoulder, and he’s powerless to stop it. he clutches his minutes man’s arm like a lifeline.)

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

I don’t think that’s... too bad. Good—good way to relax. I think. For some people. Uh—vices, yeah. Yep.

(Ranboo frowns.) Uh, Mr. President, are you—okay? Do you, um, need to go home?

[smokingcraters]

mm. i’ll be alright. (even so, there’s a slight tremor in his hands.) sorry. this is like, hic, grossly unprofessional, i know. hehe..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

It’s—it’s okay. I might just end up... forgetting about it, so—you don’t need to, you know, worry, uh.

(Ranboo takes another swig. He grimaces again at the burning on his tongue.)

I don’t really—mind, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

why’re you still at the office, anyway? ‘s like, fuckin, nearly ten.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

I just, uh, was getting some work done, I think. I wanted to make sure I had the—the schedule right, sorry.

Why... are you still here? Or—uh, sorry. You’re the president, you probably have, like, a ton of work.

[smokingcraters]

snrk. yeah, i do. (he sluggishly pulls away from ranboo with some difficulty.) it never ends, really. but i reckon ‘s better than the alternative.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

(Ranboo sets his drink down on the desk.) What’s—what’s the alternative?

[smokingcraters]

having like.. space to freakin think sbout it. yknow. nothing better to distract you from how poorly you’re running the country than running the country

[smokingcraters]

Hi, Mr. President, uh, sir.

I just wanted to—uh. You're busy, sorry, sorry. I was just, you know, checking in. About tomorrow's meeting. I forgot to ask earlier, sorry.

@psychosomaticscrapbook

(tubbo scrambles to grab the wine bottle off of his desk and clumsily stows it at his feet.) uhh, i’mmnot— hic! i’m not busy. uhh.. just don’t worry about rhe meeting, minutes man. i’m probly gonna fuckin.. reschedule it. hic.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh, uh. Yep, okay. I’ll just—write—write that down. (Ranboo quickly scribbles a note in his book.)

...

Are you, um, okay? Mr. President?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo’s head is swimming so much that he can hardly decipher ranboo’s question. he realizes that, despite having hidden the wine bottle, his (third) empty glass is in plain sight.) ..uh-huh?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh—okay.

...

Do you—need... anything? Any help? I can just go, if you—if you want.

[smokingcraters]

no!

…i mean, uh.. no. you can- you can stay. (he pulls the wine bottle back out.) dyou drink? i could’ve sworn i had an extra glass around here or something..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Uh—I don’t... I don’t really know. I’ve never—had much. A—a bit, I guess.

I’ll stay. I can stay.

(Ranboo sits down in a chair by Tubbo’s desk.) So, um... do you—do you like wine?

[smokingcraters]

dunno why i’d be drinking it if it was- hic- shit. (tubbo rifles in the desk drawer and comes up with a whiskey glass. he smacks his head on the underside of the desk sitting back up.) fuck, ow. dammit.

(he unsteadily sets it down and pours the wine into the glass. some sloshes over the side, but tubbo hardly seems to notice or care.) there you are.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Thanks, uh, sir.

(Ranboo takes the glass and stares into it for a moment before taking a swig. He scrunches up his mouth but nods along.)

Yeah, uh... good—‘s good. Uh—tastes like... grapes.

Do you—usually do this? Uh, I mean, uh, drink. I mean alone. No, uh—Sorry, sorry, I mean, do you usually, like, drink wine? Like... wine tasting?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo snorts.) no, i’m drinking to get drunk.

not the most becoming trhing for a president, but hey. never stopped anyone before.

(usually three glasses of wine takes a little longer to get tubbo tipsy, but he must not have eaten anything today, because he’s already losing his filter. he finds his head sinking towards ranboo’s shoulder, and he’s powerless to stop it. he clutches his minutes man’s arm like a lifeline.)

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

I don’t think that’s... too bad. Good—good way to relax. I think. For some people. Uh—vices, yeah. Yep.

(Ranboo frowns.) Uh, Mr. President, are you—okay? Do you, um, need to go home?

