#Dark Flag by Wil | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fangdokja · 21 days ago

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Gonna use this poll to decide if I'll open Anonymous Requests. I doubt I'll open it, but let's see...

And, announcement, yes, I'll keep Anonymous Asks open for now. To be honest, I've gotten both positive comments and hate mail from people in general, both in Tumblr and Ao3. And, I was like, "It's starting." hahahaah

But I'm keeping my Anon Asks inbox open, because I want you all to be comfortable and welcome here. To have a safe space and not have to deal with annoyances of people reprimanding you or something.

I honestly aim to create a community where you can be yourself without fear of judgment as much as possible, to have a place that can comfort you and help you grow better. To process emotions, traumas, hardships, or even just having reading as a form of relaxation, in a safe environment. That's what I aim for.

I'm telling this now, because hate mail is starting already. Ofc automatic delete and block. But for me, what makes me mad (and I rarely get mad) is when people are put down, or their feelings are invalidated; just because you don't understand who they are, and what they're going through. I could care less what happens to me. But for all you Readers, to protect you all; I put my foot down, when it comes to people invalidating others, just because you don't understand them.

I never planned to do this at all. But, comments like this:

I wanted to say, that this is genuinely such a good description of emotions, abuse, and especially on the side with parent and child. This definitely had me relating to my past trauma's, but in a good way that I can recognize it. I never comment, but I genuinely wanted to let you know this and you as a creator are definitely one of my new favorites. Please keep this book up, it's giving me the courage to want to write yandere original character x reader fics. Which is very niche but this helps, also I'm just going to gush that I love your writing style. It's so descriptive without being overly wordy. It's clean and cut like a polished diamond. Clear, concise, with depth.

Or this:

This shit had me almost crying half way through lmao. Had to take a damn break to recover n then I cry in my dream😭I was nvr that mad at a character. This woman is an excuse of a mom. I usually don't comment often but this shit got me heeeated

Such comments give me new perspectives on this blog and my writing. It's not flattery, but a sense of responsibility and empathy for others.

I don't talk about what I've gone through; but I do understand what it means to go through darkness everyday of your life. To walk with death everyday of your life. (yes, Chrollo is extremely relatable to me)

And, I want you guys to know, whatever you're going through. Yes, as cliche as it sounds, you're not alone. Most may not understand, but dark content can be really therapeutic for certain people. To process things in a safe environment without fearing judgment.

And, I refuse to let people who do not understand that, who devalue and discriminate the hardships of others, to fester toxicity in this blog. I know everyone is going through something. I'm not mad at them either, and I pray that every one of you will see God one day. He's the only One worth living for anyway.

But, that doesn't mean I will allow toxic behavior here, actions and words meant to undermine another human's dignity.

Fiction and reality is different. Just because I write about it doesn't mean I condone it. It's like how thriller authors write about murder, but it doesn't mean they killed someone. Or how certain literatures like Shakespeare are read in schools, but that doesn't mean people want you to commit double suicide or incest.

Anyways, these haters don't read my content anyway, at least in actual context or maturely. And, I'm also non-confrontational in nature. I don't like fights nor arguments.

So I'd also appreciate a lot if you Readers also focus on just enjoying this blog without having to deal with toxic stuff. I'll handle it. Don't worry. :)) Just be the bigger fish as they say. No need to stoop down to their level, because these prideful people just crave attention and drama in reality. So, best to not engage them.

I'm telling this now for future preparations and references. I do not want any fighting in my blog, whether you're a long-time reader or a new reader. Those who disobey rules will be automatically blocked without question.

Ok, I'm saying this now, as a new promise to you all.

I hope you and I will stick together for a long time, to grow and develop to become better people. And, for all of us, together, to create a community where Readers can enjoy their stories without fear of judgment and toxicity.

New vision statement? haha, maybe.

Kind of a somewhat heavy real topic; but you know me, I want to be transparent about my intentions with this blog, writing, and community.

I hope you all understand. And, thank you all for the support thus far, this community wouldn't have grown without each of you pitching in to help. So, thank you, and God bless everyone. :))

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douglasanondr · 7 months ago

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So Compile Hearts has opened up a site for the game (this one) So I went to the bios, ran thru the google translate to learn more about them. I'm really intrigued by this game because both in and out of universe we have not seen the Sorcery world in years, I wanna know what's up with these goobers.

So here are the main 5 google translated, plus some of my opinions on them cuz why not.

Fia

It's Arlemitie, but in all honesty she seems like a fun character. I do like that they emphasis that she's not that strong magic wise, she's just really lucky. A good juxtaposition between the other Magical protagonists, no God powers or hero statuses, just a lot of luck and some skill.

Wil

Ragnus but with Rulue's specialty, legit I see more Ragnus in him than I thought, and considering Ragnus doesn't get a lot of spotlight on him, having a character like him would be greatly appreciated. I especially want to know what being a "hero" means in this world. Also he has a twin brother but he's not in the bios so.

Lina

Firstly, I think there was an error with the translation I think their suppose to be a girl, but I might be wrong so just in case I'll just put they for everything.

Secondly, it's as if Red Flag was a character. Just look at that description, think about the greater Madou/Puyo franchise as a whole and tell me they aren't doomed. They might not be the next Dark Mage but they are gonna be cursed by something somehow.

I'm excited to see what happens to them.

Totto

Love them. I have nothing more to say, and I only know this much about them but they are already climbing their way up to my top 10 favourite characters in this franchise.

Eska

She is interesting. If the description didn't say she was a dragon girl, I legit wouldn't have noticed. I want to know more about her, what's her deal, her dragon heritage, where her village is and why she's so interested in Fia. Legit, I think she might be the main villain of the game, if not her then her Dragon Form.

#puyo puyo #madou monogatari

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juregim · 2 years ago

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my initial post about this got flagged as mature content because of the manga panels, you can see the illustrated version here.

question: sorry to bother but could u elaborate on denji almost becoming quanxi??

ok, so we must first think of how Fujimoto writes side characters. they are there to not only enhance the world and plot but also serve the narrative in a more symbolic way too. like the three immortal brothers aren't only there for absurd dark humour but also because we need a reminder that just because this world is seeped in death, life is still precious. also, Aldo's moment of realisation and begging for forgiveness was in connection to the theme that ignorance is bliss, as in when you close your eyes to the truth for too long, reality will hurt you.

in her very first appearance, she is basically living out what Denji believes to be his dream: having sex with beautiful women.

she is a hybrid, like Denji is, though we are not exactly clear on what her devil heart is (i think Arrow or Bow devils?), and she is incredibly strong.

regarding Quanxi herself, she is willfully ignorant, believing that to be the key to her happiness. in an exchange with Kishibe in chapter 61 she says: ‘The secret to leading a happy life in this world … is that ignorance is bliss.’ and that is the core principle of her character. we can see it even in the small moments before this exchange, like when she and her girls are in a sushi restaurant and Pingtsi tells her some facts about fish, and her mood is soured by it.

during the fight with the dolls, this is the advice she bestows on him: ‘if you understand it that way, you can kill them, can’t you? Ignorance is bliss.’ she is talking about forcefully forgetting that the dollified people are still alive and can feel pain. ignoring the truth so that his conscience don’t eat away at him.

and after the international assassins arc concludes, we can see him really living it, we have plenty of key moments where Denji acts out of wilful ignorance, avoiding reality wherever possible. it even seems to work out for him.

until it doesn't. and there is a choice before him: close his eyes and continue to live under the belief that Makima is his saviour or open than and face reality.

if he were to live life as Makima planned he would've become a blind tool whose only hope of finding happiness would be to adopt ignorance in the same way Quanxi has. tools know nothing except how to be used, and it doesn't ultimately matter if they change hands (like how Quanxi is on Makima's side through the Control Devil arc), as long as they serve their purpose.

there is, of course, A LOT more to be said about these themes of ignorance vs knowledge and the balance between them in Chainsaw Man but i think i've summed the connection between Quanxi's fate and Denji's possibilities well enough here.

