Moro Write Smth - Tumblr Posts
Fred is tired.
In fact, he can't feel 'tired' — or rather, in theory, he shouldn't feel it — but now his whole body hurts and he doesn't want to do anything at all. The world turns upside down with every step and stands back up with every breath. Fred doesn't need to breathe, but he does, because otherwise he will fall and he doubts he will get up.
The image swims before his eyes, and Fred grabs Tubbo's shoulder to stand.
"How are you, bossman?" he asks in the most gentle and calm voice, but Fred can hear the worry coming through. He takes a book out of his inventory, but then he feels something on his chin. Something wet and sticky.
"Oh, Fred." Tubbo says more quietly.
He runs his hand over his chin and it becomes wet. There is something wrong with his face, something is happening under the mask, but Fred doesn’t understand that, because he has nothing under the mask.
«What is this?» he writes, and his hand trembles, and a drop falls on the page, «What’s wrong with me?»
Tubbo smiles guiltily, and he carefully runs his hand, wiping away the reappearing drops.
"I think you're crying."
Oh.
He is crying?
Fred never cried.
In fact, he didn't even know that he could.
He knows what it is, but he has never experienced it in his life.
«How can I stop this?» he writes.
"I don’t know." the mechanic admits. "I don’t think you need to stop it. You should feel better."
Fred shakes and puts the book away, gasping for air. Tubbo's arms hover over his shoulders until he finally hugs him. Fred clings to his shirt.
"You're safe." he whispers in his ear, and Fred believes. "I- damn, I can't promise you anything, but you're safe now, okay? He's not here, you're free."
Fred feels warm and believes even though he shouldn't. Fred is in pain, but he is alive, and that is the only thing he has to think about.
Here, trembling and hugging someone truly valuable like he never was, feeling the pain of phantom bruises and crying, he feels human.
———
So. . . Hi frubbo nation?
I dont really know what the fuck this is but it exists now uhoh
Anyway sorry for any mistakes i know english pretty bad.
This shit is not how I see the situation and the character, I'm not even completely sure about the situation, but I decided to write it because I feel bad, and I hope that if I write it it won't come true HA HA—
Parallels with dsmp? No, no, of course not, it's just tears.
References to another text that I have not translated, but maybe one day I will do it.
If you want some atmosphere: “Dark night” by Mark Bernes.
He's back in the box.
It seems almost funny, funny to the point of disgust bubbling in his stomach — he barely fits here, and he barely restrains himself to joke about the coffin.
It's not funny to him, but it's hysterical, you know? He wants to do something absurd, because there is nothing else to do.
In fact, there is apathy inside him right now. Not peaceful calm, but cold — he can't feel his fingers while trying to grab the walls. Limbs go numb, but he endures — he can handle it, of course he can. Compared to what they'll do to him, it's like a stone in a shoe.
Tubbo is in mourning, have you noticed? Not for himself, of course, but for connections with people. For a ruined new family, for a broken trust, for dead friends.
Tubbo will be executed, but it will not bring others back to life. Tubbo will be respawn, but they won't. Tubbo is going to die, but he's been dying like that countless times, and the number of holes in his head is already boring to count.
He knows that he will be executed for the cause. He knows he made a mistake. That nothing could be done. That his plan would only kill more people. And therefore he has neither the strength nor the desire to complain, protest, break out. Tubbo was left in an icy desert where there is no escape around. Tubbo was taken to the forest, and he never found his magical assistant.
Tubbo was naive, and it was a great mistake for which he will pay.
In the end, those who did not pass the initiation ceremony could not grow.
He closes his eyes. Piere's voice is bursting in his ears; Pac's voice is scratching at his lungs — he folds his arms on his chest, hoping to calm this feeling; Tina's voice calls him to honor, and he straightens his back.
One.
(Don't get attached.)
Two.
(Everything he touches will fall apart.)
Three.
(He rarely leaves something unanswered.
Today, he will be silent.)
After all, he's back in the box.
It's so easy to grieve when everyone around you is laughing at you. It's so easy to pretend nothing is happening. Recognize that nothing is happening.
Tubbo digs his nails into his palms and bites his lip at every comment and every joke, he watches films from the front row in which he sees himself and his doom.
Tubbo is strong, Tubbo can handle this. He's been coping all this time, hasn't he? - that means he can handle it now.
