Sold My Soul To Hussie

Name's Toula.
This is an a+ homestuck blog.
Huzzah

novatoast:

fuckyoumacabre:

pLeAsE sToP

FTC: i’m all about to be meeting up some friends. :o)FTC: GOING TO GET PRETTY MOTHERFUCKING FRIENDLY AT THEM REAL SOON. FTC: i wonder if you can all be at with me in time and make me get my reconsider on? FTC: MAYBE SPLIT AN ELIXIR LIKE A COUPLE OF CHOICE BROS. FTC: just like we are… :o) FTC: ME AND HIM. Do:

novatoast:

fuckyoumacabre:

pLeAsE sToP

FTC: i’m all about to be meeting up some friends. :o)
FTC: GOING TO GET PRETTY MOTHERFUCKING FRIENDLY AT THEM REAL SOON.
FTC: i wonder if you can all be at with me in time and make me get my reconsider on?
FTC: MAYBE SPLIT AN ELIXIR LIKE A COUPLE OF CHOICE BROS.
FTC: just like we are… :o)
FTC: ME AND HIM. Do:

(via thepinksilkshirt)

shadowofthelamp:

bec-blanche:

shadowofthelamp:

terminalcountdown:

hellzabeth:

pimpeta-slap:

psuliem:

mpregbert:

nagekis:

binart:

DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST SBURB SESSIONS FAIL

ok [LONG POST; APOLOGIES FOR PUTTING THIS ON YOUR LOVELY ART]
this made me wonder what happens to like
the players who go godtier in a dead session
because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever
until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie
and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever
and eventually
inevitably
the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring
because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken
and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore
just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying

NOTE TEAM MISFAIL: WE ARE ALL TO GO GODTIER AND KEEP EACH OTHER SANE OK? OK.

NOTE TAKEN CAPTAIN’

Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.
Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.
Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.
You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.
You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 
You cannot speak.
You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.
You cannot see.
You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 
You cannot hear. 
You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 
You do not exist.
You are one of many.
You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.
Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.
There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.

shadowofthelamp:

bec-blanche:

shadowofthelamp:

terminalcountdown:

hellzabeth:

pimpeta-slap:

psuliem:

mpregbert:

nagekis:

binart:

DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST SBURB SESSIONS FAIL

ok [LONG POST; APOLOGIES FOR PUTTING THIS ON YOUR LOVELY ART]

this made me wonder what happens to like

the players who go godtier in a dead session

because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever

until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie

and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever

and eventually

inevitably

the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring

because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken

and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore

just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying

NOTE TEAM MISFAIL: WE ARE ALL TO GO GODTIER AND KEEP EACH OTHER SANE OK? OK.

NOTE TAKEN CAPTAIN’

Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.

Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.

Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.

You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.

You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 

You cannot speak.

You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.

You cannot see.

You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 

You cannot hear. 

You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 

You do not exist.

You are one of many.

You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.

Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.

There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.

(via homestuck-arts)

axe-ending:

happy 4/13

axe-ending:

happy 4/13

(via alcoholandvideogames)

kf1n3:

I cant believe I finished this shit. Happy 413!! :0

kf1n3:

I cant believe I finished this shit. Happy 413!! :0

(via superethanworld)

(Source: mashedpootato, via sedirktive)

What they say:

I'm fine.

What they mean:

A young man stands in his bedroom. It just so happens that today, the 13th of April, is this young man's birthday. Though it was thirteen years ago he was given life, it is only today he will be given a name! What will the name of this young man be?

aesart:

Happy birthday Homestuck!

Sleuth!Dad singing to both of his kids, wouldn’t miss it for the world : ) Don’t forget to wear your orange bands on 413!

(via halucinogenicdefenistration)

weebellion:

Yes. Our day has come.

(via nicelegsdaisypukes)

sillehfrilleh:

never expose me to homestuck and fish biology

sillehfrilleh:

never expose me to homestuck and fish biology

(via herooflife)

ftaires:

With and without shades.

