Let us begin.

Cross-posted from Archive and Wattpad-thought I'd try my hand at FanFiction!

The tws for the entire fic are listed below. I'm pretty sure I tagged this fic appropriately as T, but I thought'd I'd mention everything to make sure.

Blood, gore, panic attacks, anxiety, past trauma, kidnapping, fear, death, fear of dying, fear of losing everything, dehumanization (especially of hybrid peoples), slavery, trafficking, broken bones, malnutrition, abuse and its affects, manipulation, brief mentions of *that* kind of content

Panic attacks are a bit of a given throughout almost every chapter.

Disclaimers are below:

I do not ship anybody except for Phil and Kristen because I love them very much. Outside of that one, extremely strict exception, I do not ship. I'm solely platonic. I can't write romance, and have very little wish to do so.

These are not the real creators, or even the characters they play. These are my characters that I made, loosely using the real creators' personalities and names. These characters are actually more little pieces of my personality than the creators themselves.

I do not wish to receive any disgruntled comments about Schlatt, Dream, or any of the more controversial creators. I do not care. I mind my own business. I am not responsible for any of their actions. It is none of your concern whether I support them or not. I am here to provide entertainment and a safe place for those having rough days and just need to unwind, not to debate whether or not certain creators are this or that. Disgruntled comments do not add to that safe place, and have no place here.

I myself do not agree with the creators on a lot of touchy subjects and while I'd rather we not discuss all those - as again, safe space - I do reserve the right to write my fanfiction as I see fit as this is my safe space as well. If anything seems a bit off about some of the characters (for example, the lack of cuss words all around) this reason is probably why.

The Minecrafts do move house a lot throughout the series - the only problem is I don't know where or when because I did not put a lot of thought into this fic when I first started and now its 200,000 words long with a very intricate plot so we're running into issues there. If the house descriptions in various chapters are a bit off, that's why.

I have absolutely no idea of anybody's age at any given time. Please don't ask-I don't know.

If you would like to recommend this fic to one of the creators, I don't mind. Don't be pushy though, and while I'm not aware of who, exactly, some of the creators have asked not to be asked to read anything. Be mindful of those please.

Comments are the highlight of my day. I smile for literal hours after and I often re-read them when I'm sad. It's only thanks to commenters and all the tremendous support from the original on Archive that we ever made it past Chapter 6. I may have given you guys the story, but you guys were the ones that got it off the ground.

Once I get all of Volume: I posted, Volume II: Home will follow!

Be safe my darlings, keep your head up!

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Philza Minecraft had done a lot in his lifetime.

He had killed entire armies with his bare hands, faced dragons with only a broken arrow, and took down terrors that would have made humanity tremble. The wings on his back had become a symbol of something so horrible he was forced to hide them away, forced to wait until they faded from the memories of the public.

His legacy had stained the pages of history books to the point people had begun to call them fairy tales—if only to hide from the terrible reality he had created.

But when Kristen told him she was pregnant—

Phil had never felt a fear deeper than the one that had electrified his veins in that very moment.

He was the Angel of Death. He had magic in his veins people would kill for, had killed for.

His wife was a Deep Magic Magess. She had magic that could shake mountains and move seas.

And they were now pregnant.

Phil watched his wife from the battered kitchen chair, keeping watch for any slight flinch or sign of pain.

Even from across the room, he could feel the baby's magic—entirely separate and unique from his wife's, though so much smaller and more delicate.

Kristen wasn't even showing yet, and Phil could already tell the child was going to be powerful.

"Quit worrying," Kristen said, stirring the pot of soup. It was weak and watery, with only a few dry vegetables and a sad, small slab of beef. But it was better than nothing. "He's too small to be causing any discomfort yet."

Phil's gaze flicked from her stomach to her face. " 'He'?"

"He," Kristen nodded, not looking up from her stew, frowning as a carrot got stuck to the bottom of the pot. "It's a boy."

Phil's heart did a little beat.

A son, a little boy- the son of the Angel of Death and his Lady-

"Stop." Kristen pressed a kiss to the top of his head, setting a bowl of the steaming food on the table in front of him. "Worrying helps nobody."

But it made Phil feel better.

Worrying had kept him alive as long as it had. Worrying made sure threats stayed on the radar, worrying had made sure—

A damp towel snapped on the back of his head.

Phil yelped and ducked, clapping a hand over the now-sore spot. He whipped around in the chair, a petulant frown pulling at his forehead as his wife laughed at him.

"Should've listened!" she sang, wiping her hands on the towel and serving up her own bowl.

Phil pouted, but the smile pulled at his lips anyway. How could he not smile? With the universe's most beautiful woman humming away, carrying their child, the outside world locked behind the door, forgotten for tonight?

They had let go.

They had let that world where blood and tears and wild magic had nearly torn them apart.

They were free now.

