#smpfic

[starofroselight]

Tommy chews a spud in silence. The potato is raw and grainy. When he swallows it scratches hard against his throat.

He stares into the wall of lava keeping him trapped. There's an echo, then, of a dozen twitches in his chest and twinges of an emotion too painful to name. Something that sounds like it's never my time to die.

He does not look at Dream.

His cellmate is a patient man. When the time comes, he won't have to speak. Dream doesn't need to prod that out of him. Eventually Tommy will talk, and he will talk because he is alone and scared. He will talk because he has no one else.

Tommy doesn't understand why his chest feels so tight. Tommy doesn't have the language to explain why his stomach twists when he sees Dream smile, or the words to convey what that terror means even when he was free waking up in cold sweats every night.

Tubbo called it grief, once.

Tommy doesn't know a lot of things, but he knows that's not right.

He's heard the words therapy and recovery and depression. They've been parroted back to him a hundred times over, but no one ever thought to sit him down and explain what it means. What raw potatoes tasting like gunpowder is.

But there is something he does come to understand. When you are tired, when you are broken, when you are beaten down, every moment is doomsday.

Doomsday fits better than grief.

Doomsday is every moment Tommy trapped underground and gravel begins to cave in.

Doomsday is a trident snatched from his hands, grounding him.

Doomsday is the hiss and call of the lava, Doomsday is the texture of obsidian beneath his calloused fingertips.

Doomsday is the fear that strikes him whenever someone calls Tommy their friend.

Perhaps if Tommy had the words to understand, Doomsday would be a panic attack. Doomsday would be survivor's guilt and depression, PTSD and classical conditioning.

But Tommy doesn't know. Even if he did, who would listen? How could he get the words out without stumbling or cutting himself off?

Instead, it is Doomsday.

He survived Doomsday. And he will survive it again. He can weather a thousand Doomsdays if he has to.

He takes another bite of potato.

In the corner of the cell, Dream smiles.

[homoeroticpunz]

i know the end by poisonsivy

A man in green stands in the doorway, his mask grinning wide at the horror around him. “You did well,” he says. “I… I didn’t do this.” You don’t know if you are lying. Tubbo’s body is beside you, Tommy’s blood is on your hands. Your sword is on the floor. Are you lying?

or; a ranboo apocalypse fic inspired by i know the end by phoebe bridgers

[sanshinexx]

— of windy evenings and everlasting promises

It was an evening like any other. The setting sun had painted the horizon with different shades of red and orange, and the fallen leaves swirled and danced around in the rising wind. Phil was absently frying eggs on the stove, his mind running through the events of the day when the front door opened. Phil instinctively turned his head toward the direction of the door, although he couldn't see it from around the kitchen corner. He could only hear the wind howling outside and the small footsteps that rapidly marched inside the warmth of the house.

“Techno? That you?” Phil called out, turning back to his eggs and expecting to hear his eldest son’s gruff voice answering him. When that answer never came, Phil glanced back in the direction of the hallway.

“Techno?” Phil repeated, now a little confused.

It wasn’t Techno. Instead, his second, now five years old son Wilbur appeared around the corner, his gaze fixed on the floor. 

“Will?” Phil asked, surprised. “I thought you were in bed already. What are y-” He stopped in the middle of his sentence. Wilbur had raised his gaze from the floor and was now staring at his father with wide, teary eyes.

“Dad…?” He said in a small, shaky voice. 

Phil looked taken aback by the young boy’s appearance. His clothes were torn and partly soaked with mud. His hair was a mess, his face bruised and scratched. It looked like his arms and knees were even bleeding. Despite his shock, Phil managed to form a response.

“Will?”’ He said again. When Wilbur sniffed quietly but didn’t answer, Phil abandoned his frying eggs and went to kneel in front of the small boy. “What happened?”

Wilbur looked hesitant for a moment, as if pondering whether to tell the truth or not. After a moment his expression changed from thoughtful to miserable. “Dad, am I a bad guy?” He blurted out and looked like he instantly regretted it. 

Phil blinked and looked at his son’s teary face, clearly horrified. The black feathered wings on his back fluttered slightly as a response to his roaring emotions. “Who told you that?” He asked slowly.

“It was…” Wilbur looked hesitant once again, but then seemed to decide that he might as well tell the whole story since he had already begun. “It was Dream and, uh, the other kids. We were… playing ‘Kingdom’ again... you know, the game we came up with, some time ago?”

Phil nodded in understanding. Wilbur swallowed, sniffed again, and went on with his story. “They… they made me be the bad guy, again. I got angry and told them that I was already the bad guy last time and that I didn’t wanna be the villain again. But they said that it’s the only part I’m good at and that all the other roles are already taken. So they wouldn’t let me change it.” He finished and angrily wiped a couple of tears that had escaped his eyes off his cheeks. Phil wondered what might be the most efficient way to murder a couple of children.

“Why do I always have to be the bad guy?” Wilbur asked miserably and turned his broken-hearted gaze at his very upset-looking father. Phil sighed shakily and suddenly felt much older than he really was. He tiredly ran his left hand down his face in an attempt to contain the anger he felt towards the idiotic kids who had dared to hurt his son in such way. He closed his eyes and stayed silent for a moment before opening his mouth.

“Will, remember what your mother used to say?”

Wilbur startled a little and looked at Phil with wide eyes: he usually didn’t talk about their late mother. Even after all the years gone by, it was still a sore topic for Phil to talk about, for the grief never diminished. “... Yeah?” Wilbur answered uncertainly. 

Phil opened his eyes and locked them with Wilbur with newfound certainty. “‘You get to write your own story.’” He smiled fondly. “You get to choose the part you want to play, and no one else can change that. Okay?”

“... Okay”, Wilbur whispered.

Phil smiled again and spread his arms wide open. ‘’C’mere.”

Wilbur threw himself into the hug, and as the strong, loving arms of his father closed around him, he felt the corners of his mouth turn slightly upwards. Phil gently wrapped his wings protectively around the two of them, shutting out the rest of the world. The world that could be so vile and unforgiving toward its people, but also full of such beauty and wondrous things.

“Did you know that people used to call me the bad guy as well?” He asked in a low voice after a few minutes had passed in comfortable silence. Wilbur rapidly bolted away from the warmth of his father’s chest to stare at him in the eyes, clearly shocked and mouth hanging wide open. The sight seemed to amuse Phil, for grinned widely before continuing. 

“Now, don’t look so shocked”, he chuckled, “what else would you expect from a guy with wings like these?”

It was a fair point. Because as it was, Phil did indeed have two enormous wings sticking out of his back, from right between the shoulder blades. They were black as soot, but he carried them with pride and would always take good care of them. For those who didn’t know him, the wings struck them with fear and the feathers acted as a silent threat for those who would dare to oppose him.

But for those who he knew and held close, the wings were an emblem of strength and safety, the soft feathers carrying a certain promise of warm hugs and comfort within themselves. Which is exactly why Wilbur now looked so confused. Phil just kept affectionately gazing at him with a smile on his lips.

“People used to fear me because of my wings. They thought I was a demon sent from the underworld, or, I don’t know, something else just as silly. Some would even call me Lucifer, and thought I’d come on earth to bring destruction to all its inhabitants.” Phil looked like the thought was very amusing to him. “They used to call me ‘The Angel of Death’,” he chuckled. Wilbur, however, didn’t seem to find this funny and looked even more frantic and wide-eyed than before.

