#and Tubbo's bones ache like they always do in the cold

[1wn8ure]

_Beloved family snow days where Michael is practically spherical with how many layers they've got him wrapped in and Ranboo is wearing water-protection enchanted armor made by Tubbo himself and they have a full-on snowball battle and for once growing up on a battlefield just means Tubbo can absolutely *pelt* his husband with the biggest snowball known to man and get away unscathed

#and Tubbo's bones ache like they always do in the cold #and Ranboo's skin still stings and will need ointment later #but it's okay because Michael is laughing and they're all laughing and maybe the pain doesn't have to be the most important thing anymore #beeduo #dsmp #cbeeduo #probably.incorrect.theories

[fghniki]

Katabasis

He feels something burning in his chest — his heart? Is he to give Her his heart? But Ranboo can’t make it alone. Ranboo won’t make it alone. And as the panic starts to rise, Tubbo suddenly realizes what is actually burning. It’s not his heart — it’s his ring. (Tubbo will do anything to get his husband back. Or at least he thinks he will.) CW: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gore. Also available on Ao3.

They meet at dawn. The cabins at the commune are silent and dark, and the forest next to them is basking in golden light. Philza is dressed in his usual clothes, but he looks more serious, and for a second Tubbo thinks the man has a dark veil over his face.

“There is always a price,” Philza warns him, handing the compass.

Is it why it didn’t work with Wilbur? Tubbo doesn’t ask, and takes it. And then he takes the boots — leather, but heavy and enchanted with sorts of symbols he’s never seen before.

Finally, Philza gives him the key. It’s the simplest silver key Tubbo has ever seen — but as he brushes his fingers against it he can feel his skin tingling with something else.

A door appears, then — it’s just in front of the forest, and Philza looks at Tubbo for the last time: “Don’t look back.”

Tubbo nods, and then turns the key. The door opens with a creek, and he steps through.

Behind it there are woods.

A seemingly endless stretch of same spruce trees, all covered in ash. Walking through them feels like walking through a graveyard, but Tubbo doesn’t look back, forces himself to only face forwards — even as the sky above him turns deep red and there is a nagging feeling that someone’s following in his steps, right behind him, breathing into his neck, their dress shuffling.

Tubbo doesn’t mind that, though. He walks forward.

There is a hill, of course. Tubbo walks up and doesn’t flinch even when he realizes that it was in fact a mountain and that there are dead people lying on his track: barely rotten, cold, like they’ve been left here because no one was brave enough to come up to get them. (Tubbo touches a branch of one of the leafless small trees, once — it burns like a stove, and when he looks at his hand again, he finds that he can see bone where the burn was supposed to be. It doesn’t hurt, though — so he continues walking.)

There is a river, of course. Tubbo walks into it with no hesitation, and forces himself not to think too hard about how water splashes around his boots, how it sounds hungry and devious and how sweet his flesh must be. (A couple of splashes reach his legs and burn through his pants. He doesn’t need to look down to know what he’ll find there.)

Then there’s a sea. Tubbo first considers walking straight into it, but water hisses, and he can’t see a single sign of life inside; so he takes out his compass instead. It points to his left.

The boat is heavy and Tubbo’s arms ache by the time he manages to push it into the water; they ache even more after he starts rowing. He bites away at the exhaustion and keeps on going, finding that he’s unafraid of the big, shark-like shadows beneath the surface.

His rows break at what Tubbo knows is halfway to where he is going. He watches as they go underwater, and then takes a look at his burned leg. He can see his kneebone, and way too much below it. He takes out a fibula and, after observing his arm, decides that an ulna will work just as well. (Getting his own bones out is painful, of course, and his body makes those disgusting sounds that he’ll hear in his nightmares; but he’s learnt to deal with discomfort a long time ago, and he knows it won’t hurt after he’s done.)

He rows, then.

Ranboo’s sitting on a small island — so small it seems like they wouldn’t be able to stand up or spread their legs even a little. They don’t seem to hear his rowing, and only react to him once he touches their shoulder.

“Hey.”

He tries to smile reassuringly, and Ranboo tries to mimic his smile back at him, and it looks very cute and Tubbo feels like laughing, almost. He helps Ranboo get into the boat, and now they’re sitting in front of him, not quite dead, not quite alive.

He rows, then.

They hit the shore with a soft thump, and Tubbo and Ranboo get out. Tubbo grips Ranboo’s half-rotten hand, hard, and goes forward. Ranboo goes behind him, not trying to pull out but not cooperating either, walking on what seems to be pure impulse. The shuffle of fabric behind Tubbo is back.

There is a river, of course. This one’s dark and muddy and Tubbo can’t see his reflection and is for a moment worried that Ranboo might not make it, but there’s no bridge and as they walk through water there seems to be no signs of distress from Ranboo — not that Tubbo can check, of course. There’s still weight on his hand, and it calms him just enough to not turn around.

There is a hill, of course. A mountain. This one is bare, and the wind is harsh and hot and Tubbo finds his chest burning. He realizes that whoever was walking along with them is now gone, and when he raises his head he can see a face in the sky.

“There is always a price,” She says, and he almost falls over from a new gust of wind, and suddenly something hurts right where his heart is supposed to be—

Tubbo freezes.

He feels something burning in his chest — his heart? Is he to give Her his heart? But Ranboo can’t make it alone. Ranboo won’t make it alone. And as the panic starts to rise, Tubbo suddenly realizes what is actually burning. It’s not his heart — it’s his ring.

He makes a decision in half a second. He grabs his dagger and cuts the string his ring was tied to and lets it fall to the ground.

And then everything whirls around him, and they’re on the top, with Tubbo slightly trembling in the wind. The sky is clear now, a shade of the lightest blue he’s ever seen, and there are scales in front of him, with a bone key on one side and nothing on the other.

Tubbo takes out his bones and places them on the spare scale pan; it goes down so slightly. Tubbo then realizes that the ring is lying at his feet, and puts it down as well — and parts of him outweigh the key.

He takes it, and there’s a door in front of him. It stands in the middle of the field, and Tubbo knows exactly where it leads. He slides the key and turns it with a little click; the door opens.

She is standing behind it. She looks almost human now: a middle-aged woman with a face hidden behind a black veil. Tubbo knows what he should do now, but instead he says, “You said there is always a price.”

“There is”, She replies, sad and mournful. Tubbo is silent for a while, and then he walks through the door…

…and then he’s falling through and into the snow with his fucking face.

Ouch.

He snorts, coughing the snow out of his mouth, and raises himself on his elbows. His neck feels much lighter, and he realizes that the compass is gone — and so are the boots. His arm and leg seem alright, though he has a nagging suspicion that if he searches under clothes, he’ll find new scars. He looks in front of him — and, of course, there’s Techno’s cabin, windows lit up with warm and cozy light.

There’s a quiet groan from behind him, and Tubbo jerks around. Ranboo is there — in ragged clothes, with their cheek scars even deeper than before — but alive, alive and breathing.

“You came for me,” they say.

They reach out to hold their hands in Tubbo’s, and he suddenly realizes that they’re clawed and cold and that Tubbo was so, so tired— and that there is nothing in Ranboo’s face but their usual awkwardness, and that Tubbo finds it annoying.

He gently pulls his hands out and stuffs them into his jacket’s pockets. “Well, Michael needs two dads, right?” he smiles.

Ranboo looks at his chest, at where his ring was supposed to be. It’s not there, of course.

They nod nonetheless.

#fanfic #fanfiction #mcyt #dream smp #dsmp #tubbo #ranboo #misstrixtin #beeduo #dsmpshipping #fgh writing #i finished this one all the way back in 2023 but then forgor to post 💀 #so here we go #dsmp coda

[stellocchia]

I'm just saying that we can totally make post revival Tommy (especially in snowchester aus) an old woman spiritually.

Wanna see but your hands shake like a bitch? Call over Michael so he can use his steady hands to thread the needle.

"When I was your age I was living on my own and independent" "Tommy, at Michael's age you were a street orphan" "Never said that was a good thing"

"it's gonna snow. I feel it in my bones"

Tubbo opens one of those tin cookie boxes to get a lil snack and it's just buttons.

Tommy will stop Ranboo as he's leaving the house for a syndicate meeting, just to wrap a knitted scarf around his neck and put a knitted hat on his head because it's way too cold to go out like that. "Tommy, I'm an enderman. We kinda don't get hot or cold." "Well if temperature doesn't matter then a few more layers won't kill you either"

Tubbo will eat 3 big slices of a cake Tommy made, then when he declines a fourth piece Tommy will be like "oh, you didn't like it?" "No Tommy if I didn't like it I wouldn't have eaten 3 slices already" "good good" *Tommy puts another slice on his plate*

You know all those berry bushes? Tommy will pick a few berries and sprinkle some vanilla sugar on top of them for Michael as a lil treat.

*sees Michael* "oh what a handsome lil lad"

*sees Fundy* "oh! You've grown so much!" "Tommy I've been fully grown for years-"

He always has a piece of candy on him

He will absolutely make way too much food every single time. Ranboo brings some of the leftovers with him to syndicate meetings.

I love this. This gives me life.

Also, let me add a few:

Tommy spends at least a few hours a day complaining about his various aches and pains. Tubbo really wishes he wouldn't do that while working in his mine and making them actively worse, but it's Tommy we're talking about here.

If my grandma taught me anything is that at a certain age you lose all diplomacy. Tommy didn't have much of that to begin with, and revival punched the last few drops of it out of him. Tubbo: "Now, Michael, remember to be careful with other people's builds, your uncle was exiled once for messing with one" Tommy: "That's bullshit, I was exiled because my stalker had more power than he should have and it shows, fuck you"

Listen to the Sunday Prime sermons at maximum volume because his hearing got f*cked over by all the tnt. You can hear it even from outside the mansion.

"Today is gonna rain, the air is all humid, I can feel it my throat" "It's completely sunny outside Tommy" (it starts raining an hour later)

Tommy sees literally any of his friends with no food in their hands: "You're so skinny, here, I got you a little snack, eat up".

Generally hands everyone food constantly because he has struggled with malnutrition for a long ass time and he's gonna make damn sure that none of his friends ever go through that.

Teaches Michael, Fundy, and Yogurt how to knit over some tea and war stories.

#ladycatland ask #dream smp headcanons #tommyinnit #long post

[dr3amofagame]

i think that although the theories/aus of puffy's son dream and wil's brother dream are interesting to think about, especially the implications, the (probably) canon statement that he really has no family to me hits the hardest. because it's just dream, you know. his friends hate him, he has none (p relatable), but i can't really imagine,, both not having friends and not having a family. that's kind of what keeps a lot of us sane and okay ( - quill anon (same anon from the c!tubbo c!wil ask) )

ouch quill anon ,, this ask Hurt. it’s true - usually, it’s our family and friends that keep us going, that are the ones that we fight for and live for and love for. c!dream’s “family” was his reasoning behind ,, a lot of the stuff he did, good or bad, and even now you can hear his desperation in getting someone, anyone to visit sometimes, in wanting to know how people are doing outside the cell. 

at the same time, he’s a character very much defined by his solitude, by his isolation, by all of the time he has spent,, alone. by the alliances that had been broken, betrayed, forgotten. by how- at the end of the day - he sits for hours on end in an obsidian box with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him. it’s awfully ,, sad, despite everything he’s done. through it all, he’s alone. he survives the horrors of the vault (until this current arc) alone. nobody’s there to hear his thoughts. nobody knows his mindset, or feelings, or wants, or anything that really makes him human. for someone so driven by people, he spends so much time completely isolated - and it’s. honestly really, really tragic. 

anyway, this is a sad little drabble set pre-roommates arc abt c!dream in the prison, alone, bc he makes me Sad. 

tw: mentioned torture, abuse, violence, broken bones, blood, injuries, mental deterioration, isolation, panic attacks, self-deprecation, trauma, memory loss, death, contemplations of death, dark content, dark imagery

The blank book in his hand stares at him stubbornly, the stark white of the untouched pages nearly burning his eyes, used to the dark walls and floor of the cell. Dream’s hand shakes around his quill, ink splotches marring the pages from where his too-unsteady hand had let the nib brush against the paper and left freckles of black spots behind. He pulls his thumb back from the bottom left corner, hissing slightly when it leaves a dull red fingerprint behind, a smudge of half-dried blood further dirtying the paper.

He’d pulled out one of the books for some reason, probably on a whim, letting his hands run over the leather spine and along the thread of the binding absentmindedly after Quackity left for the day. He hadn’t touched them in a while - he liked to save them, at the beginning, just in case visitors came and he wanted to thank them or if he needed to communicate (though he hadn’t gone silent since Sapnap left, ‘cause Sapnap wanted him to talk and he doesn’t know why he still clings to that visit when it’s been months and he still hasn’t come back, but he promised that if Dream behaved he’d visit again and - it’s stupid to hope, but Dream can’t give up, not yet) and then he kept them because he would need them for the revive book and the Warden would confiscate them, anyway, so it was better not to get attached. Regardless, he’d stubbornly ignored the chest of books for a long time, let the remain closed and the clasp go unlatched as he wasted his days away watching the walls drip bright purple and pretend he didn’t miss his clock.

Until now.

