#philza drabbles

[ks1971]

Minecraft server au where Phil has like this gorgeously built house and every morning, without a fail, he likes to sit on the front porch with a nice cup of tea. He gets 500 ticks or so of pure relaxation, aided by the beautiful sight of the flower fields, and the mountain biome peeking from the horizon. That is, until the day that He appeared. His neighbor. Or the bane of his life, depending on who you ask.

He heard that a piglin player has bought a plot of land close to him.

Nobody told him it was the flower fields.

The flower fields that were inevitably desecrated by a six by six cobblestone hut right in the middle of the landscape.

The trend continues, until Phil decides that enough is enough when he sees techno putting dirt on the roof. He ends up asking the piglin if he can remodel the place, and surely Techno can see how beautiful his traditionally japanese styled house looks- Techno said no. Phil nods, his hands curled in fists. Technically he could, y'know... This isn't hardcore after all- no. Bad Phil. The guy can do what he wants. Maybe he had a bad day, he'll just come by to ask again.

[lennjamin-o7]

"I-I really don't get the plan here, mate."

"Bruuuuuh. It's simple, Phil! You said I can't go undercover because people look at me and think 'Oh man, that guy looks like he could rip out my liver with his teeth'-"

"I just said you are unapproachable-"

"-so, of course, the logical thing to do is make myself look harmless, right? Make it so people don't vibe check me and get 'Dangerous' as a result-"

"And how exactly does dying your hair bubblegum pink make people look at the six-foot tall buff former soldier and think 'non-threatening'?"

"Pink is a calming color, Phil."

"You're a fucking dumbass."

[brokenstar-s]

Something about qphil and qtubbo-

Tubbo who asked Phil first what their plan was, and they talked about how to make it fair and did so. Who both admitted they wanted the same thing. Who Tubbo had already shown his skill before but when faced with the man he thought of like a father suddenly shook. Where his confidence was drained and he ran and missed his hits because how could he be fighting for the end of it all against Phil?

and Tubbo died to Phil's blame in the name of a victory they didn't know of the reward.

And then at the end of it all, when Phil realized he couldn't save any of his children, when Tubbo made himself be with the daughter when he talked to his son, Phil decided to same the only child of his he could. Tubbo.

Tubbo who clung to Phil who could kill him a second time, but didn't. Phil who had his wings breaking at the moment, tore and ruined, decided to fly with extra bagged.

Phil who held Tubbo close and made sure he wouldn't fall or get hurt, and in the embrace they held as they flew to safety was the words 'I'm sorry'

Who Tubbo stayed near as they landed and grasp his hand as he stuck close saying silently, 'all is forgiven'.

[radiocrypt-id]

Daughter of Mine Phil and Tallulah really kill me, ya know? Chayane too, of course, but there's something about an abandoned little girl desperately clinging to the coat tails of the only adult in her life that's ever stuck around, terrified they'll leave her too. desperate to be loved, terrified to love someone else after the continuous heart break of an absent father every morning. And there's something about Phil, so fatherly to everyone around him, so often forced into the role of a parent, so kindly, warmly, lovingly accepting such a task in the case of Tallulah specifically. Knowing from the beginning she'd likely never see her real father again and still cautiously allowing her the space to make room in her breaking heart to have him be her father too, never assuming he has such a place with her but always feeling she's his daughter, regardless of circumstance. He said this so readily, with so much gentle joy and love in his voice and face. Tallulah has always been his daughter, he was just waiting for her to be ready for that dynamic with him.

And now he lovingly calls her mi nina. I'm crying don't touch me. now that the eggs are back and safe I can post this without feeling too guilty lol enjoy the angst knowing everything worked out in the end

When Phil woke up to the empty beds, his stomach dropped. The room in disarray, their favourite items, their identifiers, left behind. He called for them, searching the wall, dread growing with the answering silence. Not again, not again, they didn't get taken again, they couldn't have. Everything was secure, no one could get in that he didn't trust enough to care for his kids, and he knows his friends wouldn't play such a cruel joke. Where are they? Where is his son and daughter?

When Phil returned to the empty home, heart in his throat and his stomach somewhere outside in the dirt, hundreds of feet below at the foot of the wall, he sat in the silence. The layers of stone and moss ate whatever sounds he made, at the foot of his childrens beds, the familiar exhaustion of loss heavy on his shoulders. He would find them, somehow. He wouldn't lose them. he'd look until the air in his lungs had left and his body decayed, even if it is futile and hopeless with no signs of what happened and no clues on who has them, he'd search the world if needed. He pulls Chayanes duck and Tallulahs hat close, holding them close to his chest with his eyes shut tight against the tears falling down his cheeks. In a whisper, a prayer and promise, he tells the silence he'll find them; if it's the last thing he does, he'll bring them home.

[viktorscane]

🐦‍⬛👑

‘in the bedroom after the war’

when technoblade left the dream smp. phil adjusted relatively quickly. after all, the two had spent plenty of time away from each other in the past and he knew it was only a matter of time before they would see each other again.

one thing he would never quite get used to though, was the quiet. while techno was never a super talkative person the creaking of the wooden floorboards, the mumbling to himself, the front door opening and closing often as the piglin hybrid went about his daily chores, the dogs barking, the scribbling of quill on parchment. all sounds that were inherently technoblade were suddenly gone.

the first few days were hard, a grief settling over phil’s heart as he tried to navigate the silence and understand why his closest companion left so suddenly. on the fourth day, though he awoke to the usual caw-ing of his crows outside. he rolls over, the sun streaming in through the window bathing the room in a beautiful pink and golden glow. it was peaceful and quiet as his new life typically was.

