#mcyt fic

[ador3him]

DreamTeam (any of them) x Fem!Reader

Have you seen that TikTok trend where girls use a pheromone perfume to see how their boyfriends react? Well, what if Reader decides to try it out because she thinks the reactions are exaggerated, but in the end she thinks it was the best purchase of the month

-🦝

pairing: Dream team x reader

requested? Yesss by 🦝 anon

authors note: I LOVE THIS IDEA

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DREAM

Dream smelt it straight away, you came out from your shared bedroom after getting ready and sat with him on the couch. "Is that a new perfume, baby?" He asks smelling your neck and wrists. You hummed in response and turned on the tv. "Hold on, c'mere," he pulls you into his lap and continues to smell you. "It's so good, baby," he says placing kisses on your neck. "Really?" You ask a bit bewildered. "Yeah, you gotta keep wearing this." He says giving you a kiss on the lips. You nod in response and go to sit next to him but his arms prohibit you. One arm was around your waist and the other grabbed your thigh. "Dream," you whined. "No you're not moving," dream shook his head and dipped it down giving you another sloppy kiss on the lips.

GEORGE

George was sleeping when you came into your room and laid down next to him. You had put the perfume on before hand and wanted to see what it would do. You began to run your fingers through his messy bed hair. "hi love," he groggily mumbled out. "You smell so good," he said pulling you with one of his arms closer. "Do I?" You tease slightly. He nodded and placed a kiss on your cheek. You stop playing with his hair and move down to stroke his cheek. "Wow," he says at the smell. "You know how you wanted to go away this weekend?" He asked opening his eyes. You nod. "Go grab my wallet and book the tickets, love," he smiles.

SAPNAP (kinda NSFW?)

"chat, be nice my girlfriend is coming in to say hi," sapnap warned his stream as you walked into his streaming room. You wave softly at the camera not really acknowledging your boyfriend. "Hold on I'm going to mute really quick," he says softly and clicked mute. "Hi, Peaches," he says rubbing his hands up and down your waist. You dip your head down and give him a quick peck, nothing too raunchy as he was live. "You look beautiful," sapnap smiles brightly at you. "Thank you," you mumbled blushing. "You smell amazing as well, new perfume?" He asks breathing in deeply. "I guess you could say that," you smile. "damn it's good, could bend you over and take you right here," he groans. "Do it then," you tease jokingly. He laughs and unmutes himself. "Chat, I'm really sorry to cut this stream short but I need to go. See you guys next time." Your mouth is agape when he finishes the stream and turns to you. "Bend over and pull down your panties, peach,"

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[tunastime]

do androids dream of electric sheep?

I am nothing if not a vessel for self-indulgent docsuma, especially @shepscapades's dbhc self-indulgent docsuma. sometimes you fall asleep in the lab, and sometimes your friend feels compelled to make sure you're okay <3

(3964 words)

Doc sometimes slips into daydream.

It’s not unlike him. He’d been doing it for some time now, some fix halfway between awake and Sleep Mode. Not quite his mind palace, but still wedged into predictive processes, still trying to work to replay memories. In quiet moments, more often than not, he finds that it’s easier to slip away, to tuck himself into his work, drafting, or building, or walking thoughtful circles and let the mechanical parts of his mind slip away into calculation.

In those same dreams, he tries to calculate the probability of events with what he has, blocking out the movements of who he knows best, who he may be able to pinpoint. He works in quiet as his mind runs in the background, wondering how conversations may go, how actions could be perceived. He maps what might happen if someone got hurt, or if someone needed help, or if someone fell asleep in the lab. Someone. Just anyone. He tells himself it could be anyone, but he would be lying if he didn’t know who.

It was hard, right—it felt wrong if he didn’t. Something he was designed to do, put to waste because it felt silly to imagine waking his lab partner, his friend, making sure he was alright, helping him. Was it wrong to want to be helpful? Was it wrong to want anything? It feels—it’s silly. Want was such a human word. He’s not sure he can really want at all. The paper in front of him is getting fuzzy around the edges, though, as he forces himself back into his true waking mode, and focuses on the task in front of him, now a line of text in his eyesight.

Doc leans hard on his hand, cupped around the side of his jaw as he studies the plans in front of him. He’s long since set them to memory, easily recalled with the summon of command, but he works out the fine details of the draft in front of him, still unsatisfied with his new creation. He works quietly, mentally mapping the lists of supplies he might need, the time it may take. If he were to concentrate the slightest bit more on the display in the corner of his vision, he might note how late it had gotten. Without any windows down here, the night sky can’t leak in, which means Doc doesn’t know it’s gotten dark until Xisuma starts to yawn or he manages to peek outside. 

He sets his pad down, eyes skimming the surface. Right, and where was X, anyway? The space, ever growing, up, down, sideways, that he used as his lab had gone still and quiet some time ago. Enough for Doc to take note of. Enough to be a little odd, he would assume, even for him, and the behaviors he knows well from Xisuma. Xisuma didn’t just wander off without a word—he was much too narrative for that. Doc sits up, hand falling to the table. 

“X?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows. The room stays quiet, aside from the hum of recirculating air and electronics. Doc taps his hand against the table—it was some sort of tic he’d picked up from Ren, a sign of his impatience. He couldn’t shake the habit of mimicking it while he was thinking.

Okay, right. Last time he saw X. He gathers up the recall of the path Xisuma would’ve taken from his side, checking over his work at Doc’s request, and around the lab itself, looping back to a series of benches to work on. Leaning from his spot, he tries to pinpoint the peek of green helmet or shoulder piece. He finds neither in the direct line of sight, though, and slowly, bracing his prosthetic arm on the table, Doc stands. 

It’s a gentle quiet that fills the room, nice and easy and soft to step through as Doc makes his way around the space. Despite having another work bench quite close, Xisuma had a habit of leaving his stuff about, flitting between projects as he saw fit. It was interesting, sometimes, to watch him move around the room—not that Doc had done any of that. He seemed to bounce from point to point, sometimes staying still for hours, unmoving, lost in work. It was in those hours that Doc found himself watching, just for a moment, studying the shallow curve of his nose and the way his hair fell into his face from behind his helmet. 

His office is here, too. Though it’s no different than any other working space in terms of equipment, the space itself is fully outfitted, lined with tools and a large work table, his computer, a desk with a chair. Through the glass, he can see the shape of Xisuma at his desk, likely too caught up in whatever he had been working on to notice Doc’s concern. Doc pauses as he slides open the door, standing in the doorway, announcing himself to the cluttered room.

“Xisuma,” Doc starts. “I know it’s late, if you want to head home, I’m sure I can finish…”

Xisuma is slumped over on  his desk as Doc enters. There’s a brief moment, no more than a second, where Doc’s mind spins a scenario hard and fast, the crumpled shape of Xisuma over his desk. But he can see the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. He registers the slow, steady heartbeat in Xisuma’s chest, and his shoulders sag with relief. He stands in the doorway for a moment. Xisuma looks small, head pillowed on his arms. He’s still running a series of code on the console next to him, which illuminates the back of his head in pale lines of data. His hair falls half loose across his shoulder, like he’d forgotten to finish tying it away from his face, and the slow, deep breaths make it seem like he’d been sleeping here a lot longer than Doc realized. He’s without his helmet, too, which sits beside him on the desk, discarded.

Long enough to get a sore neck and complain about his upper back hurting. Long enough to worry that he might not be getting enough oxygen. Doc sets his shoulders. There’s something in his chest that feels like it skips—regulator, pump, or otherwise. They work in tandem to produce whatever fluttery feeling invades the space where his ribs should be. He presses the heel of his synthetic hand against the depression of his chest, rolling his wrist. The feeling fades for a moment, shuddering through his wrists like it might rest there. He was never going to get used to it, was he?

He steps into the lab proper, sticking his hands into his pockets. He picks his way around the room, trying to walk quietly around it. Xisuma stays asleep, shoulders rising and falling in that even tempo. Doc crouches beside him—Xisuma is properly slumped, back curved forward as he rests. What little Doc can see of his face is soft with sleep, eyelids fluttering just so. When X doesn’t move, he rests his palm over the curve of his shoulder, gentle and slow. He tries not to focus on the fact that so much of his face is exposed to him, aside from just his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He’s seen him before, briefly, every so often, but it was so different watching him now, calm and comfortable. Doc forces himself to focus.

“Xisuma,” he says, voice dipping low and quiet. He runs his hand over the part of his shoulderblade he can reach. He pats the high of his back. “Xisuma, hey…”

X takes a long breath in, making a squeaky sort of sound high in his chest. Doc feels him hum out from under his hand.

“Doc,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest. It was a tired sort of rumble, just on the edge of being rough with sleep, just enough to bring that feeling back to Doc’s internal components, like thirium was sludging too quick too warm through him. He huffs a little breath, a sound caught in his throat.

“You fell asleep at your desk, X,” Doc says, not able to weasel the amusement out of his voice. He runs his hand over his back again, just to see Xisuma’s eyes open tiredly, and shut again. It was so unlike the version of him that he knew in his mind, seeing him savor the brief contact, even from Doc. Especially from Doc. Xisuma was always the one reaching out for him, repairing or correcting or studying. All with purpose. There was no lingering touch between them. And though this had its purpose too, Doc lingered, feeling Xisuma breathe under his hand. 

“Sorry,” X mumbles, finally moving to lift his head, to open his eyes. Doc’s hand slides away as X sits up, over his back and back to Doc’s side. Xisuma blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hands. A frown comes between his eyes as he tries to focus the world around him a little clearer. Like it were mimicking the score across his cheek and nose, there’s a fine indent pressed into his cheek. Doc smiles at him, scrunching his nose in a way he’s seen X do a hundred times. 

Xisuma jolts, half reaching for the helmet beside him. If Doc were to really look, he might see the pink-red flush over his cheeks and ears.

