#nothing against tommy obv he can makes whatever jokes he wants! it’s just annoying to see how much shit dream got for stuff like that

[dtkqplusplus]

how does tommy get away with so many gay jokes without being called a queerbaiter

like tommys not a queerbaiter- no real person is. i just want to know what qualifies people for “queerbaiter” like when tommys going “ahah I kissed a man” and making jokes with ranboo all the time how is that any differnet than dnf flirting?

like tommy makes gay jokes a lot, and occasionally he’ll clarify “ya I’m straight lol” and it’s just. hm.

dream and george would flirt a lot, dream USED to say he was straight, and would follow up with “we’re not dating, we don’t plan to, this is just how our friendship works.” but here comes the squawking “queerbaiting queerbaiting squawk”

[smp-live]

Man in the (Shattered) Mirror Ch. 6

AO3   First   Prev

Quackity trekked through the forest of redwoods, brushing a branch out of the way. It bounced back and smacked him in the face.

“Fuck,” he cursed with an irritated scowl, rubbing at the sore spot on his forehead. At least it didn’t cut.

He kept walking, pushing past more annoying redwoods and oak trees. The dead leaves on the ground barely crunched, soggy in the wet winter air. It was an abnormally warm day, not cold enough for his breath to fog despite it being January.

Honestly, he’d rather not be here at all. He’d always preferred the organization and structure of cities, their cobblestone streets perfectly laid out and wooden houses providing shelter from the wind. But over time, he’d gotten used to making his way through the woods; he’d been forced to, after all. Especially this specific overgrown path.

Quackity pushed past one last branch and into a familiar clearing, no longer tramped down with constant footsteps, but grassy and lush. The door on the cliffside was broken and falling off its hinges, clumps of moss glued to it for camouflage falling off. Clearly nobody had been here in a long time.

He slowly nudged the door, just enough to slip by. It was apparently too much movement for the rusty hinges, though, for it crashed into the underbrush with a loud clatter of branches. Quackity winced at the sound. Even standing here, just at the entrance to Pogtopia, it felt wrong to be loud. To disturb things. Like ransacking a graveyard.

He should really turn around, but he needed cobble for his newest project, and Pogtopia had some, last he remembered. If nobody had taken it. And he’d really rather scavenge it than go mining for days.

Or, at least, he had rather, he thought, eyeing the dark tunnel spiraling down into Pogtopia proper.

“Come on, Q, you’re being a bitch,” he muttered to himself with a laugh, lighting a torch that sent shadows dancing on the walls. His quiet footsteps echoed in the stairwell, amplifying them tenfold, and the air seemed to somehow grow perceptibly colder in the five seconds it had been. “Jesus fucking Christ, this is creepy.”

He made his way down, down the rickety paths hanging high above the ground below, amongst long-extinguished hanging lanterns. The air was stale and scentless, each of his steps sending up a little poof of dust and dirt that quickly settled back down.

Before too long, he’d made it to the storage room, lined floor-to-ceiling with chests. They’d been mostly empty or full of useless shit, but hey. Who knew what he might find. He knelt down and started rummaging through the nearest one.

A rock clattered to his left.

Quackity whirled around, raising his torch high, heart pounding in his chest. A rat’s tail disappeared behind a chest.

“See? It’s nothing,” he told himself with a chuckle. “Just a rat. Nobody’s here, obv-“

Something - someone - grabbed him from behind, and he screamed. In his surprise, his torch dropped out of his hand, plunging the room into darkness. Quackity wriggled and thrashed against the grip and, somehow, his arm managed to catch his captor in the nose. They cursed but held on tight, and eventually managed to slap a hand over his mouth. A familiar, gloved hand.

Oh God oh fuck oh shit he was fucked-

“Quackity? What. The fuck. Are you doing here – you Manburgian,” one Wilbur Soot hissed into his ear, then moved his hand away to wrap his elbow around Quackity’s throat, instead.