he stirs more and finally pushes himself up out of the large, empty bed. pushing himself down the stairs to the still smoldering fire. he throws a few logs on top, adding water into the kettle perched atop it. reminding himself to add only enough for himself, as he had been making enough to serve two the last few days.

he rubs his eyes sleepily, giving a crow a light scratch on the head as he passes it. it caws shrilly, staring pointedly at the seed bag in the corner of the kitchen. “i know, i know.” he mutters. “let me make my tea first, mate.”

he opens a cabinet to grab a mug from the shelf, he notices that most of the clean mugs were on the highest shelf. most of them being varying shades of red and pink, belonging to techno. phil sighs and pushes himself onto his tiptoes and reaching almost blindly to get one. the shelf buckles a bit under the weight and the closest mug tips and down it goes.

it hits the ground with a loud thud, phil swears and rubs his temple with annoyance.

dropza LOL dropza dropza OLD AGE LOL fallza E

he pauses, quiet voices echoing around his brain. he takes a step backwards looking around the room to find the source of the voices. only being met with more quiet chants of ‘PHIL!’

it took a moment for his tired mind to process that these voices existed in his mind, but were very much real. he wracks his brain for some sort of explanation, he hadn’t hit his head recently right? was the events of the last few weeks finally taking a toll on his psyche?

he listens to the chants for a second longer, the mumbling blended together mostly but some things stuck out to him. one phrase in particular was very very familiar.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

it was a phrase that techno mumbled to himself often and had mentioned that the voices in his head spoke that phrase like a mantra. from his understanding, when technoblade had ascended to godhood the voices were a side effect. they mostly rambled about whatever he was doing in the moment but they also helped him during combat to give him information about the other party. they were bloodthirsty and violent but techno always regarded them as a part of him.

phil bends down and picks up the mug, it remarkably hadn’t broken in the fall. he turns it over in his hands brushing the dust off of it. he runs his fingers over the crown that had been carved into the front of the clay. he remembered techno sitting down with his dagger on the steps of their home and working at the clay. it was clumsily made and the crown was crooked, lines shaky and uneven. but it was so inherently techno that it made phil smile fondly.

the voices rumbled on about what felt like nonesense in the background as phil sets it down on the counter, bracing himself against it.

he could only take this as a sign from his long time companion, friend and ally. sending his greatest assets to phil as if to tell him that he’s okay. his heart ached but he persevered, tipping the boiling water into the mug and adding the tea bag in. he pushes open the curtains, staring out the window towards the brilliant pink and gold that was slowly fading away from the sky as the daylight began to filter in.

“hello there, old friend.” he says softly.

[flame-cat]

Part 1 (you are here) / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7

Read on Ao3

The thing is, Phil is actually doing alright.

He knows he's trapped, knows most likely no one will come looking for him for a few days at least. He knows he was tricked with the stupidest setup that he should've seen from a mile away (did see and didn't care about the consequences, is never above throwing himself on a sword if it's to save his kids). He knows he has limited food aside from golden apples, that this tiny home was built specifically to taunt him in every way, that he won't be able to tell how much time has passed or if his kids are okay or if anyone is even looking for him.

He knows. And that's exactly why he's doing alright.

Because the thing about torture is that it's scientifically proven not to work. That once you know someone's goal is to break you, it becomes that much easier to resist breaking. He knows what the federation wants- they want him to break down, crying and begging to see his kids again, just so that they can make an offer he won't refuse, so they can use him.

Phil is not only smarter than that, but bigger than that.

He's spent eons with no one but his crows for company. Eons spent idling, no goal in mind except what he gives himself, finding new ways to keep himself occupied. This? This is nothing. Phil is strong. Phil is resilient. Phil is the Angel of Death.

Phil is laying curled up on his side in front of the door.

Moving would take energy. Energy he needs to conserve and use for planning, for keeping sane, for not breaking. He can do all of that from the ground, in the spot the walls are thinnest and he has the greatest chance of hearing any changes from the other side.

(He can't hear anything. Hasn't for the past however long. It's probably been less than an hour, right? He can't have been laying here for hours.)

Phil is listening. He's on his side, breathing evenly, not moving a muscle, because he's listening.

(Just the birds and his own breaths. They still come a little wet, a little hoarse.)

He knows what he's listening for. Fit's smooth baritone, Toby's post-pubescent rasp, Missa's soft worry, even Forever's booming shouts. He can picture them clearly in his mind- picture isn't the right word, but the point is he can practically hear them, sharp and real, right there on the other side of this wall.

They aren't. He knows that. But they will be.

(No one was before, those eons alone. He didn't listen then. He could fly then. Could create. Could explore. Had only himself to worry about besides.)

Phil has his eyes closed. He doesn't sleep, doesn't dream. He's listening.

He's listening.

He-

"Phil? Phil, are you in there? Phil!"

He can hear them!

Of course. Of course, all he had to do was wait, he can open his mouth and shout to them now, he...

Phil is...

Phil is not opening his mouth.

Why? Why isn't he shouting? Why isn't he moving?

"Phil...?"

He's here. He's right here. Please, come on, he's right here!

"Did you find something?"

"No... I don't think so, sorry."

HE'S RIGHT HERE! PHIL IS HERE, PLEASE, LISTEN! HE'S HERE!

"Let's move on."

Phil is jolting awake.

His heart is beating. His lungs are heaving. His eyes are open. His mouth too.

Ah. Better stop screaming.

Better breathe slower too.

He is. Phil is breathing slower. He is. He is.

(Phil is sobbing.)

Phil is doing alright.

(Phil is being stupid. Has been nothing but stupid for the past two weeks- the first when he left, the second when he didn't find his children faster.)

He's alright.

(He's useless.)

He's alright.

(He's weak.)

He's alright.

(He's breaking.)