(via highbloodstriderrider)

dolorosa-quest:

wow what a nerd

dolorosa-quest:

wow what a nerd

(Source: officialdolorosa, via highbloodstriderrider)

dirkar:

You know what? I don’t even care if this is a joke. I don’t care about all the Stacy’s Mom Dave Strider covers in the world. Look at this girl. Look at this sixteen year old girl who has had her affections crushed, who has been called fat and other assorted horrible names by an immature alien, who has put up with Jake English whining about his relationship issues for SIX MONTHS and didn’t say a goddamn thing about how much it hurt her until she snapped, who was reduced to no words when Dirk told her he had been mistaken when he’d made her the leader, who is positive her father is dead, and who is currently possessed by an evil troll empress against her will. Now look at this girl that was the first human female to wear pants in-comic, that enjoys masculine things without sacrificing her love for baking or girly sleepovers, that isn’t ashamed to be a total cutie of a nerd, that never sacrificed her friendship with Dirk even if they were both crushing on Jake, who never held it against them even though she is often portrayed as the jealous exgirlfriend. Look at this girl that can swing around a giant fucking fork/trident with ease like a complete and total badass and still turn around and use “shucks buster” unironically. Jane Crocker deserves to be called hot. Jane Crocker deserves to blush. Jane Crocker deserves Channing Tatum in a well tailored suit on a bed of roses who will tell her she’s beautiful no matter what and that she is the smartest, sweetest, most down to earth girl he’s ever met. And I am so glad that even for one panel that really amounts to nothing more than a joke, she’s potentially flustered, cute, happy, whatever you wanna call it even if it’s shown through a very Dave-like way and while she’s still possessed. She deserves to have affection shown towards her because when you think about it he is the first person to ever tell her she’s hot, that she is actually attractive, even if his only knowledge of her amounts to “John’s hot mom.” Jane Crocker deserves to be called hot and so much more. And if Dave Strider will write sonnets of weird obtuse metaphors about her hotness while she chuckles along and occasionally blushes than hell fucking yeah I ship it.

dirkar:

You know what? I don’t even care if this is a joke. I don’t care about all the Stacy’s Mom Dave Strider covers in the world. Look at this girl. Look at this sixteen year old girl who has had her affections crushed, who has been called fat and other assorted horrible names by an immature alien, who has put up with Jake English whining about his relationship issues for SIX MONTHS and didn’t say a goddamn thing about how much it hurt her until she snapped, who was reduced to no words when Dirk told her he had been mistaken when he’d made her the leader, who is positive her father is dead, and who is currently possessed by an evil troll empress against her will. Now look at this girl that was the first human female to wear pants in-comic, that enjoys masculine things without sacrificing her love for baking or girly sleepovers, that isn’t ashamed to be a total cutie of a nerd, that never sacrificed her friendship with Dirk even if they were both crushing on Jake, who never held it against them even though she is often portrayed as the jealous exgirlfriend. Look at this girl that can swing around a giant fucking fork/trident with ease like a complete and total badass and still turn around and use “shucks buster” unironically. Jane Crocker deserves to be called hot. Jane Crocker deserves to blush. Jane Crocker deserves Channing Tatum in a well tailored suit on a bed of roses who will tell her she’s beautiful no matter what and that she is the smartest, sweetest, most down to earth girl he’s ever met. And I am so glad that even for one panel that really amounts to nothing more than a joke, she’s potentially flustered, cute, happy, whatever you wanna call it even if it’s shown through a very Dave-like way and while she’s still possessed. She deserves to have affection shown towards her because when you think about it he is the first person to ever tell her she’s hot, that she is actually attractive, even if his only knowledge of her amounts to “John’s hot mom.” Jane Crocker deserves to be called hot and so much more. And if Dave Strider will write sonnets of weird obtuse metaphors about her hotness while she chuckles along and occasionally blushes than hell fucking yeah I ship it.

(via lookatthatsass)

pinkadillydoo:

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image

imagethey got kicked out afterwards

(via thehomestucklover)

mochifin:

… на этот раз мне нечего сказать на английскомпросто скажу, что мне очень нравится этот рисунок

mochifin:

… на этот раз мне нечего сказать на английском
просто скажу, что мне очень нравится этот рисунок

(via dreamersollux)

waffle93:

Trying to cosplay male Jade ~

(via skeletonheartsaremylife)