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shubblelive · 11 months

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— BROKEN RULES, BROKEN HEARTS

summary : you and wilbur play a game together. usually, that game doesn't involve him getting drunk and confessing his feelings for you, but there's a first time for everything.

genre : fluff

warnings : swearing, alcohol/drinking

pairing : cc!wilbur soot x fem!reader, musicianbur x reader

pronouns : she/her, reader is referred to as a lady

featuring : musician!wilbur soot

word count : 1.4k

note : can you tell i'm a sucker for one character storms out upset and the other character tries desperately to convice the frst one that they're in love with them, but the first character refuses to believe it

it was a game you both liked to play.

traveling so often, you and wilbur found that more often than not you didn't sleep in the same city twice. so, to escape the monotony of finishing a show, getting a celebratory drink with the other members of the band and then going back to whatever dingy motel you'd managed to score two twin rooms in, switching who had to sleep on the couch because the band wasn't big enough to afford much better now.

wilbur couldn't apologise enough to you; he'd presented touring as this glamorous thing. come on tour with me, he'd proposed, it'll be exciting. a different city every night, front row tickets to see us play. please, for your best friend in the entire world?

you didn't mind though, you got to spend time with him, and that was all that mattered to you. so whenever you had an oh-so-precious 24 hours of no shows, you and wilbur took full advantage and pulled into the first bar you could find.

you'd both pick an accent, more often than not he went with australian (something he refused to budge on, insisting it was flawless). you switched it up sometimes, but had one that you felt you could immitate fairly consistently.

then, you'd enter seperately. rock paper scissors to determine who got first pick of the bartenders, and then the game began.

the rules of the game were simple.

you had to chat it up with your bartender, adhering to the strict schedule of drinks you'd both agreed on; enough to get you slurring your words but nowhere near enough to make you do something you'd regret. swapping with water frequently, and text check ins every 30 minutes. you avoided busy places and stayed in sight of each other constantly.

first person to have someone ask "what happened to your accent?" payed for both of you.

wilbur had won the game of rock paper scissors, so you stood by the curb for five minutes until you were allowed in. your eyes zeroed in on him immediately. he was flirting with a bartender, the same cocky smile that gave you butterflies plastered across his face as he told a story. he made eye contact with you for a split second as you walked in, but then his game face was back on.

you positioned yourself at the other end of the bar, your only thought that you were going to win; wilbur was toast.

wilbur was toast. the bartender he'd been chatting up had noticed the brief pause in his gaze on her, and had interrupted his story. "you might have more luck with the lady over there," she said. "i'm not really into dudes."

"what if i'm just looking for a friend?" he challenged, cheeks tinted pink that she'd caught on.

"you know her or something?" the bartender pressed on, flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder as she leaned into him conspiratorially. "no one looks at a stranger like that."

you noticed the grin on her face, the blush on his as they talked quietly. you and your target had been talking for nearly ten minutes at that point and if he'd clocked that your accent was fake he hadn't let on.

you were having an enjoyable (read: bland) conversation with him, and eventually had started talking to the girl next to you. she noticed the band on the shirt you wore, and you kicked yourself. you'd gone into the bar with the name of wilbur's band plastered across your chest. you were only grateful that his face wasn't on it. she mentioned how she'd heard the name before, and you posed as a fan as well.

you actually had such a good time talking to her that two things had happened. first, you'd missed your checkin with wilbur. second, you'd completely forgotten about the game.

"were you..." she giggled, sipping on her drink as you finished yours off. "were you faking your accent?"

"fuck," you couldn't help but laugh. "it's a stupid fucking bet i have going with my best friend. i completely forgot about it."

you hadn't lost though, with the bartender wilbur had been talking to having noticed almost immediately. he considered her question. no one looks at a stranger like that. how did he look at you? sure, you were pretty, but you were his best friend. it was purely platonic, the way he looked at you. he was just protective.

"maybe i'm a hopeless romantic?" he'd proposed.

the bartender, millie, according to her nametag, had laughed. "a hopeless romantic with a shitty australian accent? you sound like a manic pixie dreamgirl."

"she happens to like my australian accent," wilbur let it drop, smiling sheepishly.

"my last girlfriend was australian, and she'd have laughed in your face the second you opened your mouth." millie snickered. "so you do know her? is she your girlfriend? no, you wouldn't be over here with me if she was. ex? not over her?"

wilbur wasn't listening. his phone had buzzed. you'd both been there for an hour at that point, and you'd only checked in with him once. he gave it an extra five minutes, but then excused himself. millie had just laughed. "go get your girl, casanova."

you were fairly tipsy at that point, and you were nearing the 90 minute cap - no one noticed after an hour and a half and they called it, each paying for their own drinks.

"hi, love," you jumped when he put his hand on you.

"fuck, you scared the- what's up? did you lose?"

"you didn't reply to my text." he said simply, holding up his phone. "got worried."

"i should be going," the other girl said. "you got my number right? text me," she smiled warmly at wilbur as she wandered out of the bar.

"you alright, will?" you put your hand on the front of his shoulder. "what's wrong?"

"i got worried that some creep had snatched you up," he mumbled, putting his hand over yours. "'specially when you look so pretty."

your gaze fled from his, landing on your shoes, with knocked against the side of your barstool nervously. "don't be mean, will."

apparently you were both a little more drunk than you'd realised. he frowned. "i'm not. why would i be mean to you, sweetheart?"

"you're making fun of me." you were fiddling with your fingers. "stop."

"i'm not." wilbur insisted. "you're so pretty."

you stood, wobbling a little. "stop." you repeated, tears pooling pathetically in your eyes. "stop it, wilbur."

"is everything alright?" millie approached. "you okay, honey?"

you nodded angrily. "yeah. you can close my tab. i'm done here," millie grabbed your card and you were about to pay when wilbur spoke up.

"i've got it." he'd upset you, and he didn't know why, but he did know that he'd lost the game. "i'll pay for her."

millie handed you your card with a gentle squeeze of your hand, and you took it from her. wilbur watched as you walked out, and it took less than ten seconds for millie to speak up. "what did you do, kangaroo-man?"

he sent her a look, and didn't reply as he paid for the drinks. "i don't know," he said finally, giving her a smile as he left.

you were just outisde, tears clinging to your eyelashes as you waited for a cab. "darling-"

"please don't," you said softly. "you had your fun. you're being cruel."

"by saying you're pretty?" he pulled on your wrist until you were looking at him. "because it's not a joke, love. you are so pretty, and i would tell you that stone-cold sober, and i'd tell you that in front of a crowd of people, so i am telling you here, outside this dingy bar because it is the truth. you are so pretty."

you paused. "you would? do all that stuff?"

"i'd tell the crowd at the show tomorrow if you asked me to, angel." he said sincerely. he was standing awfully close to you, and maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was exactly what he had been trying to prove to you; you looked so lovely under the flickering bar sign.

"you don't have to do that," you shook your head, voice so soft you were almost whispering. "just tell me."

your lips pressed against his and his hands went to the hem of your shirt, his name written across your chest on the shirt you wore. your hands went into his hair, pulling him ever closer. he pulled away just long enough to utter one breathless sentence before he was kissing you again.

"believe me, i will."

#wishing i could write my name on it #wilbuh #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur soot fanfiction #wilbur soot imagine #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot headcanons #wilbur soot x reader fluff #wilbur soot x fem!reader #wilbur x you

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teethkid67 · 5 months

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you begin your sunday on the couch, dress shoes still on, with a headache and a handful of stale gummy worms from the party last night. schlatt begins his with a cigar, and quackity starts with his arm as an ashtray. fundy is outside picking shotgun shells and fireball bottles out of the grass before you've even had time to say good morning.

it is not a good morning. dark like chew tobacco and slow as tar you realize no-one is coming to save you anymore. quackity won't look you in the eye, but he bites his cheek to keep his grin down as his gaze roams the walls like he can't wait to tear the place apart.

schlatt is the first to take something off the wall: an old, ugly painting wilbur picked up at a homegoods a million years ago. something he surely never gave much of a shit about, but you still flinch when schlatt lifts it from the nail and instructs you to get a garbage bag. but you fetch one and hold it open for him and then, when you put up no fight, and fundy is still outside, and quackity is still all shark smile, he tells you to start cleaning.

that is what it takes for them to begin picking your house to the bones. its methodically at first, dumping old takeaway boxes and draining vodka bottles, then harsh and uncaring like a flood or a struggle, toppling lamps and breaking mirrors. you dutifully pick up solo cups and half-empty pretzel bags and just as dutifully ignore anything that's not evidence of a party. eventually this catches up with you when schlatt tells you to kick it into fuckin' gear, kid, and jerks his chin at the fucking telephone of all things, this place isn't gonna clean itself.

a few minutes later quackity hands you an armful of everything that used to be pinned to your white fridge, looking a little sheepish but frankly not all that guilty. an old worksheet of fundy's is whats at the top of the stack, sunbleached from the window above the sink and with a broken chunk of now-gummy magnet stuck to the page.

