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painless-innit-colourful · 1 year

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Orpheus

(3k words, tw for canon-compliant suicide and mild self-harm, read it below or on my ao3)

Throughout his life, Wilbur Soot was a musician. In death, Wilbur Soot was a musician. In what came after...(Basically, if c!Wilbur had written all of Wilbur Soot's music in Dream SMP canon, how, and when.)

Full fic below :))

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He’d always been a musician.

His dad’s best friend used to call him Orpheus. He’d be about to leave, standing in the door frame and he’d call, “Orpheus?” down the hallway. Wilbur would shake his head and cross his arms and answer, “Yes?” “Don’t look back.”

He’d taught him confidence: how to hold his head up, how to keep his voice steady talking to a crowd and, most importantly, how to hold his own with someone that wanted to see him burn. Some lessons less applicable to his future plans, but Technoblade thought it important he knew these things. Even for a budding songwriter, pockets lined with scraps of paper shrouded in scrawled lyrics and chord structures.

“Regardless of whether they’re laughing at your poems or crying at your songs, you keep your eyes on the crowd. It’s a dangerous world out there; I don’t want to see Phil grieving you.” “Relax, Blade,” His guitar was laying precariously in his lap as he leant back, arms behind his head. “I’m hardly going far. I’m not going to start any trouble.” Techno’s eyes seemed to glint, the flames of the fire reflected in his irises as he watched Wilbur across the room. A log crackled and tumbled into the hearth with a beat that could fit cleanly in a two-four bar.

“Well, don’t let anyone convince you you’re any more or less than what you are.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You know yourself better than anyone: your strengths, your weaknesses, what drives you to keep writing and singing. If anyone tries to make a myth or a mess of you-” “‘Know thyself, know thy enemy,’ right?” His eyes glinted back, the righteous fire of oats unsown, youthful energy and boldness. Techno resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “You can hold your own, we both know that. Don’t let anyone convince you you can’t.” He paused, “Don’t turn around.”

Wilbur blew a long breath between his teeth, “If I write you a ballad, will you stop telling me that.” Techno just laughed.

Yes, he was always a musician, leaving home with his guitar hefted over his shoulders. Waving at his father and his friend. Techno made the ‘turn around’ sign as he left.

Open mic nights and tavern gigs didn’t satisfy the itch, the hunger inside to create, to share, to make something people would belt at the tops of their lungs long after the alcohol ran dry and the torches burnt low. In the end, it wasn’t even his melody. That part vexed him, partially - his biggest hit and it wasn’t his melody - but he hushed the musician inside and tucked his guitar lovingly into his enderchest, to be brought out on special occasions or when Tommy looked a little low.

Playing by the light of a campfire, within the walls of a nation he built, fought and died for, ran, was all he wanted to do. When the volume of paperwork was insurmountable, when the treaties didn’t write themselves, when he spent countless nights gripping a tear-stained pillow, listening to Tommy and Tubbo staying up half the night in the next room, praying he could keep them safe - those notes, those words were his sanctuary. People spoke of how it made him a down-to-earth ruler; the President sat among his people, leading them in a soft singalong of the anthem, but he didn’t do it for optics. He’s a poet, not a politician (how on earth did this happen) and it felt good to retreat behind his guitar for a while. It gave him perspective: how far he’d come, how much further he could still go. This was so much bigger than a kid writing lyrics by the campfire in the garden. The special place they sang of, he made that happen. Playing by the fire, he imagined the future: retired, moved on from a life of public service, but still playing. Resting under his redwood trees, resolutely strumming that old guitar, safe in the nation he made.

It’s a shame it didn’t last. He remained a musician, but there would be no playing with aged hands within the black and yellow walls.

His hands were cold. He had always strummed with his fingers before, but after moving into that ravine, he started using a pick. His melodies sloped into sharps and flats, shaking fingers unable to find the right fret.

“Ridiculous, aren’t I?” Techno stopped walking, glancing down at the skeletal figure of Wilbur, swamped in a trenchcoat and curled around the guitar Phil bought him for his sixteenth birthday. “All that time in L’Manberg, I said I wished I had more time to write and practice, now I’ve got it and I can’t even be happy with that!” “Well, they do say tragedy makes good art.” “Mmm,” Wilbur gazed up at the ceiling of their cavern home, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve found it hard to know what to write about. All this time I was saving up ideas and now I have all this time and nothing- nothing’s working.” “Keep… Yeah, keep working at it. You gotta persevere with it, or something.” “Sweat your guts out,” Wilbur gave him a forced grin. “You got it, Blade.”