But suddenly Quackity’s voice asks, “Where’s Fred?” - and all his self-control falls apart, cracks like a shell, and from under it flows rage and hatred, nurtured by purgatory and burnished by long, persistent denial and patience.
And after that there is nothing left.
He seems empty and has so many thoughts and yet none at all. He stands with his eyes fixed on the air, and he wears a nervous smile that has become a reflex for him. He looks at Tallulah and Chayanne looming before his vision, but he can't focus on them. Phil asks what happened, and Tubbo leaves.
His mind says he once gave a pretty good funeral.
He needs an answer, direct and specific, because he can no longer live without an answer - he can no longer put up with his helplessness, with the unknown, with pointless waiting. He needs an answer. Even if he doesn't believe in it, it will be at least something.
Tubbo has no problems, he's just a little sad.
Who was Fred to him? Yeah, just a penpal.
In the end, things can't get any worse.
Scott lets himself fall in love. It turns out not to be that difficult, and he falls into it like into water.
Jimmy smiles at him, bright and sunny, with childlike sincerity and adult naivety — the rustle of leaves between his shoulder blades and the explosion of fireworks somewhere far away. They knit flower crowns for each other. Scott allows himself to remember how it's done.
Jimmy's promise is on his little fingers, like an oath: "Till death do us part!"
Death separates them too soon.
When Scott buries him, he leaves flower wreaths on the grave.
Scott doesn't even try when he gets involved with Pearl again. He doesn't feel anything. She doesn't feel anything, either. They don't need to. Love is taken for granted, like moles on the body or teeth in the mouth. It's natural and stupid when you try to tear it off.
Scott builds them a house, and Pearl comes up with traps for them, and Scott leaves with Cleo, and Pearl creates an army of wolves.
Scott is not falling apart. He can already stand on his own feet.
When he brings tnt to his face, he smiles, knowing that Pearl deserves it: "It seems that death is doing us apart!"
That's what happens.
(Actually, no one deserves it.)
Scott doesn't let himself fall in love. He tries to keep his distance, and it's easy, but it's hard.
They dance around and around with Martyn, circling like fish in a lake, but there is a distance between them: they both protect it, not letting it get too close.
(Scott grabs his arm and pulls him across the line, and he forces Martyn to kill him. He pretends he didn't like it. He knows Martyn definitely didn't like it, but he was flattered)
After all, Martyn measures his breath by ticks, and Scott knows that Martyn can do things that Scott doesn't allow himself to do.
They say in unison: "Death will not do us apart!"
Of course, if they are not together in a first place.
Scott dies at exactly the right time, and he tries to convince himself that he at least tried.
Scott doesn't want to fall in love.
Introduction
> Moro (or Mor)
> He/It/They
> Rus/Eng
> Neurodivergent
No drama, just some thoughts about characters and art sometimes.
Hashtags
#moro write smth — for texts as art
#moro pictures — for art
#moro does music? — you get it
#✨ — all my posts
Fandoms (not all obv)
QSMP (2023-2024)
Tubbo main
+ CellBit, Pac, Fit, BadBoyHalo, Philza, Bagi
- Wilbur
Im sad and gay! Love my wet cat
Hermitcraft (2024)
FalseSymmetry & Grian main
+ Scar, Mumbo, Ren, Etho, Xisuma. . . Damn i love all of them. Thats hard.
> Seasons 7, 8, 9 and 10 (+ False's Empires lore)
They are family you honor!!!!!
Life Series (2024)
Martyn InTheLittleWood main
+ Grian, Scott Smajor, PearlescentMoon, GoodTimeWithScar, Cleo
Really into Eyes and Ears AU, but also not really. Mean Gill dynamic my beloved.
Dream SMP (2020-2022)
Tubbo main
+ Eret, Michaelmcchill, Ranboo, Karl Jacobs, Technoblade
- Dream (not a hater just dont like his character), Tommy (same thing, cc is okay), Wilbur
Pretty dead actually! But i talk about it sometimes
TW: death
Crosspost on ao3
The first thing Tubbo feels is that he is dying. And it is as scary as it is fast and indifferent.
