// Au, Dsmp, Rp

// au, dsmp, rp

- mentions of death, like, a heavy existential crisis

immortal phil au where he is actually an asshole. he's been alive for thousands of years, he's seen people fall innocent or guilty, he's gotten attached and lost everything and repeat more times than he can count.

but after it happens so often - that's all people are to him. an hourglass, with its sand slowly but surely running around, a ticking bomb that could blow his heart to pieces again at any time, for he only knows the timer exists, he doesn't know what time it displays.

he meets techno, someone who's lived for a little bit longer than others - centuries are meer child’s play for phil - and techno is, well. valuable. he's a skilled fighter, and he's clever, and he's fun to be around.

and so phil indulges- but keeps his distance. goes with techno on adventures, starts empires and begins great tales, takes him on flights and resource runs and teaches him, all the while they're happy, and phil's happy, and he's occupied until inevitably techno passes and he'll be on his own again.

there's nights in the empire where techno will almost reach out, almost, almost. he holds out his hand - metaphorically - and almost begs phil to follow, to slide his hand in his and let techno lead them forward for once, to great times of wars and conquer, and phil looks away, backs out, raises his walls and leaves until it gets better, because he- he's better than this, he doesn't get attached, he doesn't need techno in his life, this is just a momentary little friendship that he can milk experience and reputation from until techno dies- that's what he tells himself.

but he's scared, somewhere deep- terrified of opening his heart once more to someone who could throw it in his face the next year, month, day, hour, if he's not careful, because he so painfully knows techno's timer exists and beeps loudly but he doesn't know when it will go silent and play out the last breaths techno will ever take.

and before he knows it, every day spent on his own, every night spent ignoring techno's hitched breath and darkened eyes glossed from nightmares, every day spent dodging techno's attempts at something more, something like a warm presence for his cold eternal heart - he can't wait to get back to techno. he always takes a step back, raises his shield and throws on a brave face, but then he's longing to be spending the nights around campfires again, craving that warm sunlight as they lay in the fresh grass and enjoy the warmth of the rare summers in the arctic.

he didn't mean for it to be this way, he didn't mean for techno to become something- something more than just a playful hot potato game with the slowly emptying hourglass techno really is, but he can't handle life without techno anymore, can't imagine himself without him, because when he wakes he thinks if techno's slept well, when he cooks their food he thinks if techno prefers salted over sweetened, and when he shivers out in the wild arctic he thinks, is technoblade cold, or is he huddled around the fireplace and cozy and everything phil longs to be at night?

and then he finds himself wasting his days away pouring over old books full of knowledge that even transcends him, the bags in his eyelids getting heavier and limbs drooping, aching with lack of sleep as he trails over every word, searching.

immortality, life expansions, revival, resurrection.

he finds nothing.

and then he screams, and screams again, and throws the books into the fireplace with as much hate as he can muster, because they're the reason techno will be dead, the reason why techno's hourglass will shatter and scatter all the precious sand for phil to try and fail to pick up and repair.

he wails and he breaks swords against walls and he cries, loud and raw and heartbreakingly open for the universe to see, because there's no denying or helping it anymore; techno's going to leave him, and he'll be alone, and the warm days will turn withering and freezingly cold, because no matter how much the sun tries to hold him together for a little more, without techno, he'll never be whole again.

he comes back, eventually, thinks it must be the world's disgusting sense of wicked humor that forces him to walk up to the empire's doors again- no, not forced. he wants to be here. he needs to.

and he's open again, back in techno's arms and throat too hoarse to talk, but techno understands and looks at him with eyes that threaten to pull phil all the way down to the bottom of the earth and leave him longing, longing to see the amusement and joy and cheer in techno's eyes instead.

and that night he dusts the old libraries, sets his bed, wipes down the windows and cooks them a meal for the night, and as he looks out into the wild arctic he feels no need to leave anymore.

that morning, he wakes next to techno, and makes breakfast with techno, and feeds their chickens with techno, and he thinks, cathartically in some fucked up way, techno will die one day. he will pass, he will close his eyes for the last time and breathe out the final breath. and phil will be okay.

phil will be okay because when that day comes he'll be there, right by his side, holding his hand and leading him to the other side, and he'll be okay because they'll have precious memories and adventures behind them, and phil will be there for them all.

he'll grieve, and he'll be alone, but he'll be okay, because he'll never leave techno's side again. he doesn't long for immortality, or to have a dance with death to drop to his knees and beg, not him, please not him, not yet, because it'll be okay in the end, whenever techno's day will be, because regardless of what happens, phil would have been there, and he would have made techno's life outweigh the pain in his burning heart.