“Sorry—I didn’t…”

There he lingers, halfway to reaching. Doc looks away from him, purposefully averting his eyes.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “You have to be comfortable too.”

Xisuma hums, smiling a little, hanging his head as he leaves his hand on the table.

“Hah,” he says, ears still pink. “Right. Sorry, sorry, Doc. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t know where you had gone off to, so I figured I would come make sure you were okay.”

X nods. Doc watches him twist around, hearing the faint give and pop as his spine adjusts to sitting upright. 

“‘M alright,” he says. Then he laughs a bit—the sound is airy and half in his chest, enough to shake his shoulders but more of a wheeze than anything else. Everything fit so well to the timbre of Xisuma’s voice, it seemed, be it the way he moved about, or the way he laughed, or the way his shoulder sloped or face was shaped. Not that Doc had been looking. Regardless, Xisuma sighs, and smiles back at him.

“Just embarrassed is all,” he manages. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate you.”

X leans back in his chair. Doc watches him resettle and hum to himself as he gets comfortable against the plush backing. Doc makes a clipped sound, reaches out and moves away again, halfway between shaking him awake and letting him sleep.

“X,” he says. “Would it not be more comfortable if you were sleeping in your spare room?”

Xisuma frowns. 

“Would be,” he says, eyes still closed, mumbling. “It just gets awfully cold in there. ‘N if I’m perfectly comfortable in here, why not stay tha’way?”

It’s almost amusing, the trickle of stubbornness that leaks into the tired slur of Xisuma’s voice. It’s almost endearing. He watches X fold his arms over his chest, armor only partly discarded, watches his face wrinkle as he notices and tries to rearrange himself. Doc smiles, something that he simply can’t help—it feels so right, considering how ridiculous this is. He considers his options and weighs the success rates, the action taking a fraction of a second in time, though the scene plays out in his head in full.

“Because you’ll hurt your back,” Doc says plainly. X frowns, clearly mulling it over. There—that’s one that Doc knows, that face, where X slips into thought and worries the inside of his cheek and works his jaw. Doc raises his eyebrows, as if to question him without saying anything, without Xisuma even looking at him.

“Mhh,” Xisuma huffs. He pulls his knees up. Somehow, he manages to fit himself into his desk chair, curling his tall body over his knees and leaning sideways into the back. Doc hums, makes the approximation of the sound he knows.

“Xisuma,” he says. “I’m not going to let you sleep in that chair, you know. You are being stubborn.”

“M‘kay, okay…” Xisuma wheezes, finally uncurling himself.

It takes him a second. Watching Xisuma stretch and blink awake is like watching him come to life. He stretches up and around, face pulling as he likely unsuccessfully shakes the tension from the line of his spine. As he twists, he freezes, face scrunching all at once as he winces, hand shooting up to cup his neck.

“Ow. Jeez.”

He can see it tight in his shoulders and neck, even as X deflates, looking up at him blearily, still slightly slumped in his chair. His eyes shut again. 

“Xisuma…” Doc says, mouth twisting.

X sighs.

“‘M fine, Doc,” he manages to murmur out. “Just’a sore neck. Mm’exhausted.”

“Sounds like you need a real bed, mm?” Doc replies, setting his hands on his hips. Xisuma peeks at him, one eye opening, and shutting again.

He sees the fraction of a smile lift the corners of X’s mouth.

“Sure, sure…”

Doc looks over Xisuma’s face. With his eyes shut, face softening, hair tumbling over one shoulder, he looks comfortable. It’s as if someone took a brush to his features and smoothed out any hard edge—either that, or the static has leaked back into Doc’s vision. He feels a chug in his chest and his joints as he locks up.

X hasn’t moved. Doc reaches out, tapping his knee. Xisuma huffs, clearly startled from the half-sleep he’d drifted back into.

“Too tired t’stand,” he manages. Doc makes a questioning noise.

“I think you can make it,”

There’s a beat of silence. Xisuma cracks an eye open again, shuts it, furrowing his eyebrows. Doc watches him curiously, mind running through the list of possible scenarios. He’s made it part way when Xisuma says:

“‘M using you t’stand, then.”

And he makes a little, amused heh, before he says:

“That’s fine.”

There’s something he means to say alongside that, but as soon as X’s very warm, very human hand makes contact with the fabric of his lab coat and the cool synthetic of his arm, he loses focus. He should be used to this—the amount of times X has performed his routine maintenance, sweeping his hands over the replaced shoulder joint to check for seams, or made sure the regulator functioned, or backed up personal data, fingers skimming the shallow port at the back of his neck. He should be, but that contact alone sends a prickling-warm jolt up his arm. It feels foreign to let the touch linger. But Xisuma lingers regardless, hand flat against the space where Doc’s left ribs should be. He’s gone from holding, to simply sitting there, arm bent at the elbow, held weakly up. 

“Mrghh…” he complains. Doc taps his elbow, trying to jolt him back awake.

“C’mon, X, you can get up.”

X shakes his head slowly, his hand finding the inner curve of his prosthetic arm, squeezing just once, like he’s remembering it’s there. Then, X leans into him, all at once, slumping into his chest. Doc lets out a wouf in surprise. He holds still, aside from the simulated breath in his chest. After a moment, Xisuma makes a small, tired sound, almost like a laugh.

“Houfh,” he mumbles. “I, mm, don’t…don’t think ‘m gonna make it, Doc.”

“Mhm…” Doc chides. 

Xisuma laughs again, lying still for a moment, voice still heavy with sleep. There’s a moment where he shifts, and there’s a small, painful noise that he makes.

“Ow, mrrgh—ow, okay—” he gripes. Doc’s synthetic hand finds the curve of his shoulder, patting gently.

“Oh, X—just…stay still, mhm?”

“Mm,” Xisuma says tiredly, “Alright.”

As much as he wants to move him, X is still wearing that damn armor.

Doc lets him lean into his chest as he tries to weasel off the bits of armor left over. It’s a struggle, keeping X comfortable and trying not to pull him around awkwardly, while trying to remove his chestplate with one hand. Once the armor pulls away, he resettles him, slowly scoops one hand under his legs. Something about this, about the way Xisuma leaned heavy into him, felt so painfully human he feels it curl up between the wires connecting his regulator to his side fans.

“Ready?” he says, mostly to the top of Xisuma’s head.

“Mmh…” X murmurs.

He hefts him into his arms, settling him against his chest. When Xisuma sighs, it’s profound and heavy and he tucks his face into Doc’s coat. Doc can feel the remnant of heartbeat from where his arm rests behind his back, thudding away behind his ribs. His breathing stays even, though shallow. One of Xisuma’s hands clasps over the back of his neck, keeping him still.

It’s a careful walk to Xisuma’s spare room. Doc is careful not to bump anything, measuring the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he walks. He drifts back to sleep, though, through the lab, through Doc shutting the lights off. He’ll have to come back through to power down their various computers, but for now, the dull white-blue glow illuminates the room. He carries him into the halls and through and to his room. It’s smaller than the room in his base by a sizable margin—just enough for the essentials. X stirs as Doc pauses to flip on the lamp, the light warm and yellow briefly illuminating the room. This can’t be a daydream, now, with the way X sighs and wriggles himself free as Doc pulls back the quilts and lets him down. He sits down with him, and the warm shape that Xisuma makes curls toward him, just a fraction, as he pulls the blankets over him. 

Part of Doc knows that Xisuma won’t remember him carrying him to bed, or making sure he was warm, or keeping the light on so he wasn’t disoriented when he woke. Xisuma sighs, sinking into the pillows, expression relaxed and content. Doc hums.

“That’s better, yeah?” Doc says. He reaches out, instinct, want, desire, something, hammering away in his chest, as he brushes hair from X’s face, tucking it behind his ear. He brushes through the hair close to the base of his neck, across his cheek with his synthetic thumb. His dark hair is fine and soft and it must be a daydream—or it isn’t and he was right, because there have been moments like this in his head. Wondering if Xisuma would let himself succumb to soft comforts. He’s spent his own share of time lying next to him, ignoring the way Xisuma curls up next to him, pretending he himself didn’t move closer when Xisuma lies still. It was this dance that Doc didn’t understand, that he wasn’t sure if he was overthinking. Or overstepping. But Xisuma shifts, pressing his cheek to Doc’s synthetic palm, and Doc suppresses a shudder. It sparks something that could’ve been painful right up his arm and through his chest, bright and warm and staticky. 

Doc hums, smiling to himself. Something like a dull thrum knocks in that space of his pump, pushing itself a little further, a little harder. It was sweet. X trusts him, not only to see him without his armor, but to help him to bed, to help him sleep. But Doc lifts his hand away, feeling that ache, the nervous shudder through his system.

X makes a sound, then, something small, eyes fluttering as Doc pulls away. Doc pauses.

“Mhh,” X manages. Doc swallows—he shouldn’t have to. That’s not something he should have to do, or be able to do, but the action just feels appropriate. It goes right along with sighing and laughing, and as he does it, Xisuma says:

“Thanks,” in a small, soft voice, and, muffled, and slightly slurred with sleep: “Didn’t have’ta stop.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, Xisuma,” Doc says. He can feel his temperature tick up several notches, no doubt a blue flush coming to the high of his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. He laughs, just a bit. “Did I wake you up?”

X sighs, stretching as he does.

“No,” he manages. “No, y’didn’t…”

“Oh,” Doc says. “Were you awake this whole time?”

Xisuma nods slowly. Ah. Ah. Doc dismisses a temperature notification.

“A little.”

“Mm,” Doc hums. “Silly Xisuma.”

Xisuma laughs. The sound is high and a little fuzzy and a bit caught in his throat. His bright eyes blink up at him and shut again as a smile settles on his face. 

“Doc?” he asks. 

“Mhm?”

Xisuma yawns, smothering it with the back of his hand, just barely. He tucks that hand close to his chest, curling up further still under his thick comforter. 