He runs his fingers along the surface of the paper again, ignoring the red and black smudges they leave in their wakes, ruining the previously unblemished pages. The paper is smooth, bearing a very slight grain, and smells clean and woody - this book must’ve been a newer one the Warden replaced into the chest. He’d counted the pages a few times, front and back - there are fifty sheets, so a hundred pages to use as he sees fit, completely empty and untouched. The quill shakes in his hand, the tip pressed against the paper, unmoving.

What is there to write?

He’s forgotten why he pulled out the book in the first place, already - his head keeps getting fuzzier, memory impossibly fragmented and seemingly worsening with every passing day. He knows he had a reason because he’d been very determined about it, had spent what must have been hours dragging himself along the obsidian floor with a broken shinbone jutting out of his right leg and a dislocated left shoulder that he’d taken an extra few minutes to jam back in place by pressing it against the floor. Something had come into his head, probably in the middle of Quackity’s daily session, and he’d found himself desperate to write it down before he forgot despite the throbbing of his head and the pain in his chest making it impossible to take a full breath.

(He must have talked back, or acted defiant, or something - he doesn’t remember much besides the look Quackity had given him after, dark and angry and tight with rage. There had been a hand tangled in his hair, a blade jammed right up against his throat, curses and screams in his ears dying into a singular ringing echo as the blade was pushed deeper and deeper. It wasn’t until a few minutes later when Quackity realized that he’d gone too deep and that Dream was choking on his own blood - his memories shatter, and there’s nothing but more screaming, red and black and blood everywhere, warm against his skin, the sweet-sour taste of glistening melon on his tongue, a healing pot desperately stitching his skin together and bringing him back from the darkness that he’d swelled in the corners of his vision - mostly, he remembers everything going cold and numb and he’d realized, halfway into the Void, that he would never leave the Vault alive.)

His hands tighten on the book as he breathes a shallow, harsh breath through his teeth, because - oh. Oh. He looks back at the trembling white plume in his hand, at his shaking fingers clenched tightly near the end, and he swallows the thick, heavy feeling in his throat. Quackity had- and he had- and then-

Right.

He forces air into his lungs steadily, counting the seconds off in his head. He’d learned how to stave off panic attacks on his own ages ago, and the knowledge had come to full use in the Vault - the struggle to stay calm seems harder with every passing day, but he can’t exactly risk himself passing out every three seconds when he’s inevitably set off by the smell of blood or a twinge of pain or any of the million other triggers crammed into this tiny box that’s been the source of all of his torment for months. He keeps up the slow, steady breathing for another few minutes, just enough time to pull back the darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision, and looks back down at the blank paper.

It stares back at him, almost judgmental of his hesitancy. You opened me up, it seems to challenge him, why aren’t you writing? The quill still shakes in his hand. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop shaking again.

Dear, he begins, almost in defiance, proof that he Is Going To Write Something, thank you very much, he isn’t just going to chicken out and leave it a blank book (like you have before?) but the quill tip digs into the paper as he grinds to a sudden halt, the empty space next to the first word nearly taunting. He feels his mouth dry, heat rising behind his eyes - the book, silent and blank as ever, stays imprinted in his vision even as he squeezes them shut.

Dear, what a stupid, sentimental way to start a letter. He can’t even fool himself into thinking of it as a business venture, turn it into an elaborate plan to escape and address it to either Techno or Wilbur (who would never receive his message anyway), not without admitting his regard for the two edged past his pretense of professional interested and owed favors. He can hardly write it to Ranboo, not without compromising their already fragile alliance (if it even exists, anymore. The enderman hybrid had yet to visit for months - and sure, it was probably for the best, who knows how Quackity would react if he found out about the nature of their relationship, but that didn’t make it sting any less.)

In the back of his minds, name rise from where he’d kept them carefully buried despite his best efforts. Punz. Bad. Puffy. Sapnap. George. He shakes his head, trying to wave away them from his thoughts, but the effort is as fruitless as it has always been - he stares at the first word angrily, like it has betrayed him, and receives no response. The words are messy, shaking, his script overly looping and rounded like a child’s. He hates it, hates how cheery it looks, even on the bloodstained page - it looks like the beginning of a birthday card, or a perhaps a particularly dedicated Halloween party invite. Like he’s some sort of lovesick teen, writing letters to crushes that would never pay him a second glance. He laughed a little, without any real humor - minus the romance, that description isn’t all that far off.

Because- well. His memories might be shot to all hell, but he doubts he’ll ever forget the hatred on Sapnap’s face, a loaded crossbow pointed between his eyes, George’s expression set in disinterested apathy - “George, you can give the word.” Bad’s face, twisted in pity and resignation, voice carefully measured as he looks away and gestures at the cell, “you did do some pretty bad stuff to get put in here though, Dream,” the hidden “you deserve it” that he’d heard, just as clearly behind the words. Punz - “you should’ve paid me more” - jaw set stiffly as people poured through the portal, watching, wordless, as Dream bled out twice on that blackstone floor. Puffy, poorly hidden disgust flickering over her face as she looks away from him being dragged away in chains, sword held steady in her hands. Sapnap, that same fiercely determined expression on his face so familiar that thinking of it aches, even now, “it’s gonna be me, who takes your final life.” Months and months and months and months, alone.

Always, always, alone.

The page makes a quiet, complaining groan under his pen - he looks down to see it torn under the tip of his quill, the word completely unreadable under line after line of black ink scratched over it, each one deeper than the last. He stares blankly at it for a few minutes longer, the brief flash of anger that had seared through his body settling into numbness once more.

To whoever may find this: he scratches the words on the page slowly, keeping his print deliberately blocky and neat. The heavy feeling in his throat returns, stronger than ever, and he ignores it as he pushes on.

He pauses for a moment, wondering what more to write. Apologies? Accusations? He could detail every second that he remembers from Quackity’s visits, describe every inch of pain that had been pulled from his aching lungs, every line etched into his skin. He could apologize for every act of cruelty that had ever been caused by his hands, every bridge he’d ever torched to light the path to a better future. He could explain - everything, every tortured thought that had circled his head for hours on end and every night that had passed without any sleep and every time he’d pushed on without complaint or hesitancy because it would be worth it, even if he was the only one who saw it, it would be worth it because he’d sacrifice too much for it to be anything but. He could- he could, he could write and write until he’d filled every page of every book back and front, and would they even believe him? Would it even matter?

Goodbye, he writes at last. It feels strangely final. (He won’t be leaving this Vault alive. He knows this as surely as he knows that he will leave this world uncared for, unheard. As surely as he knows that he’ll always be alone.) With a quick snap of magic following the signing of his name, the book is preserved, shining slightly with a purple glow as he sets it back down in the chest. He looks around, the cell once again stiflingly quiet without the book to busy him, Dream once again completely alone as he’s been for - well.

(Pandas, eyebrows drawn in uncharacteristic seriousness from the usually painfully spirited eight-year-old, pinkie raised between the two of them, solemnity belied by the gap in his front teeth poking out between his lips.

“We’ll be together forever,” he whispered with the volume control you’d expect from a kid that age, which is to say that it wasn’t much of a whisper at all, but Dream, newly ten years old, remembers being particularly moved by the gesture anyway, moving to hesitantly hook his own pinkie in the other’s.

“And we’ll never be alone ever again,” he’d replied, voice faraway with a disbelieving sort of awe.”

“Never,” Pandas’ voice had been just as firm as his first statement, twisting his wrist to tighten the grip of their linked fingers further. “Best friends for ever and ever, right?”

“For ever and ever.”)

“For ever and ever,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as he slumps down against the floor, and only the lava bubbles in reply.

#tw torture #tw abuse #tw violence #tw broken bones #tw injuries #tw mental deterioration #tw isolation #tw panic attack #tw self deprecation #tw trauma #tw memory loss #tw death #tw dark content #tw dark imagery #-> my writing #my writing :D #my asks !! #-> my asks #quill anon !

[ray-ray-writings]

Wither or Not-Technoblade

#37, 38, and 39 from this prompt list. Check out my masterlist here. 

This is a Technoblade x gn!reader in the dreamsmp! 

Small Author Note: This is out of character for Techno and also, I don’t think Techno has done anything wrong on the server and this is the hill I will die on… That is all.

Techno attempts to explain to his partner just why he betrayed L’Manberg. 

Y/N’s POV

Pain. That’s all I felt. Pain. The high of winning our war quickly came crashing down as the nation that we had fought so hard to win back was blown to bits by none other than the one that created it. And then two withers spawned by the one that promised to help secure it’s freedom. By the one that swore he was on our side… My side. His partner’s side. Technoblade. The Blood God himself had spawned the withers that further caused L’Manberg to fall into ruins. 

The pain was both emotional and physical. I was so exhausted from fighting that I hadn’t been able to make it far enough away from the explosion. I found myself face down in a pile of rubble, ears ringing. I slowly turned myself over and looked up to find Techno’s mouth moving, but couldn’t hear the words. He placed the three wither skulls atop the soul sand and boom! The withers had made their appearance. Tommy was quick to lead a charge to fight them, but I couldn’t move. I was too hurt. 

My heart hurt at the thought of my partner betraying us. My bones ached from the beating I had taken during the day. I watched the wither’s health quickly deplete as many fought it, taking it down. As the wither died, my eyes met Techno’s. I was still lying helplessly on the ground, a pile of rubble propping me up and I’m sure I looked like a wreck. Techno quickly made his way toward me, but I didn’t want him anywhere near me. 

“Y/N” He whispered, kneeling down next to me, moving his hands to cup my cheek. I jerked away from him, hissing at the searing pain that shot through me, but I help my ground, “Don’t fucking touch me,” I hissed out. Hurt flashed through Techno’s face. “Y/N, please.” He pleaded once more, attempting to touch me again, “I’m serious Techno. Don’t you dare touch me. You’ve done more than enough harm for one day.” I barked, my head pounding from the pain caused by the movement. 

“I’m sorry,” Techno pleaded, trying to get me to listen to him. I let out a scoff though, not believing it. “Don’t say that. Not now. Not after you blew up my country… My home. Something I have built with my friends and family to make. Something I have fought many wars over. Something that was special to me. Something that you and Wilbur have now destroyed. You aren’t sorry Techno” 

“Y/N, you have to understand-” “Oh I understand plenty Techno,” I cut the pink haired man off, “You fought by our side. By my side. I trusted you with everything I had and you threw it away.” I snarled, my hand moving to rest on my stomach. I could tell Techno wanted nothing more than to reach down and help me, to touch me, but I couldn’t let him. Not after this. 

“Y/N!!” I heard Tommy scream from somewhere. “I’m here!” I yelped, immediately coughing after due to the strain it caused on my voice. After a few moments, Tommy’s blonde head came into view, worry filling his blue eyes. “Help?” I weakly asked the blonde boy, ignoring the burning holes Techno was drilling into my face with his eyes. Tommy hesitated at the sight of Techno, but then his face filled with determination and quickly made his way to me. 

Tommy nudged Techno out of the way and kneeled beside me. “Are you okay? Can you walk?” He questioned, his eyes scanning my injuries. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. Tommy hummed at the answer and reached into his inventory, pulling out a small pink potion. “Here,” He murmured as he uncorked it. Tommy held the potion to my lips, helping me drink. I could instantly feel the effects of the potion hit me. Some of the pain melted away from my body and a warth came over me. “Better?” Tommy asked, seeing me relax a bit. “Yeah, better. I just want to go home. Can you help me get there… If it’s still there?” I asked the boy. “Yeah, your house is still here. It’s just far enough away that it didn’t get hit. You may have to repair a little siding though” Tommy states as he helped me rise from my position.  

I hissed as I put weight on my feet. My body was still a bit sore, but much less so due to the healing potion’s effects. As Tommy and I stood, Techno also stood. “We’re going to have to go slow,” I warned the tall boy that was helping me. Tommy gave me a goofy grin, “I figured as much, old lady.” he teased. I couldn’t help but smile, Tommy was always good at bringing light to a dark situation. The two of us only got a few steps in before Techno piped up. “Y/N…” We froze. I slightly turned so I could see the pink headed man. Techno seemed to be on the verge of tears, I didn’t care. “Please,” He whimpered, “I love you.” 

I couldn’t help a dark laugh that escaped my mouth at his confession, “Don’t say you love me. You don’t get to betray me like this and then tell me you love me, that’s just pathetic.” I hissed toward the pink headed pig man. I turned back around and Tommy and I continued our journey to my house. 

I let out a groan as Tommy helped me sit down on my bed. “Thanks Tommy,” I thanked the blonde boy with a smile. “No problem Y/N… I’ve got to get back to Tubbo, just let me know if you need anything, okay?” I nodded at Tommy’s words. “Will do big man. And hey, the offer goes both ways. Anything at all, you let me know.” Tommy gave me a smile and nod before turning and walking out of my room. 

I let a sigh as I looked around the room. Everything seemed to be in place, the explosions hadn’t knocked anything down off my walls or disturbed any furniture. My body felt heavy and I just wanted to sleep. But I felt really gross and dirty so I made the decision to shower before I fell asleep. 

The warm water felt nice on my skin and the healing potion was in full swing. My cuts and bruises were slowly healing before my eyes. For many minutes I just stood under the water, contemplating everything that had happened over the past 24 hours. Exhaustion rolled over my body and I couldn’t help but cry. Everything came crashing down on me and I just sobbed for multiple minutes. 

