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bee--blossom · 1 year

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Helloo! I was wondering if u could write a revivebur x gn!reader where he says goodbye to them before leaving for utah? Mostly fluff but with a little angst or whatever u think will work best if u choose to write this ^-^ no pressure!

howdy !! i am shamefully early to this because, admittedly, i was so excited i got a request lol. thank you sm for the prompt and i hope i did well by it ! xx

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He wasn’t going to change his mind. He had already told you weeks ago of his plan… he could hide it from everyone else, but he could never hide it from you. You had observed him at his desk, writing letters upon letters to different people from his past by candlelight each night. When you finally asked what he was up to, he just couldn’t bring himself to lie. He was going back home.

You didn’t even know he came from the states… I mean, for starters, he’s british. But he never mentioned Utah, or what it was like growing up there, so you figured he’d just always lived on the SMP. When he told you he was going back, you did everything expected of the situation: begged, pleaded, sobbed… It just wasn’t fair. His life was always a bit of a mess, sure, but it just wasn’t right that he decided now of all times to leave it behind. To leave you behind.

Yet there was no changing it. You accepted it, begrudgingly or not, because there was no use trying to talk the man out of it- he was always a stubborn prick. You decided it would be best at this point to treasure the time you had left together, and to silently hope and pray he’d come back for you one day.

It was the night before he departed, and no matter how tightly he held you, you already felt him slipping away. You hadn’t stopped crying, just holding tightly to his yellow knitted jumper like you could stick to him with your tears and force him to stay stuck to you forever. You couldn’t even call it crying at this point, the tears were just flowing out silently. He just held you back, lightly rubbing your back in circles. You don’t know how long you stayed like that- it could’ve been hours- before he pulled back. Your face was a mess- puffy, wet and tinted pink. He smiled warmly down at you and sat up from the couch you were lying on, climbing over you and walking over to your record player. It was a suitcase style leather player you had brought with you when you first arrived, and over the past few years you had been collecting discs to play on it. He pulled out one of the said discs and laid it down on the turntable, turning the machine on and moving the needle to the first grooves.

“Care for a dance, darling?” He offered his hand out to you as you slowly pulled yourself off the couch.

“I look awful.” You said, catching your own reflection in a mirror mounted on the wall.

He stood over you and wiped your face before kissing your forehead, causing heat to gather in your cheeks.

“Nonsense. You’re as charming as the first time I laid eyes on you.”

“That’s really corny.” You mumbled with a small smile, throwing your arms over his shoulders. It was a bit of a reach, but you managed. He put his hands on your waist, and the two of you swayed together. Gentle piano music filled the room, enveloping you both with sweet, small sounds. Soft amber glows from hovering lanterns lit the room gently above you, your shared cabin exuding comfort. You wish you could bottle his smell at the moment- some mix between a tobacco cologne and the scent of a freshly blown out candle. It was strange, but so unique to him. Just one more thing to miss.

You sighed, and he pulled you in closer by the hip, once again embracing you.

“I love you.” He whispered down to your ear.

“I love you, too.” Your voice became weak and muffled from his closeness.

He pulled back and went down for a kiss, before you interrupted him.

“I’ve decided I won’t miss you, actually.” You said, looking up to him with a faint smile.

“Oh?” He cocked his brow, but smiled back to you.

“Yep. I’ll be fine.” You said, swaying around on your heels.

“Oh. Then, I’ll be fine too.” He shrugged.

“You won’t be fine. You’ll be bored to death. What even is there to do in Utah? Go to 7/11? Join mormonism?” You said, voice gaining more strength.

“Oh yeah. Maybe work at Subway, who knows. A real land of opportunities.” He assured, grinning.

You both laughed a bit, dancing the whole time. When the record ended and you both were done cracking jokes about how shitty your homes were, you headed to bed. You held him tightly under the woolen blankets, the lightness of the night helping you forget the day ahead. He occasionally would bend down to kiss or caress you, eyes heavy with exhaust and content. You breathed him in and remained in his warmth all the way to sleep. When you woke, golden sunlight just breaking beyond your sheer curtains, he was gone.

