#clearly.. don’t care.. dunno man. why do i even try !!! why does a small part of me believe Maybe someone loves me when the universe keeps

[slowpoke-fics]

Scent | Mate Series

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Pairing: Derek x Y/N

Summary: Derek is getting suspicious of you, you're hiding something and he wants to know what

Warnings: not really I think but just in case, as always, read at your own risk

A/N: This is Part One | Next Part

This whole thing is a whole family pack au and mate au, OC stuff in later chapters but I really loved writing this and love the idea of a family pack <3

You walked into Scott’s house, happily smiling at everyone gathered around the table, noticing that even Derek had showed this time. The wolves seemed to carry on about their business as you muttered something about dinner and moved to the kitchen. “I don’t like that ya know?” You jumped a little, turning to Derek and smiling in confusion. He sniffed the air, “All I can smell is your strawberry shortcake lotion. You use too much.” You scoffed, turning to the food, “I don’t care, go smell someone else.” He shook his head, “Why? I don’t like not being able to smell you.” You looked at him, eyebrows raised, "Derek, I know what you wolves do, it's a violation of privacy, I like my emotions being mine." Derek huffed under his breath, "Just trying to care." He turned and walked out of the kitchen.

You couldn't help but wonder if you'd been excessively hateful, but you were right. You knew better than anyone, wolves violate your privacy whenever they can by just smelling you, let alone with serious practice what they can do. You could never keep a secret around a pack of wolves, and living in Beacon Hills with the extra wolf sense going around is no different. It's better to just hide your scent all together. You of course knew how to do this very well without the nifty supernatural trick; putting lotion over your scent glands regularly, wearing tight clothes, and lots of deodorant. You sighed to yourself as you thought of how different it could be if you could come clean.

Derek hung back after the meeting, watching as you waved everyone goodbye, claiming he was cleanup help since you cooked. "What's up Derek?" Scott said once the door shut. "Y/n," Derek started, turning to Scott, hand rubbing his scruff nervously, "has she always covered her scent like that?" Scott's eyebrows furrowed, "Now that I think about it, yeah, why?" Derek shrugged, acting like it was no big deal but wanted to put the fuze out before it went to far, "Dunno, she's just the only one that does it, even Lydia with the amount of crap she wears, I can smell her," he sighed, "it's like Y/n is hiding something man, I've just never once smelled her." Derek shook his head, "I mean, it's never bothered you? Not being able to smell her?"

Scott could sense something he hadn't ever before with Derek, a sense of need, like when Stiles called to him when he almost lit himself on fire. "She just wants her privacy, she knows we can smell fear, anxiety, joy, embarrassment," he slapped Dereks shoulder, "relax man, are you really worried Y/n is out to get you?" Dereks hands fell next to him, "Something like that." Derek said his goodbyes to Scott and happily Stiles, as over the years he's grown to love the wild man, and left wondering about you.

At the next pack meeting, this time in his loft, you were the last one in again. As everyone was catching up and cutting up, Derek found his way beside you, "I don't like that one, it smells sour, what is it?" You blushed just slightly, "I don't know some cucumber mix." Derek huffed, "If all I can smell is fake shit, at least something good, citrus, sweet or somethin'," he shrugged as he made his way to the table.

You'd all been discussing new training for the supernatural creatures drawn in by the Nemeton and handling the strays that don't fall in line with the help of the argents. Derek was next to you, something you knew was no coincidence as he'd swapped places with Scott at some point. He reached over to the map in front of you, trying to rub just your shirt, but you slyly moved your arm, muttering an apology, "Oh, sorry," but Derek didn't miss the extra heartbeat, even if just for a second. What is going on with you?

A few days later you find yourself climbing in the passenger of Stiles' jeep, just leaving your house after reapplying lotion, knowing that you were going to Dereks' for pack training. "Scott needed a ride today, that okay?" Stiles quizzed you, studying you as you answered with a hum. "Everything alright?" he reiterated, turning the music up. You shrugged, "I just have a feeling something is going on." Stiles gave you a sympathetic smile as he pulled up to Scott's.

Scott climbed in Stiles' back seat, glancing at you, consciously aware that you only smelled like mixed berry lotion, smiling, "Hey, Y/n, how was your day?" You shrugged, "The usual, excited for some pack time." Scott listened to your steady beat, kicking himself for even listening. The ride to Dereks normal while you intently listened to Stiles ramble. It was impossible not to notice that something was bothering Scott, you just hoped it wasn't you.

Scott was the first to knock on the door, Stiles following impatiently while you stood behind the two men. Derek slid the door open, looking over the two men and directly smiling at you, welcoming you all in. You followed closely in behind Stiles, narrowly missing Derek. You sense him reaching forward, out for the small of your back, you quickly stepped out of the way and to the kitchen, hoping your heartbeat was steady. "So what am I making?"