“Could you…could’you do tha’again? The…” Xisuma lifts his hand, miming a brushing motion as he does. Another temperature warning, higher than the last, blips into Doc’s field of vision. It’s immediately dismissed, but he pulls in a breath, quiet, trying to turn it into a soft laugh.

“I can do that,” Doc says gently. Gingerly, he brushes his fingers through X’s hair, sliding back against his head. He combs through, lifting his hand to go back to his forehead, back to cradle his skull. X’s eyes fall closed again.

Doc can tell the moment that Xisuma truly slips into sleep. He lingers in his space, tracing out the base of his skull with his thumb, taking in the sensation of warmth and contact and stimulation, fingers flickering white up to his wrist. He wishes biting down on his tongue would do anything. He wishes that the hollow of his chest didn’t hold a weight that no diagnostic could fix. He felt too awkward and stilted and not nearly gentle enough. But as Xisuma stays asleep, he draws his hand away. He mumbles his good nights as he stands slowly, shutting out the light and wandering from the room. 

He makes his way back into the lab. He replays the memory of Xisuma’s small smile, the fine line of his scar as he’d pressed his face into the pillow, the way he’d relaxed against Doc’s touch. He replays the memory, again, and again. It has to be a daydream. Has to be. There’s no other logical explanation to all of that.

Maybe that would explain the ache in his chest, far too human to be his own.

Doc goes back to work. He sits down at the lab table, spreading his arms as he braces against the white tabletop. He furrows his eyebrows. Something doesn’t feel right, too warm or out of place. He feels gross. Not gross bad, maybe, gross different? Broken? Not broken, maybe. Weird. Wrong. Out of place. It doesn’t make any sense. Or it has, and he’s refusing the obvious answer. Xisuma didn’t ask for any reason. Xisuma asked because he was tired, and tired people do silly things, and silly people are a handful, and Xisuma is a handful—a lovely one. Doc shuts his eyes. His chest hurts. It’s an awful hurt, actually, less painful than it is just weird. He thinks for a moment he might be better off if he left, maybe the weight of whatever lingered in his memory would be better off if he were to take a break from standing in the same spaces. 

He sends Xisuma a message. From his office, he hears his com ping.

Docm77 whispered to you… Xisuma I’m stepping out, sleep well :-)

[nomsfaultau]

From the dark sleepy bois inc fic Mandatory Family Reunion

some close ups below ^-^

[blocksgame]

Tips on character voices when writing fic

This is written in mind for people writing fic in MCYT/QSMP/DSMP/Life series/etc kind of fandoms. But if anyone finds it useful for anything else, well then, hell yeah.

Character voice is big in all, uh, fiction, and mimicking it in any fanwork is big. But I think it’s especially big in these fandoms where the voices are so distinct – it’s usually how a Real Person Somewhere (the streamer) talks, versus something very scripted that you’d see in a TV show or novel. And it can be a big difference in your character sounding generic versus really feeling true to the original.

Listen to a bunch of your subject talking. If you want to write a character well, watch vods from their point of view, or episodes where they show up a bunch. Take note of what they say and how.

2. If you don’t know how to start doing that: try literally writing down what they say. Transcribe an actual exchange in fic-format. You probably won’t want to publish a literal exchange from canon, but it will give you a sense of how to physically write what they say.

3. If you do this (or just pay attention to how they talk), you will get a lot of: Stumbling, pauses, repeating words, filler words, weird sentence constructions, fragments, etc. I love em! Here’s something that comes through in improv much more than in novels or movies: Most people, even very charismatic people, are not very eloquent when they speak. Writing out conversations or sentences will give you a sense of the unique and delightful way in which your subject is not eloquent. vvvvv way more under cut vvvvv

(People use a LOT of filler/etc when they speak. It’s reasonable to cut back on this if it’s interfering with a nice-looking or readable result. I believe this is the eternal struggle of people who write transcripts – you want the transcript to be accurate, but there are also a lot of things you can obviously simplify and not lose the meaning. So you’ll end up falling somewhere on this spectrum either way. But I do think a lot of mediocre/generic fic dialogue is very stylized – it doesn’t sound like your guy because your guy literally wouldn’t say that. They would say it worse and more confusingly.)

(I’m serious, if you’ve never sat down with a short non-completely-scripted clip or real conversation or whatever and just written out exactly what was said, do it. It will make you better at writing.)

4. Wonda-cat made a really incredible list [link] of characterizing speech patterns for the Dream SMP members. But you can also do your own reconnaissance and come up with your own patterns, common phrases, etc.

5. You do not have to get EVERYTHING right. You’re not going to, like, get so deep into the speaker’s brain that you can produce “exactly what they would have said if they were somehow in your fic.” That is impossible. You’re just trying to evoke a character, and if you get a few turns of phrase to ring true, you’re doing great.

6. A lot of these people are popular because they are hilarious. Include jokes. Yes, even if your thing is angsty or serious. A lot of the most serious lore I can think of from, e.g., the Dream SMP or 3rd Life or the QSMP - the really story-defining, life-and-death moments - were absolutely hysterical. If you’re writing characters who are usually funny, then add some humor. It can heighten angst via contrast and a sense of realism. Ask yourself what a funny streamer would make jokes about if they were possessing a character in this situation.

7. Some people have the mystical ability to “hear” character voices in their head, and read things in their voice. If you can, do this with all of your dialogue during the editing process. This won’t always get you there, but sometimes it can catch things that sound wrong by invoking "that's really hard to imagine them saying". If you don’t have this power, try recruiting a friend who does.

8. So there’s dialogue and then there’s narration that’s still from a character’s point of view. I’ve mostly given you tips about dialogue, but a lot of this is also true for narration. IMO, narration is less about phrasing things the way the subject would, and more about recreating the way they think. I don’t have concrete rules on how to do this, but here is my wisdom:

You can get eloquent again - narration is more of an abstract and artistic process than dialogue.

Spend time with your subject’s source material.

Pay attention to what they notice and care about. How do you think they think?

Don’t be afraid to get weird with it.

That last one also applies to all art ever.

9. MCYT tends to give you a great boon you don’t see in other media: what the speaker says to their chat/audience when nobody else is listening. This can be incredibly characterizing even if you’re writing a story where people don’t have chats. It’s your person talking about their thought processes and feelings! Mine that shit.

10. Some questions that might help guide both characterizing narration and dialogue (that you’d get from dialogue):

How open are they about their feelings?

How often do they lie? What do they lie about?

What kind of metaphors do they use, if any?

How quickly does their mood change?

How can you tell when they’re in different moods?

What kind of things do they pay attention to?

How formal is their speech?

11. Finally, this is a little odd, but I find it’s much, much easier to write a character that sounds good if I, the author, like them and am rooting for them at least a little bit. If a character needs to be there who you don’t love, try to love them. Or at least get a sense of what other people love about them. It just makes everything else easier. I swear to god.

Happy writing out there!

[zedif-y]

…Sometimes, Joel isn’t sure it’s worth it.

It being– well. Him. Which, bloody hell, that just sounds depressing, innit? He’s not– he’s fine, really, in all the ways that matter. Good looking, smart, humble. What’s not to love. He’s fine, great even, so there’s no need for any worrying. No need for that at all.

He just wonders, you know? Everyone does. (Probably.)

But also, he’s phrasing it weird. It’s not that he questions himself, it’s more like… Hm. 

Let’s use a metaphor, all smart-like. Joel thinks of himself as a lot of things: The howling, blood-hungry chase of wolves, the business end of a knife. That razor-sharp feeling of teeth sinking into flesh. A forest fire out of control.

(Yeah, yeah. He’s got issues, whatever.)

That’s not the point. The point is this:

Joel’s more of a hunter than the hunted. At least, that’s what he likes to think– don’t even argue. He knows he’s unhinged, revels in it, thrives in it. Hard to put out a fire without getting burned.

And that. That’s the thing.

Because Joel thinks that sometimes he burns too bright. Like a flame– no, like the sun. A point of pride on a good day, something to hide on the worse ones. Fire doesn’t get to keep things. It burns what it touches, spits out the remains. Charred and blackened and what-have-you.

The thing is he can’t make a home without smelling the faint scent of smoke, ash lingering in the air that makes him cough and wrinkle his nose. He builds a foundation, lays down the plans, thinking maybe, this time–

He’s always wrong. Stupid, stupid. He’s always blummin’ wrong.

The thing about Joel is he’s never held something that didn’t crumble into ash. The thing about Joel is that he doesn’t know when that’s gonna end.

So is it worth it, then? To be his? 

He knows the tight grip of loneliness, the heavy chains of solitude. He knows what it’s like to curl up on the floor with his dogs— don’t you dare laugh— his back screaming at him for the night spent on a cold floor. Loneliness is as familiar to him as bloodlust, but he’d rather rip out his teeth than admit it, swallow his own tongue.

(A thought comes, and it’s stupid– no, really. It’s stupid. Stop asking.)

(Why do people think the moon’s lonely? Joel wonders, a scowl on his lips. The moon’s got like, loads of friends. The stars are right there.)

(You get too close to the sun and your wings melt.)

(Joel tugs at a piece of loose string, and he thinks that maybe the sun just wants a friend.)

(…See, he told you it was stupid.)

Joel doesn’t want to be alone. Alone alone, not regular alone. Nobody does, okay? Sue him, it drove him mad.

Whatever. Whatever.

Joel doesn’t want to be alone, not again, not ever. But he gets close to people and it’s like he can just see them burn, wax pouring down their backs and plummeting to their deaths. He gets close, gets attached, and suddenly everything’s burning all over again, and all he can do is laugh and try to put it out as it sizzles at his fingertips.

Until everyone he loves is swallowed by the sea.

(Maybe a submarine, he thinks, eyes-wide and half-crazed. Maybe that’ll be safe, he should try that next game. He should.)

(Maybe’s better than nothing.)