Wednesday in Wyoming

—From July 10 2021

TW // cults , possession , murder , death of parent , confinement , sacrifice , mentions of blood , mentions of gore

Wednesday. It’s a day of the week that eliminates at least half of your primary school spelling bee competitions. It’s a day that marks the half-way point to freedom, and to Techno, it’s a hard day of the week to stay alive through.

Techno was a young boy. He was but six when he was first possessed. It was by a lesser demon, but to such a small vessel, such a tiny mortal, it didn’t seem that way. Maybe this was better, that the demon decided to possess a small boy, because if it had decided to possess a grown adult, who knew what damages it may have caused. His parents didn’t do much to help, and it wasn’t that they were clueless either. It was not even that they did not believe in the supernatural. No, they were the ones to call upon the demon, although their target wasn’t necessarily intended to be their own son.

Techno grew up in a cult. It operated in a ruined, vacant house in the middle of nowhere, in good old Wyoming. Wyoming’s a strange state. It’s very barren for how beautiful it is, and very little of it is talked about by anyone else, including it’s own inhabitants.

It’s Wednesday in Wyoming, and Techno had just been possessed in the basement of the cult’s meeting place.

It was somehow, someway, somewhat going to plan. Someone had been possessed (Though once again, the target was not meant to be the child) and the sacrifice had been planned. What was not prepared for however, was the demon’s own bloodshed. A man was killed that day, guts spilt all over the newspaper covered walls and remains burnt to dust upon the satanic circle that was only seconds ago used to call open the spirit. Claw marks that could not belong to anything of this realm littered the man, and black veins popped up across the skin, making the man look more demonic than dead. No one was called, and no one let the word get out. The body was dumped in a lake in the middle of a national park, and nothing else came of it.

It ended underwhelmingly, and Techno had just been possessed in the basement of the cult’s meeting place. No one said a thing, including any comforting words to the confused and dazed Techno. Demonic possession at a young age couldn’t go well though, the world just wouldn’t allow it, no matter how competent you were calling for the possession or no matter how well you could banish the thing. So, he was left with the Voices. He named them, not long after, Chat, as they were all but silent. He almost went insane once, and he wondered if secretly, that was what the higher people in the cult had wanted, so he, out of spite, and for his own sanity, learnt to control them. He fed them ideas and treats, gave them what they wanted so long as it was mostly harmless, and in turn, any other time that he demanded it of them, they would stay quiet and well-put, at the back of his mind, only making a small quip here and there.

So his childhood went. Demonic possessions and nothing good to come of it.

So their childhoods went, demonic possessions and nothing good to come of it.

Their name was Tubbo, years had passed and it was another Wednesday in Wyoming. He was born into the cult as was Techno, although his case was a little more unfortunate. His parents were traitors of the cult; they had demanded they be let go and live out their life in silence, but of course, such a community that killed it’s members in flocks and made such festivals out of them, strung their bodies across laundry lines to serve as party streamers and using roadkill as a table for all their festivities and feasts, of which none knew the ingredient, would never let anyone go willingly, not unless they were out of their minds- more out of their minds than usual.

So, they were killed. Not killed, not physically, but tortured until they couldn’t think of anything but pain, and could not move a muscle, left at their homes and set up as if props so it looked as if they had simply tried to commit a lover’s suicide, only to fail trying to overdose. The reason? Their son had disappeared and his room was covered in blood, which could only lead them to think of the worst. The cult had been more active recently to top it off, and his parents were old and ragged; already mad as were side effects of joining such an inhumane society, if you could call any group of anything inhumane societal at all, if being social meant being living, and sane.

Everything made sense for their neighbors, and they were carted off to mental asylums, as they screamed for mercy and the accompaniment of god.