You worked on finishing up the tacos, careful to clean up any mess you made and wash the used pans. You had Liam lay out the table who was cooling off from a tough session with Isaac. He was really slinging the plates down, you put your hand just inches from his, stopping him from laying another plate down, "Liam," his eyes connected with yours, "listen to my heart, get yours to match it." Liam shook his head, starting to lay another plate down, clearly frustrated, but you spoke again, "Liam," you sighed, "it is okay to lose control and get angry, but get it back. Take a breath, control your heart rate, ground yourself." Liam took a deep breath in as you guided him, smiling at you before gently setting the plates down. You could feel the anger dissipating from him as he did.

"Thank you for helping," you muttered as you rubbed his shoulder comfortingly, making sure your sleeve covers your bare hand, smiling at him, "I'm gonna go get them." You walked into the training room, sweat and power smacking you in the face, "Dinner's ready!" Scott and Derek let go of each other, playfully draping their arms around each other, "You wanna spar, Y/n?" Derek asked and you laughed, a sound that blessed his ears, "Uh, no thank you, I'll leave that to the big bad wolves." Scott smiled, "Come on! Even Stiles trains!" Stiles jumps at this, pointing to Scott, "Hey!" Causing everyone to erupt into laughter, you smiled, "Who else is gonna cook?" At that Stiles interjected again, heading to the meal, "Not it!"

After you all ate you helped Liam collect and wash dishes, Derek watching you dodge every corner of the tablecloth, studied your moments as you put up pates, careful to not touch them with your bare hands. He thought to himself as he watched you that he was reading way too much into it. That you were just a private polite person, but something was rubbing him the wrong way, something he was missing. As you put away the last dish, Stiles stood up, smiling, "Bye, sour wolf." Derek glared at him but turned to you who was side by side with Stiles, your arm around his waist, also heading out, "See you later, sour wolf."

Scott trailed behind, making sure you and Stiles were out of earshot. "Man, what is your problem I can literally see the fury coming off of you." Derek glared at Scott, "Y/n, she just-" Scott rolled his eyes, "You can't be serious, not with this again." Derek rubbed his face, "Man, I'm telling you," he shook his head, clearly troubled, "She won't let me touch her! At all, I'm talking not even an accidental brush," Derek spoke lower, "She wouldn't train because that causes sweat, we could smell her, won't even touch the tablecloth. She washes every dish she uses, won't touch the plates with her bare hands? The plates?" Scott could tell Derek was genuinely upset by this, "Why does this bother you so much man?" Derek sighed, "I don't know," he drug broth his hands over his face, an attempt to rub the stress away, "I don't think she'd hurt us of course, but she's definitely- Scott, there's too many questions I need answered." Scott sighed, "Okay, if it means that much to you, I'll look into it." Scott started walking and that's when you snapped back into Stiles honking the horn of the car, you giggling with him as Scott came rushing out.

How much longer could you hide your secret?

#teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf fanfic #derek hale x reader #Derek x reader #derek x reader #derek hale #Scott x reader #Scott McCall x reader #Isaac x reader #Isaac lahey x reader #teen wolf fluff #Derek fluff #Derek angst #teen wolf angst #fanfiction #teen wolf #Derek Hale fluff #Derek Hale agnst #derek hale one shot #Derek Hale fanfiction #teen wolf series #Derek Hale imagine #Derek Hale angst #stiles x reader #Derek Hale one shot #Derek Hale series #derek hale imagine #Derek imagine #mate series

[miekasa]

daylight’s wasting (you better kiss me)

↯ pairing: eren jaeger x reader

↯ genre and warnings: college au, fluff, someone please be gentle with this boy i’m begging you, jean and eren pretending they don’t give a fuck about each other whilst actually being best bros for the win

↯ word count: 2k

↯ summary: based off of that reddit post about some guy talking about his girlfriend washing his hair for the first time + hoping it fills a request for someone asking for reader playing with eren’s hair for the first time :’)

↯ notes: this is cross-posted and edited slightly from another blog in a completely separate fandom, so if you’ve seen it before, no you didn’t </2

Jean can’t say that he immediately noticed a pep in Eren’s step when the green-eyed boy met him in the library, but what he does notice is the stupid, dopey looking grin and starry-eyed gaze in his eyes that he’s sporting while he’s not doing his part for their project. And while Jean considers himself relatively attractive, he knows for sure Eren isn’t shy about making it known that he doesn’t; so the brunette doubts the literal heart eyes Eren has are for him.

“Eren? Eren, bro, are you good?” Jean calls, a dark eyebrow raised above his left eye. Eren barely registers the calls of his name, and it takes Jean waving his hands in front of the shorter’s face for him to wake from his trance, looking up at Jean with that same, longing smile (that’s, admittedly, starting to creep him the fuck out).

“Yeah,” Eren sighs, something reminiscent of a lovelorn cartoon prince, as he rests his elbow atop his notebook and his chin the palm of his hand, “I’m good.”

