#brickfic

[brick-a-doodle-do]

ITS DOOOOONE WOOHOOOOOOO FIC TIMEEE :3333

SPIDERMANSPIDERMANSPIDERMAN! i originally wrote this for beckyu and i kind of still did but i feel bad giving her straight angst so it was INSPIRED by beckyu and her liking of superhero au's at the time dhdjfnnsn

ty to @munchkin1156 and @a-xyz-s for the ending ideas, ANDDD thank you munchkin, @dingbatnix and 3d for proofreading ILY 🫶

(title from doomsday by derivakat)

you're stuck in the web and caught in the lie

wc: 6748

cw: sfw vore, unwilling prey, fatal vore mention, mentions of puking, (lots of) panic, little comfort

—-—

The bulb in the bathroom teases with his sanity, flickering in the corner of Wilbur’s vision as he stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are heavy, exhaustion lingering on them, for moments before he had been passed out after a long night. Ultimately, he had been woken up by commotion in the streets, but loud feedback from the radio in his room is what drove him out of bed and stumbling into the connecting bathroom. 

Tommy, a borrower he had discovered just before starting his vigilante work, hadn’t been anywhere to be seen as of this morning, which he considered a given since he was housed on the other side of the flat and slept through almost anything.

So, it was just him, splashing water on his face and dabbing it dry with a hand towel. His mask hangs over the edge of the sink bowl, looking warped without a wearer. Wilbur stares at it, frowns, and sighs while swiping it off the porcelain. The tight, sturdy yellow and black fabric stretches in his fingers as he fidgets with the edge of it. After a tiresome moment of consideration, he swipes his hair back and slides the mask on, fitting it under the bodysuit. Wilbur then takes his top layers of clothes off, throwing his shirt and shorts onto the hamper and stretching in the skin-tight suit that makes him cringe.

His radio chatters louder than normal, screams and police sirens amplified through fuzzy audio. He briefly hears someone discuss his name—his hero one, at least—and discuss his absence. Wilbur yawns. He’d rather slip back under the covers of his bed and drift off until the foreseeable future. The only thing standing in the way between Wilbur and his comfort is his moral obligation to perform no bad. 

Offering his masked face a tired rub, he trudges from the bathroom with heavy feet and finds his way back into his bedroom, listening for any indication of where the disturbances are before shutting it off. It goes silent, and now audible are the distant sounds of police sirens echoing throughout the city. Wilbur unlocks his window and slides it open, stepping over the edge and out onto his fire escape. He shuts it, then places two fingers over his palm. Instantaneously, a pearl white web shoots from his wrist, latching onto a nearby building. Quickly, he pulls himself up onto the railing and jumps, hand wrapped tediously around the web as he swings, legs curled up with practiced ease. Through his fatigue, he finds his way through the city, web after web latching onto different buildings that he only lingers on for a few seconds before jumping to the next. 

A few flashes catch his attention from down below as the early-morning crowd of people notice the hero's arrival. For the most part, he ignores them, instead keeping his eyes out for the sounds of sirens and the sight of distress. 

Spotting a crowd, Wilbur zeroes in on it, instinctually latching to a nearby apartment building and landing on the roof half-gracefully. He creeps over the edge, crouched as he approaches. There’s a gathering of police cars, a count of three ambulances and two nearby fire trucks. A whole crowd of pedestrians and traffic has positioned themselves outside of a ring of orange barriers. The only thing Wilbur can’t locate is the problem.

He scans the street, looking beyond the crowd and studying the depths of the block. Wilbur gazes over the horizon, where the only thing to meet him was the beginning of a sunrise. Despite his yearn to watch the upbringing of the morning, he turns his gaze away to find his villain. 

A scream grows exponentially, echoing through the busy street and filtering through his mask. Wilbur whips his head over his shoulder, eyes narrowing as he scans the skyline. He huffs as he’s left without eyes on the villain. 

About half-way to the edge of the rooftop in hopes of contacting the police down below, there’s a piercing screech from directly behind him. Wilbur startles, the noise making him wince and cringe hard enough, leaving him now falling over the edge of the rooftop and into open air, where his eyes widen at the realization of the descent. Reacting quickly, he shoots a web to the railing and latches on, jerking to a stop before letting the web retract and raise him back to the rooftop. Wilbur connects his fingertips and feet with the concrete wall, sticking to it effortlessly while he creeps up the side of the building. 

Through his awkward angle of the top of the ground, he spots a misplaced train car half-dug in the concrete, minute sparks still flying from the impact. Wilbur spots a round of people inside through the tinted windows. They’re jarred, no doubt, presumably both mildly and gravely injured. Only few still move about the confined spot, mostly with agitation and fear. He doesn't mind them for the time being, more focused on the culprit of the disturbance. 

Despite the size of Essempi and their neighboring towns, he didn't meet a lot of supervillains. Occasionally some with creative costumes, though they don't pose much threat—he had himself half-convinced that the serenity of the town was just the beginning of some in-progress-anti-hero organization. 

So, there weren't many villains who could make the technology to haul a train car onto a rooftop. 

His imagination doesn't have to run much longer, for the mechanical noises of XD’s robotic extra arms draws his attention to the side, where the approaching villain stares around the skies for him. Satisfied with his obscurity, Wilbur raises a little bit to get a better view of the scene.

Suddenly, there’s an irritating whir that toys with his eardrums. He looks back, a helicopter catching his line of vision. Fuck. Just as he notices it, the spotlight ticks on and lands directly on him.

Wilbur gasps, squints at the bright light. The space now illuminated around him and XD’s attention turned to him instantly. He ducks down, spinning around so his back is against the wall and facing out to the city. Wilbur finds the attention of the aircraft and makes a motion akin to slicing his neck, silently portraying that they’re doing more harm than good. 

Abruptly, part of the light is obscured from above him, thankfully shadowing the blinding light, although posing even more of a problem than potential blindness. Wilbur sighs, looking up to see XD’s carved mask—his old one—the cracked thing boring daggers into his own mask. 

“Spiderman! Y’know, I thought I hated the cops, they just weren't ever on my side, but look at this! They helped me find you,” XD says, chuckling and then offering a salute to the aircraft. Wilbur’s shoulders slump a little as he flips back over and climbs up to the rooftop, hopping over the railing to find footing on the concrete ground. From this view, he notices that XD’s figure isn't laced with thick armor and his grand mask, and he’s instead stood, black slacks and a neon hoodie with his old smiling mask slapped on his face. His hands are in his pocket, looking casual, almost lazy. 

“You look like you've seen better days,” Wilbur says. Why hasn’t XD made a move yet? 

Dream shrugs. “Didn't want to be too…noticeable.” 

Wilbur looks at the bright green hoodie he’s sporting and then at the train car of people. XD’s arms twitch. 

“You should reconsider,” Wilbur suggests. Within a moment, he flicks a web at XD’s mask to distract him enough before darting to the left of him and running after the train car to help the civilians. XD isn't showing much interest in fighting him, 

Immediately as he approaches the car, he gets halfway to wedging his fingers between the seal in the doors before there’s five metallic fingers wrapping his torso and pulling him through the air. It throws him, wind screaming in his ears around him and hissing in his ears as he begins his descent—over the open air, no building to catch him. The crowd beneath him gasps, loud enough to bring him back to reality. 

His hands find a familiar position and he has the quick reaction to latch two webs onto the railing again. He retracts in a second, back onto the railing, crouched with his hands on the cold bars.

XD still isn't moving. He’s everything but hostile, apart from launching him off the side of the building. The spotlight from the helicopters above whirs loudly, circling the two on the building. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Wilbur asks finally, snapping XD’s attention to him.

“Okay—look, I should've really planned this out, and I don’t want to totally humiliate you…” XD trails off. Wilbur slips off the railing and onto the roof, standing up to await the villain’s plan. 

“It's kind of late for reconsidering the humiliation, didn't you just launch me off a building?” Wilbur points out.

“Shut up! I'm thinking,” XD insists. 

Wilbur sighs. He runs again, flicking yet another web at the train car. He jumps, the web retracting and he glides overhead the villain, who through the corner of his vision is still caught up picking web off his face. 

He lands on the roof of the train car with grace, considering his next move. Wilbur carefully climbs down to the back of the car, where he’s barely visible. Soothed at the fact, he offers a wave to the city-goers in the car. “I'll get you out,” Wilbur whispers, more of a reassurance to himself than anything.

Winding a quick punch and releasing it just as quick, the glass in the window cracks from his enhanced strength. The surrounding people inside the car step to the side on instinct as he punches again, the crack deepening. Through the reflection in the windows, (Any lighting in the car had been replaced by phone lights, making it incredibly difficult to see inside), he spots one of XD’s arms launching at him. Wilbur jumps, landing on the roof of the train car and wincing as he listens to glass break. 

“That car isn't for you to save, Spiderman,” XD says, coldly, his voice less casual and reminding him of their typical encounters. The arm launches for him again and Wilbur dashed out of the way, flicking a web across the building and dashing out of the way.

He darts out of the way for the third time, huffing out in impatience. “Oh, so you brought it up here for fun?” Wilbur asks, shooting a web at XD’s arm, effectively folding it against the villain’s back. 

He hisses out in victory, although the action is short lived because as he jumps from the railing, overtop of XD and going for another calculated web, the wind is knocked from his chest as he’s grabbed from the air and jerked to the side. Wilbur groans out in pain as he’s shoved to the concrete, which startles a shriek out of him. It’s then that he’s brought back to open air, dangling from the ground with an irritated scowl hidden underneath his mask. His shoulder stings from where it had slammed into the ground, but when he tries to soothe it with a rub, he finds his hands are pinned to his side. 

Wilbur glares at XD. 

“I’m going to put you down, and we’re going to talk.”

Wilbur knows obliging would be the best decision, leading him to tentatively nodding at the offer. As suggested, he’s lowered down, cautiously, the arm then retracting with a whir and laying on the ground beside XD’s form. 

“Have you ever heard of the trolley problem?” the villain asks, his real hands still in his pocket. Wilbur shrugs.

“In passing,” he says, “Why? I don't see anyone else hostage, do you know how the Trolley Problem works?” he muses, brows furrowing at XD’s response: something of a laugh. 

“You have two choices here, alright?” Suddenly, a screeching sound is scraping at his ears, two of XD’s arms wrapping the car and holding it up, right near the edge of the rooftop. “Save a train car full of people,” the villain continues, then reaches into his pocket. Wilbur squints as the villain pulls something small from the depths of his hoodie and holds it up, a string with something on the end of it dangling in the air. 

His heart sinks. Tommy.

“Or a pest. Your pest.”

Wilbur’s mouth falls agape, his shoulders slump, and his hands tense. Play it off, Play it off. He still has the time to embarrass XD and make him believe he has the wrong guy. Surely XD doesn’t—actually know his identity.

“I don’t see anything,” Wilbur says, his voice rushed and quivering.

“It's—It’s on the end of the string, look—there's some pest at the end of it.” XD clarifies, a smudge of humor in his tone. 

Wilbur lets the clarification run dry and finds himself bitterly glaring at XD. The villain hums, shakes the string a little. As he does, Wilbur watches Tommy flail at the end of it. His heart pounds in his chest, twisting at the thought of the poor borrower caught up in his work. He tried hard to keep Tommy out of it—he never even hinted at it. The idea that Tommy dangles in the grasp of Wilbur’s enemy without any hope that someone could save him makes Wilbur want to puke. 

A scream from the people in the train car snaps him out of his thoughts, adjusting him to his very real situation that he needs to find a solution to. He can save Tommy from a lethal fall, or save a cluster of people from an equally deadly height.

“Which one, Spiderman?” XD persists. 

Suddenly his lax clothing and old mask doesn't seem so lazy anymore, and Wilbur finds himself staring at the carved out smile with disbelief. 

“Did you wake up and decide to do this?” Wilbur asks. He’s wasting time. The hero watches as Tommy is drawn a little higher, and the likelihood of death increases massively. Meanwhile, Wilbur just stands there.

“I was bored. Wanted to test my theories about you, turns out…I was right,” XD hums. Wilbur knows that XD is clawing at the inside for a chance to blurt his name out and rip the bandaid off. Something in Wilbur has to hand it to the villain, though, because even with an audience of news reporters and cops and civilians, he still has held off. 

Okay. This cannot be hard. (Albeit reluctantly), He’s Spiderman. Wilbur can always do both. 

“I’ll take the train,” Wilbur decides, “leave the 'pest’,” he lies, easily. The words are like poison to his tongue, but he’s found an obvious route to take. 

“Okay. Okay! Well, what's your heroic plan without a little entertainment?” XD comments, then releases the car immediately, his silver arms retracting and glistening under the rising sun. Wilbur yells out, running near the edge of the building to go after the train, although before he can get the momentum to jump off, he notices that XD has dropped the rope holding Tommy. 

His eyes widen at the realization, he screams out a rushed “Tommy!” and quickly, he flings a web in the vicinity of the borrower, hopefully latching onto him before taking to the railing, finding his footing before jumping off of the building. 

Calm and calculated, trying to ignore the blood rushing in his ears and the way his head screams about his inevitable failure, he instantly retracts the web holding (what he hopes to be) Tommy, then lifts his mask up in a panic, getting a good grip on the clump of web before shoving the flash of white into his mouth and pulls the mask back down over his mouth. His mouth shuts with a click that blurs his thoughts of a plan. 

Briefly, he recognizes movement within his maw, and with the reassurance, Wilbur finds the time to finally focus on the train car, which plummets, although nothing too worrying yet, especially as he now has the opportunity to advance downwards, the wind lapping all around him. He’s done this a thousand times. 

Something clicks against his teeth, hitting from the inside. The wind in his ears and the adrenaline completely flooding him makes it hard to focus on the fact that he had hit bullseye on Tommy, and even more is he distracted at the fact that the poor thing is scared out of his life, in the clasp of someone he doesn't know he trusts. Trapped in their mouth no less. He runs a worried tongue over the figure in his mouth to try and resolve the boy’s fear. It was half-assed but all he could muster as a thousand ideas for saving the car floods through his mind and thoroughly bury the memory of Tommy.

A web shoots from his wrist and flies through the wind, whistling against it before coming to a halt when the edge of the web reaches something solid, the edge of a building, just a temporary brace until he can build another. He flicks another web, and another, and another, and he feels the energy leaving his body as Wilbur constructs a base for the car to land in. It’s already caught on the first one he did, but the weight of the metal and the people inside has the web splitting. 

By the time he finishes the landing pad, it’s mere feet from the streets, housing the fallen train car. Meanwhile, now no longer distracted, his blurry mind has the ability to shoot one last web onto a balcony near the scene. Wilbur jerks as the web pulls taught, something in his head shifting to panic, but he ignores it while letting the web retract and guide him up onto the balcony, which he clambers onto and falls over in an instant, something of this morning’s fatigue, his mix of emotions, and the overuse of his silk making him a useless pile of black-and-yellow fabric. 

(*)

Tommy is screaming. He knows he’s screaming, even though the noise is barely audible over the lapping sound of the helicopters that circle the area, which had irritated him enough into covering his ears, he still is screaming. The disturbance of the helicopter had been enough to distract him, and as he zones back in as Spiderman had yelled out something incoherent, and then weirdly, his own name. 

It was then that he finally felt the rush of cold air against his body, and it was then that he registered that he was falling, concrete growing closer and closer and closer, and—his abrupt fate was cut off by an equally abrupt something clashing into him and expanding, surrounding his entire body and jerking him through the air. His stomach sinks at all the movement. He struggles against the sticky web that he’s caught in, memories of getting caught up in spider web as a borrower flashing through his memory. If not for the fact that this situation was nothing similar, and that this was quite literally life or death, he might’ve found comfort in finding some resemblance of his home life.

Wilbur. 

Oh, Wilbur's going to get home and think Tommy abandoned him! Oh, oh fuck—

Suddenly, there's another pull in his gut and he’s screaming even louder as he falls, plummets, zips through the air. It whistles around him, his ears throb, and his hands are shaking so much he can barely even wipe the tears off of his face without it being consistent with hitting himself. There’s a thick groan that murmurs from his mouth as, despite the layer of web between him, he’s tossed against someone’s hand, whiplash settling in nicely with his jittering soul.

He barely recognizes the black and yellow fabric all around him before he’s catching his gaze on a distantly familiar bottom profile of a face, one that, terrifyingly, opens up and draws Tommy close. 

“No, no, nonononononoNO—” Tommy yells, a mouth suddenly his only surroundings. The morning light illuminates the space around him, rows of human teeth entirely surrounding him, fleshy pink walls and the faint outline of the opening of a throat just mere inches from him. 

“Shit! Let me out, fuck—HELP ME!” Tommy pleads, screaming, he can't even help but try to be hopeful in a time like this. He can’t even wrap his head around the fact that he thinks he'll be curled up in Wilbur's hands tonight if he asks. What is he, four? 

Tommy sobs. Tears break through, finally the adrenaline of the situation coming to a screeching halt as soon as the mouth he’s in shuts tight, the the jarring view of the city overhead coming to a close with an echoing click that replays in his mind a thousandfold. Tommy sobs again, shaking, his struggling within the cage-like web intensifying. He has a higher chance of avoiding becoming food if he can stand up and fight. 

Finally, finally, his legs can move more than a few inches. His legs are free, and he tears his arms free, picking the excess pieces off of him, baring his teeth as he strains his arm just to get free. He can barely fend off an inanimate spiderweb, he can only imagine the idea of fighting off a prodding tongue that’ll inch him slowly to the back of the throat that’ll send him to his real death. 

He pulls at the silky material, which has been soaked slightly as the person's saliva fills the room. It's at the moist sensation under his fingertips that he realizes how suffocatingly damp it is. Tommy pats at the surface underneath him, cringing, almost gagging at the fact that he’s sitting atop a tongue. He’s…he’s going to die, he’s sitting on his deathbed. 

He can barely maneuver himself to stand up without fucking falling. Tommy jerks a little bit, almost falling into the person's teeth at the movement. 

Finally stumbling to a stand with a scowl on his face, he tries to feel around for something solid. He seems to reach teeth, because his pounding fists collide with something hard. He punches at them, sobbing, a sudden weakness in his form overtaking him. 

“Let me out! Please! I—I can't die, not right now! I—I just—” Tommy finds himself stuttering over his words. He doesn't know why he doesn't want to die. There shouldn't be a problem if he simply ceased to exist, though the idea still tormented him. 

If he were to die, it at least shouldn't be at the hand of something Tommy had spent most of his life avoiding, and certainly not by something he had foolishly begun growing to trust. 

The feeling of something wet seeps into his clothing, prodding at him—and so caught up in his cries he takes an embarrassingly long time to recognize that there’s a tongue placed by his shoulder. Tommy shrieks as he does realize, scrambling away from the muscle the best he could, (which wasn’t easy, considering the thing took up most of the mouth). 