So yeah, Joel wonders if it’s worth it, having anything at all. He wonders if it’s worth the effort, wonders if it’d hurt less to have nothing to lose– though he already knows the answer, and for goodness sake, he wishes it were different.

Joel sighs. This whole thinking thing is exhausting.

To be his is to burn. To reach out is to doom them. But Joel’s too selfish– too much, too bright, too hungry– not to do it anyway.

…Dammit, this got depressing anyway.

Joel swallows through the lump in his throat, and he reminds himself to breathe.

He’ll keep trying, is what he thinks in the end. He’ll keep trying. ‘Cuz what else can he do? Mope, cry about it? What other choice does he have?

Maybe one day he’ll make something, and he won’t have to see it be destroyed. Maybe one day he’ll go out peacefully.

Maybe one day people will stop making their wings out of stupid, meltable wax–

Yeah, okay. He’s getting sick of this metaphor too.

But like– he can’t help but think, you know, about that fall. About Icarus, and how he laughed as he fell into the sea. People say he was happy, even in the face of death, even as his wings burned and turned into soot.

A joy worth losing. A friend worth dying for. A home worth its destruction.

Tentatively, he lets himself think: That maybe, at the very least, that’s what it means to be his.

The thought makes him relax. (If only for now.)

…He hopes so. He really, really does.

[waveridden]

“Being a ghost is stupid,” Jimmy says petulantly. “You just poked straight through my chest, which I would ordinarily be upset about. But I’ve been dead for four years, so I’m not mad at you about it. I mean, I’m mad, but not at you specifically.”

Or: Tango's ranch is haunted. It's not nearly as big of a problem as he expected it to be. A 27k ghost AU.

[majickth]

[ The following is a transcript of notes taken from the online journal of GRIAN ████. Certain words have been removed per request, but the remaining text is otherwise unaltered. ]

According to Pearl, it’s tradition for newcomers to eat their first meal at the Stress-Free Diner.

“It’s, like, a welcoming thing, y’know?” She shoveled another forkful of pancakes into her mouth. “And everyone goes here, so it’s a nice way of saying hello.”

More likely that she simply wanted a free meal, as I ended up paying for it, but I won’t deny that she was right about feeling welcome.

There was an air of familiarity as folks slipped in and out of the diner, trading hellos with the cheery-faced waiter. From the corner, I could hear Cher crackling out of an old radio, the melody partially drowned beneath the chef’s own rendition from the kitchen. I stuck to coffee and eggs, but after much insistence from Pearl, I finally caved and ordered the pie. Which, yes, really is the best around.

Several people stopped by our booth, mostly to say hello to Pearl or introduce themselves to me. None seemed to recognize me as anything other than her brother. It was surreal. Maybe even a little relieving.

She must’ve seen the look on my face, because at some point she nudged my leg and gave me a small smile. “See?” Pearl said. “Welcoming.”

I merely hummed in quiet concession, sipping my coffee as I watched a small town come to life in a tiny little diner.

[End of transcript.]

[mcytficfight]

⚔️ 2024 SIGN UPS OPEN !! ⚔️

The day is here! Sign-ups for 2024 MCYT Fic Fight are officially open until the 18th of July (EST). Fill out the form below and pick the team you want to represent!

🌻 🌸 Sign-Up Here! 🌸 🌻

Make sure to join the discord at the end of the sign up form, as that is how we’ll communicate with participants and where you can meet your teammates! Good luck, fighters!!

(Any questions can be sent either here on this blog or in the server!)

[ador3him]

OKAYY HEAR ME OUT

dtk & reader hcs! but they are all friends, how do you think they would be if they hooked up with reader and got insanely pussy whipped by them 😭 LMAOOO , like they just get completely obsessed after the hookup

- 👻😁

pairing: dtk x reader

requested? yes by 👻 my beloved

warnings: public stuff, smut!

authors note: I didn't know if you meant like smut involved but I kinda incorporated it in, if you want something else just lmk, this is just how I interpreted it!!

---------------------------------------------------

DREAM

Dream gasped for air as he moved away from yn lips. His cock pulsed again even after two rounds. Dreams cock pressed against yn slick pussy. He began to grow again and moaned into her neck. "Dream I can't do anymore," she moaned out at the feeling of his growing cock. "That's okay," he mumbled. He reached down to just feel her pussy. He covered his hand over it feeling it's warmth.

-

"yn, what are you doing tonight?" Dream asked as all their friends sat around in the dream team living room. "nothing, why?" She smiled at him. "I was wondering if you wanted to?" He looked her up and down trying to hint. "I thought what you guys did was just a hookup?" Sapnap butted in. "It was, I just, I really liked it," Dream blushed. "Dude you're so fucked," Sapnap laughed and pointed down at Dreams obvious bulge.

SAPNAP

"I couldn't take my lips off her clit. It was so sweet and the sight. Oh my god," sapnap moaned at the memory of yn squirting all over Sapnap's face as he ate her out. "You've been talking about her pussy for like an hour it's really weird," George cringed. "It was so good though," Sapnap thought back. "She's our friend shut up," George threw a pillow at his crotch.

Yn walked by towards the kitchen. "Yn, Sapnap won't stop talking about you guys having sex," George laughed. "Seriously? If you liked it that much you could've just said and we could've done it again." Yn shrugged her shoulders and continued to walk to the kitchen. "What, really?" Sapnap eyes widened. Yn nodded and Sapnap jumped up grabbing yn around the waist and pulling her towards his bedroom. "I have to make your pretty pussy squirt again,"

GEORGE

"that felt so good," George whispered and pressed a kiss on yn forehead as they laid entangled in each other and the sheets. "It was, thanks Georgie," yn smiled and began to get up. "Wait, where are you going?" George asked pulling her back down. "To my bedroom?" "No, stay!" George pleaded holding his arm around his waist snaking it into her panties. "I'll convince you," he mumbled pushing her down onto the bed.

George looked up to yn eyes from in front of her pussy. "Can I?" He asks politely, pressing a kiss over her panties. "Yeah," she moaned out. "Good," he almost ripped her panties and dove into her wetness.

-

Multiple orgasms later George stayed latched onto yn clit. Yn moaned loudly and tugged at his hair begging for him to stop. "can't, I love your pussy too much," he mumbled into her heat. "We get it, yn pussy is great but some of us are tryna sleep." Karl knocked on George's bedroom door as the guest bedroom is next to George's.

KARL

Karl and yn sat next to each other on the couch along with all their other friends. Karl's hand made its way under the blanket that they were sharing and onto her thigh. "Can I do this?" Karl whispered into her ear. Yn nodded absently not thinking much of it until he squeezed her thigh higher then usual. "What exactly are you doing?" She asked softly. "I can't stop thinking about you, ever since we, you know. I need it. Please." He mumbled into her ear kissing it slightly.

Yn opened her legs slightly trying to be discrete. All their friends knew they hooked up as Karl was completely enamored by yn afterwards. Completely smitten by the feeling. But that didn't mean they wanted everyone to know that innocent Karl was currently finger fucking yns tight, soaking pussy he was obsessed with. Without thinking Karl took his fingers out and placed them into his mouth licking his fingers clean. "Are you guys joking?" Dream groaned looking at the two.

[definitelynotshouting]

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE FINALE OF SECRET LIFE!!!!!

so i sped-wrote this as soon as i learned who the winner was this morning, tried to post it twice, tumblr mobile deleted it BOTH TIMES... but i will not be silenced ive finally gone to desktop /silly

this will go up on my rough draft pseud soon, but until then please enjoy the results of me being EXTREMELY unwell about the secret life finale. WOOOOOO WE ARE POPPING THE BIGGEST OF BOTTLES TODAY FR!!!!!!!!!!!

Grian barricades himself at the top of the highest tower of Tango's citadel the moment he wakes up. It's a calculated move, admittedly. There are a precious few places one might still find him if he truly wants to hide, but the Deep Frost Citadel isn't one of them— and with the second Decked Out coming to a ceremonious close, foot traffic here is perilously low. Dawn is a swift-approaching knife on the horizon, and Grian soars above it all, face numb with chill wind, wings brazen and feathers strewn across an empty sky.

He doesn't want to be near when Scar wakes. And he doesn't want to be found just yet, either. Oh, Scar will track him down. Of that, he has no doubt— but for now, Grian takes solace in the snow crunching underfoot as he locks himself inside this barren tower.

It's dark here, which suits Grian just fine. He doesn't bother lighting a lantern; instead, he huddles right on the floor, letting the ice seep through him. From here, he can just make out the sky as it lightens, bringing with it the dawn of a new victor. Nausea boils in his throat. With that victory comes a price, and Scar— And Grian— Well. Grian hasn't treated him very well throughout the games, now, has he?

He curls in on himself even further, feathers brushing along the length of his chilled arms. Each hair stands at attention, in some vain effort to pull warmth from the surrounding freeze— when he scrubs a hand along his arm, his fingers shake, and the gooseflesh remains stark and raised against his skin.

There was a sand-drenched point when the concept of warmth was all he could register— scorching wind scraping the cut on his cheek, the scarlet splatter of blood across split knuckles. And like the steady drain of life from a corpse, that warmth has drawn away, poison from a putrid wound— it leaves him compacting this cold, this loneliness, to mold it into four high walls around his heart; a fitting tribute to every grain of trust he's rightfully lost. Grian huffs the barest traces of a bitter laugh as his breath mists in the air. A better man would meet Scar at his base, extend his support, no matter how icily it might be met.

But Grian is selfish, and a coward, and will always be a coward— and so instead he sits, marrow freezing, with only the thin garrotte of paltry sunlight wrapping itself around his tender throat to keep him company.

And there he stays, motionless, for long enough that the chill makes a home in him— the glistening, pale yolk of the sun warns him of the passing time, a watery heat that counts down the seconds to minutes to hours until Scar finds him. Grian curls his wings around himself, a pitiful embrace, and waits.

