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jazzynook · 8 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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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 · 2 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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onecanonlife · 3 years ago

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In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 3,960)

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

Part Ten: Wilbur II

Wilbur wakes the morning of the election as President of L’Manberg, and he ends the evening of the election as President of L’Manberg, voted back into office by due democratic process.

There are things in between, of course. He reads out the results for all the SMP members to hear, as well as for those who have been following the event from different servers. He makes a speech, promises protection and safety for his citizens, promises renewed growth and prosperity and above all else, freedom from tyranny. He makes a good case for it all, he’s fairly sure, though he forgets the words that he speaks as soon as he leaves his podium.

There’s a bit of a celebration, after. Impromptu, unplanned, but those are the best kind. They all pitch in, scrounge up food and drink and games to play for when they get a bit tipsy, and it’s good.

He smiles through it.

He smiles when Tubbo claps him on the back, hooting and hollering. He smiles when Niki runs up to him and throws her arms around him in an embrace, even though she was running against him. He smiles when Eret sidles up to him, murmuring congratulations and briefly pressing his hand. He even smiles when a few citizens of the Greater SMP come to join in, Sapnap and Punz and Ponk and Karl. He smiles and smiles and smiles, and why shouldn’t he smile?

This is what he wanted. To know that his people continue to have faith in him, that they still believe him best for the job. To hold on to power, but to do it the right way. To be given full permission to assure the safety and freedom of those he loves, and the land that he has made.

The smile only slips twice.

Once: meeting Fundy’s eyes across the way. Fundy breaks his gaze just as quickly, glancing to the side, and he doesn’t come to speak with him. He’s not sure what to do about that. He’s not so blind as to not notice the tension that’s sprung into place between them lately, though he still can’t ascertain its origin. And it’s only gotten worse now, of course—but what did Fundy expect, that he would just let him commit voter fraud? He’s disappointed in his actions, and he can’t disguise that. Shouldn’t have to disguise that, because Fundy ought to know that wasn’t the right thing to do. But that means that his son steers clear of him. And he’ll admit that it hurts. Both for that, and for the fact that Fundy would do such a thing in the first place.

So the smile slips, when no one is looking.

But that is once, and twice comes now: Tommy bounding up to him, grin bright and wild, eyes shining with a light that he hasn’t seen there in—too long. Far, far too long. That light has been present all day, ever since he stepped up to the podium and announced the results, and Tommy let out a whoop and a holler and pumped his fist into the air like he was trying to punch the daylight from the sky, and it was so very Tommy that in that moment, he could feel nothing but relief. In general, Tommy’s seemed very relaxed. Celebratory, jubilant. As he should be.

And now, here he is, beaming, staring him in the face, gripping his arms. Eyes shining.

“How we feeling, big man?” he asks, loud and carefree, and it’s obvious from the way that he asks that he expects a certain kind of answer. Wilbur is more than happy to give it to him. He reaches out to ruffle his hair, and Tommy ducks away, but even that scowl doesn’t last for long.

“I’m on top of the world,” he says, and feels his own smile widen. For the first time in a while, he can look at Tommy and not feel pressing worry, not feel a tightness in his chest and a certainty in his bones that something is very, very wrong, that something has happened, and that in some way, he has failed. “We fucking did it, man.”

“We sure fucking did!” Tommy crows. “You and me, best fucking—best fucking day ever. We’re gonna make sure that L’Manberg’s the best country in the literal history of everything. And you’ll be the best president.”

“Of course I will,” he says. “That’s why they’ve elected me.”

Tommy nods sagely. Still grinning. Still bright-eyed. “It’s all going to be alright,” he says, voice lowering just a little. He sounds so very sincere. “Everything’s actually gonna be alright. You’re gonna do so great. You’re gonna do great, right?”

Of course he will. He will not settle for anything less. This duty has been entrusted to him once again, and he will not let his city fail, nor his people fall. He is the one they look to. He built this nation, and he must protect it. He will be great. He has more than just his own hopes riding on his back, and anything less than greatness is unacceptable, both for his own sake and for that of everyone else, for his own legacy and for the seeds planted in the present.

“We’re gonna do great,” he says. “You and I, and all of us.”