The water turning cold was my signal that it was time to get out of the shower. I quickly shut off the water and dried myself off with the towels I had set out prior to me getting in the water. After drying my body, I held the towel to my eyes and took a few deep breaths, calming myself down from my sobbing session. Once I was steady enough, I put on the clothes that I had brought with me into the bathroom. 

I was surprised to find someone sitting on my bed when I walked out of my bathroom. I was even more surprised that it was the one person I didn’t want to see. “What do you want?” I questioned with a scoff. Techno stood and took a few steps forward. “I just wanted to talk,” Techno pleaded softly. I rolled my eyes and sat down on my bed. “I don’t really want to talk to you,” I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “Well then would you please at least listen? Just hear me out?” He begged, wide and pleading. I felt my heart strings tung at his tone. I could never resist Techno’s puppy eyes. “You have one minute.” I deadpanned, bringing my knees up to my chest. 

“Thank you… You were right. Out there. When you said I wasn’t sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry for destroying L’Manberg. I warned them what would happen if they formed a government in front of me. And they did it anyway. So I’m not sorry for forming the withers. I am sorry that you got hurt. That was never my intention. I know you didn’t have a hand in the government. The last thing I have ever wanted to do was hurt you. But I have and for that I am so sorry.” 

I felt the tears begin to form in my eyes once more. In my heart I knew Techno was right. He had always been very vocal about hating any form of government and had been very adamant about destroying people with too much power. “I just… I just wish you would have told me. Talk to me about it before you spawned a bunch of withers.” I croaked, the tears falling down my face. Techno hesitantly approached my bed and sat down in front of me. He slowly reached out to touch my face and I let him. Techno’s thumb gently brushed against my cheek as he wiped away my tears. 

“You’re right again,” He spoke softly, his hand stopping motion and just gently resting on my cheek. “I should have talked to you about it and I didn’t. For that I am sorry.” I let out sigh as I leaned into Techno’s touch a bit more. “Thank you for apologizing to me… I just don’t think I can forgive you. Not yet at least. I just need a little bit of time.” Techno nodded in understanding. “Okay, I respect that.” He murmured, “Just… Can I stay here tonight. I promise we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I just want to hold you.” I pondered to myself for a moment before finally nodding, “Yeah. That sounds nice.” 

Techno smiled gently before helping me lay down slowly. I turned on my side so my back was facing Techno. I felt the bed dip as Techno laid behind me. His arm slowly rested on my side and he pulled himself closer to me. I let out a sigh of relief. Although we’re not 100% great, I couldn’t help but feel better in his arms. Withers or not, I love him. That’s all I know. 

There you go! I hope you enjoy! If so, please be sure to leave a like!

#mcyt #mcyt imagine #mcyt one shot #mcyt x reader #techno #technoblade #technoblade imagine #technoblade x reader #technoblade one shot #dream #dreamsmp #dream smp #dreamsmp imagine #dream smp imagine #requested #wither or not #ray ray writings #ray writes #ray-ray-writings #gender neutral

[proudfreakmetarusonniku]

/rp

tw: physical and mental abuse, torture, drowning, broken bones, body image issues, horror, manipulation, kidnapping, implied gaslighting and stalking, referenced human experimentation, disassociation, obsession, and possessive behaviour

The only illumination in the forest was the silver of the full moon, it’s light streaming gently through the autumn leaves. The only sound was the quiet rustling of leaves in the breeze, the soft footsteps of passing animals. It was… peaceful. Serene. One might not expect it to be one of TommyInnit's favourite places, but it was far away enough from the rest of the server that he felt safe, quiet enough that he’d be able to hear any intruders.

He’d barely been able to sleep lately, ever since he'd heard those sirens, barely been able to leave his house. But it’s not a Big Man thing to hide in the house, trembling in fear like a fucking pussy. He’s not sure what in his sleep deprived mind possessed him to try and get over it by spending the night in a surely monster-infested at this time of night forest, but fuck it. He was always right, anyway, there was a reason people called him Tommy Trusty, or more accurately why he and only he called himself Tommy Trusty.

(No, it had nothing to to do with the fact he was going half mad back in the embassy, losing everything and finding it just when he was about to give up, always hearing noises in the walls Tubbo and Ranboo insisted were just the pipeworks, occasionally seeings the flash of a figure in the corner of his eyes. He’d torn the entire hill apart and found no evidence of anything, but as soon as he rebuilt it started up again.)

He just about jumped out of his skin hearing the pinging of his communicator. His laughter when he realised it was just the communicator definitely wasn’t forced, though, he definitely wasn’t shaking when he opened it up, because he wasn’t a fucking bitch baby. Probably just Tubbo or Ranboo being too damn clingy, or Wilbur asking why the fuck he’s a grandfather or something, right?

His eyes widened when he read the message on his screen. The communicator fell to the floor as Tommy scrambled desperately into the trees, words still repeating in his head over and over.

Dream: Run :)

——

It could have been minutes or hours of blind running through the trees in sheer panic before he dared to take a seconds break, doubling over against a tall oak, panting. He wasn’t even sure if he’d gotten anywhere, or just ran in circles, and he wasn’t even sure if it mattered. It was Dream, he did this shit for a living. Tommy was a dead man walking. Was it even worth it running to just prolong it, instead of just sitting still and waiting to die?

A strange sound came from his mouth, a warbling combination of crying and laughter. It forced it's way from his chest, loud and painful and making him break into fits of coughing, barely holding onto the bark to keep himself upright. Prime, was he already going insane? The sun hadn’t even rose yet, and he was already barely standing on shakey legs, laughing and crying into the void.

The void laughed back.

Tommy barely had a second to react before he felt the harsh bite of the axe into his shoulder, and was pinned to the tree like a butterfly to a board, forced to stare face to face with his hunter.

Dream's mask was askew, his eyes manic (no, he realised, his eye, a sickening feeling grasping his stomach as it dawned on him one had been ripped out, leaving an empty, scarred socket). His mouth was twisted into a grin, half as manic as his eyes but half eerily familiar, reminding him of the look on Wilbur's face when they’d first met again after the two of them had moved to the SMP.

After too-long and not-long-enough, Dream yanked back the axe, causing Tommy to crumple to the floor as a new wave of pain emanated through his body. He struggled for breath, not even enough energy to scream, and barely even notice the hand ruffling through his hair brotherly.

Claws grasped tightly around his hair after a moment, yanking him back up onto his feet. He barely avoided falling back onto his knees after Dream let go, as he shakily ran as fast as he could, deeper into the forest, ignoring the eyes bored in on his every move, the wheezing laughed echoing off the trees, the sinking feeling that this too was just another part of the game.

——

Tommy took shakey breaths, curling in on himself and trying to be as quiet as possible, small as possible. He instinctively raised his hand to his shoulder for what must have been for the thousandth time. It’s still surprising when he doesn’t feel it slick with blood, just cold like marble, like a corpse.

(He really was just a dead body forced to keep walking around, wasn’t he? He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror anymore, and the confirmation it wasn’t just skin deep felt almost as sickening as the agonising pain going from his shoulder all the way down to his fingers as they lay limp and unresponsive.)

“Come 'ere, Tommy!” Dream said to himself with a clear smile in his voice. God, Tommy sweared he hadn’t shut up since he’d first found him, and he still jumped whenever he heard it. He’d collapsed into the bushes the second he’d had a moment of silence, but that couldn’t just fucking last, could it? “I know you’re here, Tommy. Come on, stop hiding,” he said, voice filled with the same condescension one would have talking to a child or a frightened animal. “I don’t want to have to burn down the forest, but I will if I have to.”

Tommy's eyes darted, frightened, through the greenery. He’d had the luck to manage to collapse away from the thorny berry bushes that surrounded him, but he’d have to crawl through them to escape. He couldn’t find it within himself to care, anyway. He was already aching everywhere, and he’d caught one of his trouser legs on a branch, ripping it awfully and letting his leg get stung over and over by nettles until it was red and inflamed. It was already his bad leg, the one that always hung a bit limp after he broke it in the Final Control Room, but mixed with what must have been hours of running from the muted sunset colours painting the plants around him and a few rough trips he wasn’t sure he could even walk anymore.

Still, he couldn’t just sit and wait to burn to death, so when he heard the sound of a spark he desperately crawled through the brambles, clawing through with one good arm and leg, scrambling as fast as he could to try and somehow get a lead. He heard Dream's fucking obnoxious tea-kettle laugh, and grit his teeth as he heard the sound of claws against dirt grow closer.

Tommy tried his best to keep quiet as the thorns dug into his skin, as he had to use his remaining working hand to pull them out as they embedded themselves in his skin. Something other than the gnawing terror grew in his chest, something warm, as he slowly, far too painfully slowly, clawed his way closer and closer to the clear ground, felt the ground turn muddier and more and more of a slog to drag himself through. He could hear the flowing water of a river up ahead, and ridiculously his first thought is relief he can finally get off the dirt and grime uncomfortably coating every inch of him.

He breathed a sigh of relief, the first in who knows how long, as he finally, finally, managed to crawl out of the foliage, clawing his hand onto the clearing. He felt a sense of relief, of finally being free from the awful feeling of the thorns tearing through his clothes and sinking into his flesh. He wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was hope, but it was the closest he could ever remember to it.

Whatever it was, Tommy quickly felt it die as something heavy came down on his hand, the feeling of his bones being crushed underneath him sending a new wave of nausea through his body, leaving him gagging, not enough in him to even be sick.

Dream pulled him into the air by the scruff of his neck, and Tommy didn’t even have the energy to fight back anymore. He just let himself hang limply from Dream's grip, eyes focused on nothing in particular as his hunter laughed and laughed and laughed hysterically.

“Oh, Prime- Tommy, you should have seen the look on your face!” Dream said in between breaths, wiping an inky black tear from his eyes. “That’s the best part of the hunt, y’know? Watching your enemies hope leave their eyes once they’re reminded who they’re dealing with. Once they know who really holds the power- well, there wasn’t really any question here, but you’re so stubborn, anyway. And all I had to do was strike a match.”

Dream forced Tommy to look at the plants behind him, completely healthy and unburnt. “I didn’t even have to set anything alight, I just had to make you think I did. It’s so easy! You never think ahead, do you, Tommy? When the fear gets to you, there’s nothing different from you and a wild animal. And wild animals can be tamed.”

“Fu-fuck off,” Tommy forced through gagging. “I’m not like- like a fucking wolf, I'm not a pet. I'd rather die.”

Tommy was pretty sure Dream was rolling his eye. “Well, if I have to do both, there’s nothing stopping me. No one knows where we are. I’ve not seen anyone else even come here but you. Even if they go looking for you, they’ll never find us, Tommy. We've got an eternity.”

“Even if? Shut up, prick. I know they’re looking for me. Tubbo's looking for me. Ranboo's looking for me. Wil- Wilbur, he has to be looking for me.” Tommy insisted.

Dream’s face softened into the false concern that pissed off Tommy more than anything. “Wilbur? Why would Wilbur be looking for you? He left you behind with just a forgetful ghost, remember? And Tubbo? Tubbo exiled you once before, what makes you think he’s gonna care now you’re gone again? Did he even try to free you when you were stuck in the prison? Did Ranboo?”

“I-“ Thinking of it, Tommy wasn’t sure if they had. They’d just got married, adopted a kid, and tried to forget about him. He wasn’t going to fucking listen to Dream, though, so he growled, half feral. “Shut up. Just kill me and get it over with, dickhead.”

Dream burst into the wheezing laughter again. “I’m not going to kill you, Tommy. Not here, not now. That’d be far too boring. I'm going to keep going up until you can’t, anymore, and then I'll take you home- to our home, I built it specifically with you in mind, and then maybe we'll get started on the experiments.”

That brought back old memories that Tommy had hoped were gone, tubes and agonising injections and scalpels and being cut open alive again and again. “I’m not being a fucking labrat again.” Tommy said, swallowing and trying to hide the shakiness of his voice.

“You don’t have a choice,” Dream said, sounding far too cheerful about that fact. He carelessly dropped Tommy back to the ground, onto his knees. He ran a hand through Tommy's hair like he was stroking a fucking dog, and Tommy hated how he automatically leant into it, some animalistic, raw sound bubbling from his throat as Dream continued. “Don’t worry, Tommy, I'll take care of you. It’s not like I’m going to lock you in a cage and ignore you or anything. You’re far too fun for that.”

Tommy looked at the ground, trying to hide the fact he could feel his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. How much had he told Dream about everything, during exi- during Logsted- during the “E” times? He yelped as Dream roughly forced his chin up with his claws, digging in harsher than the thorns. Tommy did his very best to avoid looking him in the eyes as he felt his gaze.

“Tommy. Look at me.”

“No,” he said without thinking. By the time he realised what he said, before he could even open his mouth he was being dragged by his hair. The pain was almost as bad as his hand, as he was unable to even try and take the weight onto anything but the chunkful of hair Dream had a vice grip on. Tommy bit his tongue, trying his best not to scream.

