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briarlovesginny · 3 years

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L’manberg

content warning: this fic/commentary/headcanon contains mentions/implications of s3lf harm, d3ath, and torture, as well as spoilers for recent Dream SMP lore (May 19th 2021 and before). All relationships portrayed below are in roleplay and are strictly platonic.

L’manberg

Wilbur used to swing his legs over the walls of his nation, wind snapping his hat off his head at any opportunity. He would feel a chill run through him, not just from the morning cold, but from the thrill of having his own place that he could run, the excitement of knowing the air he breathed, he won. Now Wilbur wonders at the feel of the wind, holding his coat closer to him, the sound of the gusts always reminding him of the whooshing of train tracks, every rock tumbling from his travels the rattling of the wheels on steel.

Tommy loved to watch the potions bubbling on the stands while Wilbur made them, even though he was perfectly able to make them himself. He laughed as Wilbur threw random things in, cackling as he threw up his hands in defeat at the messes he’d made. As he smelled the vapors coming from the most recent experiment, he knew that he was home. Now Tommy brews obsessively, always making sure that he has enough regen potions to bring him back from near death ten times over. He has to restock them constantly, as well as the food he spends hours slaving over, since he uses them for the slightest damage.

Tubbo would often be caught in the flower fields, running and laughing, tripping often because his eyes were always on the sky. Screaming and laughing, he would stay out until Wilbur dragged him back for dinner, chasing the bees and building tree houses with Tommy. Even when he’d fall out or get stung, he felt safe. Now Tubbo wraps himself in multiple layers, pushing against the cold winds only to get somewhere. He spends hours perfecting nuclear weaponry, just in case conflict will come to surround him as it had for so long.

Eret would often find their feelings betraying them. He knew what he had to do, but when Fundy asked for a story or Tubbo showed him him and Tommy’s new ‘secret base’, he felt his heart melt slightly. She knew it was too late to go back, but late night talks with Wilbur became something they treasured immensely. She felt happy there, but underneath it all, he felt dirty. Now Eret sits on their throne for hours at a time, staring at her hands as she fiddles with the rings on them. He’ll throw his head back a little harder than necessary to the gold chair backing, hearing not the sound of metal on metal from her crown, but the dying cries of an old friend, and the scream of a father losing her child.

Fundy never knew anything different than the walls around him. Born the son of the great leader Wilbur, he was pampered with the luxury of safety in his early years. It got annoying when Wilbur would treat him like a child, or Tommy and Tubbo were put on the front lines despite being younger, but he treasured the golden memories he had. Running into Eret’s bed after a nightmare, being sung to sleep by his father; he felt loved. Now Fundy lives alone, his house large and empty. When he tries to move past his family, something always comes back to smack him down again. When he wakes up after nightmares, he is alone.

Jack walked in in a time of political glory and excitement. Swept up quickly, he loved running his hands over his new uniform, proudly laughing as he walked down the Prime Path with other supporters of POG2020. Pride shone through his every movement as he looked at his friends, those people who had welcomed him and encouraged him to be himself. Looking at the weak opposition, he felt confident. Now Jack sulks alone at his hotel, looking at the borrowed walls with bitterness, mulling over half-formed apologies, thinking about the new Wilbur and what he might mean. He flips a coin when he gets nervous, its shine comforting him that he is secure, that he is safe in his position. He cleans the empty rooms and stands on the roof, looking out at the vines that creep their way around his home, and when he walks in public, he creeps in largely the same way. He ignores the blood on Quackity’s clothes, the way his business partner looks at the prison constantly. At the end of the day he retires to his suite, the bare room mocking him with the beauty of the sunset.

Niki spent hours sewing the flag for L’manberg. Giddy and proud, when she showed it to Wilbur he picked her up and spun her until they both fell over from dizziness. She loved making treats whenever someone was sad, always making an ‘extra’ that she would slip to Eret when her friends weren’t watching. She always had some sort of frosting on her, either on her clothes or her hair or simply her hands. When Wilbur would get stressed, she would bury her face in his shoulder and hug him for minutes on end, or sit leaning against him while he sang her songs and strummed lightly on his guitar. To the people around her, she was important. Now Niki kneads dough slowly, having long stopped noticing the tears falling in, humming Wilbur’s old songs to herself. Often, she takes a break to scream and cry in a corner, tugging at her hair to ground herself until she can move without feeling like she’s fracturing at every seam possible. When she’s not baking, she’s either holding Wilbur’s old coat and screaming or making the occasional cold trip to the Syndicate. She tries to act normal in these sessions, but cannot keep her eyes off of Phil’s hands for hours on end.

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