WRITE about a time you had to make a difficult decision, it reads in big letters. explain what the decision was and what choice you made. At the top is a big, circled 100.

report cards and sticky notes and novelty magnets are joined by your vomit in the big bin at the curb. with your hands on your knees you take inventory. theres a box of shampoo and soap bars taken from the bathroom, and a bag of bedsheets and pillowcases. theres schlatt's car in your driveway and it makes your heart jackrabbit. wilbur doesn't drive. even if he did, his car wouldn't be out front.

you go back inside and take on the rest of the house with a newfound sense of numbness—emptying your stomach had probably helped. fundy has appeared again, and you help him bag up the books that schlatt had swiped off the mantle to make room for his shotgun. no matter what you do, he won't say a word to you.

eventually you are both led by an eager quackity to the backyard shed, where he hands you a hatchet and fundy a hacksaw and tells you to take down the fence.

schlatt says no more fence, he says, why would we need a fucking fence? so we gotta take the stupid thing down.

you swallow your pride with globs of spit and swing for the support beams so fundy, who quickly abandoned the hacksaw, can tear out the boards with his bare hands. he's mad, if the look on his face and the way he pries at the panels are any indication. at who is anyones guess. you're starting to think it might not be schlatt. quackity arms himself with a chainsaw and has a great, violent time laughing and breaking the wood into manageable sizes for your fireplace.

schlatt comes to lean against the railing on your raised porch and watches the three of you work, smoking what you think is his third cigar of the day. in his other hand is tommy's favorite glass, about a third full with whiskey and ice.

he and quackity shout over the roar of the chainsaw about next steps; living room paint color, new sheets for the bed, what to make for dinner. your arms shake and the afternoon sky darkens with clouds. when the temperature drops and the sky begins to spit down rain, schlatt and quackity duck inside with a shout to finish up out there.

by the time the fence is gone, the sun has set behind the woods, you're soaked to your skin, and your fingers are blue with cold and red with blood blisters. you collapse on the couch–the same one you've slept on for almost as long as you can remember–and shut your eyes against a living room you no longer recognize. fundy disappears into his bedroom and comes back in a set of dry clothes. quackity frowns and tells you to get up, you'll ruin the upholstery, then offers you a slice of mostly-cold pizza.

you slide to sit on the floor instead and pick the onions and bell peppers off the piece of pizza. your stomach turns. thuds and bangs echo through the house, and then its a terrible jerky screech as schlatt and quackity drag wilbur's old executive desk down the hall and through the front door. the corners dig lines into the linoleum and papers and knickknacks are strewn through the whole house.

there's tax records in there, you say, watching a wheat penny skid beneath the couch. they're in the second drawer on the left. and probably the deed, too.

schlatt makes a dismissive noise. don't need 'em. he doesn't say anything else, so you don't either.

as they're turning it through the front door, you watch schlatt grab a silver ring from a rolled-open drawer. he turns it over in his hand before passing it to quackity, who slips it on his finger and examines it under the light. don't get any ideas, honey, schlatt grumbles, and quackity squawks something about schlatt running out on him as they push the desk the rest of the way through the door. they both cackle as it tumbles down the front porch stairs.

you lean forward to pick up an old microwave manual and a receipt for a goodwill donation. for a moment, you can almost pretend you're just spring cleaning while wilbur files your stupid taxes; tommy shredding shit you don't need anymore and threatening to shove your fingers into the blades; fundy sorting grocery receipts. then schlatt slams the front door shut, and the house shakes, and they laugh the whole way down the hall to wilbur's room, quackity still watching the ring sparkle as he turns his hand this way and that. their conversation grows muffled behind the locked bedroom door.

you stare down the hall from your place on the floor. the rain rattles against the house. there're splinters in your hands. you feel like you missed your opportunity to cry about it all, so you finish your pizza instead, even the crusts. then you pull yourself to you feet, socks squelching in your dress shoes, and grab another trash bag and your hoodie from the coat closet.

slowly, you creep through the front door and down the steps, past schlatt's pontiac, and begin hunting through the bags and piles of your whole life for anything you can save.

#block party #things i make #dsmp #dream smp #tubbo #dream smp fanfiction #i dont write that often anymore and this is only a second draft bjt honestly thats more than i used to do anyway so. im pleased enough #happy november 16th heres a piece about manberg beginnings in block party #second person pov #my writing

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bumblebeerror · 9 months

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I’ll admit my views of Dream are a lot more negative than positive.

I don’t love that he made MCC so competitive, but I get why he did. Speedrunner. Good at pvp. Etc. I still felt it was whiny and not in the spirit of a competition that aims to let the creators have fun (in that the intake form has things like “do you prefer sillies or sweaty” and each team has about an equal amount of both) but like. It wasn’t just him for that. I think MCC is much more fun without him and a few other very competitive people, and getting to see more range in creators is more enjoyable.

I think he’s a bit overhyped; but I’m not gonna cite Wilbur creating the manhunt idea or Minecraft but, it’s mostly just. I dunno, reflexes aren’t everything in this game. And someone being a builder or redstoner doesn’t mean they can’t win pvp, and I feel like he was very… derogatory, toward those types of players. The Grian twitlonger comes to mind.

I think he dropped the ball severely on his own server, and it impacted the lifetime of that story. I think rushing everyone to finish their stories and refusing to communicate is dick behavior, and I especially think that ignoring how the women and non-binaries on his server were treated by fans when a statement from him would have gone a long way is a bit of a dick move. I understand that ADHD can make you bad at communicating, but even support or information in private would have helped, or even an admission that he didn’t know.

I personally think the situation with QSMP, something Quackity was publicly working on for ages, and Dream’s spur of the moment half baked idea for something similar, was and is dumb. I think Tommy’s criticism of it was both funny and justified. Quackity wasn’t secretive about this server. Everyone knew it was coming for a while, and the only true surprise was Quackity having the language mod developed to release during the second week of the server. I think Dream’s meltdown about lack of communication is a little ridiculous all things considered. I do wish Quackity had been more able to curb his own audience away from harassment and stalking, and that Dream would take literally any responsibility for the way his own fans act as well. It’s not impossible to curb your community - if Techno could do it despite us all being notoriously feral (I.e. encouraging his community not to hate on squidkid or reminding us that roleplay is roleplay) then it’s not impossible to make a statement and calm the masses some. Dream’s relationship with his fans is very parasocial and I know he fosters that a lot. I feel it should come with some sense of responsibility. Just like Fit deserved to be called out for what he said about the one mod’s mobs, I think these criticisms are fair. (and watching the clip of Fit being told about the implications, I do think “it was a refrence” was meant to be an apology - it’s sorta just how he talks, but I get if people still dislike it. He has gotten more mindful about it moving forward and now won’t repeat a meme/joke unless he knows it’s not hateful, so he has changed behavior.)

I find him to be generally up his own ass, in other words. Which is whatever - it’s not a sin. I don’t like his stans and they are regularly a more intense type of toxic, but I also think most stans of any creator are insufferable. I mostly just dislike that Dream seems to encourage their behaviour much more. He’s young, and so is his audience.

I think his work with Technodad has been overall helpful especially when it comes to donations to the sarcoma foundation. I understand those who feel uncomfortable about it, and I hope you won’t lash out against Technodad for it. Mans has barely learned Reddit, let him be.

I don’t know what to say about the allegations. On one hand, it’s an awful thing to do and I feel for the victims, especially with having to deal with the stans harassing them for bringing evidence to light. I think the victims deserved far better treatment. I think Dream’s reputation would have been far more favorable if he had at least addressed the situation respectfully, and either owned up to the clear evidence or provided evidence of his own. On the other, I get that again, he’s young and people make mistakes. This does not mean I think his victims shouldn’t have come forward or that what he did was okay - only that I don’t think I was smart enough at 20 to handle sudden and intense fame either. In this case (unless I’ve missed it) it doesn’t seem like his messages actually went anywhere, which is a slight relief. I would feel better about it if he had handled it more seriously, because I’m unsure if he’s really learned anything from that situation besides that he can get away with about anything if he ignores it. As is, it feels unfinished on his end and I wish he would own up.