He didn’t even realise what was going on until his head was shoved under the freezing water. He took a lungful of water in with a breath, desperately flailing with what strength he had left with what limbs he could move. The cold stung at his eyes, his skin, feeling like a thousand needles stuck through every nerve on his head, and he couldn’t stop himself from hyperventilating, taking in more and more water until suddenly he just felt too tired to move, too calm to care, and his head was suddenly yanked back out into the air.

He coughed up water, taking in a few breaths, and before he could fully comprehend what was going on he was under the water again, burning his lungs and making him want to peel his skin off. He wasn’t sure how many of the horrible, repetitive cycles he went through of the drowning, under until he felt like he was going to drown, then up for a few precious breaths only to be forced back into the water again. The worst part was that he couldn’t help thinking, well, this is better than the salt water, better than the exile.

Finally, after what feels like hours he's pulled back onto the bank, curling up in on himself and gagging up mouthfuls of water. He closed his eyes and saw Log- saw the beach, opened them and saw the forest, until they started to blur together, mud and tents and fresh and salt water mixing into one.

He painfully forced himself up on one elbow after finally he didn’t feel like he was going to vomit up any more water, and he heard Dream hum. “So you can still crawl, hmm? I‘ll give you a ten minutes head start, and you better have moved by the times up.”

“But-“

“I told you, this ends when you can’t keep going anymore. Not when you won’t.” Tommy flinched away from the sternness of the voice, expecting another blow. “Maybe I'd have given you some pity, if you hadn’t defied me. Unless you liked it under the river, I’d suggest you obey.”

Tommy didn’t need to be told twice.

——

Tommy had barely managed to crawl from the river, behind a boulder, when he collapsed completely.

He couldn’t move anymore, could barely blink. It was still sunrise, the last of the stars having disappeared. The colours were pretty.

Prime, he was tired.

He felt back like when he was little, and Philza had just taken Tubbo in, and he’d stayed up all night comforting him after he’d had a nightmare, and he was so tired he’d started seeing shit, yet feeling like he couldn’t sleep yet, he needed to stay awake.

He’d never see Tubbo again. He thought he’d feel sad about that, but he just felt resigned. Sadness required energy he didn’t have.

All he could really focus on was the feeling of the breeze against his skin, the heavy feeling against his chest as he focused on breathing, in, out, in, out, the burning in his throat and his shoulder and his hand. They felt like the only things real anymore, everything else a dull snapshot that felt so distant, so far away.

He knew he should panic when he heard the sound of claws tapping on the ground, words that blurred into one big mess, but he couldn’t. He just felt tired, frozen.

He’d heard, once, that when deers stand in the headlights of an upcoming car they freeze instead of running or fighting. Tommy thought that was stupid back then. Now, dimly, it made sense. Staying still was just so much easier, and sometimes all you could do was conserve your energy.

He wanted to just close his eyes, to sleep, but something at the back of his mind screamed at him that Dream wouldn’t like it.

He feels a hand ruffle through his hair before he sees him, and for a second he thinks of Wilbur, back when Tommy was very little. He used to have nightmares back then, and he’d cry all night and wake up Wilbur and Wilbur would tell him made up stories about grand nations and heroes with cocky grins and electric blue eyes with cool brothers that wrote songs and loved the ocean.

Wilbur wasn’t here, though. It was just Tommy and Dream. Just Tommy and Dream now and forever.

“‘M tired,” he whined, leaning into Dream's touch automatically. Dream laughed.

“You must be. C'mon, let’s go home.”

Tommy didn't resist as Dream picked him up effortlessly, slung over his shoulder like a hunters prize catch. It hurt his shoulder, and he bit his tongue, vaguely remembering he didn't like showing weakness. He felt like more of a placeholder in Tommy's shell, like Tommy had fallen asleep awake and he was the replacement.

He tried to focus on Dream. Focus on something but the static of tiredness clouding his head. Being like that felt dangerous, like something he wasn’t allowed to do. But Dream was there, physically there, and Tommy focused on the feeling of his bony shoulder, the sharp claws gently holding him steady, the feeling of hair brushing against the tattered remains of his hoodie.

“Y'know,” Dream said, more to himself than to Tommy, “I've got materials for some regen potions back home. With them, your hand could be able to heal in a few weeks, and then we can do this all over again. That'd be nice.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no.”

“'T wouldn’t be fun. I don’t wanna do this ever again.”

Dream laughed to himself slightly. “I wasn’t asking. Not everything is about you, Tommy. Now, go to sleep. I want you aware when I show you our new home.”

“'Mkay.”

Dream laughed again. “You'll really do anything I say like this, won't you?”

Tommy shook his head, ignoring how dizzy it made him. “Nah, 'm just… tired.” he said, finishing with a yawn, making Dream laugh again. That was good, he thought. It was just him and Dream, right? They just had each other, now, they should try and help each other.

Tommy knew he should have been frightened, he should have been fucking terrified, but all he could think of drifting off to sleep was that he just hoped tomorrow would be less exhausting.

#my writing #dsmp writing #dream smp writing #primeboys (derogatory) #tw abuse #tw torture #tw Drowning #tw body image issues #tw broken bones #tw horror #tw manipulation #tw kidnapping #tw implied gaslighting #tw implied stalking #Tw human experimentation mention #Tw disassociation #tw obsession #tw possessive behavioir

[breakingsomething]

Tommy hates the sound of lava.

He hates everything about it, actually. The way it hisses and bubbles and will randomly crackle like flames and make him jump. The heat of it, the suffocating burn that seems to burrow under his clothes and inside his skin and boil his blood like a soup. The smell, the thick, pungent scent of sulfur and wet stone and something harsh and disgusting, like hard boiled eggs. The way it glows so brightly that he can't help but see it even when he faces the obsidian walls and squeezes his eyes shut so tightly it gives him a headache, the way it casts everything in his field of vision in a fiery, red-orange light. The way the taste of gunpowder and salt catches on his tongue and makes his eyes water.

The way it makes his head spin with bad, bad thoughts - intrusive thoughts, Sam had called them the one time Tommy had casually mentioned them - and put things into his head that he'd rather weren't there.

He hates the way the walls close in on him. Cracked, midnight obsidian, with grooves of glowing purple cutting through the stone and dripping hot liquid to the floor repetitively. The way it cuts his bare palms and he can't shift without pain. The way he can't lay down anywhere without his head aching with discomfort. He hates how dark and endless it is, how unbreakable, how scary.

He hates the hunger. Hates the way his stomach aches hollowly with the desperate need for something other than hard, grainy potatoes to fill it, the way that the prison's mining fatigue sets in like a chill in his bones that weighs him down and won't let him move. Pinned like an animal caught in a trap that was meticulously set up just to hurt it. Hates the way nausea claws up his dry throat, but there is nothing to come up when he retches and even if it did, he doesn't have the strength to sit up so he could be sick. He hates the way his body is wracked with shivers despite the overwhelming blanket of suffocating heat, hates the way he hasn't stopped shaking in hours because of it.

He hates the panic. He hates the way it digs into his brain, filling it with a thousand thoughts at once that are too loud to process, hates the way it grips him and snaps him into a state of fight or flight when he can't do either. Hates the way it makes him cold and hot at the same time, hates the way it stings the backs of his eyes with hot tears, hates the way that sobs get caught in his throat and he had to choke them down to regain some sliver of pride, some tiny shred of self respect. Hates the way that traitorous little whimpers escape past his lips, hates the way he can't help but raise his head slightly and call for Phil, Tubbo, Techno, Wilbur, just anyone to come rescue him. Hates the way he trembles as he buries his face into his knees to hide his crying like a child.

But most of all, he hates him. That smiling porcelain mask that he's only ever seen behind once, hates everything behind it, hates everything it stands for. Hates the way the entity hums and taps cheery tunes on his knees, hates the way he bobs his head back and forth, hates the way there's no expression to judge what he's thinking from. Hates the way he sprawls across the broken floor like a cat, bathing in the boiling heat of the magma waterfall surrounding them. Hates the way he moves so suddenly, to sit up or to shift positions or to even stand sometimes, stretching and whistling songs to himself as he does so. Hates the way Tommy finds himself flinching or hugging himself or tearing up every time such a movement takes place. Hates himself, hates himself for still being so fucking weak, so small, so powerless despite everything.

I was getting better. I thought I was getting better.

"You're still shaking," comes a voice, and Tommy yelps in shock and fear, a shuddering breath catching as he digs his nails into his arms to ground himself. Dream laughs, the same painted black smile laughing with him. "Don't be so jumpy, Tommy, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm just pointing out that you look a little unwell. You've gone quite pale, and you've been trembling for a couple hours now. Are you sick?"

Dream knows fine well why Tommy's shaking. The boy curls up and doesn't respond, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and taste copper in his mouth.

"It's rude to ignore someone when they're concerned about your health," Dream says nonchalantly. There's a smile in his voice. "Come on, Toms… you're not scared of me, are you?"

Only Wilbur and Tubbo can call me that. Don't you dare call me that. "Like I'd be afraid of a fuckin' homeless prison inmate," Tommy scoffs instead of saying what he's thinking. Don't let him know he's getting to you. "You're pathetic. Pathetic and green and gross. When did you last shower, Dream, eh, cause you fuckin' stink like a wild animal, act like one too -"

Dream sighs and raises his arms above his head to stretch. He launches into another fit of giggles at the way Tommy's body jolts at the movement and a startled squeak leaves him, and Tommy's face burns with humiliation at how easily scared he is. How pathetic. "Unfair," he says, hyperaware of how his voice shakes, trying to sound light and jokey like he always does. "That - that was unfair, you bastard, you're using cheap tactics -"

"Am I?" Dream says, amusement evident in his smooth tone, and tilts his head in the way he always did right before he said or did something Tommy wouldn't like. "Pfft, alright then. Hey, are you hungry? I sure am. Haven't eaten since just before you came to visit, and that was… three hours ago? Maybe? No clock to know for sure. Welp, time flies when you're having fun, anyway."

He stands, and Tommy is proud of how still he manages to keep himself even as Dream comes close enough for his cloak to cast warm air in front of him. The entity pulls two potatoes from his scratched wooden chest, holding them in the air successfully - then tosses one at Tommy without warning. The boy flinches violently, expecting pain for a brief, panicked moment, then fills with embarrassment as the potato smacks against his leg and he has to grab it before it rolls into the lava. "Eat up," Dream calls, plopping back down against the wall opposite Tommy, crossing his legs and holding the spud in both hands childishly. He himself doesn't eat a thing. Tommy knows why. Tommy knows what's under Dream's mask, and he'd rather not ever see it again if he can help it.

Tommy hesitates. It's weird that the potato is uncooked yet so warm, because nothing in this stuffy, cramped cell is ever even remotely cool. He briefly wonders if he could manage to cook it. He's about to take a bite when he glances up at Dream again. He's staring. Just staring. Tommy hates that mask of his, hates how he can't see where he's looking but knows based off how the goosebumps crawl up his skin, raising hairs on the back of his neck where his Lives counter is. He's very aware of the fact that two of the inked hearts are broken and black, only one left red and full. "What?" he snaps, nails digging into the tough skin of the potato. "Stop looking at me like that, you fucking creep."

To his surprise, Dream only giggles. "No, I was just wondering something," he says lightly, and leans forward on his fist as he stares intently. "Don't you worry your little head about it."

He shouldn't give Dream any attention. Shouldn't give him what he wants. But he's scared and wants to know because it will eat him alive if he doesn't. "What is it?" he asks warily, voice low. "What are you wondering?"

Dream shifts forward. He drags himself across the obsidian floor, legs still crossed, like an eager child with a secret to share. Tommy is paralyzed as the entity closes in on him, close enough that his knees touch Tommy's ankles from where he has his legs pulled up to his chest. Dream smiles, as he always does, always, painted across his face, and whispers something very, very close to Tommy's ear.

"I was just wondering," he giggles, "if I could dig a hole in this floor right now, if I told you to throw that potato in - would you do it?"

Tommy suddenly isn't hungry anymore.

The lava cracks like a whip, the sound hanging in the space between them.

#boop writes #mcyt #dream smp #tommyinnit #dreamwastaken #manipulation tw #if this needs any other tags let me know #yes i speedran this dudududu

[words-with-wren]

what is grief if not love enduring?

not me blasting sad songs and writing for an hour before retreating to youtube to watch animatics of funny bits to Cope.

The last part was written very soon after Tommy’s stream, the rest was written after the streams yesterday/before Tubbo’s one today.

Basically me just being emo and writing everyone’s pain!

______

The corridor of the prison stretched into darkness but Sam didn’t stop moving. His grip was tight around the trident he held, his pace brisk and quick and sharp. He moved down one long, endless hall, and then another, and then another. 

    How long he had paced through the cold, dark halls he wasn’t sure. Again and again, looking for clues he knew he wasn’t going to find. Sometimes he dove into the dark depths of the water surrounding the prison (the tomb). Sometimes he ventured into the painfully bright of outside, stood on top of the prison, covered every inch of it again and again and again. 

    “Sam - Sam please!”

    The ghost of a boy’s voice chased him endlessly. The desperate pleas of his final moments. The words Sam had ignored.

    “You’re going to have to trust me.” 

    He had asked for trust. Asked for faith. Asked for so many things and he had failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. 

    And Tommy had paid the price. 

