#snekker's snippets

[snekkyfics]

trying to deal with bad news. have some emduo fic.

~~~

Maunsia truly is the backwater of the North. Not so much a snowflake as a grain of dirt buried beneath them, slimy and slippery and tiny enough that they’d managed to get away with just about everything before the Antarctic Empire ran out of more available targets.

Techno’s not even sure that Maunsia is officially recognized, or if it’s even on the map.

Which would track, from what little he’s seen - and everything about it was certainly little – supported the half-cracked jokes among the men about it being a hideaway for the rich and deplorable.

And all those tracks led to fruition the moment Maunsia’s ‘king’ entered.

He was the picture of every stupid king in every fairy tale Techno had ever heard, and somehow managed to look half as bright. All trussed up in all sorts of gaudy fabrics and jewelry, twice as much as he should reasonably need in the cold, if he had the sense to invest in hardy wool and good tailors, which he clearly did not.

Techno had mentally prepared himself for many long hours of whining and meaningless imitations of groveling and bad flattery from the moment this ‘king’ entered. The sun was hardly in the sky and already the day was looking to be a lot less fun and a lot more games, and the voices were certainly making the strategy of “screw it and eat their livers” quite enticing.

But as miserable a time as these negotiations were shaping up to be, they were not yet a disaster, not yet a record-breaking horrible,

Until the rest of Maunsia’s surrendering party entered the chambers.

There was nothing unusual initially. Techno carefully – albeit with great boredom – scanned the four soldiers, and then the assorted gaggle of attendants, and then an extra soldier-looking induvidual, with a prod and a chain…

Part of Techno’s brain grasps what’s going on long before one final member of Maunia’s party is shoved between the tables separating the conqueror and the conquered, the chain looped through a hitch in the floor with a sickly practiced ease.

Ah. He’s been here before. Many times. “Gifts” were common in the process of this whole “cleaving to the Empire” business. In the beginning, when the Blade was a legend at best and a solider at least, those gifts were usually offers of status, poor bastards misunderstanding his relationship with the battlefield and the Blood God and offering him a glutton’s fill of death. Then, when the Antarctic Empire established itself as an actual force of power, the offers turned to material wealth, gold and jewels and armies. And now, as Techno, Emperor Techno, the Blade, led one of the richest and largest empires in the known world, these desperate gifts turned to rarities.

Occasionally it would be priceless works of art, although such things weren’t usually stereotypical of a ruthless warlord and thus weren’t so common. Then other times it would be strange creatures, or the remains of such, but if anything, they tempted Techno less than art would.

But most often, it was slaves.

A symbol of power, more than anything else. Techno personally theorizes that for most it’s all in the taking of a life, minus the corpse and the wastefulness. Others have called it the ultimate show of superiority, but Techno thinks that if it was so ‘ultimate’ it would not be so common, especially not in such a filthy hole as Maunsia.

At this point, Techno thought that nothing more could surprise him along this avenue, his own past muddled with the dozens of faces paraded before him, all species and races and genders and ages, dressed like royalty or entirely bare. Offered as ‘tokens of appreciation’ or ‘cooperation’ or ‘generosity,’ there for Techno’s picking.

Pick he did, the locks around beaten limbs and the tongues from their keeper’s heads.

So the horror of the day doesn’t even start with the figure gingerly moving to kneel where they’re bound.

Not even when the inky wings hesitantly and briefly stretch out to fold perfectly wrist-down, although Techno’s sure that the back of his mind was searching somewhere-

And then the figure glances up at at the table of triumphants, his gaze landing on Techno’s own.

Blue. Blue like ice. Cold and sharp and almost white against perfectly round and inky pupils. Filled with nothing but hate and determination and kill-kill-kill-

Techno’s sure he gasps, at least inhales a little sharply, not that anyone in the room cares to comment.

Which is probably a blessing, considering Techno feels like someone is dumping a never-ending stream of ice-water down his back, chilling and numbing and inciting a deep gut feeling of get-away-get-away-get-away-

~~~

them immortals are NOT friends yet

might post this as a oneshot or something. plans for lots and lots of emduo angst and hurt/comfort