This is the guillotine on his neck, this is the sword in his stomach, this is the bullet in his temple. It hardly hurts, the instantaneous flash is imprinted on the iris — it's stunning, but it's not something Tubbo can't overcome. It is ordinary and routine, brought to the point of automatism down to the necessary thoughts. Inhale, listening to the whistle from the holes in your lungs; exhale, trying not to vomit a ton of blood out of yourself. And this is the most important thing in the world.
Tubbo is locked in a box and it seems normal to him. His mind says that he has been accustomed to boxes since childhood, and who is Tubbo not to believe it? Space closes in above his head and perhaps he feels safe.
Sometimes it is too simple: to isolate yourself from everyone and leave, to be selfish. Think only about yourself, count resources only on yourself, be responsible only for yourself. There's no value in it, anyway. All he has is a meager set of things, of which he needs a lot, in case something out of the ordinary happens.
Something “out of the ordinary” always happens to him.
Tubbo inhales and his body trembles. Tubbo exhales and it hurts. But it's not something he can't overcome.
The first thing Tubbo feels is that he is dying. And it is as scary as it is long and painful.
These are stars torn apart in his brain, fireworks in his chest, lava on his skin. These are sparklers on the nerves and an itch, an endless never-ending itch. He dies for a long time, absurdly and impossible, he clings to life with all his might, even realizing that life brings him only suffering. At that moment, all Tubbo wants to do is die and end this, but he wants to live. He feels as if he was thrown into the earth's core. And this is the most important thing in the world.
"It's my fault!" — his mind screams at him, “It’s always my fault!”
Who is Tubbo not to believe his own head?
It's his fault. Punishment, as if sent by God, cannot just appear — he is an idiot, he is such an idiot, he always ruins everything and, in the end, it always leads to disasters.
Don't you dare feel sorry for him! Tubbo is a killer and he fails everyone who dares to touch him. Everything he builds will one day be destroyed, and everything he gets will one day be taken away from him. This is a pattern, a constant, an axiom; Tubbo is a symbol of failure and collapse, and in order for something to work out, he will have to try a thousand times for it to work.
In the box there is nowhere to run from the guilt, from the lava or from the fireworks, and Tubbo presses his back into the corner, hoping to hide. Shadows surround him and they chant, “It’s your fault!”
“It’s my fault,” he says in unison with them, without the hope of one day losing faith in it.
The first thing Tubbo feels is that he is dying. And it is as scary as it is cold and terrible.
These are the black walls, this is the iron, icy floor underneath, this is the water surface around. This suffocation is slow and painful, poisoning him, squeezing him, making him feel tiny. This is a gradual loss of strength and weakness in interruptions between the desperate desire to fight, to do anything to make it go away. And this is the most important thing in the world.
Spots dance on the periphery, and he closes his eyes: get out of my head! Out! Out!
“You can't do anything,” his mind says, and Tubbo screams to drown out this desperate, hopeless thought.
Get out of my head!
The shadows are circling in roundelays, and Tubbo is looking for a loophole to get out — like a hunted animal in the hope of salvation. Tubbo wants to believe, and Tubbo believes — even if his whole nature says that it is wrong.
“Tubbo in a box” — laughter, on the verge of pity and tenderness, — “What will he do?”
In his box, guests are not a frequent thing, although it seems to him as if once there were always people here.
The masked creature with a smile brings him paper and a pen, and strictly instructs him not to write to anyone — Tubbo nods, clutching the paper in his hands, and there is a ringing emptiness in his head. He's safe here. Tubbo scrawls awkward squares and cubes in the margins, hoping to distract himself from the pain he may be holding inside. His hands are shaking.
The creature in the empty mask is divided in half, and Tubbo does not think about its identity. For some reason, his heart squeezes, begins to hurt with renewed vigor, but the itch from under his fingers disappears for a moment: Tubbo writes “Dear Fred” on paper, and he is almost sure that he made up this name. In the end, it looks like a fantasy — unattainable and too good.
Small shadows crowd the walls, and he sees glimpses of their present: a floatie, a red hat, a wooden sword, the black glasses. They cluster above him, lying on the floor, and look with wide, childish eyes.
“I love you” — whisper in ear, burning and painful.
“I do not deserve this. I killed you.”
The children are smiling, and it is not forgiveness if Tubbo convinces himself of this. They close his eyelids and he suffocates, and he feels infinitely weak and useless.