#chainsaw man #chainsaw man meta #quanxi #denji #laila.txt

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revenant-coining · 2 years ago

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Wilromalunaic

[ID: 2 rectangular flags with 11 horizontal lines. colors in this order from top to bottom: pale blue, light purple, light purple-pink, pink, dull pink, dull red, red, darker red, even darker red, dark red, black-red. in the center of the first flag is a symbol of a wilted rose and a crescent moon. End ID]

Wilromalunaic: a gender connected to wilted roses, dying romance, blood, the sweet taste of blood, the moon, moonlight, and nighttime.

Etymology: wil(ted), roma(nce), “luna” moon in latin, “ic” meaning of or pertaining to

Pronounced: will ro-ma loo-na ick (wil roma luna ic)

@radiomogai , @mogai-sunflowers

[ID: an orange line divider with a star covered in flame in the middle. End ID]

#Wilromalunaic #gender #neogender #xenogender #liom #mogai #🪼 creations #category: genders

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wispy-fox · 2 years ago

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LGBTQ+ Nerds

The drawing is under the cut-

I happened to come across a similar box similar to the one above, it was grape and strawberry though, and was randomly hit with the idea to do...this:

(Click for better quality)

Wil has no care in the world if it's all too much, he's gonna show his support and have fun dammit! Also, yes, he slapped that Progress Pride flag sticker on Dark, as the monochrome fella didn't have enough vibrant colors- XDXD

Some credit time:

Since Dark doesn’t particularly enjoy being surrounded by a large crowd of strangers, though, they’re watching the Pride parade from a hilltop. Or, well, Wil is watching while our favorite entity can’t take his eyes off his lover celebrating, their smile and enthusiasm simply too radiant, hehe ^^ 💖🖤💖🖤💖🖤

Also, I know Dark isn't supposed to cast a shadow as he doesn't have one in ADWM when you have to choose, but you can see (for only a second) their shadow retreating to them, so... He has a shadow if he wants a shadow, lol

@eyesore-boi helped out a ton by giving advice/suggestions and just being really encouraging, so thank you for that, friend-o! ^^

The reason I included that Intersex-Inclusive Progress Pride flag was due to this drawing, done by my friend @strawberryamanita , but for some reason I went for a slightly basic version of it. I honestly forgot why I didn't include the other colors, but either way I like it and I hope y'all do too!

Also, you guys helped out with Dark's tie and flag as well. I'm not sure what I headcanon Dark as yet, so that's why I needed your own opinions/headcanons on the matter, so thank you all so much! :D

Happy Pride everyone! I hope it’s been a wonderful month for all of you, including the ones still in the closet. ^^

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Please don't steal my artwork.

Have a wonderful day/night! ^^

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jazzynook · 11 months ago

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The Essay that Made Bourdain Famous

"Good food, good eating, is all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay. It’s about sodium-loaded pork fat, stinky triple-cream cheeses, the tender thymus glands and distended livers of young animals. It’s about danger—risking the dark, bacterial forces of beef, chicken, cheese, and shellfish. Your first two hundred and seven Wellfleet oysters may transport you to a state of rapture, but your two hundred and eighth may send you to bed with the sweats, chills, and vomits.

Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness. The members of a tight, well-greased kitchen staff are a lot like a submarine crew. Confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders, they often acquire the characteristics of the poor saps who were press-ganged into the royal navies of Napoleonic times—superstition, a contempt for outsiders, and a loyalty to no flag but their own.

A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher in “Down and Out in Paris and London.” Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen—free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.

I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumors of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavory side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humor, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom—doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”

A year ago, my latest, doomed mission—a high-profile restaurant in the Times Square area—went out of business. The meat, fish, and produce purveyors got the news that they were going to take it in the neck for yet another ill-conceived enterprise. When customers called for reservations, they were informed by a prerecorded announcement that our doors had closed. Fresh from that experience, I began thinking about becoming a traitor to my profession.

Say it’s a quiet Monday night, and you’ve just checked your coat in that swanky Art Deco update in the Flatiron district, and you’re looking to tuck into a thick slab of pepper-crusted yellowfin tuna or a twenty-ounce cut of certified Black Angus beef, well-done—what are you in for?

The fish specialty is reasonably priced, and the place got two stars in the Times. Why not go for it? If you like four-day-old fish, be my guest. Here’s how things usually work. The chef orders his seafood for the weekend on Thursday night. It arrives on Friday morning. He’s hoping to sell the bulk of it on Friday and Saturday nights, when he knows that the restaurant will be busy, and he’d like to run out of the last few orders by Sunday evening. Many fish purveyors don’t deliver on Saturday, so the chances are that the Monday-night tuna you want has been kicking around in the kitchen since Friday morning, under God knows what conditions. When a kitchen is in full swing, proper refrigeration is almost nonexistent, what with the many openings of the refrigerator door as the cooks rummage frantically during the rush, mingling your tuna with the chicken, the lamb, or the beef. Even if the chef has ordered just the right amount of tuna for the weekend, and has had to reorder it for a Monday delivery, the only safeguard against the seafood supplier’s off-loading junk is the presence of a vigilant chef who can make sure that the delivery is fresh from Sunday night’s market.

Generally speaking, the good stuff comes in on Tuesday: the seafood is fresh, the supply of prepared food is new, and the chef, presumably, is relaxed after his day off. (Most chefs don’t work on Monday.) Chefs prefer to cook for weekday customers rather than for weekenders, and they like to start the new week with their most creative dishes. In New York, locals dine during the week. Weekends are considered amateur nights—for tourists, rubes, and the well-done-ordering pretheatre hordes. The fish may be just as fresh on Friday, but it’s on Tuesday that you’ve got the good will of the kitchen on your side.

People who order their meat well-done perform a valuable service for those of us in the business who are cost-conscious: they pay for the privilege of eating our garbage. In many kitchens, there’s a time-honored practice called “save for well-done.” When one of the cooks finds a particularly unlovely piece of steak—tough, riddled with nerve and connective tissue, off the hip end of the loin, and maybe a little stinky from age—he’ll dangle it in the air and say, “Hey, Chef, whaddya want me to do with this?” Now, the chef has three options. He can tell the cook to throw the offending item into the trash, but that means a total loss, and in the restaurant business every item of cut, fabricated, or prepared food should earn at least three times the amount it originally cost if the chef is to make his correct food-cost percentage. Or he can decide to serve that steak to “the family”—that is, the floor staff—though that, economically, is the same as throwing it out. But no. What he’s going to do is repeat the mantra of cost-conscious chefs everywhere: “Save for well-done.” The way he figures it, the philistine who orders his food well-done is not likely to notice the difference between food and flotsam.

Then there are the People Who Brunch. The “B” word is dreaded by all dedicated cooks. We hate the smell and spatter of omelettes. We despise hollandaise, home fries, those pathetic fruit garnishes, and all the other cliché accompaniments designed to induce a credulous public into paying $12.95 for two eggs. Nothing demoralizes an aspiring Escoffier faster than requiring him to cook egg-white omelettes or eggs over easy with bacon. You can dress brunch up with all the focaccia, smoked salmon, and caviar in the world, but it’s still breakfast.

Even more despised than the Brunch People are the vegetarians. Serious cooks regard these members of the dining public—and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans—as enemies of everything that’s good and decent in the human spirit. To live life without veal or chicken stock, fish cheeks, sausages, cheese, or organ meats is treasonous.