[youphoriaot7]

The crows are a well-known attachment to Quesadilla Island. Nobody's exactly sure quite how they got there, nor why there's so many of them—they're just there. They don't seem to intrude, and so everyone simply goes about their day. It's normal, now; just like the bear that checks in on them, just like the eggs they care for.

They seem to especially gravitate towards Philza. He can always be found with at least ten or twelve scattered around—his shoulders, his hat, his cape... They tend to gather most frequently near the Wall, perching on every visible surface. The top edge of the Wall often looks black, every inch of it covered with feathers.

So when the crows are gone, it's noticeable.

Philza's absence hasn't gone unnoticed, of course. Chayanne and Tallulah have mentioned his departure, heading out to explore the outer edges of the island, looking for...something, he didn't mention what. The fact that they've been hanging out with Tubbo and Niki also proves it.

But the crows were the most noticeable.

Slowly, they start to gather...elsewhere. A small group starts a nest in the tower of Cellbit's castle, and he stares at it in confusion for a few days before he shrugs it off. Let them stay; they're not bothering anyone. Another flock takes shelter under the overhang near Forever's presidential office. He grins every time they fly up to the windows. A couple of stragglers find comfort in the quiet of Chume Labs, flying along after the current lone inhabitant and cawing in concern. Pac shrugs them off, trying not to read too much paranoia into it.

Tubbo finds himself swamped with the birds; Niki, too. They guess they're following the children, which seems to be correct, at first glance. (But it's more than that.) Some flock to Bad, others to Foolish—the two groups cawing and chirping whenever their chosen followees' get into spats. Roier catches sight of a couple hanging around Rivers' base, and smiles brightly when he gets back home to see some of his own nearby.

Mouse waves them off for a few hours before sighing—it's certainly not the worst thing in the world, even if they keep accidentally landing where she's trying to work. Jaiden lets them land on her wings, grinning and talking to them as she moves around her day. Etoiles and Antoine aren't quite sure how to react at first—but it's no weirder than anything else they've been dealing with recently, so it's probably not a worry, and therefore, not a concern.

When the children vanish, the crows get anxious. They spend more time away from their makeshift roosts: cawing at the Wall as they fly by, pecking their way across the roads of the main square, shrieking at every passerby in the Favela. They're looking for something—information, the kids; it's not clear what. But either way, their presence is heard.

One day, when the Wall feels taller than ever before, there's a loud rustling of feathers reaching every corner of the main square. The birds' noises are deafening; it's barely possible to hold a conversation unless you move further away. And when the island's inhabitants look up, they see them there—the crows, returning to their original home. There's a figure, as well, standing amongst the potato fields, staring down at the world below him.

Philza Minecraft has returned, and the crows are at home.

[blocksgame]

QSMP drabble, Phil & Etoiles & the code shield

/rp

“Phiiiil. You are ignoring me. Stop making blocks. Hit me with sticks instead.”

“Hey!” Phil barks. “Stop interrupting me. You don’t look away while you’re using a stonecutter. They’ll chop your fingers clean off.”

Etoiles stops his parkouring, intrigued. “Really?”

“Yes. The life of a builder is very exciting.”

Etoiles laughs. “I thought what the shield does is bad enough.”

He realizes his mistake a minute too slowly, as Phil’s expression changes. He considers lying some more, doubling down, but then he remembers that Phil is smart, maybe he’ll know something.

 Hell, Phil could even end up bearing the shield himself at some point - if Etoiles dies, it’s who he’d think to bequeath it to. Phil should know the details.

“...Etoiles, what does the shield do?” Phil asks, after a moment, like he's caught him out, which to be fair, he has. His eyes are still locked on his handiwork. (God, Etoiles loves this guy.)

“It's not that bad. It makes my arm go numb. And code comes out.”

“...It makes your arm go numb and corrupt and you didn’t think you should stop using it.”

“No, no no no, listen, let me show you.” Phil stops working and stands up. Etoiles conjures the shield onto his arm. The static sets in instantly, like he's elbow-deep in another dimension, but it's not even strange anymore. “Hit me.”

Phil rolls his eyes. But he pulls out his best axe and takes a colossal swing at Etoiles, fuck yeah, that’s what Etoiles likes about him, that when Etoiles says to hit him, he’s not fucking around with a stick or an iron sword or whatever, he knows he can take it. That makes his point better too. Etoiles catches it on the shield, easily. 

“Okay, look,” he says. “I haven’t moved.”

“Right, no Knockback - ”

“No, see, I haven’t moved at all. Look, I’m not even braced. I’m like - I’m like if a guy was just standing here!”

Phil snorts.

Etoiles goes on: “Normally if you swing a sword, I should stagger. Even if I’m braced, I’m still putting the force into the ground, so I should move a little. But when you hit this shield, I think it takes all that energy inbound and just deletes it. It’s gone. I think that’s the magic of the shield, that nothing can happen around it.”

Phil is looking at the edge of his sword. It’s an interesting question, actually, whether he’s lost durability or not, Etoiles hasn’t thought to grab someone and check  -

“Okay, so how does that lead to your arm going numb? ...Oh, like you’re saying if it’s, fucking - ” Phil starts putting the pieces together.

“Yeah, it’s deleting the sensation.” Etoiles puts the shield away. “Yeah, look.” Sure enough, neon strings of raw data creep up and down his arm.

“WHOA!” Phil yells. Then he leans in, horrified and curious. “Jesus christ.” After watching the data pulse, he puts his fingers to the bridge of his nose and looks very dire indeed. “...And how sure are you that it isn’t deleting your data?”

“It goes away after a few minutes. And my arm is fine and nothing is missing.”

Phil relaxes a little. “Then where’s that data from?”

