#havent written for mob before........ hope someone enjoys it

[uuchanjustice]

Ekubo Week Day 1 - Friendship

(Mob & Dimple, word count: 1k)

So far, Dimple’s Plan G for Becoming God and Ruling Over Humanity was not paying off as much as he would like.

Thinking back, he shouldn’t have expected anything different. Sure, Kageyama Shigeo was a naive doormat, and his tolerance for Dimple’s presence was shockingly high. But Dimple had seen firsthand how stubborn the kid could be when he wanted. He’d exorcised him for the crime of calling him a loser one too many times, after all.

But the lack of ambition was really starting to get on Dimple’s nerves.

“You’re seriously gonna spend your break in the classroom?” Dimple demanded as Shigeo unpacked his boxed lunch. “You won’t get any better at social skills like this, you know.”

Shigeo shrugged. The gesture was the closest thing to a response that Dimple could expect from Shigeo at school. A shrug was actually a step up from the blank stares Shigeo usually gave him.

“You could go find that Tsubomi girl,” Dimple continued, planting himself on top of Shigeo’s lunch box. “Not talk to her, you’re not ready for that yet. But you could eat in the same area, at least. Then, you can listen to her conversations with her friends-“ Shigeo pushed him with a light burst of power and he rolled off the desk, returning to Shigeo’s eye level, “-and maybe you’ll learn something about her personality. Observing people is a great way to understand them better.”

Shigeo glared at him. Or it seemed like he might be glaring. The kid’s facial expressions were subtle as hell. But Dimple wouldn’t let that hold him back. He was an expert on manipulating humans to serve him, and Shigeo was no different from any other small-minded human.

“Okay, so are you gonna talk to that classmate of yours? The camera one? She’s been trying to get your attention all day. She probably wants to know about the power you used to destroy me. This could be your shot at popularity, Shigeo! She’s a journalist! Even amateur press can make a big difference in publicizing your brand.”

Dimple had snuck in to countless seminars on public relations and marketing. If Shigeo showed any interest, he could get him a thousand Twitter followers in a day. But the kid didn’t even have a smartphone. He’d have to look into getting Shigeo a tablet or something.

For now, Shigeo was staring right through Dimple as he ate his lunch. Dimple had watched Shigeo’s mother pack the lunch that morning. Besides the rice, pork and greens, there was a single umeboshi that Shigeo seemed to be saving for last.

When was the last time Dimple had eaten human food? Some kind of unidentifiable emotion rose up in him as he watched Shigeo eat his mother’s cooking.

“Hey. Shigeo.” Dimple pointed at the lone umeboshi. “Can I have that?”

Shigeo kept staring right through him. A few grains of rice fell from his chopsticks onto his desk. He sweeped them up with a napkin, not looking at Dimple.

A flash of irritation made Dimple’s form waver slightly. “It’s rude to ignore people, Shigeo.” He folded his arms. “Come on, it’s just an umeboshi. Give it to me already.”

Shigeo looked at him… and started packing away his lunch box, the uneaten umeboshi still inside. Dimple scowled. “Oh, you’re brutal, aren’t you,” he said. Shigeo’s lips quirked in amusement. The high class evil spirit Dimple sunk onto the desk and sulked for the rest of the lunch period.

–––

Later that day, Shigeo walked home, still a little dizzy from his club activities. Why the kid bothered trying to develop muscles when he could do anything effortlessly with psychic power, Dimple had no idea. Maybe he’d get through to him one day.

They passed by a tiny park, just a few benches and a swing set. To Dimple’s surprise, Shigeo sat on one of the benches. He started rummaging through his bag.

“Hey, what’s the deal?” Dimple asked. “You gonna eat that umeboshi now, just to torment me? You’d make a hell of an evil spirit.”

Shigeo pulled out the lunch box and unearthed the umeboshi. “Here,” he said. “You can eat it now.”

Something inside Dimple clenched. “Wh-seriously? Why didn’t you give it over before?”

“The teacher was in the classroom. I thought he might be scared if he saw a floating umeboshi.” Shigeo stared at Dimple, as if to say, ‘wasn’t that obvious?’

Dimple snatched up the umeboshi. He took a moment to appreciate the lingering emotional energy radiating from the food, then swallowed it whole. He felt… warm.

…and salty. “Aghk- that’s strong!” he spluttered. “You really eat this?”

Shigeo shrugged, putting his lunch box away again. “I like extra salty things,” he said. Then, “I didn’t know evil spirits could eat.”