Techno didn’t hear it himself - he had been at his secret base at the time, putting together experimental weapons and mostly trying to not blow himself up in close quarters. He heard what it had been, though, the next time he went to Pogtopia and Tommy Innit ran up to him.

“You didn’t put Wilbur up to this shit, did you?” “Tommy, what are you talking about. I haven’t been here in two days.” Tommy took the deepest breath known to man, dragging his fingers through his hair and finding a number of tangles on the way. “Wilbur’s- Wilbur’s gone a bit… A bit morbid, in his song-writing lately.” He laughed nervously. “I thought the singing about stalking government officials and comparing his heart to a bleeding - literally bleeding - keyboard, was weird, but now he’s going on about- about blowing up L’Manberg-” “Oh really?” “Yeah! It was this creepy two-chord tune about burning the place to the ground and he was playing it over and over for hours-”

He finally heard it himself a few days later, tucked between the usual laments on past lovers and agonising teenage angst - two chords, over and over, echoing through the cavern, Wilbur’s voice reverberating after it like the melody and accompaniment were chasing each other the length of the ravine. He listened to the words - the ones he could make out - and heard the smile in Wilbur’s voice as he bastardised the lyrics of his own nation’s national anthem. That was brilliant for Techno’s plans, but, still.

He had a feeling the musician hadn’t listened to him.

“How does the story end?” Wilbur had been fourteen when they’d met and every bit the child his father had made him out to be. Curious, reckless, idealistic, a dreamer, an intellectual and a poet. Techno saw trouble coming down the tracks before anyone else did. But not quite like this.

“Well, the doubts in his mind grew to be overwhelming. Orpheus looked back and Eurydice was there. He met her eyes… and she disappeared.” He watched Wilbur form a chord on the neck of the battered guitar they’d found abandoned in the woods with clawed fingers. “...Then what?” “That’s it. That’s the end.” Wilbur looked up, “What happened to Orpheus after?” Techno thought for a moment before he spoke, “Well, like most Greek myths, there are a few versions. Most of them agree that he walked the earth lamenting his tragedy, singing about it. His songs were so full of sorrow they made mothers miscarry and willow trees bow their boughs - that’s where they got weeping willows. After that… I think the general consensus was people got so sick of him making them all sad that a group of them tore him apart.” “Just- Just like that?” “Yeah. Just like that.”

Wilbur, even in the pit of his breakdown, spoke of a symphony. Once a musician, always a musician, it seemed. L’Manberg was his great, “unfinished” symphony, he said. He rambled on and on to Techno and Tommy and cave walls about movements and variations, weaving notes between the peaks and troughs of the story.

“The explosions will be like percussion, finishing the final movement - which is ironic of course, because it’s unfinished, intentionally so. The silence after-” He closed his eyes and stilled, imagining it, a smile growing. “Yes. I’d like to hear the silence after. That’s how it’s meant to end.” He turned, trenchcoat flying out, to face Techno again. “Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Ninth Symphony?”

He had been standing at the back of the crowd, Dream whispering nonsense in his ear, trying to rile him up. Truth was, he already knew exactly what he was going to say. He’s an orator. But as the hopeful L’Manbergian’s hung on Tubbo’s every word, he instead watched the figure near the front that had just stepped down from the stage. He observed the conflicted expression on Wilbur’s face. He’d just witnessed the paradox - backing Techno’s anarchy, denouncing the government and rejecting the presidency in the same breath he used to smile at his boys and hand power to Tubbo.

He watched the doubt creep in. And Wilbur looked back, past Techno, eyes glazed over, towards the hill where he knew the button room to be.

And L’Manberg disappeared.

The guitar came and went repeatedly. He wasn’t even sure how he had it sometimes. It was better not to think. Because thinking meant remembering. Just play. Just let your shaking hands find the right frets in the dark while you stare at the insides of your eyelids because if he had to look at the damn advertisements in the train stations satirising his downfall one more time he would hurl the guitar onto the tracks again, and who knew how he even got the damn things in the first place

Wilbur used to hate barre chords with a burning passion. Just buy a fucking capo. Who even has an index finger that strong anyway. Ghostbur, however, loved them. Finally, for the first time since he was like sixteen, he felt like he was writing melodies that made sense. They just flowed out of him like the water running under the L’Manberg highways. Like someone else had written them, and they were songs he’d always known. He finally felt like a musician again. Phil, his father, sat nearby, listening to him play in the November evening air. The sky was overcast, but the lanterns (his lanterns!) shone overhead like stars, lighting up the quiet marketplace.

