#*i am aware that eret and niki didn’t get as much room to shine as they could have. that’s a lack of communication on the ccs part

[relaxxattack]

i would just like to quickly put something out there in terms of the “main character discourse debacle” we’ve seen going on—

im not going to make a point for either side (i think) i just wanted to make a statement abt season one. ive seen some people say that wilbur’s writing made tommy and wilbur seem like the only important characters (as in, the only ones with cool narratives). and they’re pointing this out as like, a mistake on wilburs part. while i can see why youd say that, i have a small disagreement.

wilbur wrote about the nation itself. he’s talked about this before (on phils stream, and i think in his podcast). and obviously he wrote his own character, but other then that he wrote about the nation and the story as one whole. not individuals, but one story. and i can see why you’d say, “because of that it unfairly focused on him and tommy!” but i actually think that’s not true! (although tommy and wil move the main plot along that’s a whole different discussion im not doing)

think of quackity, constantly undermined and humiliated on the job, while also attempting to seduce his boss in order to gain even a little respect. think of tubbo, his anxieties high whenever schlatt asked him a suspicious question, building his archive and sneaking under manberg to meet up with tommy. think of fundy’s COOL AS HELL spy plot!!!

all of these examples are development and interesting stories the characters went through. not because wilbur had to pay attention to them as individuals, but because the conflict of the story he made involved the whole nation, so everyone easily had a part to play.

season two was about characters only, so any character that didn’t have a cool story was left sadly on their own with nothing interesting to do.

now im not making an argument about whether or not there are main characters (please no more of that) all i am saying is wilbur’s writing was GOOD, actually!

he made a conflict and a plot that involved everyone and it gave them all room to make their own stories and developments within the main/relevant plot. that way everyone’s individual story is interesting, while still being a piece of the big whole.

i don’t think we could ever go back to this considering how many plots there are now as a result of season two, and season three has been good so far!!— but i wish you guys would stop saying season one didn’t give characters room to have story and development. it did, and not only that but it did it well.*

#*i am aware that eret and niki didn’t get as much room to shine as they could have. that’s a lack of communication on the ccs part #since they wanted to do things that affected everyone else and weren’t self contained. so they’d need cooperation to make that relevant #also im not saying wilbur was perfect or the best writer. just that y’all should shit on him less LOL #d v1 #wilbur soot #og post

[thespoonisvictory]

excerpt from my “niki and wilbur secret city healing fic” that I will never actually finish:

“You’re not eating.”

It’s Niki, standing in the doorway, a plate of food tucked to her side, eyes narrowed and posture stiff.

“Yes, I am.”

It’s Wilbur, facing the wall, slouched on a bed, in that grimy coat he refused to be without.

“No, you’re not.”

It’s them, somewhere between open hostility and practiced ambivalence, a sad parody of a bond once inseparable. It’s them, unable to carry a full conversation. It’s them, alone, in Niki’s city, where Niki begs him to heal and Wilbur begs to leave.

Niki sighed, pushing forward into the room. “You need to eat, surely you’re not dense enough to forget that.”

“I have been.” Wilbur snaps, but it lacks any sort of fire. Increasingly prominent cheekbones, clothes that hung looser with every passing day, and the dullness of his eyes and hair betrayed him, and they were both aware. The wounds that littered his body refused to recover, and every action was done so with a tired resignation.

“Don’t lie to me.” Niki takes another step forward. “You were never any good at it.”

It was true. The honeyed words that hid him from others never managed quite as well for her. It was too easy to see her friend underneath the persona, the earnestness and raw, organic smile he flashed to her when others weren’t looking.

 It had made her feel special, then, to be privy to the most undone version of him. To feel known and to know, without reservation. To be the subject of sleep-deprived rambles on the floor of her bakery, a pastry and warm drink between them. To hear his new obsessions, to have facts pulled out of her like strings plucked on a guitar. To be something lovely and untouched, together, a friendship unmuddied by the ever-present politics weighing on their shoulders.

Now, it makes her feel lied to.

She watches his shoulders shrug in acknowledgement, and he slowly turns to face her. The movement seems almost painful, a slow and awkward rearranging of limbs, and he refuses to meet her eyes.

“Why do you care, then?” Wilbur rasped, quiet.

“I don’t.” Niki lied. “But Phil wouldn’t take kindly to me letting his son die of starvation.”

His face tightened, almost imperceptibly. The battle won.

“Leave it here, Niki. I’ll eat later.” And a hand outstretched, bones prominent, pale.

On another day, in another world, she would have believed him.

She had believed him, once. Left meals and plates on his desk when he wasn’t looking, waited for them to disappear. It had made her feel needed, wanted. To know that she was the one helping him, indulging his long shifts and hours spent at that old, wooden desk. To be thanked, silently, with wildflowers left in her bakery, with little gifts to amuse her, with contact, trusting, hands held and hair fixed, buttons done up with care.

Now, it felt like a test. A reference point, to check that they were still bound together. Now, she didn’t believe him.

“Eat it now.” Niki’s voice held steady, thankfully.

She wanted the exchange over with, painless.