He swallows down a gulp of vomit, cringing at the fact that he’s even existing right now. Tommy draws a hand to his face, fisting his tears away. It doesn't matter in the end, as by the time he gets his face dry it's ruined by another orbit of tears. He still shakes, his hands propped in his lap while he leans against the closed rows of teeth, awaiting his inevitable fate. 

Just as expected, the world jerks, heavy, heavier than before, and suddenly he’s almost downed in a pool of saliva as he’s drawn back, back, and, NO—he claws aimlessly at the tongue, his efforts run useless while he’s shot down the throat in an instant. His hands fail to cling onto purchase and he slides, easily, too easily. He can't flex his limbs enough to flail, and even if he did the struggle would go unmatched against the pool of acids he’s about to meet. 

He falls, he screams as he falls. His gut churns at the fact that he’s landed in someplace new, equally as dark as a mouth but painfully obviously not. 

It’s hollow, nothing like the tunnel he just traveled down. It’s warm and suffocating, however, and he feels as if he couldn't breathe. Probably because his nose is stuffy and breathing in through his mouth triggered another fit of sobs. 

Tommy stretches his arms to feel his surroundings, coughing, then immediately sobbing again upon the feeling of fleshy walls that contort around him, flexing slightly. He’s going to die. He’s going to puke—he is dead. He falls against the surface he’s surrounded by, attempting to draw his knees up, though they slip into the thin pool at the bottom of the chamber, his chamber. 

The warm liquid soaks his shoes, and in half a second, he’s convinced himself that it stings, and that he’s going to die within the next five minutes. 

If only Wilbur were here. He would know how to calm him down, even if he was dying. If he was on his last breath and Wilbur was there to reassure him, he’d believe him. Full-heartedly. 

Tommy punches at the fleshy walls, yelling, despite how much strain it puts on his already-sore throat. “Fuck,” he whines, sliding against the walls and sighing.

He has a plan for everything. Wilbur, as a joke, locked him in a jar once, then proceeded to accidentally forget about him, and he inched off the counter until he fell and broke the jar. He was all cut up but he was out. So, why isn't his brain catching up to date with recent events and getting him a plan? 

Tommy knows why, but he doesn't exactly want to admit it just yet. 

His surroundings jerk, throwing him to the other end of the area before the walls squish in on him, embracing him from all angles and making him wail at the fact. His face is pressed against the slick flesh, the pool of saliva and, (what he tells himself is) acid, he sobs again. Again again, his body aches as he shakes with somber origins, again he cries again, Prime, why won't he stop crying? 

(*)

By the time Wilbur regained feeling in his head and it was no longer a sludge of mixed emotions about what just happened and reassurance that he had Tommy, and by the time Wilbur had picked himself up from where he lay on the cold concrete of a balcony and webbed away, he realized there was nothing in his mouth. 

But, he completely remembers the web with Tommy in it being secure in the makeshift pocket while he did his work, so why wasn't it there anymore?

Wilbur lands in the crowd, wincing as he catches the attention of news broadcasters. He’s about to web away to avoid public attention when something in his gut hits him so gently that he pauses, and his eyes widen. Wilbur pauses, freezes, then shudders.

Tommy. 

He runs off, immediately, into an alleyway where he leans against the wall and places a disbelieving hand to his gut. “Wh—Tommy?” Wilbur whispers, careful as to not catch the attention of the nearby reporters.

There’s a response. It’s faint, he can’t hear it—shit. At the very least, he’s alive—hopefully for the time it takes to get him out.

Okay, just…focus. He’s focused before—he has to be focused to unstick. But he’s never swallowed anyone before! Wilbur closes his eyes and pulls his attention to the moving figure in his gut, squeezing in his stomach and pretending like he’s trying to puke, (which probably wasn’t the best idea considering he does feel like he’s two webs away from vomiting his guts out). 

The attempt is disturbed by flashing cameras, which startle him to a defensive position and make him forget about his focus. He groans, staring at the news reporters that have taken to crowding around him, cornering him in the alley. 

“I’m gonna be real with you guys, I think there’s a lot more interesting things to film than me,” Wilbur says, huffing out a dry laugh.

“Why did you wait until the last second to save them?” A reporter asks. I was saving someone else, Wilbur muses in his mind, once again reminded of Tommy.

“Seriously, leave, I’m done with this scene, you should be too,” Wilbur tries. 

The reporters only grow closer, photo after photo after photo—it overwhelms him, to say the least, especially with the fact that his gut is being absolutely attacked by Tommy. It takes a lot for him to not curl up against the brick wall behind him and murmur reassurances to him. Flashes and questions blur in his mind, and thankfully his energy has seemed to return and he has half the mind to toss two fingers over his palm. A web sprouts, spiraling up onto the building above so he can get away from the crowd of people. 

Landing on the concrete, he sprints behind a doorway and kneels there, just in time for a particularly revolting punch from the inside of his gut that leaves him clutching his gut and gagging as something travels upwards in his gullet—finally. He gags again and feels something thrash in his mouth. Tommy, no doubt.

Without adrenaline rushing through him and numbing his thoughts, he notices there’s a distinct taste in his mouth. It’s tangy and unpleasant, mixed with the taste of salt—undoubtedly tears. He winces at it, making a move for the edge of his mask. Before he could pull it up and beg the trust he just thoroughly undid, the laps of a fucking helicopter catch his attention. Immediately, his hands drop from his face and he scrambles up, flipping them off tediously before running to the edge of the roof and jumping off, landing on the neighboring one. 

Wilbur takes a sharp left, his webs wrapping around a street light. Gracefully, he lands on it, looking around the sky for the aircraft. It seems to have lost sight of him. 

Gently, with his tongue, he pushes Tommy to the side of his mouth and rushes out reassurances while he glides through the city and back to his apartment building.

“You’re okay—I’m so sorry, Tommy. You’re okay, I promise you’re okay,” he says, it’s half-mumbled but it, hopefully, has gotten the point across. 

The little “fuck you!” from within his mouth says otherwise.

Finally, for what has felt like hours when in reality barely half an hour has passed, he finds footing on his fire escape. The security of being home feeling like a boulder off his shoulders. He opens his window, climbing in and shutting it with ease. 

Immediately, Wilbur lifts his mask up and spits Tommy out. The boy quivers against his skin, shaking and murmuring curses with his strained voice. Wilbur’s heart twists, guilt coursing through him even more than the adrenaline had earlier. He did this to Tommy.

“Tommy,” Wilbur calls, his voice soft. His hands find themselves frozen, unable to comprehend how much of a trance Tommy has been put under. “Tommy, hey, king, come on, you’re safe,” Wilbur says, taking a distracted seat on the floor. “Are you

okay? Are you hurt?” Wilbur adds, pulling the tiny a little closer to inspect his shivering form. 

He’s not sure if Tommy actually recognizes that he’s not in Wilbur’s mouth, or even gut. 

“Get the fuck away from me—” Tommy breathes out, his voice shallow and dry. He coughs, shuddering with another sob. Wilbur frowns, deep, watching intently as the borrower collects himself in his cupped hands, shuffling to sit up and glare at Wilbur.

(*)

“I didn’t mean to swallow you, I promise—I just—” Spiderman says, his own lies running dry on his tongue. Why is his voice so familiar? “Just tell me

you’re not hurt, man—”

Tommy doesn't respond to Spiderman and instead takes a look around the space, realizing very quickly that the space is identical to Wilbur’s apartment.

He hiccups, coughing as phlegm gets caught in his throat. “Why are we at Wilbur’s house?”

Something in Spiderman’s face, from what he can see of it, shifts, something of confusion tugging at his lips. Then, in a blink, he’s shifted onto one hand and Spiderman pulls the mask off fully, revealing—

Oh.

Oh.

“Wilbur,” Tommy breathes out, coughing again. His heartbeat picks up at the fact that Wilbur, out of the whole city, sat behind the mask. “You fucking swallowed me,” Wilbur almost flinches at the words, “and you lied to me.”

“You know I wouldn’t hurt you, not intentionally.” Wilbur returns his hands to the cupped position, but Tommy doesn’t move. His eyes are glued on Wilbur. His hair, his worried eyes with tears swelling in them and fatigue lining them as dark bags, his frowning lips, and the black-and-yellow suit that clings onto his body.

“Fuck, Wilbur, you—I don’t even know—” Tommy says, groaning and leaning into Wilbur’s hold. It feels warm, similar to—-

“Are you mad at me?”

Tommy’s eyes widen as he scoffs. “What the fuck?! Of course—-of course I am, Wilbur! I thought I was going to die! I probably would’ve!”

Wilbur winces. Bastard.

“I’m sorry,” the man whispers.

Tommy looks at Wilbur strongly, and for some reason, the action alone is enough to make him sob again. He shudders, goosebumps trailing his spine. 

“No, no—Tommy, you’re okay, man!” Wilbur reassures—or he tries to, it doesn’t really work, because Tommy just ignores it. 

“I’m not!” he retaliates, sobbing into the human’s gloved hand.

“Toms, darling,” Wilbur tries gently, taking his thumb and oh-so-gently drawing it along Tommy’s tiny, red-and-puffy face, ridding of his tears in an instant. His heart hurts at the nickname and the show of affection. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” 

“I almost wasn’t,” Tommy seethes out. “I would’ve died from that fucking villain you were fighting, you could’ve chewed me to death, and I probably was going to disintegrate when you swallowed me! Fuck you, Wil.”

Wilbur’s expression shifts. “You didn’t die, though, you’re very alive. And, I told you, Tommy, I never wanted to swallow you. It just happened. I must’ve startled too hard and did it.” Tommy scowls. He shifts, his damp feet sliding on the slick fabric of Wilbur’s suit. He almost forgot he was covered in saliva and acid.

“That doesn’t make up for the fact that you did it, instinctually, or whatever. Your brain wanted to eat me, just admit it!”

Wilbur stays quiet.

“Put me down,” Tommy then asks, now growing impatient after the warmth that Wilbur’s hand had provided has since run cold and proved nothing comforting. Wilbur, the bastard, looks so hesitant to his request it makes him shudder. “Wilbur, put me the fuck down,” he repeats, stronger, masking his (dwindling) panic. 

Begrudgingly, looking as if he regrets every moment, the human obliges and lowers the boy onto the floor, close to the bed where Tommy’s nearest nook is. “Thank you,” Tommy offers smally. He doesn’t know if he expected Wilbur to let his hesitance overtake him, but he finds that he’s grateful for the fact that he’s no longer engulfed by Wilbur’s hands and has found a place on the floor, already making a rushing move to the shadows of the bed. 

Though, as he walks, he feels his limbs are tired and ache. He doesn’t understand why they do, however—he had only cried, a mental problem, and he had kept his struggle to a minimum (in terms of how he usually flails), so why did he feel such a strong desire to collapse?

Tommy feels tears swell up in his eyes again, soul tugging at him to break down again. He winces at such fragile sensitivity and strays from his path, pulling off to lean against the leg of the bed. He sighs against it, holding back the floodgates of his tears while trying to ignore that Wilbur is still sat on the floor. He blinks away his tears. Tommy’s throat burns from earlier, also now housing the sobs he’s shoving back down his vocal box. He’s not crying again, no fucking way.

“Are you sure you want to be alone, Toms?” Wilbur asks, still soft as ever. It’s hard to be mad at the bastard when he’s been nothing but reassuring. But he almost died because of Wilbur, three separate times in barely an hour. How could he not be pissed? Then again, he had bargained with himself that Wilbur could be the only one to ever talk him out of the fear of death. Ironic, his mind muses.

“Not really,” he says, coughing a bit. He blinks away another circle of tears. It doesn’t work, and the irritating sting in Tommy’s eyes just pushes him far over the edge and he cries again, drawing his knees up and crossing his arms over them while he stares off into the shadows. He can’t hear much, but not in a concerning way, he’s just spaced out long enough for the only constant in his mind being his shallow cries.

Perhaps as he’d expected, he’s drawn back to reality with a nudge on his side. He grumbles, looking over to find Wilbur’s hand next to him, fingers folded into each other except for his forefinger, which pokes at his side again. From under the bed, most of the man’s face is obscured, but he can see Wilbur’s lips, which sport a fine smile, nothing amused, only genuine.

“Do you want to rest? I think you could benefit from a break from this shitty morning,” Wilbur offers, “we can finish talking later,” he then adds, which the thought of reliving today, even in memories, makes him shiver, but falling asleep on Wilbur had been his one wish when in—there. 

Hesitant, he shuffles up from where he sat. At his movement, Wilbur’s hand opens up and lays flat against the hardwood floor, moments from Tommy.

A part of him does wonder if it’s a ruse, but a lot of him doesn't have the energy to give a fuck. At least, not for right now.

He climbs onto the hand, his own hands bracing Wilbur's fingertips so he doesn't lose his balance, and he finds a seat on the crease in Wilbur’s fingers that connect them to his palm. 

“I'm still actually mad at you,” Tommy says as Wilbur draws him out of the shadows and back into the air. 

“That's okay, sunshine,” the man reassures. Once again, he takes his thumb, the gloves digit rubbing over Tommy’s face, tugging up to dry the last of his tears. The boy grumbles at the touch, but his disapproval only makes Wilbur stifle a laugh. 

“I thought we were resting, dick.”

Wilbur hums, shuffling up from the floor while keeping Tommy steady in his hand. He walks to the bed, sitting on the edge. “And you're sure you’re not hurt?”

Tommy sighs at Wilbur. “I'm not, if I was I would’ve told you, I still trust you. Kind of. Bitch.”

He has such a way with words.

Wilbur just hums, carefully drawing the boy up to his mouth. Tommy scrambles back, pressing further into the hands under him. The panic is short lived, especially as Wilbur only pecks a kiss on the top of his head. 

“Stop that,” Tommy demands. Wilbur draws him back, slightly. At the distance between them, Tommy stumbles to a stand and walks the length of Wilbur's palm and stands on the edge of it, arms outstretched to pull Wilbur’s nose closer to him. He hugs it, or, the best he could. 

“Awe, Tommy,” Wilbur says, his tone high in adoration. Tommy pinches Wilbur’s skin, causing the human to retaliate his hand and drag the borrower with it before situating himself in bed. Tommy snickers, slipping off Wilbur's hand and onto his chest. He frowns at the placement and walks, along the Spiderman suit and latching onto Wilbur’s chin, using all the (lacking) strength in his arms to pull himself up Wilbur's face, stumbling only slightly while readjusting. Wilbur stays still, he can spot the man’s eyes on him, but otherwise he remains  absolutely frozen until the borrower plops down by the older’s nose and gets extra comfortable.

Only because he knows Wilbur wouldn't be able to move him without waking him up, and the human wouldn't dare. 

—-—

taglist: @da3dm, @i-am-beckyu, @local-squishmallow, @skullsnbruises, @krazycat49, @munchkin1156, @nobodywritingao3, @a-xyz-s // taglist request

#mw #brickfic #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #g/t #dsmp vore #t!tommy #tiny!tommy #g!wilbur #giant!wilbur #moral obligation au

[old-hunter-henryk]

🌪!!

“Sum up a WIP with a few fic tropes/Ao3 tags.”

For Furnace (Dark Souls 1 leg of the Brickfic): Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Major Character Death/Undeath, Quest for Identity, Hero Worship, Praise the Sun! (Dark Souls)

All of these are tags that will get added to the fic as relevant, covers some core early plot/character beats, and also Solaire is there though he won’t show up for a good bit

#brickfic #might as well start that tag now hehe #placeholder talking tag

[i-am-beckyu]

oh yeah! i wanted to ask you smth :D when i'm finished writing it, would you like to proofread swapped au chapter one? /nf

i'm not sure how invested you are into that au and i could totally find someone else, i'm just wondering !! :3c

:000000000000000

GIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE NOWWWWWWWWWWW

I would die if you gave it to me to proof read. To read a Brickfic before its posted is a blessing everytime. I loved the rough prompt outline and I sooooooooooooooooo want this to read!!!

SO GIVE GIVE GIVE THE SECOND YOU'RE DONE!!!

#brick my beloved <3 #I WANTS IT RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!

[brick-a-doodle-do]

Story idea! Which will contain tiny!tubbo tiny!baby michael and giant!ranboo

Tubbo lives alone in the tundra lands of snowchester with his son Michael, tubbo is known for studying and hunting mythical creatures, but after a harsh snowstorm and lack of food he ventures out one night and ends up meeting one of the mythical creatures he has been desperately searching for.

Noms are up to you, btw

yay no more creative slump! thanks anon :D

i kinda switched this around s little bit but i think it's still alright? i mean i didn't read it but eh

(bonus points if you know what the title's from! :3)

agony drips from me, poisonous remedy

wc: 2519

cw: sfw vore (unwilling prey + miscommunication/no communication), panic

—–—

Call him an idiot, call him insane, call his work useless, but he prefers ‘over it’. Because in the depths of all of his pinned up papers, half-finished sketches littering the floors and a thousand theories blurring his head, he has a son, who’s obvious struggles haven't gone unnoticed from Tubbo, and he is over his weird hobby.

He does try, he keeps up with Micheal’s schedule, making sure he’s clean and well-fed and gets to sleep on time, (Although he can't be positive on that because unless his frenzy has kicked up hallucinations, he’s fairly positive he’s heard Micheal’s muffled snorts from just outside his office.)

Tubbo knew about that. He knew his son was distressed and isolated and tired and curious, yet he still persisted with the thing he couldn't even call work, it was just a hobby he clung onto desperately like it was pumping air into his lungs.

So, the recent storm was rather eye-opening. At the first crack of thunder and blast of lighting, Tubbo found it mildly distracting, while Micheal’s panicked squeals had traveled through the mansion and right to Tubbo's office, where the boy then threw himself at his father, burying his face into Tubbo’s chest with panicked breath. Tubbo had jumped at the contact and shuffled his papers around before scooting back to tend to his son. 

“Hey, hey, it’s just a storm, the thunder can’t hurt us,” Tubbo reassures, rubbing circles into the kid’s back. Micheal squeals as another clap of thunder echoes from the sky and rattles the windows of the office. Micheal’s grip on Tubbo’s vest tightens and he has to suppress the urge to wince under the pressure of his forming claws. “It's just passing over us,” Tubbo says, although he can't be sure about that, the weather has been showing signs of storms all week.

Another flash of lightning leaves Tubbo jumping at the way the windows light up at the streak, just a mile too close for his word to stay true. Presumably having felt Tubbo’s jolt of fear, Micheal sobs a little, still huddling close to his father for comfort. Tubbo sighs, tearing his wary attention away from the window and turning to focus on his papers, bullet points about a deity blurring together even more than usual at his worry. He moves his attention from his work and focuses on his son, still shaking with sobs. A wet spot has formed on his jumper from the kid’s tears, meanwhile Tubbo is stunned at what to say. He’s never been the most emotionally available, or if he was he wasted it all on useless attempts at humor to try and calm down Tommy. 