Jean looks at him, skeptical and confused. He shifts in his seat, but Eren’s eyes don’t follow—he just stares ahead, lost in thought and completely unaware of everything around him. He looks like a lovesick little bitch if you ask Jean. Or completely sloshed.

Slowly, Jean leads forward, eyebrows pinched, looking for streaks of red in Eren’s eyes, “Are you stoned right now?”

“What?” Eren pulls back, almost offended, “No, I’m not high—Jean, what the fuck?”

Jean simply shrugs, leaning back into his seat, “I dunno. Yesterday you were so stressed about your acrobatic salt cycle samples—”

“—Acetylsalicylic acid. It’s basically Asprin, and I wasn’t stressed, they just weren’t crystallizing the they way they’re supposed to—”

“I don’t fucking care. But now you look mellow as hell,” Jean cuts him off, “Just thought maybe you rolled a good one before coming here or something. Not that I’m judging, of course. But you’re much more of a lightweight than you think, so try not to go—”

“‘M not a fucking lightweight,” Eren groans, “You and Reiner are just heavy bodied.”

“Just admit you can’t hold your shit, Jaeger.”

“I’m not admitting shit. Mikasa makes strong drinks, that’s all.”

Jean grits his teeth at Eren’s stubborn antics, but lets it go. It’s not like the conversation was going anywhere, anyways. “If you’re not baked, then what’s got your head in the clouds?”

Eren shifts in his seat now, pulling his hand off the table, and into his lap. Jean’s suspicious eyebrow is quirked again, and that slightly creeped-out feeling is back when he spots Eren’s ears going red.

Jesus Christ, he just asked a simple question.

“Not that I care,” Jean tacks on, feigning disinterest, “But if it’s gonna keep you from doing your half of the project, just spill it already so we can get this shit over with.”

Eren rolls his eyes, but that blush is still there. He looks like he contemplates waving it off for a minute, before he sighs. “(Y/N) and I showered together yesterday,” he finally blurts.

Jean blinks. “Oh. So you got laid—”

“—No, no, it wasn’t like that!” Eren corrects him, the red on his ears spreading to his cheeks slowly, with every word that spills out of his mouth. Eren stutters, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, “She just… She washed my hair.”

Eren sighs, flustered and frustrated, and annoyed that he looks like this in front of Jean’s horse-faced ass of all people; but he knows, that no matter how much shit Jean talks, he can rely on him. For better or (often times) for worse.

And Jean, for as hotheaded as he can get, and for as much as Eren annoys the shit of out him, knows how to read a room; and in this moment, he can see that Eren is actually coming to him with genuine emotions, other than masked anger and abrasiveness. So, the both of them concede; pull back from their usual pointed commentary, and listen to what the other has to say. 

“Ah,” Jean comments, lamely; an embarrassed blush of his own growing on his face at his stupidity. The two sit in silence for a moment, before Jean speaks up again, “It’s, uh… It’s nice, right?”

Eren’s eyes snap to him, wide. He almost completely forgot that Jean’s in a committed relationship, too. The two don’t often go to each other for relationship advice, or… relationship venting, but Eren makes a mental note that maybe, just maybe, he should.  

“Yeah,” Eren admits, “I don’t, uh, I don’t know how to explain it. It was just—”

“Relaxing?”

“Yeah. Like all the bullshit from school just melted away all of a sudden,” Eren confesses, “All she fucking did was wash my hair and hum for, like, five minutes, but I feel like… I don’t know. Good.”

Jean hums, acknowledging Eren’s words and mulling them over. “Loved,” he chimes in with an awkward cough, “Pretty sure that’s the word you’re looking for, Jaeger.”

Eren chokes on air, his eyes darting around the room. So, yeah, it’s still a little awkward, talking with Jean of all people about his relationship, and love, and all that gushy stuff; but, even Eren can admit, it’s comforting to know that someone knows what he’s feeling—even if that someone is Jean.

“You should tell her. Girls like that shit, when you tell em what you’re thinking, you know?” Jean comments, picking up his pen to resume scribbling in his notebook. He sounds nonchalant, but from the redness on his face, Eren can tell he’s just as flustered, and probably thinking about his own girlfriend. “Besides, you’ve been together for a long ass time now. Don’t know what you’re waiting for at this point.”

“Yeah,” Eren coughs, pretending to resume his own homework, “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Good,” Jean nods, “Now will you fucking paste your paragraph in the Google Doc so I can rewrite it and make it coherent.”

“Fuck you, it’s coherent as is.”

“As if. I’ve read your shit before, and it sounds like it was written by six year old on meth. You science majors can’t write to save your life.”

“Tough talk from someone who can’t do basic addition.”

“Derivatives and shit aren’t basic addition, they were created by a man who died a virgin. Tells me everything I need to know about them and you.”

Three days later, Eren finds himself alone in your off-campus apartment, laying on your bed, stomach to the mattress, while he tries to convince himself to study for his upcoming biology exam. He finds looking around your room to be much more interesting, though, and takes the time to notice things he hadn’t before.