All that being said, I don’t claim to know much about the guy.

I’ve watched maybe two manhunts and seen a scattered few videos with him involved. I don’t enjoy his style much, it just feels kinda fake to me, idk.

Im not sure what my point really was, I mostly just wanted my thoughts in order.

#dream situation #fitmc #loyal maybe don’t look #I’m basically just restating a lot of things you’ve said and you’ve got enough goin on

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bonesandthebees · 2 months

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Hope you're doing well, friend; your fics are what really got me into SBI just last year!

This whole situation is the first time I've actually felt nauseous from the Internet and felt the need to step back. I actually went to bed early to sleep the grief off after I found out.

Yet this morning, as I joked with my mother and helped clean the house, I found myself humming Your Sister Was Right as I worked. It made me realize that Wilbur Soot could write all of his problems down on paper and sing them in prose, but he can't, or at least couldn't for someone he claimed to love, address and curb those parts of himself.

I can. I won't keep financially supporting them, but I'll keep listening to what he's written because they remind me what I've grown from. That recognizing your problems is only the first step, and maybe having some background music will help you take action.

I'm still sad and angry about what he put her through and she deserves nothing but love and support right now. But for a fan, there is a freeing feeling in realizing you've surpassed someone you idolized.

That's my take, at least

we are shaking hands anon I also went to bed early the night I heard about the allegations because I needed to sleep all the nausea and anxiety off.

I think you put this very well. I don't really have anything to add but yeah, there's something freeing about the whole thing. And I'm so happy to see such an outpouring of love and support for Shubble after all of this

#ask #anon #wilbur situation

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toiletwipes · 9 months

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PIECES | vampire! wilbur

Part 1 — I'm here again

Summary: There's a vampire, wandering and mourning for a love that died by his hands. He wanders and drifts along the universe until the love has found him.

In this part, we meet Wilbur, a man turned into a vampire and the love he has for someone.

THIS FIC IS PART OF THIS EVENT! [The Common Fanfiction Trope Writing Event] Mainly mainly for oblivious pining! i bet i could squeeze friends to lovers in this though.

[Warnings: blood, mention of death and killing, the usual vampire stuff]

~2.6k words.

title and chapter title from the song pieces by red

———

He walks. For a long time in his life, it was all he ever did. He would walk and walk, never really needing to stop. Walked until there were no sidewalks, until there was only dirt. Till he tilted his head up and was unable to recognize the stars above him. And then he’d continue. One foot after the other.

There was never a reason to stop walking, other than to stop and feed but that was getting rarer and rarer. Starving himself wasn’t ideal but with how often he walked and how often he would walk miles without noticing it, his head somewhere else. In a different time and under a different set of stars. But starving himself was the only right thing to do, nowadays. Sure, the hunger was unbearable… if he was focused on the present.

And then… one day while he was walking, it's late at night and he entered a new town, one he hadn’t been in before. He doesn’t know why, why he stops walking for the first time in a week, why he stops and turns his head but when he does, the wind is knocked out of him, his chest tightening in knots when he sees your face.

His first victim, the first drop of blood came from you. Your death solely defined his role as a monster. It was his one regret out of all of this- becoming an eternal nightmare, cursed forever to starve and ache and burn under the heavens while everyone else lived and breathed and loved and died. Becoming this only happened because he was too weak to stay away from you, starved himself of his nature, starved himself of you.

Your death had been the nail in the coffin.

And yet.

There you stood, in an old diner, taking orders and serving drinks and meals. A smile on your face while you did it. Talking and walking and breathing and… alive.

And he hasn’t fed in a while. Couldn’t bring himself to, stuck in the useless cycle of why bother? And he could feel it in his throat, the unbearable itching, the burning. The empty pit in his stomach. It almost was too much, all of these feelings and seeing your face. Seeing you and hearing you and only able to feel the hunger consuming him. He fled the scene, hiding behind a building, and sucking down on the rats that didn’t scurry away fast enough.

An older woman had opened the door next to where he had slid down. “Oh, there you are, Wilbur, I told you not to come through the back again, there’s rats out here darling.” He ends up realizing she’d mistaken him for her grandson or someone else, but she drags him in anyways. The rats had been enough to curb the hunger, and he let her take him inside of her home. She gives him free reign of the bathroom, handing him clothes that weren’t torn to shreds by the course of time and the elements.

When he looks in the mirror, he finds a creature of extreme camouflage. A monster that blends in so well, you’d almost be entranced by the sight of him alone. The clothes are loose, they hang off him like he has no meat, and to be fair, he doesn’t have a healthy diet, but they fit well enough. And when he helps her into bed, tucks her in and closes the door behind him, he thanks her quietly and hopes her grandson makes it home safe so she won’t be alone in the morning.

Standing outside, freshly scrubbed and in a set of clothes that don’t belong or smell like him, he feels like an imposter, a wolf in sheep’s clothing if you will. He looked closer to normal and human, to something less dangerous than before. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

He finds himself heading to the diner again, unable to help himself. Were you a hallucination? Were you a dream, a mirage in the distance with his hunger caving his mind in on itself? A horrible trick to get him to slip up and fall at the hands of a well-sharpened stick?

Didn’t matter because before he could begin to think of an escape route, a bell slams against the door-frame as he steps through, the lights sting his eyes and he barely manages to seat himself in the corner with the light bulb out. It’s just a shade darker but that’s all he needs. And before he could register it happening, he sees your face, the light framing your face as if an angel to take him away. He can hear your voice clearly, asking him about his night and such as you pour him a glass of coffee. The steam rises as you nudge it closer to him. “Need anything just call for me,” you wink, tapping at the name tag pinned to your shirt. You are the one and the same in every possible way, and it's haunting.

He leaves after a few minutes, sure that had he been alive, the only thing he would hear is his heart pounding in his chest and the blood rushing to his ears but the worst part, is that he could only hear yours. Everyone else has been drowned out by how loud you are, how noisy your life is. It’s as if you’ve built a neon sign pointing at yourself, calling out for every bloodthirsty being to come and claim your soul. Maybe that’s just him. Maybe this is his personal hell. Maybe he was supposed to live through this and find it painful.

He knows he’s a sick bastard, but he didn’t know how sick he was until he returned the next night.

He returns for a week straight until another vampire catches him before going in, taking him to their place and telling him he needs to go eat, to change clothes, and to do something because he’s attracting a lot of attention for someone laying low.

So he shackles up with him, gets clothes with him less he wants to get caught wearing something from thirty years ago. Time is fast, these days, you can’t blame him for not paying attention to the fashion.

The eating part is hard. Because every bone in his body, every inch of his skin wants to see you. Wants to taste your blood, the sick part of him wants to know if you’d taste just as good as you did the first time. He wants to know what’s changed and what hasn’t but so far the only thing that’s changed is that you’re alive and you don’t know him at all.

He could survive it, he survived your death, he could survive your rebirth.

That is, until you caught him behind the diner, blood smeared over his clothes and six feet from the back door. He insisted on no doctors which frustrated you, he could tell, but despite the freezing temperature his body is always set at, you drag him inside. Unaware of the dead body tossed carelessly in the dumpster behind the two of you.

You sit him in the bathroom, wiping the blood from his face and demanding that he take his shirt off of his body. You even turned around, a dangerous endeavor with a creature like him. Alas, he just fed so he… felt normal. Enough. Normal to pretend that he’s a human for a brief moment and normal enough to pretend that he doesn’t want to tilt your body into his, to nudge your head to the side and kiss it like he used to. To smear praise and worship over your skin, to taste the salt off your skin and hear you call his name.

It’s times like these that he reminds himself, he’s not alive, you’re not you, the one he knew, the one he killed, and that you’re waiting on him.

You take great care of looking him over, checking for any open wounds and despite not finding any, you bravely asked if taking his pants off would be too much. He almost felt dizzy.

He puts his shirt back on and lets you tug him back to his corner, pouring him a coffee and letting him be with a soft touch to his shoulder, throwing a stern look over your shoulder as you tended to your other regulars.

He tries drinking the coffee, just to try, just to feed into his delusion if not a little bit.

He found himself back in the bathroom ten minutes later, gagging as the coffee forcefully left through his throat. It burned his mouth and throat as he sat back on his heels, trying to steady himself. You come in seconds later, brushing his hair back and feeling his forehead. The sensations are nauseating and making him lean into your touch, into your body. His nose is pressed against your apron waist as you try to talk to him.