Like most other chefs I know, I’m amused when I hear people object to pork on nonreligious grounds. “Swine are filthy animals,” they say. These people have obviously never visited a poultry farm. Chicken—America’s favorite food—goes bad quickly; handled carelessly, it infects other foods with salmonella; and it bores the hell out of chefs. It occupies its ubiquitous place on menus as an option for customers who can’t decide what they want to eat. Most chefs believe that supermarket chickens in this country are slimy and tasteless compared with European varieties. Pork, on the other hand, is cool. Farmers stopped feeding garbage to pigs decades ago, and even if you eat pork rare you’re more likely to win the Lotto than to contract trichinosis. Pork tastes different, depending on what you do with it, but chicken always tastes like chicken.

Another much maligned food these days is butter. In the world of chefs, however, butter is in everything. Even non-French restaurants—the Northern Italian; the new American, the ones where the chef brags about how he’s “getting away from butter and cream”—throw butter around like crazy. In almost every restaurant worth patronizing, sauces are enriched with mellowing, emulsifying butter. Pastas are tightened with it. Meat and fish are seared with a mixture of butter and oil. Shallots and chicken are caramelized with butter. It’s the first and last thing in almost every pan: the final hit is called “monter au beurre.” In a good restaurant, what this all adds up to is that you could be putting away almost a stick of butter with every meal.

If you are one of those people who cringe at the thought of strangers fondling your food, you shouldn’t go out to eat. As the author and former chef Nicolas Freeling notes in his definitive book “The Kitchen,” the better the restaurant, the more your food has been prodded, poked, handled, and tasted. By the time a three-star crew has finished carving and arranging your saddle of monkfish with dried cherries and wild-herb-infused nage into a Parthenon or a Space Needle, it’s had dozens of sweaty fingers all over it. Gloves? You’ll find a box of surgical gloves—in my kitchen we call them “anal-research gloves”—over every station on the line, for the benefit of the health inspectors, but does anyone actually use them? Yes, a cook will slip a pair on every now and then, especially when he’s handling something with a lingering odor, like salmon. But during the hours of service gloves are clumsy and dangerous. When you’re using your hands constantly, latex will make you drop things, which is the last thing you want to do.

Finding a hair in your food will make anyone gag. But just about the only place you’ll see anyone in the kitchen wearing a hat or a hairnet is Blimpie. For most chefs, wearing anything on their head, especially one of those picturesque paper toques—they’re often referred to as “coffee filters”—is a nuisance: they dissolve when you sweat, bump into range hoods, burst into flame.

The fact is that most good kitchens are far less septic than your kitchen at home. I run a scrupulously clean, orderly restaurant kitchen, where food is rotated and handled and stored very conscientiously. But if the city’s Department of Health or the E.P.A. decided to enforce every aspect of its codes, most of us would be out on the street. Recently, there was a news report about the practice of recycling bread. By means of a hidden camera in a restaurant, the reporter was horrified to see returned bread being sent right back out to the floor. This, to me, wasn’t news: the reuse of bread has been an open secret—and a fairly standard practice—in the industry for years. It makes more sense to worry about what happens to the leftover table butter—many restaurants recycle it for hollandaise.

What do I like to eat after hours? Strange things. Oysters are my favorite, especially at three in the morning, in the company of my crew. Focaccia pizza with robiola cheese and white truffle oil is good, especially at Le Madri on a summer afternoon in the outdoor patio. Frozen vodka at Siberia Bar is also good, particularly if a cook from one of the big hotels shows up with beluga. At Indigo, on Tenth Street, I love the mushroom strudel and the daube of beef. At my own place, I love a spicy boudin noir that squirts blood in your mouth; the braised fennel the way my sous-chef makes it; scraps from duck confit; and fresh cockles steamed with greasy Portuguese sausage.

I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.

Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing paychecks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills: Live Cabaret! Free Shrimp! New Orleans Brunch!

In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family. It’s a haven for foreigners—Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. In New York, the main linguistic spice is Spanish. “Hey, maricón! chupa mis huevos” means, roughly, “How are you, valued comrade? I hope all is well.” And you hear “Hey, baboso! Put some more brown jiz on the fire and check your meez before the sous comes back there and fucks you in the culo!,” which means “Please reduce some additional demi-glace, brother, and reëxamine your mise en place, because the sous-chef is concerned about your state of readiness.”

Since we work in close quarters, and so many blunt and sharp objects are at hand, you’d think that cooks would kill one another with regularity. I’ve seen guys duking it out in the waiter station over who gets a table for six. I’ve seen a chef clamp his teeth on a waiter’s nose. And I’ve seen plates thrown—I’ve even thrown a few myself—but I’ve never heard of one cook jamming a boning knife into another cook’s rib cage or braining him with a meat mallet. Line cooking, done well, is a dance—a highspeed, Balanchine collaboration.

I used to be a terror toward my floor staff, particularly in the final months of my last restaurant. But not anymore. Recently, my career has taken an eerily appropriate turn: these days, I’m the chef de cuisine of a much loved, old-school French brasserie/bistro where the customers eat their meat rare, vegetarians are scarce, and every part of the animal—hooves, snout, cheeks, skin, and organs—is avidly and appreciatively prepared and consumed. Cassoulet, pigs’ feet, tripe, and charcuterie sell like crazy. We thicken many sauces with foie gras and pork blood, and proudly hurl around spoonfuls of duck fat and butter, and thick hunks of country bacon. I made a traditional French pot-au-feu a few weeks ago, and some of my French colleagues—hardened veterans of the business all—came into my kitchen to watch the first order go out. As they gazed upon the intimidating heap of short ribs, oxtail, beef shoulder, cabbage, turnips, carrots, and potatoes, the expressions on their faces were those of religious supplicants. I have come home."

Published in the print edition of the April 19, 1999, issue.

#vintage #new yorker #anthony bourdain #essay #marginalia

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inclusivepicrews · 2 months ago

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skin tones (mostly unnatural except for a dark brown), elf ears, fangs, vitiligo, 1 natural hair style (fro), glasses, trans flag and nonbinary flag background

#inclusive picrews #inclusivepicrews #skin tones #elf ears #fangs #natural hair #glasses #i am actually really really fond of this art style. i find the fangs adorable

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cescalr · 1 year ago

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... glances left and right.... okay, they're all gone.

quick. MCYT headcanons.

DSMP -

Some general backstory, appearance, and hybrid status headcanons.

Wilbur;

Only biological child Phil has with his wife, Lady Death. Avian hybrid, magpie.

Wings start out mostly white, gain black feathers over time. At the start of the DSMP, they're fully white.

Dumbass doesn't shower or wash his clothes (gross - also literally canon, alas), so the same goes for his wings - they get pretty dirty.

Wilbur can hide his wings at will and does so when the black feathers start getting noticeable during the Pogtopia era. He dies with them hidden, but they manifest upon loss of life. Mostly black, with a white stripe through the middle, horizontal.

Ghostbur doesn't have wings. He has little black feathers in his hair, though, mostly hidden within the curls. Revival makes him unable to hide his wings. They're ragged and unable to fly, even once cared for. They're fully black, seeming to accrue soot from nowhere constantly for the first few months. Afterwards, they reset to a jagged white stripe through the horizontal middle, which dirties to cream.

His fingers are stained with gunpowder he can't get rid of, but they don't seem to be dangerous because he doesn't stop smoking. (alternatively, he doesn't care).

Wilbur requires skin grafts, the tone slightly different from his own, and the skill of stitching somewhat amateur. His hair is the same as before death, though the tone is more ashen - peppered with grey. There's a white streak at the front, a large and unavoidable chunk of dead, old hair. Overtime turns cream because, again - dumbass doesn't shower.

His jumper is the same one he died in. bothered to stitch up the front, but not the back, which is hidden under his jacket. He used an old L'Manberg flag, tattered but not faded, to patch up the hole in his coat. He never bothers to remove the old bandage tied around his arm, so there's a fun little bloodstained bit of cloth hiding a slash in the fabric. Again, Wilbur and self-care have never become acquainted.