[smokingcraters]

mm. i’ll be alright. (even so, there’s a slight tremor in his hands.) sorry. this is like, hic, grossly unprofessional, i know. hehe..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

It’s—it’s okay. I might just end up... forgetting about it, so—you don’t need to, you know, worry, uh.

(Ranboo takes another swig. He grimaces again at the burning on his tongue.)

I don’t really—mind, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

why’re you still at the office, anyway? ‘s like, fuckin, nearly ten.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

I just, uh, was getting some work done, I think. I wanted to make sure I had the—the schedule right, sorry.

Why... are you still here? Or—uh, sorry. You’re the president, you probably have, like, a ton of work.

[smokingcraters]

snrk. yeah, i do. (he sluggishly pulls away from ranboo with some difficulty.) it never ends, really. but i reckon ‘s better than the alternative.

[smokingcraters]

Hi, Mr. President, uh, sir.

I just wanted to—uh. You're busy, sorry, sorry. I was just, you know, checking in. About tomorrow's meeting. I forgot to ask earlier, sorry.

@psychosomaticscrapbook

(tubbo scrambles to grab the wine bottle off of his desk and clumsily stows it at his feet.) uhh, i’mmnot— hic! i’m not busy. uhh.. just don’t worry about rhe meeting, minutes man. i’m probly gonna fuckin.. reschedule it. hic.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh, uh. Yep, okay. I’ll just—write—write that down. (Ranboo quickly scribbles a note in his book.)

...

Are you, um, okay? Mr. President?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo’s head is swimming so much that he can hardly decipher ranboo’s question. he realizes that, despite having hidden the wine bottle, his (third) empty glass is in plain sight.) ..uh-huh?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh—okay.

...

Do you—need... anything? Any help? I can just go, if you—if you want.

[smokingcraters]

no!

…i mean, uh.. no. you can- you can stay. (he pulls the wine bottle back out.) dyou drink? i could’ve sworn i had an extra glass around here or something..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Uh—I don’t... I don’t really know. I’ve never—had much. A—a bit, I guess.

I’ll stay. I can stay.

(Ranboo sits down in a chair by Tubbo’s desk.) So, um... do you—do you like wine?

[smokingcraters]

dunno why i’d be drinking it if it was- hic- shit. (tubbo rifles in the desk drawer and comes up with a whiskey glass. he smacks his head on the underside of the desk sitting back up.) fuck, ow. dammit.

(he unsteadily sets it down and pours the wine into the glass. some sloshes over the side, but tubbo hardly seems to notice or care.) there you are.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Thanks, uh, sir.

(Ranboo takes the glass and stares into it for a moment before taking a swig. He scrunches up his mouth but nods along.)

Yeah, uh... good—‘s good. Uh—tastes like... grapes.

Do you—usually do this? Uh, I mean, uh, drink. I mean alone. No, uh—Sorry, sorry, I mean, do you usually, like, drink wine? Like... wine tasting?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo snorts.) no, i’m drinking to get drunk.

not the most becoming trhing for a president, but hey. never stopped anyone before.

(usually three glasses of wine takes a little longer to get tubbo tipsy, but he must not have eaten anything today, because he’s already losing his filter. he finds his head sinking towards ranboo’s shoulder, and he’s powerless to stop it. he clutches his minutes man’s arm like a lifeline.)

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

I don’t think that’s... too bad. Good—good way to relax. I think. For some people. Uh—vices, yeah. Yep.

(Ranboo frowns.) Uh, Mr. President, are you—okay? Do you, um, need to go home?

[smokingcraters]

mm. i’ll be alright. (even so, there’s a slight tremor in his hands.) sorry. this is like, hic, grossly unprofessional, i know. hehe..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

It’s—it’s okay. I might just end up... forgetting about it, so—you don’t need to, you know, worry, uh.

(Ranboo takes another swig. He grimaces again at the burning on his tongue.)

I don’t really—mind, I guess.

[smokingcraters]

why’re you still at the office, anyway? ‘s like, fuckin, nearly ten.

[smokingcraters]

Hi, Mr. President, uh, sir.