    “You remember when you visited me in exile? This is worse than that.” 

    Tommy had been desperate. Afraid. So, so very afraid. 

    Sam knew why. And yet he had stilled ignored Tommy’s frantic attempts at help. He had ignored Tommy’s lowered guard, a guard he only lowered when he was desperate. 

    “He was mine! He obeyed me immediately. I didn’t even have to ask him to destroy his armour by the end. It was almost too easy. Too fun.” 

    Dream’s laughter echoed through the corridors. 

    No matter how much he tried to convince himself it had been necessary, Sam couldn’t rid himself of the guilt that ate him alive. 

    The halls were cold. 

    Sam kept walking, searching for a culprit even though he knew who was really to blame.

~*~

His cheeks were burning. A fire that still wasn’t as bad as the ache in his chest, a stinging that was worse than any physical pain he’d felt in a long time. 

    It hurt, but he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, even when he pressed his sleeve to his face to try and dry them, to relieve the pain even a little. 

    Ranboo trudged through the snow, a few flowers still hanging limp from one hand, the other pressed his sleeve to his face. 

    He felt… numb, in many ways. The ache was strong, threatening to overwhelm, but so was the desire to just sleep. 

    He should have done more. 

    The cottage came into view and Ranboo looked up, blinking his eyes, and taking a shaky breath to keep back the rest of his tears. 

    He’d forgotten how much it hurt. 

    Fitting, really. 

    He’d almost made it past the house when the opening of a door caught his attention. He dabbed at his cheeks again, trying to stop them stinging, to hide the fresh scars that were no doubt noticeable. 

    “Hey mate!” Phil called, stepping out of his house and leaning on the edge of the bridge between buildings with a grin that Ranboo suddenly wanted to punch. He balled his fist, the flowers in his hand drooping. When he didn’t respond, Phil’s expression flickered. “Everything alright?” 

    “No,” Ranboo said, his voice catching slightly. “No, not really.” 

    How could he explain? 

    “What’s up?” 

    Phil’s concern seemed so genuine and Ranboo couldn’t help but feel so angry. Angry at everyone who only cared after it was too late. Angry at everyone who hadn’t done anything, himself included, who had let this happen. 

    “Tommy’s dead,” he said, and the words felt heavy as he spoke them, like a finality. 

    (The flower sat on the path, limp and forlorn and nobody came). 

    “What?” Phil’s voice was almost amused, as though he were holding back a laugh. Ranboo balled his fists tighter, not caring that he was probably cutting into his palms. 

    “He’s gone,” he said. “He was trapped in the prison and Dream…” He bit his lip. It was better than the burning cheeks. 

    “Oh.” 

Phil’s expression barely changed. He was silent for a long moment, knuckles white on the railing the only sign of his emotion. “I see.” 

    Then he turned abruptly and returned inside, shutting the door behind him. Ranboo swallowed thickly, determined not to cry anymore. 

    He hurt enough already. 

    “So Theseus finally fell.” 

    He started, turning to see Techno standing behind him, arms crossed, axe in one hand, Steve’s lead in the other. Ranboo nodded, swallowing again and taking a shaky breath. 

    “What happened to your face?” Techno’s voice didn’t change, still as steady and monotone as always. Ranboo blinked. 

    “When… when I cry. My tears…” It felt silly to say. 

    Techno didn’t answer, just gestured with one hand for Ranboo to follow him. He did, suddenly wanting to bury his face in the polar bear’s fur and cry without it hurting. 

    It wasn’t fair. 

    “I don’t even know why,” he said quietly, barely aware he was speaking. “I mean… he was always mean to me… I…” he trailed off, realizing Techno wouldn’t want to hear his rambling. 

    Techno didn’t answer for a while, setting Steve up beside the fire before opening a chest. Ranboo stood near the door, fidgeting nervously, spinning the flowers in his hand. 

    “Loss is funny like that,” Techno said finally. He glanced up from the chest, withdrawing a potion and holding it out to Ranboo. Ranboo took it, offering him a small smile. 

    “Thank you,” he said quietly. Techno grunted, and Ranboo took that as his cue to leave. 

    As he did, he heard Techno muttering something under his breath. He wasn’t sure exactly, but it sounded like “... I know… be patient. I won’t let him get away with this.” 

    The door to Phil’s house was closed and his windows dark.

~*~

It felt almost wrong to sleep in a room that he had effectively stolen from a dead man. Jack couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling, trying to stop thinking. 

    Somehow, he kept thinking of L’manberg. Specifically, a day a few weeks after he had joined the country, while he and Tommy were standing on top of the wall and they were laughing. 

    He couldn’t even remember why - maybe it had something to do with something Tubbo had said or done. 

    He just remembered laughing. Remembered the sun on his back and Tommy’s eyes sparkling with mirth and his loud, obnoxious cackle and laughing so hard his sides ached and he had tears running down his cheeks and he couldn’t breathe. 

    He curled onto his side, shutting his eyes tightly. 

    He remembered lying on the van with Tubbo and Niki and Tommy, pointing out stars and making up constellations. 

    He remembered standing over a cold crater, annoyance mingling with simmering anger and Niki’s frustrated and furious expression. 

    When had it all gone so wrong? 

    Finally, he threw the blankets aside and stepped outside onto the balcony, looking out over the land. It all felt so… empty. Just yesterday he looked out here with pride and excitement - part of him was looking forward to the challenge of keeping this hotel from Tommy’s grasp when he returned. 

    And now he was never going to return. 

    A glint of light caught his attention and he glanced down to see a figure standing in the moonlight. 

    Sam Nook. A silent sentry. 

    Jack wondered how long he would stay there, waiting for a boy who would never return home. 

    He gripped the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind and stared at the tree and the bench just across the way. 

    He didn’t care anymore. 

    He just wanted his friend back.

~*~

“I’m sorry.” 

    Puffy sat on the edge of the crater, staring down at the glass that reflected the stars and the pit that lay underneath. 

    “We all really let you down, huh?” 

    L’manberg was so quiet now. It had been for a long time, but Puffy refused to let its memory fully die. 

    Now, she felt like it had for good this time. 

    “You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone. You shouldn’t have had to go through that at all.” 

    She held a bundle of flowers - white and red, like the ones Ranboo had been collecting. Somehow it felt fitting to sit here, over the land he had created. 

    “I let you down. I failed you. Even before you went into the prison. I should have visited you more in exile. I’m sorry.” 

    She pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, taking a shaky breath and shaking her head. 

    The words felt empty. 

    Nothing she could do could make up for what had happened to him. 

    She just had to make sure it didn’t happen to anyone else. 

    Taking a deep breath, she stood. Carefully, she held out her arm, opening her hand to let the flowers drift down to the glass that covered L’manberg. 

    “I heard there was a special place,” she began softly. “Where men could go and emancipate.” 

    The moon was cold as it shone on the lone woman, singing softly in the rubble of a home.

~*~

He paced the halls, the halls that felt more empty than ever. He’d barely unpacked from his travels, barely settled back in and now all he could think about was the pit in his chest and the ache in his bones and the lingering guilt he had carried for months. 

    Eret ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath, stopping in front of his throne. 

    Realistically, he knew he couldn’t have done anything. 

    Part of him wondered if this would have happened if he’d come home just a little earlier. 

    Part of him wondered how different things would be if he hadn’t let greed and naive foolishness blind him a long time ago. 

    He began pacing again, aimlessly moving through the halls of his castle. He missed them. He had missed them all for such a long time and he had only just been starting to rebuild those relationships. 

    Without meaning to, he found himself leaving his castle, walking the prime path, feet leading him aimlessly up the path. 

    He stopped in front of the shrine Puffy had made earlier that day. 

    Tommy had forgiven him. Tommy had been the first to forgive him, when Eret had long ago given up on any chance of that happening. 

    Tommy had given him hope he could be forgiven. Given him hope he could redeem himself, could rebuild the relationships he had broken. 

    With a long sigh, Eret reached up and took off his crown, glasses slipping down his face to reveal his white, white eyes. 

    Clutching both to his chest, he lowered his head, closing his eyes. 

    “Thank you,” he said softly.

~*~

Snowchester was cold. 

Tubbo pulled a blanket over his shoulders and sat in the corner of the room, Micheal’s chicken sleeping on his lap. Micheal was asleep as well, curled in his boat across the room and Tubbo couldn’t help but be glad. 

    It was cold, and no matter how many blankets he pulled around himself, no matter how hot he cranked up the fire he knew he couldn���t drive all the cold away. 

    Part of him wondered if he’d be cold even in the depths of the Nether. 

    Part of him didn’t care. 

    It wasn’t true, surely. 

    Sam was just playing another prank on them. A cruel one, one that was Tubbo’s biggest fear, but that had to be it. 

    Right? 

    But Sam’s voice had been shaky and his eyes wet and deep down Tubbo knew. 

    This was worse than last time, somehow. Last time they hadn’t had a proper goodbye, last time Tubbo blamed himself, last time it hurt so, so much. 

    But Tubbo had had L’manberg. He had had to keep pushing forward. He had things to distract him. 

    Now he had nothing. Nothing but the cold shell of a house that had no heart, no soul. 

    Because that was always Tommy’s job, wasn’t it? 

    It was always Tommy who made a house a home. A nation a place to be proud of. 

    They had won and somehow that made it all so, so much worse. 

    They had won, and Dream had been locked up, and they had been able to go about their lives how they wanted to. They had won, and that should have been the end of the story. The book should have closed, the song should have finished. 

    Happily ever after, right? 

    Tubbo pressed himself into the corner, burying his face into the feathers of the chicken in his lap and fighting down tears. 

    He couldn’t do this. 

    Not again. 

    Why did Death favour Tommy? 

~*~

Tommy woke with a chocked gasp, one hand flung above his head, shaking violently, a plea still on his tongue. 

He shuddered, breathing deeply, shutting his eyes and regaining his breath as he slowly realized he wasn't in immediate danger. 

It was warm, but not the blistering heat of the Nether, or the wet, unpleasant heat of Dream's cell. It was a pleasant warmth, like sun shining down on him. 

The ground was soft as well. Not hard and uneven like the floor of the cell, but soft and comfortable, what felt like grass tickling his arms. And wind blew softly over his face, a slow, lazy breeze that made Tommy relax more. 

Then he opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky above him. A few stray clouds drifted across the sky and despite the still aching of his arms and head, Tommy smiled softly. 

He was out. He wasn't trapped any more. He could feel the wind, could see the sun, could hear the trees rustling nearby. He was out and he was finally free. 

(What had happened? It had been dark and hot and terrifying and Dream had been there and he had been violent and harsh and…) 

He didn't want to think about that. With arms that were still shaking slightly, he pushed himself up and looked around. 

A few trees dotted the area, a river flowing lazily past. Hills rose around them and standing a few meters away, his back to Tommy, was a figure. 

He was tall, wearing a coat that flapped slightly in the wind. A beanie was pulled firmly over his hair, and his shoulders were more relaxed that Tommy ever remembered them being. 

"Wilbur?" he called, unease and excitement mingling, together. His voice shook slightly, the panic not fully faded. 

The figured turned, revealing a familiar soft smile. It was strange, seeing Wilbur like this. Wearing the clothes he died in (he was dead how was he here?), a bloodstain across his chest, but smiling. Eyes soft, proud, sorrowful. 

He looked at Tommy the same way he had when Tommy claimed independence. 

"Welcome home," he said softly. 

Tommy blinked up at him, suddenly aware of the hand Wilbur stretched out to him. He took it, letting Wilbur pull him to his feet and swaying slightly. 

Everything felt off. He was aching, pain pounding through him, but it didn't feel real. It felt as though someone else was hurting, but when he looked down at his arms he could see the bruises, could feel dry blood in his head.

"What happened to you," Wilbur said softly, cupping his chin and lifting his face. Tommy felt a lump in his throat at the softness of the touch, despite the involuntary flinch the action drew from him.

What had happened. He didn't remember exactly, everything felt like a dream. One that he didn't want to wake up from. This open field and Wilbur soft expression were far better than the nightmare of the last week. 

"I-" he began, looking down. Wilbur's hand drifted down to his arm, gently holding his elbow. Tommy followed the movement, seeing the bruises that littered his arms. 

(Dream standing over him, eyes blazing. Fists clenched, bloodied with Tommy's blood. He was holding his arms above his face, tears in his eyes, blood running down his cheek.)

He shuddered, despite the warmth of the afternoon. Wilbur lifted his hand hesitantly, pausing a moment before returning it. 

"Take your time," he said quietly. "It takes time to adjust." 

"Adjust to what?" Tommy asked, and he hated how small his voice was. "Wilbur where - where am I?" 

Wilbur glanced up, and Tommy did as well. His heart skipped a beat, his breath caught suddenly in his throat. 

He knew where they were. This was home. This was L'manberg's land, the foundations she was built upon before war and death had stained her soil. 

If L'manberg was here, unbroken, unspoiled. And if Wilbur was here, alive… 

Was Tommy? 

"Wil- am…" He trailed off, breath catching. "Am I?" 

(Dream was angry, more angry than Tommy had ever seen him. And the lava seemed to be laughing at him and the walls were closing in around him and -) 

He was breathing quickly, shaking his head, heart bounding. 

