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“At ease, cadet. You might want to sit down for this,” Captain Puffy tells him, and Tommy sits apprehensively, rubbing sweaty palms over the knees of his uniform. There’s something in her eyes—something almost like pity. Tommy doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s not the next sentence out of the captain’s mouth, each syllable more impossible than the last.
“It’s about your brother—Captain Soot. He’s alive.”
(or, the absolutely unhinged crimeboys star trek au literally no one asked for.)
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Once, there was a president. Like many presidents, he was not a bad president, and unlike many others, he was loved. He was neither bad nor good, neither saint nor tyrant. He was, like all of us, simply a man, and a bit of a troubled one at that. In his quest to be good—or what he thought to be good—he threw himself into his work, spending late nights in his office, head buried in his hands over paperwork and policy.
And then one day, the president disappeared.
(or, wilbur soot's ghost, and the stories he becomes.)
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Wilbur says, “I wish we could try again.”
Tommy says, “Why don’t we?”
(or, L'Manberg; redeux, rebuilt, reunited.)
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Wilbur knows it’s a kindness, what they’re doing today. Techno told him, and Kristin told him, and Tommy held his hand when Wilbur hunched over his drawn-up knees when they both left to go foraging. They didn’t even need to tell him, really, because it’s obvious that Phil’s corpse is barely holding together the longer time goes on. Still, it doesn’t make him feel any better in the end, because kindness has never equaled easiness, and Wilbur is not ready to let go.
(or, six months ago, wilbur's father died, but he never really left. today they are holding a funeral.)
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“You said things were fine, last time we talked. In the postcard.”
Wilbur pivots a half-step to the side, twisting his shoulders away from Tommy, looking out over the pond, the ducks in the water with their fluffed-up feathers, the pigeons slowly fluttering down to the pavement and strutting around his feet like old friends. For an absurd moment, Tommy wonders if the birds know his brother better than he does.
“Yeah, well,” Wilbur says stiffly, voice straining for nonchalance and falling dramatically short, “I lied.”
(or, two days before christmas, tommy goes to visit his former foster brother in new york city. nothing goes as planned.)
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When Wilbur disappears from the darkened streets of their sleepy seaside college town, Tommy makes it his mission to find his best friend. There's just one problem—it looks like Wilbur's been Taken by the fey, and neither the town nor the Fair Folk take kindly to any kind of searching.
Things start to go wrong very quickly, starting, among other things, with a body beneath the belltower.
(or, faeries have rules, but tommy's never been one to follow them, is the thing.)
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It’s common knowledge that the Craft boys nearly died on Halloween. Now, there’s more to Wilbur’s shadow than there should be. He caught Tommy in the bathroom last week, spitting up wet, dark leaves into the shining enamel curve of the sink. Wilbur thinks maybe he sees too much these days.
(or, the over the garden wall au nobody asked for.)
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Somewhere along the line, he’s stopped thinking of Wilbur as best friend, as even friend, as anything but Wilbur or maybe just a faint feeling of regret, a dull-pulsing ache when he thinks about his childhood too late at night. One day, Techno thinks often, one day we won’t have been friends longer than we were. He keeps thinking it, no matter how much he wishes he could stop.
(or, after years of silence, wilbur reaches out. techno reaches back.)
Series
- Part 2 of autobiographies
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Summary
Depending on where you start, this is a story about a farmer.
There’s nothing particularly special about this farmer, mind you; he’s not especially devout or holy, nor is he powerful or renowned, and he is certainly no champion. He is, in every sense of the word, a farmer—just a mortal man, but a kind one at that.
His name is Phil, but we’ll get to that soon enough.
(or, in the beginning, there was a goddess. the farmer came later. an origin, of sorts.)
Series
- Part 1 of dear wormwood
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said the rabbit to the badger by Anonymous for squareupgod, hivemindscape
Fandoms: Dream SMP
08 Jun 2022
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Tommy turns back to face Wilbur, and as he stands in the shadow cast by an impossibly tall tower, painted in hues of the day’s last dying light, Wilbur feels the pieces begin to fall into place.
“Tommy,” he says, despairing and desperate, “what was this tower for, Tommy?”
(or, a kinder universe where crimeboys stay and talk and breathe.)