“I have two ideas. One is that it’s data from the hits, that the information the shield deletes comes back out like this. Or two, it’s data from inside the shield. The shield is broken and was put back together, you can see, so either way, I think maybe it wasn’t supposed to do this. It’s probably supposed to just cancel out from one side. But really, it’s no problem. I go back to normal afterwards. It’s like, uh, you know when you fall asleep on your arm?”

“...Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“It comes back.”

“Yeah. Sure. Okay. Does it do the, uh, the fucking, pins and needles thing too?”

“Yeah. Exactly. It’s exactly like that.”

Phil takes Etoiles’ hand to examine it. Etoiles can't look away. It’s still all static and Etoiles is almost glad except for how he wonders what it would feel like to die and he thinks that the more he felt this, Phil holding his hand tenderly and curiously, the closer he'd feel to death. He watches Phil bend his fingers, look between them to see where the code is. Numb, it's dreamlike and disconcerting.

“It was like this from the first time you used it?”

“No, it’s, uh, I didn’t notice at first.”

“So, it’s gotten worse over time.”

Son of a bitch. “Well Phil, when you say it like that, it makes me look bad.” Etoiles laughs.

“It’s not you.” Phil squeezes his fingers and Etoiles could swear he does feel that, the pressure, nerves deep down or something. It’s electric. “Look, I,  uh - I get why you’re not stopping. The code wants to kill kids. And because of the shield and this busted-ass sword it got its hands on, now it’s just you. If I had that thing, no way in hell I’d be letting go of it. I mean, fuck.”

“Ohhh,” Etoiles sighs, “Thank god. I think if Baghera or Antoine see this, they’ll be like: you idiot, stop using it, it’s your own fault if you die.”

Phil smiles, thin, wry. “What do you tell them?”

“I don’t. I wait for it to go away before they see.”

“Shit, man.”

“Yeaaaaah.”

“...Well, that’s enough fuckin’ feelings. You want a stick fight? Maybe I'll get a win while you're distracted.”

“Yeaaaaah!”

[antique-ann]

Short drabble that got stuck in my head lmao

He runs as fast as he could. Unbalanced on clipped wings. No backpack to replace the weight. Phil stumbles his way away from the Cornucopia. Struggling with uncontrolled breaths as two of his most trusted brother-in-arms chase after him. The anarchist blocks his way, making him stumble back into the warrior behind him. His chest feels tight, he can't breathe. Why is that? Ah. I see. Phil crumbles on the sword pierced through his chest. Holding their gazes as he fell, unspoken words parted at his last breath. I trusted you. ------------------------------------------------ Etoiles and Fit watch with choked breaths as the light from Phil's eyes leave him. "Fuck." Fit cusses. "What have we done?" Etoiles whispered in horror, gripping onto the sword dripping with bloodied guilt.

brain-rotting so much on purgatory i'm losing my god damn mind dkjfalkdsfjkldsjldjsfsa elp

[foxglovewritesstuff]

the new priority // bedrock bros drabble

Summary:

Phil turned his eyes towards Tommy. “It’s pretty unlike Techno here to run away from a fight,” he explained.

“I did not run away!” the piglin man- Techno, protested. “I just had… new priorities.”

or

Tommy is in danger and scared, and he's rescued by a stranger who brings him safety in that moment and for the rest of his life.

Words: 1k

Warnings: None

The fire was warm. Tommy could feel the heat from the torch next to his head as he pressed himself against the stone wall. The guards were coming from him. All he wanted was walls around him for a night, but when he thought that, he didn’t mean the walls of the castle dungeon.

Voices echoed down the hallway. Really, if they were quieter, maybe they would’ve had an easier time catching him. Their tendency to be heard didn’t make Tommy feel any less terrified. This is who he was, and he hated it. A bird jumping at the slightest noise, ready to take off. Quick and small, always fearful of not being quick enough.

Tommy bolted. He was good at that. Running. He slipped through the doors out the side of the castle and into fresh air. The forest. It was less than a hundred metres away, he could make it. The noises of the guards chasing him grew louder, and he sprinted into the forest.

There, he could lose them. There, he could lose the hurt that chased him like the guards. There, he could lose himself.

Twigs scratched at his legs as he ran. Were they behind him? How close? He just had to run. Run, run, run, and maybe he would be far enough. He couldn’t be caught. He couldn’t.

His lungs were burning, were the footsteps he heard his own or the guards’? his legs were starting to tire, he wanted to lie down and be taken, he wanted to run far far away- he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and then it was too late. A strong arm grabbed him and yanked him behind a thick tree. Tommy almost screamed, but a hand covered his mouth. No no no no-

“Shut up kid, you’re gonna get us caught,” a gruff voice muttered. Tommy stopped struggling.

The guards grew louder, and Tommy heard them nearby. So close. He was so close to getting caught. Was he already caught?

“Where did he go?” a harsh voice said.

“Listen, kid,” the man holding Tommy breathed, “I can get us out of here, but you’re gonna have to trust me.”

Tommy nodded.

The man let go of him and stood up silently, which was impressive for his massive frame. Tommy got a good look at him for the first time, and his jaw dropped. A piglin hybrid?! This was the coolest. Well, it would be even cooler if there weren’t guards mere metres away. Long pink hair in a braid, scarlet irises, a thick red cloak. Why was he wearing a cloak that thick in this weather?

The piglin man picked up a stone and threw it impossibly far with enough force to make Tommy flinch. The guards fell for it.

“I can’t believe that worked,” the man shook his head.

“Um, who are you?” Tommy asked. “And are you a piglin hybrid? Your hair is so cool and- whoaaa…” he trailed off as he saw the axe on the man’s back.

“Okay, where are your parents?” the man asked, and Tommy scowled.