"No," he said softly. 

"Tommy-" Wilbur began but Tommy stepped back, pushing Wilbur's hand away. 

"No. No. I - I can't… what about my hotel? What about Tubbo. I can't leave I can't be… I was going to leave him behind, I was going to be done with him this was going to be the last time." 

He couldn't breathe. He shuddered, wrapping his arms around his chest and collapsing to his knees. The ground was hard underneath him and his breath was short, sharp, panicked.

"I'm not dead," he whispered. "I - I won. I can't let him… I left him behind. I - I'm finished with him he can't… he can't win." 

"Tommy." Wilbur's voice was soft, even, full of hurt. A hand lay gently on Tommy's back and he stiffened, remembering the past week of Dream's casual punches. But Wilbur's hand was steady, comforting and Tommy leaned into it despite himself. "I'm sorry." 

Wilbur's voice was so genuine, so full of regret that Tommy felt tears prick his eyes again. 

He was so tired. 

"Wilby, I-" 

He was tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of nightmares. Tired of not being normal, of freaking out over the smallest things. He was tired of Dream's shadow that never seemed to leave. Tired of losing again and again and again. 

"I know," Wilbur said softly and drew Tommy into a tight hug. Tommy didn't resist, curling into Wilbur's embrace, sobbing softly. 

"There - I had a hotel," he whispered. He wanted to do so much. He wanted to prove he could. He wanted to become someone, to prove that Dream didn't control him. Didn't own him. 

He wanted to do so much. 

He buried his face in Wilbur's chest, shoulders shaking, weeping for his lost childhood. 

At least here, maybe he could rest. 

#dream smp #dsmp #tommyinnit #awesamdude #ranboo #eret #captain puffy #tubbo #i was editing this and then sam got paralizationisditated #and i got very distracted by ranboo pushing him to safety and failing #safe to say it was not the vibe of this story #uuuuh #tw death #tw child death #wandavision gave me a pain quote and i am going to completely and utterly abuse it

[crystalirises]

Lake

Tumblr back at it again with deleting my posts ;-;

So yeah.... reupload of that Parent!Eret and Fundy fic.

They ran a hand through their messy brown hair, the sun beating down at them from above as they settled against the smooth surface of a marble column. Their bones ached with fatigue.

Eret watched as the clouds rolled by in the sky, a calm afternoon breeze sweeping through the newly built land of New L’Manburg. It had been over a month since Dream had dethroned and casted them from their castle, tossed to the agitated wolves that comprised Pogtopia’s army. They could still feel the harsh glares that everyone had burned into Eret’s skin, the distrust in their gazes.

They pulled the flimsy brown cloak tighter around their shoulders, a piece of old clothing that Niki had cheerfully given to them the moment they had expressed their desire to move into New L’Manburg. Niki felt like their only ally in a country that detested their very existence. Not that they could blame everyone… not after what they did. The nightmares still plagued his mind, the horror in their companions’ eyes as it dawned upon them what Eret had done. There were nights where they would stare at the ceiling, Eret’s pure white eyes the only light source in a desolate room that felt too suffocating despite its spacious quarters. There wasn’t a day that went by where their heart didn’t ache with regret. Would they be here now if they had refused Dream’s offer in the beginning? Was all of this Eret’s fault? It felt like it was… Wilbur would be alive if they―

“Eret!”

They glanced up, freezing before a familiar pair of fox ears caught their eye. A soft smile formed on their lips as Fundy sat down beside them, a wide grin on his face as he fiddled with something in his hands. Eret had no doubt that Fundy had just gotten back from scamming some poor unknowing soul. Fundy’s gold-flecked brown eyes glanced at the large unfinished structure behind them, his brows furrowing as his ears twitched at the top of his head. Eret pursed their lips, wondering how Fundy would react to the building’s true purpose. They had thought it best if they had tried to create a museum in honor of… the first L’Manburg. It felt ironic… but someone had to do it. No matter how much it stung to go through memories of the past. It had to be done.

“Gold for the king.” Fundy’s voice broke through their thoughts, casting away the haze that had plagued him for days. There was a cheerful smile on Fundy’s face, his hands holding what seemed to be a stack of gold. Eret blinked at the offering, their mouth agape with confusion as they finally looked into the fox hybrid’s eyes. Fundy’s tail was curled around his waist, his ears twitching as he waited for Eret’s reply. Eret hadn’t the faintest clue on what to say. Their last conversation was years ago, during that strange time where Fundy decided to decorate their castle with faux flamingoes. Eret missed those flamingoes. “They’re not stolen, Eret. You gotta trust me on that.”

“I trust you, Fundy.” Eret’s hand hovered above the gold, guilt striking their heart at the momentary thought of this being a scam. Fundy bit his bottom lip, not missing the way they hesitated before taking the gold into his hold. Eret carefully tucked the gift away into their inventory, a small smile on their face. “I do believe you, Fundy. You have to understand my hesitation, I’m not quite on anyone’s friend list regardless of my ‘change of heart’ during the final war. What is this gold for?”

“I don’t have any use for them…” Eret knew a lie when they heard one, they know what it was like to lie. Fundy’s gaze shifted to the side, his fingers twitching before they finally settled into picking at his sleeve. Eret reached out a hand, gently moving Fundy’s hand away from his jacket’s sleeve. They didn’t want Fundy to tear into the cloth. “And… I heard about the dethroning thing.”

“You just found out now?” Eret raised a brow at that. They assumed everyone knew by now, Dream didn’t exactly keep George’s coronation a private affair. “I’m not a king. I never was.”

“I refuse to call George a king.”

“Well, he’s the new king. There is nothing to be done about that.” They pressed their fingers at the bridge of their shades, pushing up as it had begun to slip. “And how are you, Fundy?”

Eret turned to Fundy, their piercing gaze causing the fox hybrid to shift in place. They didn’t miss the way Fundy’s shoulders shook, the poorly concealed dark circles beneath his eyes. Though Fundy kept a smile on his face, their was a pain in his eyes that made Eret’s heart pang with a familiar regret. Everyone had lost something during the war, but Fundy most of all. He had lost his father, his home, his birthright, and now… Eret knew Fundy didn’t know what to do with himself. They were both foreigners in a land that regarded them with distaste and with mockery. They were the outcasts, the forgotten, and the traitors. No one wanted either of them.

“I’ve been… busy. Did you know it takes an entire week to fill in a crater? Well… half a crater. Tubbo made the presidential decision to build on top of the corpse of the old L’Manburg. It’s been great. It’s been great.” Eret watched as Fundy’s tail bristled at his own words, his shoulders hunching up as he kicked at a loose pebble on the ground. They hadn’t offered their services in the rebuilding of L’Manburg, not that Tommy would have allowed them to help. Fundy sat down, pulling his knees closer to his chest as he buried his head in his arms. Eret crouched down beside him. “Oh… and Wilbur’s back. Ghostbur… You know Ghostbur, right? He doesn’t remember much. He doesn’t remember what I did… what he did… and I think… he barely remembers me…”

There’s a wobble in Fundy’s voice, a strained sob that seemed to have been forced down. Eret placed a hand on his back, small tremors racing up and down Fundy’s spine. They could hear the soft sniffles, muffled but clearly there. Eret wondered when was the last time Fundy allowed himself to cry. They felt sick… who taught Fundy to cry so quietly? Eret took a deep breathe, hoping that they wouldn’t find claws digging into their skin in just a few seconds. They pulled Fundy into a hug, the fox hybrid stilling in their hold before finally melting into the touch. Fundy’s arms wrapped around their neck, his head leaning against Eret’s chest. Eret pulled him closer.

“It’s okay, Fundy. You’re allowed to mourn. It’s just the two of us right now… and you know I would never judge you.” Fundy was violently shaking in his hold, a cold chill spreading across Eret’s shirt as Fundy began to cry. Eret placed a hand on the top of Fundy’s head, caressing his still ash-covered hair. It had been a month and yet the residue of war still haunted Fundy, both physically and mentally. Eret closed their eyes, basking in the silence of the afternoon. They rarely got visitors to the museum, and even if someone were to stumble upon them, Eret would make they didn’t see Fundy. Fundy never did like to cry in front of people. Their heart broke as Fundy let out a soft whimper. Maybe… maybe if they hadn’t betrayed L’Manburg during the first war, Fundy would still have a dad. Fundy wouldn’t be an orphan. A scared and unwanted orphan.

“Thank you.” Fundy moved away, wiping at the tears in his eyes. Eret gave him a soft smile, placing a hand on his shoulder. Fundy sniffed, holding onto their hand as if it was a lifeline. It was times like these where they were reminded that Fundy was just a kid… now he was an orphan. The thought terrified them. Fundy may be Techno’s nephew but everyone knew Techno wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if given the chance. Eret couldn’t let that happen. Not to Fundy. “Shit. Sorry. I can… uh… pay you more gold for the shirt. Fuck. You shouldn’t have seen me like this.”

“We’ve known each other for years, Fundy. I remember when you were but a kit… you were a lot shorter then. You were terrified of me at the start, commenting on my… odd eyes. It took a while but you eventually warmed up to me. You rarely cried as a kid, but when you did you always ran to me. Years have passed… but one thing remains unchanged. No matter what happened – no matter what may happen – I am still your confidante. You need not be wary to come to me in your time of need.” A smile found its way to Fundy’s lips, a momentary joy that didn’t sit right with Eret. The tearstains remained on Fundy’s cheeks, a reminder that not all was quite well. Fundy… Fundy needed someone. Someone who could protect him. Someone who could bring back the life into those dull brown eyes. Fundy needed a parent. Eret didn’t know if they were the right person, but Fundy needed someone who cared. “Hey… You’re an orphan now―”

“Thanks for ruining the moment, Eret. No need to rub it in―”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that, Fundy. I would never― It’s just…”

They glanced over at him. Fundy’s ears were pressed against the top of his head, his eyes narrowing into thin slits as he bared his teeth. Eret wished he hadn’t begun in the way they did.

“You need a dad.” Fundy paused at that, glancing up at them in shocked silence. Eret fiddled with the bottom of their shirt, the proposal hanging in the air between them. They didn’t know if they would be enough – didn’t know if Fundy even wanted them – but Fundy needed to be safe. He needed someone who would think of him first – someone who would choose Fundy before anything. Someone who would show him that he mattered. Fundy bit his bottom lip, eyes casted low to the ground… but he moved a bit closer to Eret. After a few seconds, Fundy looked up once more, a cautious look in his gaze as he waited for Eret to say what they wanted. “You need someone who could care for you. Someone who would make you feel wanted. I may not be the best option, Fundy. Anyone else might be better suited for such a task. But if you will have me… then I would like to take you in. What I’m saying is… I want to adopt you, Fundy.”

The silence made their heart burn with ache. Of course, Fundy wouldn’t want them. Why would he? “I know you want someone else, anyone else. I know you probably have some semblance of hate for me. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have asked… I’m sorry, Fundy. I-I-I’ll be leaving―”

Eret felt a hand grab at the collar of their shirt, yelping as they were pulled into an embrace. They held their breath. Fundy burrowed his head into the crook of their neck, his shoulders shaking as another bout of tears escaped the fox hybrid’s eyes. Eret returned the embrace, holding him closer to himself as if that would be enough to block him from the cruel world they lived in. Right now… all that mattered was the two of them.

“All I ever needed… was someone who wanted me more than I loved myself.”

They swore right then and there that they would be the best parent Fundy would ever have. Eret placed a hand on the back of Fundy’s head, holding him closer. They would be okay… Eret would make sure of it.

