#even when he’s covered in soot and redstone

[solacebean]

The Goat

[sleepsart]

It's that guy!!!!

fWhip is human, debatably. We think he's a human, we're not sure though. Sausage seems human enough, and hey, they're related, so we're just gonna assume fWhip and Gem are human as well. fWhip eats redstone. He can technically eat whatever rock and/or ore he wants to, but he likes redstone the best. He says it helps him with his machinery.

He's 5'11" in boots, but without the three inch addendum, he's really just 5'8". He wears a lot of long clothes to make himself look taller. He's never taken the scarf off. Literally no one has seen him without it, except for probably Sausage and Gem. He's always got soot on him, even if he hasn't been messing with explosives in days (which would be considered worrying). He feels everything at 200% and can often be found in some uninhabited area of the land, blowing stuff up to get some of those emotions out. Also he has heterochromia because I said so. fWhip's face is a bit uneven. Something about an accident when he was a kid. His jaw is always a bit to the left. It's not very noticable, but it's there.

[ID: A full body reference drawing of fWhip's Empires SMP character. His left arm is held out and his right arm is by his side. He is wearing a puffy shirt with a vest, along with arm bracers that reach from his wrists to his elbows. He is wearing fingerless gloves and a slightly scuffed up scarf. His pants are dark and tucked into knee-high platform boots. His boots are covered in belts and have little gears near the heel.

fWhip has shaggy hair that is held back by a pair of goggles. He has a small beard. He is smiling at the viewer and his face is covered in soot. His eyes are two different colors, though the drawing is in black and white. Four lines point to his body. The first is pointing to his head and is labeled "5'11". The second is pointing to his face and is labeled "sooty". The third is pointing toward his scarf and is labeled "scarf has seen better days". The last is pointing to the platform of his boots and is labeled "3". End ID]

[nocturnal-dreams]

As Our World Caves In

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Pairing: Wilbur Soot x GN!Reader

Warnings: deep angst, death, blood, stabbing, explosions

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Part 2 here!

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Another scream left your lips as you were flown back by the impact of the wither hitting you, sending you down into a crater losing a lot of your health. You quickly drunk a health potion and started to climb out of the hole, trying to avoid the wither heads being shot at you. The screams of people you had once called your friends, some your enemies, rang in your ears.

How could Techno have betrayed you like this? He was almost like a brother to you, you two had bonded so well preparing for this war just for him to turn a blind eye at your pleads for him to help. Tommy had ran off after Techno, you losing sight of the two when one of the withers started to target you, Dream attacking you in the process.

A part of you wished Dream hadn’t just left you for dead, a part of you wished he had actually killed you. Not that you had much to live for anymore. The place you had once called home, fallen in love in, and built was destroyed. Your friends had betrayed you. All you had now was Wilbur...

Wilbur...

Where is Wilbur?

You looked around the chaos of L’Manberg, the town being torn apart by the withers that raged chaos on everyone and everything in its wake. You scrambled to what safe land you could find, eventually the land being blown up under your feet.

Calling for Wilbur, you cursed to yourself not finding him anywhere. Where had he gone off to, you were worried. You looked down at the netherstar hanging around your neck, the same netherstar that Wilbur had giving you the day he had beaten Dream and became president of L’Manberg.

Why couldn’t the days just stay that way? No wars, no withers, no chaos, just you and Wilbur running a beautiful nation. The days you and Wilbur would sit at the top of the towers, watch the sunset in each other’s arms while he would mutter words of admiration.

“Y/N?!” you slid down the hill quickly hearing your name, finding Phil standing at the top of a hill staring down at you. You picked yourself up quickly running over to the blonde man, hugging him tightly and looking him over for any wounds from the wither attack, “where is Wilbur?”

“I don’t know,” your breath was ragged, your hands shaking as you held onto Philza, “I’m scared he’s dead, he’s on his last life Phil! I can’t lose him!” You buried your face into Phil’s shoulder, tears running down your face while Phil tried to calm you the best he could and also find out where his middle son had disappeared to. Wherever Wilbur had gone however, Phil knew it wasn’t for good intentions.

You and Phil had exchanged letters for weeks leading up today, you rambling off in your letters how you were scared for Wilbur, he seemed to have been turning more insane day after day, disappearing for days at a time to somewhere. Phil was trying his best in the letters to give you comfort and to calm your mind but at the same time, he knew what his son could be capable with if he got pushed too far for too long.

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There he sat, singing to himself quietly to the words on the wall. He sat in a small wooden chair, it creaking quietly at the slightest movement and a single lantern hanging on the ceiling above him. A small but powerful button in front of him as he stared at it, going to press it but something continuing to pull him away from the button.

Well, I've heard there was a special place, Where men could go and emancipate, The brutality and the tyranny of their rulers.

“There was a special place, where men could go and emancipate,” he rambled to himself, pulling at the sleeves of his brown trenchcoat, “and there definitely was that special place that once existed, it did.” 