“You used to play like that when you were little,” Phil said softly as he played on. “The brighter chords and stuff.” “Mm,” It made Ghostbur glow, sharing his music with his father again. He couldn’t understand why Alivebur had wanted to hide his lyrics from him. “Play the one about- walking boots? Again.” “Hiking boots,” he said with a light laugh. “Yeah, that one.”

They wrote as a duo, subconsciously: like a pair of writers in a band wrestling for creative control while simultaneously stealing all of each other’s ideas. Ghostbur would argue the ‘hiking boots’ song was about his son. Wilbur shouted back: it was about Sally, it was about shattered families, yes, it was about Fundy but not in the way you bloody think! Ghostbur smiled and played the songs until his fingers would’ve bled, were they corporeal. Wilbur screamed at the walls of the station until his voice was completely gone, beating at the walls with his fists, bloodying his hands until they could no longer hold the neck of his guitar.

Gradually, his hands healed. He tossed the guitar away in his rages so he didn’t smash it against the tube station wall (though he had tried it a few times and found it incredibly cathartic). In his infinite patience, waiting in the dark for salvation that would never come, he played better music than ever before. He made a makeshift capo from a strip of fabric ripped from his shirt and a piece of a shattered sign and played weeping melodies in wonky thirds and fourths. Music was his salvation: this time from utter destructive madness. More than once he bit at the skin of his fingers ‘till they bled, then used them to write chord progressions on the wall in rusty blueish-brown. He hummed the harmony line to his melodies as he played them and wished for another instrument, a way to record; literally any of the things he knew he could never have in this homemade hell. The lonely busker spent a decade serenading the empty platform with his songs of brutal tragedy.

“Did you say you’d thought of a new one?” “I did, I just want to tweak my lyrics-” “You’re rewriting my words… You know you need author’s permission to do that.” Ghostbur swore the songs just popped into his head, often almost fully formed, only requiring minor tweaks. He ignored the whispers in his mind in the voice that sounded like his own. Listening to that voice hadn’t gotten Alivebur anywhere. “Originally, the bridge was about trains, but now I’m thinking that’s not very relevant to here, where there are no trains. So I- hold on… I got it.”

Wilbur just scowled as his ghost sang of “barriers on the highways”. My genius is being pilfered, he thought. He picked up his own guitar and played along.

“There’s a reason / L’Manberg puts barriers on the highways / There’s a reason / They fail…”

In Limbo, there was very little melodic sound. Sure, there were trains rattling through every few hours, the wind whistling in the tunnels, and he could always shout ‘till his echo bounced out of earshot, but there wasn’t a lot other than that to be heard. His guitar had been the one thing that kept him from going truly ‘round the bend.

Groaning, screeching, screaming, wailing, scratching, shrieking: it was technically the most horrible noise Wilbur had ever heard in either of his lives. Yet, he loved it. In the blur of the train journey back Wilbur wasn’t sure of much. He heard the ear-splitting screeching, saw the weeping ghost, threw up out of one of the train windows and screamed along to the great noise, harmonising with it the best he could until they burst from the tunnel, light streaming through the windows, so bright Wilbur thought he was dying again.

Several days later, Wilbur was still singing. Sopping wet from the rain, one drink deep in a rowdy tavern where the whole world was warm and beautiful. Dimly, he was aware some of the pub patrons were giving him stern looks, but he was too deeply in love with life to even fathom that he could leave her behind again. No, he was singing, he was happy- no, ecstatic, to be alive, and emboldened by this latest turn of good fortune. He was a musician, and though he hadn’t found his old guitar again yet, he wasn’t going to be discouraged. As if it were Fortune herself daring him, a man appeared by the bar with an instrument strapped to his back.