1 - 2

[snekky-arts]

i was (SUPER sadly) not able to finish the Halloween painting in time for halloween, but I DID spend today working on it! so here's another snippet

and here's a small comic about the immediate aftermath of this scene:

[snekkyfics]

k some of y'all asked for a continuation to that emduo thing so here. it's not a direct continuation but i plan on releasing the full story at some point

1 - 2

~~~~

But like any good animal – prey animal – those strange feathered ears stand at attention.

He’s listening, Techno realizes. Listening like any good warrior would. And Techno can find it past the curdling his gut to sympathize, however distant, as the Herald carefully listens to his life and soul bartered away.

It’s not quite comforting, though. In fact, the longer Techno stares, the more his mind and body war inside him, into one big confusing knot that doesn’t so much crawl up his throat as it does jerk around inside him.

And the Herald remains ever-still. Cold as a corpse and pale as death and entirely oblivious to Techno’s turmoil and damnit, what if he remembers-?

Papers are suddenly dumped in front of him, shocking him out of his spiraling stupor. Sneeg digs his elbow a little harder into his hand.

Ah. Right. He’s still here for business and- that was fast.

A quick glance across the room gets Techno an eyeful of perfectly chiseled smiles and eyes dying inside, as if they had thought – or at least hoped – that the Empire wouldn’t take them for all they’re worth.

Which they always do, and now that Techno has his mind back to spare a thought, Techno’s surprised it took his mouthpieces this long to negotiate with a desperate and empty place like Maunsia.

Perhaps for the best, anyway. Techno doesn’t like to ever consider himself frazzled, but his mind feels ready to feed itself to the Voices, and his hand does shake as he quickly takes up the quill set in front of him.

Just a few dozen signatures, that’s all that’s left. He trusts whatever deal his men would put in front of him, and should there be a problem, it’s not like the Antarctic Empire can’t do some… minor post-meeting revisions.

It’s easy enough to find those big blank spaces at the bottom of the papers, one side filled with the King’s signature already, and Techno wastes no time in adding his and passing the treaties and notices and declarations down the line to be sealed. It’s all very routine at this point in his conquest.

Until the last piece of paper gives him pause. It’s a brilliant magenta, thick and quite literally laced with gold around the border, humming with the tint of magic.

His pause is noticeable, judging by how Maunsia’s former king speaks up.

“That’s for the, ah,”

Techno looks up in time to see a twinkling hand wave flippantly in the direction of the Herald.

“The gift.”

Right- right. Techno’s done this before. A fancy contract for a rare specimen. Just like the rest of this, it’s all so terribly routine that the brief recognition of magic escapes his mind until he forms the finale ‘e’ of his signature, and the paper faintly glows.

Suddenly, but ever so creeping, does something literally crawl over him. Cold, tingling needles prodding his mind and body and soul for entrance.

Panic drives him to his feet, and a sudden wave of dizziness drags him back down. Ringing in his ears muffling the cacophony of the Empire’s side of the room leaping to attention and their swords.

“What-” Techno manages to pant- there’s too much, too much, a hand from his right and voices from everywhere and something consuming him-

“What did you do to me!?” he demands.

The world is shorting out to the uncomfortable pull of his armor, someone at his side keeping him from completely loosing his feet, and the tsunami of the Voices as they wail and protest. But somehow, the equally panicked voice of Maunsia’s former king reaches above the din.

“It’s just- don’t touch me- stop-!”

Techno can faintly register two of his soldiers harshly detaining the haughty little man as his own guards look on, beginning to drag him from his seat and out from his side of the room.

The Herald remains just as still.

“It’s just- stop that-”

Gods his voice is annoying, if Techno didn’t feel like he was melting he’d probably just shut his stupid fat mouth for good-

-but whatever was crawling over Techno is inside him now-

“It’s just for the gift! The slave! The stupid bird- it’s for the stupid bird-”

-and settles. As still and perfect as the presence in the center of the room. Taking every last bit of invasiveness with it and leaving nothing but a constant thought at the back of Techno’s mind.

The dizziness is gone, and Techno steadies himself away from the arms that had supported him, letting the last of the horrible feeling die away and allowing his mind to clear enough to process what the king just said.

For the gift

Techno looks back down at that damned purple paper, at the runes in the gold and the ancient words in the lettering. He’s no mage, or historian, but- but-

A unique, grotesque kind of horror dawns on Techno as he realizes that the new presence within him isn’t just as still as the Herald. It is him.