You found one of his yellow sweaters at the foot of the bed, along with a note on top of it. It was short and sweet, but said everything you needed to hear. He loved you dearly, and one day- one day relatively soon- he’d be back for you. You slipped on his sweater over your sleep shirt, wrapping your arms around yourself and squeezing tight. You could still smell his cologne on it. You smiled, tucked the note into your bedside drawer, and got ready for one of many days awaiting his return.

#Revivebur x Reader #dsmp x reader #c!wilbur x reader #im trying to take the utah arc seriously but its really hard #hurt comfort #dsmp oneshot #mcyt x reader #dsmp x you

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bee--blossom · 1 year

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summary:

“You have some fucking nerve…” Quackity walked right up to Wilbur and snatched the unlit cigarette from his fingers, shoving it into the breast pocket of his own shirt. He stormed off all the way back to Las Nevadas, and Wilbur kept smiling because there was a cigarette in Quackity’s pocket and a thorn in his side.

after wilbur's revival, he decides to pitch a buisness venture against quackity's. old friends. enemies. 2/5 star burgers. the lot of it.

contains: smoking, drinking, mentions of death **(p.s- most of the lore is accurate, with the addition of some things non-cannon.) **(pp.s- this is a fic i sometimes come back to to write ~ once every month, so updates might be slow. i actually wasn't planning on publishing it!) **(ppp.s- this is a fictional fic with fictional characters and has nothing to do with the CC!'s. i simply fixate on stories and make shit up about their characters. hence, this.)

When he was a boy, Wilbur believed blood oranges came from the dead. He believed they bore from trees that were located on previous burial grounds. The deep red flesh of the orange must be from the blood of the body seeping into the soil and fermenting itself within the seeds, he thought. It was nothing but the product of a child’s wild imagination- the allmagemation of time spent daydreaming in the garden manifesting itself into fanatical thoughts. There are no dead people under the tree. Fruit does not bear from corpses.

When Tommy was a boy, he joined Wilbur’s nation and spent most of his days fetching tools and constructing a new, safer land where men could go and emancipate the brutality and the tyranny of their rulers. That was the slogan, at least. Maybe it was childish for a boy to run away to govern himself in order to hide a few discs, but he was just a child after all. A child surrounded by a childish man who told tales of bodys that lie under trees to make fruit red.

“Fucking what?” Tommy barked. The pair sat at the top of a rolling hill beside their country’s boundary, both admiring their day’s work as the sun retired softly in front of them.

“I was a disturbed kid.” Wilbur shrugged, turning to watch the sun burn a deep orange. He took a bite of the fruit, the sweet liquid dripping down on his hand. He wiped it on his jumper.

“Do you still think that’s how they’re made?” Asked Tommy, inspecting the slice in front of him and dissecting the crimson citrus from its peel.

“Of course not. Blood oranges are simply mutations of regular oranges with anthocyanins.” Wilbur stated simply. Sometimes he wondered if Tommy was ready for all this- a whole nation to maintain and protect. The boy had been chased his whole life, he likely never had time to properly sit down and think.

“Oh right… anthro…cyans…” Tommy tried out the word, but then gave up. He instead tossed the last of his oranges into his mouth and chewed, a bit of juice spilling from the corner of his lips. He wiped it on his hand, then wiped his hand on his baseball tee and then propped himself back up. The peels fell from his lap as he stood. “I feel all energized and shit. Race you to the bottom!”

The younger boy took off running, while the older just sat behind and watched. He smiled as Tommy grew smaller and smaller, the bushel of blonde hair slowly melding into the grass. Wilbur took a final bite, then stood up and walked down.

Wilbur looked at him with a sternness in his eyes that Tommy had never seen before.