“Hell yeah,” Tommy says, and glances around him, at the celebration, still under full swing. Quackity has somehow obtained a stripper pole, and both Karl and Sapnap are looking on in great interest as he displays his talents in that area. Wilbur finds himself watching for a moment too long before tearing his gaze away. But Tommy doesn’t pay mind to any of that—which is good, because he is a child, a little baby man, and maybe he should go over to Quackity and talk about him toning it down, actually, while the minors are here—and instead brings his focus back around to him again.

“They all love you man, y’know?” Tommy says, voice going softer still. He finds his own expression gentling to match.

“They love this,” he agrees. “They love L’Manberg.”

“Because what’s not to love?” Tommy says, nodding in satisfaction. “Really, though, man. You’re gonna be alright. You’re gonna do great. No reason to worry about anything, y’know?”

“Okay, that’s a little concerning, coming from you,” he says. “Are there any shenanigans I should know about?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Tommy says, swatting at his arm. “I’m gonna go find where Tubbo got off to. But just, have a good night, yeah, Wil? You’ve really earned it. Future’s looking up.”

“I will,” he says. “And you too, Tommy, you’ve earned this just as much as I have. Maybe even more. Go have fun.” He pauses. “And if there do happen to be any shenanigans, let me know, would you? It’s been a while since I took part in any good old-fashioned shenanigans.”

Tommy casts him one last grin, brilliant as any sunrise he’s seen. And then, he’s off, weaving through everyone else. It’s good, that he’s happy. It’s been so long since he’s seemed truly happy. It gives Wilbur hope. Whatever damage was done to him that night, when he chose to give up his discs, maybe he really will bounce back. And he’s noticed that he and Tubbo have been closer again, so maybe that will help, too. Tommy will be okay.

Then, a wave of exhaustion hits him, apparently out of nowhere, and his smile slips.

He brings it up again in the next moment. But the fatigue remains—and he supposes it makes sense. It’s been a long, rather stressful day. Perhaps it’s time he turned it in.

Niki’s the first one he finds, and she smiles at his approach. There is still an air of tension about her—lingering frustration, he imagines, at the stunt Fundy tried to pull. He believes her when she says she was unaware. But she doesn’t seem to have any qualms about him, thank goodness, because he bears her no ill will for the incident. Or even Fundy—he is disappointed to be sure, but he doesn’t love his son any less. Nothing at all could make that happen. Perhaps he ought to make sure Fundy knows that.

Later, though. When they’ve both cooled down a bit.

“Hey, Wil,” she says. “Good party, huh?”

“It is,” he says. “I’m sort of beat, though, so I think I might go hit the hay, as it were. Just wanted to tell someone before I left, in case anyone wondered.”

“Okay,” she says, and her eyes pinch around the edges a little bit. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

She nods. “It’s been a long day,” she says, echoing his thoughts. “I’ll let everyone know, if they ask.” Her smile returns, full force, and she steps forward and takes his hand in hers. “Really, though, congratulations. I’m really proud of you. Anyone can see how much you care about this place, and that’s why they want you to keep leading it.”

His mouth has, unaccountably, gone slightly dry. “I do care,” he says. “But we all do. I mean, you literally made our flag. I don’t think I’ve told you enough how cool that is.”

“I wanted to,” she says simply, though she’s obviously pleased. “You don’t have to thank me for it. Every country should have a flag.”

“And every country should have someone who cares enough to sew it,” he says. “I’m glad it was you.”

“And I’m glad that this is you,” Niki replies, making a gesture toward the festivities around them, and the empty stage over to the side. Her eyes sharpen. “Even if I kind of wanted to be vice president. But you’re a good leader, Wilbur, and you’re a good man. A good friend. You deserve this. So go get some sleep, alright? Make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting, and she rolls her eyes, pushing him away.

“Go on,” she insists, but there is laughter in her voice and a crinkle at the corners of her eyes, and she looks happy, too. Everyone looks very happy. Even Fundy seems to be involved in things by now, and Quackity, his fiercest competition, appears to be enjoying himself.

Everyone is happy. So is he. There’s no reason at all for him not to be.

He tells himself that he’s going to go get some sleep, but his feet take him back to his office, instead. It’s empty, cast in a dim haze until he switches on the light, and just like that, the darkness is gone. His eyes flit across his desk, his chair, his shelves, all the paperwork that he’s definitely going to have to deal with, now that he knows for sure that he will continue to lead. He also has a potted plant, though he can’t quite recall who gave it to him. Might have been Tubbo, but he’s not sure.