“Evening, good sir. I couldn’t help-” The stranger in the trenchcoat with the immovable grin did not wait for him to turn around before launching into some half-prepared spiel. “-but notice the bass on your back. Do you play?” “I do, I do.” “Well?” “Yes, I would say well.” Ash had not been expecting to be quizzed on his musical ability that night, but it was a frequent-enough occurrence that he wasn’t phased. Until- “That’s wonderful. Do you have a job.” “I- Yes. I work here, actually. It’s my night off today.” “That’s fantastic. Quit your job.” The stranger was either absolutely plastered or a complete maniac. He allowed him the benefit of the doubt, “Why?”

The stranger flipped a strand of wet hair out of his eyes, “Join my band. I’ve got a drummer and a guitarist. And I sing. I’ve already written some songs, they- the others liked them,” He stood a little taller. “I think you’ll find us a worthwhile endeavour.” Despite the fact this entire encounter was completely ridiculous, Ash was inclined to keep following the thread. “What kind of songs do you write?” “Oh, pretty standard stuff,” He laughed, practically glowing. “Being jealous of your ex’s new man, being afraid of the future, making fun of past presidents. That sort of material.” Ash quirked an eyebrow, “Which past presidents would those be?” The stranger, Soot, grinned, “Any of them. All of them.”

Soot stuck a hand out, “What’s your name?” They shook, “Ash. Yours?” A sly smile, “You already know it.”

“Just one more thing, Ash.” Soot’s eyes were more tired now, darting up from the comm name and number he was scrawling on a napkin in a sputtering red biro. “One rule. For the band. Once you’re on board, you ride it to the end. You keep your head up high and no matter what-” He finished the number, securing it with an exuberant dot, and handed it to Ash. “You don’t look back.” Ash nodded, “Sounds good to me.”

In life, death and that which came after, Wilbur had always been a musician.

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Taglist: @fruitpilled @zrenia @spaceheatertrash @waitblues @kinda-late-but-here-though @icyisweird @boomybelovd @thatfriendlyanon @rozugold

#dream smp #crim writes #wilbur soot #techoblade #philza #tommyinnit #ghostbur #tubbo #also ash from lovejoy is here but i won't maintag him #thank you so much for reading :))#FIRST FIC OF 2023 WHOOO!!#i have literally been sitting on this idea since wilbur was resurrected. april 2021. it took me nearly two years to write this thing lmao #i really hope it came out half decent XD

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dissonantharmony · 2 years

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thinking abt the fact that if wilbur remembers the good parts of ghostbur’s memory (which i am STILL over the moon abt btw) then wilbur changing the anthem to “and eret” might’ve not been a coincidence at all. he really did truly keep his promise.

#SCREAMS #THEM!!#dream smp #dream smp spoilers #wilbur soot #eret #not to mention ghostbur forgot abt the resurrection attempt #so wilbur found out about it for the first time during the stream on the 19th #he probably realized eret kept their promise right then and there #i wonder if he held any resentment towards eret prior to that bc he remembered eret promising to revive him but not the revival attempt

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shiningsagittarius · 11 months

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Brain worms in the tags

#qsmp #thinking abt a pet sematary style au #where Wilbur is Louis and Tallulah is Gage (or I guess more like Ellie in the 2019 remake)#Philza is basically Jud with a mix of a few other characters and Chaynne is the book version of Ellie (requisite psychic child)#and the plot is Wilbur decides to move to Quesadilla Island with Tallulah to settle down + try to be closer to his estranged dad #when Phil is telling him abt the island he mentions the strange graveyard and a legend abt a demon named Cucurucho #and wil is just like ‘uh huh sure ok’ until Tallulah’s beloved pet turtle Augustín dies #wil reasons that he could pick up literally any turtle and nobody would know the difference #but he feels strangely drawn to see if the graveyard can really bring back the dead #and it works! sure the turtle smells kinda weird and keeps biting people but it’s fine!#and then wil learns why it’s a fucking terrible idea to leave a young child unsupervised on a three story high balcony actually #Phil warns him that sometimes dead is better but he just can’t handle it so it’s ~grave robbing time!~#and the resurrection seems to work at first since Tallulah is living and breathing again #but she’s not the same sweet little petal that went into that grave…#*gripping you by the shoulders* do you see my vision #idk pet sematary is one of my favorite novels I gotta read it again