~~~~

pls don't be shy with conversation or asks or anything. tis wood for the writing fire

[snekkyfics]

so i've been getting more into hermitcraft/traffic bc of my brother and ALSO i just needed something to write bc I'm trying to form a habit and writing something weird that I will never finish is better than not writing at all

worldbuilding notes at the end

~~~

And the universe said I love you

No. Not to Philza. If there was anyone the universe hated-

And the universe said you have played the Game well

He hasn’t- he couldn’t. If he had played the Game- games – well he wouldn’t be standing here. Sword and bow and golden apples and everything a player wishes they could have when they started anew.

It’s nothing Phil wants. It’s nothing Philza would need. He enjoys clawing creation and achievement from the untouched earth the intended – ancient – way. It is life to him but not anymore.

Standing here, at what’s left of that hallowed little world spawn, that one innate weak spot in the Code, isn’t even anything so dignified as to be called retreat.

This is escape.

And the universe said everything you need is within you

Oh by the gods, oh by Her let that be true. He’s not made a life for himself by breaking the Game – the Code. And at least not without accomplices, friends, an invitation to wear like a badge of protection as he did what no non-player, godling or not, was ever meant to do.

Server-hopping without a hub stop is hard enough, taboo even for Players. Phil...

Phil is risking a lot. A potential hundred thousand eyes. A war. Just to escape this hell-spawn server.

And Dream’s gone now, so is that damned Novellus he let lock and rule the server. Peaceful times are sure to visit now, he could stay on in that little cabin in Her forest and it’d be a hell of a lot safer than trying to leave with no real destination in mind.

But Wilbur’s gone now. And so is Ranboo. And Niki. And Fundy. And Techno’s fucked off – he’s sure to return, but for now he’s fucked off all the same.

Phil’s been sitting in a cold cabin, counting his own heartbeat for weeks now. There’s nothing- nothing left here. Not for him.

Leaving – risking what he will risk – could never be crueler than an empty meeting room and silent pine and a bag of cookies so long gone stale in a chest somewhere-

In spite of himself, Phil distantly hopes beyond hope that he can find Wilbur again- hold him again, maybe – that maybe just once the universe will love him-

And the universe said you are not alone

He’s not- not ever, in a way. And may She curse him it’s not enough anymore. She can be fickle, like that. Or perhaps killing a god, inconsequential as they may be, upset the cosmic balance enough for Her to abandon the server – and him.

But in no small part is he setting out to find Her, to hear Her voice again – he may have begged and screamed and taken apart Her forest, a gift willingly given – but the his determination now and his vitriol then are guided by the same, deep, ache.

If it is in Her power, let his aim be true.

By Death and Blood and Sea and Sky and Void, let him touch the grass somewhere he can take roots and grow again, where he can feel dirt and rock once more under his fingernails and be alone and at peace.

And the universe said I love you because you are love

The universe does not love him. And Philza is not love. He’s never had the chance to read the poem – no matter if he shredded the Code with his bare hands, it is not meant for him – but it is a strange comfort, another shameful hope.

He’s heard them talk about it, players hardly need to be prompted to recount the peace, the motivation, the joy at hearing the ‘voice of the universe.’

And well, Phil supposes he could use a bit of all three right now.

And the universe said the darkness you fight is within you

If he were still young enough to be sentimental, he might take one last look around at this thrice-damned server. But he’s not and he doesn’t. He knows who he loves – his wife, his son, Techno, a handful of others – and they are not here. Beyond that, it is only the material, and the material never lasted long enough to matter.

Instead he prays, he pray harder than he can call to memory, to whatever half-friendly god’s name comes to mind, as he folds one last bit of arcane magic around his wedding band and torn wings and begins to reach deep, deep, deep into the white-hot Code-

And then he’s gone. Into the horrible not-Void between worlds and high above the true darkness and Her-