After unsuccessfully trying to get him to call someone he knew, which, wasn’t that a funny new thing, calling and phones? He tried to laugh, though he could only let out a pathetic sigh, feeling weak.( And he fed on some poor stranger. He’s a monster, and not even a good one, at that.) But when you finally realized he wasn’t going to be any help, you heaved him out of the bathroom and took him to the back, sat him against the wall. You crouched in front of him, pushing his hair out of his forehead and looking him over, “I have one more hour and then- then I’ll. I’ll- fuck, I’ll figure something out but you’re sick and you should get checked out by a doctor or something.” And when he could only respond with a noncommittal hum, you sighed, your head dipping down.

Picking yourself back up, he can barely watch through the slits of his eyes your disappearing figure. He tried to call your name, in the language he once knew, but his mouth barely opened. And when he blinked his eyes open again, there stood the other vampire in the area. He pulls on the collar of his shirt, tugging him forward and onto his knees. “You trying to get us killed, there are hunters-” he cuts himself off, looking around, before he stares him in the eyes. “Listen to me. We’re getting you to my place, fixing you up, and you’re gonna get out of here, no more lolly-gagging and no more dilly-dallying, do not pass go and do not collect 200-” he speaks while he’s slinging him over his back. Assuming he checked for nobody watching the two of them, the vampires make an escape.

He wants to know what you think when you go back there to get him, already to go home and relax or whatever humans do nowadays, and you find him gone. He wants to know what you’d think, what you’d say. He knows it’s bad. Bad to be this obsessed already but you haunt him, every night he could dream, those he just recently found out he could have, you’d be in there. Sleeping until you’re not, smiling at him with this emotion in your eyes, fingers stroking his cheek and jaw and running your hands through his hair.

When the other vampire drops him onto the couch, he throws something squishy at him. He smells it before he even opens his eyes. It’s blood.

He just had some.

“You’re malnourished, unsocialized. You need to talk to people, yes, but they need to be like us.” The very helpful vampire grounds out. Like us, dead, crystallized in a beautiful tomb of eternal suffering. Monsters till the end of time. While he tears the corner of the blood bag open, he tries not to think about how refreshed he feels. He tries to not think too hard about how he would never enjoy blood like he enjoyed yours. It’s the only semi-clear memory he has of drinking blood from people. They’re few and far in between instances, and he doesn't like it. But it happens. And the only time he ever enjoyed it, had been— horribly— yours. The sweet and nectarine taste, soothing his throat, the high he’d been on, how full he felt- of course, that all attributed to the fact he practically mauled your throat and drained you till you died in his arms.

This is his defining moment as a monster.

Of course— he would’ve left immediately, he had some blood, felt normal enough, changed clothes and when he looked in the mirror, he looked more human than he had the last time he checked.

And when he was asked what his name was by the vampire, he didn’t think about it for long, choosing to stick with what he knew. “Wilbur,” he said, turning to the window. They’d gone so high up, he wondered when did the humans ever begin to fly, how did they get here? He was curious but as he pulled away from the window and dragged to a shop, for the purpose of an ID- he doesn’t know why, he’s left to fend for himself.

He begins walking again, and against the wishes of the very same vampire who’s clothed, fed and identifies him, he knows where he starts to walk.

“Your name is Wilbur Soot,” he recalls the vampire telling him, “you’re just passing through, making his way home. And if someone knows about, you know- your condition, show them this.” He looks down to the business card the vampire had given him. “They’ll help you. This is all I can do for you.” He walks and keeps putting one foot in front of the other until it takes him to a diner. Your diner.

“You scared me last night,” you murmur to him, reaching over to give him a one-arm hug with a tray stabilized on your other hand. “How did you even leave?” He knows, he just doesn’t know what to tell you. After following you to an empty table, you make your rounds to the other customers before you return to him. “Did you at least see a doctor?”

He licks his mouth before looking up to you, finding it easy to lose himself in your eyes, your expression. Eyebrows pinched together from concern and a frown as you continued to wait for an answer.

“I… I didn’t eat enough and the coffee just didn’t sit right, I suppose.” He wonders if you believed him.

“You supposed? There was literal blood when you were puking.” Your name is called and you call back over your shoulder. You press your lips into a firm line, staring him down. He wonders, if it helps that after aching for you for so long, he would be satiated for the rest of his life, enough to leave you behind and truly keep you safe this time. “You’re fine now?” He nods, he’d never be fine. He’ll be a monster longer than you’d ever be alive, but for your sake, he nods. You tap your fingers on the tray as you quickly think, “we’re not done talking about this,” you warn him, pointing a finger at him in warning as you walk away from him.

And well, his heart almost leapt out of his chest, bloody tendons connecting it to him, but safely tucked away in your hands, he could see the metaphorical lines thin themselves out as you disappeared behind a door.

He comes to grips with himself and realizes he doesn’t think he’ll ever be satiated. Not when you care so freely, not when you are breathing and living and existing again. Not when you pass him by and squeeze his shoulders as you go.

He knows for a certainty he’ll be alive for many more centuries, he’ll stay this way, needing the living’s blood to make sure he doesn’t wither away. He knows that for an absolute certainty… but he doesn’t know if he could survive the separation from you again.

He knows he wouldn’t want to.

#au: vampire #c: wilbur soot #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot fanfiction #The Common Fanfiction Trope Writing Event #The CFT Writing Event

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thecoddaughter · 3 months

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QSMP - I'd Hate Me Too by Susannah Joffe

again, I am here with a written concept in replacement for the animatics that live in my brain... i am cursed with not being an animator (but I am a writer, so deal with this chaos) Everything is below the line break <3

When we last spoke I was a dog with a broken leg

Flashes of Charlie, Wilbur, and Cellbit, each flash is a different expression

I couldn't run to you, so l'd bite 'til you'd shoot me dead

Juana pointing a gun at the screen, which glitches into Sunny holding her hand out

I am a coward but first I was a kid

Tallulah holding a wavering sword while being swarmed, which glitches to her holding a flower, still being swarmed

Lost you like a sore loser with my tail between my legs

Little kid Bagi looking scared, which glitches to adult Bagi looking furious

Mary please let me repent

Zooming into the church, through stained glass of Felps, to see Tina praying

Broke my own limb and blamed you for the limp

Richas and Pepito standing with the statue of Bobby looming behind them

And like a spoiled only child I thought l'd be forgiven

the camera spins around Sunny and Leo standing back to back

I lied through my canines and I pulled at your hair

the camera spins around Bad and Foolish standing back to back

I wanted you to hate me, so, you'd know l was still there

Tubbo (whos features are shifting slightly to look like Etoiles and Pac) standing above FitPac with flyers raining down on them

I wanted you to hate me

Flashes/Glitches of all the hybrid experiments faces (Jaiden, Bags, Phil, etc)

Told the world that you kicked me to the curb but l'll admit

Tallulah standing on the grounds of her old house, tears on her cheeks, wind in her hair

I said it just so you'd see how bad I hurt

Wilbur standing in the same spot, reading the notes in his mail, confusion on his face.

I whined and cried so all the neighbors heard

Wilbur and Tallulah's faces flashing back and force as they scream at Phil

And like a skinhead Christian, I screamed my cherry-picked words

Phil staring at piles of books and letters, crying after both are gone.

Mary, your name makes my guilt simmer like that summer's sunburn

Tina looks up and sees Bad's hand on her shoulder. Both their horns visible.

Broke my own limb and blamed you for the limp

The new eggs with the older eggs standing behind them kinda menacingly

And like a spoiled only child I thought l'd be forgiven

the camera spins around Jaiden and Roier, standing back to back

I lied through my canines and I pulled at your hair

Cucuchro staring forward, slowly tilting their head

I wanted you to hate me so you'd know I was still there

Mariana and Charlie scream fighting. Charlie glitching into code with CodeFlippa behind him. Mariana is crying, Pepito and Sunny behind him.