“But that’s stupid!” Wilbur cried, sounding almost offended for his father’s sake. “You… you aren’t a bad guy! Or… or Lucifer!’’ He went on, now agitated. 

“Yes, yes, I know”, Phil reassured him. “But do you see what I’m trying to teach ya here?”

Judging by the boy’s expression, Phil assumed the answer to be a ‘no’. He sighed again, and the tired look flashed on his face again for a small moment, before a defiant expression took its place.

“Will, you can’t let other people define you. They don’t know who you really are, and they don’t get to decide what part or role fits you the best. That”, He poked his finger at Wilbur’s chest, “is all up to you.’’ The smile had fallen from Phil’s lips, but the fond look still persistently lingered in his eyes. 

“And I want you to know that no matter what part you choose for yourself, I will always be proud of you. Just remember that”, Phil finished and grabbed Wilbur, who looked like he was about to start crying again, back in his arms.

Wilbur stayed quiet for a long while but eventually managed to get the one final question out of his mouth.

“Promise?” He breathed in an oddly squeaky and high-pitched voice. Phil smiled.

“I promise.”

.

.

.

It was an evening like any other. The biting wind was blowing somewhere afar, its mourning song echoing along the walls of the murky tunnel. 

A lanky figure of a young man took shape in the middle of the dimly lit underground room.

Wilbur stared hollowly at the small wooden button in front of him. The sound of his friends and companions celebrating could faintly be heard from somewhere outside, as if they lived and existed in another world of their own. A world where the war was over, where they could finally be happy.

How could they be so stupid, so naive? thought the man bitterly. Why should they celebrate and live happily ever after, when he was left suffering. Why couldn’t they understand? The man laughed. Nay, this story didn’t have a happy ending. He supposed happy endings didn’t exist for people like him.

“This is it, father”, the young man whispered. And that was it. His last confession, his last atonement, which only the empty walls were there to receive. The calm before the storm had passed, and all that remained was him, the cold room, and the wooden button.

“This is the story I have written.”

He took a step forward.

“This is the path I have chosen.”

Another step.

“I wonder…”

He smiled.

“Does that promise still stand?”

And all that remained was the ringing in his ears, the scorching heat of the explosion, the screams of agony echoing across the land of once very big and not blown up L’manburg.

His story, his great unfinished symphony,

now forever incomplete.

.

.

.

It was a night like any other. Except it wasn’t. The wind had long since died down and the sound of rain had overtaken the smoking land. Soil and rocks occasionally fell from the roof of the secluded underground room, which now had a gaping hole where there had been a wall just moments ago. The ground was wet. Falling from the sky, the water now had access to the room for the first time in forever, and it seemed to relish on the given opportunity. A couple of black feathers were laying on the ground, but no one seemed to notice nor care that the feathers were left lying there, soaked and forgotten.

There were many things amiss on that rainy night. A nation brought down to its knees, its people left without a home, hopelessly gathering its broken forces. A young boy crying out for their lost friends, injured and afraid. The memory of a fallen tyrant, wiped out of everyone's mind in the midst of the chaos and the pain. A lone son, yet unaware of the knowledge it had just become an orphan.

A father, clutching the cold and frail body of his son in his strong and warm arms. The angel of death caring for a broken soul who so entreatingly sought for its company, for the comfort of eternal rest and peace.

A silent apology, a final goodbye, an everlasting promise.

A promise left unbroken.

[snailsnfriends]

*CW- VIOLENCE, DEATH*

Wilbur got very used to the quiet of the afterlife. To him, it was really refreshing compared to how loud his death was. Schlatt would only talk every once in a while, and he never said anything worth listening to.

Despite the silence, Wilbur was always somewhat busy, inspecting the cuts, scrapes and bruises that appeared on his body every so often, fascinated by their odd placement, shape, and severity. Of course, nothing that Tommy endured  could even compare to the stab wound that left his center empty and his shirt ripped. If anything, Wilbur just looked at them and laughed. He couldn't even feel them. That kid was always so reckless; he probably just fell out of a tree, or tripped on a rock.

Not this time though. This time, the bruises were huge, and god, did they hurt. The amount of blows to his stomach made him nauseous, and the ones to the chest made his vision spotty. He stumbled back and forth, trying to grab anything that could keep him upright, but to no avail. Wilbur collapsed onto his side, his knees curled into his chest. This pain wasn't like anything he had felt before, and definitely wasn't as quick. The torment went on for hours. It seemed to never stop, and it also seemed as if he couldn't fight back. Each punch or slap to the same place hurt more than the last, causing Wilbur to grunt and cough. Eventually, the hits slowed, and he could finally rest. He lied down on his back to try to catch his breath, only to be hit with one final blow to the jaw, which knocked it out of place. He could taste the blood pouring out of his mouth, which was far more metallic tasting than when he was alive. Finally, the torture stopped, and each bruise, broken bone, and carpet-like burn lifted from his skin and insides. He shot upwards, breathing heavily, remembering what each painful spot represented. 

Wilbur could feel his insides burning with rage and grief at the pure thought that Tommy went through all of this, and for all of it to stop with a final release.

Wilbur heard unsure footsteps coming from not too far away as he settled his mind. He quickly picked himself up and ran toward the foreign noise.

"Hey Wil! You remember how you said that you felt a space open for me here? Weird that it didn't close, eh? At least you get to see me here now!" Tommy joked, clearly taken aback by the sight of his deceased brother and his own passing.

Wilbur shuddered while looking at Tommy with the condition he was in. Each painful reminder of Tommy's death that was once on Wilbur's skin was right in front of him, and the large stab wound that tore Tommy apart was right in front of him as well, a painful reminder of Wilbur's departure. Wilbur was finally faced with the brother he left behind, yet he couldn't look away, despite his guilt. He took a few steps forward with his arms open, letting Tommy sink into them silently, the same way he did with his own father. All Wilbur could do was chuckle and cry quietly with the kid in his arms, the same one he left behind, and say, 

"I'm sorry, but I wish you weren't here." 

[turtle-ier]

Difficult situation.

I’m currently on day 15 out of 31 in fictober, and have 15 fully complete fics that I was going to publish every day throughout the month, but after Schlatt’s comments in his livestream, I feel awkward posting them and continuing the challenge. I, at no point making these fics, wanted to make the content creators or members of the fandom upset, and am considering my options. 

I am not going to finish the fanfic collection - That’s off the table entirely - but I want fan opinions on what I should do with the near 9k of finished pieces. 

Do I: 

1. Post what I have in a single post on Ao3

2. Not post them at all.

All of the fics in the collection take place in an autumn/high school au, similar to my three works here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1476746 

As I said, I won't finish the fictober with these people, as it’s off the cards, but I'd like feedback still. Please (politely) let me know.

After this point, I won't write for this fandom again. None of the fics in either collection are ships, or rated above Teen, just Fyi

[dsmpanalysis]

Shoutout of the day: @aenqa!

Aenqa (She/They) is a writer who discusses a fair share of Dream SMP members, though has an emphasis in Sleepy Bois Inc and the Dream Team.  They have all most of their stories and analysis under the tags “#My Writing”, “#Asks”, and “#SMPfic”, as well as the general tags for characters. She also posts on AO3 under the name Aenqa, where you can find various fics of hers primarily relating to MCYT.

Here’s a list of analysis posts we recommend from them:

Why did Phil kill Wilbur?

How CC!Tubbo's acting affects his character

Theseus' Ship as L'manburg connection

How does Ghost Wilbur work and why is he different from Ghostbur?  