He doesn’t sit. He goes to the window, presses himself up against it close enough to see the outside rather than his own reflection in the glass. Torchlight flickers, illuminating the country before him, and the walls are looming giants in the deepening night. He can see the cluster of lights where the others are, too, and he can see their dancing shadows, glimpses of their faces, far away echoes of their laughter.

Maybe he ought to go back. Some part of him wants to. He’s not sure why he’s holding himself away.

It’s probably because he’s tired. Because he is. Tired. Very tired.

It has been a long day.

He watches for a moment longer, and then closes his curtains, shutting out the world beyond this room. He turns to his desk, then, and his paperwork, though he’s loath to actually work on anything tonight, despite the fact that there’s a million things he could be doing. Drafting a formal missive to Dream, for instance, in light of his official election to power. Ensuring continued good standings between their nations—because as little as he likes the man, he’s not going to provoke him again, if it can be helped.

Especially not with Tommy—the way that he is. Not until he’s gotten to the bottom of that, and probably not even after.

So, he should write to Dream. He should also write to Phil. Tell him about what’s been going on. He’s been considering asking for advice on the whole Tommy situation, actually—Phil’s old as balls, so maybe he might know what to do, or even what this could be about. It’s a long shot, of course, but it’s worth a try.

Except he doesn’t particularly want to do either of those things. Not at the moment. But then, that doesn’t leave him with a whole lot of options, so why did he come here in the first place if he didn’t intend to do something? He ought to go to bed, like he said he would.

But then—

“Hey, Wilbur,” Quackity says, and he looks up, blinking. Quackity’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. Somewhere along the line, he’s regained his clothes. “Knock, knock.”

“Quackity,” he says. “Good to see you. Here, come in, pull up a chair.”

Quackity quirks a brow, but that seems to be all the invitation he needs. He all but saunters in, grabbing one of the chairs and tugging it right up against the desk.

“I actually did want to speak with you at some point,” he continues.

“Then this works out, doesn’t it?” Quackity says. “I had the same idea. I figured we should clear the air or something like that. If it even needs clearing, I dunno. What do you think?”

“It certainly can’t hurt to talk,” he agrees.

“Right,” Quackity says. “Well, I guess I should start off by saying good job. Congrats on winning.” He smiles, and there’s something sharp in it, something of a challenge. Wilbur can’t say that he hates it; it’s good to be challenged, every now and then. And now, there’s less danger in it, his position secure. “Though I really gave you a run for your money, didn’t I? And Jack, of course.”

Jack’s name is added as an afterthought. He’s always had the impression that Quackity would rather have picked someone else for his running mate. But he left it fairly late, and by the time he decided that he definitely wanted one, there weren’t many people left to choose from. Tubbo wouldn’t have joined him, and Eret stayed out of the whole affair, and in terms of L’Manberg citizens, that pretty much just left Jack Manifold.

He wonders who Quackity would have chosen, if he’d had free reign of the SMP. Somehow, he’s glad that didn’t happen. Good foresight, on Tommy’s part, to add that restriction. And a good idea in general, too.

“You did,” he says with a nod. “It was a good showing. You were the one I was worried about, to be honest with you. If anyone could have beaten me, it would have been you.”

“You’re damn right,” Quackity answers. “We got close. But no cigar, I guess. There’s always next time.”

Next time. Next time.

Right. Elections are a fairly regular thing. He’ll have to do this again.

Right, no, that’s—fine. It’s fine. And it wouldn’t be for a while yet, so he doesn’t even have to think about it right now.

“But I just wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings between us,” Quackity says. He leans back in his chair, tipping it so that only two legs rest on the floor, and he regards him. “I mean, I meant what I said on the campaign trail, and I still stand by it. I don’t know that you’re taking this country in the best direction, Wilbur. I don’t know that it’s not gonna—stagnate, under you, or that Dream won’t come up and declare war again. I meant all of that. But it’s not like I don’t like you as a person, and you’ve won fair and square, so I was hoping we could put our differences behind us. Let bygones be bygones and all that.”

He’s heard everything that Quackity has to say on the matter of his leadership, and hearing it all again is a bit—irritating. But the honesty is refreshing, was then and still is now, and he’d rather these things be said to his face than whispered behind his back.

