#void writings

[phantoids]

i got through this year - a little poem again. last one of the year i think.

[phantoids]

end of the year again - a poem about reaching another year and the feelings that come with it a.k.a toby is having emotions about the year again

[phantoids]

i died and my body did not rot before this beach - ctommy/clingyduo poem about feeling dead when being alive.

[phantoids]

cold hands - a q!tubbo poem.

[phantoids]

For a moment - a ctommy revival poem. also ahwohwiaw i attempted poetry enjoy this <3.

[phantoids]

did another @badthingshappenbingo piece, this time for the prompt carved mark. bthb card here:

fic link here:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

taglist: @qjaiden @genlossicle @areus-in-a-little-cave @egopocalypse @seaswalllow @zrenia @aliveburs

[phantoids]

hysteria moments are a powerful thing.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[phantoids]

There’s… There’s a stranger at their door.

Not a complete stranger, no, not with the same scars and the messy brown hair frosted blonde on the tips at the start of winter. 

The horns don’t curve the same way. Crossed over the back, one over the other, a disgusting mirror of the man who blew up the last living part of someone they once knew. Ranboo almost recognises the stranger at their door. Almost. 

They open it regardless. “Hello?”

The stranger startles, for a moment, scrambling to lean against the low-stacked stone walls surrounding their yard. He flashes them a smile. It’s not him.

“Uh- Hey. Are you uh- sopping wet cause that’s… cool,” he tries, wincing slightly.

Ranboo pauses. They shouldn’t laugh.

This isn’t him.

“You’re dead,” they say before they can really think, cold and biting, bitter as the winter around them. Bitter as the smell of funeral candles. “You’re not him. Go away.”

They can’t bring themself to feel guilty. 

Not-Tubbo meets their gaze with milky-blue eyes, glassed over as if belonging to a corpse. Those aren’t the biting, frigid winter-blue eyes of a president, of a soldier; those are the eyes of the once-dead and the always-dead. People don’t come back from death.

“Rude,” he huffs, eyes rolling. “I’m right here, see? Real. Probably.” 

Probably is not very convincing. Probably is also incredibly convincing, because hallucinations don’t say they might not be real, only that they are. They only keep talking and talking and talking, always asking about this meeting’s minutes, about the crater.

“Who are you?”

He stumbles a moment. 

“Tubbo,” he croaks out. Ranboo is so sure if they believe him. His horns are wrong.

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Drabble request for @azurecake16 for cranboo writing. woe silver platters au ranboo and tubbo be upon ye because i cannot stop writing this au.

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