Well, this place is real, we needn't fret, With Wilbur, Y/N, Tommy, Tubbo, fuck Eret It's a very big and not blown-up L'Manberg

His face fell into his hands, “even with Tubbo being in charge I don’t think it can exist again, it just can’t.” He sighed loudly to himself, his hand hovering above the button that would end everything, all of his work would be over, “it’s right there, if I’m ever gonna press it then I’m pressing it now. And...” His brows furrowed for a second, slamming his hand against the wall, “the thing that I built this nation for doesn’t exist anymore! The thing I worked towards! Our dream! It doesn’t exist anymore! It doesn’t exist-”

A voice cut him off, just down the long hallway that lead to the room hidden in a small mountain stood Phil, Y/N behind him covered in bruises and burns from the wither attack. Phil was the one to speak, Y/N being too weak in that moment to even look at Wilbur, the man they had once loved, “what are you doing?”

Silence, until Wilbur spoke up quietly, not bothering to turn around to face his father, “Phil?” Phil repeated his question, “we made Tubbo president, Schlatt is gone, we won Phil.”

Phil nodded, pulling Y/N to his side not wanting them to completely break down watching the man they loved go insane, “so... You are? In L’Manberg?”

Wilbur finally turned around to face his father, noticing Y/N by his side. Wilbur looked over them, taking a second to look at just the bruises that littered Y/N’s arms and the burns on their hands.

You choked back a sob staring at Wilbur, “Wil, please just stop. Come home, come to-”

“This is home, Y/N. What are you talking about?” Wilbur asked, his head turning to the side, unable to understand why Y/N was in such a state after they had just won. He thought this was what they wanted, that they wanted L’Manberg back.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, “this?! A nation that is corrupted, people living in fear, how can you even see a future here?!” You broke free from Phil’s grasp, going over to Wilbur and grabbing him by his jacket, pulling him closely and showing him the wounds that littered your arms, legs, hands, and face, “Wilbur can’t you see that I’m in pain? The Wilbur I knew wouldn’t even allowed me to go into the battlefield!”

“Y/N...” Wilbur’s expression seemed to soften, his eyes seeming calmer and almost like he was about to break down into your arms at the slightest touch. Wilbur looked away from your pleading eyes, dodging your hand that tried to go to his face so you could make him look at you again, “alright, I will admit. Do you know what that button is?”

Y/N stayed silent, Phil nodding to Wilbur’s question, “I read your notes, I know you son. I know what that button will do.”

“Have you heard the of the song, the song on the wall.”

“My L’Manberg,” Y/N said quietly, your voice breaking as you held onto Wilbur.

“There was a special place,” Wilbur’s hands grabbed your own, prying them off of him, making you sit down in the chair in which Wilbur had once sat. Wilbur looked around the room, reading each word on the wall, “I was just saying that there was a special place that men could go but it’s not there anymore.”

“But it is there Wilbur,” you said, looking up at him from the chair in which you were now sat at, “we won it back, Tubbo is now the president, we can be happy.”

“I am so close to pressing that button!” Wilbur yelled, catching you off guard as he slammed his hands down on the wall again, staring at the button intently, “I have been here on days where I wasn’t even planning! I’ve been here like seven or eight times just wanting to press it.” Suddenly everything was making sense to Y/N, this is where Wilbur was sneaking off to at night, this is what Wilbur was marking down in his notebook that he wouldn’t allow you to read, “I’ve been here so many times-”

“And you just want to blow it all up, throw away everything you’ve worked so hard for,” Phil responded, Wilbur giving a small nod as he rested his forehead against the wall, “what you and everyone that has loved and cared about you have fought for.”

“I don’t even know if it works Phil, I tried once and someone had destroyed the redstone so who’s to say they haven’t destroyed it again,” Wilbur sighed, “I could press it and have it not work.”

“Wilbur please, just try to reconsider. We can make a new nation, with everything you stand for, it will be us in rule, no Schlatt, no Dream, just you, me, Tommy, Tubbo, and whoever else you want,” you reached for Wilbur’s hand, him pulling away from the action, “please Wil, I love you.”

Wilbur bit his lip, staring at the button, “you know Y/N, there was a saying, by a traitor.” Your heart sank to your stomach, you knew what was coming, “It was never meant to be.”

Just the small click made you go numb, he had done it, he had pressed the button.

And there it was, the giant hole in the wall showing all the work was destroyed, everything was gone. Everything, every memory, every laugh, it was all destroyed. Wilbur just smiled to himself, staring at the destruction of his nation. 

“My L’Manberg Phil,” Wilbur sighed staring at the destruction, the nation torn to pieces, “my unfinished symphony that will forever be unfinished! If I couldn’t have it than no one could!”

“Wilbur! You’re insane!” Y/N cried, staring at the destruction of their once beautiful home. 

Suddenly Wilbur grabbed Y/N by the arm, pulling something out of his pocket and giving it to Y/N, “kill me.”

Your breath hitched in your throat at Wilbur’s request, you couldn’t murder Wilbur, you loved him. Wilbur kept going on, begging you to stab him as you held the blade in your trembling fingers, tears streaming down your face.