His old glasses have been replaced with red lenses because of a newly gained sunlight sensitivity after over a decade in the dark subway station of limbo*.

*it's something he remembers only vaguely from his childhood, a school trip to some NYC SMP or somewhere else in some other American-born land, somewhere that's a big enough city for an underground rail system. It blends with Wilbur's memories of the London Underground from the few times he visited the various Londons of various SMP Earths. It smells like Utah, like the old gas station convenience store he worked at for a short stint. Cigarettes and cleaning fluid.

Basically; Wilbur's hybrid status goes Dove -> Magpie -> Crow... ish. It goes back to Magpie Post-Return to Utah/DSMP Reset, and stays that way.

Look of wings is dependent mostly on his age; Phill went through a similar process. It's an Angel thing.

Wilbur's a little different, though, because he's not a human-turned-angel or a born-angel or whatever. He's nephilim, technically. Also a demigod, because of Kirsten, Lady Death, and all.

Wilbur is not human - he just looks it. Phill may once have been human, but he was Lady Death's Angel of Death when they had Wil, so ergo wilbur is 1/2 Angel, 1/2 God. This allows for the circumstances of Fundy's birth (also just him being intersex in general would do that, but... yk. Fundy is also a goddamn fox, so, not exactly normal stuff going on here. I have Fundy as a kind of changeling/fae being because i have Sally as a fae/shapeshifter, to preserve some of my sanity. Wilbur might've been fucked by a fish, but that's just a crass way of saying he had sex with a lady who spends most of her time in freshwater rivers... I am not literally canonically having him perform acts of bestiality. I refuse.)

Quackity;

While the duck q is fun (the idea actually is kind of like... interesting? Like the whole point is that people think nothing of ducks they think they're harmless and kind of cute and it's like - the ideas of perception vs what a person is actually like and its neat in its own way - it's like, BITCH YOU THOUGHT? and he eats his dead husband's heart like that's. juicy. there's a lot of meat on that bone. however i think fandom has sunk their teeth in so deep only the marrow's left so i go a different path. but i'm ok with duck hybrid q when it's not used Weirdly, i just don't use it myself) I like to use it as a decoy, you know, a false assumption - a red herring, so; not a duck hybrid. And I go with pretending to be a duck hybrid because it gets him underestimated but also because the actual kind of hybrid he is gets poor treatment because if you're going to society something then go full fucking hog guys! If hybrids and societal norms about hybrids exist and assumptions are made about a person's nature because of their assumed status then go the whole mile, not just a short walk. Anyway he's like an 1/8th human 1/2 siren and the rest sea dragon. And yes. He's an obligate carnivore. Hehe >:).

The fact of the matter is that sirens (and to an extent, dragons also) eat people and he's not wanting to deal with that particularly negative preconception. (Like. Re: Social ramifications and the unexplored nature of hybrids in MCYT fics that take SMP Earths as canon; If your species is inherently predatory to humankind and its ilk then how would that get you treated in a human-dominant society hello?????

I guess I'm cribbing a bit from zootopia here but humans are both predators and prey like... would cannibalistic species be forced to register because its basically assumed they're all murderers?)

Q's an obligate carnivore but can consume plants with little to no trouble, depending on the plant. has a strong hold on his instincts but can easily be pushed into instability and some pretty bad actions by his draconian instincts... like if, say, his husband, like, dies. or his best friend. Hoarding tendencies are most often aimed at people, which is problematic. does like shiny things and has an innate preference for armour, though the armour doesn't have to be literal. protective instincts can flip to negative pretty easily. tends towards obsession. violent/pugnacious, vents most of this through language use but doesn't have a good handle on his temper (mostly a him thing). poor self-awareness is just a him thing, though. and some of his behaviours are more linked to trauma (lack of trust) than nature (cannibalism. oops.)

Quackity got to the DSMP via Captain Puffy's boat. He's the son of one of her crewmen, a sea-dragon hybrid, and a siren he met while at sea. they both died to a tsunami on her home island*, in service of saving their son.

*His dad was a sailor and the human/sea dragon, his mum the siren, they lived on her island for a few years until Big Storm. Q survived. Technically immortal bc. Sirens and sea dragons are immortal. But also Not because humans aren't. Complicated.

Immortal in the long lived sense. Can be killed. Easily. That 1/8th human is a bitch!

Roughly 1/8th human, 3/8th dragon, 1/2 siren.

Tubbo -

BLOND

HE IS BLOND

THAT TEENAGER. IS A BLOND PERSON. LOOK AT HIM.

4. HE. IS. BLOND. I am not going crazy!!!!!! Stop saying he's not blond!!!! he is!!!! It does not matter what the cc looks like and never has. Just take Rythian Enderborn as proof of that. Mumbo K Jumbo. I could go on. But my point stands. Tubbo is blond. Whatever the cc looks like is IRRELEVANT.

5. Annoyed rant over now. anyway.

6. humanoid shapeshifter. can't change very much; flips between fully human, goat-horned, or with bee antennae. By the Reset, he's settled into sticking with both at the same time, though startling him can change their placement/shape/size.

JSchlatt -

I elongate the timeline of the DSMP. Ic it's something like months - i make it take a few years, like it did IRL, because the improv nature made the aging up of the cc!s apply in-story (mostly for the younger lot, like Tommy and Tubbo), and that doesn't make sense otherwise (Having the rest of the characters stay the same age while they grow up would be weird. I mean, Nikki even has a birthday, so aging is canon to the story where it isn't canon to something like the YogsMC Tekkit/FTB timeline (though is to SOI - we do meet Old Peculiar, after all, and then in YL we meet Old Honeydew and Xephos...) so maybe not a great example. But Still!).)

He's 21 when he arrives, and dies at 23, instead of the canonical 21. This is so i can have Ghost Stories by the Narcissist's Cookbook apply, as in, be from his perspective, at least a little. Do I care if this makes sense? No. Leave now if you think the DSMP has any truly, wholly good characters. I do not. Every single one of them is nuanced in one way or another, some of them worse and some of them better, but none of them directly good, except maybe Slime. I'm only talking about the ones that got directly involved with the storylines. If someone didn't come up (get involved), then they don't exactly 'count'. (It's like Minty Minute in yogsmc. Like, she was there! in the tekkit timeline! but does anyone know this? No! We never saw her! People forget she was a character... Do think a lot of the at-the-time sjips fans wrote her out on purpose, and now it's a sort of, well, her only real tie was that she was dating sjin, and THAT is a whole bag of worms these days, so just... write her out... but that's lazy. I don't like that! She was only really relevant to a few episodes of blackrock she didn't even appear in anway. I'd tie her more to that squad than to anyone else.)

ANYWAY

Dies of 'broken heart syndrome' because i love angst

Is a wolf/sheep hybrid. 1/2 human, 1/4 wolf, 1/4 sheep, i guess. Nobody was fucking any animals though, don't get it twisted. Genetic experiments are really common in MC worlds. Splicing is a dime a dozen. (He's also not actually any of these things, but he doesn't know that. Amnesia!)

His mum was a wolf hybrid, his dad was a ram hybrid.

People don't know the wolf part, because it's antithetical to his desires to scam people with schlattcoin if they think he's going to eat them.

The wolf part gives him still human-normal sharper canines, and his need for a high protein diet, hence the preference for shakes and steaks.

The only outward signs of the hybrid status are that, his keratin ram horns and rectangular pupils. People usually clock the ram immediately, and don't look for anything else.

Also, yes, I couldn't resist the wolf in sheep's clothing idea once it came to me. sue me. that's so funny.