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glythandra · 1 year

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Spring Sunrise

#glythandra art #c!wilbur #wilbur soot fanart #c!tommy #tommyinnit fanart #dream smp fanart #dsmp fanart #dream smp #mcyt fanart #fun fact: this piece took me a year to finish #purely bc i procrastinated it #sketched it on my phone the day of the resurrection stream #finished it a day after the year anniversary #put myself thru horrible agony #now im posting this to procrastinate working on a different piece #fml #2022

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tjodity · 10 months

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Scrapped lore bits from the Dream SMP I'm still mad we never got:

-Whatever lore Nihachu had planned for the day Doomsday happened

-The Egg finale scheduled for immediately after the Red Banquet

-Jschlatt's Las Nevadas resurrection (heavily implied by Quackity trying to get the Revival Book after gambling with Glatt and cc!Schlatt saying he'd be coming back to the SMP)

-Any further development of Puffychu

-Ranboo getting resurrected (cc!Ran saying he was meant to be revived two weeks after the prison break)

-Hitting on 16 in livestream format. Like I know we still got the lore but cc!Wilbur simply could not fit what the format brings into written form. The long periods of characters just talking to each other, body language, random impromptu moments, etc.

-The Manhunt Arc (slight speculation but the streams where Tommy reinforced Tubbo's old house and convinced Eryn, Sam Nook, and Phil to help him track and kill Dream after the prison break felt like it was setting up something)

-Cyberknife lore (cc!Techno planned on having his character leave and acting as an antagonist for the syndicate)

-Ranboo's ARG (never properly finished)

-Ranboo and Slime in the multiverse (I have no context but I swear cc!Ranboo said something about this and if I had to guess tftsmp!Ran and O!Ranboo could've had something to do with it)

-whatever Connor had going on (I know his SMPLive stuff I'm referring to him knowing Karl could time travel)

-Tubbo's ending of growing old and raising Michael (planned but cut for the nuclear ending)

-Tommy's soft ending which would apparently resemble Jesse Pinkman from Breaking Bad. (this is secondhand information but I've seen people talk about it. I assume this to mean he would escape the SMP and we wouldn't see what happened to him. Cut for the nuclear ending)

-Captain Puffy being the main antagonist of Season 2 (as seen by her being the vessel for the fully powered Egg in the finale and having a skin ready for season 2)

Feel free to add your own!

#dream smp #tommyinnit #tubbo #wilbur soot #nihachu #ranboo #captain puffy

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captainmortuem · 1 year

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I so desperately wish I could have discoloration in my hair like people try to do with bleach, but like natural. Can you imagine if I had my normal haircut but a nice line of some Grey's? I could dye them if I want, I could leave them there and look like an absolute slut. Any witches out there know how to do this hmu please I want this shit so bad.

#eridan kinnie behaviour #wilbur soot post-resurrection #because i know that CHILD is going to say some shit

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bowenoke · 2 days

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during Tubbo's cabinet era i wrote like 30k words of a fanfiction where when they tried to resurrect c!wilbur they accidentally sent tubbo back in time and it becomes increasingly obvious that wilbur never existed, and its a little fun because you get to see all the tubbo pov things from wilbur's pov + get more information, but tubbo gets more and more frantic and machiavellian as he realizes the only way he can guarantee the people he cares about survive his war is by following in "wilbur's" footsteps. obviously i never finished it for a lot of reasons (ambitious but not actually very good) but i need you to understand that despite being like. A Beeduo Artist for a year there. that nothing in the world caused me more despair than when they got married. what was i supposed to do there. mcrp hell on earth for me. he goes back in time and becomes an adult man and his husband stays a teenager??? the thing you don't realize walking into mcrp fanfiction is that sometimes the story you're writing gets fucked by acts of god

#if i can never share or finish this story i can at least complain about it on tumblr! as is my godgiven right #i had CLIMATES for the WORLD #I had CROP SCHEDULES #I HAD SO MUCH WORLDBUILDING. in fact the story was mostly worldbuilding.#i had transition science and potion science worldbuilding.

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ghostiexe · 3 months

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hiii i saw your reqs are open! could i request anything with a kinda gruff but still sweet revivebur? thank you in advance!

(p.s., can i be ⚰ anon?)

hiiii ⚰ anon! yes of course! tw: wilbur smokes, light swearing, idk it's cold? mentions of hypothermia (lighthearted)

worcount: 970

"Can We Go Back Inside Now?"