There’s a small strip of images of the two of your in a clear mason jar on your nightstand—the newest addition to your collection—from the photo booth at the ice-skating rink you went to last week. Eren doesn’t know why you insist on going to every photo booth you come across, but who is he to deny you the pictures.

When he looks to your closet, he isn’t surprised to see two of his hoodies, one of his warm-up soccer uniforms, and last season’s hockey jersey hanging up. What does surprise him, is the way they’re all hung up next to each other, like they have their own little section amongst your clothing; like they were reserved, special almost. He bets they’re all probably washed and clean, too; because you take care of his things like that.

He thinks about how he has a few pairs of sweatpants and pajamas—hell, even a pair of slacks and a button-down from one of your fancier dates—all tucked away in his very own drawer in your dresser. The bucket hats thats you claim are oh-so ugly still have their own place in your room, hanging next to your belts. Even his psychology textbook sits on your desk, clearly set aside for him and taken care of, but still integrated amongst your other belongings. 

You seem to be the only person who thinks Eren and all his baggage can have a place in your life. You seem to always have space for things to fit in, no matter how stupid, or ugly, or tattered they are; no matter how emotional, or lost, or impulsive he is. Nothing is out of place here, himself included. 

Lost in his thoughts, Eren doesn’t register the sound of your front door opening, or your footsteps growing louder. In fact, he doesn’t register that you’re home at all, until you come padding into your bedroom, shaking your backpack off of your shoulders and setting it next to his on the ground.

“Hey, baby,” you greet him, almost offhandedly, as you place your coffee down on your desk. He doesn’t mind—actually the element of practiced casualness in your tone brings a kind of warmth to him, and makes his stomach flutter. 

“Hey,” he smiles, a stupidly fond look in his eye as his watched you shimmy your jacket off of your shoulders. 

Eren sits himself upwards, shifting so that his long legs dangle off the edge of your bed as he watching your silhouette move throughout your bedroom. When you’re finished removing all your layers and jewelry, you finally look to him, greeting him a second time as you walk towards him and your bed.

Eren cages you in when you reach him, his ankles wrapped on top of each other as he secures you standing between his legs. He wraps his arms loosely around your waist, while your fingers crawl up the nape of his neck.

“Your hair’s dry,” you hum, your fingers raking through his brown locks as if to make your point, “You didn’t shower yet?”

Eren shakes his head lightly, craning his neck forwards to tuck the cold tip of his nose into your collar. He holds you a little tighter when you smooth his hair down, one of your hands resting against the back of his neck, and lightly scraping at the hairs near his nape.

“How come?” you question innocently, “I thought your classes ended a few hours ago—did your lab go late again? You should tell your TA you have a life outside of trying to culture bacteria in a dish, you know.”

Eren chuckles lightly, but feels the concern in your voice tug heavily at his heart strings. You seem to really hate his lab TA.

“Wasn’t him this time,” Eren mumbles against your skin, “Was waiting for you.”

“Yeah? That gonna be a regular thing, now?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” Eren confesses, words barely audible as he buries his face into your neck. He tries tickle you with his eyelashes, shift the heat towards you, but you move out of reach too quickly; your hands on his shoulders, forcing him to sit upright.

He has to look up you, just slightly, and he hopes he doesn’t look like a complete blushing idiot. If he does, you don’t seem to mind, if the way you cup his face between your hands is any indication.

“Well then, come on. I bought two new loofahs yesterday.”

Eren follows you to the bathroom with a smile, borderline giggling with excitement all the way to the shower. When it comes down to it, he relishes in the feeling of your fingertips against his scalp, suds of shampoo cascading down his neck as you find amusement in coiling his hair into a bubbly mohawk.

It’s so mundane, so simple, yet overwhelmingly intimate the way you’re taking care of him—the way you always take care of him. It fills Eren to the brim with emotions he can’t even begin to convey with words.

And when you’ve had you’re fun, and made sure his hair is throughly clean and smells like apples, you take your body wash on the ball of his (his! his very own!) loofah, and scrub away at his back, down his shoulders, across his torso; and Eren can’t stop the tears from falling.

He realizes his must look bizzare, to be standing the middle of your shower, crying like a baby with soap and suds all over his body, but he can’t help himself.

“Eren? Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he assures you, hiccuping between his words and sniffling away any more tears that threaten to fall. You don’t seem convinced, and once again, Eren feels his heart swell at just the sheer thought at you’d hold even an ounce of concern for him the way you do.

“You’re crying, Eren,” you point out, voice soft, but clearly concerned, as you reach your hands up to cup his face again, “Did I hurt you? What’s wr—”

Eren cuts you off by wrapping you in a hug, hoping—praying—you know that you could never hurt him. The two of you spend nearly five whole minutes like that, your arms wrapped around each other’s middles, with warm water pouring over your naked skin. Eren can feel you pressing shallow kisses into his chest, and he feels his heart physically swell every time your lips make contact with his skin.

