#give me my withered bones AND hydrated bones

[songofdeath]

.

[ramzawrites]

can I request one where on doomsday dream techno Phil and y/n team up. like this team is super op cuz they’re all good at pvp.

RAMZA I WANNA SAY I LOVE YOUR WRITING YOU ARE VERY POG. STAY HYDRATED EAT WELL AND SLEEO WELL!!!

Reader Joins Team Doomsday

GN

Pairings: none

Characters included: Technoblade, Philza, Dream, Quackity, Ponk, Tubbo, (mentioned Tommy)

Warnings: fighting, mention of death (non descriptive), falling (non descriptive), cursing

Series: a request by a nice anon 💙

Summary: Dream and Technoblade just teamed up in front of almost whole L’Manberg which was a catrastrophic outcome in of itself but when Dream exteneded his invite for teaming up also to Y/N? The L’Manberg people knew they were absolutely screwed.

Words count: 3930

Authors Note: Thank you for the request!! 💙 Also thank you for the nice words!!! I hope you are doing well! Please make sure to stay hydrated and that you rest as well! Thank you pog anon!!

„Listen, we will blow up L’Manberg this time tomorrow!” Dream yelled out. His voice echoing through the ruin that used to be the Community House. All while he was surrounded by a handful of people decked out in armor brandishing their weapons.

Techno stood close by him. A sick grin on his face while he held his infamous rocket launcher between his hands. No surprise there that he would immediately jump on the idea of blowing up this government, especially after they went out of their way trying to kill him while he was in retirement.

A few people let out shocked gasps or surprised exclamations as Dream announced this. Knowing that Dream was a hundred percent serious with this, as well as Techno. Those two were a dangerous combination. A deadly even.

So when Dream moved his head upwards to look at Y/N who seemed to stoically stare at the happenings and calmly asked “Won’t you join us, Y/N?” Everyone’s worry spiked even more.

Y/N scoffed and slammed the end of the trident they were holding onto the small bit of solid ground they were standing on “You already know my answer, Dream.”

While Techno seemed to be a bit confused for a few seconds he appeared to make the connection. Those two have talked about this beforehand.

The others didn’t seem to understand though.

“Y/N? You are joining them?” Tubbo sounded downright hurt.

In that moment Quackity chimed in as well “You are betraying us?”

The grip on Y/N’s trident strengthened “You bet I will! You guys never treated me like one of yours! All I was good for was to get you better gear or play body guard! Hell, at some point you guys basically imprisoned me only to let me out to train you on how to fight Techno! One of my dear friends! How does this surprise you?”

People were already panicked and scared but this was the disaster scenario. There were only three people on this server known for being amazing fighters and all three of them just banded together to destroy their home and possibly kill them all.

Before anyone could retort Dream clapped loudly in his hands to pull everyone’s attention back on himself “We gave you the warning, that’s all. See you all tomorrow.”

With that Dream used an Ederpearl to flee. Y/N followed him suit, having all of this planned out beforehand. Though this also meant they awkwardly left Techno behind but he should be fine. After all he was the Technoblade and as everybody knew Technoblade never dies.

Once the two were far enough away Dream turned to Y/N “Thanks. I appreciate what you are doing. Wouldn’t want to fight against you.”

Y/N laughed “Neither do I. They already looked so scared with your team up with Techno but after you pulled me in they really looked like sheets of paper. It was… interesting to see. Either way I should be the one thanking you. You are giving me a chance for revenge.”

They continued to move towards a snowy tundra. Dream taking the lead since Y/N has been stuck in L’Manberg in the last few months. They wore netherite armor but it was unenchanted. Given to them by the butcher army after they told them of their plan to kill Dream.

The original plan was that Y/N would join them later and make sure that they will be alright. Playing a bodyguard for them once again. Normally they would have used the given armor and weapons as soon as they got it to flee but Dream has met them before this even happened. Hatching out a plan together so in the end this gear was an added bonus that gave extra protection while they fled with Dream.

“Why are we here?”

“Well we gotta prepare.” Dream answered as if that would answer Y/N’s question sufficiently.

While Y/N didn’t exactly truly trust Dream, mostly due to the fact they trusted no one, they didn’t feel the need to ask him to elaborate and instead continued to follow him dutiful. He had something planned and they had to follow him no matter what.

Where else could they go? Their only home was in L’Manberg even if it was more of a prison.

Dream was an enigma to them. Y/N had fought with the man a few times and it was always incredibly tiring every time which was something new for them.

Both Dream and Techno were physical strong, though Y/N suspected that Techno was a bit stronger simply because of his Piglin side.

Techno was a master at preparing and using everything to his disposal and if he didn’t have it he wasn’t scared to spend a ludicrous amount of time to gather these items. He was like a true juggernaut. People called him the Blood God for a reason after all.

Dream was more versatile. Of course he did plan things beforehand but he was better at acting during the situation. If the situation changed you can bet that he was already three moves ahead and noticed things around him he can use for his advantage. Now combine this with the knowledge he had about the world and he seemed almost unstoppable.

Just like Dream and Techno they too were physical strong which came naturally over the years but they relied more on their speed. Being a master at dodging blows and abusing peoples weak spots before they even realize they had any.

Now that they teamed up Y/N could understand how the people begun to fret. Alone the three were a force to be reckoned with but together it wasn’t hard to imagine that they could level a whole city or a nation in this specific case.

“Here, we arrived.” Dream almost whispered. His porcelain mask hiding his satisfied smile as he spotted Techno talking with Philza inside what looked like a nether wart farm. Probably telling him about what just happened and how Tommy betrayed him.

Philza waved towards the two new arrivals “Hello Dream and Y/N.”

Surprised Techno turned around.

“What? We have to plan this somehow even a little bit. This is a bit bigger than just winging it.” Dream explained.

Techno stepped out of the farm and dug his finger into Dream’s shoulder “I have a bone to pick with you two.” He made sure to throw his frown towards Y/N as well as he said that “You just left me! You left me alone surrounded by like thirty people!”

Dream slowly pushed Techno’s hand away from him “And yet here you stand alive and well.”

“No thanks to you!”

“Boy, am I glad to finally meet my old friend Technoblade after being imprisoned inside my own home.” Y/N interjected, already having heard enough of their bickering.

Philza sharply sucked in some air “Yeah, I know what that feels like.”

Techno sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose “Don’t get me even started on you. They started a government right in front of us, you helped me build the Wither’s that destroyed them and yet you still stayed.”

“Oh, Techno you know very well what happened! They managed to catch me when I made sure to keep them off your back as you fled! Besides it gave me time to find out more about their structure and what was happening! I couldn’t know we wouldn’t need it in the end since Dream himself appeared to join our cause in this instance!”

Dream was calm and collected before but now he seemed almost apalled that Y/N would throw such an accusation against him “What?! Now it’s my fault?!”

Phil made his way towards the arguing warriors and made sure to stand in between them, they wouldn’t fight, not yet at least, the fight wasn’t heated enough for that but he needed to get their attention off each other “Okay, I think that is enough. You only have so much time to plan Doomsday.”

“You are right Phil, of course. Well then I have to show both Dream and Y/N something.” Techno seemed to have calmed down and made his way towards his home. Dream followed him and Y/N was about to follow him as well but Philza stopped them by laying his hand on their shoulder.

“Are you okay? You basically have been locked up by the L’Manbergians longer than me”

Y/N smiled softly “Besides missing my old gear? I am alright. Really. But thanks for asking.”

This seemed to be answer enough since he let his hand fall back to his side and instead concentrated on Techno who came running out of his house again with a button in his hand. Dream closely following and confused. Y/N assumed he was confused by his body language but it was hard to tell with his mask.

“Please follow me.”

So the group did as he ran around the corner towards a mountain range. All the while complaining to Chat, the voices in his head, that they had wants for completely unrelated things.

He placed the button down and pressed it. With the loud sounds of pistons moving a flat stone wall begun retracting giving away to a room with wither skulls on the back of the room. Soul Sand structures decorating the room as well as  a few chests and what looked like the start of a netherite armor set.

“What!?” Dream exclaimed in his typical fashion running into the hidden place to get a better look at the Wither skulls.

While Y/N was certainly impressed by this something felt off about this. Technically those were a ton of Wither skulls since they are incredibly hard to get by but it didn’t feel enough for Techno but Y/N chose to hold their thoughts to themself.

“As you can see we have enough for a few Withers and combined with, you mentioned raining down TnT?”

“Yeah, Yeah I did. A machine that will literally rain down TnT on the nation.”

“Yeah, combined with that and our fighting power we shouldn’t have a problem destroying L’Manberg.”

Y/N stretched “Okay, we got the gist of the plan I guess but I want a proper one. How will this go down exactly?”

The next day Y/N woke up early. More out of habit than need. They put on their freshly enchanted netherite armor and grabbed their new weapons as well. A netherite sword, crossbow and trident. Techno was already up, probably way before them. He was meticulous when it comes to preparing for fights after all.

As Y/N climbed down the ladder to get to the main level of Techno’s house they found him looking through a chest.

“Morning Techno and thanks for the makeshift bed and letting me sleep over.”

“Seeing as you are currently homeless I didn’t really have a choice and besides it makes it easier to meet up. Even though mister green Teletubby thought otherwise.” He grumbled “By the way there are some baked potatoes inside the furnace. Feel free to grab some.”

Y/N nodded and moved towards the furnace grabbing their breakfast. Potatoes, how typical.

The next few hours was spent by Techno, Philza and Y/N brewing potions as well as warming up. They got into their armor and made sure all of their equipment was working.

Now imagine their surprise while all of them were deep in their preparations and Dream appeared a good hour or so too early.

“Dream? Already here?” Y/N asked him.

He laughed “What? Already sick of me? I’m joking but there is a small change in plans. Let’s get going. Now.”

In the last part the tone in his voice changed from happy to serious which gave Y/N a bit of whiplash with how fast he could apparently change his emotions.

Technoblade pivoted his head to the side “Why already? Did something happen?”

Thankfully Dream shook his head “No, but let’s catch them off guard. If we go now they will surely be surprised.”

“Huh. He has a point.” Philza noted.

So the small group, they begun calling themselves Team Doomsday, started making their way towards L’Manberg but not without first getting Techno’s Hound Army. It was a bit stressful to get through the Nether with them but in the end they managed to reach the Community Nether Portal which led them close to the nation.

“I’m getting ready for the TnT, you all three get into the city and begin doing your thing. Techno as soon as you give me the signal I will spawn Withers and start the machine.” Dream ranted off resulting in Y/N rolling their eyes.

“Dream we were there when we planned this all.”

“Right.” And with that he vanished.

Technoblade turned to Philza “And you stay out of danger. Just spawn some Withers and by Ender stay out of danger. Call for us if anyone gets too close to you.”

This was Philza’s time to roll his eyes “Mate, I know. I’ll be fine!”

He most likely would. Philza was some apparently immortal being after all that still somehow only had one life. It was confusing but Y/N didn’t want to ask since Philza himself seemed to be very secretive about his nature.

With that Philza made sure to stay far away from Techno and Y/N. Still watching them but from a safe distance, holding onto the bag with the extra Wither skulls from Techno.

Together Y/N and Techno ran into the city with the wolves. As soon as Techno spotted Tubbo he immediately ordered his hounds to attack but didn’t attack himself immediately. He needed Tubbo to call the others so this thing could really start. After all, all of them had to get what’s due for them.

And indeed it didn’t take long for Quackity and the others to appear.

“Shit, it’s both Y/N and Techno!”

“Where is Dream!”

“No, idea!”

“We are so fucked!”

The people were scrambling, trying to protect their home but every time they got too close to Techno or Y/N the hounds would throw themselves at them. It was almost ironic how when Sapnap appeared the fight really begun.

“Techno I’ll deal with the people! I think it’s time for our secret weapon!” Y/N yelled over the chaos as they kicked Quackity away.