This was his son, and this was not a laughing matter. He stands, his chair sliding back along the wooden floor with a wince-inducing scrape, to which he ignores and focuses on supporting his son. “We haven't had thunder for a while, so, you know what that means?” Tubbo asks, using old techniques Schlatt had used when Tubbo wouldn't be quiet. 

“What?” Micheal asks, smally, voice broken from his tears. 

Another clap of thunder. Micheal gasps softly at the sound. 

“When there's a clap of thunder, you count the seconds between it, and that's how many miles away it is,” Tubbo informs him, still rubbing along his back as he navigates through the mansion.

The hybrid pulls away from his chest, still secure in Tubbo’s grasp but now facing him eye-to-eye, looking a little suspicious of Tubbo's claim. “Not true?” Micheal inquires. Tubbo cracks a smile and shakes his head.

“It's true! Listen, let's wait for the next one,” he says, heading down the grand staircase to find their way to the family room. 

Micheal’s eyes avert his gaze and instead move beyond him to watch the windows, spirit enlightened. Tubbo finds the lift in demeanor satisfying, though without a problem to worry about he finds his mind traveling back to the creature studies sat in his office. Supposedly considered deity amongst the End and the Nether, and the very last creature he has in an old book of monsters he found as a kid. 

He’s never been so riled up over finding something, but Ranboo proved so important that Tubbo would forget his own son in their time of panic. 

Tubbo plops on the couch, Micheal falling with him, just in time for another clap of thunder. “Alright! One, two, three—” Tubbo is cut off as Micheal takes over.

“Four, five—” Boom! The windows rattle and a few pieces of lopsided furniture shudder. That’s odd. It hadn't been so close before…boom!

Micheal squeals. That was loud. 

“Hey, hey, bossman, you're alright! It's just thunder,” Tubbo says, holding his boy tight while keeping his eyes glued to the pitch-black windows. 

“Too close!” Micheal squeals out, his hybrid coming out in a fit of snorts and whines that make Tubbo’s heart ache. Why did he tell him about the distance method? 

He considers calling Phil, but he doubts his communicator will work in this storm. The loud rush of rain hitting the window becomes apparent to him the more it picks up, rapidly thumping on the glass panes. Micheal’s crying again, his body quivering with every hiccup. 

“Hey, baby, you're okay,” Tubbo whispers. He can't handle this. Boom! “Bud, how about a special trip to old man Phil? I bet he and Technoblade can help, huh?” He asks, bouncing the hybrid on his knee. All that Michael responds with is a childish sob. 

His heart twists. Tubbo pulls him close, picking the kid up. He can make it to Phil and Technoblade's cabin, and then he can just…pick up where he left off with his work. You know, unless he dies. 

Tubbo’s footsteps softly echo around the high ceilings, just barely audible against Micheal’s crying. “We’re going to go out to uncle Technoblade and old man Phil’s cabin, alright Micheal? They’ll know what to do,” Tubbo informs, sliding into his shoes and setting the kid down by the door. “Which coat do you want, bossman?”

Micheal hiccups, staring up at Tubbo with confusion in his eyes. For the most part, it goes unnoticed  while he opens up the chest of their jackets and shoes. 

“I don't want to be in storm,” Micheal says, frowning. Tubbo pulls a coat from the chest and pulls it around himself, grabbing another one for extra good measure. He zips the two up then crouches down to eye level with the piglin.

“I know, I know. We just need to get somewhere a little safer, okay? Their houses are more prepared for this,” he lies, knowing full well that while he knows the storm is coming closer, he really was orchestrating this so he could just get some quiet work time, no matter how bad he felt about it. 

Micheal, at the very least, seems to buy it. “Okay…I want red, Techno color!” the piglin says, squealing in delight at his own mention of Technoblade. 

“Ah, what did I expect,” he chuckles, pulling out a red raincoat from the chest and carefully pulling Micheal’s arms through each sleeve, then buttoning it up gently. Micheal flaps his hand as Tubbo pats his chest to let him know he’s ready to go. Tubbo pulls out his wellies, a blue pair to take after Tommy, (Who he’s quite sure took after Ghostbur), then hands them to micheal to fit on. In the end, Tubbo is fighting down his overwhelming guilt of letting Micheal go for the storm. 

He's adorable, already abandoning fear because he looks like his uncles, (And his flaunting his excitement of the fact). Techno’s old raincoat almost pools at Micheal’s feet, the faded thing barely fitting yet somehow keeping Micheal in complete bliss.

“You look dapper,” Tubbo compliments, one last time reaching into the chest and grabbing out an umbrella before closing it. “Ready to go visit Philza, bossman?” 

Ultimately, Micheal looks a little uncomfortable at the thought of going out into the storm, although the thunder has been distant recently and Tubbo can tell Micheal has registered that.

“I think!” he responds, voice wavering before gaining confidence near the end. He smiles shallowly. 

With one arm, Tubbo lifts Micheal up into his hold again, the piglin snorting at the quick movement. He switches the umbrella to the hand holding Micheal and opens the front door, pulling at it until it finally opens with a pop!, leaving him stumbling at the sudden jerk. He keeps it open with his foot and steps out, shielded from the pouring rain under the thin awning. The door slams shut behind him, nearly causing him to drop the umbrella as Micheal jumps at the sound and digs his fingers into Tubbo’s already-sore sides. 

He huffs out his pain and slides open the umbrella, which clicks as it locks. Tubbo raises it above their heads and steps out into the storm. Immediately, the constant stream of rain against the material above their heads pounds in Tubbo’s ears, even as damaged as they are. 

Boom! 

Immediately, Tubbo hears Micheal whisper under his breath: “One, two, three four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—” Boom! 

“Ten miles is pretty far,” Tubbo comments, trudging through the thin layer of snow that he’d just shoveled earlier today. It mixes into a sludge with the rain, crunching under his boots in a pleasing manner, something to distract him from his desire to study and his worry of making it through the path to Techno’s cabin. It also distracts him from the impending feeling like he’s being watched. 

He tries to convince himself that isn't true, for the most part, even though he does give in with a quick look around his surroundings. The only thing he’s ever met with is the comfort of being alone with just him and his boy. 

Wind laps around them, the thunder and lightning seemingly having passed already, the only applicable features of the storm remaining being the strong rain and the surprisingly aggressive winds. He can barely see anything, let alone hear anything outside of the wind in his ears, Micheal’s hushed shivers and whimpers, and the rain on the umbrella. All the mobs have taken a rest for the night, thankfully, but it only leaves him in suspense. 

Who had eyes on him if not a zombie or a creeper? 

Who was watching him from above, threatening the security of him and his son?

About halfway through the forest to Techno’s cabin, he pauses at the sound of something shuffling. Micheal hums at the motion, his attention also caught on the noise. Perhaps he would've passed it off as a victim of the storm, but it seemed too orchestrated, like something running into a bush. He tries putting it behind him, whispering a reassurance to both himself and the boy. 

Tubbo makes it two steps before there's another rustle. Now, he stops. Full-fledged freezes, subconsciously holding Micheal a little closer. His grip on the umbrella handle tightens until his knuckles run pale while he spins around against the wind to look around. 

The hue of something red and green catches his eye. Too large to be anyone's communicator or any of the server’s eyes. Too vibrant for a coat or anything of the sorts, too colorful for an animal, no, this was the watchful gaze of Ranboo.

It fit the description of their eyes, the giant creature often hunched low to the forest floor, said to be a nod to their connection with the Nether. 

Tubbo can’t help the excitement that flares up against the fear. Ranboo was feet from him. He has been searching for so long—he finally can care about his son the way he needed to. 

“Papa?” Micheal inquires, presumably noticing the way Tubbo has stopped in his tracks again. 

Tubbo shushes the piglin. “Hold on for a second, bud,” he says, hiking up the kid before he slips out of his hold. Micheal seems to relax, resting his head on Tubbo’s shoulder while he waits. 

Meanwhile, Tubbo stands, staring at the vibrant eyes in the foliage ahead.  

“Ranboo,” he whispers. The eyes lift up a bit, like the mention of their name intrigued them. Tubbo’s spirit lightens immensely. 

A crack of lightning charges through the sky, lighting it up enough for him to make out a rough outline of the crouching monster. “Woah..yeah, that's you, Ranboo!” He says slowly, more of a reassurance to himself than anything. 

“You're Ranboo, right?” Tubbo calls out to the forest. The eyes disappear for a moment before reappearing as the creature blinks. 

There's a small vwoop! that echoes through the forest. Micheal perks up at that, turning his head in the direction of Ranboo. Against his fingertips, even through the raincoat, Tubbo's feels as Micheal tenses up. 

“What's that?!” the kid demands, fear inflicted in his voice. His pink fur has risen at the fear he emits.

“It's nothing to be afraid of, just an important thing I've been looking for,” he informs the kid. Micheal doesn't seem to relax. 

Ranvoo releases another vwoop! which is shadowed with a glk! that echoes from their throat. 

Suddenly, a thick tail with a furry, split-colored tuft is extending from the forest and into the clearing, rising high above them before, strangely prehensile as it curls around Micheal’s small form, somehow breaking the boy's contact with Tubbo. Micheal squeals at it, crying out for his dad. Before he has the time to react, Micheal is plucked from his grasp and swept up in Ranboo's tail, becoming a speck of pink amongst a sea of black and white. 

“Hey! What the fuck?!” Tubbo yells, immediately dropping the umbrella to run after the retracting tail. The rain pours into him immediately, wind rushing in his ears and pushing him as he trails after Micheal quickly. He stumbles over his feet, ankles rolling at his attempts to stay sturdy in snow. 

Tubbo can just barely hear Micheal’s panicked squeals and snorts while re-entering the forest, quickly behind the tail as he runs uselessly towards his son. “Ran-Ranboo! Sir–um, oh my god, surely you doing need to do that!” Tubbo calls up, watching from the shadows as Micheal is lifted effortlessly into Ranboo's two-finger hold, dangling him in open air, infuriatingly oblivious to his panic and sobs. 

Tubbo’s heart sinks when he watches through another streak of lightning illumates the forest around them, as his son is drawn to Ranboo’s open maw, a fit of sobs and garbled calls for his dad and screams to stop. 

Immediately, he runs closer to the giant, who’s still crouched over the clearing. 

“Oh god, oh my god, what the—RANBOO!” Tubbo yells, hands cupped over his mouth desperately. Rain pours down into him as he runs, causing him to stumble in the mud. As he approaches, he realizes quickly he can barely reach the edge of Ranboo's leg despite his immediate attempts to jump at it, and at another clap of thunder and bolt of lightning, he’s craning his neck in horror as he watches a lump in the deity’s throat travel down. 

—–—

taglist: @i-am-beckyu, @skullsnbruises, @nobodywritingao3, @krazycat49, @da3dm, @a-xyz-s // taglist request

#brickquiries #anon brickling #mw #brickfic #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!micheal #t!tubbo #g!ranboo #tw vore #safe vore

[brick-a-doodle-do]

i'm so sleepy but i decided to finish this <3 i've had insomnia the past couple of months, and while finally i'm slowly starting to feel a little better i got the idea for this in like may on probably the worst night of it. not very good, just some comfort noms 'cause who doesn't love those? :D

and though it's no improvement

wc: 1988

cw: vore (sfw, nsx), half-willing prey, swearing, mention of depression, mention/description of gore (very brief)

—–—

Nobody could sleep. 

Tommy wasn’t talking for Tubbo, or Ranboo, or Dream (Although with the imprisonment of the guy he couldn’t be positive on that one), or anyone else. 

He, Tommy, couldn’t sleep, and he wanted to make sure he felt like everyone was sharing his problem.

A consistent two nights of tossing and turning, throwing his blanket off of him when his skin pulsed uncomfortably with the warmth, and pulling it back on when the night grew too windy, and crying into his pillow with a dry-wet throat over the fact that his eyes felt so heavy but he couldn’t drift off. He counted the animals that passed by his window, stared at his ceiling, like maybe he’d wake up in a tent with a tedious headspace and a hyper ghost there to talk to him about his latest story with a particular blue sheep. But everything in his fantasy is gone. 

Logstedshire has been blown up, his tent has been abandoned, and Ghostbur has been sent back to Limbo. Everything good in his life always leaves him. It was only a matter of time before the days he called useless and the time he called torturesome were brought to and end, and it hurt him to think the last ounce of happiness from his was when he was with Technoblade, the traitor he thought to be a friend, or when he was running around with a Mexican and female edition of his mentor-slash-torturer that he was half convinced were hallucinations. Those were gone, Technoblade was thousands of blocks away, Ran-bitch is taking over his Tubbo, and even with Dream in prison, Tommy’s life was awful, and flavourless.

It’s been lately that he realised it’s because of him; had he not kept his secret stash, had he not pulled out his axe so eagerly, or had he kept a better eye on his only remaining remnant of Ghostbur, he’d still be clinging onto his happiness. 

Not like exile was a particularly reminiscent-worthy time.

Or, rather, was it? It had been the only time that he’d ever gotten the chance to feel productive, like he was doing something. He’d claimed he’d been lonely but he was surrounded by people—although in the moment he’d been shadowed by anger of being pitied that perhaps it felt lonely. He had been free, and had gotten a taste of letting himself choose, and had let himself bask in the piss-poor feeling of not being the crowd favourite any longer. For some reason, that felt pure now, a feeling that he had never experienced before that made him delusional, yet delusionally thrilled.. Dream wasn’t there to dictate him, he was just there to reset him, which got the cogs moving in Tommy’s brain if he was thinking about it, because how else was he to convince himself a secret stash was a good idea if not because someone kept resetting his progress?

Tommy tosses again, half of his blanket crumpled at his bed. He tosses onto his back and the blanket slides off. He sighs, then grumbles. The night is unusually cold, but it’s also unusually warm. It’s not right though. His head feels like it’s splitting. A million thoughts race through his train of thought, never condoning his slumber—no matter his pathetic desire for it.

Before he lets the lights behind his eyes grow any longer as his body goes numb but his thoughts keep busy, he opens his eyes and sits up. His hands grab anxiously over the side of his bed, grabbing the clay cup floating in an iron bucket of water. He drags it in the water and takes an eager sip of it, the room-temperature water sliding down his throat. As he swallows, it stings, but it feels better.

Carelessly, Tommy tosses the cup back into the bucket and shifts out of bed, shoving his blanket back onto his bed before walking around to the front door. He can barely call it that anymore, but he needs one for it to be home. Otherwise he wouldn’t be beating the raccoon allegations. 

He pulls the crooked and whiny thing open and steps out. The night air is like a slap to his face, but it felt nice. 

Tommy steps out and shuts the door behind him, then faces the quiet world. To his right, the bench is left untouched with the newest version of the jukebox set slightly off. He considered listening to one of them, but it didn’t feel right. There was no occasion for it, no conclusion to celebrate. Because Tommy liked happy endings, and Wilbur didn’t feel like one.

“Still can’t sleep, huh?” Tommy jumps, his skin crawling at the sound of the loud and gravelly voice. Speak of the devil. Abruptly, the nice air turned into a cloud of disappointment that reeked of cigarette smoke.

“What?” Tommy asks, turning around to source the giant—who he realised very quickly was sitting on the hill behind his home, legs crossed and looking down at him. His glasses give off an eerie red glare that makes him shiver. Tommy’s eyes widened. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Enjoying the fresh air! Do you know how long it’s been since I saw the night, Tommy?” 

Tommy scoffs. “Do you have to do it on top of my house, though? Rather disruptive, don’t you think?” he bargains, eyes narrowed. He slips his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his mind telling him to run. 

“I don’t recall having a house, I think that blew up. Or—rather, have you seen much of Pogtopia?”

He tenses at the name. “It’s been abandoned since the last time we were there, I don’t fucking give a shit about that place, it messed you up.”

“Aw, Tommy, you think so?”

“I know so, man. You were n—” Tommy pauses. “Stop fucking talking to me! I’m not here to talk about your mental health. I just want to sleep. But I can’t because you’re fucking alive!” 

“Ouch,” Wilbur murmurs. “I thought you wanted me back?”

Tommy flinches at the words. “I didn’t want shit, don’t put words in my fucking mouth,” he spits out, looking off into the distance for a moment, before settling back on the revivee. 

Wilbur throws his hands up gently in defeat, a god-awful smile peeking through the torch-lit property.

Somewhere in the distance, through the silence grown taut, is the growl of a nearby zombie. Not as near as the one sitting on his fucking roof.

“That’s my house you’re sitting on,” he points out. 

Wilbur huffs, like it was a joke. “I thought so.”

Tommy wrinkles his face. What a fucking asshole to be here, unannounced, basically stalking him. Tommy sighs, ‘Prime’ coming out in a gravelly whine from his throat. He wants to say something, he really does, but Wilbur beats him to it before he can shuffle his thoughts into something appropriate for their situation.

“You’re having trouble sleeping, aren’t you?” Wilbur accuses. Tommy doesn’t have it in him to pick a fight, so tentatively, he nods.

“That’s kind of why I’m out here,” he mumbles.

Tommy can practically feel Wilbur’s urge to ask him The Question seeping off of his roof and pooling around his feet—so much that he shudders at it. Wilbur wouldn’t, he knows Tommy’s hesitance with him now. Things weren’t like L’manburg anymore, they haven’t been for a long while.

“Can I help with that?”

There it was.

“No.” Simple. Tommy’s hands are shaking. Wilbur stares at Tommy so intensely, so attentive to his little brother, if they could be considered that anymore. The giant’s hands twitch, Tommy notices through his peripheral vision.

“Not even as a brotherly welcome-back gift, Tommy?” Wilbur asks, almost pouting. Infuriating.

Tommy, though, does consider it. The feeling of being embraced by Wilbur all around. If he was lucky, such a cold soul would follow down to a cold gut. He smirks at the thought. Still, he persists with a decline: “No, Wilbur.”

The next moment goes by in a blur; he’s standing on the grass near his house, then a second later his vision is obscured and gravity shifts as something grabs him, gently but secure, and Tommy’s left squirming in what he recognized as Wilbur’s grasp. He kicks aimlessly at Wilbur’s domed fingers, grumbling at the entrapment. 

When torch-light comes back to view, he’s met with Wilbur’s face. He rolls his eyes at it, looking away. Or, the best he can when there’s a giant mouth and a willing predator who’s captured his prey.

“It’s been thirteen years, I’ve felt empty. So fucking empty, Tommy. Haven’t you just felt useless without my embrace?”

Tommy snickers. “No, Wil. I haven’t felt useless, I’ve been productive out from under your wing. I felt free for the first time in years.”