“I don’t have parents, bitch, hell if I know.”

The man opened his mouth slightly, then closed it. He nodded. “Do you need somewhere safe to stay?” he asked.

“I- yeah. Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Come with me.”

Tommy followed the piglin man for several minutes until they came to a horse tied to a tree.

“Uh, this is Steve. Steve this is…”

“Tommy,” the boy supplied.

“Tommy.” The man nodded. “Hop on.”

Tommy stared at the tall horse in front of him before lifting his leg as high as possible and shoving it into a stirrup. Wordlessly, the man grabbed him and lifted him fully on, before climbing on. He took the reins, sitting behind Tommy.

As soon as Steve started moving, Tommy let out a gasp. “Holy shit! He’s so fast! Even with both of us on!”

He felt the man nod. “Yup. I bred him to basically just be the best horse ever.”

It wasn’t exactly comfortable, Tommy was sitting forwards on the saddle, bouncing with every stride, but he could feel the warmth of the piglin man behind him, and despite speeding over the ground with a stranger, he felt almost safe.

After a long while, the horse began to slow. Snow fell gently around them, and the ground was covered in a healthy layer of it.

“Whoa! The snow! This is so cool.”

“C’mon, we need to get you to Phil. He knows how to deal with children.”

“Hey, I am not a child!” Tommy told him indignantly. He felt better, as if he had left his fears behind as Steve carried him away from them. He realized he probably should’ve been scared of the piglin man in front of him, with the massive axe strapped to his back.

The man started walking, and Tommy hurried to catch up. “Who’s Phil?”

“You’ll see.”

The man walked right up to a house- two houses attached? Tommy couldn’t tell- and opened the door.

“Hey, mate!” someone called from inside. The man waited as footsteps drew nearer.

Tommy’s jaw dropped for the second time that day. The man that appeared in the doorway had blond hair, a green and white striped bucket hat, and crow wings.

“Oh! You brought someone back!” Tommy frowned. This guy didn’t sound angry, surprisingly. “Well? Come inside!”

Tommy followed the piglin man in, and relaxed as a blast of warm air hit him. They entered a room with a fireplace and a few armchairs scattered around.

“Who’s the guest?” Phil asked, once they were seated.

Tommy looked at the piglin man. He glanced at Tommy and said, “This is Tommy. I found him getting chased down by guards at the castle. He doesn’t have… well anyone, really,” he finished, looking at Tommy again.

“No blood… you didn’t fight the guards?” Phil raised an eyebrow.

“No, we took Steve back.”

Phil turned his eyes towards Tommy. “It’s pretty unlike Techno here to run away from a fight,” he explained.

“I did not run away!” the piglin man- Techno, protested. “I just had… new priorities.”

“Thanks for saving me, big man, and bringing me here. I can leave if you’d like-”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, you have potential, and Techno needs a new friend anyways.”

“I- really? You’ll help me?”

Techno nodded. “He asks a lot of questions, be prepared,” he told Phil.

Phil smiled. “Rest up, Tommy. Want me to show you our potions tomorrow?”

“Yes! I wanna see that axe, Techno- can I call you that?”

“Go rest, kid,” he said, but voice was fond.

Tommy grinned and pulled his chair closer to the flames in the fireplace. He was safe. He felt warm, his heart was warm. The fire was warm.

[bunfloras]

trying to think of an epic and cool extra whumpy prompt but all my brain got is. hit phil with a rock. one bird one stone . bonk him in the head. get that loser. Concussed. rock time baby

It’s raining.

No—maybe it’s not. He touches his fingers to his face, and they come away sticky. Rain isn’t sticky. But it’s much too dark to even see his hands, let alone what’s on them. He opts for blissful ignorance instead, and closes his eyes again.

A shame his head hurts so bad. This is a nice spot for a nap.

Drip, drip, drip.

It slides from his hair and down his cheek. He blinks sluggishly—not that there’s much difference between the world behind his eyelids and the world outside. Some of it gets in his mouth. He spits it out, repulsed by the acrid, coppery tang.

The ground is awfully hard beneath him. Not much like grass at all, really. The air smells stale, and wet—like the smell after it rains.

Petrified?

…Petrichor.

He groans, rolling onto his side. The pounding in his head is getting louder, sharper. It’s like footsteps, thumping painfully against the inside of his skull, getting heavier and faster and—

“Phil?”

Hands lift him upward, bracing him against a warm chest. There’s light, now, flickering and orange and much too bright. He glares banefully at it for a moment, then back up at a pink snout and a furrowed brow.

“Go ‘way. ‘M sleepin’.”

Technoblade snorts. Phil swats weakly at him when he’s jostled again, a hoof prodding at his head. It makes fresh pain lance down his skull, and he recoils with a hiss and a twitch of dusty wings.

“Tha’ hurts, y’ fuckin’ asshole…”

“Bruh.” Technoblade hefts him easily up, like little more than a ragdoll in his arms. Phil wishes he’d just fuck off and let him sleep. “Stay awake, old man. You can get yer’ beauty sleep after you aren’t concussed.”

Right. Concussed. That would explain it.

“How did you ever survive on yer’ own for so long? It’s like you have a danger magnet, or somethin’.” Technoblade’s voice is gruff, but even concussed, Phil can sense the undercurrent of worry.

“Five years…” His eyes flutter shut as the spinning and swaying of the world becomes nauseating, but the squeeze of a hand brings him back.

“Yeah, yeah. Five years in a hardcore world, I know. Every player knows.” Technoblade huffs, his breath stirring the hair on Phil’s forehead. “Five years, ‘n a pebble’s what brings you down. Not a good look, man.”

Why did Phil ever agree to take over the world with him again? He opens one eye to glare at his partner.