It’s on the fifth, quiet press of your lips that Eren knows he can’t hold it in anymore; pulls away from your embrace to look you in your eyes.

“I love you,” he finally confesses, with wet hair stuck to his forehead, and teary eyes. It’s hardly a picture perfect moment, but Eren can’t bring himself to care; he needs you to know.

But, of course, you already did. “I know, Eren,” you say with a smile, kissing his chin, and then on the tips of your toes, his lips, “And I love you more.”

#aot x reader #snk x reader #eren x reader #eren x you #eren smut #eren fluff #aot imagines #snk imagines #levi x reader #jean x reader

[lord-of-gender]

A Small Problem - Part 1

My version of @deyageka’s Childinnit au. 3145 words

Dream revived Tommy, but there were unforeseen consequences

"Dweam! I hungy," Tommy complained, he had appeared in the cell after getting revived, with almost no memory of his life. And he looked to be only five or six years old.

"Look kid, all I have are potatoes," Dream snapped. He didn't know which was worse, teen Tommy that actively disregarded him and never listened, or toddler Tommy who was just annoying and never stopped complaining.

"No, no poo-tato," he grabbed the potato Dream had handed him and chucked it in the lava. Tommy had been talking with the same mocking tone all week.

"You have got to be kidding me," Dream glared at Tommy, resisting the urge to kill him again, knowing it would be better if he was alive, even in this state.

"La, la, la, I'm singing, I'm like Wilby," Tommy said, knowing perfectly well he was getting on Dream's nerves.

"Oh thank god," Dream said when he heard footsteps echoing over the lava. "Sam! Get this child out of here!"

"Hi Sam!" Tommy yelled, his high pitched voice hardly recognizable by Sam. "You have a funny name! I am looking for Wilbur!"

"T-Tommy?" Sam said, the disbelief clear in his voice. "Tommy go the the corner in the water!"

"Why?" Tommy asked, clearly not getting the urgency of the situation.

"Just do it you child," Dream demanded, pushing Tommy towards the corner of the cell.

"Okee," Tommy made his way over and stood in the water. Within seconds he was on the other side with Sam. "Hallo! Hehe, Techno always says that. Ooh! I'm big and scawy like Techno!"

"I'm so confused, how are you alive, and why are you, younger," Sam said, not expecting a response.

"I dunno," Tommy shrugged and with a huge smirk began running away from Sam. "Weeeee, freedom!"

"Tommy!" Sam ran after him, eventually cornering him as Tommy came up to the other lava. Noticing the kid's fearful and entranced expression as he started at the lava.

"No, lava bad," he muttered, backing away from it, he didn't know why, he just didn't like it. "Where's Wilbur?"

"I don't know, why don't you come with me and we'll find him," Sam reached his hand out for Tommy to take. Eventually he did. Looking between the lava and Tommy, Sam didn't feel right making him go through all the protocol, not like this. So he lead Tommy through the guards' secret passageways until they got to the main entrance of the prison.

"What is this place," Tommy asked, "why is Dweam in there?"

"This is a place where bad people go, and Dream is a very bad man," Sam said, leading him to the lockers. "Go into the chest and give me the card in there."

"Are you going to put Techno in there," Tommy asked, opening the ender chest and pulling out what Sam had told him.

"Not unless I have to," Sam said, the thought had crossed his mind, but if he did attempt to Phil would defend Techno. The two were powerful, but had stayed isolated in the mountains and didn't currently pose a threat.

"Is this all mine," Tommy looked at the contents in the regular chest in wonder.

"Yes, but we can leave it here or I can hold onto it until we figure this out," Sam said, talking about getting Tommy back to his normal age.

"But it's mine," Tommy said, he pulled out the axe and tried swinging it around, but the weight was made for someone bigger and stronger than him so he ended up falling to the ground. "Uh, you have it. Too heavy."

"I'll give it back as soon as you get back to normal," Sam said, ruffling Tommy's hair as he put the Axe of Peace back. "But first let's get out of here."

"Okay," Tommy said and Sam took him to the secondary exit he made just in case. They landed down in the water the prison had been built on and Sam helped Tommy swim to the shore.

"Tunnel!" Tommy said, pointing at the tunnel leading to Snowchester. "Let's go there!"

"Alright, I'll take you to Snowchester." Sam crafted a boat and got in, with Tommy getting in behind him, humming to himself as they headed towards the snowy biome.

"Who lives here," Tommy asked, taking in every bit of detail and rubbing his hands together to warm up.

"Tubbo does, I think Foolish and Ranboo do as well," Sam said, he knew he would have to go back to the prison to double check all the safety protocol and move Tommy's items.

"Tubbo," Tommy perked up, "let's see Tubbo!"

"I don't think he's here right now," Sam said, he would have to go back to the Dream SMP to see if Puffy or anyone else could watch Tommy, but then he'd have to explain what happened. "Come on Tommy."