Two hours later, the whistle of rocket-propelled elytra warn him of incoming company. Grian doesn't bother fleeing; he knows Scar, and Scar knows him, and with this last, missing puzzle piece finally slotting into place between them, he's under no illusions that staying hidden for long is feasible. Grian's eyes skitter to a crack on the far wall as clumsy footsteps scatter the snow outside, scrabbling for balance before the muted click of a cane joins them. Footsteps; another, louder click— the door's latch gives way, and a brief, blinding wave of light crashes over Grian's face, obscuring everything but the outline of a painfully familiar silhouette.

Grian has to look away. The door shuts, and for a small moment, neither of them so much as breathe.

Then Scar's sighs— one great, resigned gust. "Grian...."

He says nothing else. He doesn't have to. Grian draws his legs up to his chest in response anyway, heart a frozen pump bleeding ice into his very veins. What can he say? An apology? They're past apologies, now— if Scar wanted to disavow him forever, take the crumpled remains of their friendship and throw it at his feet, he'd be right to do so.

But Scar doesn't shout; neither does he leave. Instead, his cane taps forward, boots sliding into Grian's line of vision— and, with a grunt of effort, Scar eases himself down, until he's sitting at a safe diagonal from Grian's hunched form.

Neither of them say anything for a while.

Eventually, Grian licks his lips. They're chapped from cold, thin and ready to split. "Hi, Scar," he says softly. It comes out weak, thready— a barely-there declaration. Whatever Scar wants here... he can take it. It's the very least Grian can do at this point.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Scar settle, shifting his weight before he lands on something approximating comfort. He takes his time with it, blind— or uncaring— to the erratic snarl of Grian's pulse. His voice is just as quiet when he responds. "So... that's it, then, huh."

Grian glances over properly before he can stop himself, stomach churning; Scar's gaze has slipped to the cutout acting as a window, middle-distant and lost. Locked on something only he can see. Then Scar shakes himself, an abrupt jerk of his head and shoulders, and that glassy look turns to pin Grian directly to the wall behind him instead. "Just like that?"

Grian's fingers tighten around his knees. "Just like that," he agrees, hollow.

Scar mulls that over for a moment. His sigh is a wisp of white in front of them, crystallizing in the glacial atmosphere. "Jeez," he says finally, scrubbing one hand through the tangled bird's nest of his hair. He must have flown across half the server as soon as he... remembered, Grian realizes with a visceral pang. "I didn't... that's a lot of memories to just, um, gain back on a dime, huh?"

Grian darts a sidelong glance at him. Shifts his wings until their primaries lower, sweeping the ground around his feet like a feathered cat's cradle. "I wouldn't know," he says, a quirk of black humor dancing around the edges of his mouth. He swallows. "Since. Well...."

He trails off. Imagines, briefly, that he is a black hole— a quasar. A neutron star. Something so tight and compact it can string him out, erase him; a ball of grief and misery dense enough that it contains its own event horizon.

Scar hums a little shakily into the blooming silence. "Yeah. I guess that would complicate things, wouldn't it." A pause. "Does it always feel—?"

Grian shrugs. "Don’t know that either, Scar."

"Oh." Scar's still looking at him, the searchlight of his gaze burning pockmarks into Grian's skin. "Cool, okay... so...." He hesitates, teeth worrying his lower lip, before finally forging on: "So what now?"

Grian sucks in his own shuddery breath. "Whatever you want, Scar," he says, blank and dull. Every inch of him frozen stiff, awaiting the tipped scales of Scar’s judgement. "There's no going back, after this." The quicksilver flash of a grimace tugs his lips back to reveal sharp, white teeth. "Welcome to the club, I guess."

"It sure is a warm welcome," Scar says weakly. "Got— uh, got your complimentary balloons, and— and um, a whole gift basket of... of...."

He trails off too, the fragile ley lines of his humor peeling off, cracking at the seams. Impossibly, Grian curls around himself tighter.

An apology is nothing but wasted air now, but it dredges from his throat anyway. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Scar. I—" He breaks off, jaw tight. "I'm... I'm not sure what else to say, honestly. I never thought...."

I never thought you'd win. It's a cruel phrase that haunts the air between them, hanging like a smoky pall across their shoulders.

Scar says nothing against it; he only watches.

An uneasy prickle crawls up Grian's spine. "You don't—" He stops himself before he can finish that thought. "Are you— Scar, why are you here?"

"'Cause Pearl's not talking to me yet," Scar says quietly, prompt. "And— and because I remembered. Us."

Grian's throat closes around the word. "Us," he echoes, a rough rasp that ricochets against the deepslate walls surrounding them. The word tears through his ears, distorting with each pass. "Look, alright— I-I don't know if you got the memo, exactly, but— I'm not—"

He breaks off again, lungs jarring, hitching in his chest. Hot prickles sear behind his eyes, but nothing drops— he’s too tired for crying. "I've hurt you a lot, Scar," Grian says at last, lips numb around the words. "I'm not sure if there's much of an 'us' left, at this point."

"I know," Scar says. His eyes reflect the snow-glitter outside.

"And— I wouldn't blame you, if you left right now." 

"I know," Scar says again, softer.

"I—” Grian stares at him, helpless. "Okay, then why are you here, Scar?" He gestures between them, an aimless motion that somehow encompasses the breadth of everything that's rotted at their foundations. "If you know all that, then what—?"

Scar regards him with enviable poise. His throat bobs as he speaks. "Maybe, I just— now that I remember— maybe I just want your company, Grian. Is that really so bad?"

Grian stares at him, at a loss. "I don't understand," he says finally, and it comes out plaintive even to his own ears. "I thought you'd be— angry. After everything I've done, after all that's happened.... What's your play here, Scar? If you want to yell at me, be my guest. I think by now I've more than earned it."

But Scar doesn't take the bait. Instead, he shuffles closer— just by an inch. A careful, cautious inch. "Y'know," he says, apropos of nothing, "and correct me if I'm wrong, here— but I seem to remember something about you wanting an alliance before all of... that crazy stuff happened. Is that right?"

Something in Grian's chest spasms. Whatever expression it spreads across his face must spur Scar on, because he scoots closer again, just enough to bring their calves together. The brief shock of warmth explodes through Grian's skin, worming its way underneath the subcutaneous tissue to flood his veins and gnaw at the lingering ice.

After a moment, Scar's lips tilt up— a subtle, fragile smile. "Is it too late to cash in on that?" he asks.

Grian's mind goes blank, white and buzzing, the thin hiss of a creeper drifting through it like smoke. Unfiltered shock threads through his voice. "You want t— what?"

Scar's smile tempers further around its edges, stretching into something softer, knowing. Rounded out. With solemn motions, he reaches into the pocket of his utterly ridiculous safety vest, and delicately pulls something out.

It's a sunflower.

In the frigid gloom of Tango's citadel, Grian gapes, the brilliant yellow petals incongruous with this grim, grit, darkened room. When he looks up, Scar's eyes are overbright, painfully earnest— brimming with a desperate urgency that tucks itself away in the depths of his pupils.

"Can we try again?" Scar says, soft as the new-fallen snow beyond this isolated cell of misery. "Start over? I— I kind of hurt you too, you know. And— for the record, being without you sucks. I don't—" He falters. "I know it's gonna be all weird, y’know, between us… but I don't want to do that anymore. I just... want you here, Grian. That's all. I just want you to stick around."

Grian sucks in a sharp, daggered breath. "You're joking," he breathes, but his heart leaps, tumbling from his throat and onto the floor for Scar to stomp at his leisure. "You're actually— this isn't funny."

"Hey, do you see me laughing?” Scar presses forward once more, a calculated attack, but still slow enough for Grian to track each move, to stop him if he cared enough to. Gently, Scar unwinds one of Grian's hands from his knees, cupping it between his own and brushing the lightest of kisses against his knuckles before turning over Grian’s palm and pressing the flower into it. Grian's fingers curl around it of their own accord, silky petals burning against his fingers.

"So." Scar smiles, tremulous, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. "Can we still be friends?"

And Grian has always been a raw creature, a tangled wreck of his own selfish greed— he’s craved the honeyed umber of Scar's love since he first cradled it, tentatively, in his palms all that time ago. In the depths of his heart, there will always be that sandstone cliff, the crack of his bones against hard-packed sand, and wings too clipped to fly freely. There will always be that calloused fist around his heart, and beyond his own scrabbling fear, there will always, always be that fervent need to bring Scar close even as he pushes him away.

And where before, Scar had been playing blind, a game with no true rules… now, his eyes trap Grian against the wall, clear as glass— diamond sharp and just as steady. From a winning game, there is no turning back. There’s nothing left to lose here, except this porcelain trust, this shred of hope Scar offers him once more in the form of a flower.

Even after everything, all the memories flooding back— Scar is still here, holding Grian’s heart, and offering up his own in return.

Grian slowly presses it to his chest with trembling, vulnerable motions. "You're sure you want this."

"I'm sure I want you," Scar says, unwavering.

Grian breathes in. Breathes out. Inhale and exhale, both a heavy drag in his lungs. Already, the sun is beginning to strengthen, casting thick rays through the window and splaying them across Grian’s lap. The advent of gilded noon weaves around them, perfuming the air with light and heat.

"Okay," Grian says at last, and it drops from his lips with the weight of a confession; a relinquishment; a solemn vow. "Okay."

This time, when Scar reaches for his hand again, Grian meets him halfway, and the tangle of their fingers nets the sunflower in a promise neatly between them.

[tunastime]

15? 👀

-🍂

hi leaf!! finally getting the ball rolling again with these :3 this song is just so wonderfully DBHC etho coded that I couldn't not write him. I hope shep doesn't mind. he's in my head forever amen.

(509 words)

Etho does as Etho does best: stand around looking productive. 