It is raining. There are no rain.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Does he believe in it?
(He wants to believe in it.)
(He will never believe in it.)
I love you.
There are no one, and it rains.
But he is not dying. And this is the most important thing in the world.
—
I couldn't finish it, so here it is. Maybe i should post it on ao3? Tell me if you think it is okay.
It is not really qsmp, and not really dsmp. Its just Tubbo.
Hope you liked it.
God bless google translate i would never do it by myself.
Edit: made a crosspost.
"I'm alive!" - Tubbo persuades, holding out his callused hands to Pac to touch, to feel the sharpness of the knuckles and the softness of the skin, to run over the scratches on his wrists and the bruises on his phalanges. Pac holds his hands and smiles - but a smile like one looks at portraits on graves.
“Of course,” Pac says, and Tubbo knows that he doesn’t believe him, that the Creature’s words echo in his head in parallel: Tubbo purses his lips, pulling away, and doesn’t know what to say. The current beats under his nails, and he wants to scream.
"I'm still Tubbo!" - Fit looks at him with a stunned look, looking into his eyes with running zeros and ones. They were always there, they never disappeared, but why does he care now?! He wants to howl, and Tubbo covers his face with his hands, breathes heavily with his valves - the membrane around him tightens, as in real breathing. Fit considers him to be a wild animal, and this is not so far from the truth. At least he doesn't poke him in the ribs with a sword.
Tubbo is still the same Tubbo, with the same stupid, chaotic algorithms, with the same strength of several tons, with the same commands of protection and suspicion, with the same goals of helping everyone. Tubbo is still the same Tubbo, with the artificial intelligence of a barely grown teenager who knows a million songs and loves music more than wrapping up bruised knees.
Sunny hugs him. She presses herself to his side, hides her nose in his cardigan, and Tubbo presses her to him, kisses the back of her head, strokes her hair. She's breathing heavily and crying, and Tubbo hopes she at least knows he hasn't changed. That everything is fine. That he won't leave.
Oh god, Chayanne will kill him.
. . . He can worry about that later.
Grian would like to leave everything like this: the bright sun, the tickling behind the ribs, the clover in Mumbo’s hair. Fractioned memories without context or words, pure emotions and sensations, love under his palms.
Warmth, loud laughter, Scar humming to himself.
Close your eyes and dissolve, become one with time-space, stay here, here forever, with the two of them and your heart aching from feelings.
Grian would like to leave everything like this: tongue behind teeth and hands in pockets. So that the tremor is not visible.
It's terribly embarrassing, but what can he do? Icarus has flown too close to the sun, and all he can do is try to stay in the sky for a little longer. At least a couple of seconds, a moment of some confidence.
Questioning glances, uncrossed boundaries, the bliss of their ignorance.
Grian allows himself to swear that this will continue. That they will be safe. That it will be better for everyone.
Grian would like to leave everything like this: nightly dreams of the end, of escaping to distant, distant servers, where none of them are obliged to do anything anymore — a secret that accidentally fell from his lips in a fit of sincerity, not fear or necessity.
But it all happens like this:
He dreams of the sun in nightmares. Heat and stains under the eyelids, sand in every accessible and inaccessible place. Crooked mirrors, his own broken crescent smiles.
Someone else's laughter and hackneyed joke echo through the crystal glass. Grian sees. Hands clenched, stupid power of attorney bursts - a real paradox in their conditions.
What did Daedalus say to Icarus? A couple of simple truths: don’t get attached to people so as not to hurt them or be hurted. But Icarus enjoyed the flight too much. Grian closes his eyes, and underneath there are yellow spots, and tangled clover grows through the moss and mushrooms.
Cruel reality in exchange for intertwined fingers during breaks, for a little lie for them and for himself: I love and I am loved. Grian is not allowed to think with emotions; Grian allows himself to fall into someone else's arms.
In the end, Grian would like to leave everything like this:
> Team name: Russian 2
> Writer: @moro-the-sun
> Artist: @briscolae
> Beta: @turtlecase
> Title: Я умею заряжать винтовку (мне это больше не нужно)
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56773495?view_full_work=true
> Ratings/Warnings: Mature, No Archive warnings apply, War theme, Canon-typical violence
> Characters: Martyn InTheLittleWood, FalseSymmetry, RenDog
> Summary:
Мартин привык к жестокой рутине: начало игры, три смерти, пустота, повтор. Это было знакомо и просто, потому что он уже давно не знал ничего другого.
