Find your tribe in a Sea of Creativity
There is a quiet, fleeting, moment, when the blade sinks itself into his ribcage and just below his heart, where the world whites out at the edges. He feels his lungs rattle in his chest, feels the metallic taste of blood well up from the back of his throat. He feels Phil’s shaking hands, tremors running down the metal and into his spine and his throat and the lips he so lightly twists into a smile.
“Hey, Phil.” Wilbur says, feeling his father slip further down, head bowed in grief. “It’s cold.”
Phil keens low and quiet into his chest, singed wings draping over Wilbur, trying their best to block out the cold he knows comes from somewhere within him. He appreciates the gesture nonetheless.
He hears fireworks in the distance, and sees blue and red through the feathers. L’manburg colors. He silently thanks his brother for the last reminder of his symphony, his unfinished verse. He wonders if his death will be a finishing bar, or perhaps a catalyst for a new measure. He wonders if Tommy knows that the mantle has been passed, and that he’s sorry for the weight that ties a noose around his younger brother’s neck. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he wants to plead, you’re not supposed to carry the weight of my failures on your shoulders. He hopes Tommy runs away, that he leaves this unfinished song and go write for himself a new one, a happier one.
“Are you proud of me?” Wilbur finds himself whispering, half hoping Phil doesn’t hear, and finding himself feeling too tired to care. He supposes death did that to a person. Leaves them tired and cold and strangely light. Phil’s hands don’t stop shaking, and red paints his palms and fingers and the hem of his cloak. Wilbur huffs a laugh at his father’s silence.
“You don’t have to answer that, I think I know what you’re gonna say anyway.” Wilbur says, swallowing back a lungful of blood and air, bringing a hand up to card through the man’s blond hair. Phil shudders. “I wouldn’t be proud of me either.”
Phil lets out a broken sound at this, and somewhere in Wil’s bleeding chest, he feels a twinge of shame.
“Forget about me, Phil.” Wilbur says into the air, feeling sweat and blood and tears drip down his chin. It stains the tips of Phil’s hair. “It’ll be easier that way, I think.”
Phil brings a hand up to clutch at Wilbur’s arm, head still burrowed in his fast reddening shirt, and Wilbur stifles a gasp at where the movement jars his wound. The elder’s breathing is shallow, he opens and closes his mouth, words caught in his throat, like he’s choking on them.
“Don’t cry, Phil.” Wilbur hums, voice thready and thin in the ash filled air, “I don’t want that to be the last thing I hear.”
Phil sobs, and his back shakes with the weight of his grief and his loss. It must be agonizing, Wilbur thinks, to mourn your son while he still speaks. Then again, that won’t last for much longer.
Wilbur strokes his father’s head, though his fading strength only allows him to curl his fingers, helpless as it falls wayside to the ground.
“You’ll be fine, dad.” Wilbur whispers, “You did the right thing. You got rid of the big bad, like the hero in the stories you used to tell.”
Phil wails harder, and Wilbur thinks that maybe being a hero isn’t as appealing when it causes good men to cry.
“I’m tired.” He sighs, feeling his eyes slip shut, “I’ve been awake too long.”
Phil reaches out with trembling fingers, bloodstained palms cradling his cheek.
“I l-love yo u.” He chokes, the words broken and jilted, like a song through a broken speaker.
Wilbur feels his smile slip a bit, and bites back a strangled laugh, because Phil doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to have to paint the floor red with his own son’s blood. Another tally on his faults, he thinks, another red name for his ledger of wrongdoings. Even on his dying breath, he hurts the people he loves.
“I love you too.” He says, instead, because he refuses to leave without letting his father know that he loves him. That whatever happens, whatever consequences he’s left blazing at his wake, Wilbur soot does not hate his father. That this isn’t some sort of cruel punishment or last hurrah. He thinks that maybe he just wants to be held, and that sleep comes so much easier when he’s safe in the arms of his childhood hero and protector. “I love you so much.”