Tubbo was left alive though. His adoptive parents were humans, but being a hybrid, adopted out of pity, he was more than valuable, especially since he had only, on his most recent birthday, grown horns, the horns of a goat- the second best thing that the cult could have.

‘Descendant of the relative’ was his title, (and of course the cult was not referring to his parents, traitors, ‘Relatives’ in any sense of the word; it was something else entirely) They never spoke a word of them anymore, and out of self-preservation, he had never asked. Being older, he didn’t bother anymore, having already tied the loose ends together. He was pale, being deemed missing then dead, but unlike how the world knew of him only until he was a boy, he knew enough of the world beyond his age of ‘boyhood’ through the newspaper clippings that were brought in every so often, helping him see what had happened without the cult knowing.

Small child, naïve child, Descendant of the Relative.

Descendant of the Relative, what words do you have for us today? Would you talk of the light, that shone through the cracks of the ceiling boards at exactly 5 am everyday, that woke you up from your place on the bed, or will you inquire of the spirit whom punished the traitor of yesterday? Will you ask for the water which keeps you alive, or will you beg for even a morsel of a crumb of a crumb, as you have starved in this ‘wretched place’ as you have christened it? Descendant of the Relative, be not foolish, for you cannot die with such holy blood in your veins.

Descendant of the Relative, the title drove him mad, and Techno watched him from his seat every meeting, the scrawny child growing and growing to only serve as another sacrifice which would fail to fulfill the prophecy that was but a fluke.

And Techno would watch, unable to offer the morsel of a crumb of a crumb, or offer the dew from the leaves from the flora that littered the paths outside, all which gathered in speckles from the rain yesterday. He would wonder if he was still sane at all if not for the glimmer of hope, of escape, of which that collected in his eyes with every news of the cult’s doings outside, recognized only by those who shared the sentiment.

Tubbo wanted to escape,

Techno did too.

Techno despised his Wednesdays, and Chat shared the same sentiment, although for wildly varying reasons. He wondered if they had a life of their own sometimes, when he was left to himself, as they talked of various jobs and resources and duties that he didn’t know a speck about. Then, he’d brush himself off, as those were the thoughts of a madman.

Madman that he was, he attended the Cult only less frequently as he did the Church. He knew the Cult knew, although he knew as sure as they that they thought it was only a cover. He stared at the empty isles of Friday, basking in the silence that came with self-employment. Flexible work hours, flexible free time. 6 am on a Friday, he’d listen to the bible readings voiced by his one and only friend.

Phil was a priest who had attended the same college as him. He initially approached him for a group project, and things had worked out from there. He decided to become a priest upon graduation, no hesitation in his voice as he spoke of his plans. It was unexpected, hearing such sureness from someone only freshly out of the education system, but with religious parents, he had support every step of the way.

Techno stared at the robed man, seeing the peek of green fabric under it. The same green collared shirt every day, which never seemed any more worn than last year. He wondered if he replaced it often, or if his clothes were simply well-maintained. The pristine priest in front of him seemed too distant from the friend he knew, although he didn’t enjoy it any less. Words upon words and verses upon verses, voice having never once cracked since he had chosen his profession. He wondered if it really was a holy calling, a gift, having experienced possession before and believing in the otherworldly. The Voices chimed in, adding their own theories and questions for the man.

They didn’t know much about him, having tuned out more often than not during his years at the boarding school. Day and night, nothing but studying, he understood why they might’ve been bored.

“Amen,”

“Amen.”

Tommy ran down the halls. It was Friday which meant that there would be no one present in prayer except Phil and Techie. He burst down the doors as they finished up their prayers, Phil looking up just in time to catch his eyes. “Ah Tommy, it’s good to see you.” “Good to see you too, old man!” He ran up to the cabinets on the sides, sneaking a few crayons into his pockets. Phil never minded. Techno grumbled, getting up from his seat in the pew, seeing his friend was back to off-duty mode.

“Want to go grab some lunch?”

“What time?”

Lunch was plain. Some tomato pasta at a family restaurant ran by one of Phil’s many friends- and a foster parent for a kid named Ranboo. He was serving them right now, parents busy finishing up orders in the kitchen. The walls were well worn and the marble tiled floor was slightly tinted, but it all came together to make a comforting atmosphere. Maybe it was only because he was used to messes bigger and nastier than this. The pasta was good, as usual. He looked at the awkward kid taking down orders, too tall for his age and fidgeting every other second. His tail was out of sight which meant that he had hid it for some of the more racist customers. It was effective, as he was a late bloomer and his horns had been completely covered by the fluffy mess that was his hair. You could only be able to tell if he told you or you tried touching it.