«Привыкнуть» — не значит «любить».
Так что когда некая женщина вытаскивает его с игр и говорит, что приведет его «домой», Мартин даже не думает начинать спорить. Правда он не знает, как сказать, что дома у него нет.
ИЛИ Фолс спасает Мартина после Сикрет Лайф и, подобрав по пути Рена, они едут на Хермиткрафт. О войнах и их последствиях, о реальности и кошмарах, о животном и человеческом.
Martyn is used to a brutal routine: start of the game, three deaths, void, repeat. It was familiar and simple, because he hadn't known anything else for a long time.
"Is used to" does not mean "like".
So when a certain woman pulls him out after the game and says that she’s going to bring him "home," Martyn doesn't even think to start arguing. However, he doesn’t know how to say that he does not have a home.
OR False rescues Martyn after Secret Life and picking up Ren along the way, they drive to Hermitcraft. About wars and their consequences, reality and nightmares, animalistic and human.
> Art:
[start of recording]
Grian: Hello, Pearl! You've already read messa- oh i get it, okay. I finally got that Tango game! Well, you know, the game that we all were waiting for!
Grian: Okay, I'm pretty sure this is still a demo, but- what? No, no, he just asked me to play it and find all the mistakes while he was away on business. This is fine. The game is just launching, I’ll turn on the translation for you now.
[The sound of the translation starting, ZITS logo plays]
[on title screen, bgm: menu🎵]
Grian: so! Damn, I love this whole design- Zedaph did a great job with it, but I don't know how Tango dealt with it after. . . Ugh, whatever, okay. Yes, we should start.
[selects an empty file and enters “Grian” as a name. character menu opens]
Grian: oh, there are already three characters! What do we have here? A birdie, a doggie and a zombie — strange choice, I agree. And- no, Pearl, I won't play for the dog! I'm in charge and I choose the bird! I'm- Pearl, deal with it!
Grian: Anyway, what do we have here? “The birdie that wants to have a party, and in order to do this, must gather all the guests who have scattered around the place.” Oh my god, this really sounds like Pokemon- ok, let's get started.
—————
[on a black screen, a dialogue box appears]
Developer: Hello! I am Zed. If you see this message, it means this game is still not quite ready and you are helping us fix the bugs. If you find any bugs, please contact Tango or Zedaph. Thank you very much!
Developer: And remember, we are watching over you. . . Through disks in your set-top boxes. . .
Developer: ha, just kidding. Have a good game!
—————
[start of recording]
Pearl: Why are you recording all this down?
Grian: What do you mean “why”?! I had to show this to Tango somehow!
Pearl: oh, okay- so, what's the matter?
Grian: give me a second, I'll run it- in short, maybe I'm just delusional, but like, if not, then I don't understand what's going on at all.
Pearl: You sound really nervous for some game.
Grian: Pearl- THIS MAY NOT BE JUST A GAME!
Pearl: whoa, whoa, Grian, breathe! Explain to me what's wrong.
[in: Citadel, bgm: blue fire ballade🎵]
[Grian sighs]
Grian:. . . In brief- oh, I'm definitely just crazy. The lack of sleep didn't do me any good.
Pearl: Mr. Grian Xelqua! What did we talk about lack of sleep?!
Grian: yes, yes, I remember, just- later, Pearl.
Pearl: Fiiine.
Grian: anyway, you and I stopped when I got lost, right? In brief, I tried to find at least some way so that in the end i wouldn’t wander around all this time and you wouldn’t get bored, and, well, I found the first guest.
Pearl: oh, and who is it?
Grian: let me just show you.
[The character moves through the maze, eventually coming to an NPC: this is a small imp with lightning around him]
Pearl: o- he looks like Impulse! What's the big deal? This is a game of Tango and Zedaph, of course the first will be Impulse.
Grian: well, yes, but!
[Grian interacts with Imp]
Birdie: Hello! I want to invite you to a party!
Imp: party? Oh, you're always welcome! But, for this I will have to ask you something. I need three black potsherds- you know what they are. Only after that I will go with you!