And then he’s scrabbling along the walls. frantic, desperate, reaching back as often as he dares to make sure his precious, precious inventory is coming with him, but never more for a second as he clips small errors in the Code – entry to a new world – again and again and failing, failing each time to grab hold-

He’s taking too long, he’s reached too far, he’s going to fall and there are far more unkind things in the Void than there is Her-

Someone is going to see, he needs somewhere- anywhere-

Eyes graze his back, distant and barely there but Phil’s sure and he’s slipping and-

One last reach, hard and forceful and fuck the whole cosmic world much see him right now but it doesn’t matter because he touches something and grabs and pulls-

Back, back through burning Code and Walls and all the things that he was never meant to touch or understand or breach and oh does it always bring Phil a rush of euphoria each time he so blatantly shoves a fuck you to the little manufactured gods of the Players-

And then he lands. Hard enough to bring him to his hands first and then onto his stomach, jaw rattling and legs screaming.

-but he is warm. There is- there is sun above him, and grass below him, and he smells dirt and open air and there’s fucking birdsong-

And he holds his breath and waits, clinging to his blessedly heavy inventory and the shrouds of magic he tries to pull tighter around himself.

If he was seen – if they actually saw him and who he was – surely, surely they would come. Surely-

They have have arrived by now. Surely. Surely.

But it stays quiet. Nothing but the birdsong and the wind in the leaves and Phil barks out the ugliest, roughest laugh of his life.

It worked. Oh, something out there must love him, if only the little bit it took to get him here.

New. Bright. And there’s soft dirt and grass under his fingernails as he pushes himself to his feet, looking around at the warm, untouched welcome of his new world spawn. Still gossamer and perfect and waiting for him-

And oh, maybe he is a touch sentimental. Maybe he will end up building something here, just to remember how wonderful it is to feel warm and hope again-

Then there’s the snap of a branch. Footfalls, heavy enough that Phil doesn’t think before summoning his bow to his hands, doesn’t wait for a rattle or a groan before spinning around-

-and looks down his arrow at a man. Short and unarmored and a Player-

“What the hell-”

Surprise may have loosened Phil’s fingers, but it is something deeper, something akin to the pulse-racing instinctual need to survive that steadies his hand and aim and puts an arrow through the throat of the- the Player-

-who gurgles and rasps and falls back, eyes blown wide with shock and fear and pain and dying, frozen in place as the blood seeps from the sucking wound and his mouth-

-and Phil, who is equally frozen, stuck staring at the Player on his world-

-but it’s not his world, not if there’s a Player - oh fuck, Players, are there more of them-

This was supposed to be escape, not- not-

Phil can only watch the man, dark and bloody and scared and hope beyond fucking reason for this one boon, this one chance-

He finds himself coming closer, contemplating sticking another arrow between the man’s eyes if only to find out sooner, although that same anxiety also stays his hand as he crouches down next to the dying man.

Phil’s- well, Phil’s a bit experienced with death. Another shallow breath, a few fluttering heartbeats, that’s all this man has left. Bleeding out all over the brilliant green grass and still staring at Phil with a fearful befuddlement that might tug at the heartstrings of anyone else.

And, predictably, in the next moment, he’s gone. The light out in his eyes and fully slumped on the ground.

And then he’s gone. Dissolving in strings of Code and leaving the remnants of an inventory behind.

And Phil- Phil’s holding his breath again, and not so much praying but begging, begging just for this-

He can always feel his connection to Her. He has always felt the little somber tug whenever someone truly dies. Well- when a Player gets sent to their hub.

If Phil has Death here, if he has meaning, he has a chance.

But the tug never comes. And Phil’s mouth goes dry, and the warmth disappears, and the Player is waking up in their bed and Phil is-

Phil is fucked.

It’s a very numb sort of battle-instinct that has Phil reaching out around the fading cold of the Player’s communicator, soon to fade back to their side, and it’s already ephemeral in his shaking hands as he hurries to check the chat log even as the screen drips away into Code-

[server] BDoubleO100 was slain by P⍑/~⍑/ꖎ/-ᔑ

And the universe said you are not separate from every other thing