“But-”

“Kill me Y/N!” Wilbur had yelled, grabbing your harsher and almost shaking you as you stared at him, tears blurring your vision, “everyone wants you to do it! Look at them, the traitors Y/N, they never cared about us. I want to die, please just do it!”

“I love you!” You yelled, the diamond enchanted blade trembling in your hands, Wilbur’s hands landing on top of your own and aiming the tip of the blade towards his heart.

“You just need to push,” Wilbur said, his voice calm for someone that was about to be murdered. Yet you couldn’t do it, you just couldn’t kill him after everything he has done for you. You loved Wilbur more than anyone, he was your entire world, now he wanted you to destroy your world like he just destroyed his home, “Y/N, look at me.”

You looked up at him, your vision blurred by the tears that streamed down your face. Wilbur grabbing your face in his hands, tilting your head slightly to the side and smashing his lips on your own in a passionate kiss. You clung to him, the sword dropping between you two as you held onto him, as if the entire world and chaos around both of you had paused and you two were the only ones around.

But suddenly Wilbur stopped, his hands dropping from behind your head, sinking to the floor. You tried to cling to his body the best you could but he still fell to the ground, you catching his head before it could hit the ground. You looked behind Wilbur to see Phil, tears in his eyes and a blood stained sword in his hands.

You held his head between your hands, watching the blood pour from his lips as he gave you a weak smile, “Y/N, love, you know how Dream said earlier that there was no traitor?” You nodded, holding onto Wilbur through his final moments, “he fucking lied.”

You held him tightly, watching his breathing stop and his heart that had once put you to sleep just by it’s beating had now froze. You clung to his body tightly, burying your face in his chest not bothering with the blood that would stain you. What point was there to care? The man you loved more than anything was dead, the man you had trusted had murdered him right in front of you.

“Get out,” you whispered quietly, but Phil still hearing you.

“Y/N I’m so sorry,” Phil sighed, taking his hat off to help pay his respects, “but he was dangerous, I had to put an end to him. He was suffering Y/N, he was a danger to you, to everyone here, and most importantly himself. I did want I believe is best.”

“You fucking murdered him!” You yelled, holding Wilbur’s lifeless face to your chest as you cried into his brown curls, “just get out.”

“Y/N...”

“Get the fuck out!”

Phil nodded sadly, dropping the blade from his hands that was stained in Wilbur’s blood and left the room through the hole left by the explosion, leaving you to cry.

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Thanks for reading, don’t forget to like and maybe reblog as it really does help me out :)

I’m gonna go to sleep now since it’s now 1 in the morning and I’ve been writing for hours

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Taglist: @sadassflatass @gamerboykarl​ @ajesterscrown​ @bored-functional-human @aremegay

(To be added to my tag list, dm me)

S-Tierre Taglist: @corpse-br1de

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[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Dsmp disability/neurodivergence hcs pog

(Obviously all to do with the characters, not the content creators!)

To start with, the characters with disabled/neurodivergent actors have the same disabilities/neurodivergences- George is colourblind, Tubbo is dyslexic, Wilbur is probably autistic, Dream, Techno, Eret, and Karl have ADHD, ect (in case I forgot anyone lol.)

Callahan is entirely mute due to unknown causes. While all of the original eight and a couple more people on the server know sign language, he primarily communicates with writing in the server's group chat.

Ponk is missing three of her limbs- both of her legs entirely and her arm up to the elbow. He has redstone and gold prosthetics in similar colours to his mask.

Fundy's developed some pretty bad anxiety ever since the Final Control Room.

JSchlatt suffered severe substance abuse issues, along with atrophying muscles.

Eret's cloudy white eyes, while mostly stemming from their descendance from ghosts, does leave them with very light sensitive and slightly blurry eyes. That’s another reason he wears sunglasses, apart from hiding his eyes, to reduce the pain of sunlight.

Jack Manifold lost his tail during his second canon death making it very hard for him to balance (I draw him as a wolf hybrid btw before you wonder). After coming back as a hellhound his firey tails do a bit to help but he’s also left with constant minor chronic pain, along with feeling constantly freezing cold despite feeling fever-warm to the touch.

Along with the obvious amnesia, dying in the explosion in El Rapids left Karl partially deaf, which he talks even louder than before to try and compensate.

HBomb has addiction issues with alcohol.

Ever since his revival with the totem, Technoblade's had frequent headaches and hypersensitivity to touches to his head.

Along with his severe allergies to water and amnesia, Ranboo is autistic (mostly because I like him and I WILL self project onto all my faves bby).

Those behind the cut- an extra warning for fairly graphic descriptions of torture, abuse, injury, and death!

Due to Quackity’s torture, Dream is missing an arm above the elbow. He’s also had most of his claws/teeth removed or damaged, making it very hard for him to move or eat. He’s partially blind, due to having an eye ripped out, and is partially deaf due to having an ear torn off in addition to many, many blows to the head.