I wanted you to hate me

Em looking at all the pictures of Jaiden in people's homes

If I were you, l'd hate me too

Sunny sitting on the dock, staring at an unmoving Lenay

I'd hate me too if I were you

Bagi smashing a photo of her and Cellbit as kids

If I were you, l'd hate me too

Fit and Ramón watching Pac build when a cat crawls into Fit's lap

I'd hate me too if I were you

Leo and Foolish staring up at the statue of Vegetta

#qsmp #qsmp as songs #qsmp eggs #qsmp parents #qsmp angst

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rabbitcruiser · 3 months

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National Hot Heads Chili Day

Chili lovers celebrate National Hot Heads Chili Day on January 17 every year. On this day, chili heads, heat-seekers, and extreme eaters try out the spiciest chilis. National Hot Heads Chili Day is celebrated with habanero-eating challenges, fancy-dress contests, and cook-offs of popular recipes. Chilis are also made to take the official Scoville heat scale. This doesn’t mean that you have to be a daredevil to celebrate the day — anyone who likes their meal a little hot can celebrate the day! Spices and chilis add a distinct flavor to the dish. Thai, Indian, Creole and Caribbean dishes are famous for their heat content and boast of some excellent gastronomic experiences!

History of National Hot Heads Chili Day

We don’t quite know how National Hot Heads Chili Day came to be but it’s safe to say that one fine day all the chili lovers got together and decided to celebrate hot and spicy food. This makes sense given how humans have always had a knack for chilis in their food — the first recipes for spicy foods go back to 6,000 years! This means that humans have been enjoying spicy food for quite some time. While the foods that we enjoy today may have changed and recipes altered, we still love spicy food. Unlike other animals, humans prefer spicy food simply because it tastes so incredible and on a plus side, spices also offer several health benefits.

Spices such as turmeric and cumin that have powerful antimicrobial and antioxidant properties can kill bacteria outright. Studies show that the capsaicin in hot peppers can reduce inflammation and decrease the chances of heart disease. It can also aid in weight loss. In Ayurvedic medicine, the inflammatory properties of chilis have brought relief from many different conditions, such as headaches, autoimmune disorders, and arthritis. Spicy foods can also help fasten your metabolism. Studies also show that certain spices, like pepper chilies, turmeric, cinnamon, and cumin can curb your appetite and improve your metabolic resting rate. Who knew chilis could be so versatile!

National Hot Heads Chili Day timeline

3500 B.C.

Chilis Are Cultivated

Chilis are grown and cultivated for the first time.

1498

Chilis Arrive In India

Vasco-da-Gama reaches Indian shores and introduces India to chilis.

1912

Scoville Organoleptic Test

Wilbur L. Scoville finds a new method to measure the pungency of chilis.

1975

Chili’s

Larry Lavine opens the first Chili's in Dallas.

National Hot Heads Chili Day FAQs

Are chillies native to India?

After the Portuguese arrival in India, chilies were first introduced to Goa, from where they spread to South India. Today, India is the largest producer of red dried chili in the world.

Which chili is the spiciest?

A Guinness Book record holder, Bhut Jolokia is certified as the hottest chili in the world. It is also known as ‘ghost pepper’ and is cultivated in Arunachal Pradesh, Assam, Nagaland, and Manipur.

Which chili is the healthiest?

Green chilies have high water content and zero calories which makes them a healthy choice for those who are trying to shed some pounds.

National Hot Heads Chili Day Activities

Host a dinner party: Chilis are regularly used in Indian, Chinese, and Thai cooking. Host a dinner party and serve these cuisines to friends and family.

Learn about different chilis from around the world: On National Hot Heads Chili Day, learn more about the different chilies that are available around the world. There are so many different types, including Carolina Reapers, Ghost Peppers, Habanero, Red Cayenne Pepper, Serrano, Guajillo, Poblano, Peppadew, and much more.

Organize a cook-off: Invite your friends over and see who can create the best hot and spicy dish. Flavor your dishes with different types of chilis and find out which one is the hottest.

5 Facts About Chilis That Will Blow Your Mind

Chilis can make you happy: They help release feel-good endorphins and dopamine, which results in a sense of euphoria.

The Japanese had an innovative use: Instead of eating them, the Japanese put them in their socks to keep their toes warm.

They are rich in nutrients: They contain large amounts of vitamin C, provitamin A, and beta-carotene.

Only mammals are sensitive to chilis: Capsaicin may burn and irritate the flesh of mammals but birds are completely immune to its effects

They can be used as first aid: Cayenne pepper can help stop bleeding.

Why We Love National Hot Heads Chili Day

A day to enjoy your favorite foods: Most of us love spicy foods but it’s not possible to savor them every day. National Hot Heads Chili Day offers the perfect opportunity to indulge in your favorite spicy food.

Try a new cuisine: If you don't have an adventurous palate, today is the best day to rectify that. Sample spicy foods from India, Thailand, the Philippines, and the Caribbean.

A day to be adventurous: If you are an adventurous foodie, then National Hot Heads Chili Day invites you to taste some of the hottest and steamiest chilies from the world over. Go on a gastronomic adventure today!

Source

#Green Chile Cheeseburger #Chili Cheese Fries #Chili Burger #Green Chili Stew #Chicken Hunan Kung Pao #Eric's Burger #Passionfruit Chili Margarita #National Hot Heads Chili Day #travel #original photography #vacation #USA #Canada #Sweden #restaurant #street food #NationalHotHeadsChiliDay #17 January

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crimeboys · 6 months

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🤩 I wanna hear chommhyy

[from document titled “tea”]

Phil hardly notices Tommy for a moment, patting his pockets and muttering something about Gapples, but he lifts his head just enough to take sight of Tommy. There’s a bit of shock, then a smile as warm as the hearth in Technoblade’s cabin. Phil was always good with smiles, even if sometimes they were laid with gunpowder. Tommy almost finds comfort in that, though. Wilbur’s are too.

Before Phil can get a word in, Tommy begins a tirade of, “Phil, I am so fucking cold. Why do you live in a tundra? To spite me? Because you hate war veterans? Or just orphans? What else do you hate, you heartless prick?”

Phil’s smile becomes just a bit weary. “You here to visit?”

“Maybe,” he answers with a shrug. He still sort of wants to run. To curb that impulse, Tommy replaces it with another. He pushes past Phil, letting himself into the little cabin. He can’t run away from Phil. Not when Phil’s the only fucker in the world who can answer the question Tommy hardly wants to ask but desperately needs to know the answer to. Did Wilbur trick me again?

As Tommy sifts through Phil’s chests, he ignores Phil’s squawk of indignance to ask, “You got bread?” He looks back and Phil has his hands on his hips and is leveling Tommy with that annoying mad dad stare Tommy got more than e-fucking-nough of from Wilbur during L’manburg. Just on the silly side of desperate, Tommy exclaims, “I’m starving, Phil, practically dead already! Walking corpse shambling into your home, begging for a measly piece of bread.” There’s even some truth to it… It’s mostly truth, actually, now that he takes a look at his inventory. He’s got no food, three hearts, and about five bars of hunger. With a nervous laugh, he says, “Maybe even toss half a stack my way, hm? Old pals and all.”

Phil simply sighs. He looks outside of his open door with a frown. That won’t do. Loudly, Tommy complains, “Oh, I’m Phil, and I hate starving orphans. I let them freeze and starve to death and force them to fend for themselves because I’m so cruel and old and not poggers, and if I had it my way every child in the world would be starving to death because that’s just the kind of guy I-”

“Fucks sake, fine!” Phil interrupts with an incredulous laugh. He closes the door of his cabin and tosses his bag to the ground. “I’ll make you some bread, Tommy.”

“Oh Phil you are so kind. So benevolent. I don’t know why they say such mean things about you, you beautiful, generous man.”

“Oh, shut,” Phil instructs, wagging a hand toward the seat at his table. “Sit down, it’ll just be a minute. Bread and tea?”

Quickly, Tommy semi-politely insists, “Oh, uh, just bread’ll be fine.” He takes his place at the table and prays on every Prime he has that Phil does not make tea.

“You’re cold, tea will help,” Phil insists as he takes the kettle out. Dread Tommy has not felt since he was 12 and Wilbur was teaching him to inconspicuously poor out scalding hot tea fills him now.

“Phil, I worry for my insides. Your tea is not, um… Well, good? It’s very bad, actually, and I worry what kind of biohazard will make its way through my body. Should be the next fucker we toss in prison for that alone.” The joke falls flat to Tommy’s ears. It makes him feel a bit ill, actually. Phil just rolls his eyes and flicks warm water at Tommy.

“Better to die of a biohazard than freeze to death.”

“I disagree, simply.” But before Tommy can fight for his life a second more, Phil tosses him a loaf of bread. Tommy fumbles to catch it with his hands, but luckily his teeth are more than ready. With crumbs falling out of his mouth, Tommy says, “Philza Minecraft, you truly are the only man.” Phil just shakes his head and continues with his tea.