Between the L’Manbergian party Sapnap and Punz were definitely the biggest problem but as it looked like Punz barely participated. Sapnap was a definite surprise so Y/N wanted to deal with him if they get the chance. Test their mettle against him and maybe find out what moved him to work against Dream so readily.

“Got you!” Techno answered, showing that he heard them.

He got out his rocket launcher and shot a few rounds into the air, giving Dream and Phil both the sign. When Techno himself also got out some soul sand the others understood what was happening and tried their best to reach the Pig Hybrid.

Unfortunately for them the hound army and Y/N stopped them dead in their track.

Y/N had no problem running from person to person to either deflect their attack or kick them away from Techno as he built his little contraption. Two Withers already begun flying towards the middle of the nation. This broke up the group and a few decided to dedicate their fighting prowess to ensure that the Withers wouldn’t cause too much damage.

To that suddenly red TnT blocks suddenly begun raining down from the sky. A manic laughing Dream standing on top of an obsidian structure.

While the people scrambled to not die to the Withers, the dogs or the explosions, Team Doomsday, minus Phil, saw their chance to properly get into the fights.

Y/N didn’t spend any time waiting and immediately jumped in front of Sapnap’s way brandishing their sword. A smirk on their face.

Sapnap looked determined but worry still managed to crack through his expression. He locked his eyes with theirs and moved in heaving his sword up in order to strike them.

But Y/N stayed calm. They took a step forward and practically flowed around him, dodging his attack as they slammed down the sword at his side. It made contact with his armor but as it slid down the metal it managed to hit an exposed part of his arm.

Hissing Sapnap tried hitting them with a sweeping move towards their direction. Y/N used their sword to redirect his weapons movement away from them.

“Your reaction time is good! Too bad I’m better.” Y/N mused as they went back in to attack him.

They attacked him again, giving him a false sense as he tried to block their incoming attack only for them to move around again and kick him in the back of his knee. His leg buckled and crashed down into the dirt. Without any mercy Y/N kicked him again in his leg using the extra strength they had due to the strength potions.

“Fuck!” Sapnap cried out and put his hand inside a brown bag on his side, getting out an Enderpearl and throwing it away. He soon followed and disappeared as well.

“Oh no! You get back here! I haven’t even had the chance to ask you what the hell you think you are doing!”

But Sapnap didn’t hear them. He was too busy dodging attacks from a Wither.

“Y/N!” It was Phil calling out to them. As Y/N looked to where his voice came from they noticed both Ponk and Quackity coming closer to him. They knew he probably could deal with them but still. He was on his last life after all. Extra caution was warranted.

Y/N angled their own Enderpearl towards the blonde brit. Originally planned to be used to follow Sapnap but Phil was more important right now.

The wind got knocked out of their lungs as they landed in front of Phil. The sound of metal hitting each other rung out. A sword hitting Y/N’s armored back.

For a second Phil looked surprised only to jump back to his serious expression as he managed to see Y/N’s smile. He immediately got out a splash potion and threw it at himself and Y/N. They immediately noticed their strength returning. A healing potion. He got another one which seemed to be a strength potion, prolonging the effect that was already on them.

Thankful for the small pit stop Y/N turned around while he was busy throwing the strength potions, looking Quackity right in his face.

Quackity looked pretty confident before but now he was white as snow. Ponk put his second hand on the hilt of the sword. His sword was the one that clattered down on Y/N only to get parried by their armor.

“You betrayed us! Y/N! Do you really wanna do this?” Quackity tried to appeal to them.

Y/N sneered “How does this surprise you still? How? How does this not get in your head? You imprisoned me and made me work against my will against one of my only friends? How does this not enter your thick skull?”

They moved their arm up and brought it down on Quackity. It didn’t surprise them that he managed to parry it with his own but Y/N doubled down pressing down on the blade with their own. Effectively locking him into this position.

Obviously Ponk saw his chance and tried attacking Y/N who was preoccupied with the Vice President but Philza was still there. He just had to extend his trident and managed to interlock Ponk’s blade between the forks of his weapons.

“Phil!” Weirdly enough he seemed to be surprised by that.

“You were about to attack me! Don’t sound so shocked!”

Y/N pushed even harder on Quackity, forcing him to take a step back, getting dangerously close to the edge of the crater that the TNT is still in the progress of making.

“You are just as bad as Techno. Just as bad as Dream.” He spat. Still trying to work against Y/N’s strength.

“From what I saw in my time in this L’Manberg I very much prefer that. At least they treat me like a human person and not just as a weapon to be used!”

With that Y/N musted up the rest of their strength and pushed even harder down. Forcing out a yell as they pushed him one last time. Quackity not having enough strength to hold out anymore had to take another step only to find that there was no ground anymore. He slipped and fell down into the crater.

Not wasting any time Y/N spun towards Ponk who was clashing his sword against Philza’s shield. He was a good enough fighter but it still looked pathetic. He was too desperate.

Y/N used the adrenaline of arguing with Quackity to run and throw their whole body into Ponk. Making him stumble and fall down onto the ground.

Pointing their sword at his throat “I’m sorry Ponk. I respect you for standing up to your ideals but here is the end of the road today for you. Maybe next time you will have a better chance.”

His eyes widened and a weak protest left his mouth but Y/N ignored it. Pushing their sword down, killing him. His body dissolving into golden dust. He was returning to his bed and respawning.

Phil looked at his worn out shield “You okay, Y/N?”

They laughed dryly “I should ask you that. I am fine. I am holding my own out here, how are you?”

“I’m luckily good as well. Thanks for helping me, Y/N.”

It was sad to think about how they never got a proper thanks from the L’Manberg people. It was expected that they helped them.

Y/N nodded “Always.”

They wanted to jump back into the fight but suddenly Dream stood next to them. Looking over the crater.

The opposing party was scattered. Now more dealing with injuries than the fights. Only one Wither left flying around. The crater reached bedrock and yet the explosions still rang.

“I think it’s time we go. This nation is done for.” He spoke.

Techno joined the party. He looked like he was doing alright. His armor obviously scratched up but he was doing alright.

“I say we seemed to be successful.” He noted.

Dream put his hand on Y/N’s shoulder “I saw you fight. Did you know that a few people did a wide berth around you? Avoiding you at all cost?”

Y/N raised one of their eyebrows as they stared at Dream’s masked face. His head directed straight ahead as he observed Tommy who helped Tubbo with one of his injuries he acquired when he protected him from one of Techno’s rockets.

A few seconds passed in silence but then he turned his head towards Y/N “They are scared of you. Proof of your strength. Do with that knowledge what you will but I thought I should tell you since it was interesting to watch from above.”

“Let’s get going. If we wait long enough for them to recuperate then we might still have a problem since we are getting low on potions as well.” Techno spoke in a calm voice.

Truly. For Tommy, Tubbo, for all of the people who tried to protect L’Manberg. The team up of Dream, Techno, Philza and Y/N was their biggest nightmare that just came to fruition.

They knew they didn���t have a chance and yet they had to try. Had to try to protect their home like they always did but it was a vain effort. Who would have enough power to fight against warrior gods?

[sunriseallium]

Rapid

Summary: This was a vent fic so the beginning is just me putting my issues into DSMP character Wilbur. Ended up being a cool fic in the end though so pog

Cross posted on AO3 @ paperrcliip and Wattpad @ paperrcliip

TW: swearing, small mentions of blood/injury, panic attacks, slight paranoia, character death

Word count: 7507

Wilbur had always hated noise.

The squeaks in doors were too loud and the crumpling of a chip bag made in uneasy and panicked. All the sound was unnecessary. It could be panic enduring for some as well.

It's okay, stay calm, Wilbur thought to himself. He had asked Phil if he could have a snack , he was allowed to. Nothing he was doing was bad or deceitful. No one will get mad.

What if they do though, the little nagging voice in the back of Wilburs head thought. The fox hybrid didn't want to think of that though. It would be easier to ignore the voice. The little constant negativity and anxiety in the back of his head. If he ignored it it would leave him alone, even if just for a little while.

Techno once said that trying to ignore or forget about something made it more constant to think about. It pops up in your head more because you're actively trying not to think about it. Distractions worked best. Food was a good distraction it's why he had asked Philza if he could grab a snack (he never knew if they were going to have dinner soon and he didn't want to make anyone mad by eating and then not being hungry for dinner). That reminded him, Phil told him that humans are relaxed after eating. Being full makes your body sleepy.

Wilbur memorized a short list of foods that calm anxiety. There was salmon but Wilbur hated the texture of it. There was also chamomile because it was a relaxing herb, green tea, yogurt and dark chocolate. Wilbur liked chocolate, it had a bit of caffeine as well which would keep him awake. The chocolate was in the pantry and Wilbur knew since he didn't eat the rest of the dark chocolate it was still there. No one else liked it enough to eat it.

He just needed to stay calm. Everything he was doing was allowed, people had allowed him to do this. He had no need to be quiet he could be as loud as he wanted if he so dearly wished. Tommy could come in and ask him what he was doing and Wilbur would be 100% honest. Techno could come in and question him and Wilbur wouldn't care. Phil could ask what all the noise was about, and Wilbur wouldn't care. Well maybe he would just a little bit. He didn't care that he was allowed too, he hated making too much noise.

It was still noisy though. Too noisy for Wilbur. Silence was sensitive, one wrong move and it shatters like glass. Wilbur loved and hated the silence. It was deafening ironically. It left him alone to his thoughts. Yet he loved the peace it brought. It could be calming or overwhelming, two opposite sides of a spectrum which was simply amazing. Silence could be two things at once. Breaking the silence when it naturally formed seemed like a crime. It could shatter peace with a simple creak or a whisper. Silence was scary like that.

The cupboard squeaked when the brunet opened it and he looked around to check if anyone was disturbed by the noise. It was only open a tad bit, just enough to see to contents inside of it but not enough to grab anything. He cursed internally at that and slowly closed it making sure it did not make another sound. A mental sig of relief, no one had heard or no one had cared. Wilbur walked over to the fridge avoiding the floor boards that creaked.

The fox hybrid memorized which ones creamed so he could easily avoid them. When he had to take walks at 4am because his head hurt and he needed to clear his head he needed a safe path to the door. He always oiled the hinges of the door when they were starting to get squeaky. The possibility of a robber breaking in and Wilbur and his family trying to get out but alerting the robber they were at the door because of a squeak was terrifying. Of corse the downside was if someone broke in through the door they wouldn't know because it was silent.

He opened the silver handle of the door slowly as the fridge illuminated itself. Nothing in it seemed appealing but he didn't want the trip to be for nothing. Banana's where on the counter, he remembered. Slowly closing the fridge door he went to step away, wincing when the floorboard under him creaked with the slight loss of weight. Panic set it. The brunet awkwardly kept his weight on the foot not on the squeaky floor board. He had to do this quietly or it would shatter the calmness of the house.

He stayed still. Not moving a muscle as he tried to figure out what to do. Wilbur was blanking, his brain was numb with panic and his logic wasn't working. Ideas came in sparse and quickly, only grazing his brain and giving him a mere moment to consider it before it floated away and Wilbur had no memory of it.

What should he do? step back on it? Maybe take the foot off quickly. Which option would minimize the amount of noise? Wilbur didn't know what to do, he knew his thought were spiralling and his breathing was speeding up. Hyperventilating would add to the sound, it would make everything worse.

Hold your breath, an idea came to mind. So he did. He slowly peeled his socked foot from the floorboard and trying not to panic more when it made a slight noise. His foot was off, the noise was gone he could breath again. Something wet fell down his cheek and he brought his hand up to while it away. When had he started crying? why was he even crying. This was a pathetic reason, he could never cry over serious things yet causing noise has this effect on him.

Emotions were fucked that way. Whenever things got so bad he couldn't be bothered to feel anything about the situation until months later. Then minor things occur and it ruins his day and mental health for the next week.