“I promise you, Tommy. We’re gonna do the right thing.” The ‘right thing’ was an elusive concept that stood static in the air just as it had been spoken, and each boy- despite their own knowledge- had different ideas of what it meant. Tommy did what he always did, and he trusted Wilbur. Tommy did what he always did, and he buttoned up his uniform from the bottom-up. Tommy did what he always did, and he walked by Wilbur’s side.

Tommy became president that day, a role he quickly declined. Wilbur declined it under the guise of unfairness, and Tubbo finally adopted the role. He was just as scared as Tommy, but somebody had to take lead of L’Manberg, and Tubbo was sure he could manage. Maybe it was last second, but Tubbo was grown up enough. He had an undeniable passion and was pretty much entirely liked- he was funny and kind to the people, and he shared the promise of growth. L’Manberg had seen its hardships, but it was finally time for some stability.

Tommy grinned up at his best friend, cheering on every sentence and clapping with fervor. Tubbo looked like a natural, despite his unsureness, and Tommy couldn’t wait to finally have a normal life. Tommy would be his right hand man, always by his side. They could throw another festival- this time, without fear of Schlatt or any wars. He could build that hotel he always wanted to, and at night he could sit on the docks with Tubbo and talk about how crazy it was that they got to be the ‘boss men’ of their country.

Meanwhile, Wilbur was running for the hills. The same hills he ate citrus with Tommy on, and the same hills he returned to to think late at night. But there was no thinking this time. Wilbur had made up his mind long ago, and though he knew exactly where he was going, he was entirely lost.

L’Manberg was fine. Everything was finally under control. No Schlatt. No Manberg. Everyone was finally happy.

Everyone but Wilbur. He had an itch to subdue, the same one that made him carve songs into walls and cover stone caves with wooden buttons. He was manic, and he hid that maniacy under the ruse of passion for too long. Now, as he ducked into the opening of the slope, he was smiling.

He felt solace in the small crawl space that he had made. It was going to work this time. He was going to win.

Then, the unthinkable.

Philza, withered by time and brittle by experience, had finally found his son. He had searched his entire life for Wilbur- never had quite ‘abandoned’ him, but had been abandoned. When he ducked inside the small room, he was frightened. Not by what he saw, but by what he somehow expected.

The scribbled signs. The detonator. His son, not startled by his missing father’s appearance as he wasn’t to the vast destruction he was about to bring.

“Wilbur, why-”

“The thing I built this nation for doesn’t exist, Phil! L’Manberg… Phil, it never will be what it once was.” Wilbur said frantically.

“So it has to die?!” Phil yelled.

This was met by silence, the kind of quick pause that stole Wilbur’s breath and made Philza, for just a moment, believe that he could talk Wilbur out of this. Yet Philza’s absence from Wilbur was all the more aparent- There was never any talking Wilbur down.

And so it was never meant to be. Violent explosions erupted across the newly guided L’Manberg, and those explosions were met with total human shock. There was screaming, and bits of cobble and wood, and complete chaos. It was everything Wilbur dreamed of, everything Tommy feared. Tommy would remain in a state of shock for weeks to come, but when he finally caught his consciousness, he would come to wonder if Wilbur ever thought about him while citizens were being thrown into the air and scarred from the flames.

Wilbur thought of nothing but the release of death, now. Everything was in ruin, and all that needed to be complete was his own demise. What was left of his sanity was buried under the rubble of his L’Manberg, and he frantically turned to his own father to kill him. He didn’t ask- he begged. Philza, still shocked by his own child’s actions, shook his head. He didn’t know how the hell he could fix all this- he was a legend of his own, but certainly no savior. Still, he was sure his son could live on to face the consequences of his own actions and make it up to himself and the civilians.

Wilbur didn’t care about anything, though. It was as if he had retired from his own life, and was simply living because the explosion didn’t kill him. When he finally decided his father wouldn’t do it, he glanced at the blade in Philza’s holster and, in a swift motion, pulled himself upon it. Philza watched in horror. Tommy cried out. Anyone who happened to be watching instead of actively defending L’Manberg from Technoblade had gasped.