“I’ll try for you, Fundy. I promise… I’ll be here for you for as long as you need me.”

~~~

“Come onnnnnnnnn.” They chucked as Fundy pulled at the sleeve of their shirt, forcing Eret quicken their pace on the creaky wooden pier. The sun was setting in the distance, casting the lake in an ethereal glow of molten gold. Fundy had begged them to take him on a fishing trip – claiming to know the perfect spot to do so – and as Eret looked over at the serene waters, they were glad Fundy had suggested the idea. Fundy’s eyes held a spark, an excited gleam that Eret wished would never disappear. As they reached the end of the path, Fundy handed them a fishing rod. Eret didn’t know much about fishing, but it was worth seeing Fundy so giddy… almost child-like as he sat down near the edge, his legs dangling over the water. “Are you going to keep standing there?”

Eret blinked, casting a look towards the fox hybrid before taking a seat next to him. A soft wind blew past them, small waves fluttering through the water’s surface. They ran a hand through their hair, nearly knocking off the flower crown that Fundy had made for them earlier on in the day.

It was a cold afternoon, one that sent goosebumps down Eret’s skin as they looked up into the dying sky. A beautiful hue of pink, orange, and purple painted the sky with their radiance as fading gray clouds moved towards the distance. They looked back down at the lake. Its edges crowned by a massive display of pink flowers. Eret wondered who could have possibly had the time to plant them. Niki did say she was building a flower shop with Puffy… and a flower shop certainly needed flowers. Eret was brought out of their musings by a hand on their shoulder. They looked over at Fundy, a nervous glint in his eyes as he looked down at the unused fishing rod in his hands. Eret raised a brow at him, turning to cast their own hook into the water. They watched as the bobber floated up and down on the water’s surface, they waited for a few seconds, but Fundy didn’t follow after them. They threw a look towards the person in question, “Fundy? What’s wrong?”

“I um…” They watched as Fundy fiddled with the rod, his fingers biting into the wood as he looked out into the lake. His ears were pressed against his head as his shoulders hunched up. It only took Eret a second to realize what was wrong. They quickly moved closer to Fundy, pulling back their own fishing rod as they placed it on the space behind them. They clasped their hands over Fundy’s, a gentle hold that made Fundy’s tail wag a bit. Fundy chuckled, embarrassed that he couldn’t exactly hide the way he felt. “Wilbur used to promise me, when I was younger, that he would teach me how to fish. The wars and the election kinda pushed that back on his busy schedule, ya know?”

“I know. Wilbur… he was a busy man. I’m sure he planned to teach you… once the wars were over.” They both winced at that bittersweet lie. Wilbur didn’t plan anything after the war. He knew exactly what needed to be done and he didn’t once spare a thought for the people he’d leave behind. Eret shook their head at the thought, pushing down the horrible feel of loathing that threatened to form in their chest. Wilbur was a good father, he was just a revolutionary first. Eret turned back to the task at hand, helping Fundy hold the fishing rod in a proper manner before getting their own. Fundy’s gaze never strayed, watching as Eret held the fishing rod in the same way Fundy was holding it. “I didn’t fish as mush as Wilbur, but I could teach you the basics. If you want me to.”

Eret laughed as Fundy nodded his head, his flower crown nearly falling off. Eret had promised themselves to work on the museum, but when Fundy strolled in – a myriad of flowers in his arms – Eret knew their productive day was as good as gone. They didn’t mind, not when Fundy looked so happy… so carefree, as if the burdens of the past had vanished. Somedays… it seemed like everyone forgot that Fundy was just a kid. Fundy may look and act like a teen, but how could a child ever move past the trauma of battle? Everyone had grown up so fast. They all needed a break, a momentary peace where they could just unwind. They would give Fundy a chance at childhood, one that the hands of war took from him. Eret chuckled beneath his breath, Fundy tilting his head as if he wanted to know what Eret found to be so funny. Eret shook his head, giving the fox hybrid a reassuring smile. “I hope you’re a quick learner. Sun’s about to set, want to speedrun this?”

“Spee― pfft. I bet I could catch more fish than you.” Fundy flicked out a tongue at them, laughing despite himself. Eret rolled his eyes at the fox hybrid’s challenge. He couldn’t even fish and he expected to beat Eret? Oh, it was definitely on. Eret shook their head before turning to direct Fundy on how to use the fishing rod. It took a few tries, but Fundy eventually got the hang of it. Eret knew he could do it. Fundy was smart… but there was no way he was beating Eret at fishing.

The sun had disappeared into the sky before Fundy finally caught his first fish. Fundy looked up at it with awe, letting out small noise of surprise. Eret nearly laughed at Fundy practically pushed it into their face in his haste to show it to them.

“ERET! I CAUGHT ONE!”

“You sure did.” Eret smiled, placing a hand on Fundy’s head.

“Are you… are you proud of me?”

“I’m always proud of you, Fundy. I always will be, no matter what.”

~~~

Fundy pulled the brown cloak closer around his shoulders, shivering in the cool night air. The full moon casted a silver glow upon the water’s surface, a white abyss that looked tempting to fall into.

There was a heavy scent in the air, a bitter taste that sent a horrible chill down his spine. He focused on the pink flowers that dotted the lake’s edge, hoping the color would force his thoughts to calm down. It was a silent night in New L’Manburg, the lanterns casting the streets in dim golden rays. Fundy was glad for their presence. They gave him some semblance of comfort and warmth.

The day had been fun. He scammed a few people here and there and spent his entire afternoon with Eret. A smile found its way to his lips at the thought of his soon-to-be parent. It had been a week since Eret had asked him if he wanted to be adopted, and somehow, his world had looked a little brighter ever since that day. Eret looked at him as if he mattered… as if he was wanted. He didn’t know how to feel about that. His heart ached and crumbled at the dark thoughts that plagued his mind. Surely… surely this was a ploy? A trick? Eret wouldn’t want someone like him, right?

He began to pull at the tips of his hair, forcing down the sobs that threatened to slip past his lips. Eret couldn’t possibly be doing this because they cared. No one cared about him. He was a nobody, an orphan of a country long since dead. Who would willingly ever choose him? He wrapped his arms around himself, closing his eyes as tears pricked at the edges. Eret was doing this out of pity… out of some high moral obligation. There was no way… There was no way someone actually wanted him. Who would want him? The child forgotten by his own father and nation? This had to be some sort of cruel prank that would leave him broken by the end. Eret didn’t care. Eret shouldn’t care. His fingers gripped his forearms in a bruising grip as those horrible thoughts ran through his head. Eret didn’t want him. Eret couldn’t possibly want him. Eret would never―

He felt a heavy cloak being draped over his shoulders, a warm hand settling on top of his head. His eyes abruptly snapped open, a familiar pair of shades appearing within his vision. “E-Eret?”

“You shouldn’t be out here, Fundy. I don’t want you getting sick.” Eret made quick work of tying the cloak around Fundy, giving him a soft smile as they looked over at the lake. Fundy felt that strange pang in his heart. Eret sounded so sincere… but Fundy just couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Although he tried to hide it, Eret noticed the tears in his eyes. Fundy felt a hand on his cheek, a thumb wiping at the stray tears that had escaped him. Dre, he was pathetic. He leaned into the welcoming touch, wanting to pretend that Eret actually cared for him. “What’s wrong, Fundy?”

“I know you don’t care about me, Eret.”

“What?!” He felt Eret hold him closer, their other hand on his shoulder as if to keep them both steady. Fundy bit the inside of his cheek, wishing that Eret would stop pretending. It was worse that way. Best to rip the band-aid off as quickly as possible. “Fundy, what are you talking about?!”

“You can stop.” Fundy wished he could push them away, wished he was anywhere else but there. “I know you couldn’t possibly care about me. No one cares about me, Eret. I don’t expect you to. So, please stop pretending you do. Everyone leaves me eventually. I know you don’t care―”

He was pulled into a tight yet gentle embrace. Eret’s chin resting on his head.

“Don’t tell yourself those horrible things. I care a lot about you.” Fundy gripped the back of Eret’s shirt, sniffling as Eret rubbed a comforting hand down his back. “I wouldn’t have offered to adopt you if I didn’t. I care… a lot of people care. Fundy… do you really think no one cares about you?”

“They shouldn’t. Don’t you see, Eret? Anyone who’s ever loved me died…” Fundy couldn’t help but think of Wilbur… of Schlatt… of his late mother… Eret shouldn’t care. “I’m cursed, Eret. You’ll leave too… or you’ll die. I don’t want you to die, Eret. I don’t know if I could take it…”

“I suppose I’ll just have to make sure I don’t die then.”

Fundy rubbed at his eyes, tilting his head up to glance into Eret’s eyes… well, shades. Eret had a smile on their face, a reassuring gesture that made Fundy want to cry. “You can’t promise me that, Eret. You can’t promise me that.”

“But I will. You’re my son, Fundy.” He froze at the title. He hadn’t been called that in so long… at least not in a positive way. “I can’t promise you the world, but I can promise you that I care.”

“Heh… I guess you do care…” Fundy sniffled, feeling a smile on his lips as Eret finally let him go. “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

“We all have our doubts, Fundy. You need not apologize.”

“Yeah…” Fundy held onto Eret’s arm, clinging to it as if it were a lifeline. Eret didn’t make a move to escape his grasp, they only seemed to pull him closer to their side. Fundy laughed despite himself and the ache in his heart. Maybe he was wanted… “Can we go home now, ren?”

Eret smiled, “Of course, son.”

They walked away from the pier, the night wind billowing through their hair. Fundy closed his eyes, content to spend their walk back in comfortable silence.

He was glad to leave… the bitter smell of the foxgloves near the lake had begun to make him sick.

Yet… their poisonous scent lingered in the air.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So yeah...

This is connected to my previous one-shots titled ‘Clouds V.2.’ and ‘Foxgloves’...

I TRIED TO WRITE A WHOLESOME FIC BUT I DON’T HAVE A SINGLE WHOLESOME BONE IN MY BODY, OKAY?!

But yeah... hope you guys like this :DDD

#fundy #eret #mcyt #wholesome with a lot of angst #because i write angst not wholesome fics dammit #no i refuse to make a better title #i wrote 4k words you think i'm gonna do the title too? no

[innittowinit]

Can we agree that duels are dumb and immature? (CH. 2)

chapt. 1 

AO3 LINK

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Language: English

Word count (including previous chapter): 3701

Summary:

Tubbo is still with Manburg and never became a spy He never wanted to be the villain, so why is he dueling his best friend?

“Is - there - anything - you’re - good - for!” The dictator punctuated his words by sharp kicks to the gut, his black steel-toed dress shoes making the perfect tool for the job; he always bought the pointed style, ‘they looked smarter’ he’d say, but right now it’s job was just to focus all the man's strength into his kicks.

“Y’know if you weren’t so smart I would have kicked you out along with those runts a long time ago. The only reason you aren’t out there, starving and foraging is because i wanted to help you!” Another kick was directed at him, this time it was his ribs. Poor Tubbo could already feel the bruise forming along his bone. “I help you! And this is the thanks I get! I give you a job! Provide you with food!..and you help the enemy. I’m disappointed in you Tubbo”

Schlatt crouched down, one knee on the floor as he watched the boy cower, too weak from both the duel and his beating to even raise a finger in protest. He knew he couldn't run, he was trapped. “Don’t you dare go against orders again. You hear that kid? This is my nation now, not your little playground”

A breath hitched in Tubbo’s throat at that; he was right. He had no power anymore. No matter how long he stayed, no matter how much he sucked up to JSchlatt, he would never rise in power, in the dictator’s eye’s he would always be a pawn, a disposable soldier in his game of chess. How could he have been so blind? Of course he should have left with Tommy, this was horrible, living here was horrible. He’d rather scamper around for food than live under the iron fist of their current ruler. He should have known he’d never be able to take him down from the inside.

The horned man grabbed forcefully at the back of Tubbo's hair, claw-like nails digging in to have a firm enough grasp, before slamming his head down against the cold, stone floor, built by none other than Fundy. A thin trickle of blood seeped down his forehead, only noticed once Tubbo had put his hand up to hold his pounding head and found it covered in blood, but there was no cracking noise. He wasn’t sure if he was lucky or unlucky for that, he’d love to pass out right now and just miss the pain of his torture but knowing Schlatt he’d find a way to make it worse for him once he had woken up.

It hurt. A lot.

Over all the wars he had taken part in, Tubbo had built up a pretty high pain tolerance, he’d been shot by dream countless times, stabbed by George, even his own teammates had unknowingly hurt him before. Nothing had ever felt like this though, he wasn’t sure what was hurting because he had been kicked and hit and what was hurting from the absolute anguish he was feeling mentally. Eyes wide and terrified, he watched Schlatt stand up, he seemed so confident in himself, despite the fact that Tubbo had absolutely no idea what he was planning, which is what scared him even more. He watched as he walked gracefully towards the door, locking the door behind him and leaving the boy in darkness.

To say he was stunned would be an understatement. He was so scared, so confused, was it safe to try an escape? He had to try. He didn’t know if he’d be welcomed into Pogtopia, he didn't even know where it was, but that seemed like the only option at the minute. He needed his friends. With aching, unsteady hands he pushed himself to sit up, getting lightheaded already as the cut in his scalp started to throb more significantly. Grabbing onto a desk, he dragged himself to his feet and was suddenly very unsure on whether he could even make it to the door, let alone find his friends. Apparently Eret and Bad had been to their base before, despite all their disagreements in the past, he trusted Eret a lot more than he trusted Bad. Bad had been on Dream’s side in the war the entire time, at least Eret had been with them a little, and now he was trying to prove he was trustworthy again! Tubbo needed to find him, he needed to find him and get directions to Pogtopia.

That was much easier said than done, unfortunately. Upon standing his head felt fair more dizzy, his vision was static and his knees felt like the bones had been pulled right out from them, Not to mention the way his stomach churned from all the kicks he had endured. He felt as though he might vomit.

Before daring to take a step, he took a deep breath, feeling his bruised rib shift inside of him from the sudden expansion in his lungs. ‘Well fuck’ he thought to himself ‘fuck fuck fuck’ What he absolutely didn't need right now was to have a broken rib, he had absolutely no potions on him and unless he wanted to damage his lungs too, he knew he’d have to stray away from taking big gulps of air, which meant he couldn’t exactly run.

Not like he could have anyways.

An arm gingerly cradles his side, wanting to provide support for his damaged bone without pressing too hard and causing more damage than before. One foot in front of the other, that’s what he tells himself, as he desperately tries to walk across the room. The pain is unbearable and with each step his vision grows more and more fuzzy. He needs to sit down, he needs a break but he knows he won't be able to get back up again if he lets himself have it. Stopping for a second, he grasps at the wall for balance, taking in deep breaths as he tries to level his head again, only to regret it when a hot pain explodes in his chest, causing him to grasp at it in agony as tears slipped out of his eyes.