~~~

"oh how original DSMP x hermitcraft" um actually yeah I'm picking on philza for this and also Techno but only kinda bc once again: i will never finish this

however I am VERY open to writing different assorted scenes if this gets any interest

anyway anyway WORLDBUILDING UNDER THE READMORE ALSO POTENTIAL SCENES I MIGHT RIGHT IF PEOPLE ARE INTERESTED

with special note to @/aard_rinn over on Ao3 who inspired both this story and some of the worldbuilding

ANYWAY basically my MC worldbuilding as a whole for fics comes from the idea that the in-universe lord of minecraft all took place long before it was wrangled into a game for Players (<- more on them in a sec). The Ancient Civilization and the ruin of the Nether and the Ancient Cities all happened long before the Devs made the post-apocalypse into the Game made specifically for Players

Its not clear where Players came from (or where any life came from) but they are the Devs' favorites. the entire Game is tailored to them. Players can hop between worlds, alter Code, and respawn. All Players were originally human, but due to gene-mixing with npc hybrids a Player can now look like just about anything

NPCs, who are any sort of non-human non-Player, are the same level of sapient BUT have none of the world-hopping-death-defying perks of being a Player. Death is final for them and world-hopping is both nearly impossible for them and generally frowned upon by the Game's design. They CAN however have babies with Players and all children of Players inherit the Player status, which is why we see both hybrid players and hybrid players who are only a "little bit" a hybrid

Phil and Techno are not Players. they are about as 100% avian and piglin as you can get. They are, however, hand-picked by Primordial gods

Gods have basically three classes. You have the Primordials (Lady Death, the Sky Gods, Totem Magic), which have existed WAYYYY before the Ancient Civilization even. You have the Novellus (Watchers, XD, the general fuckery on Empires) who are "natural" (not Game-made) gods attracted to the Game after it's creation (there were no Watchers back when there was nothing to watch). And then you have the Devs, who hold all the real power over the Game. And all three classes h a t e each other. The Primordials hate the Devs for "defiling" their world and attracting the Novellus and the Novellus hate the Devs and Primordials for hindering their fun and the Devs hate both because they interfere with their Game but aren't powerful enough to actually kill them.

And by association the Devs also hate Techno and Phil for using their godly powers to do things they should not be able to do. They can't die (although they also can't escape a world by dying), and they can world hop by calling upon powers older than the Game and Code and also they can just generally call on powers older than the Game and Code. This makes them a cog in the Devs' machine but they can't really do much to stop them without starting a war that they might not win, so they grumble, and would DEFINITELY start some shit if emduo ever did what Phil does do in this ficlet (not only hopped, but hacked a server), but have generally allowed them to live their little troubled lives

(and yes, if they had ever found out what deals Dream was making with XD he would have been in HUGE hot water. like he was not supposed to do that.)

As for the specifics of lore in the story:

-Phil is able to keep his inventory because, well, he's hacking the Game anyway, and also he's not even technically a part of the Game

-being not part of the game Phil has never heard the End Poem and I decided to use it a little creepily here bc of that fact (something so comforting to Players would be jarring for someone who's old enough to remember when the Devs were still fighting to keep their rule)

-Phil was literally just reaching blind and ABSOLUTELY some cosmic fuckery was going on and also Admins generally expect Players to be hackers so let's just say Phil kinda just Jesus Walked right through the Hermitcraft door

-Phil doesn't get a "player joined world" message because: he is not a Player. He only shows up in Bdubs' death message because he's still technically there and the Game had to report cause of death. This didn't happen on the DSMP because Phil was welcome and made a part of the game

-Only Players spawn with comms, so Phil isn't going to have one until one is made and given to him

-Phil does NOT know where he is nor does he recognize who Bdubs is. He definitely know what Hermitcraft is (he's VERY much avoided it) but also in-lore I don't think Phil especially would know every single person on there much less be able to immediate recognize names he probably heard in passing. as of right now he is Lost Birb

-Phil is also semi-fucked and once he figures out where he is he's gonna freak because not only is Hermitcraft full of Novellus but it also has direct a line as you can get to a Dev. and he is a lone soggy Birb who's married to the most infamous Primordial goddess who is also the main one the Devs fucked over with their respawn mechanic

-additionally: he's currently freaking out because in a world with respawns (endless respawns but he doesn't quite know that yet) death has no meaning. He has 0 godly help here and also: he can't leave unless he hacks his way back out so. he stuck and also has already engaged hostiles