Wilbur wasn't hungry anymore. His shaking hands started to calm down as the brunet took a few deep breaths. He needed to calm down, he was getting worked up over nothing again. How he wishes he could say it's the first time this has happened, yet he couldn't. The panic over making noise happened too often yet no one had noticed, he made sure no one noticed. People would call him stupid for having an anxiety attack over something as little as this. Something so small shouldn't have this much of an effect on people, yet it did.

Wilbur guessed it would affect people differently by how they were raised. Before he had been adopted by Phil, the fox hybrid had stumbled through a nether portal and gotten lost. Noise was bad in the nether, if you made noise and got spotted you were basically dead meat. Piglins and hoglins as well as ghasts came for you, and if you were unlucky enough a wither skeleton may be near by as well. In the nether everything was against you and when you heard noises near you you should be scared. You always needed to be quiet and sneaky and have an escape plan on a moments notice.

The brunet was lucky, his ears picked up on noise very well. That also meant constant anxiety. He had no idea how far he could hear, he couldn't tell if the piglin was far away or just around the corner. Eventually Wilbur had found a hybrid. His name was Technoblade and they protected each other. Then soon after Phil had found them and took them home. Soon after Tommy was added to the family as well. Silence was a good thing, it meant no danger.

He was spiralling again. What helps reduce anxiety? Wilbur vaguely remembered people telling others to drink water. His throat was parched. Maybe water could help. It would perhaps steady his shaking hands and calm his mind. Even if it just slowed the thought down a bit Wilbur would be grateful. He could focus on one thing at a time instead of fleeting thoughts that left to make room for the new. He could take a breath and just think about one thing instead of trying to remember and focus on ten.

Wilbur opened the drawer for the cups slowly and sighed in relief when no noise was made. This drawer was safe. Things were looking up already, it had been a good idea to get water. The glass cup shook in his hand but the brunet tried not to focus on that, water was all he needed. Brain's and body's needed hydration to function properly, Wilbur remembered that from a health guide Phil got him a couple years ago.

At the time Wilbur didn't think it to be useful but Phil seemed happy to have found it for Wilbur so he read it. He read and memorized it to make Phil happy even though it was oh so boring.

Wilbur brought the cup to the tap and turned it on so water was almost barely coming out. It would be too loud otherwise and Wilbur didn't want to freak himself out more than he already had. The glass took a while for it to be half way full but that was all Wilbur needed, just a bit of water to get him back on track. He turned off the tap and brought the cup to his lips. The water was refreshing. It was cold and took his mind off of everything else even if just for a moment. That moment of peace was short lived however.

A crash came from upstairs and normally Wilbur would jump and check it out and everything would be sunshine and rainbows. This was different, he was already anxious and in a bad state of mind. The cup fell and shattered causing Wilbur to jump back in shock. He heard talking from where the crash was. Everything was too loud, he had made too much noise. Noise was danger. Noise was bad.

He had disturbed the silence and now he has to pay the price. Something bad was gonna happen, danger was going to come into the kitchen and kill him. he could imagine the footsteps of a wither skeleton walking towards him, the bones clanking together and the holes were the eyes should have been staring at him as the sword would be plunged though his body. The wither effect would take place and it would be a slow and painful death.

Wilbur had only been withered once and for a very short period of time. The skeleton had barely grazed him and his arm slowly turned pitch black for a couple minutes before returning to normal. It left him sick for the rest of the day but he was fine. He wouldn't be fine if the entire sword was through him.

Or maybe Phil, Techno or Tommy would come and scream at him. First for making too much noise then for freaking out over something so small. Perhaps he would be disowned and have to live outside. He should start packing bags now. Get ready for the rejection, get ready for being kicked out.

Why did it feel so warm in here? Why was his vision blurry, he couldn't focus on anything. It was like he was zoned out, trapped inside his own mind. His lungs felt like there were boulders on them. He couldn't get enough air in. Air was good, air was everywhere so why couldn't his lungs find it. They had one job and they couldn't do it properly. His wrist felt itchy. Make it stop. The itch wouldn't go away, why wouldn't it go away. Maybe he just needed to sit down for a minute. Wilbur sat on the ground, broken glass in front of him yet he hadn't noticed. Glass wasn't his concern. The stupid ice was, it wouldn't stop. The brunet just had to scratch it a little more, a little harder. the was something red in his finger nails. Or was there? His blurry vision, panicked brain and shaking hands didn't make it easy to tell.

Was it blood on his wrist? What caused that? Was it him- not it couldn't be him. Maybe it was the glass or what if there was an intruder. Did the intruder hurt him? The logical part of his brain said no, that there was no intruder but how could he be sure. With how much noise he made he wouldn't be able to tell anyways. It was all his fault. Everything was his fault because he couldn't deal with a little noise.

Someone was talking to him. He should focus on that but the brunet couldn't. It was too much, everything was too much. Everything was moving too fast. It was too rapid. Something was holding his arms. Was this the end? Was this the scene at the beginning of a horror movie where a character dies before they time skip to where the main character lives? How ironic, Wilbur had always though horror movies were stupid.

The characters never knew what to do and always went towards the scary noises. Or they panicked and made too much noise and got caught by whatever was trying to kill them. How foolish, Wilbur had always thought he would survive in a horror movie. Maybe this situation was trying to prove him wrong.

He needed to stop getting side tracked. Someone was talking to him he wasn't imagining it. It was the person holding his wrists. Maybe he should listen, if Wilburs going to be killed he at least wants to know why. He just had to focus. His thought were just so loud. So demanding of attention it was hard to pull himself away from that. Wilbur wanted to so desperately but his thoughts had started overflowing and there was no stopping them anymore.

Wilbur wanted air. He wanted air so badly. Not wanted that was wrong. He needed air. The brunet felt like he could die right now. His body and brain needed the oxygen so why did his lungs refuse it. Fuck the itch was back. Whoever was holding his wrists wouldn't let him scratch it. Honestly the young adult couldn't even if he wanted too his hands were shaking so badly.

The voice was a little clearer now. He tried to focus on that and nothing else, Wilbur tried to drown out the thought. The persons voice sounded as if they were underwater. Or maybe Wilbur was underwater and the other was trying to save him from drowning. His ears were plugged with imaginary water and his eyes were blurred from actual water probably. Or maybe his vision was just going like Techno's. He should consider glasses other than reading glasses. No he needed to stop getting lost in his thoughts. The fox hybrid needed to find this persons voice, maybe they can help pull him out from under the water.

It felt like he was closer to the surface. The persons voice was more distinguishing and he could tell it was someoke he knew. Wilbur recognized it but he couldn't put a name to it yet. It was right on the top of his tongue. Like a scratch that was just barely out of reach.

"Deep breaths Wil. In and out." It was Phil. That made Wilbur was to sink to the bottom of the ocean. Phil is probably mad, he's probably ready to yell at him once Wilbur can comprehend what he's saying. Someone's probably packing his bags right now. No he can't think like that or he'll start drowning again. Wilbur forced myself not too, to avoid the thoughts and force himself towards the surface. Finally after ages, he broke through the surface. His lungs heaved and burned with the lack of oxygen they had been getting but finally some entered. Not at a steady pace, it wasn't graceful like a Disney Princess. It was ugly and awful but he forced the air into his lungs.

"That's it Wil that's it." Phil was here. He wasn't alone, Wilbur wasn't alone. Someone was with him and even if this person kicked him out later at the moment it didn't matter. He wasn't alone and in this exact moment he was temporarily safe. He just needed to stay above the surface and he could breath. Wilbur wouldn't let himself be pushed under again.

His heart pounded, why was it beating so hard? This was worse than when they did the fitness gram pacer test that one time if that was even what it was called. Wilbur didn't care enough to remember. The beating was so loud it rang though Wilbur's ears like bells. He wouldn't be able to distinguish the pounding of his heart and the footsteps of a predator. Was this even his heart, or maybe this was someone waking towards him. Did death's footsteps sound like pounding? No death wouldn't have footsteps it had to have been his heart.

"Phil," Wilbur started slowly, "it's so loud. It's too loud I can't I can't Phil please." His lungs were on fire, he shouldn't have spoken. There wasn't enough oxygen yet. He had already messed something up again. He was going to drown again.

Phil cursed, what could he do to help Wilbur? He was still holding onto the brunets shaking hands making sure he didn't scratch his wrist again. He had started breaking skin by the time Phil had gotten there. He had to get Will out of the kitchen and his panicked state soon. Glass was everywhere and if Wilbur passed out it could be bad.

"Will you're okay. You're okay it's quiet now. Shhh I need you to breath with me." Phil said slowly. He made sure his tone was soft and quiet. The brunet started breathing again. His chest heaved with every exhale and the inhale was short and rigid but he was getting air back in again. Phil wanted to hug Wilbur and shield him from the world but he knew it would make it worse. The taller had just barely recognized him.

Phil wouldn't be helping Wilbur if he just planned to kick him out right? If he was going to send Wilbur off then he would do it now, the logical part of the fox hybrid's brain told him. The panicked part though was saying otherwise. It was a battle of which could be louder, to which neither was winning.

"Phil somethings on my arms. I can't move them." Wilburs voice sounded far away to the both of them. Phil frowned, Wilbur didn't recognize it was just Phil holding them. It was then Phil knew it was good not to hug the other. The brunet wouldn't be able to tell it was Phil.

"It's just me Wil. You were scratching yourself." Phil explained quickly. He needed to answer Wilbur and provide clarity for the situation. He also couldn't go into detail either. There was the perfect in-between to not cause thee other more panic or distress. Wilbur nodded faintly letting Phil know he had heard him. That was good, his voice was getting though to him. Wilbur was hanging on and he was pulling himself out of the panic.

Keep speaking, Wilbur wanted to scream. His vocal cords couldn't though, they had given up on him when he really needed them. Phil's voice was real. Something he could focus on other than the tornado of thought spinning and screaming for attention in his head. The thought reminded him of a toddler, or a Tommy. They didn't like to be silenced and they didn't like to listen.

Phil's voice kept him grounded and above the imaginary water threatening to drown him. He needed it right now more than ever. It was the one thing constant in his life right now, it was safe and was keeping him afloat. Wilbur needed to stop comparing this situation to water but he couldn't. It made sense to him. Water was logical emotions were not. Emotions came out of nowhere and fucked you over. Water gives life or takes it, emotions were strange and didn't work like that. They came out of nowhere or decided "hey I'm going to be a bitch today!" And all you had to do was accept it and try to get on with you're day.

"Keep," Wilbur finally chocked out, "speaking. Please." His head was too loud but Phil's voice was comforting and silenced his head. So Phil kept speaking, Wilbur couldn't make the words out but he heard it. The words didn't matter, what did matter was the noise. The comforting voice of Phil that could calm all your worries. It could drown out all of the thoughts that constantly demanded Wilbur's immediate attention. Slowly they got quieter, still there still screaming but quiet enough Wilbur could start making out words. He hear mf Techno, closely followed by farm and a word that started with P. Then he heard Tommy followed by beach and picnic.

Were these memories Phil was recounting to Wilbur? The one and only time they had brought Tommy on a picnic was too the beach. It ended up with a hat lost in the ocean, Techno swearing to never wear a sun hat again, and Tommy trying to take a 'pet' seagull into the car before they left. The memory almost brought a smile to Wilburs face. The thoughts fell into a mere whisper in the back of his head. The fox hybrid could deal with that, they were easy to ignore when they weren't screaming at him from all directions.

Soon after Wilbur looked up and could see Phil's face. It was real and Phil was really there it wasn't a trick of his imagination. His vision was slightly blurry but already mostly better and he could recognize his father figure.

"I'm tired. I'm so so tired." Wilbur mumbled. Mentally physically or emotionally no one knew. All three would be the best guess and the brunet knew he meant all three. Phil cut his story short at that and looked at him. To put it nicely, Wilbur looked like a mess. His eyes were tired and droopy yet still held so much anxiety in them as if he was ready for something to round the corner and kill him and Phil. His wrists shook and were splattered in blood and his normally fluffy meat hair was scattered and droopy.