"I'm cold," he said, trudging through the snow behind Sam to Tubbo's cabin.

"I know, but you need to stay here while I go do some things," Sam said, grabbing a cloak from a chest and wrapping it around Tommy. "I don't think Tubbo will mind if you look around."

"Who's up there," Tommy asked, hearing noises from the attic. He went over to the ladder and climbed up and opened the trapdoor to see Micheal entertaining himself. "Hallo! I'm Tommy."

"Oh, that's Micheal," Sam said, climbing up behind him. "Be careful. I have to go. Don't go outside, okay?"

"Okee," Tommy said, looking intently at Micheal as he snorted to himself. Tommy then made some piglike noises, making the young zombie piglin perk up and squeal in excitement.

"Wait, you know piglin," Sam asked, pausing as he started back down.

"Techno teached me, he's a pig-in," Tommy said, then made more noises and the two children continued to talk to each other. "Go away now."

"Well have fun, stay safe Tommy," Sam said, climbing down and closing the doors behind him.

Michael started to point at the photos of him, Ranboo, and Tubbo. Tommy looked at them and searched his memory, as far as he could remember Phil didn't have any pictures like that. Michael oinked as he offered Tommy a handful of cake. His stomach rumbled as he looked at the treat.

"Here I can give you a potato," Tommy said, offering one of the raw potatoes he had left over from the prison. "I don't like them." Michael lit up and took the potatoes, happily eating them.

"Hi Michael," Tubbo came up to see them, they hadn't even heard him open the door. "I'm back buddy."

"Michael wishes you and Ranboo were home more, and he's cold," Tommy said, pulling Tubbo's attention to him. "Hallo!"

"I- hello, who are you," Tubbo asked, he didn't think any other children were on the server, let alone human children.

"It's me, Tommy, remember me Tubbo," Tommy grinned, cake frosting covering his mouth. Tubbo froze. There was no way, it was impossible, he was seeing things. He had to be. Slowly Tubbo climbed back down the ladder.

"How is he," Ranboo asked, carrying a armful of red berry branches, he had slowly been working on clearing out all the berry bushes so Michael could safely walk around outside.

"I-I uh, he's cold," Tubbo stammered, still not fully processing what he found out.

"I can make him a coat, we do have the extra fabric," Ranboo said, he climbed up the ladder to see Tommy and Michael.

"You need this more than I do," Tommy pulled off the cloak and wrapped it around Michael. "I'll ask them to put a fireplace up here."

"Well hello there, who are you," Ranboo said, closing the trapdoor behind him. He sat down in front of the boys.

"Tommy," he said gleefully, "I was stuck with a bad man called Dweam, Sam took me here. He's looking for Wilbur."

"I- okay, do you remember anything before that," Ranboo asked, wondering if he knew everything that Tommy did. "Do you remember me?"

"Uh, no, but you're Ranboo right?" Tommy asked, "and why is Dweam in prison? What bad things did he do?"

"Well he killed multiple people, he blew up something that used to be Tubbo's, he stole some things of yours and did alot of bad things to you," Ranboo said, not mentioning how Dream had used him as well.

"Well I don't remember," Tommy said, he looked at Michael who had been jumping in the corner and snorted to him. "He wants to go outside."

"You understand him," Ranboo asked, he had been trying to find a book on piglin but now that he knew Tommy could speak it that would be a big help.

"Yeah, Techno taught me," Tommy said, making Ranboo feel stupid. Of course, he should have asked Techno to teach him, but then again he had no idea when he would wake up, and he might end up having to tell Techno about Michael.

"What do you remember," Ranboo asked, trying to get a better idea of what happened to Tommy, even if he wouldn't remember.

"Uh, Philza and Wilbur are my family, Techno is a friend of Dadza's, he was the ruler of some place," Tommy stifled a yawn, "the Antarctic Empire."

"Do you want to stay here until Sam comes back," Ranboo asked, Tommy nodded, leaning his head against him.

"Mhm," Tommy mumbled, the events of the past week finally catching up with him. Now that he was outside and could see the sun his lack of sleep started to take hold.

"I'll see if we have an extra blanket," Ranboo said as Michael looked at Tommy curiously. He went down the ladder to see Tubbo muttering to himself.

"Ranboo, please tell me I was just seeing things up there," Tubbo said, pacing around. "Cause I thought I saw Tommy, young Tommy."

"Oh he's there alright," Ranboo said, "I didn't believe it at first, but of course I've never seen young Tommy. So he couldn't have been an illusion."

"But how is he alive," Tubbo said, sitting down on one of the chests.

"Maybe Sam will know, cause Tommy doesn't remember why he was in there," Ranboo said, he grabbed their extra blanket. "But he is cute like this."

"Don't let him know that," Tubbo let out a small chuckle. When Ranboo went back up Tommy had fallen asleep in Michael's bed, Michael was lying down by him.

"Tubbo, get up here, you need to see this," Ranboo whisper yelled.

