That Moment When I Realized Homestuck Is Now 10 Years Old

that moment when i realized homestuck is now 10 years old

What I say: I feel like everyone is mad at me.

What I mean: I got the impression that one specific person is mad at/dissatisfied with/disappointed in me and that feeling has bled over into my perception of literally all other people, because emotionally I cannot grasp the concept that negative feelings or reactions to me are not 100% universal, and as I mostly define myself by what other people think of me I can barely imagine what it feels like to be an individual with free-standing feelings and depth of character separate from what is decided by the judgement of others, thus enforcing the idea that when one person is upset at me then everyone is, because when someone else decides what I am it becomes true.

i’m guessing you didn’t pass your history class because “building empires on other people’s throats” is kinda how humanity has always worked

The Nail

[This story is dedicated to everyone who follows or followed me here as I’ve worked on this project, and to everyone harmed by the changes to Tumblr policy, but is especially dedicated to @ipsens-castle, @lioncid, @adalheidis and @livvyplaysfinalfantasy who have been kind, generous, entertaining, and enriched my life on this site and let me know that despite being overbearing, self-satisfied, and at times too-clever by half, I had a home here amongst people who cared about these characters, and the others who fall adjacent, just as much as I do – but moreover the authors and their themes, which is what make those characters what they are.

This story is also inspired by user @ink-splotch, who doesn’t know me from Adam, but whose fiction surrounding a property that I don’t even like has been endlessly engaging and a constant reminder of the power of fan writing.]

What if it had gone the other way?

***

Gragoroth had been many things in his day; a veteran of countless campaigns in the final years of the war with Ordallia, an adequate campside cook and a miserable painter, a younger brother and a son. He didn’t know that his bloodline was one of few that stretched back centuries, to before the Cataclysm, to other lives and worlds. Gragoroth was an incurious man, and that had mostly suited him, because his was a life that had focused on survival. It was for this reason that the Templars had sought him out, had used him to play the Corpse Brigade against the White Lion’s forces. “Survival above all,” in the long-ago days of Archades, had been writ on his family’s crest, though to a man none in his line had ever been good at it in the long term.

So it was that when he and his comrades stormed the Beoulve manse and made off with a girl, it was only a twist of fate that they got the correct one.

The twist was this: in the kitchens, one of the staff had placed a loaf on the countertop, yet steaming from the oven, and they were so immersed in their gossip that its angle was precarious. In another life, another world, it stayed – here, it fell. A mouse darted for the treat the gods had bestowed, and Tietra Heiral, who was always assisting, who knew that she earned also kindnesses from the family’s new head by being of use and out from underfoot, let out a shriek.

Tietra hadn’t much experience in being brave in the way her brother was, but she was brave in other ways, in attending classes with girls who were cruel, in enduring and believing there would be a place for her. None of these braveries came with a tolerance for mice, and one shouldn’t judge her for it; certainly Alma Beoulve did not, when she came running at the sound. Alma scooped the mouse up in her hands and made to let it outside, unharmed. She reached the hall only to find a pair of men with dirty arms and darting eyes. Alma didn’t shriek here, either – in another life, and other world, this was where Tietra cried out, this was when Alma came running, not because these men were poor or where they didn’t belong, but because Tietra knew to sense malice when it stood before her. Alma, instead, didn’t react in time.

Gragoroth was incurious; he always saw a girl, and he always punched upward into her stomach. He hadn’t the mind to judge the state of the girl’s tailoring, and anyway, Alma was always lending her dresses to Tietra, who wasn’t too proud to wear them. It was sheer… luck… when they grabbed a hostage who was actually valuable.

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Guess who’s into Wolfenstein now, lads

(Ft. a lazy edit job)

although this is also the same internet that also tells people that

“AT LEAST WE’RE NOT COMMUNIST OR BEING OVERRUN BY [insert minority demographic of the week here]”

Saw this on fb and had to share.