Make sure to check her out and give her a follow! We encourage that you reblog a bunch of her posts as it could really be of big help and support for content creators on Tumblr! :D

[starofroselight]

When I'm writing DreamSMP characters I follow an unofficial code or doctrine of sorts, and I figured you guys might want to know it.

I've very purposeful with my separation of characters and content creators to the point I separate them more than the creator often does. It's important to me as a creative that I am respectful to those that have inspired me; not everyone feels that way, and that's okay, but respect is what I prioritize.

Other than using their speaking patterns, I'll avoid real-life or Twitch persona gimmicks. The only thing I consider when taking direct inspiration is: did it happen in Minecraft

For instance.

Wilbur Soot has a bit where he joined Phil's stream to talk about eating sand. Yes, this is technically a Minecraft bit if you don't think about it because Phil is playing Minecraft, but first and foremost this is a Wilbur Soot bit. He was using the game to bring up that he the person had done, and the joke was rest on him, real life Wilbur Soot

The same applies to the anteater bit. That's not a C!Wilbur and C!Tommy moment, that's a Phil Rocket League moment where he called two friends over a wild joke.

The only exception I personally made with my rules is the "Wilby" moment between Tommy and Wilbur. While it does happen in Minecraft, and they are playing characters, it's so obviously not acted. It's not a C!Tommy bonding moment with President Wilbur Soot, it was a real life slip-up.

That is what makes it so sweet. I'm glad I got to see that moment, but it is not for my consumption.

What is for my consumption?

Jschlatt and Wilbur smoking "kelp" blocks in Wilbur's videos. Because it's a bit, I can easily slip C!Schlatt and C!Wilbur into that scenario.

In the same vein, Business Bay murdering the SMP Earth admin over and over again. It was a running joke they had, killing god, and it opens up some good character possibilities.

And if you as a reader never considered these divorced in your mind before, I call you to reflect on why that is.

I've noticed that people have started to merge specifically Philza Minecraft and Phil together. And it worries me. Phil already fosters an intense parasocial relationship as part of his brand. While during roleplay he will specifically point out the boundary: ("Philza Minecraft did not receive an invitation.") He refuses to point this bond out on streams where viewers call him dad because, well, it's a brand. It's an image. To point it out would be to lose support, which directly ties to money. This appears a cynical reason and I'm sure it's one of many, but this is the area we are in regarding characterization.

But he's not your father, he's not Wilbur's father, he's not Tommy or Technoblade's father. He's a talented Minecraft player who is an important part of the community, but he is not family.

Philza can be a Minecraft immortal, a god, a father, an Angel of Death. He can be family.

Philza moment? Stabbing his son. Not a Philza moment? Talking about his wife.

A quick rehash as a TLDR; separate events that happen in the game from the creators, see if it makes sense from a character standpoint, always be critical of why you're characterizing 'x' as 'y'.

I find this mentality keep me and my fanfic writing within healthy boundaries

[starofroselight]

WIP for Chapter Two of He Calls You Theseus:

and bonus Skephalo moment:

[starofroselight]

Teahound is one of the best writers in the fandom. They write regularly and all of their fics are good, I promise there's something here for you if you like the SMP.

And a regular sweetheart. That always helps.

Teahound’s Fanfic Masterlist!

Hey y’all! I thought I’d put together a quick masterlist of my fics, mostly for my own reference, but also for anyone who wants it! 

and as he fell (you walked away) Minecraft Manhunt AU! My first work, completed, starring the Dream Team. Hurt/comfort, cottagecore vibes, 11 chapters. 

vengeance of the risen sequel to and as he fell, currently on hiatus. Adventure and political drama, with so much found family. The outline is obscenely long. The fic will be longer. 

how I met my [platonic] husband (spoiler alert it was at a laboratory) A Tubbo-centric story where he’s a young intern who discovers Ranboo trapped in the lab he works at and befriends him. It’s almost completed, and full hurt/comfort. 

Dual Blades A one-shot focused of the nature of Phil and Techno’s friendship. If you like poetic descriptions of two best friends, this is your fic. 

Starlit Dragons A short continuation of Dual Blades that is 100% just Philza Minecraft angst. 

a garden of thorns (Dream SMP one-shots) A series of one-shots about the Dream SMP, mostly character studies. Lots of Tubbo, because I love his character. 

and sometimes home simply means being together (sleepy boys drabbles) A handful of SBI-centric one-shots, including Dual Blades and Starlit Dragons. 

[starofroselight]

I dont know if this is a writing request or just an "imagine" scene but: Puffy has been saying she wants to go to techno bc of the Egg problem, so... Imagine Sam hearing about this and going with Puffy. And the two sit down with Phil and Techno to discuss it. And Sam says that Tommy's mental health is one of the reasons they should help. What do you think would happen after Sam says this?

Blessed ask, thank you so much. They're brothers, your honor

-

It's cramped and cold in the cabin. Puffy glances down to the fireplace. She's rewarded with a cold hearth and a picture of Steve Harvey.

Of course.

She and Sam stand. At least she has wool, Sam is all vines and gunpowder and whatever creepers are made out of.

Techno looks like he's about to laugh.

"Mental health? He seemed to be fine to me."

And deep down Technoblade knows that's not true. Remembers Tommy's reactions to loud noises, to the Nether, to his Exile.

"We tried to warn him about Dream," Philza says. It's not a complete lie.

Puffy thinks these are the furthest from knights she's ever met. She crosses her arms.

"There is a little boy that looks up to you. The Egg isn't a joke, we can't ignore it anymore."

"Maybe you can't. You doubt my ability to not care about things just out of my eyesight."

Technoblade's drawl hides pain, she notes. Perhaps there is merit to group therapy after all.

"TommyInnit's mental state is tenuous at best. He looks up to you, despite everything. You could help."

Technoblade looks over at Philza. He shrugs in response.

"It's not helping a government. It's Tommy." He states the last word like a negative.

Techno fixates on it.

It's Tommy.

It's Tommy, all the good, the bad, the traitorous. Tommy that stole his golden apples. Tommy that jumped into lava after Techno shielded him from Dream.

L'Manberg's Tommy.

Pogtopia's Tommy.

His Tommy.

". . . Mm, I'll see what I can do."

Puffy smiles. Sam lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Good," Sam says. "Because I don't know how much more time we have left."

[starofroselight]

All cards on the table, I don't know what this is supposed to be? I dressed up the Three Deaths DSMP rule into little flowery things with narrative significance. Thank you Wilbur Soot for codifying this system

-

The First Death:

The Death of the Fool, risked for temporary satisfaction, gain, or lost in a moment of chance. A useless death.

-

The Second Death:

The Sacrificial Death, a death given when the taste of loss is still bitter and present. A knowing death.

-

The Third Death:

The Death of Legacy, a death passed with hope the world around it is altered. The final death.

[homoeroticpunz]

into a white and soundless place by poisonsivy

He has only good memories, but even those are more flashes of moments and emotions so dizzying they make the ghost feel vacant, vacuous. There's a country, haphazardly constructed and a little ugly but filled with love. There's a girl, so kind it makes Wilbur ache to know her again. There's a bakery too, the smell of fresh bread and the sound of laughter. There's a blonde boy, and Wilbur knows it's Tommy but his features are fuzzy and obscured. There's more laughter.

Living, breathing Wilbur laughed a lot.