Okay, well maybe that’s a lie. He’s off to the side of the Horse Course, squinting at a section of dirt that’s been ruffled completely incorrectly. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s more of a coarse dirt mound, or a freshly dug spot for new shrubs than it is an additional hill. So yeah, right now, Etho is standing around looking productive. He’s back-burnered the schematic he and Bdubs had made earlier that week in favor of looking it over with his eyes. To Bdubs, that phrase would certainly bounce around his head with no actual meaning. To Etho, it’s favoring an aesthetic over analytical approach. Which was pretty important to the whole “make sure the terrain looks good, Etho” request that Bdubs had made for him. Not a command, per se, but Etho still felt an ever-so-slight twitch to perfect what he was working on. He just wanted to do a good job. That’s what he was telling himself.

Besides, he kind of likes being helpful. Being useful and helpful gave him something to do, aside from standing around waiting for someone to tell him what needed to be done. He could work alone on his projects without someone standing over his shoulder and giving him a list of tasks to complete. Sure the whole idea of generating tasks for himself was still weird, still tricky to keep himself occupied, it offered a chance to step back and critically examine what he was doing. Which came in handy for something like this: making sure his hill of dirt that was hiding lines of redstone underneath the Horse Course actually looked like a hill and not like a landslide, and right now, it was looking very much like the latter. He sighs, letting go a rush of hot air through his mask. The sun is still high in the sky, just barely cresting over the steeples of Bdubs’ buildings. Etho glances up for a moment to make sure the sun is where it should be, that his internal time is running right, and pauses for a moment.

He wonders how Bdubs got up there without breaking his neck. Etho wasn’t there to help the whole time—he was busy carting supplies back and forth and subtly fixing Bdubs’ redstone when he wasn’t looking. Something clicks very slightly in his chest, uncomfortable for just a moment as Etho studies the tops of the buildings with the schematics up. He frowns. 

Turning back to his dirt, Etho picks up his shovel again.. It weighs a little heavier in his hands as he digs it into his mound of dirt—soon to be a hill, with grass and flowers and clover, and it was going to do the job he needed it to do, which was hide things. He lets the schematic come to front view as he works, and tries to shake the tight feeling in his thirium lines. 

Maybe he should go in for another diagnostic. When Doc gets the chance.

(send me a number 1-100 and I'll try to write a little something based on the song!)

[nomsfaultau]

FINAL SECTION

Hybrid AU in exile week where avian instincts can take over to a degree that is almost horrific, erasing someone’s personality and rationality when they’re panicking. First part here.

“I can’t make promises that this will cure anything,” Philza reminds him. Tommy scoots towards the cliff ledge of the frozen bay, a kicked pebble plummeting, plummeting, crunching into the ground below, blood and pain spilling out of him. He tries to focus on fluffy white clouds and pretty scenery but all he can see is the tower from exile. The choppy, turbulent waters of the sea he always woke up drowning in. His chopped off feathers fanning around his abuser’s mask. 

He’s pulled away from the hypnotizing reverie when strong arms wrap around his chest. Philza’s steady heartbeat hums against the back of his head. It’s so wonderfully comfortable in a way that makes him nervous. He’s tried to avoid close contact with Phil, but there isn’t much of an option now. “.....ommy? Tommy? Mate?”

“Huh?” His head feels like it’s swimming. 

“I asked if you feel secure enough.” No. Tommy can’t remember the last time he felt safe. Well. Aside from what his avian instincts were tricked into believing. He doesn’t trust the feeling all that much. 

What he says instead is, “If you drop me I’ll stab you.” Philza chuckles. 

“Fair enough. If it helps I never dropped Techno the few times he let me fly him.” 

“Bruh. Never accidentally, more like,” Techno mutters darkly, earning a smirk. But Phil assures Tommy it’s going to be as gentle a flight as possible. Which probably isn’t a very accurate replication of a first flight. Vaguely Tommy remembers his own from when he was a kid, a scrambling terrifying elating freeing chaotic tangle rushing at him faster than the wind. It had felt so right, once. Natural, like he was growing up. Finally independent, not needing to rely on a guardian anymore. Tommy wants that feeling more than anything in the world right now. Tommy needs Philza to be right, for this flight to fix him. Even just a little, just enough to know it’s possible. 

But the memory of his recent failed flight is far sharper, of the moment he realized his abuser was right about him. An overhanging shadow of doom, despair, dependence. 

Phil tries to nudge Tommy forward, towards the edge, and suddenly Tommy’s panic spikes. He scrambles back, almost expecting resistance, expecting Phil to dump him off the tower. But Philza easily gives away, letting him retreat even as scarlet shame fills him. 

“Uh…are you scared of heights?” Techno asks. 

“No, don’t be stupid,” Tommy snarls. “Stop laughing at me, oh how ironic the avian hates heights, I’m not stupid, I’m not scared of the tower. How about you try jumping off a cliff and see how you like heights, pig boi. I’m not scared. I’m not stupid.” 

“Never said you were. I wasn’t making fun of you,” Techno replies mildly, hooves held out in pacification. “And, uh, what’s the tower?” 

Shame throttles Tommy. Philza frowns at a memory. “...is it the structure I found you at?” 

“I was trying to fly,” Tommy mumbles. He had been trying a lot of things. Some of them had very nearly succeeded. 

Techno and Philza wince as they remember the bloody, almost dead state they’d found Tommy in all those weeks ago. “Could do it with your eyes closed,” Techno suggests. “Just like when I clean up your wings.” Techno’s tusks twist in thought, then he roots around in his bag. He presses a glass bottle into Tommy’s hands. 

“It’s not going to work if I’m asleep, idiot.” 

“Nah, it’s Slow Falling. Just smash it if you need it, alright? It’s the extended version so no matter how high up you are you’ll get to the ground safely. Whenever I get anxious about somethin’ I like to over prepare. That way I have a plan to think about instead when my brain tries to run through disasters.” Oh. Tommy stares at the foggy, half frozen potion. The knots in his gut ease a little. Not the terrifying plummet of the tower, but something slow and gentle. It can’t quite ease the instinctive fear rolling inside his subconscious, but it soothes his more logical balking. What helps even more is knowing Techno cares enough to look at his fear and somehow untangle it in a way Tommy could never manage on his own. 

Techno and Phil are both trying so hard to help Tommy with the messy, ugly parts of himself. Not pushing him away because of it or ignoring the bad, but accepting and working with it. And if they’re trying so hard, they must think it’s possible for it to get better. Maybe they’re right, or will be if Tommy gives it his all, too. 

“... and if that’s not enough I can get you Feather Fall boots. I’d give mine but, well, hooves. It’ll take a bit to make, but you wouldn’t get hurt as badly if there’s ever another fall like that.” 

Tommy splits into a tentative smile. “Really? You’d do that for me?” 

The tension lining his broad shoulders eases, taking on a lopsided grin. “Well. Well you’d have to pay me. I’m not a charity out here, kid. But. Maybe I can get you a friendship discount.”

“We can wait till the boots are done to fly,” Phil offers. “There will be another windless day.” But Tommy clutches his potion. Now. He needs to do it now, when hope still hums in his chest. He can do whatever he has to for it to be easier for himself, not get overwhelmed with shame and loathing and refuse to ever make it better. 

And if what it takes for him to fly is a potion clutched for dear life, is large black wings that aren’t his own spreading out, is his face buried in the crook of Phil’s neck so he doesn’t have to see, then all that means is Tommy is flying. Maybe not the way he’s meant to, but the only way he can. Maybe it’s enough. 

He screams with the first swoop, clawing into Philza for safety. Strong arms press him closer to Philza’s chest, reassuring in their tight hold. The nascent reverberations of a coo Philza bites down rumbles in the throat Tommy’s tucked into, instinctively weakening his coiled tension. The flight smooths into a gentle glide, the plummet of Tommy’s gut vanishing. Only the wind tearing past assures him of their movement. 

He knows they can’t be falling, but he can’t shake the thought. Scared, he pries open a eye. Unlike the tower, the ground isn’t rushing up to shatter him. Icy waves scroll past slowly beneath them, almost still. Sunlight glitters across glaciers, burning in radiant streaks. The tranquil arctic sea is starkly incongruous with the terror ebbing in his chest. His urgent nightmares give way to new peaceful memories, the spark of fear unable to catch. Tommy’s death grip on the potion eases from its white-knuckled terror. 

It hasn’t been long enough when they’ve crossed the bay, Phil coming to a careful stop on an outcropping. There’s an awkward moment as Phil tries to set him down and Tommy still clings on. As cold as it is Tommy doesn’t mind being tucked underwing. 

“Alright, check in time. How was the glide? Do you want to try more compli- oh- oh mate,” Philza says in a soft, fragile way as he finally catches a look at Tommy. He bends slightly till they’re face to face, carefully brushing away blossoming tears. Tommy wants to shove him away, pretend it was the wind. But it feels so nice to sink into the warm, calloused palm cupping his cheek. “This cliff connects to the mainland if you’d prefer to walk back. We can try again later. Or never. Whatever you need…” 

Tommy shakes his head, dismissing his worries. “I didn’t know how much I missed it.” 

Philza’s smile is a mixed thing, half relief half heartbreak. “Flying should’ve never been taken from you. But before long your new primaries will come in and you’ll be able to soar on your own.” Before the thought had filled him with dread, but the memory of wind gushing through his feathers dulls the edge of his insecurities. One day he’ll have feathers his abuser never touched. 

On the return flight Tommy doesn’t need to hide, instead facing outward like Phil initially planned. Probably more aerodynamic that way, and it gives him a better view. Tommy’s wings scrunch up, trying not to get in the way of Philza. The flight is rougher than the glide, Philza flapping quickly to gain upward momentum. Tommy’s gut swoops, but the ascension is so unlike his plummet, a controlled and triumphant race towards the heavens. The arms wrapped around his midriff are secure and not for a second does he imagine falling. The shift of Philza’s muscles against his back with each beat of his wings almost feels like his own strain against the wind, almost feels like his own wings. He finds himself tensing in the pattern of it, echoing Philza’s minute adjustments to the wind current. 