In the distance, a large red orange fell heavily from a tree.

well howdy there. it’s been a while... to be real, i wasn’t planning on publishing anything else basically ever... but i kinda like this one and i’ve been writing on it everytime i get really bored over the span of about a year... it was only collecting dust in my google doc. so there. also it’s on ao3 in case you fancy yourself a distinguished reader. also, i know this chapter was just a bit of a lore recap... not sure what to say about that, but there’ll be tnt duo content in the next chapter(ish).

this chapter is dedicated to when quackity defended tnt duo at a live panel. cheers.

#tnt duo #c!quackity x c!wilbur #revivebur #c!wilbur #c!quackity #dsmp #dsmp shipping

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bee--blossom · 2 years

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𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 (𝚌!𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚋𝚞𝚛 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

♡ synopsis: you and wilbur practice sparring, but you feel down and get frustrated when things start collapsing. it’s hurt comfort. it’s soft. mushy gushy.

♡ word count: 1,066

♡ pronouns: none

♡ tw?: a wee bit of language, a bit angsty but not really

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Your labored breaths came out in shudders as your weak, bruised knees dug into the earth. One hand was on the cold, powdery ground beneath you and the other was gripping your sword, which was laying by your side. A blade was held to your chest, and a calloused hand was gripping your chin. He had you beat. Again.

“I wonder what I should do with you…” He taunted, a smug grin on his face. His grip not faltering on his weapon, he bent down and drew closer to you. His coffee eyes lingered on yours for a second.

“Asshole.” You mumbled. He dropped his sword and laughed, and you swiftly got back up on your feet.

“Ohhh, come now. You’ll get better, just need to get some more practice in.” He pulled himself up and patted your head. You couldn’t be bothered to put up with him today, though, and began to walk away, shoving your sword back into its haltar. He watched you storm off into the cottage, the blanket of snow beneath your feet lightly dipping beneath your weight. You didn’t look behind you as you pried the door open and slammed it shut behind you.

Night quickly sank in, and you were huddled up against the fireplace. Wilbur had been coming over recently to help you perfect your swordsmanship, and usually practice was fine. You’d spar for a bit, he’d come in for tea, and then he’d leave by dawn. It was nice having someone around, even if it was pretty strictly for practice.

However, today was pretty bad. You felt shitty from the moment you woke up, and it only seemed to get worse. It wasn’t on him, and you still feel bad for walking off so suddenly. But admittedly, you were clumsy today and your previous frustration only fueled your exhaustion- mentally and physically. You zoned out into the fireplace, feeling the warmth envelop you as your mind went blank. The chamomile tea you had made yourself was on the ground next to you, growing colder by the second in its sage mug. You didn’t have the energy to drink it, let alone get up and reheat it.

You were deep into your headspace when three abrupt knocks broke the stark silence. You looked to the door, not feeling like getting up.

“Feeling sick. Don’t come in.” You yelled, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders and turning back to the fireplace.

It was to no use, and whoever was at the door allowed themselves in. When you saw it was Wilbur, you think you’d have rather it been an axe murderer.

His hickory trench coat was hung loosely around his shoulders, and his hair was a mess from the wind. His big leather boots dragged in wet snow residue along the wooden planks beneath them. He looked at you leaning by the fireside and seemed to be just as confused as you were, but looked at you sternly.

“Why are you here?” You asked bluntly. “You didn’t tell me you were coming over. It’s late.”

“I know. You walked off on me earlier.” He shrugged his coat off and stepped out of his boots, now left in a burlap sweater and woolen socks. He walked towards you and sat beside you, and your anger subdued as you watched him gaze into the open flames. A warm shade of orange glew on his face, and the embers danced in the reflection of his eyes. He sighed contently, then turned to face you. “What happened?”

You felt cold when you looked at him. He was warm, in every sense of the word. Your face felt gray in comparison. “I’m okay, just felt ill.” This felt weirdly personal, but you didn’t mind at this point. He had already made himself at home, there was no bother kicking him back out into the frigid air.

“Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to taunt you earlier, especially if you’re not feeling well. You’re an excellent sparring partner.” He smiled at you. He was melting you.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it.” You smiled back. He kept looking at you, and you wondered if he could somehow look behind your eyes and dig through your brain; find what was really wrong.

Then, he turned to face you. Instinctively, you shifted to face him back. The knitted blanket that clung to your shoulders now gently fell to your knees, and you felt a bit awkward as he seemed to read you.

“What’s really wrong?”

You faltered, and for a second you broke your gaze. Suddenly every fiber on the carpet beneath you seemed to be the most worthy of your attention, and you studied them- unable to give him an answer.

“Are you okay?” He rephrased his question. You lifted your gaze back to his, and for no reason at all, tears began to well behind your eyes.

“I uh… I don’t know.” You finally uttered quietly, and you felt nauseous. You didn’t want to be vulnerable in front of him, and you sure as hell didn’t want to cry in front of him. To that extent, you also knew you couldn’t lie in front of him. You exhaled shallowly to keep your composure.

Before you knew what was happening, he was awkwardly shuffling towards you, and then pulling you into his arms. Your face fell into the crook of his neck, and you felt your arms tucked tightly to your side as he embraced you. The smell of smoke and timber flooded your senses, and you slowly unwound into him. You shut your eyes and felt yourself gradually moving to hug him back.

“It’s okay, darling…” He whispered. The hands resting on your back slowly traced circles, and your breaths felt smaller. A few tears fell silently into his shoulder, and he squeezed tighter.

It was a few minutes before he pulled back. Your eyes were glassy and his cheeks were flushed, but everything in the air seemed lighter. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, and then got up. He took your mug with you, and he began to head for the kitchen.

“You go settle in on the couch, I’ll be there in a sec- I’m going to make us some more tea.” He spoke gently from the next room. You smiled softly, still lingering in his warmth.

a/n: i dunno why i can’t stop writing angtsy stuff but i can’t </3 hope everyone is doing well, thank you so much for liking/following/commenting and PLEASE send prompts because i’m desperate i just am

#c!wilbur x reader #c!wilbur x y/n #hurt comfort #hurt/comfort #dsmp x reader #dsmp oneshot #dsmp fluff #why do i keep writing about cabins and angst

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bee--blossom · 2 years

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𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 (𝚌!𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

♡ synopsis: you and quackity close up the casino together, but things are harder now. you have an idea to brighten the mood

(here’s a playlist, if ya want :> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gw-y7lLSbQQ)

♡ word count: 773

♡ pronouns: none!

♡ cw?: a wee bit of language and a wee bit of angst (c!slimecicle death is mentioned)

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It was just about two in the morning, and you were hastily sweeping the dark maroon tiles. The slots were all dark- they looked depressing when they weren't illuminated by the bright LEDs- and the flat images of diamonds, cherries and jackpot symbols barely reflected in their glass casings. From across the room, you could see Quackity counting out bills on a pool table. His hand rested heavily on his cheek as he used the other to toss 20’s to the side. Long black hair covered his face, but you already knew it was painfully expressionless- it had been since Slime died. It was pretty quiet; you could only hear the stiff bristles of your broom and the mindless 50’s instrumentals coming from the jukebox in the corner.

You jumped as Quackity abruptly slammed his briefcase shut, the bills finally sorted and taken into account. You were almost scared to do it, but you looked over at him anyway, watching him cross the room to wipe down the bar. You sighed. This little routine you had fallen into with Big Q every night was depressing without the dumb little green guy following your every move, asking what brooms were or how to sit without ‘sliming’ off the chair or how money worked. The three of you were close, and though you knew he wasn’t truly gone, you still missed him.

“Big Q…” You hesitantly called out, resting your broom against the jukebox. He looked up at you, hand still polishing the marble countertop.

He hummed out a response, face unmoving.

“Come here a sec?” You asked, ushering your hand towards your chest. He hesitated, then put his rag down and walked over to you.