Or: There must be a reason that Wilbur's loved ones are being haunted by his ghost.

a resurrection ghostbur fic. title from love love love by the mountain goats

[starofroselight]

This is basically a guide on how to write great Quackity content and Schlatt + Quackity interactions.

@dreamsclock has the good shit. They wrote the Wilbur smoking fic I just reblogged too. Consider reblogging this around because it's a shame for their work to get buried.

I love your writing! Could you do 12 with Schlatt & Quackity?

schlatt and quackity are among my favourite dynamics to write, this was a lotta fun! i am the biggest quackity apologist but this still felt important to write :D

prompt: “can’t you see how fucked up this is?”

characters: quackity, schlatt, (mentioned) tubbo

warnings: alcohol, implied alcoholism, toxic relationships/friendships, mentions of public execution, discussions of guilt + blame, character death (tubbo at the festival)

[ send me dream smp character / characters and/or a prompt from this list and i’ll write you a drabble !! ]

Here’s the thing: Quackity knows the score when it comes to Schlatt. 

It’s one of the reasons he decides to join votes with his long time friend: they both know each other, see underneath the personas they present to their audiences. Schlatt knows Quackity is more than just a pretty face - he’s a hell of a smart guy, with enough passion and acerbic wit to make even the razor sharp Wilbur squirm, and he’s just as cunning as Dream - in turn, Quackity knows not to underestimate the senile act Schlatt puts on in front of Tommy and Tubbo. He knows better than anyone that he’s scheming, and when Schlatt approaches him, asking him to band their votes together? Quackity is thrilled to finally be taken seriously, and agrees without hesitation.

Tubbo dies on stage, and Quackity hesitates for the first time. 

Admittedly, he hesitates a little after the fact, because he’s a little busy with being knocked off stage by the blast from the firework, but after the shitshow of a festival is over, Quackity hesitates. Because Schlatt is a lot of things, not all of them nice, but Quackity hadn’t ever imagined he’d be a dictator, not like this.

He guesses he should have seen the warning signs. Banning Tommy and Wilbur from Manburg should’ve been a warning alarm in his mind. Killing Tubbo shouldn’t have been his fucking wake up call.

“Schlatt,” Quackity tries, the next day, “we need to talk.”

Schlatt doesn’t even bother looking at him, walking past him briskly, and Quackity wrinkles his nose when the smell of booze washes over him. Fuck, he thinks, despairingly, because he’d been sure Schlatt’s alcohol problem had been getting better, not worse, not like this. “Save it, pretty boy,” Schlatt drawls, “I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what? Organizing another festival turned execution behind my fucking back?”

Quackity doesn’t know what prompts the words, angry and scared, miserably scared. Schlatt stops in his tracks, turns round with a raised eyebrow and a bored look on his face. Not the look of a man who had sentenced a sixteen year old to death - sixteen fucking years old! It’s staggering to think about, and Quackity’s eyes water, but don’t tear up. He’s not emotional like that. He can’t afford to be right now. 

“What, are you mad I didn’t tell you about Tubbo?” Schlatt asks, unamused. “If you couldn’t see he was a fuckin’ traitor, I worry for you, Quackity. You could smell it off him.”

“He was a kid,” Quackity stresses, and then, again, more desperately, “he was just a kid. Jesus, Schlatt, he was probably just talking to Tommy about stupid shit, those two are inseparable! Did you really think he was going to, what, turn against one of the only other kids around here that he knows?”

“Careful, Alex. You sound like you’re sympathizing with him.” Schlatt looks down at him, cold, serpentine, before smirking. “You’ve got to admit, there was something funny about it.”

And Quackity realizes in that moment that Schlatt must have a pretty fucked up perception of him, if he thinks he’d find that funny - the only thing he feels is nausea slowly building up in his stomach and a thudding in his head and a slowly dawning horror that he doesn’t know his old friend anywhere near as thought as he did, God, he’s a monster. 

“Can’t you see how fucked up this is?” He tries to snap, but it comes out low in his throat, miserable and whispered. “Schlatt, you killed a kid. He was your right hand man, he fucking admired you, man, even though you were a dick to him. He admired the fact you kept peace - and you turned around and killed him!”

Schlatt makes a disagreeing noise, laying a heavy hand on Quackity’s shoulder that’s less of a reassurance than it is a way to steady himself and to make sure Quackity can’t back off. “No, no, I didn’t kill nobody,” he says, an unpleasant gleam in his eyes, “we killed the kid, Quackity. I gave the orders, you sat back and let them happen. You know what they say about the innocence of a bystander, baby.”

The bottom of his stomach hollows out. He’s forgotten how conniving Schlatt could be.

“I didn’t- You asshole-”

“I’ll see you for that meeting later,” Schlatt says, and for the first time, there’s something cruel in his voice, aimed at Quackity, “don’t be late, Flatty Patty. You’ve seen what we do round here to traitors; we do worse to latecomers.”

And then he’s walking off, pulling a flask out of his pocket and taking a swig as he leaves. Quackity takes a step forward in an attempt to follow, opens his mouth in an attempt to shout a heated reply - all that comes out is a strangled noise that might be a sob, before he stumbles off in the opposite direction, eyes wide in horror, in devastation, as his own crimes settle onto his shoulders like bugs under his skin. 

He avoids Tubbo for a whole three week, and even when he sees him next, he can’t quite bring himself to meet his eyes in the same way again.

[starofroselight]

Title: He Calls You Theseus (Now Call Him Odysseus and Welcome Him Home)

Chapter 1: In Which Technoblade's Narrative Crumbles    

Summary: Technoblade's language is the art of combat and weaponry. Tommy doesn't understand, so Technoblade speaks in a way they'll both understand. Or, Technoblade’s been having strange visions while taking care of Tommy.

Tags: Technoblade, TommyInnit, SBI fic, Introspection, Flashbacks, Found Family, Brothers, Trauma, Alternate Universe, References to Greek Myth, Sleepy Bois Inc. as Family, Sleepy Bois Inc. Angst, Chat as Ghosts, Rose AU

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786947

Author’s Note: This is my baby. I’ve worked for this on a while, and it’s about 5.1k words. I hope you enjoy the first chapter, I plan for around five in all.

A flurry of snow buffeted the snow banks around Technoblade's retirement home. 

Technoblade had decided teaching Tommy the art of arrow fletching was important. He had come to immediately regret that decision. Tommy’s loud mouth and shaky hands were something manageable in the best of times, but when the time came for work to be done they became hindrances. Liabilities.

Technoblade didn’t take in liabilities. 

“How’s this, big man?” The tooth-gaped teen asked smugly, holding up a shoddily constructed arrow as if it were made of gold.

Technoblade briefly considered how much easier this would have had he cleaved Tommy’s head clean off in the hole under his house.

> You can’t!

> The most efficient way to grind out arrows is village trading. Make one of your downstairs hostages a fletcher, trade sticks, build rapport, then trade in for arrows.

> Tommy pog

> would’ve been funnier if you did

“Chat, do you see what I’m dealing with?” He mumbled to himself. 

“Oi Chat! Hey Chat, do you think Technoblade is a big bitch?”

“Tommy, you’re giving me a headache.” That wasn’t all that was giving him a headache: voices, the thousands of voices which were riled up by his every interaction with another living soul. Each voice was vying for a spot to influence his words, to have any effect on the outside world like they once were able to.

And the voices really liked Tommy.

“All I want’s an answer.”

He wouldn’t get one.