ANYWAY SCENES I ALREADY KINDA HAVE PLANNED THAT YOU CAN IDK VOTE ON

-Oh i definitely will probably write anyway Phil figuring out he's on Hermitcraft and just how fucked he is. I say he takes out False, who he recognizes from general PVP badassary, and goes "ah. i'm doomed"

-and get ready for birb-to-birb communication bc Phil's actually gonna get help from Grian (and yes this just an excuse to write a parrot character i LOVE parrots). With this being vaguely season 6-ish (i will figure it out as i write further) Grian is both new and bc of the Watcher disaster doesn't have a noticeable Player status. Now both him and Phil can sense something Off about the other but also: they are just birbs and Phil is very, very lost and also running from 2 kinds of law.

-Techno showing up. Like he 100% thinks his BFFFAEAE is being held hostage on a server full of unfriendlies and ho boy is he showing up Murderous

idk you can also give me suggestions i am no expert around here

[snekkyfics]

For the sentence game:

“You have to do it.”

The little knife wasn't so heavy in Wilbur's equally little hands, but he still had to feel it as he held it aloft, looking down the sharp point at the rabbit that still struggled in the grass below him, trying desperately to escape the trap that maimed it beyond survival. It's eyes were still glossy and alive, though, alive enough to meet Wilbur's own, and a sickly lump grows in Wilbur's throat. "I don't want to." he nearly chokes, letting the knife drop ever so slightly. His father's hand is so heavy as it rests on Wilbur's shoulder, his other arm reaching around to correct the knife back towards the wriggling, alive rabbit. "You have to." Phil's voice quietly echoed, sounding just as husky as the crawling feeling in Wilbur's throat. "It's you, or it."

I just feel like c!wilbur definitely had an experience like this as a kid (probs several. considering Phil is a feral survivalist), and it planted several of those strange notions we see in how he conducted himself surrounding L'manburg.

sentence game here!

[snekkyfics]

I don’t remember if I’ve already sent you an ask for the one sentence/five sentence ask game, but if I haven’t and you’re still doing it:

There was something peculiar about the way this music was played.

The notes overlapped each other, flutey staccato winding together in layers and melodies that were almost reminiscent of a rushing creek or rustling leaves. Certainly not unpleasant, but quite foreign to Techno's sensibilities. However, the music wasn't half so strange as the demeanor that comes over Philza, and out of the corner of his eye Techno can spot the way his feathery ears perk up in attention, his eyes twitching like they're reading words in the air. And quite suddenly, something akin to horror blooms on his face. "I- know this song." he hoarsely whispers, small and scared as his talons going tight against the wood of the armrests. "Phil?" "I... I knew-" Phil hardly manages to force out, before his voice lilts off into a terrible, sorrowful and ever so quiet sob.

i just had to do emduo they be my favs if that wasn't obvious lol. i will never not headcanon Phil having a whole ass 50-100 years of his life he has just. repressed beyond any normal capabilities.

sentence ask game here!

[snekkyfics]

Snekker's Snippets #2

A little something from a more personal project I hope to have finished soon!

***

That eerie, dry sound mixes with the quiet electronic beeps and trills of some video game as Techno approaches the house. The kid – good lord Tommy has grown, or he just looks smaller in pictures – seems to be utterly engrossed in something on some small newfangled device.

He’s about to say something when he reaches the stairs. And then quickly realizes that the first one is missing. And then the kid decides to speak up.

“We didn’t order anything. Or, whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying.”

He says it with all the right levels of apathetic boredom of teenhood, but Techno feels he sense some actual exasperation within the layers.

He still doesn’t bother to look up though. Not even as Techno simply skips the first step and steps onto the porch.

Typical, probably.

“I said-”

“Tommy.”

Tommy’s eyes finally detach from his game as his head whirls around to his name. And Techno can see the lack of immediate recognition on his face as he studies Techno up and down, about a thousand different version of confusion flashing across his face before it settles on the most confused look of all.

“...Uncle Techno?” he says carefully, as if all this is some hallucination he’s trying to rule out.

Techno himself gets caught up in the title.