“What is it?” He asked, finally reaching you. You didn’t know how’d this go, and you were honestly a bit afraid of the man- it’s not like he’s lashed out at anyone, but he hasn’t been responsive to much.

“Look, I know…” You trailed off, carefully selecting your words. “Maybe… I just thought…” He looked at you, slightly furrowing his brows. Fuck.

“Do you want to dance with me?” You asked, eyes glued to your shoes. You felt dumb. Immensely dumb. It was way too soon, and he was probably weirded out, and now you’d have to deal with his rejection the whole time you were closing up.

It was silent for about eight seconds - you counted- and then he spoke.

“Uh… Why?”

You almost wish he’d just had said no. How the fuck would you answer that question?

“Well… uhm… I just think it would, like, distract us for a second? Might be fun, and I always dance when I'm sad, I don’t know why though, I just-” You ranted.

“Yeah, okay.” He sighed.

“Wait. Like, yes?” You asked, looking up at him. He was looking at the floor, now.

“Sure. Why not.”

You punched a few keys on the jukebox and turned towards him. He looked exhausted- eyes heavy, black hair messy and misplaced. His white button down was wrinkled, and when you took his hand it was calloused and dry.

You took a step forward, then back, and then continued to sway as he followed against you. Quackity had taught you and slime to dance one night (admittedly, after downing a couple of drinks), so you weren’t as stiff and awkward as you used to be. You studied his face, and he studied your feet.

After a minute of silence, you heard him mumble something under his breath.

“Hm?” You hummed, missing a beat.

“Thank you.” He said again weakly, now looking into your eyes. His eyes were glassy, and he had slowed down to a stop. The song faded behind you, and for a second, you didn’t know what to do.

Then you quickly moved to hug him, wrapping your arms around his frame and holding on tight. You put your head on his shoulder, and he slightly leaned into you. It was a couple minutes before you pulled away, and when you did, you noticed his face was a bit puffy. He was smiling, though- the first time you’d seen him smile in a while. You smiled back, and then laughed. And he laughed back. And suddenly you were two psychopaths, laughing at each other and crying in the depth of the night on the dancefloor of a sullen casino.

When you locked the doors behind you, you noticed that the night air was light and misty. You walked back home together, finally having proper conversations and joking around like you used to. Your hand never left his, and he was finally holding it back.

a/n: sorry this one is kinda angsty, i mayyy or may not be going through a similar situation :,> thank you to everyone who’s followed/liked/commented, i really appreciate you! please feel free to request things!! i’d love to get prompts <3 remember to take care of yourself!

#c!quackity #c!quackity x reader #c!quackity x y/n #dsmp #mcyt x reader #dsmp x you #mcytblr #dsmp oneshot #sorry lol

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bee--blossom · 2 years

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𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 (𝚌!𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

♡ synopsis: a winter walk with techno in the forest (ps- listen to this song if you wanna be ~fully immersed~ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EtRIz7VocNs) ((pps- i know this song is secretly sad, i just think the acoustic version sounds very pretty <3))

♡ word count: 502

♡ pronouns: none!

♡ tw?: none, wholesome and fluffy

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Cold and bitter snowflakes gently grazed your skin, your pink face starting to resemble his as you walked together on the snow-ridden path. You were bundled up in woolen sweaters and knitted scarves and mitts, and yet you were still flustered from the frigid air. Techno walked stoically beside you, occasionally looking down to observe you trying not to show your discomfort (you weren’t subtle, though, fighting the urge to let your teeth chatter). It was silent, only the occasional sound of your small breaths or a bird lodging in the distance filling the void. Unlike other people, though, you felt comfortable around the hybrid. His rose-tinted hair was littered in white, gentle flakes and his fur-lined mahogany trench coat draped over his shoulders. You looked up at him, slowly entangling your hand in his. He was slow to affection, but eh, his hand was cold anyways.