The static in his head grow louder, and he feels his heart give a shudder, and a beat, and the dark encroaches quickly, and through the gauze he hears a broken scream. Then, nothing.
i like phil being near-immortal, and i like techno being near-immortal alongside him, but i think that it works better when their specific brands of immortality are different. u know?
so it goes a little something like this:
The first time they meet, Philza is still young. Not young, you understand, but young enough that he has not yet been cut down to stark and jaded utilitarianism. He sets out on a journey into the nether and feels a tug on his sleeve and looks down to see some wide-eyed little piglin child whose parents are nowhere to be found, and his heart stirs.
So he teaches him: combat and farming and life in the Overworld, all of the knowledge that he’s gained over the years. Raises the boy like a son.
It takes twenty years before war starts building in the neighboring empire. Twenty years before the piglin child — now grown, of course, but still so desperately young — offers his service. Like he wants blood on his hands, like he wants to make somebody pay.
Phil buries him before the war is over.
He’s lost people before, of course. So many people. But it’s been a long time since those people were family. He plants a tree on top of the grave, a tiny sapling behind their home — his home now — and makes a promise to himself to stop getting attached.
The second time they meet, the sapling is fully grown.
The soul that will one day call itself Technoblade comes gasping into the world again, trembling memories of wings and violence that flit around the edges of his consciousness when he’s suspended between sleep and wakefulness, and he grows up a fighter. Bruised knuckles and scars that crisscross his back and shoulders like delicate lace, and when he runs into a man who holds himself with world-weary poise and the same wings that have haunted Techno’s dreams, he feels a jolt down his spine.
“Sorry, mate,” says the man. “You just reminded me of someone I used to know.” “Oh,” says Technoblade.
They get four years together this time before Phil has to plant another sapling.
Techno lives through six lives before Phil’s certain that it’s the same man every time. There’s another voice added to the chorus in each one, another whisper in his ear demanding things of him; at night, his dreams are full of a man with long blond hair and gray-purple wings and cold blue eyes. The memories slip through his fingers like sand whenever he tries to get a solid grasp on them, but the surety with which he holds a sword can only come from years of muscle memory that he’s never practiced.
They say that ‘Technoblade never dies.’ And it’s a lie, but there’s some piece of truth in it: Technoblade dies, and then he comes home again.
There’s a room for him in Phil’s house, kept tidy and waiting in his absence. There’s a journal that Phil keeps, writing down the history of each new lifetime, so that when they find one another Techno will be able to remember. There’s a vault beneath the floorboards that holds bits and pieces of the lives that Techno’s lead, armor and items and memories. There’s a place for him in the world, and Phil keeps it carefully maintained for the next time he finds it.
One lifetime becomes ten lifetimes becomes a thousand lifetimes.
It’s never quite the same, of course. Techno’s a grown man, battered and beaten and bitter but still standing tall; Techno’s a child, tugging on Phil’s sleeve like he did so long ago and asking if they’ve met before; Techno’s already in old age, battle-scarred but determined to track down the man he sees in his dreams. Sometimes they raze empires together, side by side in a blaze of glory. Sometimes they’re content to simply live in one another’s company. Sometimes they don’t meet at all.
Phil’s journal becomes a library, his vault an archive. The valley he lives in goes from open grass to a dense forest of trees that are planted in far-too-orderly rows to be natural.
And for every life that Techno leads, Phil’s always the one to bury him.
Tommy is dead. The server reacts.
(word count: 1,732)
—————
“What have you done?”
His voice is a reedy whisper, thin with horror and the realization that he is too little, too late. He doesn’t expect the sound to carry over the lava, but a response comes soon enough.
“He wouldn’t stop talking. And he killed the cat.”