Tommy’s wings instinctively begin to spread. They’re so ragged and ugly compared to Philza’s sleek ebony plumage. Mud colored, his abuser teased once. But in the streaks of close sunlight they glow with auburns and golds, the white undersides softer than the surrounding clouds. They wobble slightly as wind buffets the pair, and quickly Tommy straightens out fully, hesitance forgotten. As air slips through his feathers something wakens in him. It feels right in a way so little has recently. 

Philza caws at him, subtly rocking, and Tommy leans into it, copying the tilt of his wings as they arc into a loose gyre. Tommy grins as he earns an approving coo, dutifully mimicking Philza’s exaggerated, coached movements. He flaps, Tommy’s wings awkwardly crashing into his the first few times till he gets in rhythm, the pair climbing higher into the azure. Perhaps for Philza it feels like teaching, but for Tommy it feels like remembering. All the little instinctive details he’d forgotten, all rushing back like they’d never left, like an old nostalgic song he’d thought he forgot the lyrics to until he heard the tune again. His own short wings stretch out beneath Philza’s massive black ones, flapping and angling to match. It’s as if they become one. 

An elated chirp bursts out of Tommy, and for once he doesn’t slam his hands over his mouth. It doesn’t overwhelm him, this joy, doesn’t rob him of his senses. It feels like laughter, something drawn out, not forced upon him. A wild, booming caw explodes from Philza in response, vibrating deep in the chest Tommy is flush against. Tommy is delighted to discover his vibrant, bubbly chirps are prettier than Philza’s raspy caws, though they surely hold no less enthusiasm. Suddenly it makes sense why they’re always so loud and ear-piercing. Words are only whipped away in the rush of the wind. The pair twitter back and forth, less a language and more intuition and tone. It feels like pure joy. 

Their descent is slow and winding, Philza careful to avoid anything resembling a dive or swoop. He’s disappointed when they finally land at the first cliff. It’s dizzying to go from feeling like the wind itself to be standing on firm ground once again. Unconsciously Tommy’s wings flare out, echoing the memory of freedom still ringing in his head. The careful angling for aerodynamics, adjusting to currents of wind. He steps back towards the cliff, tensing as if to launch once more. 

A hand lands on his shoulder, and Tommy blinks. “Hold on, I need a break first.” Phil smiles at the impatience in his eyes.

“Tired old man! I bet I’ll be an even faster flier than you. I’ll leave you in the dust.” Tommy puffs up his chest, but mischief suddenly dances in Philza’s eyes, and Tommy huffs. “What’s so fun-”

“BOO!” Techno shouts, jabbing Tommy in his soft sides. The boy shrieks, feathers fluffing up as he’s seized and lifted into the air. He thrashes and flaps wildly, but the piglin’s long arms prevent retaliation. 

“OOOOOH I’M GOING TO STAB YOU. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH I’M GOING TO STAB YOU.” Tommy smirks in satisfaction as his wing bashes Techno in the snout. It falters as Techno swings him around and around until the world blurs. Tommy stumbles as he’s set down, then leans against Techno as he tries to overcome the vertigo. “There, now I got my turn flying you. I’m sure it was the exact same deeply bonding experience you just had with Phil. I’m guessing it worked?” 

“It was fantastic!” Tommy enthuses, stretching his wings out. 

“I meant the hatchling thing. Like, you didn’t freeze up when I spooked you.”

“Oh.” Tommy had…kinda forgotten about that part. “...maybe?” He catches himself and jerks his head up. “Actually, since I have no possible way of knowing we’ll just have to go on a bunch more flights. You know. Just in case. You never can be sure with these things.” 

Philza chuckles and tucks him neatly underwing, pulling him close. “Oh yes, really cement the milestone to your instincts.”

Tommy laughs as Philza scuffs up his hair, batting him away. “Oi! Don’t mess with the Tommy Charm™!” When meticulously fixing his locks, he freezes as his fingers encounter a foreign object. He slowly pulls out one of Philza’s feathers from where it had accidentally gotten lodged in his hair. He runs his finger along the vane, watching dark barbs ripple, iridescence catching the light in flashes of indigos and wines. 

Philza goes a little rigid. “Ah- sorry mate, didn’t mean to shed on you.” He reaches for the feather, but Tommy is mesmerized by it, flicking the edges so the barbs part then preening them back into smooth completion. 

“Can I keep it?” he asks before he quite plans to. He doesn’t mean to, knows he’s only getting Phil’s hope up. He wants to shove it back in his mouth. He doesn’t. 

“Y-yeah. Sure mate. If you want to.” Phil barely clamps down on bursting euphoria, trying to be as calm and nonchalant as possible. In avian culture, wearing another’s feathers is a promise to carry the person as safely as their own two wings. Hadn’t Philza already done that? Hadn’t he already promised to always? He’s so, so ready to be family, but even if Tommy is painfully aware of it, Philza never intentionally pressures him. He’s just…allowed to take things at his own speed. Tommy doesn’t slip the feather behind his ear, but he doesn’t let go of it, either. That night he tucks it next to a picture of the three of them. It doesn’t feel overwhelming, more like a gentle promise for when he’s ready for it. 

And one day he will be. Not now, though. Not when some small panicked creature in him wants to bolt at the thought of wearing Philza’s feathers, let alone how he feels about his own. 

But one day he’ll wear both their feathers with pride. 

Fin.

[foxglovewritesstuff]

lay here for years or for hours // bedrock bros oneshot

Read on AO3 Warnings: none Words: 2.7k Summary:

Techno raised an eyebrow. “The library is closed. Time to go, kid.”

The boy furiously rubbed his eyes before sluggishly packing up his books. Techno had the strange desire to pat his head. Instead, he walked back through the shelves to the front counter to finish.

“Um.” The kid’s tentative voice broke the spell of silence. He fidgeted when Techno’s eyes landed on him. “Is it okay if I check out one last book before I go?”

or

Techno works at the college library and finds a boy asleep at the back when it's closing. He become more attached than he'd anticipated.

Technoblade stared at the blond boy sleeping in the back of the college library.

Should he wake the kid? Normally he wouldn’t hesitate, after all, the library was closing for the day and obviously no one could stay the night.

Techno frowned. He didn’t want to wake him. But then what was he to do? With a sigh, he reached over to jostle the kid’s shoulder.

Nothing.

Then the kid slowly lifted his head, which had been tucked into his arms on the desk. “Wh- huh?”

Techno raised an eyebrow. “The library is closed. Time to go, kid.”

The boy furiously rubbed his eyes before sluggishly packing up his books. Techno had the strange desire to pat his head. Instead, he walked back through the shelves to the front counter to finish.

“Um.” The kid’s tentative voice broke the spell of silence. He fidgeted when Techno’s eyes landed on him. “Is it okay if I check out one last book before I go?”

“Yeah, sure, kid.” Techno wasn’t sure why he said yes. The library was closed. But he figured it would only take an extra thirty seconds, and the kid seemed like he needed it. It wasn’t like the boy was being rude, he was just tired.

The blond-haired boy brought forward a book. Embossed across the cover was A History of Veterinary Science.

It made sense. The kid seemed like an animal lover somehow.

Techno scanned the book under the boy’s account, the beep the only sound in the library. Tommy, read the name on the account. Techno slid the book over and the kid- Tommy- looked up at him gratefully.

“Thanks, big man,” he said through a yawn, with half closed eyes.

Techno nodded and Tommy shuffled his way out of the library. He looked back once, and Techno caught his blue eyes. Tommy blinked and hurried away.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

Techno placed the last of the returns from the morning back onto the shelves.

A lot of the students were on lunch break, and the library had that low hum of soft conversations. Sunlight flowed into the high-ceilinged room from the windows on the far side where he’d found the sleeping boy last night.

As Techno returned to the counter, he heard the doors push open. He looked up from the computer to see- Tommy?

The boy looked incredibly more energized than the night before, grinning brightly. “Ayy, big man!”

“Hello,” Techno said gruffly, wary of his energy but also interested.

“Do you just hang out in the library all day or something?” Tommy asked.

“I work here. Different shifts, yesterday was the closing one.”

“Don’t you go to this school? Do you not have classes?” He emphasized the word with a distaste. “What major are you anyway?”

“English.”

“Nerd,” Tommy snickered. “No wonder you work at the library. Books and shit.” He shook his head.

“Coming from the kid that asked me to sign him out another book after the library was closed and he was asleep for who knows how long,” Techno responded. A frown flitted over Tommy’s features, as if he was worried Techno was angry, but then it was gone.

“Respect the grind, library man!”

“Don’t call me library man.”

“What should I call you then? What’s your name?”

“Technoblade. My friends call me Techno, though.” Techno both disliked how energetic the kid was and envied it.

“My name’s Tommy,” the boy told him.

“I know,” Techno replied easily. Tommy raised an eyebrow and Techno nodded at the computer. “Signed you out a book, saw your account, didn’t I?”

“Do you remember all the names of the people who sign out books?” Tommy tried to hide his sheepishness.

“Only if I find them drooling all over their notes after the library’s closed.”

“Wha- hey! I was not drooling.”

“Do you remember all the things that happen while you’re asleep?” Techno shot his own words back at him. “And don’t you have something to do here?”

The kid rolled his eyes. “Yeah, off to study!” He stared at Techno with wide, unblinking eyes while he hoisted his bag over his shoulder and backed into the shelves.

Techno half sighed half laughed, shaking his head and going back to typing on the clicky keyboard. Around an hour later, Tommy walked out the door with a furious wave.

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

The day after that, Tommy made another appearance, teased Techno, and settled down to study. And the day after that, and the one after that as well. It became a little routine, and Techno found himself looking forward to the bright laughter and break from books and shit, as Tommy had said.

“Hey, mate, made a friend?” Phil, his boss and the library director, spoke from behind him as Techno shelved returns. He startled internally.