And also, there’s the fact that it’s Quackity. It was Tommy who convinced him to let him join in the first place, but the man’s grown on him, he’ll confess.

“I would have trusted you to lead,” he admits, and meets Quackity’s gaze squarely. “I disagree with you on quite a few matters, but I believe that you have L’Manberg’s best interests at heart. So as far as I’m concerned, it’s all water under the bridge.”

He speaks nothing but the truth. Quackity is—not precisely the vision he has in mind for L’Manberg’s future. But he cares about this place, that much is obvious. So if Quackity had won, he would have bowed out gracefully, would have established himself some property and entered a graceful retirement, at—at peace. Surely at peace, all of his questions answered and his guidance unneeded. His person no longer required.

His stomach turns, a gut-churning combination of longing and revulsion flooding him, impacting him so intensely that it’s a half-second scramble to make sure that none of it shows on his face, to lock everything back down again, to be interpreted later or forgotten about, depending on his mood.

“That’s great to hear,” Quackity says. “Friends?”

Quackity sticks out his hand.

“Friends,” he agrees, and takes it.

“Fantastic,” Quackity says. “I guess that’s all I wanted to say. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.” He gestures broadly, lips twitching upward. “Niki said you were gonna get some sleep, so I’d do that before she finds out you’re not.”

He can’t help but laugh, and Quackity stands. “I’ll take that under consideration,” he says. “Good night, Quackity.”

“Night, Wilbur,” Quackity says, and turns to go. But then, he stops in the doorway, looking back. “I just gotta ask, though, why all of this? Why have an election at all? Why risk losing? If you wanted to stay in charge, why not just stay in charge? No one would’ve questioned you, but instead, you put on all of this. Just to keep a position you ended up keeping anyway.”

Ah. His mind blanks for a moment, because he doesn’t know how to describe to Quackity the fact that people were already questioning him, if he didn’t pick up on that. But surely, he must have; Quackity himself built his entire campaign around questioning him. His right to lead, his capability, his intentions. And those sentiments could not have come from nowhere.

To be honest, he’s not certain that he has the words to explain it to himself, either.

“I could ask the same of you,” he says, “in regards to your running.”

Quackity stands there for a moment. And then tilts his head.

“I think we both know the answer to that, Wilbur,” he says, and his next smile is a wry thing. “See you tomorrow.”

And then, he’s gone.

And Wilbur does know.

He is not blind to Quackity’s desire for power. His desire to do something good with it, to be sure—he’s never caught any malice in his seeking. But what he seeks is power, and there is no mistaking that. Sometimes, Wilbur looks in his eyes and sees a reflection of himself. Paler, different, slanted, but a reflection nonetheless. He has heard the siren’s call of ambition and heard it well, and he recognizes that in Quackity, and Quackity recognizes it in him.

But it’s not just about power. Not for him, anyway. Or rather, it is power, to be sure, but it’s the power to keep safe. To protect. To be free. And to build something great, something that will outlive him, something that will make him worthy of the looks in people’s eyes when they meet his. That’s what it was about. And that’s why the election mattered.

Though for a moment, he lets himself picture it: retirement. A house, with plenty of room. Time to spare, for everyone and everything. A guitar, finally tuned again. A warm summer’s day, and a crisp autumn’s evening. No pressure, few responsibilities, and an hour or several to sit under his own vine and fig tree.

But he doesn’t think he’s made for things like that, really.

And even besides, these idle speculations don’t matter. Quackity didn’t win, and he remains president of this nation. There will be no quiet retirement, not yet. There is so much work that he has to do, and he can feel all those future tasks piling on his shoulders, weights stacking on his skin, clinging like barnacles on a weathered, abandoned pier.

And it’s all alright, because it’s what he wants.

Without this, where would he stand? With himself, and with the others? They all look to him for a reason, so what would happen if that reason were gone?

No. Best not to let his mind wander down that path.

His ambitions are realized. The elections are over. His people are happy, and they still want him. They still believe he can do right by them. They are celebrating his victory even now. Tommy was smiling, and there was none of that strange, terrifying darkness in his gaze.

He has everything he wants.