A low grumble comes from Wilbur’s throat, something of a purr, less graceful than it had in L’manburg, but still almost lulling. If not for the suffocating stench of smoke, he might’ve folded.

Tommy’s pulled a little further from Wilbur’s face, who stares at him, long and hard, long and sad. Tommy still feels free at this moment, like he can do what he wants to do.

And…he doesn’t want to sit in a stomach with the same humidity as out here, in arguably worse conditions considering the absence of a nightly breeze. But, Wilbur was back, and there was always some part of him that has vouched to never say no to Wilbur. So, he shrinks a little in defeat. “Fine, dickhead. I don’t say no to you, blah blah, fucking eat me if you have to.”

Wilbur seemed satisfied enough to whisper a small thank you before pulling Tommy back to his face, parting his lips and letting Tommy do his own thing. Pleased with the effort, Tommy stood up and placed a tentative lip to Wilbur’s blood-stained and scarred lips, climbing over them and his bottom row of teeth, almost tumbling over when he loses his balance. He stumbles, catching himself on Wilbur’s instinctual tongue, which flicks up slightly to offer its support. He stands on the edge of Wilbur’s gums before clambering onto his tongue, padding along the uneven surface before sitting in the middle with practised ease. 

Wilbur’s turn.

At Tommy’s still form, Wilbur tilts Tommy slowly to the side of his mouth. Tommy shifts carefully to sit on his molars as Wilbur licks at him, coating him in a generous layer of saliva for an easy trip. The feeling used to be so alien to him, then it was once normal, and now, he hates to say it was nostalgic. Part of him was waiting for Wilbur’s lips to part and for light to flood in from the morning, trees fluttering in the wind and the Camarvan somewhere in the distance as the two of them treated each other to a picnic for the early days of their Nation’s upbringing.

When Wilbur’s lips part, it’s dark. He can see the bench, vaguely, and the stupid fucking duck that sat in the middle of the server with trident pools decorating the rest. He pats at Wilbur’s frozen tongue, letting him know he’s okay. Satisfied, Wilbur’s maw becomes pitch black again and he goes off of muscle memory for the next chain of events.

He’s brought over to the edge of Wilbur’s mouth, half-dangling over throat, and suddenly, Wilbur swallows and he’s sent down a squeezing tight tunnel along with a pool of saliva. He travels down, the disruptive beating of Wilbr’s heart distracting him enough for him to barely register his final destination. 

Tommy lands with a squish, the surface under him having shifted from teeth to gut in a few half-predicted seconds. The blond sighs at the intense heat that follows in Wilbur’s gut. It was fine, he could suck it up for a few hours. 

—–—

#mw #brickfic #tw vore #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!tommy #tiny!tommy #g!wilbur #giant!wilbur #mmgmmfmdfhdf i love them sm <333 #this feels like my old fics ahg the rushed ending with the witty last sentence !! dfjvjdsf those will haunt me but i love 'em<3

[brick-a-doodle-do]

You say you want prompts….

What if the giant who used to be quiet (maybe for not so good reasons) but came out of their shell with the help of their tiny has a short relapse where they completely don’t talk and the tiny is just there to help

Perhaps g!Ranboo with t!Tommy or t!Tubbo (or whoever I just want fluff—)

speedwriting on vacation? speedwriting on vacation.

i was gonna wait for you

wc: 1849

cw: swearing, panic, brief mutism (is that the right word? the internet gave me it), mention of (sfw) vore/mouthplay

—–—

Ranboo is going to murder him.

Tommy stumbles against the lapping wind, which pushes at his cheeks and makes them like ice. Rain patters onto him, each drop like a bucket being dropped on his head.

Shivering, he pulls his coat around him, trying to act like it wasn’t already drenched. He stumbles again, adjusting his footing right before toppling over. A blurry light shines in the distance, through an array of trees with branches that clash loudly with one another. With each of his steps, above the sounds of the wind and pouring rain, there’s a faint clicking noise. Prior to going out into the belly of the storm, Tommy had been occupied shoveling handfuls of rocks into his pocket to assure he wouldn’t get swept into the night by the gale.

The tiny made his way through the clearing, the light of the house growing nearer at an agitating pace, and by the time he finds footing on the pathway to his hole in the wall, the rain has seemed to disperse a little. He scrunches his hair up and water seeps from it, the same as he pinches the fabric of his coat. 

For the most part, the house seemed sleepy enough. Maybe he could get to bed before Ranboo confronts him. He treks the path, his soaked and muddy shoes sliding along the floor and nearly having him fall over enough times for him to discard them at their third murder attempt at him. 

The rest of the way was quick, until he finally reached his nook. The lights were out, just as he had left them. He squints in the darkness, feeling his way through the area before collapsing on a makeshift couch. He sighs, pulling his coat off and tossing it to the side with a squelch. He cringes at it, then decides he should probably do something about the wet mess he could call himself. 

He gets off the couch and flicks his lights on, which flicker for a moment before lighting the space up in warm lighting while projecting star-shaped shadows on the wall. He grabs his jacket from the floor and hangs it up, positioning a portion of a towel, (courtesy of Ranboo), underneath it to collect the fallen raindrops. 

Doing the same with his shirt, he then hovers over a basket of clean and dry clothes. 

Tommy is mid-way through struggling on a makeshift hoodie before a soft sob carries through into the walls. 

He—not before adjusting the shirt on him—pauses, interest piquing at the sound. Ranboo?, his mind supplies, thoughts of the human’s reaction to his disappearance already filtering through his thoughts. At another sob, Tommy promptly replaces his pants and hurries down the hall to the opening in the kitchen. 

Stepping out onto the counter, it wasn't hard to spot Ranboo, curled up on his couch, staring blankly out onto the floor, shuddering occasionally as the post-cry hiccups settled in. 

Tommy’s seen that gaze before. 

Guilt bubbles in his gut, the feeling in him as he remembers seeing Ranboo look like that, quiet and still after events regarding another borrower they had scared off. Tommy had gone to talk them out of the demeanor and in the process befriended them, and now months down the line they stare at the floor the same way they had back then. It didn't take much for Tommy to recognize that the trance he’d put the human in traced back to none other than himself. 

He sighs, arms crossing instinctually as he begins to adjust to a plan. Water drips inaudibly from his soaked hair, tracing down his face and dripping down his bare arms, a small puddle forming at his feet before he takes off again, along the length of the counter, (While clambering through stray things on its surface), until he reaches the edge of it, then steps off to an installed plank for him to walk along, the thing narrow and uneven although plentifully useful. 

Tommy passes through Ranboo’s excuse of a dining area and then into the living room, silent as he can as to not disturb Ranboo into panicking further. The human’s head rests on the couch with their hands folded solemnly over the edge of the couch. 

While sturdily inching his way down the pathway, Tommy debates on calling out to his friend, his mouth opening and closing with ‘Ranboo!’ stuck on the tip of his tongue. 

He sucks it up and stops in his tracks momentarily, cupping his water-wrinkled hands over his mouth and yelling out a fond: “Ranboo! My guy!” 

Ranboo’s still for a moment, Tommy narrowing his eyes at the scene before opening them up again as he human shuffles up from the couch and looks around for the borrower. He waves, attracting their attention towards Tommy. Ranboo’s eyes soften instantly, though they make no move for their little friend. 

Tommy, not knowing what to do with such a distance recognition as Ranboo’s, fills the silence.

“Oh, man, Ranboo, that storm out there,” Tommy starts, groaning for emphasis while continuing down the path to the, (still half-frozen), human, “I fucking went across the clearing for acorns, they're in season and I figured …. uh, well, I didn't really have s plan, but then it became fucking dark as shit and only at sundown, so I filled my pockets with rocks so I wouldn't blow away, I—”

“Were you leaving me?” Ranboo says, cutting Tommy off purely in relief. His voice is quiet, nearly cracking had he spent any more time crying. 

“What?” Tommy asks, dumbfounded at the question. By now, he’s halfway across the floor of Ranboo’s floor; halfway to the couch. 

“You left, and I have to ask if it was because of me,” Ranboo repeats, more emphasis and his voice a little louder, though Tommy doubts any lift in Ranboo’s demeanor. 

Tommy shakes his head, knowing well Ranboo couldn't see it but perhaps as a reassurance to himself. 

“No, no! Dickhead do you really think I’d do that? Ranboo, I wouldn't have came back if I was leaving you,” Tommy says, scoffing half-heartedly before adding a swift: “which I wasn't.”

Ranboo hums, still making no move to welcome home the borrower, who stands below his outstretched hands awaiting any kind of movement. 

“Jack was a one time thing, he just got scared, like the ass he is,” Tommy continued on. He stands, folding his arms over his torso impatiently despite knowing he shouldn't be worried about the status of his stance. 

At the most, Tommy can barely reach the tip of Ranboo’s finger no matter how much he extends his height.

Falling back down onto his heels, Tommy huffs. “One time, I walked in on Jack borrowing food and he thought I was a human. Scared the shit out of him for sure, like a human could come from the other side of the cabinet.”

Ranboo stays quiet. 

“...can you let me up?” Tommy asks, finally. Much to his dismay, he’s met with an immediate response that almost seems mindless. Ranboo’s hand inches down barely, though enough for Tommy to cling onto him. Secure, Ranboo says nothing as he brings the borrower up to the couch, resting on the unoccupied side of the pillow that he had been resting on. 

Tommy then adjusts to the uneven surface and looks up at Ranboo, who's face is covered, the strap of their seeming mask the only thing he can make out. They put the mask back on. 

(Regarding the incident of Jack, Ranboo had sulked around the house in a mask. He never understood why and never cared to question it after he took it off, and now he doesn't have the gut to ask now.)

“I'm back, aren't I? I still touched your abnormally long fingers,” Tommy points out, partially because he wanted out of his thoughts. Ranboo doesn't crack a smile at his thrown-together humor. Or, at least he assumes they don't as the mask obscures the one prominent indicator. 

Tommy pulls his lips to the side in thought, eyes narrow at the quiet human. “If I took the mask off and climbed inside your mouth would you move enough to spit me out?” 

Ranboo’s brows crease through strands of their hair. Tommy considers this progress. 

“Ranboo,” Tommy starts, something of a distant phrase stuck in his throat. His voice runs dry and his pride pulls at him to Shut The Fuck Up, but his heart doesn't care.“I'm sorry,” he says, a weight lifted from him even though he knows he shouldn't be the one being relieved, “I knew you were awake, or whatever you were doing, and I left during a storm and even then I hadn't came back and I guess it was shitty on my end. Sorry.”

There's a pause, and a longer pause, and …. it doesn't take long for Tommy to realize the pause was simply Ranboo ignoring the borrower. 

He doesn't know why, although that silence hit him graver than any other. Like months of tangling has been undone by a simple stroke. An apology from him has been left to disperse into only a fine memory of Tommy’s that leaves him remembering how kind he had been and how passive Ranboo had been. (Even so, he still has the emotions to amplify that he was more than hurt at the absence of a response.)

“Fine. Dick.” It's back to wit. “I'm going to jump off the couch since you don't want to fucking talk to me,” Tommy murmurs, turning on his heel and making less than a grand exit than he would've liked. (Not as if Ranboo's attention was on him.)

He slides off of the pillow, then close to the cliff that was the edge of the couch. Staring down at it, he considers the fall. Couldn't result in death, therefore leading him further and further until he decides to quip out a curious: “Oh, goodbye ole’ Ranboo, he-who-won't-talk-to-me.”

At his last syllable he steps from the couch, praying to Prime as the ground comes closer that he comes out of this with no less than an injury. Before he could hit the ground, just as he had presumed, he’s caught as lengthy cold fingers trap him and he’s stopped from the fall. Ranboo’s grip on him tightens ever-so-gently and he can make out his return to the couch. 

Ranboo hums, the smallest of noises he’s heard all evening. 

Instead of being let out, Tommy body pulses with warmth all around him as he’s engulfed in a darkness, a beating heart just moments away from him. He groans at their grip, yet makes no move away from the crease in his friend's neck, which radiates warmth and vibrates softly, almost silent had he not been pressed against their throat. 

“Thank you, for not leaving me,” Ranboo whispers. It echoes from where he sat against their throat. 

Through his urge of wit and of sarcasm, Tommy only has the mind to respond, loud and clear and in full honesty, with: “I wouldn't do that.”

—–—

#brickquiries #sloth brickling #sloth my beloved \o/ #mw #brickfic #short prompt series #<- well it kinda turned into a long fic #cw vore mention #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #t!tommy #tiny!tommy #g!ranboo #giant!ranboo

[brick-a-doodle-do]

"they frantically shoved another handful of swedish fish in their mouth"

rhhrhrhrh i had trouble with this but now i got it all figured out! i also switched the characters so many times and we eventually ended up with bedrockbros so yippeee ! ?

blinded by imperfect form

wc: 589

cw: intrusive thoughts, uninvited vore-related instincts, swearing

—–—

Light from the television hung lowly over Tommy's face, which Techno had only noticed because....well, because he was watching Tommy. Not stalking him, or plotting his murder, just, Tommy was in eyeshot, and he was small, and Techno happened to have rather entitled voices holding Tommy and his fragile form captive, and he found it soothing to watch the way the tiny moved.

The tiny was propped on a pillow supported by Techno's legs, who laid along the couch with a blanket keeping him warm from the winter air. The rest of the blanket had ended up around Tommy, who leant into it like he owned it.

And that was partially true, because some part of him had picked apart a sewing hobby over a boring coarse of life and decided it was worth it to present the boy with a gift.

Only, again, because of his voices.

Normally he wouldn't indulge in the activities his voices prompted, but this seemed harmless enough; it's not like Tommy was bothered by giant gifts and the occasional prowl.

Speaking of which, Tommy had seemed to tear his attention from the screen (which was playing Moana on a very convincing three-step plan that Techno had ended up giving into on account of his own pity of Tommy) to ask Techno for another piece of food.

Instead of asking, he stopped short and tensed at the intent eye-contact from Techno.

"Uh, Techno?" Tommy asks.

Techno's eyes never falter around Tommy as he responds. "Hh, yep?"

"Any reason you've decided to stare at me 'n shit?"

Techno shrugs. "You're unusually small, if you haven't noticed. Don't wanna lose you, Phil'd have something strong to say about that," he says. Okay, it had been made up on the spot, but it's not as if Tommy was anything unfamiliar with his voices, although admitting of his instincts only dug an opportunity for embarrassment.

Tommy blinks. "Wh– Techno I'm not gonna fall or something! I'm not fucking stupid," Tommy says, defensively.

It would be much easier for him to not fall if he was somewhere safer, a voice muses as his eyes drift onto the floor; more importantly the tumbling fall that'd injure the tiny without a second thought.

"Whatever, 'Creep-no-blade', I want food," Tommy demands, just as Techno had assumed.

"Yeah? And what food would that be?" he asks, eyes finding the various bags of snacks that had accumulated near Techno.

"Uh..." Tommy trails off as he gazes over his options: popcorn, Swedish Fish, M&M's, chip's, and... oh, well, there was a bag of donuts.

As Tommy decides, a voice chimes in with an peskily persuasive reminder as to what he wants for a snack.

"Techno? You with me, big man?" Tommy asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. He swallows, for the first time in a long time feeling genuine uncertainty.

"Ah, I hope so. What'd you say?"

"Popcorn," Tommy repeats.

He obliges, digging into the bag of popcorn and grabbing a piece, then handing it over to Tommy. The tiny's hands grab at it, two needed to support the almost air-like weight of it.

How easy it would be to grab Tommy right there and put him where he needs to be.

Techno's throat swallows impulsively as he imagines Tommy travelling down his gullet and finding a soft spot in his storage.

Instantly, upon his now-troubled self, he ignores his impulsivities and grabs at a bag beside him, frantically shoving a handful of Swedish Fish into his mouth to try and dampen his urges.

—–—

#brickquiries #brickfic #drabbles #anon brickling #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!tommy #g!techno #cw vore mention #ahhhh i love some instinct-ridden technoblade <3 #thanks for the prompt! :3

[brick-a-doodle-do]

i know myself so well DVFEWJRS

HERE IT IS!! LAST CHAPTER IN MAIN SERIES! i started this doc on halloween and finished it around fourth of july! good god!

also i forgot to add bht thank you to xyz for help with this chapter !! part of the last scene was completely their idea :D

the egg scene will forever haunt me. i was stuck on that for at least three months.

not quite ready (iii; final)

(i, ii)

words: 4515 (😱😱😱)

cw: vore mention, dehumanization, mentions of depression, descriptions of questioning reality ? idk the word for that :I

—–—

The following morning, Wilbur sits with himself in silence. The apartment was quiet, broken only by the quiet whooshes of cars rushing in the busy streets down below and the occasional hum from the air conditioner. 

By the time the bedroom door that had sat undisturbed for hours creaked open with practiced silence, he didn't know how much time had passed. 

That feeling was familiar. 

He hates to circle back to the very thing he’s so luckily escaped from, but every little thing he did would remind him of it. Wilbur doesn’t know Tommy very well yet, and he can’t say he’s drawn to doing so, but it’s nice to be able to gaze at the chocolate bag without looking at the walls he only saw as one great big endless void.

He can hear Tommy’s weight shift onto the floorboards softly as he makes his way through the apartment. Wilbur tossed to his side, eyes staring at the cloth of the couch. Familiarity washes over him and drowns him. He had spent too long staring at a dark, blank slate. Why does his freedom entail the very same thing?

Wilbur frowns, shifting back up to the ceiling, where Tommy just barely looms over the edge of the couch. A shiver runs through his body at the startle, but ultimately it’s nice to see him, because it was grounding to see another living and breathing something. 

“Oh, fuck, sorry—” Tommy murmurs, his hands resting on the back of the couch and pushing the cushion down just slightly to see the tiny better. Wilbur shrugs, looking deeply into the eyes that blink without a rhythm. Tommy is alive. 

Wilbur is too. 

Tommy’s chest rises and falls and his hair shifts as his head moves just barely so their eye-contact could disperse. Wilbur’s chest rises and falls too, and he can hear his heartbeat that thumps softly against his ears as they sit in utter silence.

“Well, um, I’m gonna go, yeah? You alright here?”

He considered it, and he should’ve said he was. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he’d apparently lost control of his response and blurted out an extremely abrupt: “No, please stay with me. I–I can’t sleep and I really can’t have it be quiet any longer.” 

“Oh,” Tommy murmurs, “okay. Yeah, I can do that for sure. Do you want me to sit down?” he asks, already making his way over to the tiny. 

The borrower nods, trying not to listen to the voice in his head. Tommy obliges and walks around the edge of the couch, a certain slowness to his movements, and sits down just inches away from the pillow he was on. 