Uncle Techno. To be honest, when Phil jokingly used that term to refer to Techno’s relationship to his kids, Techno thought he was, well, joking.

Not so much apparently. Considering how Tommy is squinting at him like he’s going to magically transform into something more likely.

“Yeah, kid.” Techno responds. And Tommy’s face goes through another cycle of confusion and realization before settling back on bored resignation.

“Oh.” is all he says, looking off for a moment into the early fall afternoon. Dry wind and all.

And then he goes back to his game.

Techno finds himself standing stupidly on a creaky porch for an awkwardly long time before he realizes that oh, that’s it.

“Uh…”

He looks around himself, scanning the area for any hint of further action. There was no other car in the driveway. No lights on in the house. Honestly, it seems like Tommy might be the only one home.

“Um.”

“What do you want.” Tommy mumbles again. Just as bored-sounding, but this time with more exasperation than exhaustion.

“Where’s Ph- your father.” Techno fumbles.

“Busy.” Tommy immediately snaps.

Techno feels an eyebrow arch.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your brother?” he tries instead.

Tommy visibly scowls, jamming at his game with much more ferocity.

“He’s working.”

“At home?”

Tommy fails at something, judging by the cheerfully patronizing beeping of the video game and the low frustrated growl of the human boy.

“No- what’re you, a fuckin’ idiot?” he snaps, dropping the device down to properly face Techno. “He’s down at the gas station on 5th if you really have to fucking know.”

He spits his piece and immediately huffs back into his game. Once again leaving Techno with the dry creaking of the porch swing and the late summer wind and the distinct feeling that he’s supposed to give up here. Not that there’s much of a chance for that.

“...well, thanks.” he begins. “Might as well know where Phil is as well, then?”

He tries to sound lighthearted about it, not that Tommy seems to appreciate.

If looks could kill, Tommy would be a murderer right now with the way he slowly drags his piercing glare from a little screen to Techno.

“For fuck’s sake-” he shouts, quietly. Such a thing apparently able to be achieved, as Techno is now learning.

“He’s inside, bitch,” Tommy continues, ire dripping from his words. “He’s inside, he’s sleeping, and if you fucking wake him up then you get to deal with Wilbur’s fuckin’ bitching about it.”

With that, Tommy definitively slumps back into his seat, a hand going into his pocket and aggressively pulling out earbuds to even more aggressively plug into his device. Techno’s quite sure that if he tries to ask another question Tommy will skip the pleasantries and just go for the throat.

***

Expert from an unposted WIP with no set title

[snekkyfics]

Snekker's Snippets #1

I swear I still write, just don't finish anything. But what's a tumblr blog if I can't post little bits of upcoming work?

(also Tumblr is throwing a fit with me about formatting so you get asterisks for now)

****

He asks Wilbur.

Well- sort of.

They’re sitting on the couch together- also sort of. Tommy’s become painfully aware of how much space he’s given by the Crafts. Wilbur keeps a decent-sized gap between them no matter what, Techno won’t do so much as sit on the bed with Tommy when they’re reading, and Phil has to be asked before he’ll even sit next to him.

It’s very… different.

Which automatically makes it annoying, because it’s different and strange and Tommy has already decided that’s bad.

But anyway,

They’re sitting on the couch together and watching a movie.

Still sort of. Wilbur’s engrossed in his phone and Tommy’s deep in thought under the guise of appreciating being let out of his room for once in his life.

(He made that joke when Wilbur propositioned the living room. Wilbur didn’t… he didn’t react much.)

Tommy’s thinking. Deep in thought. Profound thought. Much more profound than the fancy vase covered with probably expensive drawings on the mantle next to the TV.

And the question just sort of comes out.

“Wilbur?”

“Hmm?”

“I…” Tommy scrambled for a way to approach this. He may not be able to hold out asking any longer but he’s certainly going to be careful.

He catches Wilbur turning his phone off out of the corner of his eye, and he races to just spit it out before the tables turn on him.

“If you had to live in a motel, would you be fine with it?”

It’s absolutely not the best metaphor for the situation, but it does keep Wilbur from getting any more alert to the situation, and fuck it, Tommy was on short notice.

“I don’t know.” is Wilbur’s casual, unsatisfying answer. “Never been in a motel.”