I just wanted to—uh. You're busy, sorry, sorry. I was just, you know, checking in. About tomorrow's meeting. I forgot to ask earlier, sorry.

@psychosomaticscrapbook

(tubbo scrambles to grab the wine bottle off of his desk and clumsily stows it at his feet.) uhh, i’mmnot— hic! i’m not busy. uhh.. just don’t worry about rhe meeting, minutes man. i’m probly gonna fuckin.. reschedule it. hic.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh, uh. Yep, okay. I’ll just—write—write that down. (Ranboo quickly scribbles a note in his book.)

...

Are you, um, okay? Mr. President?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo’s head is swimming so much that he can hardly decipher ranboo’s question. he realizes that, despite having hidden the wine bottle, his (third) empty glass is in plain sight.) ..uh-huh?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh—okay.

...

Do you—need... anything? Any help? I can just go, if you—if you want.

[smokingcraters]

no!

…i mean, uh.. no. you can- you can stay. (he pulls the wine bottle back out.) dyou drink? i could’ve sworn i had an extra glass around here or something..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Uh—I don’t... I don’t really know. I’ve never—had much. A—a bit, I guess.

I’ll stay. I can stay.

(Ranboo sits down in a chair by Tubbo’s desk.) So, um... do you—do you like wine?

[smokingcraters]

dunno why i’d be drinking it if it was- hic- shit. (tubbo rifles in the desk drawer and comes up with a whiskey glass. he smacks his head on the underside of the desk sitting back up.) fuck, ow. dammit.

(he unsteadily sets it down and pours the wine into the glass. some sloshes over the side, but tubbo hardly seems to notice or care.) there you are.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Thanks, uh, sir.

(Ranboo takes the glass and stares into it for a moment before taking a swig. He scrunches up his mouth but nods along.)

Yeah, uh... good—‘s good. Uh—tastes like... grapes.

Do you—usually do this? Uh, I mean, uh, drink. I mean alone. No, uh—Sorry, sorry, I mean, do you usually, like, drink wine? Like... wine tasting?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo snorts.) no, i’m drinking to get drunk.

not the most becoming trhing for a president, but hey. never stopped anyone before.

(usually three glasses of wine takes a little longer to get tubbo tipsy, but he must not have eaten anything today, because he’s already losing his filter. he finds his head sinking towards ranboo’s shoulder, and he’s powerless to stop it. he clutches his minutes man’s arm like a lifeline.)

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

I don’t think that’s... too bad. Good—good way to relax. I think. For some people. Uh—vices, yeah. Yep.

(Ranboo frowns.) Uh, Mr. President, are you—okay? Do you, um, need to go home?

[smokingcraters]

mm. i’ll be alright. (even so, there’s a slight tremor in his hands.) sorry. this is like, hic, grossly unprofessional, i know. hehe..

[smokingcraters]

Hi, Mr. President, uh, sir.

I just wanted to—uh. You're busy, sorry, sorry. I was just, you know, checking in. About tomorrow's meeting. I forgot to ask earlier, sorry.

@psychosomaticscrapbook

(tubbo scrambles to grab the wine bottle off of his desk and clumsily stows it at his feet.) uhh, i’mmnot— hic! i’m not busy. uhh.. just don’t worry about rhe meeting, minutes man. i’m probly gonna fuckin.. reschedule it. hic.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh, uh. Yep, okay. I’ll just—write—write that down. (Ranboo quickly scribbles a note in his book.)

...

Are you, um, okay? Mr. President?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo’s head is swimming so much that he can hardly decipher ranboo’s question. he realizes that, despite having hidden the wine bottle, his (third) empty glass is in plain sight.) ..uh-huh?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh—okay.

...

Do you—need... anything? Any help? I can just go, if you—if you want.

[smokingcraters]

no!

…i mean, uh.. no. you can- you can stay. (he pulls the wine bottle back out.) dyou drink? i could’ve sworn i had an extra glass around here or something..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Uh—I don’t... I don’t really know. I’ve never—had much. A—a bit, I guess.

I’ll stay. I can stay.

(Ranboo sits down in a chair by Tubbo’s desk.) So, um... do you—do you like wine?