You huff softly as the crisp winter air nips at your nose and cheeks, gaze shifted up toward the stars as you blow your breath onto your hands in an attempt to warm them up, though it’s half-hearted. You watch as a couple snowflakes start to drift down around you, wiping your face and blinking up at the night sky.

You hear him before you see him, the sound of boots crunching in the snow and the smell of cigarettes. The footsteps pause and you can practically feel him hovering behind you.

“Hello, Will.” You greet him without looking, just leaning back until you’re halfway laying on the snowy ground, blinking up at him. He frowns down at you, taking a long drag of his cigarette before sighing, the smoke blowing away as he snuffs the cigarette on his coat.

“Are you trying to get sick and die?” He asks, sounding unamused as he puts his hands on his hips, staring down at you. You shrug and sit up again, letting him pull you up to your feet.

“That was not the goal, no.” You say, wiping your runny nose and cracking a smile at him, amused by how disgruntled he looks with the snow falling into his face and his glasses fogging up.

He scoffs softly and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you slightly closer to him and shoving his free hand into his pocket. “Well, it’s damn cold, so let’s go back inside before you get hypothermia.” He says, looking mildly annoyed.

“You didn’t have to come out and get me.” You remind him, leaning against him and gently bumping your hip against his. “You could’ve stayed inside where it’s nice and warm and left me to my inevitable death by freezing.”

He grumbles something to himself and pulls you closer so that your chests are pressed together, shoving his face into the crook of your neck and nuzzling his freezing cold nose into your warm skin. You jolt slightly and laugh, trying to squirm out of his arms.

“Ugh, what was that for?” You complain, not protesting when he just pulls you even closer, practically crushing you.

“My face is cold, your neck is warm. The goal here seems clear to me.” He deadpans, though you can feel how his lips quirk up into a smile against your neck. “I thought you wanted to go in where it’s warm, not keep my hostage out in the cold.” You protest, wrapping your own arms around him and leaning against him. He loosens his grip slightly, now that you aren’t trying to run away.

“Maybe you should talk less.” He mumbles, pulling his face away and peering down at you, the tips of his nose and ears red from the cold.

“Maybe you should make me.” You tease, pulling him in for a little kiss. He brings a hand up to cup your face, the other still around your waist as the two of you kiss sweetly. After a few moments he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against yours.You sigh contentedly and sway slightly from side to side with him.

“We should dance.” He says after a short, comfortable silence. You look up at him, a little surprised, but not opposed. It’s something the two of you had done on the regular before his, well, untimely demise (and, consequently, resurrection).

“Really?” You ask, a tentative smile crossing your face. He looks embarrassed, but nods.

“Okay.” You whisper, cheeks a little pink, a bright grin on your face as he smiles gently down at you, resting one hand on your hip and holding your hand with his free one. Your other hand instinctively goes to rest on his upper arm, and he relaxes slightly into your touch.

Your movements are awkward at first, a clumsy waltz. You’re both incredibly out of practice, but soon enough you’re back into the swing of things.

“Sorry we don’t have music.” He apologizes, turning his head down to look at you. You glance up at him, taking your gaze away from your feet (you were examining your steps, trying to avoid stomping his toes (though you doubt he’d feel it through his thick boots).

“It’s okay, don’t worry.” You promise him, trying to lean in to kiss his cheek right while you step. You both trip over each other at the same time and end up on the ground again, your leg pinned under his while he looks bewilderedly at you. His glasses are falling off the tip of his nose and his mouth is slightly agape. You push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, then kiss the tip of it, and put your hand on his cheek, thumb brushing across the faint stubble.

He sighs softly and leans into it before wrapping his arms around you and rolling over so that you’re on top of his chest, pulling you tightly into him.

You laugh softly and shake your head slightly, resting your head on his chest and sliding your hand back into his, fingers interlocking. “You’re just a big ol’ softie, you know that?” You ask, and he grumbles something under his breath before lightly flicking your forehead. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He says, sounding like a grouchy toddler. He sit up with you still on him and scoops you into his arms as he stands. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck and he peers down at you. “Can we please go back inside now?” He asks, and you nod, kissing his cheek. “Okay, doll.” You say, using his usual nickname for you back on him. A faint blush rises on his cheek but he just carries you back to the house, eager to bundle up and enjoy the warmth of the fire again.