Wilbur sits up, sinking slightly in the middle of the feathers, but his next-to-nothing weight, for the most part, keeps him still. Tommy keeps his hands in his lap, nails picking softly at his skin. It’s quiet for a moment, but Tommy speaks up with the inevitable question, “Did you sleep last night?”

Wilbur shakes his head, “No, I couldn’t. Did you?”

“A little bit,” Tommy replies, and Wilbur notices how the hem of the human’s shirt has been caught between his fingers. “Hey, um, Wilbur?” Tommy asks. Wilbur looks up. “Are you feeling alright after that whole, uh…thing?”

Wilbur shrugs, the phantom feeling of being in the bag already fading from his memory, but in the same way never uprooting. He swallows. “I can't say I feel the best, but I'm getting better. Thank you for what you've done, I don't know where I'd be right now.”

“Oh, nah man, you didn't deserve to be there in the first place! Just helpin’ a guy out, y’know?” Tommy flashes him a fond smile, and the human’s humor wafts into his face, the sweet scent of underlying pity burning his throat. He laughs dryly, unsure of where to lead the conversation so that the suffering sound of nothing can’t bother him any longer, because so many of his days had been spent with little but the occasional muffled chime from the store’s door or the hushed chatter from city-goers as they pass in and out. 

Tommy looks like he wants to say something, his lips parting with every passing second Wilbur sits with the reminisce of the past. He considers pointing the fact out, but instead he lets them sit in the shared silence before the teenager’s inevitable saving grace would show. 

Half a minute has passed and they haven't broken eye-contact. 

The gesture might’ve scared past-Wilbur, though post-incident-Wilbur has never felt more thrilled at the contact of another being. And when his eyes drift down to the fingers that still fidget with the cloth anxiously, he can't help but imagine how grounding it would feel for fingers to close over him. 

He shudders at the thought, however, because it’s an entirely other scenario to be trapped by a human. It’s a conflicting battle that leaves him absentmindedly shifting closer.

Tommy is quiet.

Wilbur is quiet.

A car honks down on the streets below, startling Wilbur.

Tommy, awkwardly, clears his throat. “I’m going back to London in a few weeks, can’t be long now, uhm, do you want to come with me? I don’t want to force you, but you don’t seem like the typa’ fella to just pick life back up, respectfully ‘n all.” Wilbur considers it, and the silence draws taut. 

“That’s a bit last-minute, don’t you agree?” he asks.

“Right, like I said you’re not, like, fuckin’ obligated to or whatever. Just thought it might be nice, givin’ you a heads up ‘n all,” Tommy reassures him. It’s not exactly convincing; Wilbur finds himself wondering how much of Tommy is really okay with him staying here.

Wilbur swallows, running his fingers through the flap of his hair. “I don’t know, and don’t expect an answer. Not anytime soon.” 

“Right, yeah, don’t decide right now,” Tommy chirps, leaning against the couch and sighing. “Are you hungry? I could fuckin’ eat right now,” he adds.

Wilbur stares right at him. 

Tommy sits, oblivious with his leg bouncing as he awaits Wilbur’s response. Eventually, his eyes shifted in realization when the silence had drawn on too long. “Oh, oh fuck—I didn’t mean it like that, I don’t want anything like that—” Tommy rushes, the words coming out a warp. Wilbur shakes his head, the beginning of laughter escaping him, though drying up at the edge of his throat. 

“You’re fine, king, you’re all good. Just a bit jumpy after everything, you get it,” he replies simply.

“I actually don’t really get it,” Tommy argues. There’s another beat of silence, Wilbur staring at Tommy’s hands. “Well, uh, seriously then, do you want food?”

Wilbur nods eagerly. 

Food, real food sounded extravagant; his teeth had rotten away over all the times he’d filled up on chocolate. 

The taste of something savory over the weeks had often been his imagination while he bit into the bud of candy, pretending easily that it was something different, like, a rather pleasant portion of fruit he’d scored while a human was away or something he managed to buy in his short time of freedom. 

Tommy nods, shuffling up off of the couch and leaving him in the lonely living room again, back to sitting with his own thoughts, only this time with a newfound light after the human had flicked it on.

Suddenly, Tommy comes back into view as he gently leans over the back of the couch. So close. Like how he had been when he’d peered into the candy bag— 

“Wilbur,” Tommy urges. When Wilbur seems to have blinked out of his memory, the human continues. “What do you want? You allergic to anything?”

He blinks. Alurgic? 

“Uh….I don’t think I know what that means,” Wilbur admits.

“Oh, uh, I’ll take that as a no. I don’t have it in me to explain,” Tommy says, smiling at him like Wilbur is supposed to know what that means. 

When Tommy takes his expression that grows even more confused by the following silence as a response, he tries to shake it off with a swift: “Can I take you over to the kitchen, then? Or do you think you still could fall asleep?”

“I can’t fall asleep,” Wilbur responds quickly.

Tommy nods. “I’m gonna put my hand down on the pillow,” the human announces. He does—though irritatingly slow. He was unsure about humans, and it seemed both of them recognized that, but Wilbur wasn’t glass. 

When Tommy had stopped moving and instead kept his eyes glued to the borrower, he moved with his shoulders slicked back to hide the anxiety of being watched so intensely. 

Tommy’s skin was rough under his own as he got situated on his palm. 

Memories of being held by other (more resentful) humans fought their way through his archives, but he felt oddly soothed for how loud his head was.

Almost immediately after he had settled in the center of Tommy’s hand, gravity shifted and he watched as the world grew further from him. He wasn’t startled (Prime knows he’s been through worse) as his world shifted with each of Tommy’s movements, in fact he was still as at ease as he could be.

The rest of the apartment wasn’t anything special.

 Ahead of them was a kitchen, to the right was the front door, and to the left there were two other closed doors. He couldn’t take the house for anything personalized, so he probably hadn’t been here for longer than a few months. Still, it wasn’t the cleanest thing ever, but he couldn’t expect anything different from a kid Tommy’s age. 

(He’s seen it first-hand from the walls)

(*)

Tommy’s muscle memory kept him from wandering into the kitchen counter as his eyes kept a strong stare onto Wilbur. 

It wasn't anything particularly different than the other times he had talked or even seen a tiny, but even despite how little they've known each other it still felt more personal. Wilbur had been through a lot and Tommy was getting to help him. 

And he’s already cracked the ice, he noted as Wilbur barely reacts when he gently tilts him off of his hand and onto the kitchen island. 

He turns his back to him to search the fridge. 

There was barely anything there, just a cool-lighted wasteland with a few leftovers that he can't remember packaging in the first place.

An egg carton was nestled between two takeout boxes (had he tried organizing?) and it caught his gaze the second look around the fridge. 

“Uhh, we have eggs,” Tommy suggests. 

There's silence for a moment, then, barely distinguished from behind him, “That sounds fine.”

Wilbur sounded distracted, if somehow that was possible.

“Great, because I don’t actually think I can make anything except that,” Tommy deadpans, chuckling to himself at his own joke. He watches Wilbur crack a smile and a quiet laugh on his way to the stove with the egg carton in hand.

He flicks on the dial against the back of the stove, turning it to a medium heat before opening a cabinet to pull out a bowl. 

Tommy follows the routine of whisking the eggs then pouring them in and waiting. For a minute, Tommy’s attention lingers on what’s stood behind him, but he doesn’t voice his curiosity, nor his concern or sociable desires.

He just stands over the stove, watching the eggs, prodding at them with a spatula as they form into something edible. When they’re decidedly done, he sprinkles salt over them and calls it quits. He figures Wilbur won’t be particular about his culinary abilities when his past appetite consisted of chocolate.

The idea makes his head hurt, thinking about how someone so human, even despite their sharp, obvious difference, could be locked away like how Wilbur had been.

Tommy could only imagine how dark it could’ve been—completely isolated from any kind of outside contact and intended to be thrown away, eaten like a piece of candy.

Must have been difficult.

“Pardon?” a small voice from behind him asks, and Tommy tenses. Had he said that out loud? 

Tommy blinks, and suddenly his hand is moving on its own and folding the eggs into themselves to finish the dish.

Prime, he was tired as shit.

He moves to turn the stove off and sets the pan aside on another burner, then opens a cabinet and pulls a plate off of the lower shelf, the ceramic noises like nails on a chalkboard to him. The plate clinks as it’s set down, then Tommy retrieves the pan of eggs and stares at them, long and hard. Not his best work.

Discouragement aside, he pulls a fork out of a drawer and spoons on the helping of eggs onto the plate. Good enough for government work, huh? Wilbur won’t care, anyway.

He takes a fork from a nearby drawer, then spins around, (blinking away the throb in his eyes when the lights hit his face), and sets the plate down on the kitchen island, just a few respectable inches from Wilbur, who stood with his hand on his arm, standing noticeably awkward.

(*)

Food. Actual, real food. Albeit made in no time at all and served by a teenager in a New York apartment, but still something that was an honest, feasible replacement from his past diet.

He stares at it. Tommy’s attention turns away from him, and he still stares at the plate of eggs. 

As Tommy was still distracted pulling up a chair from the other side of the counter, Wilbur steps forward cautiously and crouches down, peeling a small portion off of the eggs and stuffing it in his mouth. He swears to Prime that if Tommy were not nearly staring directly at him, Wilbur very well might have considered melting.

The eggs were not seasoned and they were not slow-cooked, but they were heaven. Were he a functioning member of society, (And assuming he was still very much mentally troubled after certain events), and Tommy was his waiter, he would give it a five out of five. 

Carefully, Wilbur takes another piece off of the egg and gnaws at it, savoring the unadorned flavor with every aspect of his senses. The feeling of rubber, (Almost), which clashes with his usual expectation of soft-then-syrupy, the bland flavor that was absolutely new to him, and the bright yellow color that contrasted with the black that he always just imagined as color. His void always had been a playground for imagination.

“Thank you,” Wilbur says through a mouthful, to which Tommy smiles weakly and sits down—after much delay, as if Tommy could’ve felt as awkward as Wilbur did right now.

Tommy grabs a fork and grabs a tentative bite, then through a mouthful, mumbles: “No problem, mate.” Through the corner of his eye, Wilbur watches Tommy and tries not to snicker at the forced face the blond makes to push through his disapproval of the meal.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, this shit takes like heaven,” he says, smally but still loud enough for Tommy to hear. 

“I think I’ll throw up if I have one more bite of this, It’s completely yours, then,” Tommy says, pushing the plate a little closer to Wilbur for emphasis. Wilbur shifts back on instinct, looking up anxiously at Tommy before calming down. Sorry,” Tommy adds quickly. Wilbur waves him off and takes a smaller piece of egg to chew on absentmindedly.

“The fucking chocolate has been making my teeth rot,” Wilbur says, huffing a bit like it’s a joke. Like one of those things to look back on and laugh at.

Tommy doesn’t seem amused, though. “That sounds awful, man,” he adds. 

“It’s not anymore, ‘cause now someone’s gone and saved me,” Wilbur reassures, gesturing mildly to Tommy.

“You’re welcome!” Tommy says, smiling like a child who’s helped with a chore unprompted. His mood changes are unmatched, Wilbur notes duly.

After that, time passed slowly, and for once, there wasn’t dread that followed. Tommy had cleaned breakfast up, and Wilbur kept the silence away while talking about this and that, until Tommy announced he needed to get groceries for his last couple of weeks in New York. Tommy’s plan was to have Wilbur stay back, but he declined, and instead asked to tag along.

For that reason, he rested carefully on Tommy’s shoulder, back resting against Tommy’s neck, completely vulnerable.The thought of that concerned him; to think about how any one of these people could work for that god-awful facility he was sent to, or any one of them could be holding a borrower captive, or how any of these people could absolutely hate his kind, and here he was, out in the open for any of those people to see. It was worrisome, and that had him tightening the grip of the hem of his sweater. 

Tommy was pleasingly quiet, though, and it was just the two of them listening to music. (Or as much music as he could hear from sitting under the human’s earbud.) 

He would’ve thought it to be harder to stay on someone’s shoulder, but even from the start he was persistent on that spot, only because it would’ve been incredibly difficult for Tommy to reach him without Wilbur noticing first—although he had gotten a little bit on edge when Tommy reached up to fix his hair or adjust his earbud. Sure, the human made him food and had gotten him out of that wretched bag, and had seemed pretty genuine about not eating him, he still wasn’t ready to be hand-held or in his pocket where he couldn't see everything.

Also, it was warmer here. Tommy and his need to linger around chilled foods.

Wilbur looks around, through Tommy’s curls, staring at the variety of foods. They were too far for him to recognize, (Not that he would know any of them by heart, considering he grew up on things he could score on the counter), but it was still so refreshing to see something real.

Suddenly, as his eyes graze over something on a high shelf, someone walks past and locks eyes with him. Wilbur tenses. The lady tenses, stopping abruptly. Unfortunately for him, Tommy also stops to look at something.

The lady gives a curious, almost disgusted look, and Wilbur, not knowing what to do, proceeds to flip her off.

It was not until that motion Wilbur realized he was just caught doing something to absolutely draw attention to himself until he was much too late.

“You!” the lady says, rather loudly—definitely enough for Tommy to turn his attention to her. “Control that thing,” she finishes, a certain type of offensive dripping from her tongue that makes even Tommy tense. Wilbur flinches at her voice, somehow moving closer to Tommy despite being right up against his neck. He crosses his arms, some kind of half-frustrated-half-ready-to-cry feeling washing over him which leaves him stone-faced and unmoving.

Thing. A single word and suddenly he’s back at the factory, being manhandled and thrown into a container with other borrowers, some panicked, some angry, and some oddly accepting. Wilbur was angry, pissed. He had been granted freedom from being cooped up in the walls with nothing to do except get food whenever he ran out. And he finally got a chance to see the world, to walk on pavement made for people his size and be social. And he had, for a week, and then he had made a lucky call when trusting someone and gotten thrown into a bag not a day later, sealed in darkness.

When Tommy had found him, however-long later, he couldn’t say he saw someone with the intent to capture him again. He saw a savior, and maybe that’s why he was so relaxed. Reality felt there again. He felt like he existed, and he didn’t pinch himself every five minutes to check he was really there. His limbs weren’t numb, and he could hum to himself without it feeling like the only thing to do.

Back at the supermarket, blinking his way out of memories, he realizes Tommy hasn’t said anything back, he just scoffs and mutter’s a whispered ‘fucking bitch’, and walks off, right past the woman who murmurs something incoherent to Wilbur. (He still knows it was about him.)

At the very least, Wilbur has walked away from that situation now knowing words can’t hurt anymore in comparison to his situation just barely a few days ago.

“People are awful,” Tommy whispers under his breath.

Wilbur just pats Tommy’s shoulder.

“Aren’t you fucking revenge-seeking or some shit?”

“No. I’m not a child,” Wilbur explains, and Tommy hides his laughter at a low snicker.

“You’re a bitch,” Tommy whispers, turning away immediately at the look he got from a stranger in the aisle. Wilbur laughs whole-heartedly, the sound escaping despite how hard he tried not.

(*)

His head hurts, with thoughts going a mile a fucking minute. The scent of chocolate undoubtedly drifting from Wilbur on his shoulder was making a repetitive thought resurface no matter how much he wanted to shut it up. 

Wilbur smelled appetizing. He knew he would taste even better. 

But he knows he can’t act on his urges because even if swallowing a borrower was safe, he couldn’t. Not for Wilbur, because he just got off a near-death experience, and he can’t fuck up freedom even more for Wilbur by giving him essentially the exact same experience, no matter how reassuring he thought he could be. 

So, instead, he chose comedy over a very real and threatening problem.

(*)

“You reek of chocolate,” Tommy murmurs, opening the door to the apartment and letting it shut loudly behind him. Wilbur flinches, but calms down just as quickly.

“I don’t remember seeing a mini-flat in the, uh, bag,” Wilbur retaliates.

Tommy, playfully, scoffs. “Well, like I think I could fill up a sink or something and you could get the grime off of you,” the blond offers.

Wilbur pauses for a moment. “I guess ..?” he says, slow and uncertain.The idea was more than pleasing, but at the same time, it felt like an awful offer to take up. He would be vulnerable in water, arguably something that he rarely had experience with outside of an unfortunately occasional shower whenever he could score it.

At his approval, Tommy guided the two of them to a bathroom, and carefully drew his hand up to where Wilbur was, not grabbing at him, but letting Wilbur carefully pad is way off of Tommy’s shoulder and onto his laid-out hand, where Wilbur got himself comfortable—while at the same time leaving time to sprint off if he needed to—and waited for Tommy to set him down onto the bathroom counter. 

Shifting over to be in front of the sink, Tommy then pushes something inside the sink down, then pulls both handles to the sink forward, and leaves the flowing water gushing for a few seconds before shutting it off and stepping aside. 

“That water will either be fucking freezing or room-temperature but I can’t exactly change that, so, uhm, just sit through it, I guess,” Tommy says. Wilbur can’t exactly tell if he was apologizing or not, but he appreciated the warning.

“Don’t have much of a choice,” Wilbur shrugs. 

“That’s the spirit!” Tommy laughs, then grabs something off of a shelf, folding it over the counter but letting a corner of it fall into the sink, which Wilbur considers relieving; the sink seemed too deep for his liking.

But, even with the advantage of the towel, he still wasn’t convinced this was something he was looking forward to. From afar, he can feel Tommy’s stare on him. He turns his head that way, and catches Tommy’s strong gaze. Snapping out of some kind of pseudo-trance, Tommy moves closer to him and sets something in the sink.

“I can’t really portion out soap yet, but here’s a spare bar I haven’t opened yet. Should help; you smell so sweet I swear to fuck if you don’t take a bath I’m going swallow you on accident,” Tommy says, yawning. He fucking yawns, meanwhile Wilbur’s whole world halts. He stares up at Tommy, who he had just an hour ago been raving about his trust with.

He had heard Tommy right, no doubt.

“What?” Wilbur asks through his shock. 

Tommy wrinkles his brows, then unwrinkles them as they raise high and his face goes more shocked than Wilbur’s. 

“Oh—nononononono, Wilbur, fuck. Wil, I’m so tired, I fucking—I didn’t mean to say that,” Tommy backtracks immediately. Wilbur can’t say he buys it. “I didn’t fucking— I wasn’t thinking, fuck, I swear to Prime I don’t want to do that, I’d never—” Tommy makes a choked noise and cuts himself off.

Wilbur swallows, unsure of how to respond. Clearly, he has some kind of high-ground here despite being…well, him.

“I–uh,” Wilbur’s voice runs almost dry. “There’s no reason to lie,” Wilbur says. 

Tommy’s face falls. “I’m not lying, I—I didn’t think about what I was saying, I’m a fucking idiot, I am not a..a thinker or whatever the fuck it’s called,” Tommy tries. Still. Persistent motherfucker.