“Wilbur?” he asked with a nervous laugh. What the fuck – Wilbur was dead. He’d seen the body with his own two eyes. “What-“ He cut himself off as Wilbur squeezed tighter.

“I’ll ask one more time – what are you doing here?”

Quackity swallowed. “I- I was just coming to get supplies-“

“And how,” Wilbur snarled, “exactly, do you know about this place? Was it Tubbo? The Blade?”

“No, no, what?” Now Quackity was even more confused. “You brought me here yourself.”

“I would do no such thing. Not to Schlatt’s Vice President. I’m not fucking stupid, Quackity.”

Quackity squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t been referred in relation to Schlatt in… a while. “Okay, okay. Obviously, we’re not on the same page here. So why don’t you let me go and we can have a nice, civil discussion about what’s happening.” Wilbur hesitated, and he added, “I promise I won’t try anything. On my honour.”

And that must have been good enough for Wilbur, for he pulled back with an “…alright.” Quackity heard some shuffling, the click of a lighter, and then he was blinking furiously against the light as Wilbur relit his torch.

He looked like he always had, dark eyes dancing in the firelight with messy hair. A blood-stained shirt under his dirty, patched-up trenchcoat where he was dropping his lighter back into his pocket. He looked up, his eyes caught on Quackity’s left cheek and he frowned.

“What happened to your eye?”

Quackity instinctively reached up to where he was staring, touching the rough-scarred skin under his eye. “A fight,” he said, unwilling to say exactly what had happened. That fucking pig.

“Mm hm.” Wilbur raised an eyebrow but didn’t question him further. “You still haven’t answered my first question.”

“Do you really not remember?”

“Quackity,” he warned.

“Wilbur,” Quackity mocked back. Wilbur sighed, and waved his hand in exasperation.

“Just-“

Quackity rolled his eyes. “Why are you so difficult all the time?” Wilbur scowled and moved towards him, so he took a defensive step back and raised his hands. “Okay, okay! After the Festival, Tommy found me alone in the woods, so he took me here? With you?” He wisely left out the whole thing with the button; not thinking that Wilbur would appreciate it much. But he still frowned.

“The Festival?”

“…Yeah? The Manburg Festival? October 16th? Tubbo got executed? Damn, whatever fuckin’… higher power, or whatever, brought you back must’ve really fucked with your memory.”

But Wilbur didn’t seem amused by the joke. He stared blankly ahead, shallow breaths barely noticeable with the flickering lighting. His gaze flickered to Quackity. “What do you mean, October 16th?”

“What?”

“It’s September 29th,” he said, complete honesty in his eyes, and oh, shit.

“Oh, fuck, okay,” Quackity said, “uh, that is not the date. It’s January.”

Wilbur’s face darkened. “You’re fucking with me. You’re a spy sent by Schlatt and you’re trying to convince me that I’ve lost it-“ he started pacing, one hand tugging at his hair while the other held the torch “-but it won’t work because I’m fine! I’m not-“

“Wilbur!” Quackity exclaimed, because holy fuck, he had to snap him out of this spiral. “I killed Schlatt.”

He froze. “What?”

“I killed him, the day after the Festival. Shot him. Took a life. He’s fully dead now, okay? You can trust me.” Quackity spoke calmly, like he was soothing a horse. It apparently worked, because Wilbur just closed his eyes. Clenched and unclenched his fist. Took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice was smooth.

“Okay. This is fine. You,“ he gestured at Quackity, “are on our side, now, apparently, because future me trusted you. Okay.”

Quackity slowly peeled away from the wall. “We good now?”

“I still don’t fuckin’ trust you,” he said lowly, “but yes.”

“Okay, good,” Quackity said, relief flooding through him, and he grabbed his torch from Wilbur’s hand and his bag from the ground. “C’mon. Let’s go. It’s creepy here.” Wilbur paused.

“I’m… not allowed to go to L’Manberg,” he said hesitantly, and Quackity’s blood froze. Right. Wilbur didn’t know what had happened, that it was gone, and he didn’t particularly want to explain right now. Instead, he just said,

“Your exile’s over. I’ve just decided.”