After revival; his eyes are silver, like the colour's been bleached out (they were golden, before.). His hair's a little lighter, faded. There's a few streaks of white. His facial hair gets the most salt amongst the pepper, but it's not nearly as noticeable as Wilbur's state because it's a whole new body given... er, what happened to the. Last one. Yeah. Anyway, given his preferred facial hair style, it's not the most noticeable thing in the world.

His horns are very curled, having grown in limbo or from the revival spell (? or something else....) sharp at the point and clearly uncared for from nearly 2 decades in limbo, though they recover over time, the colour fade from brown to beige is now a grey-ish brown, faded, to white at the point.

(working for Quackity, given he lost the bet, he does have to look at least presentable.)

After Las Nevadas falls, there's not really much of anyone left around other than Q, JS, and Slime. Schlatt sticks around, for lack of anything else to do. Also, inability to leave. (Because. reasons.) Q's not in a good place - I mean, we literally watched him hit rock bottom. When Slime. Pushed him off a cliff.

Which according to cc talk he survived, so. YK.

They're... healthier, than they used to be. That's not saying much. They used to abuse each other; anything would be healthier than that.

A 23 (43) year old ex-dead guy and his ex-husband (that forced him to marry him via beating him up when he changed his mind at the alter (rude but literally nothing is abuse worthy) and stay that way via no divorce clause) are the only two people left alive that don't actively want to kill each other in their lives! whooppee!

It goes okay.

It stops going, because Reset! Whatever progress they made is gone. Like it never happened. But it did, of course. Amnesia. Again.

the Reset is a reset.

Post-Reset Schlatt is a mix of his selves. The colouring of pre-death, with red eyes, darker hair. Clothes and facial hair of post-nukes. He remembers more than he and Dream agreed upon, but that's the price you pay for this kind of wipe, and Dream knew that.

Schlatt is an interdimensional demon of vices, deals, weather, and other things.

He's this way because of Slime, but Charlie doesn't remember that either. The Reset didn't fix him. He was already here and an amnesiac before The Reset. It's been a long time since the days of godhood for him, and longer still since the zombie apocalypse. But he did find Tommy, eventually. Just not the right one. And he wasn't the right Charlie, anymore, either.

It's a moot point, really.

Back to Schlatt.

And to Charlie.

They remember each other, in the way you can imagine two now-mortals would remember a godly feud between sometimes-friends of aeons ago. Schlatt, being tied to a deal with Dream regarding this SMP and the life he was falsely leading beforehand while he waited for things to play out regarding Charlie (he hadn't known Charlie was here, or he wouldn't have joined the new world), is unable to return Charlie's full powerset to him. Might not have been able to, anyway, since it was Charlie who made him the being he is in the first place. Metaphysical realities of gods and reality and life and death and power and mortality are difficult to quantify. Charlie Slimecicle made JSchlatt. JSchlatt made Charlie Slimecicle.

At this point, locked away from most of what went down, the memories inaccessible or to fuzzy to matter, they call a truce.

For some levity. I like to think those animatics to Betray Somebody actually happened. Schlatt just complaining about Q not being his type while there's a giant mural of them on the wall is so so so funny. he's so terriblepathetic.

Also, as another sidenote; probably a plant's pumpkinduo / pumpkinhusbands animatics make me very sad. I hc them as some kind of canonical too, in a roundabout way. I think the song choices really fit them both. also that particular mountain goats song is very 'youre both terrible never bring anyone else into your relationship' and i'm glad its associated with pumpkinhusbands. Absolute fucking disasters*. They're so entertaining.

(*Most act as if q was solely the victim and poor little woobie-fy him but that's.... straight up not the case? He proposed to Schlatt and then beat him up when the guy said no and then snuck a clause into some document or another Schlatf had to sign that legally barred him from seeking a divorce like guy trapped schlatt in that marriage. No wonder he reacted like a cornered animal yk. His drinking problem wasn't really a thing at the start - the experience of being Manburg's president and forcibly married against his will is what caused the downward spiral. He was evil and high on power at first ngl abt that but... mans died from a heart attack at twenty-one. Drank too much and died from fucking broken heart syndrome like. Jeez. What a way to cut a life short. No wonder he uses his last words to insult Q though.

Still.

They deserve each other really because they're both kind of terrible people. Manberg (Manburg?) made a reasonably healthy couple into a living nightmare. But that's what absolute power does, as they say. Corrupt absolutely.)

That got off topic swiftly. Anyway.

Tommy -

literal devil child. Literal. It's so funny

Schlatt's son. Yeah. I dad!schlatt headcanon. Just not in the usual way.

Neither of them know this and it stays that way for the entire series. Post-Reset Schlatt has some inkling, but not a lot. (A mistake while he attended college - the same one as Wil, incidentally, which is how they know each other - but she wasn't blonde, so.)

(Her mother was.)

(So was his.)

This is visible from the very start, btw. Little red horns, devil tail. It's so on the nose and easy to make jokes about, and it is funny, as a literal manifestation of his gremlin child menace to society energy.

(Obviously nobody makes the connection to Schlatt, who is a very jersey devil type demonic incarnation, though more ram than goat, whilst Tommy is what a kid would draw if they were told 'draw a demon'. Red horns, pointy tail, mostly human. Cartoon caricature of a demon.)

Obviously, though, this does get pushback. Society is not likely to treat literal demons all that great, given it's tendency to demonise even 'normal' people. See. Even the word, in a world where demons are people too, and real, specifically, becomes itself a kind of bigotry, doesn't it? Becomes itself a kind of tool of societal control. Demons are inherently evil, being evil is demonic, etc.

Tommy is an orphan, in the sense that he was placed in an orphanage as a child. He grew up in a Europe SMP, ended up moving around various SMP Earths and more focused country/region SMPs. This is how he met Tubbo, Quackity, Schlatt, and Wilbur, in that order.

Tubbo, Q, Schlatt - they all met each other through knowing Tommy. Neat bit of trivia; if Tommy hadn't been invited to the DSMP, they simply wouldn't have met.

Canonically, Q helps Tommy and Tubbo and Wil (? can't quite remember which of those two were involved, if Wil was I mean) run the drug trade van L'Manberg originally was. This means Tommy knows Q can do this, this means Tommy knows Q knows a thing or two about the drug trade, this means Tommy knows a thing or two about the drug trade and has contacts in the drug trade, what the fuck, kids, when did that happen.

Q is 19 when he arrives on the shores of the DSMP. He met Tommy in a Juvie server, when Tommy was 14 and Q was 17. They had entirely the wrong energies to get along with most of the other people, but Tommy and Q were quick friends. Also Q can be a pretty protective guy, really, and what was a 14 year old doing in juvie?

Casual murder, obviously. He had to get that tendency from somewhere, or what on earth was he doing killing George as like his first real action in Dream's little nation?

See; people often fall to expectations. Demons are evil. Tommy's never known any different. It wasn't casual murder, but that's what he was convicted for. Why else would the server have a lifesteal mechanic if not to be used? Plus, respawn exists, so it's no more a crime than punching them in the face; leaves as much of a lasting impact.

(Tommy doesn't really know how respawn works, at 14. Mostly because its different for everyone, and whilst a lot of people have it work the say way as each other, that's not exactly saying much. 20 people could have the same respawn system, as could 20 million, but the multiverse is infinite and ever expanding. Respawn works differently for everyone across every World is the easiest thing to say, and the most accurate.)

Honestly, Q pretty much agreed with him.

Anyway. That's that for now. Stay tuned for more. Maybe. At some point. Hey, you've seen what they look like on another post. Maybe i'll add to that too idk. Those sims are still a wip.

#mcyt #clrmc #<- my personal interpretation of the minecraft multiverse. for my own tagging system and filtering. (you'll also see my ocs in here if i #ever bother to post abt all oh 80 of them. And their fully developed storylines. I wish i had mc playing friends who could help me actually #put them to screen. alas.)#dsmp

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randommman · 1 year ago

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Dreamland Beach

Something about Light

As the sun slides down into its sinkhole at the bottom of the sky it casts a strange fluttering light onto the wing outside my little window.