[smokingcraters]

dunno why i’d be drinking it if it was- hic- shit. (tubbo rifles in the desk drawer and comes up with a whiskey glass. he smacks his head on the underside of the desk sitting back up.) fuck, ow. dammit.

(he unsteadily sets it down and pours the wine into the glass. some sloshes over the side, but tubbo hardly seems to notice or care.) there you are.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Thanks, uh, sir.

(Ranboo takes the glass and stares into it for a moment before taking a swig. He scrunches up his mouth but nods along.)

Yeah, uh... good—‘s good. Uh—tastes like... grapes.

Do you—usually do this? Uh, I mean, uh, drink. I mean alone. No, uh—Sorry, sorry, I mean, do you usually, like, drink wine? Like... wine tasting?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo snorts.) no, i’m drinking to get drunk.

not the most becoming trhing for a president, but hey. never stopped anyone before.

(usually three glasses of wine takes a little longer to get tubbo tipsy, but he must not have eaten anything today, because he’s already losing his filter. he finds his head sinking towards ranboo’s shoulder, and he’s powerless to stop it. he clutches his minutes man’s arm like a lifeline.)

[smokingcraters]

Hi, Mr. President, uh, sir.

I just wanted to—uh. You're busy, sorry, sorry. I was just, you know, checking in. About tomorrow's meeting. I forgot to ask earlier, sorry.

@psychosomaticscrapbook

(tubbo scrambles to grab the wine bottle off of his desk and clumsily stows it at his feet.) uhh, i’mmnot— hic! i’m not busy. uhh.. just don’t worry about rhe meeting, minutes man. i’m probly gonna fuckin.. reschedule it. hic.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh, uh. Yep, okay. I’ll just—write—write that down. (Ranboo quickly scribbles a note in his book.)

...

Are you, um, okay? Mr. President?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo’s head is swimming so much that he can hardly decipher ranboo’s question. he realizes that, despite having hidden the wine bottle, his (third) empty glass is in plain sight.) ..uh-huh?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh—okay.

...

Do you—need... anything? Any help? I can just go, if you—if you want.

[smokingcraters]

no!

…i mean, uh.. no. you can- you can stay. (he pulls the wine bottle back out.) dyou drink? i could’ve sworn i had an extra glass around here or something..

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Uh—I don’t... I don’t really know. I’ve never—had much. A—a bit, I guess.

I’ll stay. I can stay.

(Ranboo sits down in a chair by Tubbo’s desk.) So, um... do you—do you like wine?

[smokingcraters]

dunno why i’d be drinking it if it was- hic- shit. (tubbo rifles in the desk drawer and comes up with a whiskey glass. he smacks his head on the underside of the desk sitting back up.) fuck, ow. dammit.

(he unsteadily sets it down and pours the wine into the glass. some sloshes over the side, but tubbo hardly seems to notice or care.) there you are.

[smokingcraters]

Hi, Mr. President, uh, sir.

I just wanted to—uh. You're busy, sorry, sorry. I was just, you know, checking in. About tomorrow's meeting. I forgot to ask earlier, sorry.

@psychosomaticscrapbook

(tubbo scrambles to grab the wine bottle off of his desk and clumsily stows it at his feet.) uhh, i’mmnot— hic! i’m not busy. uhh.. just don’t worry about rhe meeting, minutes man. i’m probly gonna fuckin.. reschedule it. hic.

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh, uh. Yep, okay. I’ll just—write—write that down. (Ranboo quickly scribbles a note in his book.)

...

Are you, um, okay? Mr. President?

[smokingcraters]

(tubbo’s head is swimming so much that he can hardly decipher ranboo’s question. he realizes that, despite having hidden the wine bottle, his (third) empty glass is in plain sight.) ..uh-huh?

[psychosomaticscrapbook]

Oh—okay.

...

Do you—need... anything? Any help? I can just go, if you—if you want.

[smokingcraters]

no!

…i mean, uh.. no. you can- you can stay. (he pulls the wine bottle back out.) dyou drink? i could’ve sworn i had an extra glass around here or something..