#asks #clings #sorry this is longer than it should be erm #had a hard time choosing which tommy scene to put i have so many i love

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peninkwrites · 2 years

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Part I: The First Night - ch 1 of 9

It is Tubbo's 18th birthday. Tommy and Quackity try to gauge what's wrong.

[CW: alcohol abuse/implied abusive relationships and mild objectification bc Schlatt. blech.]

Mafia AU masterpost

crossposted to ao3

Ch 2 - Ponk

Ch 3 - Sapnap

Ch 4 - Tubbo

Ch 5 - Ponk

Ch 6 - Wilbur

Ch 7 - Tubbo

Ch 8 - Ponk

Ch 9 - Antfrost

~ Tubbo ~

On the morning of Tubbo’s eighteenth birthday, there is no fanfare or celebration or anything to indicate something of significance happening that day. There is only quiet. Tubbo knows the far noisier resident of the house won’t be awake for many hours more. Tubbo is awake early for a reason. It’s hard to find such peace at any other hour. It’s just the right time where there is neither gruff shouting nor a putrid, wet cough echoing down the halls. The thick, maroon curtains are drawn in the upper landing, a preventative measure for a miserable, powerful bastard who will be awake in a few hours with a hangover. The house is dark enough that its gaudy fixtures of gold and furs aren’t quite so blinding, but Tubbo knows it well. He treads lightly, adjusting his jacket, and allowing the familiar weight of a pistol secured in a chest holster to settle. Technically, he shouldn’t be going out without a guard. The son of a mob boss should know better.

Although, no one really knows what Schlatt’s son looks like. A short boy with a face far too kind and a voice too soft isn’t something Manberg promotes. Tubbo doesn’t have to be this way, to be kind and soft, to not be a threat. Tubbo has been calculating his steps since the moment he could walk. Eventually that will serve him well. He knows it will soon enough.

Tubbo is outside of the house and on the streets of the East District for maybe a minute, morning commuters heading off to far more mundane jobs pay him no mind, actively avoiding him in fact, and then the quiet of the morning is shattered.

“Where are you going, bee boy?”

Tubbo doesn’t jump when Tommy comes bounding out of the nearest alleyway and knocks shoulders with him, expecting it by now. They make quite the pair, Tubbo in an ill fitting and far too expensive suit, jacket too big for a reason, and Tommy, scruffy from head to toe, wearing the same dusty, patched up jacket over the same faded red and white shirt, a blue sweater that’s more holes than wool tied around his waist, as he always does. His jacket is made of pockets, sewn into the lining and hidden up his sleeve, containing his precious few belongings, his shoes are an old pair of Ranboo’s, which he only accepted after his last pair got so ratty they weren’t good for running anymore.

“Dues,” Tubbo says shortly.

“Aw, already doing chores for dear old dad?” Tommy mocks. “Bit early, isn’t it? Don’t tell me the old fuck is awake before noon.”

“He’s not. Just… wanted to get it done early, that’s all,” Tubbo shrugs.

“Oh, why? Is there something important going on today?” Tommy plays dumb.

“What makes you say that?” Tubbo teases back.

Tommy almost tackles him in a side hug, arm around his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Tubbso! You’re old as shit now, aren’t you!” Tommy grins.

“Yeah, respect your elders,” Tubbo rolled his eyes, unable to bite back a smile.

“We’re going to Niki’s tonight, right? We’ve got to– I’ll make peace with Jack for the night, you see if you can bully Big Q into getting out of the office for a few hours, and we’ll both make Ranboo have a little fun with us too!” Tommy says excitedly, walking along the curb, tilting back and forth and just barely managing to keep his balance. “And don’t worry, I got you a present! Just gonna wait to give it to you tonight, ay?”

“You didn’t– You shouldn’t have gotten me anything, Tommy. Should’ve pawned it like you usually do,” Tubbo says quickly.

“Don’t be such a worrier! It’s nothing fancy,” Tommy waves him off.

“You give me more than enough reason to worry.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy scoffs. “So, where’re we going first? You’ve got, what, that fancy restaurant on 11th, those bitchy tailors off Broad Street– Hey, is that animal hospital still putting up a fuss?”

“I think they moved locations. Dunno what they’re hoping for. Unless they can afford something West of the river they’re just moving into Badlands,” Tubbo keeps his hands buried in his pockets, not looking where he’s going, but the other pedestrians avoid him. They may not know who he is, but they know what he’s a part of and that’s enough that they keep their distance. Tubbo could have taken a car. Again, that would’ve been the correct thing to do. Have a heavily armed driver to back him up, but he’d rather just walk with Tommy.

The streets aren’t really shabby, just older, less upkeep. Tubbo’s house is in the nicer part of the East side of the river, a fancy old townhouse among aging elites too stubborn to move across the river.

“Aw, it was fun goin’ there. Get to see all the pets,” Tommy pouts.

“Yeah, you had fun,” Tubbo says irritably. “It’s not work for you.”

“Aw, come on, they all love you, Tubso! Even if you’re there to rob ‘em blind for your old man,” Tommy tries to joke.

“Quit calling him my old man,” Tubbo snaps. “And they– They don’t love me, they pity me. There’s a difference.”

Tommy’s bravado falters. “Sorry, man. I didn’t think about it. I’ll stop saying that shit,” he says quickly. “Bit testy today, are we? It’s gonna be a good day! You get this out of the way, you can help me do some jobs. You’re not as good as Eryn, sure, but you’ll do.”

“How is he?”

“Fine,” Tommy shrugs. “Getting fitter now. Guess having three meals a day and a paycheck and shit does that for you. Knows all sorts of special Badlands shit.”

“Does he?” Tubbo can’t resist some curiosity.

“Tubbo,” Tommy gives him a look. “Even if he told me, I wouldn’t tell you. That gets back to the wrong people, Eryn pays for it.”

“Right, sorry. You know I wouldn’t tell him anything,” Tubbo’s disgust is as effective as saying his name.

“Yeah, yeah I know. But yeah, Eryn seems to be doing okay. Badlands, they don’t seem too bad. Treating him fair and all that. And he’s not really doing much different to what we used to do. Just picking different pockets, hiding out in different alleyways, following a different crowd,” Tommy shrugs. “Still see him sometimes. Won’t talk to me if he’s on a job, though,” Tommy gets gloomier at this.

“Still dunno why he didn’t come to me for a job, if that’s something he wanted,” Tubbo frowns.

“No offense, but your d– But Schlatt doesn’t really treat his employees all that great,” Tommy says pointedly. “But it sounds like the Badlands guys are sort of like how the Empire was? From what Niki and Ranboo have said. Like, they got rules about how they treat kids n’ shit. Child labour laws but for organized crime I guess.”

“Yeah. Badlands are good to their own at least,” Tubbo does his best to not think about how if Eryn let slip he had a mutual friend with the son of the Badland’s greatest rival, they’d both be in deep shit. Eryn dead or a traitor and Tubbo a hostage. For all the occasional talk of Tubbo taking over the family business, he doesn’t know if Schlatt would go to any lengths at all to save him, let alone the steep demands the Badlands would make.

Their first stop isn’t even open yet, through the glass Tubbo sees the wait staff bussing tables, a haggard looking host quickly coming to the door at the sight of him.

“Could you please come to the back door like we asked? You scare away our patrons,” he fusses, quickly ushering them both inside, crinkling his nose at the sight of Tommy, who is probably the filthiest thing that’s been allowed across their threshold in living memory.

“We’ll go through whatever door we’d like, actually,” Tubbo says tersely. If these people are going to tolerate his presence because of his affiliations they could at least carry an ounce of respect.

“Right, yes. Wait here,” the man seems unimpressed, going through the swinging doors into the back office.

“How much d’you suppose it costs going to a swanky place like this?” Tommy leans against one of the white table cloths, a server behind him making a noise like a wounded animal, but he doesn’t try to stop him with Tubbo there.

“Too much,” Tubbo says. “This is the sort of place you’d think could afford to flee across the river.”

“Yeah, unless it’s all just looks and the food is shit. Guess it doesn’t matter much. Rich people don’t care if it tastes shit, right?”

The host returns from the back with a wad of bills, handing them to Tubbo, looking like he wants nothing more than to shove them both out the door.

Tubbo skims through the bills. He sighs. “It’s 450.”

“No– No it’s 400.”

“Yes, it’s 400 normally. But you were short last time and I covered you. I can’t do it again.”