The light fades and I’m reading Patti Smith and listening to Ahmoudou Madassane. Zerzura and Just Kids. These and the light. Some magic.

Patti’s at the Chelsea Hotel, her “doll’s house in the Twilight Zone” and she’s running into Jimi H in El Quixote, Jimi’s in town for Woodstock. Ahmoudou’s in the Niger desert night channelling Jimi circa 1967, backwards guitar on his Stratocaster…

Mesmerised by these words and sounds, I am diving in and out of a dream.

This place is outside of time, suspended.

Fireflies in a cave, moths round a flame, whirring whirling wasps of night.

Specks of stars on the carpet of the sky, windowlets into the next universe, portals that pierce the great divide.

For moments, or maybe hours, I am drifting.

The food has arrived: the spell is broken. Pastries from Vili’s family bakery, somewhere in Denpasar? I resist, but it’s no good, the aroma is too enticing.

Outside the light is dead and all I can see is the reflection of my crusty meal, flying flakes of filo crumbs in

the golden

light.

I can hear the cicadas chirping while Ahmoudou is pouring and re-pouring the frothy hot mint tea somewhere away north of Agadez. All I’ve got is Schweppes Zero Sugar Natural Mineral Water With a Hint of Blood Orange and Mango.

Short straw.

I am in a circle of light within the dark. A halo of sorts, shimmer of the past days.

Strange things happen in Denpasar.

In dim lit rooms old faded pink curtains up narrow stairs down dusty lanes. Smiling boys and fluttering flags. Smoke smudging the evening sky and the moon. Twenty seven brilliantly beautiful kites hanging just beneath the puffy clouds, little green lights phosphorescent in the night.

The monkeys scattering the offerings to the gods in wilful guileless blasphemy.

This dirty town of gentle people and absolutely no road rage despite the chaos on the streets.

Cool soft girls in white linen, lotus blossoms floating in alabaster bowls. Incense and breeze. Eyes averted.

When Charlie climbed those ladder-like stairs it wasn’t what he expected but he decided to go with it anyway. “I’m in an other place, I should put aside my small town ideas and my prejudices”. So what he found was something at once disturbing and transformative.

The people in that place have some weird rituals, they eat strange foods, prepare their food in ways you and I

would think was not…. acceptable.

They are quietly modest and elaborately profane.

They drink the water that you and I cannot drink.

They spend hours weaving from pampas grass and onion flower exquisite shapes which are then laid out in stone temples in the wind (and which the monkeys defile).

In the morning Madé and Kamang clean away the scatterings and start weaving again.

So I met Charlie when I was 17 and there was an immediate spark that said that we would bind and be forever mystically entwined. Sometimes I am he and he is me, it can be disconcerting. I used to always know when he was coming to visit, or even when he would phone me. It was spooky like that. Geographically and metaphysically we diverged long ago, but there has always been a connection. I knew I would find him here but I must have suppressed the thought. When I ran into him in the Love Anchor market I felt a jolt of panic. I was looking into the sun and he appeared, smiling and with the light making a halo of his golden hair. We hugged, exchanged WhatsApps and suddenly he was gone again, “Things to do”.

I made my way back to the villa, a little dazed and deflated.

…

Charlie thought he’d get a massage but he found himself pushed by strong but gentle hands through a chink in the wall of his conscience (and his belief system). Found himself in a place all wobbly and beautiful.

It reminded him of his sister’s house. It’s in a garden behind a rusty fence made of steel pickets like spears. The walls and floors are crooked and there are no beds. You have to sleep in a cavity through a hatch, under the floor. Or on a hard wooden daybed on the veranda, which is impossible because of the mosquitoes, and there are never any sheets or blankets.

So he seldom visits his sister, perhaps that’s why she got rid of the beds, to make him stay away?

He’s forgotten now why he was reminded, but it doesn’t matter. He’s trying to talk to this dark-eyed and tattooed Balinese guy, but he doesn’t speak English so it’s all eye movements and gestures and maybe Charlie just agreed to something else he didn’t expect…..

Further out of town, over in Canguu, where all the expats live, I met up with him at a dark table at the Revolver cafe. We ate bread and honey and drank their rich brown coffee, mostly in silence. He seemed altered, and didn’t explain why, so I didn’t probe. I guessed he’d get around to it when he was ready.

He said he had seen angels. And one of them hovered over him and somehow merged with him and was gone. I took this as some kind of allegory, presumed he’d explain it one day.

I told him Canguu is a nice place but you need to be careful, you don’t want to end up in Kerobokan Prison. We’ve all heard about what happens in that place.

He just smiled.

Got my wheels in Canguu and joined the crazy horde on those narrow streets and laneways. A thousand Yamahas are coming at you beeping and laughing and we all flow together in some great wave of happiness that moves and surges like summer clouds in the bright morning.

On the big road through town the high camera lights flash “don’t do that, don’t do that” but no-one pays them any attention. Everyone straying from their lane. Across the fresh new bitumen on the shortcut, round the esses through the little forest and down over the cobblestones, we’re all just sailors on the wind rushing to or from the next whatever and hoping we don’t slip off the edge.

I tried to visit Charlie’s sister to ask about what she did with the bedrooms but they were holding some kind of Pentecostal Revival meeting, all waving hands and speaking in tongues, so I left (if you told me I was having a bad dream I would have believed you).

She called out to me as I turned the key, “please stay, you might like it”, but as the motor shuddered into life I shuddered, probably visibly, and her face fell. I had no time for her blond and blue-eyed pale skinned Jesus.

Instead I went to yet another beach bar to watch the fading day. The sun did its thing with the clouds, just so casually spectacular as we all sat spellbound.

A skinny yellow dog came and sat beside us on the sand. I felt as if I had been adopted, or I had been sent a guardian.

I was right: when we left he came with us and as we rode through the streets he ran behind until we put on speed and he disappeared in the blurry rear vision.

Later in the night there were dreams of the 1960s. My Chelsea Hotel was the YMCA in South Melbourne, also a place of discovery and enlightenment. They tore it down in the seventies and built the NGV. One arthouse replaced by another.

In those days I had little money but bought bowls of happiness from the Golden Panda in Bourke Street for 60 cents, enough to sustain me on wintry nights in that grey town.

In my dream I knew I was dreaming and I bathed in that soft nostalgia until the yellow dog reappeared with Charlie’s eyes and sleep departed.

For the next few days we wandered around the town like tourists. I thought we might find the dog somewhere but he didn’t show. We bartered for the usual trinkets and t-shirts in the marketplace and spent warm dreamless nights in the white stone villa in Umalas.

I never got to Dreamland Beach although it seemed like a place I should go. Maybe next time. It inspired me, like this night sky, these words and sounds, this light. So far it’s just a place on a map, just a name that evokes a warm glow.

A month later I got a letter from Charlie, it was a photograph of Tanah Lot, nothing else, no words.

“Nothing lasts forever” Charlie had said as he walked away from me across the rice field, those tall soft grasses gently shifting in the wind. I didn’t want to hear it, so I hitched a Grab ride to Ngurah Rai to go back to my world.

And to ascend.

And to not regret.

They’ve lowered the cabin lights, everyone is sleeping except for me.

Now the moon reveals herself, out from behind her silver shroud, while no one is looking.

Of all the manufactured glories that shine below her, none can match her splendour.

Splendid silver gold

light.

#Denpasar #flight #night #the light #moonlight #bali #short story #canggu

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latetothepartyandconfused · 2 years ago

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[ID:screenshot of new chapter of the fic a hundred red flags too late, my dear by curseworm and VenetaPsi. The chapter is named shattered frame of mind and the summary is :

"Pogtopia is dark," Wilbur protests, face tilting further against Tommy. His voice becomes muffled. "Just shadows and lanterns. Tommy—tell me we're in Pogtopia."