He checks his communicator, idly. There’s a few messages from people on the server, those who aren’t at the party. Most are congratulatory. There’s Dream, asking for a meeting already, but he anticipated that. There’s even a few messages from people off-world, and he raises an eyebrow at those—inter-server communication costs a pretty penny, so he’s a bit surprised that Technoblade put the effort in to send a message that just says lame. Or maybe he shouldn’t be surprised at all. And Schlatt’s sent him some snarky congratulations, and he supposes he should answer him, since he went through the trouble. Though he’s not going to invite him, still, no matter how nice it might be to catch up. Not until he figures out what Tommy’s problem with him is, and whether it’s solvable.

But he types out a response to both, a quick Like you can talk, Potato Man to Techno and something a bit longer and properly sarcastic to Schlatt, wincing at the cost of shooting the messages through the void, across worlds, and then sets his communicator to the side. Stares at his desk, then at the covered window. He can still hear them.

He stopped smiling at some point. He doesn’t know when.

He picks up his pen, then sets it back down again. Drags a paper closer with his index finger, and then pushes it back. Slips his hand into his pocket to find his glasses, and then brings it out again, empty of everything but dust.

There’s work to do, and he should either get started or he should go to sleep, but his brain doesn’t seem to want to get the memo. So he sits.

He’s tired. That’s why he’s in this kind of mood. He’s tired, so he’ll just sit here until he feels ready to get some true rest, and it’ll all look better in the morning. Not that it doesn’t look good now.

But he is very tired.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #quackity #nihachu #dsmp fic #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #time travel au #if this fic were divided into acts #this would mark the end of act 1 :)

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weallpartyatybcpatricksfuneral · 3 years ago

Text

I'll be making this into a long fic, but for now I chose to keep it short. Hermitcraft x Dream SMP crossover

Title: button

Grian sat down at the oak wood table, brow furrowed. Another day, another failed attempt to reconnect to Hermitcraft. The strange glitch that had caused the border to fall in the first place must have been repaired, for the world border was back up and running. His communicator didn’t work outside of his home server, and Phil’s crows (who insisted on following the man everywhere, and who Phil had put up to the task of flying between the severs, trying to gather intel on the border glitch and if people were trying to find him) haven’t delivered any news.

The builder glanced out the window as the sun set over the horizon. Past that was Hermitcraft. His home. What was Mumbo doing? Scar? Iskall? Xisuma? How was the war progressing without him? Did anyone notice his absence? No, Grian, don’t get sad. Happy thoughts only...Happy thoughts.

“Grain!”

Torn away from his thoughts, Grian looked up to see Philza, his dark grey wings fluffed up in distress. “Wil’s sent a letter.” The avian said, holding up a piece of paper.

“Well, that’s good!” Phil had been under extreme stress these past couple of days since Wilbur hadn’t sent a letter in weeks and the past few he had sent were...concerning, to say the least. “What’s it say?”

Another letter should have been a relief, but from the look on Phil’s face, Grian concluded that this letter was everything except relief.

“It’s just a date, time, and coordinates. November 16th, noon, with a set of coords in L’Manberg…” Phil’s voice trailed off as his dark emerald eyes scanned the page, over and over, as if he were looking for more writing than just a simple date.

“That’s tomorrow, innit?” Grian questioned, trying to distract the man from his distress. That’s how Grian ignored his. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. “I mean, you’ll be able to see your sons, check up on Wil?”

“Something doesn’t feel right about this, Grain.” Even after all this time together, Phil still called him Grain. Grian stifled a laugh, as it wasn’t the appropriate time to giggle. “His last few letters concerned me. He mentioned something in his last one about 11 and a half stacks of TNT.” Phil looked Grian dead in the eye and whispered, “Grain, I think Wilbur is going to blow L’Manberg!”

“But why?” Grian attempted to rationalize with the distraught Phil, who was now pacing across the room making stressed-out bird noises. “He won the election, shouldn’t he be content with that?” This type of stuff never happened on Hermitcraft. There were never serious talks of blowing up anyone’s builds, much less an entire country! The only time TNT is used is in pranks, and they always helped clean up after.

“You clearly don’t know Wilbur...He’s a force of chaos, I’ll tell you that. A creative little shit who always comes up with new ways to get what he wants. If he wants L’Manberg gone, then he’ll go to crazy lengths to achieve that goal.”

Silence fell.