Tommy's autistic and ADHD (shut up let me project on this character). He’s also got PTSD and depression. His first death in the Final Control Room permanently crippled his leg, requiring him to wear a leg brace, and his second death having an arrow through his skull left him with frequent migraines. The Glasgow Grin I always draw him with after Exile makes it hard for him to eat or speak, and he very frequently pops off the stitches- he carries a needle and thread with him at all times to help with this. It’s also part of the reason he’s so fond of gapples- their healing properties numb the pain when they touch his mouth. After his revival, he’s hyper mobile- with his limbs that were broken in his death bending at weird angles- and has severe chronic pain due to his injuries never healing (meaning he’s got really bad bruises and cuts over all his body). His wings are atrophied and have been from “birth”, being malformed under the heavy feathers and not even enough to glide with.

Tubbo's got burn scars primarily covering his arms and half his face- he raised his arms to block the first firework but the blast almost completely destroyed his arms and the second blast hit the side of his face directly- but cover basically his entire body. They never healed over properly and get damaged or infected very easily. One of his eyes was so badly damaged in the blast it’s completely blind and clouded over. One of his horns was also destroyed to the base, and its incredibly painful when touched. Tubbo's also developed some issues with substance abuse- mostly alcoholism, though at a MUCH lighter level than Schlatt. He’s also obviously got PTSD and anxiety, ect.

Wilbur Soot always struggled with depression and paranoid tendencies, which worsened as the series went on along with the trauma from the Final Control Room. His wings were damaged by his second canon death, leaving one of them so badly damaged he can no longer glide with them. He developed substance abuse issues, mostly with smoking but also vaping and alcohol. One of his arms was destroyed by the blast of L'Manburg, and this carried over to Ghostbur (with Revivebur, its where his arm bleeds and where I draw his mechanical arm). Ghostbur had severe amnesia, in addition.

Quackity is partially blind in one of his eyes, where Techno drove a pickaxe through. It’s clouded over but he can see out of it a bit. The side of his mouth on the same side is paralysed in its position too, due to again having a pickaxe brutally shoved through it. He also has some substance abuse issues- he did found the cartel, after all!

Philza is autistic (am I making the whole sbi family autistic because I’m autistic and I like them? Yes and you can’t stop me). Obviously the explosion damaged his wings- absolutely tottering them, making them unable to fly or even glide along with making every touch to them very painful, though he still refuses to get them amputated even if it’d probably be the wiser decision- it also damaged the side of his face and his destroyed his eye closest to the blast, revealing that under his skin is just a void of stars.

[cuuno-moved]

hermitbur chapter 2, i guess.

part one

tws: panic attacks, implied sh

Wilbur woke up to clean sheets, and a slight breeze coming through the window. The air smelled a bit like vanilla, and even without opening his eyes, he could see the early morning sunlight settling on his face.

He sighed, breathing in deeply, and felt his muscles relax. This was nice…

He hadn’t felt this relaxed in years, he realised, not since-

His eyes flew open, and his body jolted upright, sending pain throughout his ribcage, and he gasped, leaning to the side, curling in on himself.

He wore a new, clean sweater- a blue-grey one that hung a bit loose on his wiry frame- but they had left his tattered jeans alone. It felt like there were bandages wound around his chest, and up his arms, and his hair felt clean.

He scowled, shoving himself up into a sitting position. The room was large, and bright, with large windows set in the clean white walls. A large painting hung over a coffee table at the other side of the room. The floor was covered in a soft looking brown carpet, and the bed was twin sized, with a tall, elegant headboard. He noticed railings set up along the wall, as well as a wheelchair in the corner.

A hospital? No, it didn’t have that sterile, empty feeling. So what? A prison?

Suddenly, two people walked in, chatting quietly.

One was a woman, tall and thin, with long blond hair that was slung over her shoulder, held back with a pair of goggles. Her arms were crossed, her lips thin, but something about her was warm, inviting.

The other was a man, a painfully familiar one at that. He was tall too, but not as tall as the woman, or Wilbur. His nose was buried under a pile of bandages and plasters, but up this close, Wilbur could see the thin scars tracing his jaw, marring his lips, curving along his cheekbone. His sandy brown hair was just a little too long, brushing his collar, and his leg braces creaked as he shifted on his feet.

For a moment, Wilbur wondered if throwing himself out a window would be a wise idea until he saw the axe strapped to the woman’s back.

They both looked up at the same time, eyes landing on Wilbur, and glanced at each other, before the woman frowned, uncrossing her arms and stepping forward, slowly.

“Hallo…”

“Hey.” He rasped, wincing at the sound of his own voice.

The woman glanced at the man, who shrugged helplessly, before running a hand down her face. “Okay… okay, what’s your name, let’s start with that.”

“...Will. Will Watson.”

Her bright blue eyes darted over him, watching for any sign of deceit, before she nodded. “I'm False. This is my friend, Scar.”

Wilbur nodded jerkily to them, eyes catching on Scar’s face for a moment too long before glancing away. “Sorry about… y’know…”

Scar chuckled, uneasily. “Oh, it’s alright, I startled you.”

“Still shouldn't have punched you."

The room was silent and tense for a moment, before False sighed. "Are you feeling alright, Will?"