Dream’s voice is even, calm, almost a bit defensive, as if he truly believes that he is justified in his actions. Sam swallows down his mounting nausea, places his trident against the floor to steady himself. The lava crackles, hisses, bubbles, orange and glowing, and he can’t cross it. Not now. Not when the security threat remains unresolved. Not when any wrong move on his part could very well mean Dream’s escape.
But he’s already made the wrong move, hasn’t he? Made the wrong move, and Tommy has paid for it. Has been paying for it, this whole last week. He kept him in there, kept him locked in a box with Dream even though he knows very well how it would effect him, kept him locked in with the reasoning that it was temporary, that he would let him out as soon as he could, that he couldn’t risk Dream’s release for anyone, even for Tommy.
But it’s not temporary.
Tommy was sixteen and loud-mouthed and bright-eyed when Sam last saw him, when he said that this would be the last time, that he was going to put his past behind him and look to a new start. Tommy will always be sixteen and loud-mouthed and bright-eyed, and locked in a box. There will be no new start. No seventeenth birthday. No triumphant return, no shining hotel. No tricks, no scams, no pranks.
Seguir leyendo
“Vibrations”
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By celestialwarden on AO3
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Dream, Tommy decided, was a dickhead— and Tommy didn't listen to dickheads anymore. Not after Wilbur and his promises of grandeur, not after Schlatt and his stupid fucking decree, and especially not after Technoblade and his egotistical stories.So instead of jumping off his tower and watching his brains go splat on the ground by Logstedshire, Tommy let himself fall into the water.Or,Tommy runs away during exile and finds a place and people to help him heal. Set over a span of four years.
°°°°°
▪︎Status : Completed
▪︎Length : 121K word / 33 chapters
▪︎TWs : Graphic Depictions Of Violence
•Additional Tags : Minor Character Death , Temporary Character Death , Implied/Referenced Character Death , Suicide Attempt , Suicidal Thoughts , Self-Harm , Blood and Injury , Panic Attacks , Mental Health Issues , Unreliable Narrator , Emotional Hurt/Comfort , Fluff and Angst , Running Away , Selective Mutism , Sign Language , British Sign Language , Character Development , Platonic Relationships , Queerplatonic Relationships , Family Dynamics , Accidental Baby Acquisition , Hybrids , Minecraft , Angst with a Happy Ending , It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better , Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence , TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF) , Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF) , Runaway TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF) , Traumatized TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF) , BAMF TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF) , Selectively Mute Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF) , welcome to the Sean Stan Army
[Link] :
https://archiveofourown.org/works/29748201/chapters/73172268
Rate : 9/10 ”one of my favorite fanfictions where the story is very interesting given there is an OC and Sign Language, I really found it comforting too, and even though it's long It's worth it, the description is perfect and I feel like this story should have more attention, love the work” ❤️💙♥️
“I just want to live normally but I accidentally adopted 2 princes in the novel world”
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By Kinanyann on AO3
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Tommy got reincarnated in a novel and found himself 2 runaway prince's. Damn. He knew how the novel will end, but he doesn't give a shit as long as he can take care of himself and stay away from the plot story, he'll be fine.He's wrong though .
°°°°°
▪︎Status : Completed
▪︎Length : 33K word / 11 chapter
▪︎TWs : No Archive Warnings Apply
• Additional tags : Alternate Universe - Reincarnation , Second Chances , Minor Violence , Prince Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF) , Prince Toby Smith , Platonic Relationships , Fluff and Angst , Clingy Toby Smith | Tubbo Dark SBI , allium duo , clingy duo , Protective Toby Smith | Tubbo , Protective Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF) , Character Death , Mild Gore , Blood and Injury
[Link] :
https://archiveofourown.org/works/36949882/chapters/92186305
Rate : 8/10 ”I don't know what to say honestly, the story got me on a rollercoaster of emotions, and I still need to process the ending , definitely not a plot twist ending ahaha , and yes totally one of those writers who enjoy the tea of tears >:,) , but despite that, i liked the story, and it has a good plot”