Birdie: oh, good!
Pearl:. . . Hah.
Grian: Do you feel it too?!
Pearl: well, listen, this is Impulse, he always liked to create chaos. And withers.
Grian: yes, but. . . I just- I just think it's weird. That his character is asking this of me.
Pearl: . . . Of you like-
Grian: of me like a character in the game. Of the bird's.
Pearl: a- OH NOW THIS MAKES SO MUCH MORE SENSE!!
Grian: NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW DAMN SCARED I WAS????
"I want to understand."
Tango has a crack in pink glasses — he looks tired, skewed. Martyn looks at him with a curious look, twice, he thinks — who cares what he wants to understand. Martyn doesn't understand much either. He arches an eyebrow in an interrogative gesture, leaning on a shovel, like on a cane.
“He said he was cursed,” Tango clarifies, and okay, he should have expected it, "I don’t understand. I want to understand."
Martyn blinks, returning to the shovel, which he drives deeper into the clay black earth. He asks, playing disinterest: "What makes you think that I know?"
Tango nervously moves his shoulders and sits on the threshold of their dog house. What a pest, and you won't get away with it — Martyn is not ready for this conversation, he generally did not undertake to explain anything for Jimmy.
He wonders, if Jimmy himself understands something in this?
"Weren't you friends with him? Like, even before the games?" Tango takes off his glasses, gnawing Martyn’s back with such a look that he feels it almost physically, "He told me about Evo. I think you should know something."
Martyn reluctantly stops and turns around, humbles Tango with his eyes again: in his Heart Foundations uniform he seems smaller than in his usual huge vest, and his fire only shyly cracks, obviously expecting any attack from Martyn. Here he is, damn him: he stretches himself on the palm, open and sincere, with one single question that doesn't let him sleep at night — Martyn knows, because he himself once had such a question. It can be seen that he despaired, that he does not know who to ask already, since he went into badlands to fall at the feet of the now lonely red. Curse Jimmy again for his talkativeness.
Okay, he has to leave a shovel.
Martyn pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Welp, listen."
He turns him into the house and sits him at the threshold, sitting opposite on the edge of the bed: a bright gesture that he is not going to do anything with Tango, giving an advantage in the form of a retreat. Now the conversation is serious, the conversation is not in games, but over them — Martyn dreamed of at least someone talking to him like that once, someone he knew, and not a thousand-eyed shit that looked like a demon of sleep paralysis. After all, Tango doesn't even understand how valuable such a gesture is, how much Martyn will now give him in one dialogue. He bites his lips, trying not to look back on the box: “You know Jimmy is a canary, don’t you?”
Tango bows his head, as if not quite realizing what the question is for, but nods in the affirmative: "He spoke about it."
“Of course,” Martyn confirms, “he spoke about it. This is his curse - the curse of the canary."
Tango does not understand, obviously, and he needs to gather his strength again, he needs to remember again what he once understood — when was it? Has awareness come with victory?
“The miners take the canaries with them because they constantly sing. Birds are much more susceptible to gas and pressure, and therefore, when they fall silent, it means it's time to leave."
Tango's face darkens. "What does this mean?"
Martyn wants to spit. That's what it means, why don't you understand?
“Jimmy is a canary,” he says as calmly as he can, “He dies first. He will always die first."
“Not this time,” is the obvious fact. Martyn nods, "Not this time. But it's not that important."
Silence. Tango tears a crack in the lens with nails, thinking about something, while Martyn tries to figure out how to explain it more clearly, how to embrace this topic a little more than "Jimmy does not see his own nose further, and therefore collects everything along the way cones."
“This is a warning,” he finally exhales, “his death means that the stage of the peace is ending, that everything is now too dangerous, and. . . Well, it's time to stop preparing for war and it's worth starting to fight. After his death, it becomes much more dangerous. Therefore, it doesn't matter if he died first or second: his function is not in the number, but in the alarm."
Tango looks up at him — pity oozes from his red eyes, and although its not towards Martyn, he feels anger gurgling inside. He has his own opinion about all this, even if it's none of his business.
“It’s cruel,” Tango says quietly, and in these words — love, endless and boundless, embracing with fire, a love that Martyn could neither know nor understand. He looks away. He closes his eyes.
“Yes,” he agrees, “But it’s merciful."