#wilbur soot x reader #wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot fanfic #wilbur x you #revivebur x reader #revivebur fluff #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur fluff

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man-down-in-hatchet-town · 6 months

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Theory: Hannah's Birth Led to Steph's Mom Dying

Okay, this is a bit of a wild journey, but I promise it's at least somewhat thought-out if you're willing to bear with me for a bit. (Theory under the cut!)

I'm endlessly fascinated by the absence of the Church of the Starry Children (not a random opener, I promise). We're told multiple that times that "nothing that dies in Waylon Hall ever truly dies," and we learn that the Waylons put a spell in place to essentially resurrect anyone killed on the house's property. We also learn that the Waylons and their followers all died in the house in 1979. So... where are they? Max was a singular teenager, and within two weeks he had the entirety of Hatchetfield whipped into a panicked frenzy. Surely an entire cult of evil zealots brought back from the dead and imbued with insatiable bloodlust would be even more noticeable. At the very least, their Number 1 Fan Roman and remaining widow Sheila would know that they were still out there, which is clearly not the case. So it's pretty undeniable that, despite their safety-measures, the Waylons and their followers are no longer around.

There are multiple potential reasons for this. The Hatchetmen have experience with such people. Perhaps they got around the spell by taking the Cult's bodies to the Witchwood and burying them there, though that doesn't seem hugely likely. Or maybe Miss Holloway took care of the Waylons back in the 80s. That timeline arguably kinda' sorta' works--Miss Holloway gave up her life as a pop star to become an immortal witch just a handful of years after the Waylons' deaths.

But then we have Solomon in Nerdy Prudes Must Die, who has the Black Book, but says that he will never touch it "ever again." This statement heavily implies that Solomon once summoned the Lords in Black, and the absence of Steph's mother implies that she was the price he paid. (Nick and Matt also give A LOT of credence to that theory in the Hatchetfield Halloween livestream.) Solomon also knows A LOT about Max, the spell that created him, and how to put an end to it. And sure, this could be second-hand knowledge passed down from previous mayors or Miss Holloway. But what if it's not? What if, in an eerie foreshadowing of his own daughter's future actions, Solomon Lauter was the one to summon the Lords in the Black and sacrifice the love of his life to stop the resurrected Waylons?

There's an obvious problem with this theory--the timeline. Judging by Max, it's likely that a whole cult of monstrous and monstrously powerful ghosts on the loose for 25 years would have been Apocalyptic long before the timelines had the chance to shatter.

So what if they weren't around? What if the Waylons' spell was not automatically triggered upon their deaths, but instead required activation? Perhaps, in their cult-y arrogance, Mathias and Agatha never imagined that every single one of their followers would be wiped out alongside them. Maybe the Starry Children were supposed to return to the Hall upon the Waylons' deaths and activate the magic. With the Cult massacred, there was no one left with the knowledge to complete the ritual and resurrect the dead, leaving them in limbo.

And then Hannah enters the scene, born the same year that Solomon performs his Summoning. We know from Wilbur that Hannah is basically a nuclear power plant. What if her birth, together with the massive burst of energy as Lex activated her powers to save her sister, (and also maybe PEIP's portal playing whatever role it played,) was enough to do for the Waylons as Hannah would later do for Willabella Muckwab? What if Hannah's nuclear battery existence automatically served to complete the Waylons' spell, activate the house (leaving it primed for Max's return from the grave), and release the Waylons onto the unsuspecting town? Leaving Solomon, town Mayor, sentinel at the gates of hell, to work alongside Miss Holloway and her Black Book, discover the truth of the Waylons, and summon the Lords in Black for help. And maybe Miss Holloway, still in the middle of her own deal, was unable to make another, separate one, leaving Solomon to give up what he treasured most...and murder Steph's mother.

(And maybe the little girl she left behind is nothing but a reminder of his loss and his guilt.)

(Update: lmao @thatdelusionalnerd just described this as "far-fetched but still makes quite a bit of sense" and I just wanted to acknowledge that because I feel like that's my sweet spot with Hatchetfield theories. Arguments that are absolutely bananas and almost definitely not true, but to my own consternation kinda' work nonetheless.)

#solomon lauter #miss holloway #steph lauter #hatchetfield #hatchetfield theory #hatchetfield theories #hannah foster #lex foster #the church of the starry children #mathias waylon #agatha waylon #starkid #nerdy prudes must die #npmd #npmd spoilers #nerdy prudes must die spoilers

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