He hesitated, thinking. His ribs were sore, and his chest ached, and his back burned, and his wrists were itchy, but it didn't hurt as much as it did before, in Pogtopia, when his whole body felt like it was being crushed under the weight of the world, so he nodded. "Yeah, I'm alright."

She frowned at that, brows drawing together in disbelief. "You had a cut in your chest. Not too bad, but… it was bleeding."

Somewhere in Wilbur's mind, he smelled smoke and heard the scrape of a sword against leather and felt the blade sprout from his chest, but he didn't say anything, just shrugged.

Her scowl deepened and he braced himself to run, but she looked more concerned than anything, her lips pressing in an expression so reminiscent of Phil's, just before…

Scar shifted uncomfortably, dull green eyes darting between them. He was no fighter, Wilbur recognized that. They had similar builds, long legs and a long torso, like stretched taffy. He looked a bit sickly too, like a good wind would put him down for a week, his eyes rimmed in red, his fingers almost blue. This was no fighter, this was a talker.

Wilbur could take him, if he needed. If it came down to that, he could probably use him as a shield, at least.

His staring hadn't gone unnoticed. False had shifted between the men, staring Wilbur down with narrowed eyes.

The silence was almost unbearable, and Wilbur almost spoke, before a sudden thud echoed through the room, coming from the roof. Wilbur tensed, eyeing the other two for any reaction, but False's face was set in a stern glare and Scar looked… relieved?

Reinforcements. They had been waiting for reinforcements, and now they were here, and he was going to die.

Ignoring the way his legs felt like damp noodles, he shoved himself off the bed, collapsing almost immediately.

Scar yelped, stepping towards him, but he pushed himself up from the floor, leaning against the wall. He knew this game, he was a politician after all. Kill them with kindness, smother them with sweetness, fuck em up with friendship and when their guards are down, put an axe through their fucking skull.

He had pressed himself in a corner gazing at the two strangers, his mind running a million miles a minute. If he moved quickly, he could grab Scar, shove him to the ground, run past them.

Footsteps echoed through the building, heavy but quick, and he went to move, just as the door was flung open, and he froze.

A man stood in the doorway, sharp eyes staring him down. His hair was white, but he looked in his thirties at oldest, although the gas mask that covered his face made it hard to tell. A wicked scar ran over his right eye, rendering it blind, a dull grey color in comparison to the other, which was a bright chocolate brown. He wore what appeared to be a bulletproof vest, lined with fur and pockets. He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene, before he moved forward, muttering something to False, who nodded stiffly and stepped back.

The new man moved closer to Wilbur, slowly, gently, reaching forward.

He flinched back, his shoulders slamming into the wall, and he suddenly realised his wings were exposed, the thin iridescent material pressed against the concrete wall.

The man crouched in front of him slowly raising his hands like he was talking to a scared animal.

Wilbur didn't move, didn't speak, just stared, his whole body tense to the point of pain. He knew what was going on. The man was going to kill him. He was obviously well built, even if he wasn't obviously armed, he had to have a knife hidden on him, somewhere.

"Can you tell me your name?" The man asked quietly.

Wilbur didn't speak.

”He says his name's Will Watson." False said, flicking a lock of golden hair from her eyes.

The man didn't look at her, eyes fixed on the still-panicking elytrian. "Is that your name? Will?"

Wilbur nodded, jerkily, before freezing. If they found out he was lying…

"No," He gasped. "No, that's not… that's not my real name."

The man blinked. "Okay… okay, that's alright, you don't have tell us your real name if you don't want to-"

"'S Wilbur. Soot. I'm General Wilbur Soot."

As soon as he said it, his chest panged, and he curled in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut. General… that's not a rank he'd held in years, but it was sweet on his lips, like something he'd almost forgotten, and he hated that more than anything.

"Okay, Wilbur? You're having a panic attack. Can I touch you?"

Wilbur's mouth opened but all that came out was a low whine, like a kicked dog. He settled on nodding, and then two arms wrapped around him, gently.

He tensed up almost immediately, expecting the familiar feeling of steel, but there was nothing.

The man wasn't Phil.

Phil smelled of vanilla and wood smoke and damp stone in the summer, this man smelled almost acrid, like redstone and soldering and sweat.

Phil wore soft, silky clothes that felt like home and gentle hugs. This man wore rough clothes, built for action.

Phil hugged tight, in a way that felt safe, like the world couldn't get him, as long as he stayed in his father's arms. This man was gentle, careful, one hand cupping the back of Wilbur's head, one settled between his wings.

This wasn't Phil.

Later on, he'd wince in embarrassment when he thought of this moment, sobbing in the arms of a complete stranger because said complete stranger didn't remind him of his father, but in the moment, he was too tired to be embarrassed.

When he looked up, Scar and False were gone, the room empty other than him and the man.

"Shit, sorry," He muttered, rubbing at his face. "That was dumb."

"It's alright," The man said gently. "You're alright."

Wilbur snorted, shaking his head. "Don't even your name."