"How am I better at this with hooves?! Here, let me show you one more time.” Techno squatted beside where Tommy was sitting on the stone brick floor. “Two ties on each side over the flint. Three sharp cuts into the wood. Feather goes in between. Look, perfectly functional arrows! What part of this aren’t you getting? It’s not that difficult!”

Tommy picked up the tools from the fletching table. He took one look at the sticks, then picked up a fistful of feathers.

“Right—”

“Okay, that’s enough, I’m not going to let you keep massacring my feathers like this. What even is this?" He picked up a feather from the floor. It hung limp between the heel of his hoof, frayed and torn. "These chickens died for nothing!"

“What am I supposed to do while you do all the work if I can’t help?” Tommy was pouting, his face so full of vibracity and energy it looked as if he was choking.

That was it. Techno's face twitched. 

“Maybe if you sit down and stay quiet for a minute, I can come up with an idea!”

Surprisingly, Tommy did. His face flushed red with embarrassment. 

And Technoblade realized he had screamed at a scared, struggling sixteen year old child covered in scars. 

> do you feel powerful now

> OOOOOOO

> You should kill him

> Betray Tommy!

> betray tommy

He dragged a hoof over his face. The gesture was easier with hands.

"Look. . . Tommy. You're clearly not good at fletching arrows. Why don't you go lay down in your racoon hole?"

Technoblade’s plan had been, surprisingly, one of altruism. He wanted to teach Tommy how to make arrows so he could value the ammunition. He had a tendency to complain about. . . well, everything, but specifically running out of supplies. Techno hoped this would teach him how valuable they were. Not in resources, but as assets. In the heat of battle, every shot mattered.

After Tommy had made a quiverful of arrows, Technoblade planned on taking him out to his practice range. Inexperienced hands nocking an arrow were shaking and quick to flinch. Archery hurt. It was a difficult skill to master; the art of shooting an arrow required the fletching to run through the archer’s fingers. If their hands were smooth and uncalloused, the projectile would cut through their fingers like a blade in water. His hands (and hooves) were roughed up to the consistency of leather from arduous repetition. Tommy hadn’t had that experience.

Technoblade had made leather gloves for that exact reason.

And now that plan was ruined.

While his retirement home was the definition of picturesque, Tommy had come to ruin that as well. The foundation had made Techno's house uneven. The ground was unstable and it had started to sag north. 

Tommy had literally dug up and unsettled his life. 

Somewhere in there was a metaphor and a moment for some much-needed introspection. Technoblade ignored it. 

Snow had sloped onto the roof heavy, the sound of monsters outside crunching feet of the stuff. The cold had choked out the will of any invaders at the cost of isolating them together. The house’s floor was insulated with stone, then covered with wood. The chimney doubled as a source of light, warmth, and a way to heat the floor. Technoblade had learned how to make heated floors from Chat. The quality of life improvement was immense.

Tommy hadn’t understood how, but he did enjoy it. Too often he had slept in his boots, curled up into a jacket or blanket or whatever he could find. But this? This was a luxury that could lull him into a rest like no other.

And Tommy needed a good sleep after Logsteadshire.

Still, his spirit reignited despite his body's protests. He stretched his arms upward in attempts to hide his yawn. 

He stomped his foot. 

"I'm not tired! We need supplies, we need—We need to get back the discs."

That was going to be a hard habit to kick. The kid needed a break; his eyes were ringed in black. He sat hunched over with awful posture, looking pitiful. Technoblade held back the urge to call him a racoon again.

Despite the warmth, Tommy was shivering.

Exhaustion. Techno knew it all too well.

The Piglin man took off his cape, folding it over his arm. It helped increase his bulk, his size when intimidation was necessary. When he was home its purpose became a blatant unnecessity. Still, he often found himself falling asleep in it, curled up in a tiny pile against the wall where no one could hurt him. 

It was important.

And he tossed it to Tommy. 

"We'll get back the discs after you go to sleep. If you fall asleep in the snow you'll freeze to death and die."

Then he stoked the fire with an iron pole, minding Edward's head. He couldn't be bothered to kill the creature just yet. The flames roared up, consuming the cold air in the room and up the chimney. 

Tommy held the crimson cloak in his arms. He stared for a second, then twisted to wrap it around himself. It was enormous, swamping his thin figure in fabric and comfort unknown for weeks in exile. He pushed himself further into the corner with the fletching table, close to his hiding box.

"The 'and die' is kind of redundant, 'innit?" Tommy muttered, head poking up from the fluff of the cloak’s collar.

Technoblade sighed. 

They were going to keep talking in circles. He would make a general statement, Tommy would overload him with non sequiturs and nonsense sentences until Technoblade tuned him out with Chat. However, he couldn’t ignore Tommy here. If he did, the boy would never go to sleep, and the cold of the night didn’t need a cold shoulder on top of it. A cranky Tommy and an annoyed Technoblade was a recipe for disaster, overthrowing governments or otherwise.

There was only one way he knew how to talk in times like this:

“Let me tell you a story.”

It was an offer more intimate than Tommy knew. 

Naturally, he rejected it.

“What if I don’t want to hear a story?” Said teenager shifted in his cozy corner. 

“Too bad.” He pushed the crown up from where it was slipping off his head. If he was going to coax the world's most energetic child to sleep, he needed to let down his guard. 

“Why do you even wear that thing?”

“What, the crown? It’s not like I use it in combat or anything, it's just for fun. Fun is banned? You're banning fun now?" He laughed. "Good luck getting anyone on your side."

“I don’t have a side. Or rather, my side is your side? Now you’ve gone and got my head all confused.” Tommy’s voice had grown softer. 

Techno couldn’t have that.

“There’s no ‘our side’. We are not a team.”

Tommy huffed. “Until we get the discs back.”

“Will you let go of the discs for a minute? They’re not going anywhere.”

“Could go into a fire.”

Techno huffed heavier. Puffs of true flame curled out from his snout. Not the metaphorical risk clouding Tommy’s mind. He was already headed towards the pitfall he wanted to avoid. It was time to change the subject.

“Considering your limited knowledge of Greek classics, you wouldn’t happen to know Homer?”

“Who what now?” 

A solid ‘no’ would have sufficed, Techno thought.

“You probably haven’t heard of Odysseus, then.”

“With a name like that, I reckon I should of. Wait, this is one of your myths again, isn’t it?” Tommy kicked himself up, back against the wall to look at Technoblade as they spoke.

“I like a certain section of stories. Is that so wrong?”

“Is this story about you?”

The Blade tutted. “No, no, no. I don’t have any family. Orphans killed my parents. Family is useless, it slows you down unless you’re exacting revenge. In that case, family is excellent. Nothing better than dead family.”

"That doesn't make any sen—"

"Keep interrupting and I'll make you sleep in Carl's stable."

Tommy pouted. His hair stuck up in every which way, active as he was.

“Odysseus was a king of his own island. He lived in peace with his family on Ithaca, and he was known as a wise man.” It had been a while since Technoblade had told a story like this. His rhythm was lacking. “He was the favorite of Athena, the goddess of battle and wisdom.”

“Gods aren’t real.”

“You’re looking at one.”

Silence. “Yeah, right.” 

"Moving on.” He wasn’t willing to indulge Tommy in that story when he was preoccupied with telling another. “While Odysseus was a king, he wasn’t the chief king. At that point Greece was broken up into various city states, other little countries that refused to be conquered. While it was all Greece, there was a difference between a Spartan and an Athenian. Too many fights for power and the geopolitical landscape had torn them apart. Odysseus had his friends, though it would be more accurate to call them his allies, his country with whom he had sworn an oath to fight alongside. Each of those kings would be headed out their own separate way.” That felt right to Technoblade. “They were brothers in arms, finally called to war for the sake of their nation. But Odysseus ended up alone.”