Technoblade just hums. The hand squeeze’s Phil’s arm again.

“…I’m glad you’re alright, Phil. Don’t go scarin’ me like that again, though.”

“No promises.”

[miscellaneoussmp]

I'm normal about Team Bolas Rojas and family dynamics, I promise! Anyway, here's a look into Team Bolas Rojas family dinner (cw/tw: implied/mentioned violence/blood/death, religion mentions throughout):

Time has run out for today, yet those in red remained wide awake. Nothing else had to be done. It was time for dinner in the hyenas den. Gas masks discarded for the meal; and later sleep. All seven members of the team (pack bond, clan of hyenas) sit on the cave floor. They sit around a bountiful meal of pork chops, toast, glow berries, potatoes, and carrots. In another world, this would be an amazing meal, yet this is the seventh circle (purgatory, really). Their meal sits on leftover wood in order to keep the food somewhat clean.

A hand darted out for the food. It doesn't matter whose it was really, as it darted back quickly after a soft yet scolding hiss from Philza. He sat at the head of their on the floor dining table. He presses his hands together for prayer. Cellbit looks through his dirty hair, and he laughs. "Come on, guys. Listen to dad." He cups his hands together. The rest of the team (pack bond, hyena clan) bursts into manic laughter. When Charlie's hand presses together, there's an electric hum. Baghera, Jaiden, and Foolish all follow suit. Even Carre holds his hands together for whatever prayer will follow. He may be their quietest member with a tendency to disappear early, but even he isn't exempt from the hysteria. He's their good luck charm, paraphrased from Charlie Slimecicle. Carre's hands are stained with blood, too. He was the one to chant for a lone wolf's death as Cellbit and Jaiden ran him down in the desert. The glint in Carre's eyes matched the rest of the team's (pack bond's, hyena clan's) eyes.

The prayer started as a well put together chant led by Philza. It quickly devolved, as the tendency of the pack bond, the hyena clan (the team). It was pure nonsense and more manic laughter. "Amen!" Seven voices chorused in semi-unison. An impressive feat. Food was grabbed from the center almost immediately after. Family dinner, what an amazing way to end another day in the seventh circle of hell (purgatory).

[plant-acts]

I'm watching Phils stream and he's test driving Rainbow Road and now I am just thinking of a racer AU.

Think of Phil in his youth being a world renowned racer. He won trophies after trophies, until had to take a break because he had a kid. Now many years later his kid wants to get into racing.

He knows his son has the making to be a prodigy, so he is determined to teach him everything he has learned, all the tips and tricks that had led him to victory. He's so excited to share his passion with someone who will love it as much as he does, but he is also so scared of him getting hurt.

While this is all going on Phil decides to get back into competitive racing. Now he has to keep up with the changing rules, the new upcoming hot shot racers, and his son who won't stop begging him to drive his good car.

[caged-crows]

c!techno is probably living in cave somewhere. probably a lush cave or something. there are some axolotls in the river, he feeds them raw cod he gets from the surface sometimes.

he misses phil and niki a lot. sometimes he takes out his emerald, and and just stares at it, or just hold it close to his chest.

he can't go back, though. not yet. not until he finds a way to get ranboo back. if techno gonna come back, it wont be alone. he refuses to let it happen, stubborn as he is.

[angelsandarsenic]

ya'll wanna read the Deathduo drabble I wrote for a school assignment?

Of course you do, here you go.

        "Do I believe in vampires," Phil repeated skeptically. Charlie had a strangely nervous look to him, and Phil raised an eyebrow. If anyone would believe this shit, it would be Charlie, but it was also equally likely that he was pulling Phil's leg. 

        "You would have proof, wouldn't you?" He put on a smile that made Phil sure he was joking. "Come on, you ever see any empty refrigerator cases when you knew for sure there was someone in there before?"

        Phil frowned. He had been just about to open one of said compartments to inspect a new body and frankly wasn't in the mood for this. The report he had on this John Doe was severely lacking. That wasn't abnormal considering that as the coroner, he was always one of the first people to use it; not even abnormal in the fact that it didn't list a name, but there were usually some details by the time it got to him. Primary concerns, state of the body when found, state of the scene and whether or not it was suspected of foul play--all of it was listed as "inconclusive". Meaning Phil had a lot of work to do. Quesadilla Island was small, so his duties as a coroner were combined with being the medical examiner, and frequently had to do a lot of his own investigating. That didn't yet include his...unofficial duties. 

        Did Phil believe in vampires?

        "No Charlie, that's never happened. And no, I don't believe in vampires." There were many beings beyond mortal nature, beings in fact, that he often dealt with, but vampires were not one of them. "Why, do you think you've met one?" It would probably eat him if he had, but then again, Charlie, as unassuming as he was, was one of the only people who knew of Phil's supernatural expertise for a reason. 

        He opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it, glancing around. "No. No, probably not. Of course not, I was just joking. You're no fun Phil." He rolled his eyes, grinning again like usual and slapped the blonde man on the back. The change in demeanor was obvious, sure, but since his daughter died Charlie had had moments like that often. This wasn't his first rambling about the undead either, though it was mostly wistful dreaming about ghosts and angels (dreadful creatures, though Charlie didn't know that). He had never asked questions like this before. 

        "Yep, I'm sure." It had become his default response to that statement after so often of hearing it from his kids. "Are you here to help me out, or just interrogate me about the supernatural?"

        "No, no, I uh, I actually have to be getting home. And groceries, I really need groceries. I'll see you later Phil!" He seemed slightly preoccupied, even as he cheerfully waved the man goodbye, but Philza had work to do, so he got on with it. 