Wilbur snorted, but set off behind him. “Nice quip. How long d’it take you to come up with that one? All conversation?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

An unintentional grin spread across Quackity’s face as he cautiously led Wilbur up the rickety bridges too narrow to fit side-by-side on. Prime, he’d missed this banter, like they’d had during the election. After the Festival, the ex-President… hadn’t exactly been up to it, most nights.

Someone emerged from the stairwell right in front of him.

Quackity reeled back, nearly losing his balance and sending scree clattering down the ravine until a hand on his shoulder steadied him. Except that didn’t calm his pounding heart, because right there, frozen in just as much shock, was another Wilbur.

A different one, with tired, dead eyes that quickly grew fiery, dancing in the light of both their torches. He was dressed in the same trenchcoat as the Wilbur standing slightly behind him, only torn and caked in ash and soot. And his shirt…

A large gash ran through the no-longer-white cotton, drenched in barely dried blood. The tear was large enough to see Wilbur’s chest and the scar, pale pink and freshly-healed, from his stomach to halfway up his chest. Quackity felt sick. It was identical to Ghostbur’s, only no longer open and oozing blue, (and was that seared into his memory, ever since he’d first seen it.)

“Well,” the Wilbur in front of him said, thoughtfully, carefully, “this was unexpected.” The one next to him took a small step back.

“What the fuck,” Quackity said, holding his ground. Wilbur ahead of him laughed.

“Quackity, oh, Big Q, hey,” he said, sickeningly sweet, “long time no see, I guess, huh? For you, at least.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Hm. You’ll figure it out,” his eyes gleamed. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you? You always knew how to come out on top.”

“I don’t-“

“Oh, don’t bullshit me, Big Q,” he growled. “You know what I’m talking about.” And he took a step forward. Quackity backed up, bumped into something warm. Then other-Wilbur was shoving past him, shoulders drawn high and face smoldering.

“Stay away from him,” he all-but-growled.

Bad Wilbur, villain Wilbur, button room Wilbur laughed again, high-pitched and empty, and it echoed familiarly through the ravine. “What? Trying to protect your crush?”

“I don’t have a fucking crush on Big Q.”

“Sure, sure,” he dismissed, waving a hand. “Call him whatever you want. You’re protecting him from yourself, anyways. Kinda pointless if you ask me.”

“And what the fuck does that mean? I fuckin’ hate him, but I’m not gonna hurt him.”

He snorted. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Keep telling yourself you’re not gonna hurt them all. Because it’s a fuckin’ lie.”

“What?”

“Oh, Wil,” he said softly, gently, as if he was trying to help. “You’ll learn. You’ll fucking learn. We’re not a good person.”

And he pushed past the two on the narrow ledge, nearly sending them careening over the edge. “Stay away from me,” he called out, “or you know what happens.”

They watched his light bob down for a moment, then Quackity grabbed his arm and started pulling him up the stairs. They were not sticking around, thank you very much.

Wilbur followed along, apparently shellshocked. Except he’d have to differentiate them, now, right? This was good Wilbur, the one before he’d snapped, before the Festival and the button room – because apparently they had to differentiate like that. Because villain Wilbur was here too. What the fuck.

“That was…” Wilbur looked vaguely sick, just like Quackity felt, and he stumbled on a step before quickly catching himself, “me. Alright. Okay.”

Quackity just nodded. Pushed down the bile and anxiety in his throat. “Yup. Now c’mon. I want answers.”

-

“Tubbo! Holy fuck!”

Tubbo stood at the call from his best friend, up from his kneeling position in the snow. Work on the new settlement he’d dubbed Snowchester was going well, refugees from L’Manburg working alongside newcomers to erect several dozen houses, at this point, and the foundations for many others. They’d already set up docks for trade, and Tubbo himself had just been working on laying the fence of a llama farm – the animals did well in the cold, after all, and they couldn’t exactly grow many crops up here.