"I know. You gotta stay awake for me Wil." Phil smiled sadly. How he wished he could just let Wilbur sleep his troubles away. But first came fixing his wounds then hydration and maybe nutrition if Phil was lucky. He could live without that though and let Wilbur sleep then eat when he woke up.

Phil didn't know what to do. The couch he could let Wilbur rest on was downstairs luckily. Though the med kit was in the bathroom upstairs and the older didn't want to move the brunet around that much. He also didn't want to leave him alone (the chances of him passing out were high or the possibility he could be triggered into another attack were too great for Phil to consider leaving him alone). Phil grabbed his phone out and quickly texted Techno to bring him a wet clothes and the med kit to the kitchen. He sighed in relief when he was left on read. Soon enough he heard light footsteps and turned around to see the pinkette walking his way.

"Phil someone's coming"

"It's just Techno. You're safe it's okay." Phil quickly assured Wilbur. The piglin hybrid passed Phil the items and walked away quickly and quietly. The blonde mouthed a thank you before he left and Techno just nodded. The last thing the pinkette knew he should do was make too much noise. So he went upstairs to his room, not before telling Tommy about the situation beforehand though.

Phil grabbed the clothe and gently whipped the blood off of the brunets wrists. He looked to see if there was any reaction from the latter but nothing, he just stared blankly but Phil knew a lot was going on inside the young adults head. The bleeding had almost completely stopped which was good. Phil set the clothe aside and grabbed the med kit now. Inside there was antibiotics to put on the wounds before he wrapped them in bandages. He put the med kit to the side and looked back at Wilbur. The boy looked so very tired.

"Wil I'm gonna help you stand okay?" He gave the other a warning and once he got a nod in return, he helped him stand up. Almost all of Wilbur weight was on Phil but he didn't mind. He brought him over to the couch and let him sit down before going back to the kitchen and grabbing a plastic cup of water. The winged man made sure to avoid the glass and made a mental note to sweep it up once Wilbur was asleep.

"Drink this then you can sleep." He gave the cup to Wilbur keeping his hand on it should the brunet drop it. Once it was empty Phil placed it on the coffee table beside the couch and turned back around. Wilbur laid with tired eyes but made no move to go to sleep. He was very tired but sleep could be bad. All the possibilities of the voices coming back or having a nightmare were too large. It seemed childish but it was true.

"Wil go to sleep it's okay. I'm right here." The older assured. He received a nod in response and it only took a few moments before the brunet was asleep. Phil wondered if he had fallen asleep quickly because of mental exhaustion or because of how much sleep he had been getting in the last few weeks. He couldn't worry about that right now though, it wasn't important at the moment. It was all okay, Wilbur was going to be okay. Once he woke up, ate and felt better Phil could ask what had happened. Of Wilbur didn't want to tell him he would respect that but he hoped he would do he could help the young adult.

The brunets dreams were strange. At first it was nothing, just pure blissful rest. Nothing but darkness as his mind rested itself to recover from the particularly eventful day. Then his brain decided to go back into a memory, one Wilbur would rather not relive. It was strange how people could remember things in their dreams with such vivid detail. It was ethereal if it was a good memory. Terrifying if it was not. It was like you were back in that memory except you knew what was going to happen next and you could do nothing to stop it, and somehow that made everything worse.

The memory started off with younger Wilbur in the nether. there was a crimson forest surrounding him yet the nether was strangely peaceful that day. He couldn't hear any hoglins or Piglins so Wilbur knew this wasn't when he met Technoblade. What memory could it be though? Or perhaps he was wrong and this was a random dream he would forget as soon as he woke up. His dream self walked around the forest until he found netherack. The fox hybrid knew exactly what memory this was now.

A fortress was near by and fortresses had food. He had to go in. Villagers in the overworked spoke of how they were dangerous but Wilbur was tough, he could handle it. The chests sometimes had bread or other foods and Wilbur didn't think he could find anymore pork chop from previously dead hoglins. The chances were too low but the fortress now gave him another option. The young boy went in though an open window on the ground floor and looked for any mobs before continuing down the long dark hallways. The nether was eerily peaceful today and the brunet didn't like it.

He didn't dwell on it as the lower his hunger got the less energy he would have. Right as he made another left turn a chest stared right back at him. Not trying to be sneaky or quiet he ran towards the chest and swung it open. Today was his lucky day, there was 10 pieces of bread which is so much more than he could have hoped for. There was also a gold nugget which he stored in his pocket. It could distract piglins for a while if he was in trouble. He smiled and grinned for the first time since he had been lost in this hell of a place. Everything was looking up and this was only one chest out of who knows how many.

Wilbur closed the chest gently and continued farther into the fortress. Normally he wouldn't push his luck but he had a feeling today would be good. When there was no more loot on the ground floor (besides disgusting nether wart) he walked up the stairs. Only a few meters down the hallway he would find another chest with nothing but a golden hoe (to which a few months later he would give as a present to Techno). The brunet sighed and closed the chest.

Footsteps right behind him. Wilbur swung the golden hoe behind him to block an oncoming attack from a skeleton. Not a normal skeleton, this one was black as night, tall as a giant and held a sword instead of a bow. The sword grazed his arms bur Wilbur wasn't worried about that. There was enough adrenaline for him to push the mob away with the hoe and jump out of a nearby window onto the top of a tree. The skeleton stared at him for a moment before walking away. It was horrifying, there was no soul it was just the undead. There was something different about wither skeletons though, there was something ill to them that made them stand out from other mobs.

Why was his arms turning black? Wilbur felt dizzy, at first he thought it was just an adrenalin crash but no. The spot the skeleton cut was turning black and he felt sick. He was going to die wasn't he? It was so painful. He wanted to cut off his arm if it made the feeling stop. It was the longest 2 minutes of Wilburs life. The black soot faded only leaving a dark scar that would have permanent withered skin over it. The brunet laid in the leaves of the red tree for the rest of what he thought was a day. Nether time was strange because it didn't have night or day. In the end it was worth it. The bread and nugget was worth the trauma. It didn't matter for the next few years every time he closed his eyes he could see the holes of a wither skeleton staring at him. How it lost interest once he was away. I one strike it could have killed him or left him to suffer the effects of the withering.

Wilbur opened is eyes. That memory hadn't been seen in Wilbur's dreams in a long time. He wasn't in the nether anymore. It didn't smell like ash and smoke. Wherever he was smelt like cinnamon and was cooler than the nether. It was okay he wasn't in danger. That changed though as he heard the fire place crackled as a small piece of wood broke off and fell to the bottom. The brunet sat up looking around for anything hostile and when nothing was found he relaxed only slightly.

The young adult stood up going to the kitchen. The floor was no longer covered in glass from the cup earlier. Was it early or was it yesterday now, Wilbur didn't know how long he had slept. Why had he come here again? Water perhaps but he didn't know where the plastic cups were and a repeat of last time would be horrendous.

"You good there Wilbur?" He jumped and turned around to look at the speaker. Both of his brothers were in the entrance. Tommy had spoken quietly which was out of character for the young boy so Wilbur assumed they at least vaguely knew what had happened.

"Mhm." Techno didn't look convinced.

"You're hands are shaking. Tommy go get Phil. Wilbur we're going back to the couch." The pinkette spoke up. Tommy nodded before running up the stairs. Wilbur wondered how he could do that so effortlessly, maybe he was just getting older though. Tommy still had very young knees after all. The piglin hybrid tapped him on the shoulder once the brunet started zoning out. The younger (by two minutes mind you) rolled his eyes before following Techno to the couch.

Maybe sitting down is a good idea after all Wilbur thought. The walk to the couch seemed long yet so painfully fast he had a headache by the time him and Techno sat down. Wilbur put his head in his hands and closed is eyes. That seemed to help when he got headaches. Techno, the ever observant person in the family quickly filled up the plastic cup that was on the coffee table and handed it to the fox hybrid. Wilbur nodded in thanks and downed the entire cup in a matter of seconds. His present headache started fading into a dull ache in the back of his head.

Wilbur's ears perked up as he heard footsteps on the stairs. One appeared to be running and skipping steps while the other was slower and took them one at a time. Tommy appeared in the living room first out of breath as he collapsed in the middle of the carpeted floor. The blonde child loved to be dramatic. Next came Phil as he strolled in calmly. The older stared at Wilbur and he didn't need to say anything for the brunet to know what he was going to say. He nodded and at Phil and his father figure nodded back sitting down in the chair near the couch.

"I never liked noise much," Wilbur started off, "Unnecessary not like speaking you know? Anxiety decided to be a mother fucker which didn't help. I just got worked up kinda and then something fell I don't know it just set me off I couldn't focus." The rest of his family listened and stayed patient when Wilbur paused. Explaining what you had been feeling was peculiar. It was trying to find the right words to match how you felt in a single moment that had passed already.

Finicky. Wilbur thought that word best described it. Like pulling out Jenga blocks from a tower, trying to find which one to pull out or speak about first. If you pulled the wrong one everything collapsed.

"And then that little voice of negativity that's always there. Like what's it fucking called, intrusive thoughts! They got so loud I couldn't hear anything else and I'm shit at exposing emotions I know." Wilbur rushed to finished off awkwardly. Everyone around him stayed silent. That was the scariest part, their reactions. They could call him stupid and the chances of being kicked out were low but not zero.

Were they low? Fuck that voice of negativity. That small thought made his anxiety sky rocket. The brunet shifted uncomfortably on the couch looking anywhere but anyone's eyes. Eyes were windows to the soul. That quote was so common yet Wilbur had no idea who had originally said it or where it had come from. It was true though, you could see emotion just through someone's eyes and Wilbur didn't like that. Soneone could see how uncertain he was or he could see what they were thinking which he didn't want either. Wether they were disappointed, angry or another emotion he couldn't place he didn't want to know until it happened.

"I'm sorry." Wilbur looked up at the gremlin child. He had no idea who was going to speak first or what they were going to say but if Wilbur had any guess it wouldn't have been that. Tommy saw the questioning look Wilbur shot him and elaborated quickly.

"I knocked something over. It's what made the noise and made everything bad." Tommy sounded so sincere and small which was out of character for him. Wilbur didn't want to make Tommy feel guilty, everyone knocked things over. Simple mistake. It had just been unfortunate timing. Like a chain reaction, it starts small and gets bigger.

"No no no Tommy no it wasn't your fault," Wilbur was quick to assure, "Everyone makes mistakes you didn't know anything would come of it. If it's anyone's fault it's mine." The rest were fast to deny all of this.

"LISTEN!' Phil yelled, "It's no ones fault. We can't control how we feel and there's no one to blame." Everyone agreed while Wilbur stayed silent. It was still his stupid emotions. He had wrecked the entire day for everyone. He wanted so badly to believe Phil but it was so difficult. If he could listen to Phil for once in his life then maybe he wouldn't feel the awful guilt that it was his fault.

"Wilbur." The male in question looked up at Phil finally.

"It is not your fault." The brunet nodded but everyone could see he didn't believe it. Wilbur felt arms wrapped around him and he turned his head to see his little brother. He wrapped his arms back around Tommy and melted into the hug. It was so comforting and loving Wilbur wanted to cry of joy. Hugs were under appreciated.

"Wil tell me it's not your fault." Damn you Technoblade, Wilbur thought. So now he should lie out loud. To his family non the less, could he really do it? The brunet didn't want to lie to their faces. They helped him and didn't throw him to the streets, they gave him all the bare necessities to live as well as care and love. This family didn't deserve to be lied too.

"It's not my fault." He may have been lying to himself but the proud looks on his families faces was worth it. The small voice in the back of his head may have disagreed though Wilbur didn't care. His family knew he thought he was lying but they didn't care. It was enough he had said it. This single moment would be on Wilbur treasured for infinity.

(I could have ended it there but wheres the fun in that)

It is your fault, the little voice was still here all these years later. Louder than ever and fully taking control. They were the new Wilbur that everyone hated and that everyone feared. No matter what Wilbur did they were always there in the back of his head.