“We need to get to L’Manberg. Now. It’s about a day’s flight from here, and we need to leave now if we want to get there as fast as fucking possible.” Phil tucked the letter into the pocket of his dark green kimono and flexed his wings. Unlike Grian, who used the sleek and slim elytra to fly about, Philza had a pair of actual feathery wings. Upon arrival, Phil explained that he was a bird hybrid, also known as an avian. He had feathers on the sides of his face and neck with elfish ears. Back on Hermitcraft, every member of the server was human.

Grian and Phil started out on their journey north, towards the world border of Dream SMP. The sun had risen, and the world border was in sight. Phil stated that Dream, the apparent Admin of the server, had agreed to let up the border for a few seconds to let Phil and Grian inside. Phil took a rest on a tree, breathing heavily after hours of non-stop flight.

“You alright, Big P?” If Phil could nickname him Grain, Grian would nickname him as well. A smile twinged across Phil’s face.

“Ahh...You sound so much like my youngest, Tommy. He says that to people too. You remind me of him so much. Right down to your red shirt and the aura of pure, unbridled chaos you emit.”

Both men laughed. Grian really enjoyed Phil’s laugh, and despite how giggly and giddy the avian usually was, it had been a few days since he had last heard him laugh. Wilbur’s lack of letters had really spooked him.

“Will you stay?”

“Hmm?”

“In L’Manberg. I mean, it’s closer to your sons.”

Phil shrugged and drank a potion of strength, and stood.

“I might, depending on what happens. If my theory is correct, and Wilbur is going to blow the place up, then I’ll probably stay. Just to help him out and help clean up y’know? Maybe I’ll be able to convince him to come home. Before you got here, I was...really lonely.”

“Well, you won’t be lonely anymore! Since I can’t return home yet, I’ll be your friend so you don’t have to be lonely!”

“Thanks, Grain.”

“You’re welcome, Big P!”

The two rose and started to fly towards the world border. Maybe Grian could make a new home on Dream SMP. The builder already started making plans for an epic build, having a vague idea in his head. However, he would have to inspect the landscapes available to see what his block palette would be and what style his build would be. Grian thought of his mansion back home and wanted to build something similar to remember it.

“Oi! Grain! You there mate?”

Grian shook his head as he was, again, dragged from his daydreams by Phil. They had arrived at the world border. “I’ve sent word to Dream, he should be letting us in soon.”

“Alrighty! What kind of base do you want to build if you stay?”

Phil just shrugged. “Eh. Don’t know just yet. Don’t want to start anything too ambitious, like a Hardcore project.”

Grian kept forgetting that this man held the world record for the longest Hardcore run. Phil was only 5”4 and didn’t look that intimidating. He looked loving and fatherly, and Grian considered Phil to be like a father to him. But the man was a dedicated Hardcore player, and could easily take Grian down in a fight. It scared him, sometimes, about how little he actually knew about Phil.

“Alright, mate, let’s go.” The blue striped border had been removed by the mysterious admin, and the two flew into Dream SMP. Grian felt a buzz from his communicator and pulled it from his pocket.

Unlike in Hermitcraft, when a member joins the server (especially a new member), the entire chat would be flooded with ‘hello!’ messages. However, on the Dream SMP, there were one or two directed at Phil. How peculiar. Phil went silent as they flew over the woods and forest. In the distance, Grian could see what appeared to be a city. That must be L’Manberg. It wasn’t as big or as grand as some builds on Hermitcraft, heck his own base would have taken up over half of the area if he lived there. On a tall pole lay what Grian assumed was the flag of L’Manberg, inky black, with a fiery red arch and X. Interesting design. Phil didn’t go into the city, however, he flew towards the coordinates that Wilbur had written in his letter, his brow furrowed. Fireworks crackled and popped throughout L’Manberg.

Grian landed with Phil, in front of a small tunnel that bore deep into a hill that was just outside the country.

“It’s now or never. Grain, stay behind me.” Phil tucked the letter away and led Grian through the tunnel, and into a compact stone room. Carved into the wall were words. No, not just words. Lyrics.

I heard there was a special place,

where men could go and emancipate.

From the brutality and tyranny of their rulers.

Well, this place was real, you needn’t fret,

With Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo, fuck Eret.

It’s a very big place, not blown up L’Manberg.