“Why?”

“The people around him broke the rules. They went up against the sun god, and so they were punished.”

“What’d they do?”

“Oh, uh. Ate his cows.”

Tommy gasped.

“No!”

“Okay, so you get it. The Pet Skirmishes but on a much, much bigger scale.”

“Where’s Sapnap?”

“Tommy, it’s a myth, it’s not about your friends. They’re gods.” 

“Dunno why you’d tell a story about a bunch of boring, stuffy gods. Hey, why’re you such a bad storyteller?”

That was it. "I'm trying to monologue here! Chat, Chat see how impossible this is?"

“Tell chat that you’re a pussy! And I’m the coolest! TommyInnit is the coolest, got it?” Tommy’s eyes, which had held the murmurs of sleep, were now alive and vicious.

Undoing all of Technoblade’s work. And proving he didn’t understand Chat.

“Bruh.”

“I am!”

“For the third time now, if you will let me talk, I’m trying to tell the story.” 

“Right, right, sorry.”

“Odysseus was the only one who knew the warning signs. He had encountered the gods before, and he would rather starve to death than offend them. Because sometimes, Tommy, not offending people is a good thing, and making needless enemies makes the situation ten times worse.”

Tommy bit his lip. 

Techno continued.

“But no one ever listens to Odysseus. That’s one of the ironies of the story, Tommy. Often being right lets the hero escape with his life. Doesn’t mean he can save anyone else. Most of the time he doesn’t even save himself.”

“What?”

“I mean, I tried telling you. Heroes are doomed the moment they call themselves heroes. Odysseus never did, he was smart. It was the people that came later and told the story that did that. A hero is born through the crossing of the stars, something divine. Special. For all of his worth, the burden of expectation is put on his shoulders and then he battles with his pride. The Greeks had a word: hubris. It’s the hubris that strikes the killing blow. It’s never the beast or the gods themselves, it’s someone the hero has wronged. Odysseus wronged a monster, a cyclops, but even that was too far.”

Tommy was quiet. All of his focus was pooled into Technoblade.

“Odysseus played the part of warrior. Now it was time for him to be a survivor. See, it didn’t matter what the gods put him through, the trials or the tribulations or the meaningless delays. He had a mental image of what his home was. Ithaca. It had stopped being a real place. Instead it was an idea. A concept.”

“Oh.”

“And even when he was gone, trapped by witches and beasts, he kept that vision of home in his head. Because he was going to get there no matter what. It was all he had left of the world he knew. Even when he was offered another life, another world in what might have been a better place, he turned it down. Because it wasn’t what he wanted. He learned what being a hero meant, and now what he wanted was the opposite: to go home. To be normal. But the thing is, life doesn’t wait around for us to come back.”

Tommy glanced down to his neck. The lodestone compass shimmered in the dim light. His Tubbo.

“The world doesn’t care what your aspirations are, your nation, or your ideas. It doesn’t even care about your friends. The world doesn’t care if what you want does not want you. It doesn’t care, period. It’s cold. Survival is survival.”

-

"I want to be a hero when I grow up!"

"Oh, you do?" The man chuckled, furloughing his spade to sit down on the steps beside him. 

"What's the point of having a name like Technoblade if you're not a hero?" He shut the book in his lap, face beaming.

The young man's mouth opened before a scream rang out from inside the house, followed by shouting and yelling. 

The blond haired man sighed. He smiled back, then rolled his eyes. The man reached out and tousled his hair.

Techno laughed as the man’s voice echoed:

"How are ÿ̸̻͓́̑͐́͗̽͝͠ö̶̝͖̱̫̈́̑́͌͒̋ǜ̴͍͖̝̑̋ ̴̢̛̛̮̼̲͖̠̻̼̝̥̗̻̩̲̼̂̽͌̾̇͂̈́̾͐̅͘̚t̷̤͔̥̤̫̫̟̀̐̈́̿͐ḧ̴̡̘̦͔̠͎̰̬̼̜̺̮͎͚͛̈́ͅȩ̵̦̦̠̬̼͔̰̩̯̻̍̈́͐̌̓͆̀̉̑͗ ̸̪̤̣̏͒̚͜ͅm̸̗͇̘̮̥̮̪̤̯̤̞͉͗̾́͜ą̸̡̖̭̣̭͉͎̥̫̝̑̿̅̄̓͐̽̊̂͂̆͠͝ͅţ̶̮͚̰̂̀̈́̐͆͑̍͆͗͝͠ü̶̢̻͔̼͓̹̅̂̔̊̐̅ͅ��̺̯͙r̴͔̐̾͛ẽ̴̱̰̣̀̓̉̀̆̓̈̄ ̸̛̱͇̺̂̿͑̏̍̋͊͊͗̋̇̆͝o̴̬̙͚͇̳͎͆̇̌̐̿͂̓̄͛͝ͅn̵̨̈́̈́̂̋̐ͅe̷̛̟̱͖͙͙̩͆̊̆̓̂͒̈̍?̸͖̟̺͇̬̗̰̭̺͇͆͐̀͊́̄̍̀̅́͜

-

> home. 

> Tommy's still looking at you, you haven't spoken in a minute

> do you feel sick?? whats going on i just got here

“Blade?” And there was Tommy, with a drop of concern in his voice.

Technoblade shook his head. Late joiners. The memory crumbled to dust. 

He continued. “The Isle of Ogygia. That was where Odysseus’s survival took him. He stayed there, in the lull of the witch Circe, who wanted him for herself—”

“That’s sexist.”

“W-What?”

“The witch!”

“You think the witch is sexist?”

“No no no, the hero! He gets called upon—lured—by this woman just because he’s what, the hero?”

He could not believe this. “Tommy. I didn’t write it.” 

“I’m just saying!”

“The Isle of Ogygia. Or Atlantis, some people think it could be Atlantis, it honestly depends on what version you’re reading but that’s not important. Odysseus spent countless years there, safe but soulless. His heart was gone from his body, kept at bay with thoughts of home. Of family, of kinship. He was out of his body and mind for seven years. He was at the gods’ mercy, but fortune smiled upon him and he escaped.”

Techno took a moment to return his attention to his listener.

Tommy was transfixed, eyes wide.

For some reason, that made him smile.

“He made his way to one of his allied kingdoms. The gods, though, had shifted his appearance. This was to know how he still stood in their eyes. When so much time passes, relationships and bonds fade. Only his dog recognized him. The home he’d wanted for so long was plundered, practically destroyed. His wife—”

“He had a wife? That’s unrealistic.”

Technoblade repeated, annoyed: “His wife and his son didn’t recognize him. Only the dog.”

Tommy continued to ignore his point.

“Well dogs are good like that. I reckon dogs are better than most people."

Moving for the first time since the beginning of the story, he took a step towards the corner.

“Tommy, I’m trying to tell you that even though he won—He got everything he wanted, he got to go home—He didn’t win. His home was different. And he wasn’t the same man.”

“That’s—That’s sad.” 

Tommy stood up and Technoblade crossed his arms.

“It’s not a happy story.” 

"Then why are you telling it?"

“Forget about it.” If Tommy didn't understand, he wasn't going to waste any more time explaining. 