So much pain. He’d be safe once he got to Eret, Eret would help him.

The boy's thoughts were cut off however by Schlatt returning, this time clad in netherite armour with an enchanted diamond sword in his right hand. After him followed George and Quackity, both holding iron axes.

Spirit crushed, Tubbo sank down to his knees, any hope of escape fleeting at the sight of the men in front of him. Schlatt crouched down in front of him for the second time that day, making a loud stomp on the cold stone flooring to get Tubbo’s attention, and when that didn’t work, he grabbed his jaw and forcefully pulled his head up to make eye contact with him.

Tubbo didn’t want Schlatt to see just how broken he had made him. He didn't want to give him the satisfaction of it.

Schlatt lifted the sword, but not as though it would strike down, no, rather he lined it up with Tubbo’s neck, positioning it perfectly and intricately. There was no denying that if he dared move a muscle there would be a large gash where the sword once was.

“Now kid,” A bitter laugh echoed around the dark room, was it day or night? He couldn't tell. The duel had been in the morning but he had no idea how long he’d been left in this damp room. “You know that here in Manburg we don’t exactly like traitors, in fact if you weren't so precious in your skills we’d have kicked you out months ago. You know that. But here’s the thing, Tubbo. We can’t have you running around, being best friends with the enemy. Really this punishment is for your own good, You’re just a kid, we know that. So we’re here to ‘teach’ you how to be a better worker”

The sword pulled away, just far enough for him to be able to nod without cutting himself, before pressing back up against his neck, keeping him from even daring to move. He didn’t want to find out what enchantments were on it, he was already dangerously low on health.

“Good boy.” The ram sneered, glancing back at George and Quackity for a second, mumbling instructions to them. Fight or flight responses kicking in, Tubbo started to kick his legs, the only part of himself that hadn't been damaged yet. He was scared of the sword but he knew he needed to pick up a fight. He kicked Schlatt square in the chest, the man tumbling back because of his height. Taking his only chance so far, he scampered towards the door, only to be yanked back by the arm by George. Yelping out in immense pain his spare hand went back to cradle his ribs, agony coursing through his body at the violent disruption to the already hurt body part.

Whoever was last in, Tubbo hadn’t been paying attention to that while he hurt so badly, had forgotten to lock the door apparently, not like Tubbo had noticed that either. His mind was so clouded he had absolutely been ready to just pound at the door. However, the constant yelling must have attracted someone because there, standing in the doorway, was Eret.

Maybe it was because he had been anticipating getting to him for so long but as he watched the man in the doorway, the sun seemed to glimmer off his crown in a way that made him look like an angel.

“Oh my god” He rushed inside, crouching down next to tubbo, picking him up onto his back.

“Our friend Tubbo here had a run in with some mobs, Isn’t that right, Kid?” The patronising tone making it evident that Schlatt would never see him as an equal.

He gave a weak nod, knowing the only way to get out now would be to play along. He wasn’t stupid, he knew how Schlatt worked.

“Kid trapped himself in here without any torches! Can you believe that?” He slapped Eret on the shoulder, far too hard for it to be friendly “We had just finished fighting them off when you arrived”

Eret gave a slow nod, feeling Tubbo curl up against his back, keeping a tight hold on him as he had noticed he was only holding on with one arm.

“Best thing to do might be to put him to bed, we can trust you with that job right Eret?” Another nod “I think he’s learnt his lesson now anyway, by the looks of those injuries he won't be making any mistakes like that ever again” And with that, Tubbos blood ran cold. He knew all too well that that wasn’t about his little made up story anymore. He knew it wasn’t a ploy to keep Eret under their control either.

It was directed at him. It was directed at him and it was a threat about what would happen if he ever dared to disobey orders again.

#tubbo #jschlatt #fanfic #whump #hurt/ no comfort #mcyt #dream smp

[the-peachpit]

NO SHIPPING

Wanring: Blood, Very loose interpretation of the dream smp lore lol

Summary:Technoblade Get's To Dream Before Quakity, Before Time Is Altered By Dream. Before Tommy Has A Chance To Return.

Notes:Hi! I'm really nervous to be writing for this group. I tried hard to respect boundaries using a master post on tumblr to double check. if I over stepped anywhere or was wrong in my interpretation let me know.

It wasn’t his fault. The blood on his hands meant nothing cooling and seeping into his fur. Fur. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d transformed back. Was it that easy for him now to lose control?

Stumbling his way into his home inviting the snow on his heels Technoblade let the door shut enveloping the room in darkness, not even the moon was out tonight. Limping like the beast he was Techno lit a torch on the wall with shaky hands. He caught a glimpse of himself in the small hall mirror the deep cut in his snout darkening his pink fur grungy and matting. It’d been so long since he’d returned to his true piglin form. He wasn’t a beast; he was a man. He lived like a man; he grew up among great men. His father was the best man he knew, and his brothers- men of action and determination. Skirting a fine line into madness over their pride, maybe his brothers were beasts, and maybe he played a part as the eldest. Hearing voices, unable to control his shapeshifting, giving into the voices and pushing Wilbur a little too hard outside. Maybe he had been the plague, but he changed. God he had changed. Refining himself in the image of those around him wanting nothing more than peace among the outskirts and land of his own to farm.

Now he stood covered in blood that wasn’t just his huffing his snout fogging the glass. Where did he go wrong? Was it demeaning his brothers dreams? To be leaders, Wilbur was always meant for something great, and even Philza could see it fostering his natural leader instinct. Sometimes it felt like Wilbur was the eldest. The way he would stir up Tommy for a laugh, but always taught the boy to be patient and gentle. How he took care of Technoblade when the voices demanded blood and his hand twitched over his sword. The way Wilbur had found techno doubled over in the closet scratching at the wooden floor with claws piercing long marks. At that point Techno had been in his human form for a while but was losing control that night with Philza out of town. Techno was supposed to protect his brothers. Instead, he chucked his sword to the corner so he wouldn’t be the one to end their lives as his piglin form emerged. Wilbur was slow, but fearless as he spoke softly placing a hand over Techno’s. it was the warmest he’d ever felt. Wilbur told Techno he trusted him, that his brother could never hurt him piglin or not. Wilbur promised to always be louder than the voices. How fast L’manburg had risen and fallen. Techno almost couldn’t believe it when he heard the news. Wilbur had been exiled from all he loved. Instead of coming home Techno found Wilbur and Tommy looking battered and defeated in a cave. Techno’s heart broke seeing them look so dull he offered to help. When he handed Wilbur his first sword techno ignored the flame he saw, the glint in his brother’s eye. He should have said something, instead he led his brothers charge into battle sealing their fates unknowingly.

When Wilbur died Techno felt like his own life had been taken from him. He watched his brother die at the hands of his father and there was no good in the world anymore, nothing mattered. He wanted to scream, but instead scowled hiding himself away. Until his youngest brother betrayed him. Voices seared his brain and Techno knew releasing those withers was a bad idea, but he was so angry. Betrayed by the boy with wheat colored hair who shot for the stars letting nothing stand in his way. The boy who followed his older brother anywhere even into madness. Techno felt like he had no family after that. When he got home from that battle as L’manburg burned he felt the sting of it all. The blood on his hands was almost Tommy’s.

Techno smashed the mirror forcing himself to transform, to see the human hand covered in blood. He was a person. With little strength left he popped back to a pink furry beast. He continued to light his small home trudging to the bathroom. His clothes were torn in spots partially from the transformation. Forcing himself to turn again he saw the damage to his human complexion, the dark bags under his eyes, the scar on his snout ran from the right underside of his cheek to under his left eye. A trophy of sorts.

Techno cleaned his wounds slowly, deliberately, letting himself feel the sting of antiseptic. He deserved it- to hurt like they hurt. Changing his clothes and moving to the living room techno lit his fireplace when the vase in the corner of the room caught his eye. It was filled with various flowers from Ranboo who would generously give them away when Techno would visit Tubbo mostly to see Tommy. Techno never understood why Tommy had forgiven Tubbo for anything, and so easily at that. Techno had gotten revenge on Tubbo watching blood seep from his face by his own hands and still wasn’t satisfied by the punishment. In fact, Tommy was ruining it, because when Techno saw Tommy make Tubbo smile moving the burn scars on his face Techno felt weird. Remorse? Tommy was a spitfire who never thought anything through including befriending the enemy. Techno wondered if in the end he was an enemy? The thought squeezed his heart like a vice.

Techno looked at the chair in the middle of the room, he’d wanted to read a book and call it a night, his bones ached, and his head throbbed. Was he getting too old for this? Fighting everyone, why was he stilled pulled into this? He asked to be left alone, it’s all he wanted.

Huffing he knew he couldn’t just sit there. Opening the front door, he grabbed his coat before walking towards the stables stomping through the snow to his polar bear. It would make the trip faster, and Tubbo enjoyed seeing his pet. It would make things, easier.

Ridding through the dark with just the gentle glow of the stars to guide him Techno let the blistering cold nip at his face. To perk him up or make him feel alive he wasn’t sure. He rode through the frozen tundra watching the snow melt to warmer climates. It was spring where Tubbo lived a new life. He never locked himself away. Knocking on the door Techno waited unsure what he could even say when he saw the charred face of the small ram boy.

“Do you have any god damn idea what time it,” Tubbo’s curses slowed as he rubbed his eyes taking in the sight of his former foe.

“I’m not sure time’s been a blur tonight,” Techno shrugged.

“Why are you here?”

Techno could practically hear Tubbo’s teeth grinding.

“I just want to talk about,” Techno sighed, “Tommy.”

“Leave,” Tubbo’s normally cheerful voice sent shivers through Techno’s spine.

“I will just,” Techno stood straighter saving face his 7-foot frame usually kept him brave.

“Leave!” Tubbo shouted, “Tommy’s dead! I had his funeral and, where were you? Couldn’t be bothered to show up! Did you even know?”

Techno felt it the crack in his heart, he knew Tommy was dead. He was probably one of the last to hear in passing from Ranboo before being left on his own in his self-made snowy dungeon. His hell he personally crafted. He didn’t sulk at first, it sunk in over a glass of whisky, his youngest brother had been beaten to death in a prison he was never meant to be in. The brother he had cleaned scrapes for and applied bandages. The brother he taught how to fight and had dinner with hearing his plans for his future. Tommy, the boy with wheat colored hair who shone like the sun. It wasn’t fair. His light was snuffed out in a cold dark place at the hand of his tormentor from day one. Beaten to death. Techno couldn’t get over it. He smashed his glass and knocked his bookcases to the ground. Beaten to death! Brutal, soulless, painful. God Tommy was probably in so much pain. Pain Techno couldn’t protect him from or make better. He died alone.

“I killed him,” Techno’s voice was a whisper that stung.

“What?” Tubbi stuttered.

“I killed Dream,” Techno looked at his hands he could still see the blood.

“I don’t,” Tubbo stepped forward driven by curiosity.

“I went to the prison,” Techno shouted, “I kicked the crap out of Sam, and I killed Dream!” He ran his hand frantically through his messy pink hair, “I was just going to talk to him, but I saw Tommy’s body, and I had my axe.”

Tommy’s eyes were milky a far cry from his curious blue gaze. His face was bruised and bloodied. He looked so cold not even the lava could warm him. Dream just sat there welcoming Techno assuming he was a break out party. The voices screamed demanding blood, and Techno obliged happily. With a fierce swing Techno planted his axe between Dreams ribs.

“He laughed,” Techno smiled, “The damn bastard cackled as I slaughtered him. All he did was scratch me once as I lost control and mauled him.”

“Kinda looks like he scratched you pretty good,” Tubbo observed the large scar.

“Heh,” Techno laughed, “I guess.”

“Did you come all the way here just to tell me this?” Tubbo leaned against the door frame.

“I want to know if you’ve seen Philza,” Techno asked, “I brought back Tommy’s body, it’s in the snow at my place. I want to bury him properly. Him and Wilbur. I’m not sure if Philza knows about Tommy yet, and I should be the one to tell him.”

Philza hadn’t talked about Wilbur either since the tragedy. Techno wanted to walk about that too.

Tubbo nodded, “Let me talk to Ranboo, I’ll be back out.”

The plan was set in motion. Tubbo accompanied Techno back to his house refusing to look at Tommy’s corpse and Techno couldn’t blame Tubbo. They rode for a day and a half returning to the small cabin Techno remembered growing up in. He could hear the laughter of Tommy and Wilbur echo on the breeze that rustled the trees. He saw Philza standing on the deck looking down at them. When did he get so old? He looked so tired. He knew.

No words were exchanged as Techno dismounted his polar bear and Philza descended the stairs. Techno tried his best to make the words come to him. He was told he always had a way with words. Before he could open his mouth, strong arms embraced him. They were warm and comforting. They felt like support. Slowly Techno raised his arms grabbing onto Philza’s shirt hands balled into firsts. When was the last time they were this close?

Tommy and Wilbur were buried in the back of the house under the tree Tommy had fallen out of breaking his arm. Under the tree Wilbur wrote songs on lazy afternoons. Under the tree Techno taught his brothers how to wield a sword and be strong. The tree they grew under.

“Welcome home Theseus.”

#dream smp fanfiction #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #fan creation #dream smp