For once if was right though. The voice wasn't lying and Wilbur didn't care. It was all his fault! He was proud of it being his fault. A little part of him hated himself for that. The voice of reason, Wilbur assumed. Reason was beyond his comprehension now. In war reason was futile and only ended up hurting everyone more. The fox hybrid learned that the hard way.

Someone had to make the tough call, someone had to take all the blame and Wilbur chose himself for that. He couldn't bestow the fate of self hatred with everyone else hating you as well onto anyone else. His son, his little brother, his friend, no one else deserved to bear that pain besides him.

Sometimes he wished it was all in the good of his own heart. He knew that wasn't the case though. It was mostly his own mind thinking this was right and had to be done no matter how many people it hurt. No matter how much it hurt him. Once his long coat trailed across the uneven rocky flooring for what would be over the 20th time he knew for sure this wasn't just to help others. He needed to be free of this burden that he had created and put on everyone's shoulders. All of the conflict was Wilbur's fault he knew that, this next bit would be his fault. It would be his last fault though, never again would he make a mistake after today. Never again would be bear the guilt of his mistakes or the worry of making another. Because he could be free after this.

He hadn't expected Phil to find him but that was only slightly inconveniencing. It didn't matter. Even when the man who had raided him tried to reason with him nothing mattered anymore. Couldn't Phil see he was beyond reason? Why couldn't he just give up on Wilbur like he had on himself so long ago. Like many others have already. Why did Phil have so much hope he could come back to the good person he used to be, if he was ever a good person.

Hope was a mistake. Look where it had gotten everyone. People were happy before Wilbur decided to fuck things up and give false hope. Hope only let everyone down and the brunet needed everyone on the dream smp to understand that, no matter how much it took. It didn't matter how many people hated him after this took place. So many hated and even feared him as soon as he got exiled to that ravine. This was just solidifying that they should hav feared him long before.

Fear was useful. It got people to stay away and take a step back. Wilbur liked using fear because it pushed people away so when he ultimately disappointed or hurt them, it didn't hurt as much. He still cared, he just chose not to show it.

The button called to him and he was stuck in a trance every time he entered that room. This time though, was the time it was pressed. The wood felt cold and damp beneath his hand. It was humid in this room though Wilbur didn't acknowledge it, or maybe he did but his brain refused to recognize and care.

It was never meant to be, were the words Eret used when they betrayed him. She had been cruel with that but Wilbur decided to mutter his words back as he pressed down on the button. It made a satisfying click and he turned to look at Phil. The face of horror was painted on. Hope diminished in a second from the mans face. The stone behind him blew up and L'Manberg was no more.

It was all Wilbur fault and he was proud. His unfinished symphony was forever unfinished and he loved that. A small part of the old Wilbur stuck with him and felt saddened by the loss of his greatest creation. His ill brain though was satisfied with his work.

And so he begged his father figure to kill him. To end his suffering. Wilbur didn't know who was talking. The old one or the slightly psychotic one. He assumed it was a mixture of both. One wanting to die because his business with the dream smp was done. The other because he couldn't live with what he had done. All the wrong outweighed the right in Wilbur's opinion. How did the music lover turn into this was a question everyone would ask for years. Wilbur didn't quite know himself either.

Philza finally did it though. He plunged the sword through his sons stomach and held him as he died. The outside was so loud, people screaming and shouting it was too much for Wilbur.

"Keep," Wilbur finally chocked out, "speaking. Please." His fathers voice could drown out everything else just like it had years ago. Phil kept speaking, he spoke to his son about happy memories until he took his final breath and was at peace.

Death was merciful for Wilbur. It was better than war after war. Betrayals and nothing but hurt had come from this country. But it was gone now so Wilbur could rest. The crushing weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders for once in his life. He could finally sleep good, so he did. He closed his eyes and listened to Phil's comforting voice for the last time until he could no longer hear it.

Maybe if Phil helped Wilbur before, years ago from when we had first gotten adopted then maybe all of this could have been prevented. He would have been able to deal with noise better, L'Manberg wouldn't exist and no one would be dead. Phil wouldn't have had to kill his son.

Wilbur always hated noise.

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Day 15: Scars

(I know you think you’re alone.)

Whumptober 2019 Day 15: Scars

Word Count: 2458

Relationships: Creativitwins (familial) NOT remrom don't tag as remrom or i'll steal your bones and use them to make Halloween decorations

Warnings: Self-harm (c/tting, it doesn't actually happen but it is referenced outright many times. there is mild/non-graphic description of it as well, and scars are referenced multiple times too), mention of self-hatred, mentions of emotional breakdowns, cursing, mild inappropriate language. Lmk if I forgot any!

A/N: i'm not too upset about this one! it's not my best, but it's certainly not my worst. can y'all tell i love writing creativitwins brother dynamic?

dedicated to @illogical-anxieties. love you, dumbass ♥

There’s something calming about running your fingers across the raised lines, about observing the streaks of light painted thin on your skin. It has an almost soothing effect, at least for Roman, and despite the irony of it, hyperfixating on those scars can help prevent him creating more. And creation, being such a prevalent aspect in his function as a side, is definitely not a force to be reckoned with. So he counteracts it the only way he knows how, runs his fingertips softly along the ridges on his forearms, and just breathes. Usually.

Except right now, as he sits here huddled in the corner of his room, it’s not working. It’s not doing what it should be, isn’t tempering his hyperventilation, isn’t nullifying the pain echoing in his heart. Roman doesn’t know what to do. He’s tried hydrating, splashing cold water on his face, holding an ice cube to his skin, and singing Disney songs to distract himself, but nothing is working. Everything feels tense right now, dangerous after his fourth breakdown this week, and he just… wants this all to end.

Roman doesn’t want to feel like this anymore. He doesn’t want to have the urge to dig into his skin, to take a blade to his shoulder until the apathy comes to drown his self-hatred. He doesn’t want to feed his addiction, to give up this easily, but… he yearns. He yearns so deeply for that cold, unforgiving brush on his fragile canvas, for the numbness that comes with it.

He’s in the bathroom rummaging through his drawers like a madman before he even realizes what he’s doing.

And maybe he should think this through more, try harder to resist, but it’s so tempting. He isn’t just helpless toward his relapse, he wants it, and for the first time in seven months, a silver edge comes within an inch of his marred skin. But of course, of course he forgot to lock the door, and his brother barges in the room without a single knock or warning beforehand. He’s jittery, and looks like he’s about to yell something, but then his whole demeanour shifts when he sees Roman bowed over his vanity sink with a razor in his grip. His sleeve is rolled up, and his scars are on full display, and Remus shoots forward to knock the blade out of Roman’s hand with an almost desperate snarl.

“You idiot, what are you doing?!” Remus hisses as he grabs his counterpart’s arm roughly, drags him out of the bathroom and shoves him onto the bed without a hint of gentle treatment to be found. Roman rubs harshly at his forearms and glares at his lap with dull, dark eyes, and slaps his brother’s hand away when he tries to pry his grip off of his damaged limb. “I’m supposed to be the violent one, what the hell do you think you’re accomplishing with this?”

“I’m trying to be better? This is the only way I can-- I can fucking think. I tried. I fucking tried everything I could, every grounding technique and distraction, and nothing’s working. I can’t… I can’t do this,” Roman spits back, anger dissolving easily into resignation. Remus takes a loud, deep breath, clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles go white, and sits there in an odd, silent suspension for some amount of seconds. Once he’s seemingly calmed down, his brother deflates and it’s like all of the stiffness trickles out of him in one fell swoop. It’s strange to watch, considering how easily both of them lose their tempers.

Remus just stares at him, flat gaze boring into Roman’s own, and it feels like there should be some exchange happening here. It’s almost as if Remus is searching for something, something that even Roman himself can’t see. After another long moment where they just observe each other, his brother clicks his tongue in a sudden movement that almost startles. He looks like he’s sizing Roman up, gathering intel with eyes that are bathed in the tempest, and then he’s speaking again. “You haven’t tried everything, I bet. I’ll show you.”

“Remus, you don’t have to do that. Just… let me be. If I wanted to, I could easily wave them away, so. It doesn’t even matter,” Roman mumbles, fingers flitting up to unconsciously trace the scars on his arm, and his counterpart just scoffs.

“Yeah, no shit, of course you can wave them away. But you haven’t, and you won’t, so just shut up and come on,” Remus replies, scalding and protective at the same time, and Roman doesn’t understand. They’re supposed to hate each other. They’re not supposed to hang out, not like… not like they did when they were younger. Their days of running around the Imagination waving plastic weapons at their combined villainous creations have been over for a long time, so why does he even care?

Roman doesn’t know, but he still stands and follows his brother anyway.

They go to the light sides’ common room first, the living room devoid of any presence other than the twins’ own. The others are up in the real world watching a movie with Thomas, if he remembers correctly, so they probably won’t be back until late. Remus gestures to the couch and waits for Roman to sit hesitantly before flopping down himself.

“Try screaming,” Remus tells him plainly, and Roman just gives him an incredulous look. What? What does that mean? Scream? Why? Apparently his brother can easily read the confusion on his face, because he just rolls his eyes and snatches up a throw pillow to place in Roman’s still hands. “Scream. Into the pillow. It helps, so just do it. Here, I’ll do it too, see?”

And Remus just stares at his own pillow resolutely, takes a huge breath, and then smashes his face into the fabric. The pillow doesn’t muffle the sound by very much, but it’s still at a similar volume to his speaking voice, and Roman wrinkles his nose in disgust. Is he joking? And-- no, of course he’s fucking not, he’s Remus. Well… he might as well do it. Roman figures if he’s gonna looks stupid anyway, it should probably be along with someone else, and his brother always looks stupid, so maybe his presence’ll mitigate it a bit.

So he screams. He lets loose a long yell into the stuffed cushion, shouts even louder when Remus laughs beside him and starts yelling into his own pillow again, and this whole situation is awful. They must look so dumb, two twins screaming intermittently into pillows as almost a response to one another, and Roman has to admit, it’s more funny than it is mortifying. Shocking, sure, but Remus somehow manages to make even the silliest things sound serious, so Roman doesn’t even know why he’s surprised in the slightest.

“So? Feel any better?” Remus asks cheerfully when they finally stop to breathe, both sitting back against the couch panting as they clutch their respective pillows to their chests. Roman groans and throws his head back, inhales slowly while he gives the ceiling a scathing glance, and Remus tilts his head in confusion not unlike how a dog would.

“I mean-- I don’t know, I guess? A little bit, but…” Roman trails off and Remus jumps to his feet. His pillow is thrown at the wall as harshly as possible, discarded viciously to smack against and shatter a picture frame. Roman starts with the noise, and then gives his counterpart a disapproving glare. Remus stares him down for a second, then hunches over and groans when he realizes Roman isn’t going to back down on this one, and he moves over to fix the damage with a wave of his hand as he rolls his eyes.

“Right, well. Still not good, huh? Let’s try something else. Follow!” Remus shouts far too loudly, a fairly unreachable sentiment when is comes from Roman himself, and the two of them leave the room.

They go outside next, trek around the house in the beating sun, and Roman sweats from both the heat and the mischievous look in his brother’s eye. The two stop in the backyard beside the porch, and Remus sizes up a blank stretch of brick wall as Roman just shakes the collar of his jacket in an attempt to air it out a little. Remus nods to himself after a couple moments of deliberation, and then summons what seem to be brightly coloured water balloons sloshing around in a blue plastic bucket.

“Water balloons? I don’t want to get wet right now, Remus,” Roman sighs, ignores the suggestive eyebrow wiggle he gets in return, and he crosses his arms when his counterpart grabs a balloon from off the top of the pile.

“Haha, no, dumbass! You’re so silly, of course they’re not water balloons-- they’re paint balloons!” And Roman has to leap forward and snatch the balloon away as Remus is winding up to launch it, berating his pouting brother as he replaces the paint balloons with actual water balloons. Roman doesn’t bother with words, just gives Remus a withering look when he huffs and waves his hand over the balloons again. “Fine. Compromise.”