The man’s expression turns to that same annoying level of pity. “Right, of course. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble– I’ll just… I’ll just tell folks we can’t break anything bigger than a 20.”

“I don’t care,” Tubbo scowls. He doesn’t need the protection of fucking civilians. Do they not realize he’s getting this money to protect them, not him? Schlatt doesn’t care who’s to blame if they come up short, it’s just whoever is in his reach and Tubbo knows not to be. Schlatt goes from weak and bedridden to swinging at anything that moves on a whim. The end result would be the same. The restaurant, if they’re lucky, ends up a little smashed with an empty safe, and if they’re not, well. The fire department knows on this side of the river their job is to protect the surrounding buildings. The one being burned can’t be saved.

The host goes to the till up front, returning with the rest of the cash.

“Right, see you next time, then,” Tubbo gives a curt nod, folding the money carefully and putting in the inner pocket of his jacket. “Come on, Tommy.”

Tommy follows him out, giving the wait staff a sarcastic salute as the door slams behind him.

“You seem more miserable than usual for Dues-day. Get it? Dues-day? Like Tuesday- I mean, would’ve been funnier if it actually was Tuesday, but it’s your birthday, man! Lighten up!”

“You know I hate collecting dues, Tommy. Birthday doesn’t cancel that out.”

Tommy falters, Tubbo’s irritability more pronounced than usual, he persists, “I mean, we get to go see Niki and Ranboo! That’s something.”

“Yeah. I get to take money from her. Literally the worst social call ever,” Tubbo says gloomily.

“Tubbo, you’re not allowed to complain on your birthday.”

“Actually, I’d say this is the one day I most definitely do get to complain.”

“Fine, fine. You can whine as much as you want, until we go to Niki’s. Then you’ve got to be the happiest little birthday boy in the world, ay?” Tommy gives him a look, expecting a reply.

Tubbo looks unamused. “Fine, until then I very much will keep complaining.”

Tubbo prefers it when the people he bothers get irritated or snarky with him. It’s far better than when it’s some pitiful civilian who expects Tubbo to pull a gun on them if they take too long opening the register. Regardless, having extorted half the small businesses in the district, Tubbo can proceed to his last destination.

The bakery is quaint, a faded pink wooden sign reading City Bakery and a carefully maintained flowerbox outside of the display window, Tubbo and Tommy both make a note of the loaf at the top. It’s rye today. The bell rings as they enter, a young blonde woman stands behind the counter. She looks tiny next to her companion, thin as he is tall, a black and white mask which matches his checked apron.

“Hey, Tubbo! Hey, Tommy!” Ranboo greets the two of them, crouching down to put fresh bagels in the glass case along the counter.

“Happy Birthday, Tubbo!” Niki is instantly delighted by the sight of him. “One second– One second, I’ll be right back!” She heads quickly back into the kitchens.

“Uh, hello to you too,” Tommy grumbles without any bite.

“Oh– Yeah, happy birthday, man!” Ranboo says. “Eighteen. That means Niki will actually serve you.”

“And so she shall! You gonna join us, Ranboo? Have a little fun for a change?” Tommy leans against the glass case, smudging it.

“Yeah, yeah fine, if Niki doesn't need me,” Ranboo concedes reluctantly.

“I don’t!” Niki says cheerfully. “I just need you to spend some time with your friends, okay, Ranboo?” She gives her younger brother a pointed look. Niki has something behind her back. She quickly comes out from behind the counter, revealing a large cake with green frosting textured to look like grass, candied bees and beautifully iced flowers dot the sides, swirling white letters read Happy 18th Birthday, Tubbo!

“Niki, you really shouldn’t have,” Tubbo is almost flustered by her kindness. He doesn’t know what to do with this group, so happy for him and happy to have him.

“Ranboo did the icing! Doesn’t it look great?” Niki gushes. Ranboo’s ears are tinged red with embarrassment from his sister’s praise, just as his cheeks are likely flushed behind his mask. “Don’t look so surprised, Tubbo. Did you think we wouldn’t do something? I wanted to do something nice! It’s a big day. I was thinking we could have it tonight? With everyone? Oh, maybe I should’ve waited to show you, but we both were so excited about it!” Niki places it carefully back on the counter, Ranboo taking it and returning it to the back room.

“Well, in that case, thank you, Niki. I appreciate it,” Tubbo’s gloom has been beaten away. His suit jacket feels lighter on his shoulders and the gun underneath his arm doesn’t dig in so deep.

“You drink for free tonight, okay? As long as you don’t overdo it,” Niki teases.

Tubbo winces. “Dunno if I really want to drink… at all, you know?”

“It’s your eighteenth, man! You should at least have one drink,” Tommy admonishes him.

“He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, Tommy,” Niki scolds him. “If you want, Tubbo, I can mix you a drink with very little alcohol in it, just for the spirit of the thing, you know?”

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” Tubbo nods quickly.

Ranboo returns. “And I grabbed this while I was back there– Hope that was okay, Niki?” Ranboo offers Tubbo a roll of cash, glancing at his sister to make sure she agreed.

Tubbo’s ease fades in an instant. “Oh. Right.”

Niki can see the shame written in his stony expression. “Tubbo, we’re doing fine. Every week we go through this. It’s okay,” she’s too gentle.

“He wants–” Tubbo clears his throat, trying to cover the tension in his voice. “He wants part of your shipment again too. The whiskey. And the rum.”

Niki has a moment of weariness she’s quick to mask. “We don’t have a new shipment yet.”

Tubbo takes a deep breath. This is far more important to Schlatt than the money, but he refuses to let it panic him. “Well, he’ll be wanting some anyway. If you– If you can’t, I don’t know what– I mean, I mean maybe he’d take a substitution or something. I don’t– Maybe–”

“No, no I’ll make it work, Tubbo. We’ll just… just have a limited bar for the rest of the month. Or, I dunno. Me and Puffy can try and work something out. I can have Ranboo deliver it later,” Niki is quick to reassure him. “Hey, it’s better than him coming to The City himself, right?”

“Fuck– That’d be a fucking nightmare,” Tommy blusters, shaking his head.

“That’s true,” Tubbo agrees. “D’you know if Jack can make it tonight?”

“Yes! He’ll be here. Which means…” Niki gives Tommy a look.

“Hey, I’ll mind my business if he minds his!” Tommy feigns innocence.

“Actually, you minding his business seems to the root of your conflict,” Ranboo points out.

Tommy grins, looking almost wistful. “Yeah, yeah it is. Did you know it’s illegal to jam the ladder up to a fire escape? Oh, Jack Manifold, that poor, bald, miserable bastard legally can’t stop me…”

“Y’know, breaking into hotel rooms is illegal too, Tommy,” Ranboo points out.

“Yeah, but I’m a man outside the fuckin’ law. Not like that bluenose bitch.”

“Right, because our plans for the evening are nothing if not law abiding,” Tubbo nods sagely, Tommy snorting a laugh and giving Tubbo an approving nod.

“And you’re gonna get Big Q to break down and come, right?” Tommy asks.

“I said I’d try.”

“Come on, he’s not allowed to say no to you on your birthday.”

Tubbo doesn’t know how to explain to Tommy that Quackity’s availability is not up to him, but to Schlatt. The fact that as of late Schlatt has all but forgotten Tubbo exists is the only reason he’s confident he’ll be able to attend his own birthday celebration.

Tubbo manages to dodge returning home for a few more hours, helping Tommy distract lost tourists long enough for him to empty a few wallets, but regardless, he has a full pocket of cash to return home. Tubbo hates parting from Tommy, watching his friend whistling along, meticulously going over the money he’d gathered that day while knowing he’s about to give up far more to a man who needs it far less.

Still, if he doesn’t show up soon, Tubbo might suddenly be on his dad’s– on Schlatt’s radar again.

The house is awake on his return, Schlatt’s gruff and demanding voice pierces the hallway, Tubbo recognizing Quackity’s irritated tone in reply.

“Shut the fuck up– Don’t act like you know how this is gonna go– You think– You think I can’t get that fucking dead brained Judge in my pocket? You’re a fucking idiot, sweetheart, come on, don’t give me that look, as always I know best, eh? Isn’t that right? When’d you forget your place, huh? Maybe you should stop trying to be a piece of shit lawyer and just go back to being a pretty face, how about that? You know you were more attractive before you started pretending like you have a fucking brain!” Schlatt shouts from his office, Quackity storms out.