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Hello, my child, the lion says to him, voice deep and rumbling and just as a lion should sound.
Hello, Wilbur replies, and finds himself at its side with his hands buried up to the wrist in its bright mane. You aren’t real, he tells it. You’re a dream.
Can’t I be both? it asks.
(or, an sbi narnia au—but not quite how you think.)
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Pogtopia is not long for this world, but Wilbur has found the closest thing he can to contentment among the soft-rotting meat and grisly bones of a dying town. That is, until he can't leave well enough alone. Until he picks up mysterious signals on the shitty TV he found off the side of the road, and quickly realizes everything he knew about his life is a lie.
(or, in autumn, surrounded by radio signals and leaf rot and a town more dead than alive, wilbur wakes something he shouldn't have.)
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For a few days after the fact, it’s quiet—or, as quiet as things get for members of the most successful band in the last fifty years. It’s almost normal, like Tommy can close his eyes and pretend that today he’ll go into the studio to rehearse, and they’ll all be there waiting for him, Wilbur with his easy grin and Phil with his hand on Tommy’s shoulder and Techno with his begrudging fondness.
It’s almost like nothing bad ever happened.
And then the news breaks, the first stone in an avalanche, the first ripple spreading outwards, the first headline of dozens, hundreds, thousands.
(or, the SBI ABBA/band au no one asked for.)
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“We’ll get the bench out first,” Wilbur tells Tommy gently, because he knows him better than he knows himself. “That can be the first thing. We’ll get out your bench and your jukebox.”
The smile Tommy gives him is more grateful than he deserves.
(or, wilbur's made a lot of messes in his time. this once, he'll clean one up instead.)
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For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Tubbo leaves, Wilbur comes back. Lose one friend, regain another. Reactions—equal. Opposite.
I bet Newton never lost a best friend, Tommy thinks bitterly.
(or, wilbur left and wilbur's back and tommy is having trouble keeping friends these days, it seems.)
Series
- Part 1 of autobiographies
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Wilbur remembers the flare he pressed into Tommy’s hands so long ago, his promise of wherever you are, light it up and I’ll find you. No matter what. He remembers the forbidden tug of hope as he saw the billowing cloud of blue, blue, blue painting the sky above the undercity. Tommy’s eyes used to be blue like that. Blue and wide and innocent. Now they’re the same dangerous purple as Shimmer, shadowed by years of things he didn’t deserve to go through, things Wilbur doesn’t even know the extent of, and Wilbur? Wilbur is no big brother, is no hero here. He is a failure.
“I’m sorry, Tommy,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry. I should have been a better brother.”
(or, a crimeboys Arcane AU....with a twist.)
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There are leaves in Tommy’s hair, dirt smudged across his cheeks, dents in his armor. His hand not slapped across his mouth is fisted tight in Wilbur’s coat sleeve. His knuckles are bloodied.
Phil feels, quite suddenly, out of his depth.
(or, dream gets out of prison, and phil is not the only one at his base when tommy arrives.)
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A van by a river, a ragtag group of dreamers with blackstone in hand and dandelion dye smeared across their palms, a star-spangled sky above as the witness to their whispers of revolution and freedom—this is L’Manberg. This is their sonata form, the beginning of it all.
Here is how it starts: a shooting star, an impossible dream, a half-joking name laughed at in the dead of night.
(or, wilbur soot from beginning to end to beginning again.)
Series
- Part 5 of any day now
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I did it, Wilbur thinks, watching the houses flash by, his neighborhood falling away behind him.
When he turns, the conductor—Phil—is standing by the door into the train car, wearing a knowing smile beneath the shining brim of his hat.
“Welcome aboard, mate,” Phil says, and slides open the door with a flourish.
(or, the crimeboys Polar Express AU no one asked for.)
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In a way, Tommy had Wilbur, and Tubbo has Quackity. (Or maybe it’s the other way ‘round, Tommy has Wilbur because Wilbur is back, now, and Tubbo had Quackity, but he lost him somewhere between broken whiskey bottles and netherite pickaxes and poker chips.)
Tubbo’s not sure which is worse, anymore.
(or, quackity is determined to be alone. luckily for him, tubbo's having none of it.)