“There better not be paint in those again, Remus, or I might literally strangle you. Ah-- before you say it, no, not in ‘the fun way’.”

And there isn’t. They’re water balloons, still, but they’re also filled with so many different colours of glitter, and Roman has to admit that the way the sun shines and refracts off of the little flecks coating the side of the building is pretty awesome. But… as pretty as it is, Roman can still feel that itch, that wanting, so they clean up (read: Roman cleans up while Remus tries to swallow a balloon whole. Wait, can Deceit do that?) and head back inside, having managed to stay decently dry.

So they try again. Remus takes him to his own room, drags out a huge canvas and easel from god knows where and swats the dust and cobwebs away from the slightly yellowed surface. It isn’t hard to guess what they’re doing, and Roman wonders if Remus only puts out shades of red acrylic for a reason. He has to admit, though, smearing the page with so many different hues to make an abstract mess of bright claret is surprisingly fun, though he’d never admit that to Remus.

They also attempt to make cupcakes, but that’s all more of Virgil’s thing than anyone else’s. Stress baking is a common occurrence, to the point where Virgil has actually gotten to be extremely skilled, and it does make for a humorous juxtaposition to the other two. Logan is great at cooking because it can not only be precise and measured, but also a creative outlet, and despite his insistence that he is Logic and Logic only, Roman knows that even Logan can create some really amazing, unique things if he tries. Patton, on the other hand… oh boy. Despite his position as a parental fixture within their group, he is awful at making nearly everything related to food. He’s too prone to experimentation and disregarding recipes and measurements outright, which is why baking is always a disaster, and he gets too scared around heat to really cook a proper meal. He does make some really good parfaits, though.

So although he has years under his belt of watching those three do their thing, of learning what to do from Virgil and Logan and what not to do from Patton, Roman isn’t exactly good at baking himself. He’s awesome at decorating, and he’s made some really cool cake artwork before, but the actual baking part is not something he usually ever has to deal with. And Remus… well, Remus is Remus. He purposely switches the salt and sugar in his food, so.

Needless to say, their attempt is an absolute tragedy, but Roman honestly isn’t too mad about it. Sure, they’re both covered in flour, and Roman’s jacket is stained with vanilla extract from a particularly disastrous spill, and Remus has been continually making Roman cringe by crunching on the cakes that are burnt beyond recognition (cupcakes are not supposed to be crunchy, what the fuck) , but Roman’s actually having a lot of fun. Maybe the cupcakes didn’t turn out very well, but Roman hasn’t laughed this hard in a long time, so he’ll take small victories where he can get them.

And the twins don’t stop. They throw darts at headshot pictures of politicians taped to the wall, they have a pillow fight until Roman’s arms feel like jelly, and they go into the Imagination to ride some of the horses there (a white one with an elegant mane for Roman, and a decaying half-skeleton horse for Remus) until the sun is setting in the real world. They do so much, a surprising amount, and it feels just like when they were kids and they used to run around the house together yelling at the top of their lungs and giggling as they ran away from an exasperated Patton. Roman didn’t know how much he missed this until now, but it’s late, and unfortunately it has to come to an end.

“Remus, I’m tired, and nothing’s working… can I just go to sleep?” Roman sighs as they walk back into the main part of the mindscape again, scratching at the back of his neck as Remus whistles a cheery tune. He doesn’t understand how his twin can still be so energetic even after every exhausting activity they’ve participated in today, but it’s somewhat refreshing nonetheless.

“Nothing’s working? But you just went a whole day without cutting yourself! Seems like it worked to me!” Remus exclaims, eyes bright as he grins cheekily, and-- holy shit. He’s right. Roman didn’t cut today. He didn’t hurt himself, even though he was feeling that bad earlier. Even with the stress, and the tension, and the breakdown, he still managed to not give in. Because… because of Remus. Because of his little brother. That sneaky little shit, he knew what he was doing from the get-go. Maybe Roman is sorta proud. Okay, a lot proud.

“Anyway, I-- woah, don’t cry on me! Otherwise I might have to steal your tears and keep them in a jar to use as lube,” Remus snickers, and Roman doesn’t even care about his vulgarity as he brings his brother into a tight hug. He can tell that Remus is surprised, and a little stiff even as Roman squeezes his shoulders with gratitude. But then he’s relaxing a little, laughs more sincerely as he pats Roman’s back, and maybe Remus isn’t so bad after all.

[clatteriing]

I can’t talk about gender without also talking about hunger / I salivate for neither and eclipse my body in androgyny / Bless the hot takes that say white androgyny isn’t the same as noncomformity / I need to know my body isn’t what I should run after / yet I run after it / I have been hungry for as long as I have been uncomfortable / with my monikers / with the sound of my name in your mouth / call me what you will / just don’t call me late to a dinner / I wouldn’t show up at to begin with / an unconscious strike against masculinity / women cook / men eat / and I wither / I can’t talk about being a trans feminine body without talking about the hunger I hide from / in the darkest parts of the water / catfish in the mud / me, a woman / me, a heart so slow / you could mistake it for your own / I’m ashamed I wasn’t born with a skeleton as delicate as my self-esteem / so I stale my bones / peanut brittle body / I can’t talk about my hunger without talking / about my gender / my moon and my sun / constant eclipse of wanting / I ask for progesterone to redistribute the fat in me / I redistribute my time to avoid meals until there is cleavage / the second I start thinking of my transition / as against something I cannot control / is the same second the penned my date of birth / it can be recorded once more when I tried on a dress in a friends dorm room / a sweet sixteen of bones / I drown in my saliva and a man I don’t know / calls me sweetheart / how I wish to hydrate off of my own blood / bite the tongue that feeds you / and I am tongueless / show me a way to avoid mirrors and I will / show me a way to avoid meals / and I will / and I have / I work 8 days a week and don’t give myself time to eat / and yet only my muscles wither / okay google “how to shrink your skeleton” / okay google “how long can you strike against hunger” / my gender is in solitary / until another queer calls me a babe / and I drink my way into desire / drink desire to fill myself / full house of liquids / must be a siren / must mermaid my body against a current / the moon is full against the sun / and I am blind to my exposed ribcage / curious that I’ve never lost my voice / but never known what song to sing to be ravenous for a meal / I can’t talk / about gender / or hunger / without reference to the absence I salivate for / my gender is a burning star / my hunger the rock that wanes in orbit around me / my body stands in solidarity against myself / I drink and it refuses to eat / I eat compliments about my body as they crest the jetty of my skin / so soft and without / fault / so when I talk about my gender / I talk about my hunger / my little titties and my fat belly / so empty and wanting / hiding behind every excuse / manmade levees / child of poverty / my stomach learned from my cabinets how to be so empty / my one excuse / I never learned to eat / so I swallow my saliva / I never learned how to be a woman / so I become a monster instead / all ribs / the hull of a ship I build with my bones / polish with my pills / use the fat I grow chemically to hold myself together / the tides are changing so I need to learn to float a full feminine body / I won’t make it to the bottom of the ocean / no matter how small I make myself

Poem In Which I Transition During a Hunger Strike by Aeon Ginsberg

[yeoldontknow]

Hero: 2

Author’s Note: Wanted to get this up as my parents are coming to visit this weekend and I won’t have time to update. Also want to give my heartfelt thanks to all those who have read and supported this, both here and on AO3. It truly means so much <33 PS - I’ve fallen in love with this Yixing accidentally on purpose? Woops! Song for this chapter: Love Some1 - Holy Other Genre: Vampire! Chanyeol; thriller; suspense; horror; eventual smut/romance Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Rating (this chapter): R Warnings (this chapter): swearing; blood Word count: 4,351

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The goats seem content to lick the blood from your legs, their tongues sporadically forcing the shards of glass, still speckling the skin beneath your ripped pants, further into their wounds. You don’t mind the sting, you welcome it as a tether; it reminds you you’re still alive. The pigs, you find, keep to themselves as if they're used to women invading their space and have long accepted the transience of humanity; they exist next to you, but not with you.

Time passes in indeterminate increments. There are no windows in this room, no visual for the passing of the hours; you wonder how long it's been since you've seen the sun. Occasionally, when the chatter and rubber clad footsteps beyond the door quiet, you hear the hungry call of gulls as they pass overhead. You know you are near the sea, you know that the sea is miles out from where you were, and you have no idea where you'd run even if you could.

This lack of natural light and the warmth from the animals frequently lulls you into a state of exhaustion, from which you retreat in a distressed haste. Your head still hurts, and while this pain could be attributed to a number of things - hunger, dehydration, stress, fear - the possibility of concussion still remains real.

So, you focus on the smell, the putrescence that emanates from your cellmates. You focus on the details of the room, few as they may be, and you focus on your racing heart. Closing your eyes and relaxing into captivity means death. So you choose to stay wide awake and aware, breathing in every piece of this hell until you become one with it.

The cage, your cell, this small prison, sits in the center of an otherwise empty room. Apart from your companions, you are alone and the only time someone capable of conversation enters is to bring a bucket of slop for the animals. They avoid your gaze and, while you initially felt the beginnings of a white hot rage spawn in your chest at their indifference, you have redirected your attention to the metal door that separates you from the hope of freedom.

Between the distance of the cage from the door and the pain in your head, focusing on finite details takes time and a considerable amount of effort. You devote most of your energy to trying to study the door’s lock. You’re certain you could pick the cage bolt with the pin that keeps your name tag pinned to your shirt, but the door - its mechanics remain a mystery.

You doubt they have been careless, you doubt they have overlooked your desire for freedom, and you are certainly wise enough to know that if something appears easy it's likely impossible.

You mentally prepare yourself for these challenges by imagining what lies beyond the door, and manage to convince yourself you're formulating a plan. No information has been offered to you from the light beyond the frame, but you think of the building as a warehouse - similar to the one D.O. brought you to. The building is unfamiliar and large, and you weren't astute enough to memorize the path taken from the trunk of the car to the room.

You question where you'd go if you could escape, what choices would you make beyond room’s walls. Sometimes you think you’d turn left, but right now you picture going right. You imagine cold steel hallways and numerous doors for you to pass - sometimes you think you'd try them, other times you think you'd run until you found the best exit possible.

Would you climb out a window? Would you run for the door? Would you look for a car? You find yourself weighing the value of your life against the risks and conclude the summation of your existence would be meaningless if you didn't at least try all these options in succession.

Logically, you know you'd be caught - but if you weren’t, if you allow yourself the fantasy of escape, what would you do? How would you do it?

The truth is you've been listening, and while there isn't a pattern to the noise, you've learned the doppler effect of the footsteps and think maybe you could time it. If you can manage to get your hands free, the first of many obstacles, if you can manage to get out of the cage and to the door, you'd do it when there's silence.

Living in perpetual dimness has taught you to follow the noise, and you think you'd lean against the wall waiting for an echo or a vibration. You'd follow it with shaking hands and eyes wide open, blind to everything except instinct. You trust yourself enough to know you'd live long enough to fight, even if you don't live.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open, and you quickly turn your head away to face the wall. You don't bother getting up, not anymore, you simply rest your head back against the bars and wait. The lights on the ceiling are flicked on and you groan, squinting as your eyes adjust.

Today, there are two people assigned to the feed instead of the usual one and this other man is new to you. As he crosses into your vision, you look him directly in the eye - as you've done to everyone you've seen - and he smiles.

This simple action makes your breath catch and you're shaken by this disruption. To everyone you've been invisible, equated verbally to swine, but he willingly acknowledges you with kindness. His smile is warm and almost sympathetic, and you fight against your inherent distrust with a visual restlessness. You find you have no venom for him, only a reserved patience as you watch his actions and posture.

His partner drops the bucket of gruel with little ceremony and pays you no regard as he blithely moves towards the door, leaving without a single word.

Now it's just you and this new man, and he's radiating peace as if it's born through the pores of his skin. You want to panic. They never stay behind. No one waits or sits with you, and so his very presence should consume you with unease. Instead, you find yourself wanting to return his smile and, for just this moment, you have the passing sense you could be safe.