MY L’MANBERG

MY L’MANBERG…

Those lyrics were carved all over the stone walls, and in the middle, was a stone button. In front of that button, was Philza’s eldest son, Wilbur.

Grian had never actually seen Wilbur before, only in an old picture of when Phil, Wilbur, and Phil’s other two sons, Tommy and Technoblade, won MCC 4. In that picture, Wilbur wore a cute yellow sweater with a brown beanie, with a shimmering smile on his face.

The man that stood before them now was not that person. It couldn’t be. Wilbur stood, hunched over a stone button, whispering to himself. He donned a brown trenchcoat and ditched the beanie.

“What are you doing?” Phil asked.

Wilbur turned to face them. His eyes had no emotion in them, his smile no longer shimmered. Standing before them was an insane man.

“I will admit,” Wilbur said. His voice sent a chill down Grian’s spine, “Do you know what this is? What this button is?” Phil’s speculations appeared to be true. Wilbur was trying to destroy L’Manberg.

“Uh huh. I do.” How, how could Phil be so calm?

“Have you heard the song? The song on the walls?” Wilbur’s fingers gently ran over the words ‘MY L’MANBERG’. His eye twitched, “I was just making a big point you know? About how there was a special place, it was a special place. But that's not there anymore.” Wil’s voice lowered to a hush.

“It is there, Wil, it's out there.”

“PHIL I’M ALWAYS SO CLOSE TO PRESSING THIS BUTTON! I’VE BEEN HERE LIKE SEVEN OR EIGHT TIMES--” Voices from above cut Wilbur off. Grian could hear footsteps above them. Wilbur turned his eyes to the stone ceiling and lowered his voice. “Oh they're going to come…I need to block this off.” Wilbur hastily piled blackstone bricks in the doorway, which not only sealed whoever “they” were out, but also sealed Grian, Phil, and Wilbur in.

“Oh Phil...I’ve been here so many times.”

Numerous fireworks exploded outside.

<Tubbo_ went off with a bang due to a firework fired from [Rocket Launcher] by Technoblade>

“Oh they’re fighting, they’re fighting…” WIlbur whispered, sounding tired.

“And you just want to...to blow it all up? You fought so hard for this land, Wilbur, and you just want to...destroy it all?” Phil tried to reason.

“I don’t even know if the button works anymore, Phil, I could press it, and it might--”

“Do you want to risk it? There is a lot of TNT potentially connected to that button.”

Wilbur seemed to hear him. His breathing got heavier as he returned to that hunched over position over the stone button. What was this place? Nothing serious ever happened on Hermitcraft. There were no seriously high stakes, there were no serious threats, no serious danger. It was all in good fun.

“There...there was a saying, Phil...by, uh, by a traitor. Once part of L’Manberg, don’t know if you ever heard of Eret, but he had a saying.”

Wilbur looked up at Phil. Grian could see the familiar resemblance between the two, they shared emerald green eyes.

“It was never meant to be.” Wilbur whispered that phrase, and pressed the stone button.

#dream smp #hermitcraft #dream smp x Hermitcraft #grian #fic #philza Minecraft #phil #philza #wilbur soot #wilbur #button room #angst #dream smp lore #c!Phil #c!Wilbhr #Insanebur

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revenant-coining · 2 years ago

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Loneimeic

[ID: 2 rectangular flags with 11 horizontal lines. colors in this order from top to bottom: a gradient from blue to black-purple, black-blue, a gradient from black-purple to blue. the first flag has a star-like effect on it. End ID]

Loneimeic: a gender connected to black willow trees, darkness, and nighttime.

Etymology: (wil)lo(w), (dark)ne(ss), (nightt)ime, “ic” meaning of or pertaining to

Pronounced: low ne ime ick (lo ne ime ic)

@radiomogai , @mogai-sunflowers

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

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

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tinyshe · 3 years ago

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This portrayal of an imagined 'goblin market', in which scary-looking goblins offer fruit to two terrified young women, was painted by English artist and Royal Academician Hilda Koe (1872-1936) c.1895-1901. There is very little available information on Koe, other than her membership of the RA. This remains her best-known work, painted in a style that shows a clear pre-Raphaelite influence.

Goblin Market Christina Rossetti Morning and evening

Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.” Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird. But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: “Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone. Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.” Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night. At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?” Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”— “Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down. One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance. In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.” Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

#poem #poetry #rossetti #goblin market

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