"What is it," Tubbo came up and 'aww'ed when he saw the two boys sleeping next to each other. "I forgot how peaceful he is when asleep."

"He sleeps like a baby," Ranboo said, "we're not letting this go when he gets back to normal, right?"

"Definitely not," Tubbo laughed, imagining the amount of teasing they could do with this.

"Ranboo, Tubbo, are you guys here," Sam called from downstairs.

"Shh, Tommy just fell asleep," Ranboo jumped down with Tubbo following behind. "So why is he like this?"

"Dream said he brought Tommy back," Sam said, "and he isn't happy this happened."

"Back, like back from the dead," Tubbo clarified.

"Yes, I'm going to try to look through my books and see if there's anyway to fix this," Sam said, "I just wanted to make sure Tommy was okay, are you guys good to watch him? If not I'm sure I could find Puffy or someone else."

"Well once he wakes up I could take Tommy with me, he's talked alot about Phil and Techno," Ranboo offered.

"I don't know, Phil hasn't been the best parent to Tommy in the past," Sam said, "I'd much rather have him stay here, where I know he's safe."

"Well we can't keep this a secret forever, the entire server knows he died," Tubbo said.

"But if the Eggpire knows he's alive they'll go after him," Sam said, "Sam Nook warned me that they were trying to kill him."

"I think alot more than just them were after him," Ranboo said, "If I remember correctly Niki said Jack had tried to kill him." He left out the part of Niki trying to as well, but she had changed, and she was part of the Syndicate.

"So we keep this between us right now, once we get Tommy aged back up he can decide what he wants to do," Sam said.

"I'll look through Phil's library for a solution," Ranboo pulled out his book to write down a reminder.

"We still have to tell someone, there's going to be times when we're all busy," Tubbo said, "and Tommy's not going to be as willing as Michael to stay here all day."

"I think we can trust Puffy, and possibly Quackity, that way he can be around different people," Sam said, he would have to check how close Tommy and Quackity were. Foolish was an option as well, and could protect Tommy if it came to it, but with the Eggpire attacking Foolish he wasn't so sure.

Later that day Ranboo had met up with Philza to help him work on his cabin. Phil was in the basement, trading with Techno's villagers.

"So Phil, can I ask you about something?" Ranboo said, coming down to help him.

"Of course mate, what's up," Phil said.

"What's the 'Antarctic Empire'," Ranboo asked, what Tommy said earlier stuck with him. And he knew it was safer to ask Phil before Techno.

"Do not ever bring that up with Techno," Phil said, his tone dark and warning. "Where the fuck did you hear that?"

"I- uh, Ghostbur mentioned something about it so I got curious," Ranboo lied, remembering that Sam had wanted to keep Tommy on the down-low for the time being.

"Alright, just don't tell Techno that I told you," Phil said, "the Antarctic Empire is a land far from here, it's where Techno lived before coming here. It's not quite an empire anymore and is the reason he hates government. He saw the state of everyone who lived there and hated himself for it. So he ended his reign and went into hiding, watching as the Empire tore themselves apart."

"That's crazy," Ranboo said, "but it does explain alot."

The next day Sam had run into Quackity while trying to find Puffy or Ranboo. He needed someone to watch Tommy, but Tuboo said he had other things to do.

"Oh thank god, Quackity can you do something for me," Sam said, stopping him.

"Uh, what is it," Quackity asked as Sam threw a book to him.

"Read that and go into the second floor suite of Tommy's hotel," Sam said, "you are to tell no one, if you have any questions find Tubbo or Ranboo."

"What the fuck, I have things I need to do myself," Quackity called as Sam ran off to finish repairing the prison, but with the mining fatigue he didn't know how long it would take him. Quackity sighed as he looked at the book, it wasn't titled and he decided to just pocket it. He walked to the hotel and when he confirmed Jack wasn't there, went up where Sam told him.

"Hallo!" Tommy waved, making Quackity jump. "Are you Big Q?"

"No, no, no," Quackity shook his head, it had to be some cruel joke.

"No?" Tommy said, "are you sad?"

"No! What's your name?" Quackity said, there was no way this was Tommy. He wasn't a kid, he was dead.

"Tommy, I'm five," he said, then walking back to what he was doing. He took a yellow paper he had cut out and put together, and put it on his head. It was a crown. "I'm like Techno!"

"Okay, but why are you a child," Quackity pulled out the book and began to read it. It explained to him the situation as far as they knew, that he was to keep Tommy hidden, and the added death threat if anything happened to Tommy.

"What's wrong with being a child," Tommy asked, everyone had been talking as if him being like this was wrong. This statement make Quackity burst out laughing, the older Tommy would have never said that.

"I don't know, I mean you're probably less of a handful at this age," Quackity said, ruffling Tommy's hair. He had to make the most of this, and he had the perfect idea of how. "How would you like to help me annoy an old grumpy ghost?"

"Sure," Tommy grabbed the moth toy he had spent all of last night begging Sam and Tubbo to make. "Ready."