“A glass of lemonade, water, a kid’s meal and two breakfast specials…” He muttered as he passed by, voice quickly masked by the dull chitter chatter all about.

“He’s a good kid, helping out.”

He only bothered to nod, eyes fixed on the glint of gold in the kid’s hair.

Tubbo was a lonely kid. Fifteen and growing. His sixteenth birthday was coming up, and he had to devise a complete plan and a backup for his escape. He knew what happened to parentless cult-born kids such as himself, and he’s sure they said the word ‘sacrifice’ at least thrice the usual amount around him.

He thought he’d never see the full sun, never see the outside until a week ago when they had to move locations due to the possibility of a bust by authorities. The cult was in a panic, moving the most incriminating things first before the smaller artifacts and trinkets. Blood soaked newspapers were torn off and burnt, and the whole place was scrubbed down clean with at least fifty different chemical products. They were on the run in small groups, and him and a newer lad was paired together, disguised as brothers. They ended up taking a break at a restaurant, the other’s stomach growling like a wild beast. He was allowed a meal, a proper meal, and he met another kid his age. Today was an eventful day.

“It’s Ranboo actually,”

“Whatever Boo”

The kid had flushed, clearly not used to intimacy from strangers, and they quickly made good friends. He wasn’t able to ask about too many things, even under the gaze of the careless man on the phone. He may have some freedom now, but the man wouldn’t be too idiotic as to let him discuss ‘forbidden topics’ such as anything concerning the outside. The conversation was dull in that way, but they ended up with a friendship ring each, a small trinket made from one of those crafting wires that Ranboo had leftover from a science fair.

Ranboo’s was gold,

His was silver.

They were almost matching.

The ring was tucked away in the furthest corner of Bee’s pocket, the worn yellow jacket from childhood that no one bothered to wash except himself.

Ranboo thought a lot about that kid from a few days back, and the ring on his growing horns felt heavier each time.

Though this was only for the moment that he was thinking of him.

Only for the moment.

Mond. [Never finished, July 22 2022]

The rustle of the winds,

The ruse of the gale,

The gaze which imbues.

It’s lies an everlasting rune

An unquestioned rule.

Bespoke the breeze which said with a smile,

“What a joke.”

0. Origin. Creation. The Begining.

Tether to-and-fro, the frocks of the maidens and lasses, the laughter that hops buoyantly over the air, the smell of luncheons.

Yes, this was home and more, the land which was once miles over, moved on-to a better place, under his jurisdiction.

Did you know, that Mondstadt was once even more mountainous than Liyue? Whispers and laughter is what now fills the air, but once those were powerful gales which pierced even the land itself. Those were which the first birds flew on, and now those angry winds are gone, alongside the previous rule and the mountain caps. Now the natural terrain doesn’t train on those sharp airs funneled through high peaks, but calm and gentle ones said to match each breath of Barbatos.

It’s strange, how much change could happen over the span of 400 years. It’s strange, what something as elusive as corrosion could do. Because of it, a dragon lies, crystalline tears bead right on it’s golem cheeks, several feet underground, under a monument marked with stone which remembers it only as a mad thing of no life.

It’s terrifying, waking up after several years of slumber, and seeing all of which once you cherished, to have undergone such significant changes, it is the reason why he prefers dreaming, drowning under the illusions of booze or straight to slumber underneath a breezy canopy or in the rough sheets of the inn.

It is why he forsakes the present and deigns everything around it. He can only afford to look forwards, with nothing else to think of but the necessities.

It hurt when he had to acknowledge Stormterror’s pain, and that he had both failed as a friend and as an Archon. But with little to lean on and feeling lost, he had been unable to lift a finger until someone else had passed by. A girl with bright hair and bright eyes, with a small chatterbox companion; their name, Lumine. A new face, but it was not unwelcome, as he gazed from afar her feats and willingness to help save Mondstadt.