The man jolted, laughing in surprise. "Oh, you're right! I'm Etho."

"Why does everyone have such dumb names?" Wilbur muttered.

Etho's eyes crinkled in a smile. "Oh, you haven't met Beef yet…"

Wilbur frowned. "Yet? You're not going to make me leave?"

"Leave?" Etho scowled. "Why would we make you leave?"

"I showed up out of nowhere, broke your friend's nose and passed out on your beach," Wilbur chuckled humorlessly. "Why would you let me stay?"

"Do you have anywhere else to sleep tonight?"

"No."

"Then you'll stay tonight," Etho smiled. "Or longer, if you need to. You're injured, and obviously lost, plus… plus you're obviously not in the best place mentally…"

Wilbur scowled, his fingers pressing against the bandages wound around his wrists. "I'm fine."

Etho raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "Alright. Stay for Scar at least. He's been worried sick about you."

"I broke his nose…"

"Yeah, that happens," Etho nodded. "Please, stay."

Wilbur eyed him, frowning a bit.

No one had ever asked him to stay anywhere. He'd always shown up, carved a home for himself, fought tooth and nail, and then got kicked out. To have someone ask him to stick around…

"Fine. I'll stay. Just for tonight."

Etho smiled, and Wilbur couldn't help but feel that for once in his life, he'd made the right choice.

[viviantimmet]

The air hums now, with redstone pulse, with the purpose-tuned ring of repeaters, and power turned song. This circuit is for its own sake, it sings under Red’s crusted fingers as if they were bared bone.

It sings with the frequency of the Sun-Thing’s buzzing heat, pulses with the rhythm of Red’s sluggish blood, glows red and red and red has lost it’s meaning.

It’s a simple, simple circuit, but even still, the way it fits together without error, perfectly formed without chisel or pen, pries at their mind, pries out mad ideas they’ve passed over for practicality, time and again.

The mud feels like slime between their fingers as they pull up more quartz, so they set a slab aside to gather it as well, for glue and sticky-pistons, vague memories of walking machines sliding through their mind.

Those were rudimentary, Red can see now, clumsy and unidirectional. Now they will build something far far better, singing with power, pulsing with their pulse, glinting red and Red with the blessed Sun-Thing’s gaze.

…..

Blue is next to notice, when their redstone stores are filled to the brim, and not a grain has ‘gone missing’ for nearly a week. They find Red’s shop empty, as Green did, but it’s only when they come across him bringing bread to Indigo that they truly grow worried.

“Have you seen Red?” they ask, despite feeling like there’s a much better question they can’t quite perceive.

Green startles. He holds the basket tight against him as he does. He doesn’t answer.

“They with Indigo?” Blue asks, because everyone knows who those baskets are for. Are you okay, they don’t ask, even though Green isn’t smiling like he always does, even though something is very clearly wrong.

Green just shakes his head, and then bows it to wipe his eyes, and then unbows it to avoid getting the bread all soggy.

Blue offers him a soot-covered rag, and a questioning look, because What’s wrong wouldn’t cover it.

There’s a flash from Indigo’s workshop that makes Green flinch, that draws Blue’s eyes. They hold out their hands for the basket. Green passes it over weakly.

“Just…” he says, “Make sure she eats, yeah?”

Blue just nods.

Indigo is crouched beside her workbench with some obsidian instrument, lit by a faint glow from a panel Blue tries not to look at. The room is an utter mess of paper and tools and chewed quills.

“So what happened to Red?” they ask, setting the bread aside.

Indigo startles, flinching much harder than Green had, and when she turns around, Blue notes the blood welling up around her bitten nails. They have gauze somewhere on them, probably.

“Blue. Hi.” Indigo takes a breath. “They— they came here for quartz. Like al— They came here for quartz and went through this portal. This,” she gestures at the panel. “This one. It’s a portal. That’s what I do, you already know that, that’s not— I can say that.” She takes another breath.

“Have some bread.” Blue says, holding out a chunk.

She looks at the bread, but doesn’t approach. Blue stares at her. She bites her lip. “I’ve— I—“ She turns back to the workbench, feeling Blue’s eyes on her back.

A sound Blue had been entirely unaware of whines down into silence. The odd lighting fades away. Indigo sets her instrument down and takes the offered bread. The two of them sit on the workshop floor as she eats.

“I don’t know why you ever let them in here, with how they are.” Blue says, and catches the bit of bread Indigo tosses at their face.

“Don’t fucking say that. Don’t you fucking— You—“ she bares her teeth.

“When you get them back, will you still?”

Indigo shoves another bit of bread in her mouth, to stop herself correcting them. Blue knows what they’re saying, Indigo knows it.

Blue covers their face with their hands. There are too many words behind this moment. “Look—“

“I fucked up. Probably. I know. And,” Indigo wrinkles her nose, “No. Look yourself! You think Red wouldn’t be nose deep in this trapped between dimensions and all on their own if not for me? I mean, and everyone else too! Someone fucking has to, because someone fucking will, and Red wouldn’t be so careful if it was them. And it would be. But they know that! They know that and you know it so shut the fuck up. This was my fault, obviously. But it doesn’t change anything.”