        A gentle puff of cold air brushed against his face when he opened the airtight metal door. The cabinets for unidentified bodies and/or potential victims of foul play were kept at about negative ten degrees, to almost completely stop the process of decomposition. Without his gloves, the chilled metal would have stuck to his skin when he pulled out the gurney tray and transferred the body to the examination table. Typically, he preferred to start his examinations as soon as possible when receiving a new body, but this one had been brought in at the end of an already late shift and Phil was desperately wanting his bed and some dinner, so he had stuck it in the freezer for the night. 

        The man was long- tall, his feet and head both nearly hung off the edge of the table. His hair was dark and looked silky smooth, like the feathers of a raven, though Phil wasn't in the habit of petting the hair of corpses. His eyes were closed. That wasn't entirely unusual, except in this case the man seemed peaceful and completely relaxed, as though he had simply fallen asleep or been knocked unconscious. He was not. Even before the freezer, his skin had been completely cold and was extremely pale, no lingering blush on his cheeks. He had been dead for at least the whole day. There was not a single mark on him. No bruises, scratches or blemishes, no punctures or stab wounds or ligature marks. The coroner couldn't accurately pinpoint the man's age, however, he was clearly too young to have died from seniority or heart problems. 

        It was going to be a real hassle if Phil had to ask around about this man. His possessions, which still sat in a plastic bag on Phil's desk, hadn't included a wallet, driver's license, or anything of such consequence. Not even a phone. Quesadilla Island wasn't a large area--hence the name. A small community in the middle of nowhere, only one road leading in and out and no other towns for miles, discounting the ghost town locally known as Purgatory for lack of any better knowledge. Phil had no idea where this man came from, how long he had been here or where he was going. If he had died from some rapidly onset disease, it might take ages to find out otherwise. 

        Phil picked a small light out of his coat pocket and leaned over. With one latex gloved hand, he delicately peeled open the man's left eye. The ceiling lights flickered. Phil froze, straightening. 

        The lights glowed steadily, as if it never happened. Phil looked around, but finding nothing save for the sterile, empty white room he was used too, the same smell of sterile chemicals and glistening stainless steel, he turned back to the corpse. Phil leaned over the body once more, delicately opening the eye and turning on his hand held light. 

        He almost startled when the pupil looking back at him was pure, citrine yellow. Phil's own eyes widened. Contacts. Surely they were contacts. As annoying and admittedly gross as it was to have to pick contacts out of a dead person's eyes, Phil would much prefer that to the possibility of...

        He checked the other eye, only managing to confirm that it was indeed also yellow, and in fact, not a contact lens, when the lights flickered and buzzed, like they were about to go out. 

        Philza shot up and immediately his left hand was in his pocket, clutching the protection charm he always kept with him at the morgue. The lights continued to short out, on and off, on and off. This time, Phil's stare was glued to the man--the creature--on the table. In his experience, anything that looked human was malicious. Anything that looked so convincingly human could only be very, very dangerous. He backed out of arm's reach.

        Somehow, whenever the lights went dark, the figure still remained perfectly clear. Something flickered stark white over its face, and something else was burning darker and darker into its chest, right along its collarbones. It glowed faintly at the edges, like a brand being burned into the creature. Wings? Over its face, Phil was starting to make out the silhouette of a skull, as if in grease paint.

        Phil's heart thumped loudly in his ears. That...that was not good. He didn't know what it was, but it wasn't good. 

        At some point, the intensity of the lights had become glaring when they were on. The electrical buzzing crescendoed, until Phil had to close his eyes and cover his ears, for fear of what all this flashing might do to his sight. Even under his hands, he heard the loud shatter and pop of the lights blowing out above him, felt a few shards of glass plunk against his lab coat before hitting the floor. Everything went silent. 

        Phil didn't dare move. If there was any chance of catching that thing's attention, he didn't want it. However, slowly, he opened his eyes. 

        In the pitch dark, the white skull defined the creature's face. There was no more burning edge to the wing brand across his chest, but faintly, as if through translucent skin, Phil could see the dim ivory of bones. The creature's whole skeleton. 

        The thing on the exam table still looked very much human, insides included, but he was still having considerable trouble making anything out for certain without the lights.

        When those lurid, golden eyes snapped open, Phil was sure that the thing would have no trouble seeing him. He expected it to stand, to float, to move with some inherently inhuman, Wrong motion that would set every alarm bell off in his head. He expected it to be silent, eerily turning to look at him, or perhaps ignoring him completely in favor of the door. Worse, maybe to go for the other corpses, in which case, Phil had to decide how he was going to explain the mutilation or disappearance of three whole bodies to his boss because he certainly wasn't going to risk his life for them. He hadn't the slightest idea how to deal with this thing to begin with! The closest he could come, as on the nose as it was, was that this was some avatar of Death. The obsidian black wings were Her symbol and the skull on the creature's face and bones glowing faintly through its skin weren't exactly subtle. 

        It came to him then. A main character in every folktale but only vague approximations in the thick tomes in his library. A creature none had seen and lived, or perhaps a creature to be gambled with. The unkillable but too often cheated. A creature no one was ever truly prepared for, lacking so much proper documentation that Phil was stunned to be seeing it now, in such a plain form. A Grim Reaper. 

        Is it here for me? He wasn't that old! 

        That conclusion didn't sit right though. It didn't feel like his time yet. Not in the petulant, fearful way he was sure the Reaper encountered often, but a surety deep in his soul. It wasn't Philza's time. 

        But Philza was not prepared for this.

        The Reaper groaned. It brought a hand to its eyes and rubbed, the same way Phil had watched Chayanne do in the mornings. It rolled over on the table like it was going to shut off an alarm and go back to sleep for just five more minutes. The table wasn't meant for that. He rolled right off with a mighty thud!