“Normally, we only eat curses and other spirits,” Dimple explained. “But we can eat other things if they have psychic properties. Home cooked food usually does, and food offered at shrines.” He phased through a puddle on the ground, hoping to alleviate the salty taste. Shigeo watched him with vague interest.

“…I’m sorry for ignoring you,” Shigeo said quietly. “I don’t like being ignored either… it must have been frustrating.”

Dimple froze. He felt oddly light for some reason. “Oh, forget about that!” he laughed, not meeting Shigeo’s eyes. “You gotta keep up appearances, I get it.”

Going by Shigeo’s blank look, he wasn’t comforted by this. “…I’ll ask my mom to pack an extra one,” he said, continuing on the path towards his home. “You know. As long as I don’t have to exorcise you.”

“Hey, don’t worry about that! I’ll be good as gold!” Dimple hurried to resume his hover over Shigeo’s shoulder as he walked home. “You won’t find a more conscientious evil spirit anywhere! You know, as long as you keep the treats coming.”

…Did he imagine it, or did Shigeo just… smile? “Wow… I didn’t know evil spirits could be domesticated.”

Never mind. Clearly, this kid was completely heartless.

[cdroloisms]

Dream tried to stop Wil from creating L'Manburg, Phil tried to stop him from blowing it up, BOTH value people over items and builds, Phil has said that they're replaceable but people aren't, Dream traded spirit for his best friends fishes (we kno he's not someone to talk abt feelings:[) BOTH were kind and selfless but used by almost if not everyone, BOTH were ready to be THE VILLAINS if it meant everyone else could live better after. ONE of them always had someone there, ONE didn't. Intentional?

aaaa sorry for the really inconsistent posts ,, im gonna try to post a little more in the next few days. i have a few things written up, so look out for them? maybe? for now, have this *gestures vaguely* thing ,, it’s kinda a mess but *shrug*

phil is such a fun character, anon, especially for all the reasons that you mentioned in the ask!! he’s a really fun character with a lot of complexities that go (sadly) overlooked by a large portion of the fandom, but he’s super cool even tho i havent analyzed him too much. hope you enjoy (and i hope my interpretation of c!phil isnt too ooc lmao) 

tw: mentioned blood, injury, implied torture/abuse, starvation, trauma, mentioned death, prison arc/pandora’s vault

When Techno first brings Dream back from the prison, Phil doesn’t quite know what to think.

“I don’t trust him either,” Techno assures him, but there’s a flickering anger in the backs of his eyes, one that had emerged ever since he came back from the prison with the other man in his arms, and Phil knows his friend well enough to know that the words are empty in the face of the piglin hybrid’s particular brand of to-the-death loyalty. He shakes his head in reply, refusing to voice his thoughts for Techno’s sake, at least, but the look that the other slants at him suggests that he’s caught onto them all the same.

At first, the work is thankfully mindless; even if Phil has reservations on the man that Techno has more or less dumped into his house, he would hardly wish the clear suffering he’s been through on anyone. The first few days pass in a flurry of brewing potions, wrapping and rewrapping dressings, stitching up cuts and setting broken bones straight. The damage is extensive; Phil has to take more than a few breaks to just leave the house and breathe - he’s far from a stranger to blood and carnage, had received the title of ‘Angel of Death’ for a reason, but even he had never been particularly familiar with this form of cruelty. Torture was a level of violence that extended beyond what even he was willing to bestow - his hands may have caused many deaths, and the weight of each one would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life, but even those had the mercy of being a quick end. The wounds and scars that ripple over Dream’s skin, thin and stretched tightly over his bones with little muscle and fat left to cushion them, speak of horrors that were anything but merciful.

“I didn’t know they were capable of all of this,” Techno says, once, as they huddle of Dream, wringing towels in cold water to wipe his feverish skin. Techno’s hand reaches for the ribboning gold-filled scars that remain from the execution - carefully, Phil raises his hand to let his fingertips brush over them as well. “I mean, I knew he was dangerous and all, but-”

“I know, mate,” Phil looks back at Dream’s face, tight even in unconsciousness, at the darkened, hand-shaped bruises that remain around his throat, at the scar that runs over his left eye, clearly meant to mirror the same one that makes its way down the duck hybrid’s own face. “You said that Quackity and Sam were working together?”

“Yeah,” Techno’s expression darkens, eyes focused somewhere on the wall, seemingly very far away. He said that nothing happened to him in the prison, and he seemed relatively unharmed when Phil activated the stasis chamber, but ever since he came back, sometimes he’ll have moments, and Phil can’t help but - wonder. “Quackity does the dirty work, Sam gives him the way in and out, probably also the tools to do it. It’s-” he huffs a short, self-recriminating laugh. “It’s bad, Phil.”