And there it is. Blue nods. Lets it go. “Okay,” they say to Indigo’s glare.

She nods back, sharp.

“Don’t bleed out before you fix this,” they say, pulling out their gauze for her fingers.

She snatches it from them and puts it the basket, which is promise enough for them to stand and leave her to it.

[lunaraen]

“I am a disaster and I have a sneaking suspicion that I always will be.” with Magnus (with Gabriel or Ellegaard, I guess??)

Madness knows no bounds.

That’s a good general rule ofthumb, when dealing with anybody who’s got more supplies than most people knowwhat to do with and just as many ideas, especially when said supplies can doconsiderable damage when used incorrectly and can do even more when used right.

Loathe as Ellegaard may be toadmit it, some days, personal experience has taught her that inventors, herselfmaybe especially, can be just as mad as griefers. It isn’t so much a case ofdifferent degrees of craziness as it is fields.

The distinction’s not asimportant as she sometimes likes to make it.

(This is, after all, coming from someone on her hands and knees tinkering with a system of shrill, stubbornpistons that’s far more complex than it needs to be, wearing coveralls coveredin grease and redstone, just because she can and because rain always puts herin a more experimental mood.)

And Ellegaard has considerable…experience with Magnus and his brandof insanity. On the better days she’ll call it the learning kind, and on theworse ones she’ll say it’s an occupational hazard.

No matter how she wants to lookat it, though, there’s no changing that he’s very much a part of her regularschedule. The other Order members are too, of course, but usually she doesn’thave to wonder about whether or not they’re plotting to blow up her inventions,unless Gabriel’s messing around with Magnus and Magnus is still there in thosesituations too, usually as the bad influence/inspiration.

That means few things are new,even if she still has to wonder what he’ll try to throw at her again.

But even if it isn’t new, whenMagnus enters the room even more quietly than most normal people, the click ofthe door quiet but not as quiet as it would be if he was trying to be sneaky,it’s different in all the little ways that are downright unsettling. Like thelack of any comment as he walks by her, not even nudging any of her tools asideas he does just to mess with her, before sitting on one of the crates ofredstone she finished filling that morning, sparkling splotches of leftover,dusty red dotting the sides and lining the top.

Maybe she wasn’t expecting himback for a while, given that it’s also not uncommon for Magnus to just wanderaround for a few days. It’s not quite the training they need to beat a dragon,but he always shows up and does his best for that too, and who’s she to arguewith self-care?

Except whatever care he trieddoesn’t seem to have worked this time, even for his usual.

He looks like he feels every bitlike the drizzle outside, and as much as Ellegaard enjoys listening to thesteady drum of raindrops against the window, it’s unnerving to see Magnus lookingevery bit soaked to the bone, like it actually bothers him.

He’s done this before, walked orlimped back in after going out for a few hours, either covered in soot and ashor still smoking most times, but he’s always laughing when he first gets back,or snickering, or just smirking and looking far too proud of himself andwhatever chaos he wreaked. All being sopping wet has ever done before is madesure he can’t still be smoking while he cackles about whatever he just pulledoff.

So it’s, maybe, a littleconcerning, just a bit, when he trudges in, dripping and still managing to looklike he’s rolled around in a fire pit, as well as frowning.

In fact, it’s not even a goodfrown. Notch knows they’ve all seen better scowls from Soren, when he’s mad athis builds, or Ellegaard herself, when her machines are being… less thancooperative.

(Machines and people alike tendto be far more cooperative when a good wrench and a few threats get involved.)

Ellegaard knows Magnus can do abetter frown, even on his worse days, but it seems he’s forgotten that. Atleast, it makes him look all the more pitiful, something he’s never been fondof being. The mere idea of being seen as pathetic is usually enough to get himroaring with laughter again.

Yet there he sits.

Pouting.

In Ellegaard’s experience, theonly thing worse than a scheming griefer is a pouting one.

(Which means it’s really in thebest interest of her inventions, not to mention her already questionablesanity, that she shut this down as soon as possible, before Magnus doessomething they all regret, and it works just as well as motivation as it doesan alibi.)

So she doesn’t even bother withthe melodramatic sigh as she gets to her feet, picking up one of the rags byher feet as she does to wipe off, or at least smear around, the excess oil andredstone clinging to her gloves.

And he doesn’t even look up ather.

“What’s wrong?”

With him still not looking at heras he responds, she’d be happier about writing it off as a mood if there wassome sort of genuine emotion behind the grumble. The problem? There isn’t.

“Nothing’s wrong. Leave mealone.”

She almost considers leaving himto it, but this is actually concerning.

Besides that, few things make foras obvious a cry for help as limping back to her lab while she’s busyinventing, something only Magnus ever dares to interrupt anyway, to sit like akicked puppy.

Ivor’s always been better athelping people with emotions, and they both know it.