"...why Wilbur?" Tommy murmurs, after a slight pause. He sounds tired and sad. "Why do you want to be in Pogtopia so bad?" Wilbur mumbles something completely inaudible to Quackity, and evidently Tommy can't understand it either because he lightly taps the top of Wilbur's head. "What was that, Wil?"

Wilbur takes a shuddering breath. When he speaks, he sounds close to tears. "...cause you still loved me in Pogtopia. Even scared, you still loved me." end ID]

new rf chapterrrr pspsps crimeboys enjoyers come yet y'all juice

#yes yes yes

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wilfywarfy · 3 years ago

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Captain Magnum taking all the Egos onto his ship for a wide seas adventure

King skittering up the flag pole so he can perch upon the sails as king of the world

Dark and Wilford fighting a kraken with ease, which would've been faster with just Dark, but Wil wanted to spray the worlds largest can of pepper spray at the thing

Yancy and Mags getting everyone in on the sea shanties

Google and Bing being not only living maps, but surprisingly good at playing squeeze accordians

Any water mines are avoided thanks to Illinois

Doc is there to cure anyone of sea sickness, but it also happy that he can get out of the hospital for a day

Eric is trying his best, and that's enough

Host narrating up a beautiful island, conveniently stocked up with all the vacation desires they could ever want, along with a treasure for the Ego crew to search for

Yes I love this idea, why do you ask?

#markiplier #markiplier egos #mark fischbach #captain magnum #king of the squirrels #darkiplier #wilford warfstache #Yancy #yancy ahwm #googleplier #bingiplier #illinois ahwm #dr iplier #eric derekson #The Host #Listen I just want them to go on a wacky pirate adventure

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nyxsoot · 4 years ago

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↳ OF HOME & HEART |

[ summary · you and your lover have come to odds on the battlefield ]

[ pairing · c!technoblade x reader ]

[ word count · 1.5k ]

[ extras · some angst in the time of the pogtopia vs manberg war - contains flashbacks ♥ ]

You had a choice to make and you knew it would break you.

With the thick plumes of smoke touched by the Withers scourging the L’Manberg skies, your lungs burned and eyes stung with unshed tears. Aching arm outstretched, the violent delights of your lover reared their ugly head as you tilted his chin upwards with the flat of your blade.

“Come home with me,” he said, elegant hands stained with dark soot and blood.

Dwelling on the choices that lead you here somehow you wouldn’t change a thing.

You had been the one that held Pogtopia together, the glue between Wil and Tommy; exile had not been kind to either of them deep in the heart of their ravine base. Sly in your rebellion, you had kept close to Schlatt and Tubbo back in Manberg, avidly renouncing old alliances and everything they stood for. He had believed you too, that horrible man, inviting you to stay under his watchful eye in the city. Despite his faith, it seemed Schlatt didn’t want to risk losing you.

In the dead of night under the guise of invisibility potions and a starless sky you slipped through the cracks, peeling back the carpet in your cottage and slinking under the city to make your escape. Invisibility was your superpower. Yes, it came from a bottle the majority of the time, but the ability to stand in a room and hear everything unfiltered without anyone so much as batting an eye was crucial. Your arrows in the Battle of the Lake came in handy, a rain from above with no actual source, but it was your information that was truly valuable.

Stepping into the ravine, your skin began to shift from gone to translucent until it became entirely opaque under the lanterns in the damp cave system. Tracing your fingertips along the stone walls, they bumped occasionally over a button or two, the beginning of what seemed to be a collection by Wilbur. You didn’t question it.

“Y/N.” Wilbur smiled at you, clutching your bicep in one hand and shoulder in the other in some sort of half-hug, a show of comradery if nothing else. “Tell me what news have you brought from L’Manberg.”

And so, you did. Relaying plans, gossip, and rumours, the whispers of others not brave enough to leave themselves or those trapped by nefarious forces. Nodding in quiet contemplation, Wilbur sat in pure silence listening, the quietest the ravine had been since they’d cleared out the mobs.

“It’s getting bad, Wil,” you said, fidgeting with the fabric of his coat, a familiar texture that you missed in Manberg.

He grimaced. ”I can only imagine.”

“And speaking of bad,” you stood up, eyeing his chest with concerned eyes, “Let me see your wound.”

The scowl etched on his face deepened and he nodded once more. Peeling off his torn shirt, you knelt down to examine the scar tissue, eyebrows knitted in pure focus. Here you were yet again, piecing together the broken bits of these war-torn boys as easily as sewing up a flag or tapestry. If you couldn’t mend their souls, you could be the seams holding their skin shut, the buffer between the boys, because that’s what they were.

As you leaned over him to examine the exit wound, a near silent step disrupting your train of thought. In one sleek movement, you were blocking Wilbur’s entire body with your own, crossbow primed in front of you. Your target stood in dirty slacks and an open collared shirt, sleeves rolled up the forearms, soil under his fingernails. His face was frustratingly bemused as his arms raised in faux surrender, hands long and calloused, elegant and obviously used. You were unmoving despite Wilbur’s shuffling to put his shirt on, rising to your side in a too relaxed manner.

“Surely you know The Blade.”

Yes, you had heard of ‘The Blade’ in all his anarchist glory. Said warrior tilted his head down in greeting, peering up through his lashes as he kept your gaze. Huffing, you lowered your crossbow, nodding curtly.

Oh, how far Techno had come from humble potato farmer to full-blown terrorist. In the time between your meeting and his betrayal – all of their betrayals – you had grown to become begrudging comrades in the revolution against Schlatt and his tyranny. Perhaps everything had come to a head when he murdered Tubbo at the festival. Tommy had been ready to fistfight Technoblade in the dark corner if the ravine and you hadn’t let him. You had rolled up your sleeves, removed your rings, and beckoned the piglin hybrid to fight.

Wrapped hands met his chest and face in fast succession, ears ringing deaf to the jeering of your peers, only filled with the blunt pounding of pure violence. A final swift kick to his ribcage ended the fight, caught in his hands as he flipped you onto your back, your dominant hand pinned over your head, leg caught by the thigh.

You could have flipped him if you wanted, brought your head up to collide with his concaving his skull. You didn’t. Struggling under him for a moment, you yielded in your stillness, eyes boring into his, burning brighter than the hanging lanterns above. Pulling himself up, Technoblade held his hand out as an offering. Chest heaving and body quaking, the ravine became vertical once more. His hands were rough, fingertips ghosting over your palm as you disconnected. Tongue darting over chapped lips, you cleared your throat, Wilbur hoisting you out of the pit with a grin that scared you.

Slipping into the darkness, you found respite in the potato farm cultivated by the anarchist, massaging the aching pain out of your limbs. Hearing him before you saw him, a surge of blind rage overtook you and you had him pinned this time against the stone wall.

“He’s just a child,” you hissed, eyes narrowed as he seemed all too complacent under you. “You might be on our side, but they’re both kids and they come first. If I even get a hint that you’re going to hurt either of them again- “

“What, bunny? What could you ever do to hurt me?”

Grip moving roughly to the back of his neck, your lips moved together in a second battle far more intense than the first. You supposed that had been the start of it.

“You want me to come home? With you?” Your voice was hoarse, almost wavering. “This is my home and look what you’ve done to it!”

Technoblade barked out a laugh, bitter and completely amused. “Wilbur did this, Y/N! He was the one who blew it all up, I’m just finishing the job.”

Everything felt numb – heavy. Sword falling to your side, the sword he had made for you, you swallowed back the acid and tears, gut twisting with grief. In the eye of the hurricane the chaos surrounding you seemed irrelevant; the shrieking of your friends, the clashing of their weapons, all fell on deaf ears once more. It was just you and him. A tender moment passed between you as he reached up to cup your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. Come home.