“Mate-”

Techno shoots him a look, and Phil cringes, knowing already that he’d used the wrong tone. Even with the execution, Techno had been adamant to hide all traces of his own terror and fear away from him, masking it all with fury for Phil’s own sake. He knows, just from the way his old friend looks at the ribboning scars that remain sometimes, that he is far from as over the whole ordeal as he acts, but Techno never wants to talk and Phil never knows the right time to ask and they smooth it all behind plans and explosions and hope that the TNT can blow apart the trauma, too. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the same thing is going to happen, here.

“As soon as we can,” Techno starts again, pointedly shifting his eyes away from Phil’s face, “we’re calling a Syndicate meeting to figure out what we’re going to do about the prison. Like- come on, man, you couldn’t make a more transparent abuse of institutional power if you tried, really-” he looks over, uncharacteristic uncertainty warring over his features. “If you think that’s good, I mean-“

“Of course, mate.” Phil’s voice softens. “Whenever you’re ready.”

‘Whenever he’s ready,’ as it turns out, is easier said than done, becoming even more evident when their charge wakes up from his days long spell of unconsciousness. The worst of his injuries have, under their careful care and the benefit of many potions, healed enough to no longer directly threaten his life, but the vast majority have quite some time to go before being healed completely. Being as the goal was torture and not death, most of his injuries weren’t made to be life-threatening, but rather to cause as much pain as possible - from the grimace that twists Dream’s face when he struggles to force himself awake, they’re doing their jobs.

“Hey, mate, slow down,” Phil murmurs, pressing the man down by his shoulder when Dream weakly tries to push himself up and off the bed, and his struggling only lasts for a few more minutes before he gives up and slumps against his pillow, eyes cracking open and seeming surprisingly lucid.

“Where-“ his voice is wrecked, and Phil reaches for the glass of water at the bedside as Dream coughs. “Where am I?”

“You’re at Techno’s house,” Dream’s eyes widen and then slip closed as he processes the information, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as they knit together. “We broke you out, after Techno escaped with a stasis chamber with your book. Do you remember?”

Dream gnaws on his bottom lip. “Um- yeah. I think.” His head turns as his eyes crack open again- “Techno-“

“He’s out, right now. He’ll be back in a bit.”

“Oh.” Dream falls back into the bed, strength seemingly sapped from the short conversation. His breathing stutters, then steadies. “Okay.”

Recovery is slow. Phil doesn’t actually find himself seeing the man very often; now that he doesn’t need around-the-clock care anymore, he’s moved back into his own house, letting Techno do most of the work when it comes to rehabilitating the escaped convict crashing at his house. As he begins to spend more of his time awake and aware, he brings a whole slew of new problems; Phil catches him screaming one day, blurting harsh, angry words as Techno reads, unbothered from the other side of the room, and he stops in his tracks standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Um-“ he winces when Dream curses, smashes something against the floor, and then curls into himself at the sound. Techno doesn’t even flinch. “Am I interrupting something?”

Dream stomps away, face flushed, arms wrapped around himself. Techno raises an eyebrow.

“You lookin’ for something, Phil?” he asks, and the unpleasant knot in Phil’s chest refuses to unwind.

The episodes, unfortunately, don’t seem to get much better. Though he’s rarely outright violent, Dream looks constantly murderous, usually muttering underneath his breath about something or another while he stalks the grounds of Techno’s house. It’s not too long before Techno sends him out to work around the house instead of just moping within the cottage, which also means that Phil sees him a lot more - tending to a small farm behind the house, feeding the dogs, hacking away at mobs, and usually complaining the entire time. It’s unnerving, even as injured and unarmored as the man is, to see him walking around like this; despite his rather pathetic appearance, swamped in sweaters that dwarf him thoroughly and thin enough to look like the slightest breeze will knock him over, his eyes are flinty and intelligent and bubble with promises of revenge.

“FUCK!” Phil turns to see him slamming a shovel into the snow, stomping away into the woods, and his hands tighten around his cup of tea. Next to him, Techno shrugs.

“Nerd’s got a few issues,” he drawls, and Phil laughs shortly.

“That seems like an understatement.”

“He’ll ease up in time,” Techno sounds surprisingly confident, completely content despite the muffled curses that come from the woods next to them. He’s probably used to it, with Chat and all, but Phil can’t quite seem to find the same calm.

“I just don’t know, mate,” Phil shakes his head. “You sure having him around is the best idea? He doesn’t seem...stable.”