Tommy moved, shifting the cloak on his shoulders crooked. He opened the spruce doors, a strange expression on his face. Like a mixture of horror, fear, and anger. Technoblade recognized the anger first. Tommy looked back, stepped into the snow, then shut the door.

Techno thought, what? He’s going to throw a tantrum because a story doesn’t go how he wanted—

-

A white substance flitted down through the air like snow. Small, unburnt hands grasped upwards to try and catch it. They had only seen snow, never this new, fluffy, off-white plume.

The boy coughed up ash. 

“Hello? D̸̫̦̳̰͐̉ã̸̲̦̞̺͆d̶̗̒̐̕̕?”

-

Technoblade grabbed the edge of the box, stumbling. 

The memory—No, vision—was incompatible with reality. How would he have gotten to the Nether as a child? And Techno never had a father, never depended on anyone, never needed—

Before he could even begin to understand the implications, he was thrown back in.

-

He was lost. 

He was alone. 

And he couldn’t have known that enough inhaled ash will scar your lungs, burn your skin, and bury you beneath a mountain of suffocating fire the moment you stop moving. He couldn’t have known that the Nether contains biomes of this stuff.

Ash has suffocated him. It burns, searing his skin and cooking him alive. It’s like the fall of Pompeii. He read a book on Pompeii once. Perhaps in some distant time an archaeologist will discover the hollow shell of his remains and theorize what happened here, or a traveler, a survivalist happening along the same paths years later when he’s just a mound.

He read another book, once. About a volcano. It’s similar to that pyroclastic flow, a mix of awful molten core and heat. There’s no way to swim in lava, not truly. It doesn’t stop a thirteen year old boy from scraping for the surface in a pit.

He was going to die here.

It’s his coat that saves him. Handcrafted and made with love. The bottom half tears, and he loses a precious gift but gets to keep his life. 

Everything is burning. Is he screaming? His clothes are torn and he’s burning, he’s burning—

-

As quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Technoblade was instantly brought to the sensation of cracklings coals. He jumped at the sound, then looked down at his hands.

Hooves, right. Hooves.

This was too much to process.

Techno looked up.

He watched Tommy waddle to the front of the house in front of Carl’s stable, trudging through the snow the most inefficient way Technoblade could imagine. He was wiping his face.

For some reason, he thought it was something his good friend Philza would have a laugh at.

> PHILZA!!!

> Philza Minecraft?

> Philza would love it here

> The child is annoying, I hope he freezes to death

> I miss Philza

> Countdown to Philza visiting!

“Chat, you’re screaming into my ear right now.” He needed clarity, not a thousand voices in unison chanting for a friend.

Even from here, he could see that tears were pooling in Tommy’s eyes.

Technoblade didn’t bother with a coat. He ignored the sounds of the fire and how the heat made him feel uneasy, instead opting to climb down the ladder and go out the front door. Tommy was muttering to himself, a hand petting Carl.

“‘s not a happy story—What’s the point of telling a story if it’s not happy? I reckon he’s just one big downer. Downing all the time.”

It was then Techno decided to speak. 

“I’d say talking to yourself is a bad habit but since I can’t really do that without coming off like a hypocrite, I’ll tell you that being quieter usually means people can’t overhear sensitive, secret information.”

Tommy didn’t jump, but his shoulders hitched.

“I don’t care about secrets.” Tommy crossed his arms.

“Everything’s a secret when you can’t understand basic information people are telling you.”

“You don’t tell me anything!”

“I’m trying to tell you why people tell sad stories.”

“If I were his family, I would have recognized him.”

“No you wouldn’t have! That is literally the point of the story. You’re like five now, you think you’d recognize someone you saw as a baby?”

It happens a third time and Technoblade’s world spins.

> Recognize recognize recognize

> Is he finally remembering????

> idk, not yet?

> Ugh, someone get me when something interesting happens

> your dead, whats stopping you from watching all the time?

> It’s actually ‘you’re’

> where

> where?

> WHERE DID I ASK—

-

There is a house on a hill in the forest. It looks familiar, with a basement, a middle floor, and a top floor with stairs leading up from the outside.

There is a house beneath a hill in a fierce tundra. 

There was a house on a hill in a forest. It was a home too, once.

Both can theoretically exist at the same time. The house on a hill in the forest is perfectly ingrained in his memory, enough for him to replicate it bit by bit.

There is a boy with a beanie, taller than him. He wears a scowl.

There is a boy smaller than him with a bandage on his cheek.

Sunlight flows through the curtains like honey, oozing in warm delight. There is something resting on the bridge of his nose, and his fingers fly to adjust it.

He laughs.

The tiny freckled boy smiles and it shows his tooth gap.

A deep, tenor voice calls from downstairs and they rush to where storage is, the chests the dining room.

Their father is tired. There are bags under his blue eyes, but his smile lights up the room like the honey-light and like his brothers’ faces. He takes off his hat to sit at the table, a cape swishing behind him.

They’re singing at the table. Four humans with perfect harmony. They sing together all the time, how could he forget?

 The candles on the cake are flickering, and it’s a world away from the fires of the Nether.

“Happy birthday T̶̡͆̋́͝—”

-

Nothing else but static noise and Chat going wild.

“I’m sixteen! I am an adult man!” Tommy’s fists are balled as he stands, beating against his chest to each word and anger burns in his eyes until he sees his hero’s face. “Technoblade?”

His heart pounded.

-

The boy that Technoblade has been seeing through the eyes of is not an adult. Now he is a teenager. He is taller, the clothes more unfitting than before. There are stitches to fix the jacket, now forced to be a half-coat that tucks into his shirt.

He looks like the mockery of a man.

Actually, he doesn’t look like a man at all.

-

Technoblade remembered this part.

The rest had to be a daydream, the machinations of a tired mind. Separating his identity from his mask is impossible.

Literally.

-

He has forgotten what snow feels like. He has forgotten snow. There are many things Technoblade has forgotten, but the name of snow sticks. Snow. It sounds like a dream, like the deranged ramblings of a piglin who lost his mind, and like a fairy tale all at once.

He liked fairy tales, once. 

Now they’re just unrealistic.

The piglin group he is trailing turn to look at him. He’s been following behind them, scavenging whatever food they decide to discard and bartering whatever he can get his hands on. Their eyes are vacant, white. His eyes are present, despite his appearance. Alert. He has to be, it’s one mistake and death. 

The Nether is not forgiving.

He notices when their behavior shifts.

The piglins decide to attack. 

Technoblade sighs.

He doesn’t want to attack this one. There have been too many packs, too many attempts at communication, too many tries at a family.

Technoblade has no tools. He’s forced to work with his fists and some metal the pigs scrapped, which with enough tempering he’s made into knuckles. Netherite knuckles, but that knowledge will evade him until years in the future.

He busts one of the pigs’ heads open, then shoves another’s head into the netherrack wall. Blood spills on his boots. A tusk is embedded in his hand; he puts pressure on the wound then yanks it out, stabbing it into the head of the third. The fourth pushes into his back, and Techno slams his head back into its skull until it fractures.

The fifth runs off. 

And all at once, an uproar, a chant from a place and group he cannot see or hear.

It sings that Technoblade never dies.

-

All at once Chat was unanimous:

> Technoblade never dies.

> TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES

> technoblade never dies

> blood for the blood god!!!

> Techno never dies

> Technoblade never dies!

He nodded in agreement.

“Technoblade.”

Tommy laughed.

Techno realized he had convinced the child he was fine.