“No hello?” Techno asked sarcastically.

“I’m glad, you two seem to have fun. The kid looks bright. It can be nice to have a study buddy.” Phil gave him an awkward fatherly wink before leaving Techno to continue shelving books.

When the library was nearly empty and Niki was around to help, Techno studied with Tommy. The first time, he pulled up a chair to the desk at the back and opened his laptop.

Tommy glanced over at him with surprise.

Techno shrugged. “I got an essay to write.” He thought he heard a soft “nerd” as Tommy went back to his work.

The next day, Tommy showed up in the morning, popping out of nowhere while Techno was shelving returns in the empty library. He always seemed to be shelving returns when people wanted to talk to him.

Somehow Tommy always managed to catch Techno’s shift; it was unusually early today.

“Ayy, Techno, my friend!” he greeted. As usual, Techno had to take a mental step back at the kid’s energy, eyeing him through his pink hair, which was loose for once. Nonetheless, he found himself enjoying his time with Tommy.

“Don’t you have classes soon?”

“Shut up, I thought I’d drop by to help you with your books and shit,” Tommy replied aggressively. “How do I know where these go?” He picked up a book.

Techno leaned over his shoulder. “Look at these numbers, see? Main number for main classes, decimals for more specific categorization. Just match them to the numbers on the shelves. This pile here though,” he patted the books, “is all to go on the shelf in the aisle over there. I sorted them beforehand.”

“Okay!” Tommy nodded enthusiastically and grabbed the pile. He disappeared to where Techno had shown, and there were a few shuffling noises. Techno smiled to himself and shook his head fondly in the privacy of the aisle.

Tommy helped shelve the rest of the returns. Once Techno taught him the system, he figured it out easily. Phil was right, the kid was bright.

Tommy picked up another book and broke into raucous laughter and wheezing. “Look! Look at his face!” He thrust the book in Techno’s face.

Techno had to snicker at the overly-serious man’s face displayed on the cover.

“He looks so fucking pretentious!” Tommy said through laughter. “Suppose you’d understand, being an English major and all- hey!” he shrieked when Techno took the book and hit him gently over the head with it.

“Shh, you’re in a library, Tommy, children must be quiet-”

“I am not a child! And there’s no one here!”

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

Techno had just finished checking out a group’s stack of books on the slow computer, watching the clock tick towards the end of his shift.

Tommy hadn’t shown up.

He’d come by every single shift Techno had had ever since Techno discovered him asleep that night, even the unusually timed ones.

He tried not to think about it, to busy himself with answering questions and putting things on hold and checking on overdue books- but worry began to creep in more every minute closer to ending. His eyes darted to the door expectantly more and more frequently as the time passed.

What if Tommy was hurt? What if he was sick?

He could handle himself, Techno was sure. Logically. Nothing had happened, maybe Tommy was just busy, or forgot or something.

Techno felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You alright, mate?” Phil asked. “Shift ended a couple of minutes ago, and you got a lecture to run to.”

“Yeah, I better go.” Techno started to leave. “Uh- will you keep an eye out for Tommy?”

“Of course,” Phil said. “I’ll let you know if he comes by.”

“Thanks.” Techno swallowed. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to care for the kid until he was gone.

The next day, Techno anxiously returned for his shift. There’d been a quick change by Phil, but he hoped Tommy would appear magically at his shift as usual. He’d decided if Tommy didn’t show up today, he would ask for his dorm to check on him.

He settled down in the chair behind the desk. The computer sat in front of him, still on from when Niki had left it only a minute prior. Niki was calming as well, more like a sister than the parental way Phil was. She had a fire in her, something Techno could relate to, though she wasn’t outwardly intimidating like he tended to be.

His shift passed smoothly, except for the low thrum of worry in Techno’s body. Tommy didn’t appear. The only mildly interesting thing that had happened was some guy wandering in, staring in confusion at the books, then loudly scoffing in offense and running out the door, slapping the top of the frame as he went.

Oh, and some kid asked him if he had any books on nukes. Nuclear engineers.

No Tommy.

Techno picked himself up, hearing Phil’s footsteps coming from the little office behind the desk.

“Didn’t show today either?” Phil asked.

“Nope. Think I’ll ask the front office if they know his dorm or something.”

“Good luck, mate, I’ll keep an eye out,” Phil told him. “My guess is that he got a cold. He’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Phil.”

Techno grabbed his bag and pushed through the doors of the library. The foyer the entrance was in was nearly empty. He turned the corner into the corridor and nearly bumped into someone. On instinct, his hands shot out to steady the smaller frame.

Tommy looked up at him.

Relief washed over Techno; Tommy was unhurt and safe-looking, energetic as always.

“Techno! You’re done?” he asked in surprise.

“Yup, shift just ended. Where’ve you been?” Techno asked, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. He wasn’t concerned, when had he been concerned?

“I overslept yesterday, and then there was a shift change at the café, and then-”

“Whoa, whoa- slow down, it’s alright,” Techno said.

“Worried about me?” Tommy asked with a grin, his slightly worried air disappearing.

“Oh hush, child, who knows what trouble you could get into,” Techno quipped.

Tommy squawked. “I’m very responsible, I’ll have you know! Actually, I have something for you,” he added. Techno noticed that Tommy’s hand was behind his back.

Tommy pulled it out with a flourish, presenting a chocolate chip muffin. “Ta-da! From Puffy’s café, I just grabbed it at the end of my shift!” he said happily.

“Thanks,” Techno muttered, a little taken aback at Tommy’s outward sweetness. Who knew gremlin children had a kind streak.

He took it from Tommy’s hand, who was still smiling cheerfully, and took a bit.

Amazing.

“Is it good?” Tommy asked. Then he shook his head. “Of course it’s good. It’s one of BadBoyHalo’s, makes the best muffins, honestly they’re a staple at Puffy’s, I hope you like it-”

“It’s great, thank you Tommy,” Techno responded after chewing and swallowing, giving him a pat on the head.

“I was gonna study with you, but I missed your shift…” Tommy mumbled.

Techno frowned. “We can still study together, c’mon,” he said, leading Tommy down the hallway.

When they reached Techno’s dorm all the way in residence, Tommy gasped as the door was pushed open.

He eyed the bookshelves and bedspread and messy desk as Techno spread out his papers. “Is that The Art of War? You really are a nerd.”

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

Techno was utterly immersed in Wikipedia, every hyperlink bringing him deeper. Ancient civilizations were a little too interesting. And this library computer was horribly slow.

The sun was setting, visible through the large windows at the back of the library. Techno always loved those windows, nearly floor to ceiling. They let the library be illuminated entirely by natural light on most days. He could stare at the clouds or the sun or the stars while in a room full of knowledge. He understood why Tommy liked the desks back there.

“Whatcha up to?” he heard Tommy’s voice ask. He looked up to see the boy leaning over the desk.

“Library stuff,” Techno replied wisely. “Don’t you have studyin’ to do?”

“Yeah, yeah, remind me about fucking schoolwork,” Tommy said with distaste, wrinkling his nose. He gave a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “I suppose I must. Have fun working.”

Tommy backed into the shelves, never breaking eye contact with Techno. Then he was gone.

Techno snorted. The kid definitely made things less bland.

“I’m so glad I started giving him the schedules,” Phil said a while later, stepping out of the office.

“Oh,” Techno said simply. “That makes sense.”

“What can I say, the kid was dedicated enough to ask for them and come to nearly every single one of your shifts.”

“I should probably tell him we don’t have to hang out where he knows I can’t get away from him,” Techno muttered. “Though it’s nice to have the helping hand.”

Phil smiled and lifted his hand to ruffle Techno’s hair. Then he thought better of it, seeing the perfect neat plait it was in.

“Don’t push it,” Techno grunted. They both knew it was fond.

When the stars were visible and the library empty, Techno locked the office door and shut down the computer. He enjoyed the closing shift; the night sky was beautiful through the windows, the library had a soft warm glow from the lights, and there was pretty much no one he ever had to tell to leave, except for the occasional harried students trying to finish an assignment due that night.

Or who’d fallen asleep, Techno thought.

He’d walked through the library to check for anyone left, and spotted a familiar figure at a familiar corner at the back.

Tommy had his head in his arms, on his notes and textbooks, his laptop also long asleep.

Technoblade stared at the blond boy sleeping in the back of the college library.

Tommy’s chest rose and fell slowly, his eyelashes fluttering slightly.

Should he wake him? No, he couldn’t bring himself to pull him out of his resting, peaceful state.

Techno quietly pulled Tommy’s notes out from under him, closing his books and putting them in his bag, which he hoisted onto his shoulders.

Then he carefully lifted the sleeping boy, holding him close to his chest.

Tommy exhaled a puff of air, and Techno froze.

He was still asleep.

As smoothly as possible, Techno made his way to his dorm. It was far, but Tommy was easy to carry. It was mostly their bags that caused him some trouble.

Finally, Techno dropped the bags outside his door, unlocked it, and kicked it open. He slid the bags in with his foot and closed it behind him.

Techno pulled back the covers on his neatly made bed, delicately depositing Tommy on his mattress.

Techno tucked him in.

He studied his work for a moment, pride and protectiveness washing over him. Then he sat himself at his desk to study, an ear out of his headphones to listen to Tommy’s slow breaths.

Tommy was so energetic and loud that Techno had nearly forgotten his sleep-induced vulnerability and peace. He’d seen it once before, but he had a new appreciation for it now that he knew Tommy. He had seen Tommy’s sleepy state before his active one, and he was glad he got to experience both.

Tommy could get the rest he needed. He could lay here for years or for hours, and Techno would always make sure he was safe.

[funkys-pen]

new fic !!

WHERE MY SCWHIP GIRLIES AT !!!!

[blakelakely]

just watched grians 3rd life finale again :(

i fear i may need to write a 3rd life fic...