You continued on the powdery ground until you reached a clearing, where the lake that surrounded Snowchester sat, frozen over from the winter. You looked up at him quickly, and he grunted, shaking his head but knowing all too well that you were going to do it anyways. You let go of his calloused hand and ran to the very edge of the land, where the ice began. You looked back at him once more before stepping foot onto the frosted-over stream. You gingerly began to slide forward, and you couldn’t contain the childlike giggle that escaped your chapped lips. You knelt to keep yourself from falling over and began to inch across the lake, amazed at the fact that you were actually ‘skating’. Techno was just amazed that you hadn't fallen in yet. He watched from the sidelines, spectating as you scattered around on the ice.

“Techno!” You ushered, holding up one mitted hand and waving it frantically to the tall hybrid.

“Heh?” He said.

“Get on the ice! Come skate with me!” You grinned, trying to stand up. You couldn’t manage to catch yourself, though, and you slipped backwards- landing right on your ass.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, but made his way to the ice to help you up. He slowly slid over to you, maintaining composure on the slick, translucent surface. He finally reached you and hoisted you up, adjusting your scarf in the process as it hung by a thread around your neck. You refused to make eye contact, and if you were blushing from the cold before, you were feverishly red now. He grunted and pulled your chin up, looking you in the eyes.

“You embarrassed?” He asked.

You grew warm at his soft, gentle touch but responded sharply, “No.”

A quick eyebrow raise from him shut you up and you sighed, admitting defeat. “Com’on. Let’s go home.” You nodded and he dropped his hand, not before letting it graze yours. Your eyes grew wide at the gesture, but you took it anyway and held his large palm in yours as you wandered off together back to your cabin.

a/n: it’s getting cold out and i can’t stop thinking about winter-y cozy/fluffy things… head empty only blankets and fireplaces and snow

#mcyt x reader #dsmp x reader #dsmp x you #c!techo x reader #c!technoblade x y/n #c!techno x you #mcyt fluff #mcytblr #dsmp oneshot

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bee--blossom · 2 years

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𝚌𝚘𝚣𝚢 (𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚋𝚞𝚛 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

♡ synopsis: short n cozy cuddle sesh with stinky zombie man revivebur

♡ pronouns: none!

♡ tw?: none, a bit of angst and language but not really

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He’s different now. He came back very manic and despondent, and all the compassion that once drove Wilbur died with him back in L’Manburg. He’s never around anymore, too, and so when he comes home you’re typically passed out on the couch.

Tonight is no different. You have the fire going and a woolen blanket wrapped around your body loosely. It’s been getting colder, and when he walks in, the gusts of wind outside bite at your exposed skin. As the dark oak door swings shut on its hinges, you barely lift your head to look up, too exhausted to care. It’s silent for a bit. He never really says much when he gets back- it’s so late, you figure he’ll just go up to bed or make himself a cup of tea and sit on the porch to read. Instead, though, you feel a slight bend on the cushion. You turn to look up, but he slowly reclines forward and lands right next to your face.

“Hello, darling.” He smiles at you, wrapping his arm around your waist. You study his scarred face and messy mop of hair. The sudden affection catches you off guard, but you lean into him anyways.

“Your hands are cold, asshole…” You mumble into his chest, and he lets out a chuckle. His burnt-yellow jumper smells like charred firewood, a scent you associate with his revival. He shifts a little, and you sigh.

For once in a very long time, things feel weirdly comfortable; almost normal. The record you left playing by the kitchen plays a vintage love song in the distance, the fire crackles quietly, and you can feel the slight rises and falls of his chest on yours.

“I missed this…” You finally say after minutes of mindless holding.

In a honeyed, raspy voice he responds, “I missed you.”

A/N: AH! this is my first time publishing anything so lmk if it’s absolute shite <3 also, please send request if you have any! If you actually read this, thank you so incredibly much :))

#revivebur x reader #revivebur x y/n #revivebur x you #mcyt fanfiction #dsmp x you #dsmp x reader #revivebur dsmp #comfort #mcyt x reader #c: revivedbur #revivebur

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