Techno looks up at him over the rim of his cup of coffee. His head tilts, considering, but there’s a small smile on his face that tells Phil that Techno, inexplicably, doesn’t share the same sentiments. There was always a part of him that was, for the lack of a better word, softer than the rest of the server for his self-proclaimed rival, a sort of understanding that Phil could hardly hope (nor would really want to) understand.

“Don’t worry, Phil, if he tries anything I can always just tie him up in the attic or something,” Phil huffs a small laugh, amused, and nods to concede the point. “And- well, call it intuition. You could really try talkin’ to him, you know. He reminds me of you, sometimes.”

The words stick in his head despite his best efforts, rattling in his skull when he tries to sleep, lingering when he catches glimpses of the green-clothed man stalking around their properties. He can’t imagine what would’ve prompted his old friend to make the comparison, can’t think of a single thing (besides their affinity for the color green) that would mark him as similar to the - from what he’s heard - deranged menace with a particular penchant for destruction (not that his rants and fits of anger are doing anything to correct that impression). Even so, Techno had sounded so sure when he’d made the comparison, the words offhand like he’d thought them a million times before, like it was a simple observation that held no more weight than commenting on the color of the sky. Phil watches as Dream lugs a pile of logs behind him, huffing at one of Techno’s dogs that comes to chase and nip at his feet and grumbling loudly before faceplanting into the snow. He just...can’t see it.

Days later, Wilbur comes to visit, a grin on his lips as he dramatically recounts his newest exploit: a nation by Las Nevadas, a supposed safe haven away from the glitter and glory of Quackity’s city; it sounds brilliant, it sounds lovely, and more than anything it sounds stupid, and Phil tells him as such immediately.

“You’re being reckless,” he rants at his son, wings flaring outwards and only barely noticing Dream watching from the corner of his eye, “What are you doing- picking fights with Quackity? Starting another nation- didn’t you see what happened to the first two you made? You’re going to get yourself killed, Wil!”

“Well, I’ve already seen what’s on the other side of death, and it’s really not that bad-“

“You’re my son!” The words are angrier than Phil would’ve liked, and he knows that he looks ridiculous and overbearing, criticizing the actions of his fully grown son, but all he can see is Wilbur’s face, slack with pain and grief, stained with ash and soot as his eyes flutter to half-mast in the midst of the rubble of a country he loved and destroyed and destroyed him in turn. “I can’t lose you again, Wil!”

Wilbur doesn’t quite storm out, but it’s a near thing, leaving with a clipped goodbye and leaving Phil seething on his doorstep. He spends the rest of the night pacing around the house in a sort of mad frenzy, wings stretching and folding over and over. Not for the first time, he longs for the sky, to feel the air through his wings and let the world fall into pinpricks below him; it’s this that leads him to the roof of his house, staring stubbornly at the clouds as the sun sinks down to the horizon.

“Hey.”

Phil startles; there, down below him, is Dream. He rocks back on his heels, seeming awkward, before clambering up the wall (Phil rolls his eyes at the ease with which he scales it, the feeling in his chest almost fond) and settling himself on the shingles at Phil’s side.

“Hey, mate,” Phil shakes his head. The fondness leaves, and the irritation that had risen at Wilbur’s words, earlier, comes back full-force. “Sorry- Wil came to visit, we talked. I just needed some time to think.”

Dream hums in acknowledgement, and they fall into a comfortable silence, watching as the sun dipping down past the mountains in the distance.

“You know,” Dream starts, sudden, “I told him the same thing.” He looks up at Phil, eyes faraway with old memories. “Wilbur, I mean. When he made L’manburg- I told him he was being reckless.” He shrugs. “I guess he never listened.”

Phil pauses, Techno’s words ringing in his ears. He reminds me of you, sometimes.

Dream looks surprisingly normal up close - face no longer reddened with fever or pale from blood loss, even the scars fail to really take from the boyishness of his face. He bites his lips, eyes falling away at Phil’s scrutiny, golden blond hair flopping over his forehead, newly trimmed to be something a little closer to his old length, at least in the front, the back pulled into a small ponytail. He’s young, and shockingly awkward, teeth worrying his lip, hands fiddling with each other, shifting his weight from one foot to the other several times a minute. He looks like a kid.

“He never does,” Phil lets himself smile, watches as Dream smiles back, almost like they’re sharing a joke. He wonders how well he really knows the man behind the mask. “Want to come in for some tea?”

Dream smiles wider, and something old and worn in Phils chest, knocked loose ever since he felt his son fall limp in his arms with his own sword shoved between his ribs, falls back into place.

“That would be great,” Dream replies, the words almost hopeful, and they go inside.