“Fine, fine! I’m done– Just don’t fucking expect me to talk your way out of this mess!” With practiced precision, Quackity ducks as a glass bottle flies over his head and shatters against the wall. “Your aim is getting fucking worse!” Quackity snarls before slamming the door shut behind him. He stops, surprised to see Tubbo in front of him. “Oh. Hey, Tubbo– Sorry, was in a…” Quackity smirks grimly, “work meeting, you know how it is. And hey, happy birthday! I didn’t forget, y’know. Sorry I don’t have a… a card or some shit, Schlatt’s been running me ragged,” Quackity rolls his eyes. A more somber tone crosses his gaze for a moment. “He’s gonna get us all fucking killed…”

Tubbo hopes his dread isn’t visible on his face. “Badlands?”

“Yeah, yeah, Badlands, Puffy’s wanted his head on a pike for years now and every fucking dirty cop– Every fucking clean cop if we’re pretending those even fucking exist– half the loan sharks in the city wouldn’t mind ringing his neck and honestly I’m about to,” Quackity sighs. He looks tired. “You still lying low, right Tubbo? No one knows..?”

“Far as anyone knows, I’m just one of Manberg’s little goons. No one knows what Schlatt’s weak, hidden little son looks like, promise,” Tubbo says quickly. “No one outside the Secret City, I suppose.”

Quackity seems relieved. Plenty of threats had been made on Tubbo’s life as well as Schlatt’s as of late. “Good, good. This would be a lot easier if people didn’t know that monster had a kid in the first place, but, staying anonymous is good enough, I guess.”

“Speaking of Secret City– We’re going there tonight for, you know, to celebrate, do you think you could…” Tubbo grows almost embarrassed. He and Quackity are friends of a kind, even if their interactions are usually a mutually understood strategy for dodging Schlatt’s malice. It feels like trying to invite the cool older kid at school a birthday party. “I get it if you can’t get away, if Schlatt needs you or–”

“Fuck Schlatt,” Quackity scoffs. They both ignore that Quackity glances back to the closed office door, just in case. “I’m not his fucking lap dog. I’m there, man. You know I am.”

“I know you’re not, Big Q, I know,” Tubbo says quickly. He hesitates. “I mean, how bad has he been lately? He’s still calling you…”

“What, sweetheart, sugar muffin, pumpkin?” Quackity lists each word like it’s something vulgar, lip curled in disgust. “Yeah. A lot less uh… pushy when it comes to personal space at least, might be ‘cause he’s staggering around so much more. Stayed in his office chair the whole time,” he glances to the glass shards on the floor. “Still not a bad throwing arm, though. But you know how it is,” Quackity shrugs. “Just gotta stay out of reach when he gets grabby, humor him when he says shit. Can’t flat out dump him if I don’t want to take a bullet between the eyes, but it’s basically just part of my job now, still playing along.” Quackity says it almost like a joke, but there’s a flicker of bitterness that breaks through. H’s quick to bury it under his usual swaggering calm. “What can I say, I can’t keep the guys off of me,” he grins. It’s a weak mask.

“I hate it,” Tubbo says.

“What?” Quackity laughs almost nervously, not expecting Tubbo to continue so sincerely. That isn’t how things go. They usually laugh it off and keep moving. Not today.

“The way he treats you,” every word radiates a fury that has been simmering a long time, Tubbo just keeping it from boiling over. “Like he can do whatever he wants with you! It’s like you fucking said, isn’t it? You literally cannot dump him– yeah, maybe back then you wanted this relationship or whatever, but now you’re fucking trapped, right?” Tubbo grows more heated, and maybe he starts to push too far, but he can’t help it. “And– And doesn’t it fucking bother you you’re closer to my age than his by a fucking mile? He doesn’t have an ounce of respect even though you’ve saved his ass more times than he could count–”

Quackity’s easygoing facade turns to something sharper. “I can look after myself. You don’t need to tell me what’s right and wrong here, I fucking know. I live with my own choices so don’t go acting like you have any idea what we’ve got going on. The good or the bad. Schlatt and I– we have a… a fucking understanding, alright? It wasn’t always like– it wasn’t–“ Quackity stops with a sigh. He doesn’t know how to defend his relationship with Schlatt any better than he knows why he wants to defend it at all. “That’s my business,” is what he settles on.

“Yeah, it is. And yeah, you are looking after yourself, that’s why you’re putting up with this shit, right? To fucking survive it? Waiting for him to find another way to get us killed?” Tubbo’s words come out a piercing whisper, everything he says is dangerous enough to kill them both. “A-And what about your watch guy, hm? He waits outside for you? Only waits around the corner because no one is supposed to see him? That guy? He cares about you and I’m guessing neither of you are a big fan of Schlatt still treating you like you’re his or some shit, wouldn’t you and Karl just want all of that to go away–?”

Quackity has Tubbo pressed to the wall, a hand over his mouth in an instant, fury mixed with genuine terror. “You don’t say his fucking name in here, you got that? Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarls.

Tubbo stares back, unfazed and unafraid. “I won’t do it again,” he says when Quackity finally pulls back. “Because I understand why you don’t want his name here.”

“What the hell has gotten into you, Tubbo?” Quackity just can’t wrap his head around this. Tubbo’s always so carefully contained, but today it seems like his long burning fuse is reaching its end.

Tubbo straightens his tie from where Quackity had shoved him. “Maybe I’m just tired of things being this way. I’ll see you tonight, if you still want to come.” Tubbo turns to leave, pausing only for another moment. “And here. Dues.” He shoves wads of cash into Quackity’s hands. “Ranboo will be by later with his supply too. Play your cards right, he’ll drink himself to death tonight and that’s all our problems handled, right?”

Quackity doesn’t have a retort as the young mob prince storms off.

#my writing #mafia au #/roleplay #I have decided to post this fic to tumblr too but I will be using my queue so it's not overwhelming #links to other chapters will be added as I go #c!Tubbo #Tubbo #c!tommy #tommyinnit #c!quackity #quackity

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teethkid67 · 2 years

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your ask button is so threatening

anywyas. blcok party. been on the brain I’ve got to ask about tubbo and the manburg house. what is he doing in there i want to shake him around like a tin can full of beans listen to him rattle

IS IT ACTUALLY THREATENING I DONT MEAN FOR IT TO BE .....

this is what havok said btw . i think its accurate . bptubbo is like oobleck to me . you squeeze him and he hardens and then hes liquid and he melts

whats he doing in there ??? having the worst fucking time of his entire life bro my man is living in misery . havok said something about schlatt and q basically emptying out the house and starting fresh and i feel like that tracks . this house you basically grew up in (? more abt that later) and all of the Traces of these two dudes youve known and lived with being thrown out without any care . repainting walls and trashing furniture . wilburs bedroom?office getting a complete overhaul not even bothering to look through it . dragging the desk out through the front door leaving scratches on the hardwood cause its full of Paperwork and knicknacks that they dont look through . all of it on the curb . this house that is so arguably small and cramped and horrible suddenly way too spacious and WAY too clean (q cleans religiously the place is basically spotless , went from being the relative mess of two teenagers one manchild and one Adult guy to being the perfect clean of someone who doesnt know what to do with himself) . tubbo is having a terrible time

digging through the "trash" (everything from the house) in the middle of the night to take anything useful to tommy and wil . manuscripts and fucking taxes and books and letters . smuggling shit in the middle of the night so that his friends can literally stay alive . pawing through trash bags full of clothes to save favorite sweaters and jeans and coats . staying up late and dragging himself out to the woods and coming home before the sun rises. cant sleep bc hes too busy burying his head in couch cushions to drown out the domestic disputes . stealing money as discreetly as possible and smuggling cans of beans and soup and leftovers out through the back door when everyones asleep . new paint and old scratches . the same gallon of milk in the fridge the next morning . tommys shampoo still in the shower . i dont know . how can you be so lonely and so stuck at the same time . hell dimension

tubbos execution is really fucked up they zip tie his wrist to a trellis at the shed and hit him with an actual firework and he dies out there all alone . and then the next morning he wakes up with someones (qs?) suit jacket thrown over his face. and he runs back to the miserable fucking woods with a barely-noticeable knick in his nose and dried blood all over his face and blue fingers . and then he chills with tommy until the end of time

little empty house

#block party #things i make #asks #hi maemae ily lol #death

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mckennaallred · 2 years

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What Are The Advantages And Disadvantages Of Forex Options?

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cardenasmcfarland63 · 2 years

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Is The Chanel Chain Belt Definitely Value The Funding

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mohrwilkins2 · 2 years

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Is The Chanel Chain Belt Well Value The Funding

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