He shrugs, and goes back to watching the movie.

Then he goes back to his phone when it buzzes and Tommy realizes that what his whole answer.

He tries again.

“...how about a hotel then?”

Wilbur shrugs again, “I’ve stayed in a few in my lifetime.”

Tommy waits eagerly. Tapping his fingers against the worn fabric of the couch.

Wilbur goes back to texting.

“And?” Tommy prompts further.

“And?”

“If you had to live in one, would you be fine with it?” Tommy repeats.

Wilbur sort of half-laughs.

“Why would I be living in a hotel?” he grins, eyes still not off the phone.

Tommy finds himself starting to mentally squirm.

“You just... are.” he says.

Wilbur starts scrolling through something.

“Now why would I go live in a hotel when I can stick around here for a hundred a month?” he absently asks in that light, teasing tone he likes to use with Tommy.

“Well, including chores. But it’s still better rates than what Techno’s getting.” he adds.

“This all about beating Techno?” Tommy asks, starting to grin along.

“Always, dear child. Always.” Wilbur responds.

“’m not a child.”

“Of course, dear child, of course.”

Tommy resists the urge to smack Wilbur with any one of the many conveniently-placed throw pillows on the couch with them, and instead goes back for the answer he needs to know.

“But would you be fine with it?” he asks again.

“Fine with what?”

“The hotel.”

“What hotel?”

The urge to throw something at that bespectacled face grows ever stronger.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work to try to hold a fucking conversation with, you know?” Tommy finally groused.

“Well it might be easier to have a conversation with you if I knew what we were talking about.” Wilbur responded, finally looking back up from his phone. “Not really tracking… this.”

Tommy felt himself bristle.

“Can’t you just answer the fucking question?” he snapped, “Would you be fine if you had to live in a hotel, or not?”

Wilbur sighed, an dramatic thing made overly so as he let his head fall back onto the backrest of the couch in exasperation.

“Very well, child,” he groans, “I guess it would depend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Tommy exclaims, although he feels like screaming.

“Means what it means.” Wilbur shrugged. “Why am I there? For how long do I live there? Is there a functional swimming pool?”

“Like that’s so important.”

“Extremely.” Wilbur says in mock sincerity, looking over at Tommy.

“What’s this all about, anyway?”

Tommy scowls, sinking down more into the couch. “Nothing.”

He thinks Wilbur watches him for a hot second, but when Tommy steals another glance over Wilbur is, once again, busy on his damned phone.

So Tommy and his still aching mind turn back to the movie and his ruminations. Neither comforted or unsettled or really any different from before.

Wilbur is fucking bad at this.

And Tommy is really fucking piss poor at metaphors. He’ll blame his piss-poor life.

****

Expert from the up-and-coming second chapter of Bummerland!

[snekkyfics]

i wasn't going to say anything but holy fuck, there's been a REALLY disturbing trend over the past 2 days

This fandom's parasocial-ness and inability to separate art from artist - and worse, separate their own creations from the inspiration.

like holy fuck are some of y'all really believing the class acts internet personalities put on? Any one of them is capable of terrible things! we're going to see lot more people outed before the heat death of the universe!

And secondly, in what universe does your beloved fanfiction support the actor of one of the characters? Legally, it can't support them at all. Did you write it for them? Or for you? Even then, why does that matter? I wrote a whole ass novel for a group of people that turned out to be CP excusers and I ain't fucking deleting the novel ever. They didn't do a lick of work, that was me. I spit on their grave but I ain't renouncing the good that came through those experiences.

I didn't come into this fandom for the actors and creators, I came for the characters and story, pieces of art. If we're gonna start dropping things because of problematic creators i don't think anyone could enjoy anything ever.

Stop buying merch, stop going to shows, etc but if you really tie everyone you create to the inspiration, it's not really yours anymore is it?

And if fandoms are to be completely deleted and packed up because of the actions of someone who was a creator behind a piece of media, then fandoms can't survive anymore.

i'm not trying to say people who are deleting their stuff are wrong, and there are lots of reasons to pack up in this day and age (i know i've gotten close on the basis of AI theft)

but holy fuck. were you creating for a random man you don't even know or were you creating for you?