He moves towards the door of the cage, slowly and calmly walking around the perimeter as if you're the dangerous one. You keep your gaze trained on him the whole time, and only now do you notice he's carrying a glass of clear liquid. When he comes to the front of the cage, he sits with his legs crossed and fixes you with a concerned stare.

‘My name is Lay,’ he says softly. ‘I’m here to heal you.’

You narrow your eyes, confused about how this is possible. He has no medical kit with him, not even a rag to clean the dried blood on your skin, but still you believe him. Perhaps your belief is what you find most perplexing of all.

The harsh light from the lamps seems to bathe him in a warm glow, as if the light itself were seeking him out to nestle in the grooves of his cheekbones. You want to call him Icarus, you want to give him wings, and you imagine that he already does. It's this image of him that helps your muscles relax, the cadence of his words dissolving your tension on impact.

Instinct.

‘Before I can do that,’ he continues, ‘I’d like to talk to you. I also want to give you this water, but to do that I need to be in there with you.’ He nods his head towards the interior of the cage and you bristle at the gesture.

Hands have held and grabbed you, pulled at your skin and hair and bound together all the useful things about you just because they were close to you. They were close and they could.

The nearness of him poses a threat and he seems to sense this.

‘I promise I will bring you no harm. I will never raise a hand to hurt you. You will be safe with me,’ he says and, for some unknown reason, you find truth in this statement.

‘May I have your permission to enter?’ He asks the question delicately, worry painted over his features in expectation of rejection. And his worry is not for himself, but for you.

A great ocean wave of comfort passes over your soul, as if he's found his way inside you, clung to your rib cage and started to illuminate all the darkness. And you think you feel this not just because he's asked for your permission, waiting for your consent like you're the key to the cage itself, but because he genuinely wants it.

So you nod, placing the last threads of trust you have, not in his hands but, in your gut.

He opens the cage door and enters quickly, moving the animals aside with a gentleness you thought had died within the confines of the building as he shuts it and comes to sit beside you. You regard him for a moment and are awash with warmth, soothed by his closeness.

His eyes veer to the tag on your chest, and he brightens somewhat at seeing your name.

‘It’s nice to meet you,’ he says, returning his gaze to yours. ‘I've brought you a gift.’

Lifting the glass, his left hand slithers behind your head to cradle it as he brings the glass to your lips. The water seems to spread through your bones, cooling and saturating all withered places in you. You'd been parched and the flash flood of this glass will only leave you craving more. He makes to pull away, but you lean forward with your lips still pressed to the rim refusing to let go until you've had every last drop. He releases a chuckle at this, and you sigh. There's music in his laugh, a lullaby of consolation and ease.

When you’ve drunk your fill, he removes his hand allowing you to lean back against the bar once more as you gasp for breath. You let some drops of water linger on your lips, moistening the skin allowing you to feel more hydrated than you actually are.

‘I’ll bring you more water and a warm meal,’ he says, placing the glass next to him. He shoos an inquisitive pig away with the flick of his hand.

The deluge of water has coated your throat, found your voice somewhere in its tides and brought it back to you.

‘How long have I been here?’ you ask with a croak in your disused voice. You've grown comfortable with silence, and speech feels like a skill you need to relearn.

He turns back to you and offers you a sympathetic frown. ‘Two days.’

Suppressing a scoff, you scowl. They've brought you to the edge only to pull you back.

‘You’re not like the others,’ you cough.

‘I’m exactly like the others,’ he counters. ‘I just respond differently to…’

You cock an eyebrow and wait for him to finish.

‘Challenges.’

You roll your eyes with disdain. ‘I refuse to let you reduce me to one simple and dismissive word,’ you say sharply. ‘I and this entire fucked up situation are so much more than that.’ You pause to cough once more, your chest constricting roughly with each breath. ‘But my fighting words are not meant for you. You're the only person who has shown me kindness.’

‘Kindness exists in unseen places. Had it not been for the Sire’s kindness, I’d not be here.’

‘That hardly counts,’ you say, scowling. ‘If that were true, why isn't he here himself?’

‘You have many questions -’

‘Damn right I do,’ you interject.

He lifts his hand to stop your verbal tirade. ‘But we have more urgent matters to discuss.’

He takes a small breath while you absorb his words and you debate if you want to even listen at all. He takes your silence as complacency and continues.

‘I'm going to tell you something and your response to, and belief in, this information is fundamental, not only to your understanding of who we are, but also my ability to heal you.’

‘This sounds like a bargaining chip.’

‘In a way, yes,’ he concedes, ‘but by telling you this it will no longer be just you who feels vulnerable in this cage.’

‘I already know what you are,’ you say sharply. You’re sure you have him and everyone around you figured out. You’d rather save the pomp and circumstance and get right to the mending of bones.

‘You do?’ he asks, bemused.

‘Blood and human trafficking? You're the mob, or at least involved with it.’

He chuckles, although it lacks its usual ring. It comes from a place of sadness, somewhere deep within him. ‘We are far older and conversely far weaker than that. The mafia operates out of greed, we operate this way out of necessity.’

‘I think if you ask any gang member they'd say the same thing,’ you challenge.

‘Semantics are nothing without context. Before I tell you the rest, I beg you to keep in mind you are allowed this information because Sire wishes you to have it. We are not usually this forthcoming.’

‘Is this a test?’

‘Perhaps. If so, it is not for me, therefore it is up to you to judge it as you will.’

‘Okay. Tell me.’

‘We are not the mob,’ he says evenly. ‘This is a coven. And we are vampires.’ He says the words so calmly and gently it takes you a moment to register he's waiting for your reaction.

You let the words wash over you and find yourself laughing, a cold, unfeeling laugh that sounds like metal as it rattles out of your chest. You think perhaps your state of shock and trauma has caused something to snap inside you, but you don't feel any mental detachment. Everything about this feels real and tangible, and you just accept his words as law because your perception of reality has already been forced into an unrecognizable shape. Why not bend it to its limit?

‘You laugh. Do you not feel fear?’ he asks, confused.

‘I'm scared,’ you say, your last chuckle tumbling past your chapped lips. ‘Trust me you cannot begin to fathom how truly terrified I am. But every second I'm kept here, my sliding scale for what makes me feel fear grows to new lengths.’

In truth, you think you've been so scared for so long that you've grown numb to the feeling. It has burrowed into your skin and made a home of you, made itself so comfortable on and inside you that all you have left is the grim acknowledgment of its presence.

‘I’m laughing because what you’re saying is utterly preposterous,’ you continue. ‘I'm laughing because, against my better judgment, I believe you. I'm laughing because in a way, I already knew. And I’m laughing because I can't believe I just have to accept this is the world I live in now.’

The last part of your explanation comes out deeply sad and forlorn, because that is all you have left. You’ve known for a long time the world was little more than bleak, but now you’re confronted with legend and myth and all that remains in you is a derisive why not.

‘Well, this is the world you always lived in. You’ve just been welcomed into the shadows of it,’ he says, his eyes glancing around the room as if the darkness here were the shadows he meant. For a vampire, you find him impossibly docile. ‘But you say you already knew?’

‘I knew something wrong when that guy - D.O. - didn't die.’ You tremble at the memory, haunted. ‘I was bleeding and disoriented and he just carried on like nothing had happened. I shot a gun at close range and he didn't even flinch, but I felt like a bomb had gone off in my head. But even before all that? I knew from the blood.’

‘The blood,’ he repeats, knowingly.

‘You were shipping blood like you were bringing it to a war zone.’

‘I can see why you made D.O. so nervous,’ he says with a smile. ‘Your observance is unprecedented for your kind.’

‘It was literally crates of blood. You were hardly discreet,’ you say, dryly.

He simply nods and lets silence hang over you. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for a stronger reaction, a howl or a cry. You’re almost sorry to disappoint him.

‘So do you trust me?’ he finally asks.

‘I believe you’ you clarify, ‘I don't know if I trust you. I've seen proof there's something not completely human about this whole...thing. Yet, you keep saying you're going to heal me but you have nothing with you.’

‘Tell me what you think I would need,’ he says, a coy smile tugging at his lips.

You run through your last known checklist. ‘Well, it feels like I have a minor concussion. My legs have flesh wounds but the goats have been licking those so possible bacteria infections and also glass shards buried under the cuts. My wrists feel sprained, though I have very minimal feeling in my hands so I can't confirm the extent of the problem there. This is just external, I have no way to assess internal if any.’

‘What if I told you I only needed my hands?’

‘I think this would go back to my sliding scale.’

‘We were all humans once,’ he says, loftily. ‘The universe gifts pieces of herself to humanity, the same way many believe God created man in his image. Humans sometimes call it magic, as if the concept of this is foreign. Really, we are all capable of extraordinary things.’

The words pour from his mouth with a gentle sort of distance, as if his mind has wandered off somewhere and only now is he seeking to find it. The dreamy air in his voice, the wistful contemplation of his words, sends you on your own memory walk, and you arrive at a pleasant, similar state.

‘My mother said we were all made of stardust.’ You hadn't meant for the words to sound sad but they linger in the air too long, their weight making them heavy and thick.

‘She sounds like a very wise woman,’ he offers. ‘Sometimes, it's easier to accept these pieces of ourselves after our humanity is stripped. As vampires, or creatures of myth, we have no choice but to accept that we are exactly what we are.’

You find this conversation pleasant and distracting, but are lost as to how this involves you and the blood you've lost. ‘Sorry, I’m struggling to understand what this has to do with healing me?’

‘As vampires, our human gifts makes themselves known to us in a...profound way. We each have a useful skill set. Mine is healing.’

He lifts the hand that cradled your head, palm facing upwards, and you regard it with mild curiosity. His fingers are long and delicate, a softness to them you wouldn't expect to see on a killer. However, nothing about him has met your expectations. When his palm starts to emit a tepid glow, you don't find it in you to be shocked. From the start, you felt he had brought the sun with him. It explains why he makes you feel so warm.

‘Baekhyun is the real light bringer,’ he murmurs to no one but himself. You remove your eyes from his hand and instead watch him as he regards his own light. His small smile makes him appear more childlike and innocent than you could ever imagine from a grown man, and you're overcome by a sort of affinity for him.

‘This gift comes with a set of rules, however,’ he says, abruptly closing his hand. ‘For instance, I can only do this with your permission. And second, I have to connect with you for it to work.’

His eyes bore into yours, seeking permission.

‘Connect?’

‘It will feel something like a knock on the door of your consciousness,’ he clarifies. ‘You have to be completely open to me to let me in. It's the only way I can asses the damage to your body and fix it.’

You think you understand, but you've never been very good at theory.

‘May I touch you?’ he asks finally.

You truly believe he won't cause you any harm, he’s had every opportunity to do so in such close quarters. Everything about him could rip you apart and bleed you out in his lap, but he never once has seemed interested in doing so. He's sat next to your seeping wound, probably smelled it for the last two days, but has remained utterly disinterested in everything about you except for your thoughts. He’s cradled your head like he was leading your baptism, and even then you felt safe in the palms of his hands. But even if you thought him dangerous, even if he kept his violence tucked in his back pocket, he's your only chance for survival.

‘I don't think I have much of a choice.’

‘There's always a choice.’ He says the words firmly, effectively putting your life in your own hands.

And so you choose.

‘You may.’

With a small nod, he brings both hands to your temples to assess your head injury. You take this opportunity to study the warmth in his eyes as he focuses on you, his eyelashes, almost feminine in length, providing a darkness to them that reminds you of chocolate. It's almost painful to look at him, something so pure and beautiful.

And then you feel it, a scratch in your awareness signaling you aren't alone in your body anymore. He wants in, he wants access to all the pieces you keep tucked away and private. You think this should hurt, you should think this intrusion is impolite and almost cruel. But he told you it would feel like this, an invasion through an open door. He told you it would feel like a door, so you step through.