In a way, it was also a punch in the gut, as this completely unheard of traveler from afar, managed to do the responsible things and managed to save both his friend and Mond when he could not.

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muddleufflwe

3 years ago

— checkmate

Tubbo looked up at his best friend, grinning.

“Checkmate,” Tubbo said victoriously, moving his queen to Tommy’s final piece and knocking it off the board.

“Let me win for once,” Tommy moaned, sighing heavily.

“And have you bragging in my ear for the next two months? I don’t think so,” Tubbo shook his head, setting up the pieces so that they could play again. He glanced at Tommy, and catched him looking at Tubbo whilst chuckling.

“What’s so funny?” Tubbo raised an eyebrow, folding his arms and watching Tommy closely.

“We’ve been doing this all day - are you not bored?” he asks, leaning against the back of his chair and crossing his legs. Tubbo frowned again, catching his gaze and briefly admiring his enchanting grey eyes, before finally responding.

“How could I ever be bored of spending time with you?” Tubbo asked softly, making his first move on the chess board. Tommy watched Tubbo, looking pitiful, and doesn’t make his move.

“I’m glad, but…” he sighs, staying completely still whilst still looking at Tubbo. Tubbo sat upright against his chair, waiting for Tommy to continue.

“You need to remember that I am dead,”

Tubbo blinked, and when his eyes are opened, Tommy’s gone. Vanished, as if he was never there. Just like that, Tubbo was alone again, sitting in front of his chessboard playing with nobody.

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muddleufflwe

5 months ago

Why are you waiting for me to become a trend after I die? Why are you waiting for my story to become a hashtag and my pictures to become sad posts?

You can save me now, make a real difference in my life and the life of my family.

Help me while I am alive, don't make me another number on the list of dead. Donate, raise your voice...

do something that makes the world pay attention to us before it's too late...

gofundme.com

Donate to Help Nesma and her family evacuate, organized by Mena K

Nesma Ahmed is raising funds to help her family evacuate from Gaza. Currently, Gaza has been… Mena K needs your support for Help Nesma and h

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muddleufflwe

4 months ago

Dear Generous donors

I hope u all fine.

Our lives have become very difficult. There are no minimum necessities for life , there is nothing .

I came to you today to tell you about a dream before my birthday, which is 11/11. I hope to reach our first goal, which is for Amira.(5000 usd )

Plz if anyone see this post 5 Aud make difference .

https://gofund.me/65d3c667

Sorry for sharing 😞🙏

@bilal-salah0 @appsa @feluka

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muddleufflwe

5 months ago

Give me your attention, please ✋

My campaign has stagnated💔

I am like you, exactly like you.

I was a successful person in my life; I have always been proud of myself, and my family was proud of me too. I had a life, dreams, and ambitions that I was striving for. My life was full of lectures, volunteering, teaching students, and adventures, but for more than 389 days, all of this stopped completely! Can you feel my broken heart? Can you imagine how I feel at this moment? Tell me what I can write for you to feel me and offer help to me and my family by donating and sharing?!

Hello, I'm Ola, a graduate student from the faculty of science - Al-Azhar University in G@za P@lestine. I truly appreciate you taking a moment to read my story. As you reading my message, myself and my family, “my mother, father, three sisters, and my little brother,” are trying to survive under all kinds of suffering including but not limited to fear, instability, and starvation, thirst, and poverty in northern G@za.

After the prices went up so crazy, I created this campaign to help my family provide food, drink and essential needs. I know for sure that you can't help all families that want your help but at least you can help those who come across your life.

I sincerely hope you can empathize with our dire situation and consider supporting us.

And yes, even the smallest amount can help because it's all about a collection of these small amounts until we reach our final goal and be able to rebuild our lives.

I am the eldest daughter who has to help herself and her family, but of course I will not be able to do it alone. Will you help me with that?!

Thank you for standing by me. ❤️

Please donate and/or reblog 🥺🙏🇵🇸

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Donate to Ola's Family Call for your Support Amid Crisis, organized by Nesma Khazendar

Hello, I'm Ola, a graduate student from the faculty of science - Al-Azh… Nesma Khazendar needs your support for Ola's Family Call for your S

My campaign has been vetted by:

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muddleufflwe

3 years ago