“Is that how you get the girls, Blade?”

“I’m not interested.” The art of combat and potato farming interested him more than girls. Or anyone, for that matter. 

“Are you crying?”

“No.” Tommy sniffed. 

“Here, let go of Carl.” Technoblade pulled Tommy away.

“But I wasn’t—”

“I killed everyone that ever touched that horse.”

“Okay, fine.” Tommy doesn’t move.

Techoblade can’t sigh because he’s already sighed too much and anything that exacerbates the situation will give him a headache. Instead, he picks Tommy up and lifts him over his shoulder. He chooses to say nothing in response as Techno headed inside and down, down, until they were both in Tommy’s little nest of shiny things and stolen goods. 

Tommy struggled to stay on the bridge of consciousness. Technoblade takes his hand and walks him all the way there, staying down in the pitiful hole until Tommy has tired himself out from the sound of his own voice.

It was hours before he risked stepping away from the bed.

Snow fluttered down. It was cold and wet, but it was snow; a miracle all the same. 

Technoblade stretched out a hoof. It was not the hand of a small child that was trapped in the Nether. It was a Piglin beast who had believed he'd never feel the cold again. 

Technoblade glanced out the shutters. Tommy was inside, falling asleep. The silence of the home told him as much. 

He pulled his hand back inside. 

The fire of the top floor crackled. Techno dipped his head forward. His hands clasped around an invisible buckle, hidden underneath his hair. 

As easy and simple as changing clothes, Technoblade the human stood in his retirement home. His height was the same, scars still present, but now a long unkempt braid of hair trailed down his back. It was ill-maintained, tangled and disgusting. A liability.

Without thinking twice, Technoblade took his sword and slashed the braid off.

-

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?!” Dream yells. It feels like the ground is shaking beneath them.

Techno stands firm. He’s towering above him, sword at his side.

“Nope. I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.” His voice is monotonous as always.

The green fiend stood hunched over his stomach, shoulders rising and falling to the tune of his ragged breaths. He knew that they didn’t need to breathe. It was all theatrics, even in the middle of a fight. Still, Dream’s voice was frantic, jittery, shaking, and loud; something Chat assured him they altogether had never seen in their combined existences.

Technoblade felt smug.

Technoblade made the grave mistake of hubris.

In a flash, the god is behind him. The god that can see the straps of his mask, the god that slices it off with a well-placed swordstrike and grabs him by his braid.

“Y’know, I really didn’t want to kill you. I’ve heard about you, a little bit. I just didn’t care.” He whispers into Techno’s ear as the pain tears into his scalp.

It only took a half-second for him to find a solution.

Dream was guarding from the left, expecting another hit to his mask. 

Technoblade swiped at the right.

In a flash, he’s cut off his braid of pink hair and freed himself from the clutches of his enemy.

He smirks, and pulls out his axe. He doesn’t need the mask to fight, it’s already a part of him.

“C’mere, Dream.”

-

That one. That memory is real and he has all the proof he needs of that. He turned over his hand and pushed up the brass knuckles to see the gashes along his finger from where he held the grip. He sets the hand-to-hand weapon on the crafting table as he massages his hands.

Soaking his fingers in instant healing should alleviate the pain. Even for a moment. 

Dream hit hard. The wounds never left. 

But Technoblade hit harder.

A burned hand reached out to the snowfall. 

The snow didn't burn back. 

"He's not me, Chat. We're keeping it that way."

If there was one thing Technoblade was good at achieving, it was his goals.

[starofroselight]

The next chapter of He Calls You Theseus is up! After two months.

TommyInnit doesn’t like stories that have sad endings.

How is he supposed to tell that to someone as invincible and all-knowing as Technoblade?

How is he supposed to convey that there’s an aspect to them so depressingly cutthroat that it catches him in his chest, bitter and real and full of frost, like drinking a potion of fire resistance. Stories are for having a go at a random dick with your mates, stories are tales of grandiose (big word but he vaguely knew what it meant) heroes and escapism—they’re not for tales of families forgetting one another. That sounds like a living nightmare.

Perhaps not so different from his current situation. If his life could be summed up in one word he’d choose nightmare. Reality has jumbled up and sense has vanished. Away from the rest of the server he had lost his sense of purpose. He was already a ship without a captain—a captain that had sailed toward the rocks in a manic frenzy—but now it was as if he had been thrown to the ocean and just managed to land ashore.

Boom. That metaphor was ten times better than Techno’s shitty story.

Tommy wishes he had someone to tell it to.

Read TommyInnit was Attacked by [Nightmare] here.

[starofroselight]

tommy and tubbo or tommy and wilbur "are you afraid to die" whichever youd rather do

I was considering Tommy and Wilbur for a bit, writing something for Reclamation and Destruction day but these soft end-of-S2 boys caught my heart instead.

-

"Are you afraid to die?"

There was a time Tubbo would never have posed these questions. A time when it was a hypothetical, never asked with gravitas or that sense of knowing.

They stand under the trees in summer shade. All goodbyes are behind them with the walk ahead looming before them. Despite his claims and apparent detestation of Tubbo being clingy, it is Tommy who has consistently turned back, Tommy who has held Tubbo's hand as they consult the map.

The question comes as Tubbo is looking away.

Tommy answers accordingly.

"I mean, no, because we're not going to!"

A strand of sunlight slips from the branches and into his face, illuminating a stripe of his blond hair. Tubbo remains in the dark.

"Everything ends."

"But not us, not here!" Tommy has energy, vitality, and life in him. When the odds are against him, he stands taller, higher, stronger. "And not yet! We're going to get back those discs and this whole thing will be over and done."

"I think you should answer the question."

"Wilbur said—"

"I don't care what Wilbur said. What do you think, Tommy?"

There's a sense of knowing that has settled into Tubbo's voice. It's unsettling, like a vine taking root next to a tree it will, without care and with great deliberation, choke to death.

Tommy rocks back and forth on his feet.

". . . no."

"Tommy."

It's a reprimand from a friend. A warning. A chance to change his answer before they march to their doom.

Tommy crumbles, because how does he not? It's Tubbo, and they are nothing without each other.

"Yes! What am I supposed to say? Big men don't fear death, big men don't fear anything!"

And Tubbo smiles. He does not chide Tommy for lying to him. He doesn't have the energy.

"Everyone's afraid of something. I used to be afraid of not getting to do anything. Of playing second base. I guess outfield? I don't know, I'm not good at sports metaphors. But I'm happy. We've done a lot in the world, haven't we? Not always for the best, but we've lived."

The speech dribbles on longer than Tubbo intends, awkward and clumsy like metaphors about lettuce, speeches on podiums.

Tommy's eyes go wide.

"Tubbo, you're younger than me. I haven't done a quarter of what I wanted to."

Silence.

"You talk like you're so much older."

"You sound like you haven't changed at all."

And Tommy can't take it any longer. There's a different question on his mind, a question he'd pushed back because of trauma. Pushed back out of fear of losing his best friend. But here it is, and it bubbles to the surface and spews out of his mouth before he can stop:

"Do you want to die, Tubbo?"

The shadows seem sharper. They twist around Tubbo's face as it tilts down, two little horns framing his head like a dim crown.

Tommy stands adjacent, the sun setting his hair alight like a star.

It's a light Tubbo has forgotten in his days of presidency. An optimism that refuses to yield.

He can't bear to shatter it.

Tubbo rolls up the map.

"Dream's up ahead."

Some questions inevitably go unanswered.