And while the factory work was hard on Phil, and Kristen's unused magic went more and more dormant over the years, and the house was small and sad and pathetic compared to before—

They were still free.

Phil only got more and more clingy as the months progressed. The child grew, as did Kristen's stomach.

She went out less and less—pregnant women were at high risk of simply vanishing. Slavers took advantage of the 'two-for-one,' and Phil refused to lose his wife.

(again.)

Kristen also grew more and more tired.

She was more than just pregnant with a baby—she had the merging of two powerful magics inside her. Her own magic protected the baby magic as it grew on its own and figured out what it was meant to be.

Phil had no idea how that all worked—he just knew it left his wife tired and exhausted.

"I'm fine," Kristen pushed half-heartedly against Phil's chest and he carried her across the room to the bed.

He had moved them, again, after Kristen had mentioned something about the neighbors getting too friendly.

Didn't help that the casserole the neighbors had left on the porch for her had knocked out the cat that had gotten to it first.

At least this house had a decent fireplace and a barely-leaking roof.

"You said your feet hurt," Phil said innocently, giving her a doe-eyed look.

"I'm fat and bloated," Kristen gave him a look. "Of course my feet hurt."

"You are not fat," Phil declared, setting her down on the bed and adjusting the pillows.

"I literally have another human growing inside me," Kristen pointed out. "I am fat."

Phil pressed a kiss to her temple. "You're still gorgeous."

Kristen hummed as Phil blew out the candle and got in his side of the bed. Kristen rolled to face him and he offered his arm for a pillow, throwing his wing up and over as extra blanket and protection for his wife.

Habitually, he rested a hand on her stomach, waiting till he felt the little heartbeat before he began to gently rub.

"Soon?" he asked hopefully.

For the fifth time tonight alone.

"You will have plenty of time to coddle him when he gets here," Kristen snuggled closer to him and he moved his hand to rub the small of her back. "Be glad he is only my problem."

Phil didn't want the baby to only be her problem.

He wanted to help.

Phil did not want to help.

Phil did not—in any way, shape, or form—want to help.

Kristen was screaming, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Lightning flashed in the windows, followed seconds by the crack of thunder. It rattled the windows—shook the house in its very foundation.

It was nothing compared to Kristen's scream of agony. She gripped the sides of the headboard, face drawn and dripping with sweat as the contraction moved through her.

The rain poured down, angry and loud and a distraction. The midwife hadn't shown up, not with the unnatural storm tearing apart the town and beating down on anything that wasn't securely attached.

Phil was left to deliver his own child in one of the worst storms this side of the Kingdom had ever seen.

The fear he had felt when Kristen had told him she was pregnant was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. It was easily a thousand times worse, rooted so deeply into his very bones he was afraid he'd shatter like glass.

Kristen went rigid and screamed again, this time so loudly Phil's ears popped and he swore his heart skipped a beat at the raw agony that tore from her throat. One window spiderwebbed cracked, and the door rattled in its frame. Lightning struck half a second later, and Phil was worried it had actually struck the house.

He had other things to worry about, as suddenly he as holding a very wet, very bloody, very loudly screaming baby.

Phil's brain went offline, and he acted solely on autopilot.

He cut the umbilical, cleaned up the child and the mess that came with him. Sopped up the blood and fluid and immediately threw the soiled sheets away in the trash can outside.

He managed to change the sheets without actually kicking his exhausted wife off the bed, got her a clean blanket, and redid her hair while she fed the baby for the first time.

When he finally got everything put away, washed, cleaned up, and hung up, Kristen was dozing sitting up against the headboard.

The storm had faded, leaving the solemn night to stretch out across the sky.

"How is he?" Phil asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. The baby had eaten his fill and was dozing. He was quite the ugly little thing—much like an old potato with black fuzz poking off the top, Phil decided.

He was also easily one of the most precious things Phil had ever seen.

"Wilbur," Kristen muttered as Phil kneaded his fingers on her shoulders, smoothing the still slightly-damp curls on the baby's head.

"Hmm?" Phil asked, adjusting the icepack on her neck.

"I wanna name him Wilbur," she repeated, a bit louder, exhaling in relief as Phil helped her lay back on the bed. "I really wanna name him Wilbur. Can we name him Wilbur?"

Her eyes were exhausted, her face drawn with tired-lines. But still she looked at Phil as if he was the only thing that mattered right then.

"Of course, love," Phil murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Wilbur is lovely name."

He knew the name meant 'brilliant'; it was quite fitting, with the lightning that had struck the sky during his birth.

The baby hiccupped in his sleep and stretched in his little onesie that Kristen had made with her last good dress, mittened fists bonking Kristen in the face.

"Don't hit your mother," Phil scolded softly, booping the fat little cheek. The baby didn't even move.

Both him and his mother were asleep, leaving Phil to keep an eye on his tiny family.

He didn't mind at all.