“You’re thinking about that,though,  aren’t you?”

“Uhh….well,” Tommy pauses. “As a joke..obv—obviously, you actually think I’d…want to hurt you like that?”

“Swallowing me isn’t going to hurt me.”

Tommy seemed a little taken-aback by that. “Mentally. It will mentally.” Wilbur shrugs at that, staring into the pool of water that’s gotten a little foamy the longer the soap bar floats around in it. “I, uh, think I’ll go. Put away groceries and shit.”

Wilbur watches intently Tommy pick his pace up and walk past him, (Where Wilbur’s attention was nowhere but Tommy’s hands, which remained eerily still), then out of the bathroom with a solemn click of the door.

And now, Wilbur has been left alone, after a particularly jarring comment that leaves him wondering just how much longer Tommy will go playing the good guy. He did have to be thinking about swallowing him to have said it, accidentally or not. It was an intentional thought. He wasn’t that stupid.

Trying to drive his attention away from his inevitable fate, he turns his attention to the sink. The water’s temperature has probably dropped already, so with slight hesitation, he undresses and finds a way into the sink, (Which in the end was trying-to-inch-his-way-down-then-falling-in), then rests with the feeling of water against him. It was an alien feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. He waved his hand around the soapy water and heard it whoosh around him. That was real. The sink bowl that towered above him was real, and as he touched it, it felt cold and slippery against his touch. 

Wilbur looks up, and the light fixture above him burns into his eyes. That was real. 

He pinches himself. That was real, and he was still alive, through the world of darkness for only a lonely period of his life that’s over now.

—–—

#mw #brickfic #wilbur chocolate au #cw vore mention #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!wilbur #tiny!wilbur #g!tommy #giant!tommy #WOOHOOoo!!!!! eight months later ^_^ #thanks for breaking 100 notes on the other 2 chapters btw !! i am so hype about that :D

[brick-a-doodle-do]

oneshot! not a very good one but the idea came to me in the middle of a lake and i really wanted to write it for a while. based off of something that happened to me otw to said lake (i watched a bee trapped in the window. not as exciting as this)

the feeling comes so quickly

wc: 1856

cw: character injury (briefly described), brief character panic

—–—

He was leant against the windowsill when he saw it. He had been struggling profusely to keep his eyes from fluttering shut, as to not tune out the conversation between his mother and his father in the case that he missed something. Wilbur had been to his right, head pressed against the upper strap of his seatbelt, knocked out cold, mouth hung open childishly with drool collecting near the corner of his lips.

Techno had looked at him, scowled, then turned in the other direction to watch the world go by.

It did, for a while, the trees blurring together like watercolor, and the passing cars racing across his line of vision. 

Then, all of that had come to a decided halt as his attention caught on something considerably more dire—a piece of twine, somehow dug into the rubber part of the car’s window and tied on minutely to a piece of wire. It flutters in the wind, the carelessness of the highway making it flap wildly. The only thing keeping it from thumping against the window, presumably, (which Techno noticed as he carefully traced the length of the tan rope before coming to a quick halt), was the little creature at the end of it.

Upon first glance, Techno assumed it to be some kind of bug; it was tiny enough to pass as a moth or a bee. But, as Techno shifts up and leans forward to get a better angle of it, he sees that it’s very much not a bug. He leans closer, which the creature seems to notice, although pays no mind to him given current problems more desirable. It almost looked human. 

With posable fingers, their grip on the rope is deathly, a black hand and a white hand clinging desperately to the tip of it while it tries to reserve his strength.

Something in his chest churns, watching it adjust its grip every so often as it becomes tired makes him feel uneasy about only staring at it rather than making a move to fix it’s situation.

He holds off for a few moments, instead keeping his eyes on the trees again. But now, there’s a fluttering black-and-white blur in the corner of his eye that he hadn’t even noticed before. Whereas now, it’s the only thing he can see; his gaze lingers on the rushes of green, although it always drifts back down to the poor thing that radiates the betrayal in it’s soul.

His attempts to distract himself are short lived, and he sucks it up. He can save this thing, he’s absolutely flawless at rescuing things.

Sparingly, Techno glances first at his brother, who’s throat is caught up in the seatbelt and looks more asleep than as of earlier, and then to his mother, who’s tracing her nails along the route on a paper map, one sourced from an outpost that they’d been to when it was apparent that they’d underpacked. 

Once he confirmed the secrecy of his rescue plan, Techno returned his attention to the creature. 

“I’m gonna roll the window down,” Techno announces to his parents. His mom smiles back at him, and Techno takes that as his cue to carefully unbuckle his seatbelt as he also maneuvers his other arm to push the button. Cool, windy air hits his face. He winces at it the further down the window goes, although he can’t say the freshness of the forest was something he didn’t cherish.

When his seatbelt is secured at its stationary position, Techno shuffles up as quietly as possible. He almost loses his footing when he pushes himself up against the middle console so he can get a better grip on the hook stuck inside the window. Techno untangles his foot from the hoodie on the car’s floor and continues, pulling his legs up onto the seat and bracing himself on the edge of the window. 

The road rushes under him. The bright yellow line blends into the grey concrete and it makes him shudder with the possible feeling of tumbling out the window and right onto the highway. Although, he toys with the possibilities of that considering he had good reflexes for a six-year-old. 

The longer he stares, contemplating death and rescue, the longer the creature flutters around in the wind, eyes closed tight as it tries to continue clinging on. His dad’s obliviousness, (which makes the car only speed up with the sight of no oncoming traffic or even a hint of cars as of now),  makes it hard to try and gather the confidence to tempt his fate, but he can’t handle the feeling of sitting still.

So, he makes sure he’s secure before pushing everything above his torso out the window.

His hair whips wildly around his face, shoulder-length strands of soft pink obscuring his vision. He considers backing down, as the cold wind from outside bites at his skin and the noise of it whips in his ears consistently. He can’t though, and instead he reacts instantly; his hands make an instinctual grab at the hook. The closer he looks at it, though, the more he realizes that he might have faced a much larger problem than he’d thought.

It’s wedged into the window, weaved in like it’d been intentionally made difficult, like the creature had planned to stay here.

Techno grimaces, huffing when his fingers slip and his fingernails scrape against the door in chalkboard-like fashion, making him wince. He tries again, but his fingers pose too thick for the twine, and he slips yet again. The sudden failure jerks him forward. Techno’s heart skips a beat and he finds himself grabbing onto the windowsill as tightly as possible.

He can’t let that stop him, he needs this creature to safety or his head won’t ever shut up.

Techno quickly composes himself, taking a few solemn breaths that get his thoughts more motivated than ever. A new plan is set, which is considerably more dangerous, although he can’t say acting on a whim wasn’t on his palate for the time.

He straightens up, pulling his hair back with a hair tie on his wrist and getting back to work. He spares another glance to Wilbur and his mother, who both seem caught up in what they had been before. 

Nodding to himself, he leans over the edge of the window, keeping himself balanced against it using his core, meanwhile his hands are making mindless motions to the rope, which trace the length of it until his fingers brush against the creature. 

Quickly, Techno notices it’s fluffy. From the parts of it that aren’t covered in cloth, such as its arms and its neck, the constant tufts of fur are matted and unkempt, which makes Techno frown, something instinctual creeping along the back of his neck.

The thing has become suddenly aware of him, the more physical Techno’s closing fist becomes, where its eyes fly open, two neon eyes, one red and one green, staring at him with gathered fear. 

Techno shakes his head at it, as if wordlessly trying to say you’re fine. It’s a lot cause, decidedly, as the fluffy tiny begins squirming profusely, causing techno to shift further out the window in order to have a two-hand hold on it, which makes his footing adjust, which makes his foot catch on something in the trash-ridden car, which—

“Phil, stop!”

He doesn’t know what’s happening, but Techno closes his hands around—something, there was something in his hands and—

(*)

The last thing Techno remembered was closing his fingers around something, and then it had been black.

Then, only a few seconds later, Techno’s head was stirring.

Something of black and white, although he didn’t pay any mind to it, what he was more focussed on was an indignant beeping noise that toyed with his left ear. His other ear was ringing profusely, which made his skin tingle.

When his eyes forced themselves open, the first thing he noticed was a white ceiling. To his left, a curtain, and to his right, a wall with five posters on them, with things he didn’t bother reading.

The reason: he couldn’t stop worrying about the black-and-white something.

Trying to dampen the thoughts with reality, he shifted up further and looked around the hotel room. He goes to move his arm to brush hair out of his face, but a spasm of pins stops him short. 

He winces  aloud, a world of pain coursing through his veins. 

At this, Wilbur, who he quickly noticed was passed out across two chairs, submerged under three armrests. He smiles at the sight, and even further as his brother hits his head against one of the said armrests. “Ah, ow!” Wilbur groans, holding his forehead and shifting from his spit. Somehow, he squirms his body out from the two chairs’ hold with barely any struggle,  then shifts onto the ground and stands up. 

“Technoblade!” Wilbur says, giddy-like as he comes rushing to his brother. 

Techno welcomes the hug, especially as Wilbur moves his arm under his (presumably) broken one. 

While the gesture is nice, and he returns it, it still felt empty without the thing from the window—oh.

A lot of things become apparent to him again. He was in the hospital after his tumble out of the window while making his dangerous rescue mission for the poor creature that was trying not to fall to their death. 

“Do you have that—uh,” Techno’s voice trails off ashe swallows away the dryness of his throat, “somethin’ I might have had when I fell out the window?”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment, the child-like glint in his eye pondering on it for a while, before, “oh! Yes, yes I do, I made mom and dad leave so I could give him to you.”

Techno’s spirit lightens at that. His brother reaches into his pocket, then slowly pulls his hand out. Instantly, his eyes beg for a look at the creature as the black-and-white fur comes into vision. The being’s eyes were blown wide, one red and one green staring at Techno with fear laced all throughout it. 

He couldn't help but feel bad, letting out a deflated huff. “Did we kidnap somebody?” Techno asks his brother. The longer he stares at the creature, the more sentient it looks. 

“No,” Wilbur reassures. “He can't talk. I've tried, he’s– stub…stubbord? That word.”

“Can I have him?” Techno asks, holding his good hand out. The creature’s ears are flat against his head and his tail whips wildly when he’s transferred to Techno’s hand. It chirps wildly, the scared noise filling his senses, which does nothing for instincts, although it does make him eager to try and help him.

Techno, carefully, runs his thumb across the top of the being’s head, where he feels the matted and unhealthy fur against his skin. He frowns at it. “Hullo,” he says, voice lined with sincerity. 

The creature chirps, long and deflating at a constant volume, like a whine.

“I'll help you, even though we don't know what to do,” he says, to which Wilbur chimes in with a fond nod. 

—–—

#brickfic #mw #borrower shelter au #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!ranboo #g!techno #g!wilbur #technokid WOOP WOOOP!!!

[brick-a-doodle-do]

aaa i forgot this was finished! i guess i could've worked on the actual prompts in my askbox, but who wants that? :'D

every day's a test of our camaraderie

wc: 908

cw: swearing, slight panic, brief description of depression

—–—

Wilbur was exhausted. There wasn’t an exact reason for him to be more tired than he was, for example, yesterday; his day-to-day schedule consisted of the same get-up-and-go mornings, sit-and-scowl afternoons and crash-immediately evenings. The pattern never broke. Occasionally he would take a break to smoke, or treat himself to a fitting meal rather than things he’d swiped from the station, take a bath or a shower, but it never went further than that. 

And, besides, Wilbur hasn’t done any of that today. He got up, went to work, drove home, and now stands in his doorway with a heavy mood keeping his shoulders slumped as he kicks the door closed and walks off into the newly-adopted home.

His re-arrival in Utah had struck up a lot of buried and suppressed memories, but it still felt uncomfortably like home…similarly to the late Essempi. Wilbur’s car had still been nestled in by the one body of water he could find, there was still an extra work uniform buried at the bottom of his hamper, his bedding remained crumpled mess atop his cigarette-burned mattress, and, the most domesticated feeling of them all, there were still half-finished dishes and grimy silverware obliterated by the growing mold on them. Even the walls of the sink looked fuzzy.

It had been a revolting discovery, especially when the waft of the smell drifted his way, though something about it…he couldn’t quite place how he’d felt in that moment, but it was something, for sure.

And something it had been, though decidedly the wrong thing after he’d decided to clean it.

But, now, that was in the past, and the house looked better than it had been when he moved back in. Decades of decay and unkempt plants, utilities, everything, that was in the past! Things were definitely, positively, not-anything-other-than, looking up. 

He smiles to himself and nods in confirmation, the back of his mind unsure as to if he was genuinely convinced he was leading a new life or if he just wanted to put events of his even better, and equally worse, life behind.

The sudden hope dies down like a candle when he reaches his bedroom, he doesn’t even know why he’d bothered to try and convince his mind he was fine. Because even if things had fallen back into a nonchalant routine, it still didn’t feel the same without it. Without Them. 

Wilbur had gotten his closure, yet it still felt half-finished, like a bundle of crushed papers tossed to an overflowing bin. 

He shrugs the thoughts away with a grim huff. 

Pushing the door open, there’s a blur of blue light before he’s instinctively flicking the lightswitch on. The light flickers on and he shuts the door behind him, just in time for his attention to catch on the blue light again. Although this time dulled by the overhead light, it’s still as prominent as ever, because Wilbur hadn’t remembered lighting a candle, much less before he had left for the day. It was a crooked thing he left on the corner of his desk, he was surprised it had such a pristine flame.

That fact didn’t concern him for much longer, because as he took a step closer, what he thought had been a wrapper, was something far different. Far more alive, with a gentle rise and fall of something Wilbur could only convince himself was a chest, one with a fine line of familiarity to it, with a ragged white cloth— 

Tommy.

Wilbur, personally, doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry or…whatever he should do. He’s still, perfectly stiff as he stares at his brother, leant against a soft blue candle, sound asleep.

 And…so small. 

Wilbur’s fingers curl into loose fists. He should’ve expected Tommy to run after him. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! 

“Tommy,” Wilbur hiss-yells, still frozen in place. “Tommy!” Wilbur says, again, much louder than the last time. Quickly, the kid stirs, blinking and taking the time to wake up like he’s supposed to be on Wilbur’s desk, tiny and in Utah. Wilbur quickly swipes him off the desk, pulling him into a fist and drawing him to eye level. “Hey, look at me. What the fuck?” he demands. Tommy’s eyes are blown wide, trying to force a smile on his face even though he’s clearly intimidated. The kid squirms in his grasp, giving him enough awareness to loosen his grip. “What the fuck?! There’s no reason for you to be here, why are you here?” He shakes his fist, jarring Tommy enough into responding. 

“Hey! Hey, stop that,” the kid whines. “I was bored! There's nothing to do with you gone, Dream’s having some weird fucking ‘good guy’ phase and I don't wanna be around it!” 

“So you came here?” 

Tommy doesn't respond. 

“Tommy, look, this is my second chance at a new life, and I can't have a new life if my old fucking life is trailing behind me!” 

“Well—I can be your new life! It’s just..I mean–uh, look! I'll be… NewInnit. Tom. Shortened, classy, and oh-oh-so-mature!” Tommy tries, clearly desperate. 

Wilbur sighs, heavy, mild irritation lingering in the huff. He's going to kill this kid. Tommy stares at him, long and hard, quiet and investigatory. The boy yells out in surprise as Wilbur quickly shoves Tommy in the pocket of his jeans, gently pushing his small form further down to smother him in darkness. 

He’s so done with this. 

—–—

taglist: @local-squishmallow, @da3dm, @skullsnbruises, @i-am-beckyu, @nobodywritingao3, @krazycat49 // taglist request

#mw #brickfic #short prompt series #<- TECHNICALLY this was from the april prompts that i quit #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!tommy #g!wilbur

[brick-a-doodle-do]

TW ONESHOT TW ONESHOT TW ONESHOT!!!!! ahhhhh i love this au and i love these two <3 there's not rlly a plot and it definitely skips ahead in the timeline but pshhhh who cares? we just like the hurt/comfort here :3

days of which you can't make me hate

wc: 2745

cw: (very) brief panic, swearing

—–—

Days at his job, in theory, were rough. 

He wasn’t meant to be around humans—his entire species and life-choices were dedicated to staying out of sight, and suddenly he’s dragged from his home, manhandled-like and thrown into a job. In the entertainment industry, no doubt, despite how “physically effortful” it was to maintain the park. He knew he was there for the continued interest of tourists.

So, naturally, he wasn’t really sure why he wasn’t in favour of what the protestors outside believed in. 

They were loud, annoying, consistent, but overall, right.

Or—at least part of him wanted to believe that, while the other part of him was slacked in the corner muttering incoherent judgments of “He wasn’t forced here; it was his choice. And he certainly doesn’t let humans take advantage of him, because he knows what’s best for him and he voices that. Too often.”

Something about them just pissed him off. Also, as much as he hated to admit it, the tension behind-the-scenes in the park had him a little frightened. His boss had been pissed as soon as he arrived at near three in the morning to scare the campers away when they’d first noticed them, and further along the day yelling at his phone as he pass by and being extra strict on Tommy, who in response, was extra nervous to fuck up.

He took pride in his own pride, but sometimes he just had to fuck off for a bit. 

Which led to: longer and longer he sat and wallowed in possibilities of being taken from his work, away from Wilbur, from Tubbo, (and, well, he guesses Ranboo), and from constant freedom that would make his past self seep with jealousy.

Tommy never enjoyed borrowing. 

And maybe he didn’t like working, either, but it still felt more like home than his actual one did.

On the topic of abodes—which has Tommy snapping back into reality to discuss—their nook seems offly quiet. Ranboo never was a talker, but Tubbo often bunked with them on the occasion he was feeling extra peckish towards sociability. Instead, it was as quiet as it could’ve been, even with the muffled ambient of yelling humans. 

His spot at the front of the park was nothing short of an inconvenience, but he didn’t have it in him to move. He just laid, in his makeshift bed, (Something a kid had hand-made for him once), staring up at the ceiling. 

Tommy wonders thoughtfully where Tubbo and Ranboo went.

Surely not far, but he had recalled Ranboo being particularly disturbed by the volume of the park, which Tommy couldn’t blame him for. Tubbo probably went to take Ranboo out to calm him down.

Not like he needed calming down. He was a big man, not frightened by the slightest chant from people outside or the occasional bump as a golf ball presumably hits the fake rock on an unlucky putt.

Tommy didn’t flinch. He never would. Only Ranboo would, hence Tubbo’s desperation to get him some fresh air.

And Tommy would never cry either, even though everything outside felt like everything he’d ever tried to avoid. Even hiding, alone, in the comfort of his hidden home, he felt positively sick, but he held back on crying.