“You’re moping.” Shesighs as she lifts her goggles, letting them rest on her forehead as shecrosses her arms, the spotty rag dangling from her hand as she resists the urgeto frown herself. The red tint of her goggles, as it turns out, wasn’t doing asmuch to make him look miserable as she thought they were. In fact, the lack ofcolor might just be making him look drearier. “What’s wrong?”

And oh Notch, he actually takes amoment to respond, and the heavy sigh that precedes it is almost just as bad.

“I am a disaster and I havea sneaking suspicion that I always will be.”

Ellegaard also knows tired whenshe hears it. There’s nothing bitter in the words, far more precise than heever normally bothers making them, and what sounds like exhausted acceptance isfar worse than any grumbling.

“That bad?” He doesn’teven glance up at her, mouth twisted into a thin line that looks whollyunnatural on him. Whatever humor Ellegaard was trying for drops, her shouldersslumping a bit even as she raises an eyebrow. “Notch, you’re serious. Whathappened?”

“…you know that fire theyjust had down in Mauragon?”

“The mining village at thebase of the mountain? What about it–” News travels quickly between thevarious small villages surrounding the temple, but there wasn’t much to saywhen it was apparently taken care of so quickly and with no reported injuries.Ellegaard had thought it had just been some lightning, given their currentweather, but now… well, it clicks, and maybe it shouldn’t as easily as itdoes, but that doesn’t change how fast everything snaps together.“…oh.”

For a moment, the storm outsidesounds impossibly louder.

“Yeah. Oh.” Magnus’selbows are on top of his knees as he hunches over, fingers barely touching theedge of his mask as he holds his head up. “I just wanted to buy some TNT,but there was a stack of them on display, and I was lighting a cig when I tripped.”

At least it explains a lot.

“You… tripped.” Shedoesn’t say anything to let him know how easy it is to believe and how hard atthe same time, Magnus’s luck and his usual agility apparently once again atodds, but she’s sure her tone takes care of that for her. And, of course, ifsaid luck is playing into things the way it normally does… “Right by thedisplay?”

He’s alive, which is more thanmost people would be if they’d been in the same situation, and it’s the farkinder side of his luck.

(Not that she’s ever one todiscount ability, and she knows Magnus has plenty, for better or worse. It’sjust as much his experiences coming into play, and she doesn’t doubt he gothimself as safe as he could as quickly as he could, given the few seconds he hadto react. He’s still standing, and not just a pile of burned parts and ash, sothere’s not really any other possibilities)

The sharper side absolutelyexplains why he looks like he set himself on fire, though.

“Yup. Turns out a lot of theshop was made of wool. Cheaper that way.” She doesn’t snicker, the way shewants to for a second as the mental image completes itself, but she does wince.That sounds about right, given how these things tend to go and how… Magnus he tends to be during them.“Nobody got hurt or nothing, but… it was close. Not allowed back.”

Nobody got hurt, he says,re-lighting a cigarette that looks less burned out than he does, and Ellegaardhas to resist rolling her eyes.

“In the shop?”

“In Mauragon.”

Well then.

That explains the brooding aboutit.

Brooding, by the by, is anotherword for trying to bottle up emotions, failing, and pouting about it, with anoptional existential crisis or two. Ellegaard would know, she’s done plenty ofit herself.

“…I thought we were tryingto be heroes to protect people.” She uses the cautious, observational toneusually reserved for machines that seem to be ready to jump the line tomalfunctioning but haven’t yet. There’s supposed to be some humor there, butshe gets the feeling it falls dead on its feet anyhow. “Not ruin theirstock and blow up stores.”

“I know.” He groans,rubbing at his temples as he does. “I was going to pay for the stuff andeverything too. You try being apyromaniac and not cause trouble everywhere you go.”

“Did you help fix thedamage?”

There’s a pause.

“Yeah.”

That’s that. He screwed up, fixedthings up, and was banned from someplace else.

Which leaves her with taking careof the existential crises. Honestly, it may be something of her specialty atthis point, at least when it comes to Magnus. And she does have some things she’d like to take care of, Ellegaard musesas she glances at the still greasy, still squeaking pistons.

“…you know what I think always cheers you up?”

And he glances up at her, lipstwitching up in what actually looks like a smile.

It looks like the world won’t beending today, then.

Good. She still has far too manyinventions she needs to get to before that can happen.

“Blowing random crap up inthe desert?”

There’s an art, a science, too,to how long a pause should be held, for dramatics sake if nothing else. There’ssomething to be said for presentation.

Ellegaard waits one moment, andthen another, before nodding.

“Blowing random crap up inthe desert.” It’s likely just her imagination, the way her functioningmachines seem to hum in agreement. “And guess who has a few failedinventions that need to be taken care of?”

And the smile twists into theeven more familiar grin and he looks so much more like the Magnus she knows.

“You’re the best,Ellie.”

It’s easier to grin back when theknot in her chest loosens.

“I know.”

Because there’s somethinginherently insane in being a griefer, and something just as mad in being anengineer. There’s the constant danger, the constant toeing the line, the geniusthat could just as easily be called lunacy.

And there’s something to be said,for knowing that and still combining those kinds of insanity, and the easiestthing to call it is fun.