Moving painfully slow, you began to sheath your sword. How bad would life be with Technoblade? How bad could life be with all of the riches and potions you could ask for, the seclusion of being fugitives. Building a life wouldn’t be so bad, and nothing like this would happen again surely. Retirement beckoned you – he beckoned you.

“Y/N!”

Whipping your head around, you saw Tommy and Tubbo pinned under his shield, the final Wither closing in and the Badlands soldiers not doing anything to get them out.

“You knew who my priority was from the beginning, Technoblade,” You said, voice catching in your throat, tears streaking through the ash built up on your face. “Come with me. I forgive you, everyone else will, just come with me.”

A moment of silence permeated the space between them only broken by the cries of your boys. “Bunny, you know I can’t do that.”

A watery smile took over your face. “Then don’t come back.”

Turning on your heel, you sprinted away before he could grab your shoulder, pick you up and carry you away – before he could change your mind. The Wither was low you could see that; no longer under the guise of invisibility, you charged the monster, driving your blade through its centre. It dissipated into ash underneath you, staining your skin and clothes with thick black soot. Picking the boys up from the ground, you positioned them behind you just as you had many times before with them and with Wil, priming yourself to protect them against Dream and all the other anarchists.

You may have made your choice, but so did he and you both knew he would regret it.

#mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #technoblade x reader #techno x reader #mcyt fanfiction #mcyt angst #angst #dsmp wilbur #dsmp tommy #dsmp tubbo #technoblade #nyxsoot

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shushiyuii · 3 years ago

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if you're doing requests, than can I possibly ask for some G!revivebur and t!tommy hurt/comfort? (with soft noms involved if thats okay)

hope you're doing well today and i love your writing too

Thank you so much! I'm glad you love my writings! mwkdakdn and I've actually had a great day today! So thank you for asking! (Also of course noms are okay uwu)

Warnings: Soft vore, mentions of death and torment of a tiny

Words: 1.1K+

His train had finally arrived…

Meanwhile, Tommy was working on his base, being a borrower, it wasn’t quite as easy as you wish to get the materials needed.

He was exhausted from mining all day and now he just had to organise his chests, which was just another annoying task. Tommy huffed in annoyance at this, at least he had enough minerals to last him ages.

He hated organising his chests but if he did it would at least be easier to find things, as to why he was doing this millennial task.

Chest after chest, block after block, ore after ore. It was finally almost done. Just a couple more to go, he went over to another chest and found some… interesting things… It held his old L’manburg uniform and his flag, things he put away after Wilbur had well, died.

He picked up his old uniform and noticed something strange on it, it was stained with blue, covered in stitches. Alarmed he began to examine the uniform and there fell out a note, from Ghostbur.

“Hey, Tommy! I came to borrow some things and noticed your old uniform! I fixed it up for you! I know you said not to go through your stuff, but I figured you’d like it!” – Ghostbur

He huffed as the note itself was covered in blue, Ghostbur had a tendency of leaking his blue everywhere, It couldn’t be helped…’. He looked down and saw water beginning to seep at the pages, he wiped at his eyes.

He wasn’t going to cry! He was Tommy Danger Kraken Innit! A man! And men don’t cry!

It wasn’t his fault! It was Sam’s! He didn’t let him protect Ghostbur! It could’ve been stopped and now the only remnant of his brother is gone.

Gone to the afterlife, once and for all. Maybe his symphony could finally be at peace with everything being gone now, he could move on…

Little did he know that wouldn’t quite be the case as a thing popped right into his face, much to his hate and surprise…

‘Wilbur Soot has joined the game’.

He couldn’t be back, Dream really didn’t revive him right?! Wasn��t revival supposed to be immediate?! Whatever exhaustion was trying to take over his body was gone as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He immediately booked it through his door towards L’manburg.

His vision went from black to clear, he fiddled with his hands, finally becoming aware of his surroundings, the blue and gold catching his eyes with a torn L’manburg flag, with the crater in front of him. He pinched his arm to make sure he wasn’t going crazy, and he wasn’t!

He was alive again with blood rushing through his newly revived veins! He was alive again! Dream his hero! He had really been brought back! He could feel his excitement jolting every part of his body, so many things to do and see, so many things to make amends for!...

Panic filled with thoughts rushed through his head, what would the others think? Oh god, back when he was dead himself, he remembered how Wilbur was… This is practically going to be doomsday all over again if he didn’t stop it.

He had never run so fast before, not even in the war. It seemed his body agreed with him this once that this was very very bad. And it wasn’t going to be an easy trip for the borrower. Every hole he jumped over, and soon L’manburg came into his view.

His fingers twitched, not used to being able to function. He could feel bruises over his body and particularly felt an aching pain from his chest, probably some remnant from the stab wound, but that wasn’t going to stop him out, now that he was finally free.

He breathed in the fresh air, taking a deep breath, and filling his lungs as much as he could. How he missed being able, you learnt to appreciate such things.

He closed his eyes in a sort of relief, happy, satisfied but this was only the beginning.

“Wilbur!”, he heard a voice, a familiar one. One he hadn’t heard in a while; he knew he was close not far. He was used to having to keep an ear out for the borrower, he was just surprised at himself he wasn’t rusty.

He turned around to see a small figure approaching, seeming to run with all they had, wow, Tommy must’ve really missed him!

Soon, Tommy was just a couple of meters away from Wilbur. Not one of them talked at first, “Hey Tommy! I missed you!”. Tommy’s expression turned somewhat dark, upset, grim. He titled his head in confusion and crouched down as much as he could.

“You shouldn’t be here.”, Wilbur snorted slightly, then turned to giggles and those giggles turned to psychotic laughter as he processed the point that Tommy just brought up, he wasn’t supposed to be here? “I’m not supposed to be here Tommy? What about you?”.

No answer came, he laughed again, “Oh, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.”. He brought a finger to Tommy’s face, gently squishing it. “Listen, I spent 13 and a half, 13 and a half years! IN THAT GOD DAMN HELL!”. The gentleness faded as he increased pressure on Tommy, causing Tommy to fall over from under the pressure and try to fight back.

The pressure lightened as he removed his hand, he was about to speak when he saw Tommy back away from him, he was confused for a minute.

But whatever it was, Tommy was mumbling and crying, flinching whenever he made a small movement. Usually, Tommy would be fighting back right now?

He put any other thoughts he had aside, “Tommy, what’s wrong?”. Sure, he might be cruel sometimes but that never stopped his older brother instincts. The boy cried louder. He cupped the boy into his hands and brought him closer to his face.

“Tommy, I’m here, what’s wrong?”, “I-, You-, Dream-, Can’t, S-scared”. He hushed the boy and nuzzled him, he flinched at first but soon reluctantly gave into the contact. It was clear to him that Tommy had changed drastically, more than he thought, he was traumatised. Who dared to hurt his little brother?

“Tommy, who?”, “Huh?”, “Who did it?”. He sniffled, “D-dream”. His eyes widened suddenly, a vision flashed of a tiny Tommy caught in an explosion, a memory from Ghostbur. He remained silent.

Without a word, he brought Tommy close to his mouth, gently placing him in. Tommy flinched as he was placed on his brother’s tongue, “W-Wil?”, “You’re safe”. He mumbled as he moved his tongue to coat Tommy, which then lead to tilting his head back and swallowing.

He traced his brother's descent with his finger, and soon felt him land in his stomach, he waited for his little brother to get tucked in and fall asleep, to which he did. Then he decided that he’d keep Tommy in there for a while, where he’d be safe.

#mcyt g/t #mcytg/t #dsmp g/t #giant!wilbur #tiny!tommy #tw vore #shushi's writings

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