The bunker sounds like a much better hideout—also, probably where everyone else was—but, again, he wasn’t feeling it.

Groggily, he shuffles up. His blanket had fallen to the floor at this point, minutes of fighting with it against his legs before he eventually gave up. 

Thunk!

Tommy jumps, attention instantly snapping to his right while his fingers curl into his bedsheets. His head whirs for a moment before from just outside, he can hear the upset pout of a little kid and the hurried reassurances of a parent. Fucking stupid ass layout, scaring the shit out of him at all hours of the day.

He swings his legs over the edge of his bed and stares at the blanket that’s pooled on the floor, its flashy red colour contrasting with the much darker floor, made up of surprisingly put-together floorboards. His boss had made them specially made, or some shit he wasn’t listening to.

It was flattering, at the least, and he was grateful for the effort.

Thunk! 

Tommy’s fingers twist into his bedsheets further as he tenses. Ah, fucking shit he hates this party of people. 

Just…hit the ball in the hole and go. It can’t be that difficult.

He draws the blanket up and tosses it near the end of his bed, turning out familiar calls of protest as he slips from his ajar-door, into the empty house which reeks of isolation.

As he approaches the makeshift kitchen, (Which was never really used, as the two of them had no desire for gourmet foods that they knew they couldn’t make), he spotted a note on the counter.

Tommy approaches it with a knowing feeling nestled in his gut, right next to his nerves, he peers down at it.

Gon to take Ranboo to coll down.

- Tubs

He wrinkles his nose. Of-fucking-course he did.

More yelling plays out in the background, and a golf ball thumps against his fucking home again, rattling the walls and knocking something off of a shelf.

For—fucks sake, can someone not take a hint? What hint that may be he doesn’t know and how they even got it is beyond him, but it still pisses him the fuck off that nobody can listen to his internal monologues, as if somehow they knew he lived there.

“Fuck off!” he yells, to the outside party, although he doubts they could hear him over the fucking yelling outside.

Tommy grumbles, falling against the countertops as he takes a deep breath to try and compose himself. He rubs his wrist against his eyes to drown out the saline solution that’s built up in the depths of his eyes. 

Not crying.

Knock!

Knock!

Mother—“Fuck off, I don’t understand why that is hard for you bastards to understand!” he scream-yells, significantly louder than the last, his throat now closed up as he tries to suppress his emotions. In turn, his voice comes out swift and breaking.

“Tommy?”

Wilbur. Oh, oh thank Prime.

He scrambles to balance, wiping at his wet face as he makes a quick dash to the door connecting the outside world and his home. 

Outside, the windy weather hits him, startling him into stumbling against the pressure. He struggles against it, eager to find a path up the rock to his human.

Eventually, as his logic clicks in against the raging voices from outside the park, he settles on going around the rock, to where Wilbur, as if he’d expected him, is searching the ground with a concerned glint in his eyes—like he’s worried.

Over Tommy? 

“Wil,” Tommy says, the two of them settling in on each other. Something of sweet relief washes over Tommy as the human reacts instantly; swiping him off the ground and holding him up close as to examine him. The motion makes his thoughts relax for the first time in a long time as Tommy shrinks a little while leaning into Wilbur’s hold. He pushes against the warmth that seeps into his bloodstream and makes the world stop short. 

“Tommy—your boss said you weren’t showing up for work,” Wilbur says, clearly itching for an explanation.

“I can’t deal with these fucking people, Wil, they make my ears ache.” 

“Yeah, these people are absolutely batshit to be out here,” Wilbur agrees. At that moment, something in Wilbur’s eyes shifts and he’s left squinting at the tiny in front of him. “Have you been crying, Tommy?” 

Ah, shit.

“No.”

Wilbur brushes his thumb over Tommy’s eye, wiping it dry. 

“Don’t lie to me, Tommy, I can tell you have.”

Tommy grumbles. Fucking Wilbur. “Fine! Dickhead,” he complains, continuing on when Wilbur’s lips tug to a small smile. “I really fucking hate the people out there and Tubbo left with Ranboo and I’m just—I’ve had just a bit too long to sit and think. And this awful fucking party over there, they keep hitting the rock with….” Tommy trails off when Wilbur shifts him to one hand and covers him protectively—covering him from all angles of the day as he pushes him against his chest and keeps his fingers curled.

“Wil?” he calls up to Wilbur, his voice almost echoing around the chamber Wilbur’s created.

“I’m taking you out of here, shut up,” Wilbur whispers.

“No—nonono I don’t need to be taken home, I’m fine—My boss is going to kill me, asshole!”

Wilbur huffs. “I think I know how I can get him off of your case, easily, but okay, child.”

(*)

It was a maze trying to get outside the park. From every angle, it seemed, there were protestors chanting some bullshit ideas that he knew he should’ve believed in. 

There were a couple of workers waiting outside, escorting guests into the park and presumably making sure that the havoc stayed outside of the gates.

Against Wilbur’s chest, he kept Tommy shielded from the outside, his fingers extra tense as he considers how Tommy’s dealt with this for the past day—and more importantly how he’s handling it now, out in the grand of it. Somewhere along the way of Wilbur not responding, Tommy’s consistent pleas about how he couldn’t be taken out of work had ceased, leaving him leant against the human’s curled fingers.

Subconsciously, as he listens to the recited instructions the workers give him on finding a way out, his thumb travels to rub circles on Tommy’s head of curls. A smile forms his lips as he feels Tommy lean into it.

Finally, he reaches the parking lot. It’s packed full of cars and people coming and going, brushing past him as he makes his own way back to his car.

Somewhere along the way of becoming a staff favourite, he’d received an overwhelming amount of perks—ones which he wasn’t sure was product of Tommy’s constant pressure on his boss, or simply a real sign of gratitude from the boss. Either way, he made ease with parking as his own spot had been reserved comfortably close to the entrance of the park.

As he nears it, he uses his free hand to pull his keys from his pocket, unlocking his car with a solemn beep. He pulls the door open, shuffling in as carefully as he could before shifting Tommy to the middle console while he pulls the door shut and puts his keys in the ignition.

Wilbur considers his options of where to go. One, home, where Techno and Phil would most likely be, also well over two hours away. Two, another fun perk that he’d been granted: a free hotel room, and only a few minutes away, with a much more scenic route than the latter.

“Have you ever seen the hotels?” Wilbur asks as he shifts the car into reverse, taking healthy glances at the rear-view mirrors as he pulls out, mindful of every passing party.

“Boss doesn’t let us go very far, and I think it’s too dangerous at night,” Tommy responds, distracted. Wilbur glances to the console, which Tommy still sits in, criss-crossed in the centre while he gazes around the car.

“What about the car?” Wilbur asks as soon as he considers the possibility of Tommy never having been in one.

“Once, actually. It was a stupid fucking day, actually my first shift here,” Tommy explains. “I mean I don’t really remember it—I was drugged or some shit and all fuckin’ loopy.”

“Fucking pardon— you were what?” Wilbur asks, the thought of it making his fingers mindlessly tighten around the wheel of the car.

“Drugged. I don’t know why, considering I was, like, all for working here.” Wilbur questions it, but decides cutting the conversation short might do Tommy something good; out of the corner of his eye, he watches as his expression darkens as he sits in thought.

The rest of the car ride is quiet, as Wilbur had been toying with his options on what to say, leaving him silent.

Tommy, oddly enough, didn’t initiate any conversation either. Usually he would strain his voice talking about his latest story or by voicing his complaints, but he just sat.

And as much as he wanted to, he never made a move for Tommy until they arrived in the lot for one of the hotels, arguably his favourite. It was the second oldest at the park, and despite its attraction to children from how far it leaned into the theme and absorbed you into a borrower-reality, it held Wilbur’s attention for the same reason.

It wasn’t particularly grand by any means, (Although it was clearly suited to the sheer amount of day-to-day guests having overnight stays. The base of it was brown, built like an intimidating mount of morphed dirt. As per usual, (As the park goes), a variety of bugs and trinkets littered the ground, some sticking out of said ‘dirt’. It was flattering, and it came with a free stay.

Wilbur turns the car off, the rumbling noise being the only constant during their drive now leaving them in deafening silence.

“I have free stays here, y’know, so was that out of the kindness of your bosses heart, or did you put in a good word for me?” Wilbur asks, leaning against the car and turning his head to Tommy.

The borrower looks up at him, fingers fiddling with his shirt. “I may have irritated him,” he says, breaking a gentle smile.

“Well, I have to say, thank you,” he says, smiling right back.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he opens his door and gently grabs Tommy, trying his best to ignore how he feels as Tommy tenses against Wilbur’s finger when he startles.

Now cupping Tommy in his hand, Wilbur steps out of the car and shuts his door before walking across the parking lot towards the hotel. 

A few people are out and about in the parking lot, some struggling out their suitcases and other’s simply chatting. Wilbur’s attention is mainly on Tommy, however, who’s lost as he stares around at the hotel.

“Is this even accurate?” Wilbur asks, stepping onto the sidewalk and soon after, through the front door.

“Well, considering I don’t borrow outside, no,” Tommy responds.

Wilbur nods, squinting in the newly-dark lobby. The lighting was authentic—low orange lighting with some done up like torches effectively delivering their intended theme—but, at the same time, the darkness of it had been more than enough in his opinion.

The person at the front desk seems to recognize him, as he gestures mildly down the hall with a quick nod. He furrows his brow at the lack of security, but continues on with ease, muscle memory taking over as he finds his way to the room.

An elevator trip to the seventh floor and a long walk down the halls later, he finds a familiar door. Or, at least as familiar as it could get considering it was your run-of-the-mill hotel room.

“Here we are,” he murmurs, reaching for his wallet with his spare hand, carefully manoeuvring it, (So as to not disturb Tommy, who looked half-asleep against his thumb), and then pulls up a card that the hotel had supplied him with and holds it to the sensor, which beeps and flicks to a bright green colour. He pushes down on the handle and nudges the door with his shoulders to back into the room.

As soon as he’s in, he lets the door shut behind him and sits on the edge of the bed, tire lingering somewhere in his state. It deepens when he stares at Tommy. The borrower is curled up, still against his thumb. He’s drifting off—in a state that’s not exactly asleep but definitely too out to be awake.

He shuffles onto the bed, kicking his shoes off and setting Tommy down near the nook of his neck, gently positioning him so he doesn’t wake. Tommy just sprawls out until he’s comfortably lying close to his throat, murmuring something too soft for him to hear. 

On instinct, after he himself lays his head into the heap of pillows behind him and stares up at the ceiling, he drapes a comfortable hand over the trouble-ridden borrower, who’d seemed to have all stresses washed away as of now, as he makes Wilbur’s skin tickle while he situates himself further under the human's chin.

—–—

#mw #brickfic #tiny workers au #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!tommy #tiny!tommy #g!wilbur #giant!wilbur

[brick-a-doodle-do]

Oo, oh, I've got one! This is a sentence I thought of a while back for like a g/t scenario, but I've never used it. Go nuts, dude.

"I don't eat people. It's bad for the digestion."

(you pick the characters, ig? I don't have any in mind, other than the giant being Dream)

-Bat

hi bat :D thank you for the prompt, sorry it took so long eueue

(THIS IS NOT FATAL VORE ITS JUST MY LAZY TITLE)

digestion

wc: 678

cw: mention of vore, mention of harassment, slight panic

—–—

George, the first time he took to cleaning the East wing of the prison, had felt a true infliction of fear. There had been a constant of eyes on him from the towering felon's who's predatory features had seemed most prominent in the moonlight, which had filtered through the little amount of natural light in their cells, illuminating their giant bodies and sharp fangs and claws. It was hard not to shudder at the constant string of loud, echoing curses, begs, and catcalls.

The longer he did it, the easier he found it to tune out the voices, sometimes simply looking the other way and refusing to respond, while other times he'd bring headphones and play music as loud as it went. Over time, the giants chimed down too, still sitting up at George's arrival, but they stopped calling his name, (Not that they knew it, they mainly called him 'little guy' or 'human'), and they, for the most part, just wanted to partake in conversation with him.

He promptly ignored it.

Then, a new prisoner was presented to the East wing, placed in the cell at the far end of the hallway, locked away with one of the more persistent giants. He kept lingering his gaze down the hallway as he mopped at the floors, and by the time he reached it, there was something of relief in him, though shadowing behind it was uncertainty.

He picked up his work, parking the cart with water in it and squishing down the mop onto the floor. The movement strains his arms, especially after a three hour's work of the same constant back-and-forth pattern.

The strain didn't bother him, not as he was more interested in the cell than anything. This one wasn't cut off at the bottom with a stone wall, it was just blocked with ceiling-to-floor bars. George usually stayed away from getting close to the door for fear of the giant grabbing him. But now, it offered a plentiful good view of the entirety of the small room. There were two beds as opposed to the previous one, a toilet, and two organizers at the end of each bed. In the left bed, the original giant was asleep, leg falling off one end of the bed and long black hair an absolute mess.

Though, as he searches the other bed, he finds it empty. It wasn't until he heard a loud, scratchy voice that he realized the new guy was sitting right by the cell door.

"Do you think I could, like, have that water when you're done?"

George shrieks, jumping, nearly losing grip on the mop as he spins around to meet the too-close-for-comfort giant.

He can hear as the giant struggles down a lose laugh at George's fear. "Sorry—what do you want?"

"Your water," the giant reiterates, pointing vaguely in the vicinity of the parked cart of soapy, dirty water. George grimaces.

"Why?"

The giant shrugs, the action barely visible in the low light. "My hands are sticky from dinner, they're gross."

"Why didn't you just wash your hands?" George asks, dipping the mop back into the water and pulling it out again to start on a new patch of flooring.

The giant doesn't respond, something of an amused huff leaving their lips instead. George shudders uncomfortably.

"Look-can I have the water or not?"

The mop squeaks on the tile while George decides on his response. "I mean, if I bring it to you, how do I know you won't, like, try to eat me?"

The giant makes a weird noise at that. "I don't eat people, it's bad for the digestion."

George returns the weird noise. "Uhm—" he cuts himself off, looking at the water. He sighs, shrugs, then reaches over to roll it closer to the cell. It skids against the wet floor, but George manages to get it to the bars, then carefully pushes it through the bars to avoid being easily accessible to the giants' hands. "There, I guess," he says, holding the mop awkwardly in both of his hands.

#brickquiries #bat brickling #mw #brickfic #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #t!george #g!dream #unmentioned g!sapnap #short prompt series

[brick-a-doodle-do]

Little bird hybrid Tommy and cat hybrid Wilbur but Wilbur loves his little son :)

(don't worry lol it's fine)

hi sorry this took years and years and years and years something in the air made me want to write so i finally did :D

also wilbur is a catshifter cause it fit better mmmgfmds

but they say it came out of a small thing

cw: panic ?

wc: 874

—–—

His brain is working, it's letting him shift and letting him pounce to the forest floor, it’s letting him pick sticks up, but he doesn't think that anything about what his brain is telling him to do is logical nor sustainable. In short: Wilbur doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

One rule set in place, no attachments, (Perhaps a common one amongst his kind), and the only thing to have ever gone wrong. Tommy hadn't been anywhere near him when he had gotten the urge to drift to the scent of a bobcat, which he had been eager to avoid at the time. He had managed to save Tommy, a tiny avian nearly tangled in the grasp of the feline. He himself had been a cat at the rescue of the tiny, one that conjured up a fight from the little bird. 

Days later, (And many more intentional meetings), Wilbur had a strange string in his chest pulling at his feline body, not the one that controls his shifts but another one, just as personal yet undefined. 

It made him feel strangely inclined to collect twigs. 

Tommy had no problem with such a thing, instead welcoming at the offering of help from his newfound friend. Wilbur just had to get used to the feeling of being a cat for longer than an hour. He never used the form for much other than exploration, the rest of his time he assumed the profile of Wilbur Soot, a local musician in the bustling city he lived in. 

His cat form offered much more adventure, albeit ones that ended in enforcement of the things he preferred to not participate in. 

Like Tommy. Especially making Tommy a nest. 

Perhaps Wilbur had been a little too caught up in his debate to notice as the avian steps closer to the edge of the branch, murmuring about every other thing that comes to his mind. Wilbur had been half-listening, chirping smally in response but mainly occupied with the precision of his nest job. 

With each satisfying twine of said nest, he’d leap from the branch and land on his paws, then pad off to colllect more sticks and scale the trunk of the tree, adjusting the positions of the twines and repeating the process, leaving Tommy to his own devices.

In what world would (wary) Wilbur have ever considered doing that? It only results in the same outcome:

Tommy’s rambles are cut off with a loud yelp which draws out into a scream, a sound of terror that makes the fur on Wilbur’s neck stand. He turns his head back, carefully balancing his way over to the branch in search of Tommy, eyes as wide as they could be and an unsure whine in the back of his throat. Below him, a miniature splash spills into his ears and suddenly his paws are walking for him, right off the edge of the branch and into open air, panic rising in him that causes a shift mid-air, his form lengthening and causing more of a splash than his cat-self would have. 

Through kicking his feet in a panic, he quickly— while still submerged in the river— shifts back and paddles back up to the top. The feeling of water soaking into his fur makes him internally cringe, the extra weight nearly dragging him down. 

He spots Tommy easily, (Giant red wings couldn't have made it hard),  the tiny looking around for what Wilbur could only assume to be either Wilbur or the culprit of the splash, (Also Wilbur). His wings flutter wildly the longer Tommy fights to stay above the surface. Wilbur paddles closer to the avian, meowing in concern, (And irritation), at the way he flails. 

“Oh—fuck, come here, uh, cat, I completely think there's a human here and I don't think I'm the most skilled swimmer,” Tommy pleads, swirling his fingers together to attract Wilbur as if he wasn't swimming directly Tommy’s way. 

He approached, ducking his head so he can get a grip of the back of Tommy’s shirt, picking him up gently and continuing to paddle his way to shore. 

“Thanks big man,” Tommy applauds, out of breath. Suddenly, he’s reaching back to stroke Wilbur’s nose. He purrs at the action. 

Finally, the depths of the water seem to disperse and he finds his footing on the river bed, then up onto the grassy forest floor. Tommy murmurs something about being let down, but Wilbur promptly ignores it and scouts out their tree, an easy find considering the bark of it had claw marks from Wilbur’s failed attempts at agility. 

Wilbur pounces, latching onto the trunk and carefully climbing up it, tail out for balance and his ears pulled back as he concentrates. He strays to the side as a familiar branch catches his attention, a bundle of twines and leaves settled midway along the branch. 

The avian struggles out of his bite and falls into the cushioned nest. Wilbur sits beside the boy and considers doing something, but only stares at Tommy as he situates himself. 

Wilbur jumps from the branch and lands on his paws. and without a glance back he finds his way back to his home. He has got to stop seeing this tiny. 