        That shook Phil out of his stupor. He almost laughed, listening to the creature curse, but he wasn't calm enough for that yet. Still, he grabbed a bigger flashlight off the desk and turned it on, shining it on where the Reaper lay in a naked heap on the floor. It jumped when the beam fell on it, as if it hadn't realized he was there.

        "Um...hullo? Are you alright mate?" With nothing else to say and too much dignity to scream and run, his brain defaulted to British over-politeness.

        The Reaper swallowed, and cursed again, this time in Spanish before replying, "Don't look!"

        Immediately, Phil turned the beam away, shining it pointlessly on the tiled floor. There were a few seconds of silence, before the Reaper spoke up again. It sounded very human. "Where am I? You uh, don't have my clothes, do you?"

        "I do!" Only a second after realizing that he ought to have been getting the man his things, he also realized how creepy that must have sounded. "Here. Uh, sorry, you're at the morgue. Some police officers picked you up thinking you were dead, so..." he trailed off. The larger plastic bag had held entirely normal civilian attire, so Phil hadn't found it strange at first. Now, he was genuinely surprised it wasn't a long black cloak. He slid the bag across the floor and the Reaper tore into it eagerly. 

        There was a lot of shuffling before the Reaper muttered, and Phil could see the white glow of his face paint raise in the air as he muttered, "bien, bien." 

        Hesitantly, Phil called out, "all good?"

        "Yes, yes, thank you."

        "Right." He didn't bother pointing the light back at the Reaper. "I'll just go turn on the backup generators then."

        "Ah, mierda. Did I do that? I'm sorry."

        Taken aback, the human's plan to leave and hopefully not return until the entity had left was derailed. "What happened to you?" he asked.

        When the beam fell upon the Reaper, Phil realized it was in fact very tall. At least a whole head taller than he was. It didn't squint or flinch away at the harsh light, as if it made no difference to him. The Reaper now donned ripped black skinny jeans and a purple and teal hoodie. The white face markings disappeared under the light, but he could still see the tips of black wings peeking over the creature's collarbones. He had several black rings adorning long, nimble fingers and frankly looked as though he should be wearing barbed wire necklaces and thick eyeliner. Maybe he did when he wasn't laying "dead" on the side of the road.

        No, that was silly. Phil was jumping to stereotypical conclusions. Don't be rude. Admittedly, the mental image made him smile slightly. 

        His expression was just as clueless as Phil felt. "I wish I knew."

        ”You’re supposed to be dead,” Phil informed him.

        ”I am,” the Reaper answered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Or, well, I was. Sort of.”

        Phil attempted to process that for a moment, to no avail. All supernatural nonsense aside, the dead were dead, this he knew as fact. ...Except apparently not anymore. “You didn’t have a pulse.”

        ”Oh no, I wouldn’t. I’m a Reaper, we don’t bleed. Or have heartbeats. I’m all skin and bones, really.” He chuckled quietly at his own joke. 

        Huh. So that confirmed Phil’s suspicion then. Why is he here?! “Do you have a name?” That was the polite question to ask first.

        ”Right! Yes, hi, I’m Missa. Sorry, I haven’t really talked to anyone in a long time. Not anyone who wasn’t about to die at least.” He held a hand out, which, out of the flashlight beam, turned back into pale bone under translucent skin. When the human hesitated, he seemed to sense the questions that died on Phil’s tongue, and his enthusiasm waned considerably, awkwardly drawing the limb back in to himself. 

        Phil crossed the room, reached out and took it anyway. When had any entity been so friendly? Much less one of this caliber? The answer was never, and it never hurt to be in such a creature’s good graces either. It occurred to him momentarily that physical contact with the Reaper might mean certain doom, but he was still wearing gloves, so he figured it was fine. 

        The way Missa lit up made him unable to resist the mirroring smile that split his own cheeks. “I’m Phil.”

        ”Nice to meet you Phil!” Hefting himself up on the autopsy table as casually as if it were his living room couch, he grinned delightedly. “I don’t suppose any other bodies have come alive- or uh, undead on you lately, have they?”

Oh boy, Phil was not getting paid enough for this. 

-----------

So basically, something mysterious made Flippa Come Back Wrong and Reaper!Missa is here to investigate!

[cubitodragon-moved]

[+] Ph1lzA

It’s the silence that sits in the Garden of Hope and Music that tips him off first.

Silence, on seeing the beds. Eyes skip, rereading over signs he recognises. The creak of his chair as he rises, dull aches from a months old nightmare rising like scars against his back. The weight of the inevitable a stone stuck in his craw.

There’s an empty kitchen and a neglected garden, names he doesn’t utter aloud echoing in the walls of his mind. Climbing back to the main room finds the new messages he hadn’t clocked at first glance.

There's. A lot of sighing. On finding the gift and the apology etched in remorse and affection. Something like resignation takes up residence behind his eyes, hidden by the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.

Then outside, where a half told story settles its talons into his shoulders; replies to questions he doesn’t hear but can imagine. The crushed grass and sign placements walking him through the path taken when he wasn’t here.

He retreats back down stairs. Short cracked nails dig into the top rail of his abuelito chair, body leaning with unsteady purpose as he surveys an empty nest.

A bunker that failed its purpose.

He sinks back into the chair, leaning into the back of it with a sigh and tips back his head. Closes his eyes.

The warpstone will herald the arrival of..someone, soon - Fit, most likely. Tubbo, probably, the latter no doubt bringing enough sound with him to fill the innards of the Wall ten times over, nervous energy no doubt dialled well past eleven and into triple digits. But for right now, there is silence, save for the slow breaths drawn unwillingly from his lungs.

And Philza does what Philza has always done, has done now almost every day for the past however many months:

He waits, for his kids to wake up.