The first time he asked to die, he meant it as a trade. True to his nature, he asked for it with genuine conviction - desperate to die and desperate for his mother to live, and screaming it at the sky. She was soft only for him. He was good only for her, and the worth of his life was meaningless without moments with her to measure it by.

Her absence hollowed him in a way he didn't think natural. He ate at himself, picking at things she left behind inside of him until he was filled with memory and absolutely nothing else. It was as though he was suffering an intense drought and he allowed himself to dissolve, fading like a sigh beside her grave.

Empty of all things good and golden, he took to marking his skin to fill himself with ink. He'd stain himself in metaphor, drag lines on his skin and force timelessness where it couldn’t exist before. Sometimes, he convinced himself the wings on his back were hers. Most times, he thought himself the vengeful dragon unable to fly.

The second time he asked to die, he was on a battlefield. He could smell the blood of his brethren, and the way it mixed with the stench of his own made him want to vomit. His skin was greasy with sweat and human remains, and he couldn’t escape the feeling his body had started to decay before his soul could make its exit. It was impossible for him reconcile the stains on his hands with the words of his orders. He’d lost count of the number of times he'd watched men die, but the agony of it never got easier.

Death had followed him from a young age and never once cast its pale stare in his direction. He found survival burdensome but he cherished the guilt. It reminded him he was human. It reminded him he still had morals.

You’re pulled back to the present by the sounds of Lay’s gasping. He’s cowered away from you and his eyes are wide with terror. You think he looks as terrified as you feel, and you can’t seem to stop the breakneck pace your heart as decided to take. It’s clear you were never meant to see those things, and you’re scared for him as much as you are scared for yourself. This intimacy was accidental and you both feel tainted.

This is the thing that could kill you, you think. Disobeying orders with a reckless nonchalance is what gets throats slit. Words of apology die on your tongue, everything you could possibly say sounds trite or insincere. Instead, you say his name - his real name.

‘Yixing.’

You thought it would bring him comfort, but instead it stills his breathing and he looks as though he’s seen a ghost.

‘How did you do that?’ he whispers.

‘I’m sorry!’ you exclaim, surprised by the volume of your voice. ‘You said it was a door, I thought I had to do it to make it work!’

You toss your words into the cage, hoping one of them will ease the tension you’ve so carelessly created.

‘No one has ever…,’ his sentence disappears somewhere between his mouth and the air, and he shakes his head to start over. ‘You should be healed. Thank you for letting me in.’

It takes you a second to truly feel yourself, all warm, and whole, and the soul splitting pain your head gone. You want to think him. You want to hug him. But he quickly gets to his feet and leaves the cage. He rushes through his actions as if he’s running from death itself, and he’s out the door before you can even comprehend how just how grave your situation has just become.

[maddiethefashionista]

NFL Protesters Should Be Ashamed

Repost To football players who take a knee : Had to share this one... To the NFL players who took a knee during the playing of the National Anthem. So, you want to take a knee? Take a trip to Valley Forge in January. Hold a musket ball in your fingers and imagine it piercing your flesh and breaking a bone or two. There won't be a doctor or trainer to assist you until after the battle. Wait your turn while listening to the screams of pain from the wounded. Then take a knee. Go to Normandy where man after American man stormed the beach, dodging dead bodies and withering machine gun fire,...the very sea stained with American blood. Imagine that your fellow players are your dead brothers in arms. Then take a knee. Take a knee in the sweat soaked jungles of Vietnam. Over 60,000 Americans died in those jungles.There was no playbook or million dollar contracts for doing your job, but they understood what our flag represented. When they came home, they were protested by their fellow Americans. Then take a knee while they spit on you. Take another knee in the blood drenched sands of Fallujah in 110 degree heat..Trade in your pads for a Kevlar helmet and battle dress...You'll have to stay hydrated, but there won't be anyone to squirt Gatorade into your mouth. And watch out for those IEDs when you take a knee. There's a lot of places to take a knee. Americans have given their lives all over the world. When you use the banner under which they fought as a source for your protest, you dishonor the memories of those who bled for the very freedoms you have. That's what the red stripes mean. It represents the blood of those who spilled it defending your liberty. So while you're on your knee, pray for those that came before you, not on manicured fields striped and printed with numbers to announce every inch of game yardage...but on nameless hills and bloodied beaches and sweltering forests and bitter cold mountains...every inch marked by an American life lost serving that flag you protest. No cheerleaders, no announcers, no coaches, no fans...just American men and women on the land, air, and sea, delivering the real fight against those who chose to harm us..so you would have the opportunity to dishonor their service by "taking a knee." You have no clue what it took to get you where you are...but your "protest" is duly noted. Not only is it disgraceful to a nation, it points to your ingratitude for those who chose to defend you under that banner that will still wave long after your stats and game jersey are forgotten... If you really feel the need to take a knee, come with me to church on Sunday and we'll both kneel before Almighty God. We'll thank Him for preserving this country for as long as He has. We'll beg forgiveness for both of our ingratitude for all He has provided us. We'll appeal to Him for understanding and wisdom. We'll pray for liberty and justice for all...because He is the one who provides those things. But no protesting allowed. There will only be gratitude for His provision and a plea for His continued grace and mercy on the land of the free and the home of the brave. May He continue to bless America, the ignorant and selfish sinners we all are. What an incredible gift He has given us!

My whole family has fought and bled for this country. I'm sick of selfish entitled assholes who think disrespecting this country and what it stands for during games that they are getting payed millions to play.

Jim Brown made an excellent point regarding the protest. "I want to be in his corner, and I do think, 'God bless him. I'm going to give you the real deal: I'm an American. I don't desecrate my flag and my national anthem. I'm not gonna do anything against the flag and national anthem. I'm going to work within those situations. But this is my country, and I'll work out the problems, but I'll do it in an intelligent manner. If you have a cause, I think you should organize it, present it in a manner where it's not only you standing or sitting on one knee, but a lot of people that is gonna get behind each other and do something about it,"

Football is pure entertainment people don't watch to get preached at about social issues but to watch competition between two teams who catch a ball and run around on a manicured field. Grow the fuck up and take matters into your damn hands.

P.S. If anyone doesn't want to follow me after this post then frankly I don't give a damn! I'm proud to be an American! I'm proud to be a white female who will never know the subjugation that woman in the Middle East. Because of pigs who think that just because they have a dick they are somehow better then women. I love Trump! I think he is a blessing to this country! For those of who can't see it then know I will pray for you and hope that you will see the corruption that is Western media! Ask yourself this before you condemn​ a man who only wants to restore America to the superpower that is was before Obama. Do your research and compare what Obama has accomplished to what Trump is accomplishing right now. Knowledge is power. Never remain ignorant.

[worldbestlawyers]

New Post has been published on World Best Lawyers

New Post has been published on http://www.worldbestlawyers.com/protecting-the-public-speakers-most-valuable-asset-your-voice/

Protecting the Public Speaker's Most Valuable Asset: Your Voice!

A lawyer has his briefs and his arguments. A basketball player needs a basketball and a plumber uses a snake to clear a drain. What do these professionals (who get paid a lot of money) all have in common? Without one specific tool, they cannot do their job properly. In addition, if that tool is not in tiptop working condition — their job will become more difficult, if not impossible to perform!

Well, guess what? If a public speaker wants to make an impact with his or her audience, the one tool he absolutely needs to protect is his voice. Doing so, will allow you to effortlessly do your job so your audience can enjoy your message and content.

Before I worked as a professional speaker and humorist, I trained as a professional actor. I did oodles and oodles of stage work that allowed me to speak on a stage and be completely heard (without straining) in the last row of the theatre/auditorium.

I accomplished this with hours of voice training and the proper use of my voice using my diaphragm.

You see, your voice box is a muscle, and just like any other part of your body, if you abuse it–you will lose it! And if you don’t take care of your body and don’t get enough sleep or you’re fatigued, I guarantee you, as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west — your voice will be the first thing to go! Hello, laryngitis!

Your body and voice should work in peak performance mode so your inspiring message and content ring loud and clear like a bell!

Please don’t rely on the sound system to help you out if your voice is scratchy, hurting, or withering away due to fatigue.

The result will be a scratchy voice that is NOW louder to your audience and more annoying to listen to. Remember: If your voice fails, you’re a goner! Also apologizing to your audience every few minutes will not help the matter. They don’t care. They want a speaker they can ALL enjoy now!

What to Drink to Protect Your Voice

Yes, drinking is very important. Of course, we’re talking about drinking the right fluids that are NON alcoholic. Working pros know that alcohol is a clear no-no before preparing to speak in front of an eager audience.

I can’t tell you how many times at night before doing a corporate show, a client or an attendee has offered me a cocktail before bounding onto the platform.

I always turned it down, and I hope you do the same. You see, not only will the alcohol dry out your throat, but the combination of drinking it and talking to a crowd are fraught with danger.

Try this on for size. You could forget what you wanted to say; you could stumble off the stage and into the audience. Landing off the platform and into the lap of an audience member is NOT how you want to be remembered, do you? And just imagine what the evaluations forms will point out.

“Speaker was pretty decent until she stumbled off the platform and landed on me breaking my collar bone! Would enjoy hearing her again when she’s sober and I am healed!”

Again, do yourself a favor: Drink alcohol AFTER your presentation during your down time in the hotel bar!

That said, you should do everything you can to lubricate your voice and not have phlegm rear its ugly head. The best thing to drink is plain old H2O. In fact, you should drink a lot of water (hydrate as they say) the day BEFORE you are scheduled to speak.

Doing this will moisten up your vocal chords, not to mention your entire body (which is always a good idea anyway.) Then during your speech have a cup of room-temperature water beside you on the lectern, and sip it every now and then.

Another big no-no is to keep away from soda and other carbonated drinks right before your presentation. If you want to protect your voice, remember to stay away from carbonation, especially if you do NOT want to belch or slightly burp on stage. Imagine the embarrassment when you belch out a word or two in the middle of your talk!

If water is just not your thing, try drinking something naturally sweet, like orange juice or grapefruit juice. They are astringents and can help clear any congestion from your vocal chords. Again, doing this will enable you to NOT have to clear your throat after every other sentence!

Coddle Your Voice Like a Baby!

Just as you wouldn’t send your small child out into the cold without a sweater and scarf, do the same for your speaking voice.

Protect your voice by wrapping a winter scarf around your neck in winter. Wear turtleneck sweaters and shirts (in season, of course). Wisely, do what you have to do to keep yourself and your voice warm and cozy.

Don’t go too far by wrapping a woolen scarf around your neck in mid-July. Oh, sure, other speakers might know you are protecting your voice. BUT some folks might think you’re a nut job and could possibly alert the authorities. (And no, that never happened to me!)

There’s More You Can Do

Does the word “strain” conjure up feelings of pain or tension? Well, your voice thinks it does! Common sense dictates to always use a microphone when you are speaking to an audience. Certainly if you are in an intimate setting, say less than fifty people, then you might not want to. But only do that if you can project your voice properly to your listeners without hurting it.

Along with being trained as an actor, I also trained earlier in my life as a singer. And because I was, I always want to keep my voice limber by singing scales and doing certain vocal exercises.

If I am on the road (and I usually am when giving a presentation), I do my scales in my hotel room (preferably in the shower). My public speaking program has certain voice exercises for you to use that can help give your voice more timbre, vocal range, and flexibility.

Remember: Just like an athlete stretches his arms and leg quads for flexibility, so must a speaker get his voice flexible to get the job done!

Be prudent: If there’s a break during the day’s schedule before you have to speak, protect your voice by taking that time to be alone.

Do your best to NOT speak to anyone. Explain to your host or client that you’re not being antisocial; you’re just saving your voice for the time you’re scheduled to speak. (They’ll hopefully understand and drift away for you to be alone!)

Again, it’s worth repeating: Before your begin your speech, find a quiet area (preferably your hotel bathroom) and warm up your voice. Do this just as you would warm up your muscles before you go for a jog or whatever type of exercise you enjoy doing.

Don’t worry if a few people can hear you doing those odd vocal exercises to continually protect your very important asset: your voice!