But Wilbur froze, hand retreating quickly. He swallowed, throat bobbing.

“No.”

“What?” Niki questioned, bitter. “Just take the food, Wil.” The nickname fell flat on her tongue.

“No.” He repeated, more fervently than before.

“Why?” Another step forward.

“I said no, Niki. I’ll eat it later.”

“And I said, tell me why.” Another, and another, until they were close enough that she heard his sharp intake of breath.

She leaned down to meet his gaze, and was met with not the fire she was expecting, but an unfiltered desperation. A fear.

“Don’t make me say it. Just leave the food, please.” Wilbur’s voice shook, laced with a vulnerability she had heard so few times.

He had recounted the button room to her, one night. He had walked into her bakery earlier to be met with Eret, his fingers covered in flour. His face had dropped and he had walked out immediately, stony, leaving Niki to wonder what happened. There they had sat, wine-drunk, under the stars, under darkness that allowed his features to relax and his words to be honest.

It was decidedly one of her favorite versions of her friend, sentences soft and mumbled like poetry as he recounted why he paled at the sight of her new friend, eyes shining with unshed tears. She wondered if he remembered that.

“Tell me.” 

She just wanted to leave.

Wilbur’s voice softened. “It’s poisoned, isn’t it?”

“What?” Of the reasons she was suspecting, this was not one.

“I- I don’t know for sure, but I can’t trust it.” His voice wavered, trying to maintain composure. “What if you poisoned it? What if you slipped it in, decided to get rid of me?”

“Wil, I-”

“I can’t go back there, Niki.” His hands grabbed the fabric making up his quilt, brow furrowed. “I won’t go back there. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Shocked, Niki tentatively moved past him, sat down on the mattress, set down the plate. The silence lay steadily as she grasped for words.

“It’s not poisoned. I could never- would never do that to you.”

“I would, if I were you.” A confession, quiet. “I’d want me dead too.”

A deep sadness settled into Niki’s gut, replacing the anger she had always carried. “I don’t want you dead, Wil. I want you to heal.” She paused. “I want my friend back.”

“I’m right here.” A plea, even quieter. For what, she didn’t know.

“Just- eat, please. You might feel better.”

A phrase repeated so many times before. She had offered him food countless times in Pogtopia, pressed fruits and dried meat into his hands, concerned for his tired eyes and jerky movements. He had accepted, if rarely. It had made her feel accomplished. To know that she had done what his brothers could not. To know she had made a difference, perhaps, to know that the last remnants of before were not yet gone. To be partners in crime again, if fleeting.

“I can’t.” 

Niki sighed.

She picked up a slice of bread off the plate, thick, filled with herbs and nuts. Watching his eyes follow her, she raised it to her mouth, taking a bite. She swallowed.

His eyes widened slightly as she offered it out to him, fingers betraying him in the subtle way they reached out, wanting.

Without warning, he grabbed it, holding it tentatively. After a pause, he took a bite as well. And another. Another. Within minutes, the slice was gone. 

Suddenly, Niki was stifling a laugh, a smile dancing on her face. Wilbur turned to her, innocently confused, his eyes wide.

“What?” He questioned, and oh his tone was light.

She couldn’t contain it anymore, and burst out laughing, giggling, doubled over. The ridiculousness of it all got to her, and the tension broke as he started smiling despite himself.

“It was good bread!” He protested.

Niki went to stand up. “I have more, if you want.”

But Wilbur waved his hand, shook his head. “No, I’m like, very full right now.”

She nodded, another chuckle escaping her. Without thinking about it, she leaned into his shoulder, pressing them together like she always had.

For a moment, it all felt so normal again. Like they had slid right back into familiar camaraderie, teasing, shedding the weight that had plagued them. It could have been minutes or hours theu sat there, both of them soaking in the contact.

“Later tonight, then.”

“Yeah.” His voice was still small, but soft, stable, almost drowsy.

Wilbur confirmed her suspicions as he spoke. “I’m really sleepy, for some reason.” His posture was more relaxed than she had seen it in years.

“Go to bed, then.” Niki suggested.

He nodded, but his eyes were dark.

“Can you?” She prompted.

“Not usually.” Mumbling, as always. “I just lay there, mostly, thinking about my evil plots, scheming. You know the deal.” 

“Try. You might be lucky this time.”

He huffed. “Ok.”

Niki stood, ready to leave, but paused. “Let me take your coat, Wil.”

Wilbur stilled, and she was so sure he would say no, reject the offer. But after a moment, he began shrugging it off, shedding the mottled fabric.

He offered it out to her, and as she took it she could feel the familiar weight, draping it over her arm. 

He looked so much smaller this way. Sat on the guest bed, hair rumpled, dressed simply in a white button down, he looked younger, too, less official.

“I’ll be back in a few hours, I have some errands to run. Business to attend to. I’ll bring some more of that bread, too.”

Wilbur nodded, eyes blinking slowly as he yawned.

She turned around, pausing in the doorway to see her friend one last time. She shut the door gently.

#nihachu #wilbur soot #dream smp #fanfiction #me procrastinating the loh fic go brr