—–—

#brickquiries #squishy brickling #squishy my beloved ^^ #mw #short prompt series #brickfic #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #t!tommy #tiny!tommy #g!wilbur #giant!wilbur

[brick-a-doodle-do]

here take th- *passes out*

ok i speedwrote this, i had a line in mind and decided to write it cause i was sad :] tbh the first bit seems kinda angsty but tommy's just in a silly goofy mood and is being dramatic as always.

also ig it's for @corysmiles's little streamer au? maybe? let's roll with it

goodnight now 😴

off switch

wc: 1356

cw: swearing, mention of drowning, brief panic

—–—

Tommy screams as he slips over the edge of the sink and plummets in, soapy water splashing around him as he sinks to the bottom. He flails in the pool of water, releasing a scream that came out as warped noises and a flood of bubbles from his mouth. Water clouds his eyes, but he still finds his way back to the surface. He gasps dramatically when his head resurfaces and the cold air of the bathroom rushes around his face and flushing his cheeks the faintest shade of pink. “Wilbur!” Tommy calls out, slipping below the water again. In a panic, he inhales, water flooding his pipes. He lifts his face up against the foamy water and coughs out, the detergenty taste of soap and shaving cream spilling out of his throat. Tommy shudders. “Wilbur, you fucking bitch! I am not fucking swimming around in your soapy-ass water, get me the fuck out of this!” He yells, gaping at Wilbur’s terrible attempt at hiding his smile as he continues on, acting as if he doesn’t hear the tiny. “Wilbur!” he yells, flailing with dramatised movements. Wilbur’s lips quiver in amusement. Water splashes around him, and he’s made too big of a scene to stop his struggle. Besides, the walls of the sink, no matter how close he gets to them, tower above him and will never guarantee a safe way out. Wilbur, the bitch, is the only way out. 

He groans loudly (Wilbur can hear his utter distress) and ceases his movements to make a terribly embarrassing attempt of splashing water up at the human. He flips backwards the second his arms break the surface and he slips back under the water, limbs twisting in a terrible cluster, like a puzzle that takes eons to put together. He yells out Wilbur’s name under the water, and upon inhaling, again, water swarms his gullet and before he knows it he’s coughing underwater, bubbles disperse around him until he can resurface. And when he does, his cheeks are flushed with a deeper shade of pink-purple. He chokes, holding his hands to his chest to support his burning lungs, while his legs continue to flail under the water to keep him upright. 

“Wilbur! Bitch—dick—asshole! You are the worst person I have ever met, help me!”

“Why should I?” Wilbur asks with a hum, patting his freshly-shaved face with a blue towel. In the mirror Wilbur is gazing into, Tommy watches as a faint smile threatens to crack further. That bitch,

“Wh’dya mean why should I? Just help me! That’s not a fucking thing to question, I’m literally drowning and your stupid ass is out here like ‘why should I?’” Tommy yells, scoffing. 

“You look fine to me,” Wilbur says. Now that he points it out, Tommy realises that his legs are rhythmically flowing in the slow water to keep him afloat, and for once in his life he’s calm.

“Oh fuck off with that, I may look fine but I’m dying right now. Drowning, startlingly quickly. Got that, Wil-bitch?” 

“I see,” Wilbur says, distracted. The towel is set down dangerously close to the sink, and Tommy finds this to be a taunt. An extremely irritating one.

“Help me,” Tommy whines, trying his hardest to sound even the smallest bit demanding for a man whose personality is structured on drama. 

Wilbur shuffles, one last time drawing his hands down the faint stubble he’d left be before he pried his attention away from the mirror, and relievingly down to Tommy. He fully anticipates being brought out of this hellhole of a sink and onto the counter, but instead, Wilbur just leans over the counter and watches him. And the fucking worst part of it is: Wilbur doesn’t try to conceal his smile any longer. It’s keeping laughter locked in, he knows from the way his dimples are pulled back and his lips dip down at the ends.

“You are a bitch. I fucking hate you, die in a hole you absolute shithead— I will bite you,” Tommy snips, arms folding against his chest.

“You are a very demanding child,” Wilbur replies. He sounds too content, he hates it. And, oh—

“I am not a fucking child, ey, I’m eighteen now! And I can be as demanding as I want when I am dying in a sink,” Tommy argues, putting his complaint into lilting syllables. 

Wilbur sighs, leaning further over the sink. His eyes come dangerously close to him, and Tommy can feel his warm breath wash over him when the man’s smile widens. He bares his teeth and Tommy very well considers punching them. But instead, he promptly splashes water up at the human. Wilbur yells and retaliates, standing upright and rubbing at his eye. “Oh fuck,” he murmurs softly, the smugness wiped right away. “You realise that doesn’t make me want to get you out of the water any more, yeah? You’re unpleasant to be around.”

“Wha—nononono—Wilbur, it won’t happen again! I promise, please let me out of this shithole and I’ll leave you alone, it is fucking freezing in here,” he says. It was a complete lie, and if anything, the water was strangely relaxing. But it helped his case.

“Think about it, waterinnit. We could make you li’l floaties, floatinnit. Wha’dya think?” 

“I think get me the fuck out of here.” 

Wilbur rolls his eyes and murmurs under his breath sadly, and with the hand that isn’t constantly making sure his eye is in-tact, swipes his hand under the water and takes Tommy along with it. Water falls over the edge of Wilbur’s palm and Tommy relaxes his shoulders and bathes in the feeling of the sores in his legs declining. 

“Happy, child?” Wilbur asks, lowering his hands with practised ease flat onto the counter. Tommy, also having done this a million times over, clambers off. His clothes are heavy with water and his hair sticks uncomfortably against his forehead, playing with the tip of his vision. 

“Congrats on doing the bare-fucking-minimum,” he quips. 

Wilbur laughs, reaching for something over the counter that Tommy doesn’t get a chance to see before his vision is cut off with a deep blue something. His head is abruptly caught between Wilbur’s forefinger and thumb as the human messes with the top of his head. His vision spins and his cheeks flush a deep pink when he realises Wilbur is trying to dry him off. He can feel the indent of Wilbur’s fingers against the towel gently dig into his hair. Part of him wants to struggle, but the other part melts at the feeling. It’s mesmerising, two fingers double the height of him rubbing against his hair in a paternal fashion. His heart twists weird, and before he can get ahold of his nice it felt, soft fluorescent lighting from the bulbs that lined the bathroom mirror flooded his vision. He squints at the sudden change, then stares up at Wilbur, who stares down at him with a fond smile—something knowing in it. Tommy can’t quite place it.

The phantom feeling of his fingers against his head still massages in his imagination. But, he still has a facade to hold up. “Wh- What the fuck was that? I don’t want fucking spa treatment from a bitch like you,” he complains. 

“Awwwh, Tommeee, did you like that?” Wilbur coos, drawing out his name and crouching down to be eye-level with him. That something knowing in his eyes became almost obvious now. The same two fingers return to his head and something warm spreads in him. Wilbur massages his head, and he melts into it, eyes closed contently despite his urge to protest. Wilbur’s forefinger ruffles at his hair, smiling a smile wider than Tommy has ever seen. 

“Piss off, you’re so annoying,” Tommy murmurs, tire lulling at him.

“Do you have a fucking off switch?” Wilbur asks abruptly, sounding startlingly curious.

“No, I don’t have an off switch!” he says, straightening up. 

Testing his theory, WIlbur takes his head between his forefinger and thumb and rubs them in circles above his ears. Before Tommy can protest, he slumps against Wilbur’s hand.

—–—

#mw #brickfic #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #dream smp g/t #dream smp gt #g/t #gt #giant/tiny #t!tommy #g!wilbur #little streamer au #kinda #so tired #so determined to write this #so could've made it better #i am so tired oh my god goodnight </3

[brick-a-doodle-do]

Favorite Dsmp duo and favorite trope

my favorite dsmp duo changes depending on what it’s for, but, for g/t, my favorite duo is easily t!george or g!dream (or vice versa,,,)

my favorite trope changes so often !! right now, though, i think it's a giant seeming eerie and terrifying, despite them trying to be funny/playful. and they've got no idea the tiny is scared shitless :)

(unintentional fearplay lol)

i saw a video about manhunt in george's pov and it was super cool so obviously i gotta make it g/t 😎 (this video should definitely be watched beforehand cause my descriptions are slacking lol)

soooo have this lil thing :D

(also have the tiktok cause damn it’s awesome)

oh george~

tw: vore, un/intentional fearplay (kinda both), panic/hyperventilation

wc: 1614

—–—

First hunter, first to die. That seemed like a false statement, but, after having been through this very thing innumerable times, George can only stand face-to-face with agreement. While he may have had more experience with Dream as a person, he has had no change in his agility or stamina since the very first time they’d tried this rather irritating game. To go against a giant, for him, would be welcoming his demise with open arms. And while he’s done it before, he is not looking for a second death when they’re only less than half an hour into the hunt. So, he’s taken a shortcut.

Water splashed around him as his boots collided with the ground under the river rushing harshly downstream. A subtle wave of pain traveled through his body as he took a hint of damage. He steadied himself, keeping himself from falling directly into the strong water.

 “Geoorge~”

George froze at the calling of his name, a flutter in his stomach erupting instantly. His hands inches to his pathetic excuse of a weapon: a dull wooden sword that he was lucky enough to craft in the short time span he was given. His breathing picked up, creating an eerie echo. George’s eyes couldn’t seem to find a resting place as they looked every-which-way, darting from cavern to crevice to wildlife as he tried to find even a clue that Dream was nearby. He’d not expected to be followed after his death. In fact, he wasn’t aware that Dream knew where he was at all, especially considering the fact that he’d looked rather busy with the other four members of his party.

“I’m gonna kill you, George!” Dream laughed softly. He sounded delighted to speak these words, like it was a pleasure to create pain for the hunter. George panted, finally pulling the weapon from where it rested on his side. His knuckles became white from the intense grip he had on the handle, but, despite the pain, he stuck to the grasp. George’s mind begged him to crouch in the small indent in the stone ‘wall’, however he knew there would be no use in hiding from Dream. It’ll simply be taunt, after taunt, after taunt, until he forces George out. That being through mental manipulation or Earthly damage. He stayed put. As if any kind of defense he attempted would truly wound the giant enough to disable him.

George looked up, taking in the scenery before he’d be momentarily visiting the afterlife. The tip of the ravine was littered in green trees, a sign of early Spring. George looked down when a branch snapped from the water, startling him out of his gaze. “George,” Dream drawled. He sounded like a child calling for a cat, or perhaps a cat calling for a mouse. George’s panicked respires returned once more, and fear laced his body once again. 

He aimlessly spun at a slow speed, eyeing the rock formations above him. He exhaled shakily.

“Where, oh where, is Georgenotfound?~” Dream said in a sing-songy tone of voice, his words soft, taunting. It sounded far too close to a  doll with a whiny old voice box.

 George continued his mindless movements and uncontrollable hyperventilation as he stood there in nothing but anticipation. Dream’s mask, his voice, any sign of him, really. Or, just simply his demise. Perhaps a boulder or a tree. George shuddered, then exhaled shakily at the thought of being in such a vulnerable position, and still, although he told himself otherwise, kept drifting towards the only thing that could really be called safety.

George was startled into looking elsewhere for the second time, as the subtle sound of stone hitting stone resonated in the thin space. He caught sight of it instantly, watching as little more than a pebble drifted downwards from the very top of the ravine. George’s heart sunk, and somehow his deathly grip on the weapon became significantly stronger. He inhaled, trying to gather what little confidence he had remaining.

Dream laughed. And, it wasn’t a lighthearted, amused laugh. It was a taunt, with a tone so similar to the last sentence he spoke. If nothing else made him frightened, it would now be this. It echoed around the canyon a hundredfold, adding to the eeriness his repeated pants created. A string of swears flowed through his mind, just as the water did. The sound rang in his mind, efficiently giving him more goosebumps than he could grasp. Every time he thought the wretched echoes of a laugh had finally taken their leave, he’d just shudder again. Until, eventually, it did stop. As the very last, unfortunately loud, vibration of Dream’s voice bounced back and forth from stone wall to stone wall, Dream spoke up again, “Come here, George!”

A shadow fell over where he stood. George knew painfully well what was to come. He directed his worried eyes upwards, instantly dropping the wooden sword as he stared with intense eyes at the hand coming at him at a speed far too quick. “No!” George yelped, screamed, as skin was all he could see.  He had yet to properly register what was happening, until four fingers were closing over him like a cage, with Dream’s thumb securing him to the palm, as if somehow he could attempt, or even successfully, make an escape.

George huffed, freeing one of his arms from the gentle, yet firm, grip Dream had on him. He drew his hand to his face, pulling up the goggles that cover his eyes. And, right as he did so, sunlight drifted back onto his tiny form, welcoming him with a ripple of fresh air. He gasped, struggling against the thumb. “Hi, George,” Dream undoubtedly grinned behind the awful mask that covered his face. “Dream, you are so annoying, put me down,” He didn’t have it in him to be scared. George’s memory was not awful, he knew that Dream had four other human’s to be worried about. He knew that, when he died, he was paying attention to them. But, now, he’s here, distracting both himself and George.

Dream tilted his hand so that it was laying flat, then positioned his fingers so he was able to give George free room to move, while still creating somewhat of a barrier against him. “Why are you bothering me? Shouldn’t you be like…hiding?”

“You were…far easier to get to.”

George rolled his eyes, shifting upwards. 

Dream rose a hand to his face, gripping onto the edge of the mask to pull it upwards, only to where his mouth was visible. George scrambled back into the fingers, instantly knowing exactly what was happening. “Dream, seriously, you are so annoying. Put me down,” He muttered, trying unfortunately hard to cover the shake in his voice.

 “Why? You’re just going to die if I do. I’m just keeping you safe, George,” Dream hummed, opening his maw and drawing George closer to it. He titled his hand, and even though he tried his utmost hardest to avoid falling into Dream’s open mouth, he failed, and gravity did its terrible job of making George tumble past a row of too-sharp teeth and right onto his friend’s tongue with a small groan of protest.

“Dream!” He called out, watching with a frown as he saw he now was covered in darkness. He sat up, then slowly rose to his feet. The surface under him, or rather the wet muscle under him, twitched as he tried his share at walking along it. Instead of making it more than five steps, however, he instead stumbled back down. 

George yelped as he was tossed to the side of  Dream’s mouth; his cheek. The very same tongue he was on just a moment before prodded at him, coating him in a disgusting layer of saliva. He groaned, “Dream, you’re actually disgusting–” George stood there, at a total loss for words as he felt a familiar feeling of revulsion circulating inside of him. Then, after a short second, his body was unwillingly being moved to a different area. He somehow ended up situated atop Dream’s tongue again, more saliva pooling under him. He nearly gagged at the sticky feeling. “Dream, please, let me out of here, it’s disgusting,” he tried.

Technically, he was met with a response. Just, not the one he particularly wanted.

Instead of being spat back out into the outside world, into a space where spit wasn’t actively dripping down onto him, he found himself tilting down again. He yelped again, trying to dig his nails into the muscle. However, he realized a moment too late that they were too dull to do anything useful. So, instead of saving himself from a very uncomfortable few hours, he fell effortlessly down into Dream’s throat, where only one swallow was what it took to send him traveling down a tight gullet, where he could hear the sounds of his friend’s body echoing around him just as the very same friends’ voice had echoed around the ravine. 

And, like that, he was in the place he absolutely despised. 

George landed in Dream’s storage quickly, where he found that there still was an uncomfortable humidity in the room, along with the usual sticky-ness of the ‘walls’ around him. George huffed, folding his arms tightly as he found a place to rest for the rest of the evening. “I hate you.” George murmured quietly, breaking his annoyed facade (that only he could really see,) to prop himself up against the wall. His hands slid down as he tried to pull himself upwards. He nearly gagged again, shuddering at the uncomfortable feeling. 

George can’t help but hope the hunters win. 

_________ ׂׂ

gross, i used ‘~’ /j

^^ i rarely use that. today is a special occasion :)

i love this i this love this

i speedwrote it while waiting for the dteam vlog but STILL >:D

also dream’s dialogue up until when dre catches george is not mine and is from the video !!!! ⚠️⚠️

#mw #brickfic #oh george #cw vore #g!dream #t!george #mm i was so excited for this i just love the plot sm #the writing isnt even that good i just love the fact that i wrote myself a comfort fic lol #brickquiries #orchid-harmony #prompt ask game #brickquiries games #mcyt g/t #g/t #dsmp g/t #dream smp g/t #gt #dsmp gt #i gotta fix the way i write george #i don't think he would be too scared for some of this #i tried my best 😒 #orchiddd thank you for the ask :D

[brick-a-doodle-do]

Just Giant!Wilbur seeing Tiny!Tommy and getting the urge to grab him

*ahem* what better way to answer this than with tiny workers?

YEAH. tw drabbles!!!! i craaave them and then i went...oh...i can make this canon! i OWN the au! :D

don't talk so much

cw: nothing? i think. slight impulsive thoughts n swearing,,,,

wc: 324 (not very lengthy. sorry eueu)

—–—

Tommy was basically asking for it at this point.

As Wilbur scrolled through the park's app with his hand hung over the top of his phone to block the sun from making it unreadable, Tommy paces along the stone slab they'd taken a seat on, arms flailing wildly as he talks about some recent life event that Wilbur had accidentally let him talk about while he'd been distracted.

It plays with the corner of his vision, distracting him every two seconds as he's trying to find wait times.

"Wilbur!" Tommy calls up, his pacing form having slowed and is now staring up at him, hands cupped at his face to gain volume. Wilbur startles, looking down at the tiny.

"What?"

"Have you heard of the bunker yet?" Tommy asks, presumably not for the first time.

Wilbur shrugs. "I don't believe I have," he murmurs, turning his attention back to his screen, which is now his messages with his brother as he tries to get Techno off his case about needing so many car rides to and from the park.

"Oh. Well, it..." Tommy's voice fades into the background as Wilbur taps at his screen to respond.

After a passing minute, he's being dragged out of his phone again. The movement from the corner of his eye has been overbearing for a while now, but finally, he's tired of it.

On a whim, he sets his phone down and makes a move for the tiny, hands swiping him off of the stone and into a loose fist, (although Tommy yells like it is), staring at him, unimpressed.

"Oi! Dickhead," Tommy whines.

"You were fucking with my vision, I had to do something," Wilbur complains, stuffing the tiny boy into his front pocket and shuffling up from the bench.

Despite Wilbur making an effort to push him down into the pocket, he pops right back up, his blond curls appearing from the corner of his vision.

—–—

#brickquiries #orchid brickling #orchid my belovedd #brickfic #drabbles #short prompt series #tiny workers au #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #dsmp g/t #dsmp gt #t!tommy #g!wilbur