That wasn’t the only issue. They weren’t an officially recognized country, (yet,) which… had it’s benefits, yes, but they couldn’t really form any trade treaties. Nor alliances. Nor have any protection from anybody seeking to harm them.

So yeah. He kinda wanted to be recognized. But for now, until they had a better defense system, it was better to lay low. Stay under the radar, until they could protect themselves.

He was working on that last bit.

Tubbo dusted snow off his pants with frost-nipped hands. Tommy was running up to him, cheeks dusted red from the chill, and there was Ranboo, walking at a much more reasonable pace behind him.

“You’ll never fuckin’ guess what happened, Tubzo, oh Prime,” Tommy rambled, nearly knocking him over and grabbing onto his arms to steady himself. Tubbo fought off the urge to push him away. He clearly needed it, judging by how he looked nervous, and panicked – and was that a tinge of relief or joy?

Immediately, Tubbo’s blood chilled, and his mind started racing to the thousand contingency plans he’d been implementing. “What?” he asked, careful to keep his voice steady, as he’d learned in Schlatt’s cabinet.

“You… might want to sit down for this,” Ranboo said, walking up to them, and Tubbo frowned. Oh, Prime, it was bad news then. Tommy’s hands suddenly burned on him and he pulled roughly away.

“I’m not fucking weak,” he snapped, and they both stepped back nervously.

Ranboo raised his hands defensively. “I’m not saying you are?” The swell of rage in his chest simmered down.

“Sorry,” Tubbo mumbled. “I know. Just tell me. Who died?” Tommy laughed at that, high-pitched and borderline hysterical.

“No uh, the opposite actually.”

“What?”

“Remember when uh- when Ghostbur – on Doomsday – he came up to us?” Tommy rambled – he had a tendency to do that when he was nervous, or there was bad news. Tubbo nodded. “Yeah, uh, he wanted to be resurrected, right? And we said yes, and he did research, then you two went on a road trip to look for a totem and left me behind – thanks for that, by the way, it was fuckin’ boring around here-“

“I thought you wanted to stay behind?” Ranboo interjected.

“Shut the fuck up, Boob Boy, I never fuckin’-“

“Tommy,” Tubbo warned, getting impatient. He could dance around the topic for hours, if there was bad news, and they couldn’t afford that.

“Right, right, well, uh, the resurrection was today, and,” he looked Tubbo straight in the eyes, “it worked. Wilbur’s back.”

Tubbo took a step back in shock. “What?”

“Yeah, he’s back, and he’s not our Wilbur, Tubbo, it’s right-before-he-died Wilbur, and he said he’d do it again-“

Tubbo didn’t hear any more of what he was saying as static swelled in his ears. No. No. Not again. It can’t happen again, I- I can’t-

He abruptly took off, towards a small room only he could know the location of, barely conscious of the way his boots dragged in the snow. I can’t let it happen again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tommy lunge towards him, faintly heard him call out, “Tubbo?” Ranboo held him back, muttered,

“Leave him. He gets like this sometimes.”

Tubbo kept going. Down the main street, onto a barely-there path that led to a small doorway hidden on the rocky side of a hill. He punched in the code to the keypad – the code only he knew, for now. It was too risky telling anyone else. Then he entered, quickly climbed down the ladder.

The bunker was cluttered, sheets of paper with calculations scribbled upon them scattered willy-nilly. The walls were covered in tools and bits of sheet metal, and tables with failed prototypes sat scattered around, glinting in the dim artificial lights.

He’d planned on taking his time with this project, using it only as a last-ditch resort. Maybe against Dream, if he came for them again. But they’d reached that point. He was desperate.

With Wilbur back and bad as ever, Snowchester would be the first target on his list. Another settlement, fresh and newborn, led by the second coming of J. Schlatt? They stood no chance.

He couldn’t fail his people again.

Tubbo pulled on a pair of welding gloves. No time for thoughts. He had work to do.