"What's your moth's name," Quackity asked as he and Tommy left the hotel. Tommy waved by to Sam Nook as they passed him.

"His name is Clementine," Tommy said, Quackity tried not to laugh again as his British accent fully came out when he said the name. "And you have to say it just like me."

"Okay kid," Quackity spotted Jack in the distance, he was coming in their direction. "Listen to me, we're going to play superheroes right now. My name is Big Q, and yours, what's a name you like?"

"Bird man!" Tommy said, Quackity shook his head, there was no way Jack would buy that. "No, um, Sleepy Boi! It's what Wilbur would call us."

"That works. Now I need you to tell everyone you see that's your name, cause we're under cover and we can't let anyone know our real names," Quackity said, he just had to hope Jack would fall for it.

"Okee Big Q," Tommy said as they passed Jack. He originally walked right by, but did a double take when he saw Tommy.

"Wait is that- no that's impossible," Jack stopped, he said it to no one in particular, but Quackity had heard him.

"Who? This kid," Quackity asked, playing it off. "Why don't you tell Jack your name."

"I'm Sleepy Boi!" Tommy said, putting his fist in the air. There was a moment of confusion on Jack's face, but he seemed to buy it.

"Well if this little guy wants to have a room in my hotel, I might be willing to give it at a discount," Jack said, "well I have work to do, see you around Big Q."

"But that's my hotel," Tommy said as Jack went out of earshot, "Sam told me."

"Well right now you're not old enough to own the hotel," Quackity said, "and because Jack is the only employee he automatically got ownership when you were in the prison."

"I'm going to fire him as soon as I take it back," Tommy said, his head held high.

"Alright, you do that," Quackity chuckled, there was a small chance he would actually do that once they found a way to fix him.

#childinnit #tommyinnit #awsamdad #ranboo #micheal

[nat-20s]

 Part 8 of the wonderful! Au: the boys answer some questions! Up to you to decide if they actually clarify anything!

(also on AO3)

~*~

Martin: Hey everyone! I know what some of you are thinking right now: it's not Tuesday, why is this episode in my feed? I know significantly more of you are thinking: I don't consistently keep up with podcast releases, how much free time do you think I have, buddy? To answer your queries: this is a bonus episode! We're answering listener questions to clear the air and/or have fun. Also, I don't know, around 20 to 40 minutes a week, as that is the average amount of time per episode? Maybe during your commute? My husband's omnipotence has been gone for five years, we just have to guess at that sort of thing now.

Jon: For legal reasons, that last statement was a joke. In fact, to cover all of our bases, we do not guarantee that any of our responses are genuine.

Martin: Just because we say we'll answer things doesn't mean we'll answer truthfully. Though, honestly, I think we might make it more enjoyable if we do tell the truth. Like, I don't necessarily have a fun lie prepared for our first question from konspiracyking97: "What's their fuckin deal anyway?"

Jon: Is this referring to the oblique references  we've made about being from a parallel reality and only ending up here as a consequence of ending one apocalypse and potentially starting another or the general premise of the show?

Martin: Oh, it's gotta be general premise, yeah?

Jon: In that case, I'm Jon, the other voice you're hearing is Martin, we're married, and we talk about things that are..nice? Good? Usually generally but occasionally rather specifically pleasant.

Martin: That pretty much covers it. It's not a complicated show. Uhh, next question comes from Shane: are either or both of you aliens? Nope!

Jon: Well..

Martin: No. We are 100% human people from Earth, we are under no definition extraterrestrial.

Jon: Eh..

Martin: Okay, first off, I know the tone of that 'eh' and "not fully human" is not synonymous with alien, so even if 100% is being a bit generous, we're still from the same planet as our listeners.

Jon:..

Jon: But. We sort of aren't though. Technically speaking.

Martin: No no no no no. I don't care if it's parallel, Earth is Earth is Earth, regardless of whatever nonsense metaphysics might be occurring.

Jon: So what you're saying is that if you got sucked through a portal and landed on an Earth where dinosaurs were still the predominant species, you wouldn't consider yourself to be an alien?

Martin: Nope!

Jon: I'm certain that they would consider you an alien. All of their mammals are probably shrew sized.

Martin: Sounds like a them problem.

Jon: Sounds like a-?! You know what, no, this will be an off the record debate, for now, I suppose I concede that the two Earths and our physiologies are similar enough that we might, maybe, not count as aliens.

Martin: Thank you. Anyway, our next question is from anonymous, and asks, "Is all of this an ARG?"

Jon: A whomst?

Martin: Alternate reality game. It's a method of storytelling that's interactive with audience, and usually has, I dunno, a certain suspension of disbelief to it where it pretends to be something actually happening in the real world until a dramatic reveal. A lot times it was used as a marketing gimmick, but others have done it just for fun. I can show you some examples after the show?

Jon: So it's in essence a more involved creepypasta?

Martin, delighted: Aw, babe, I'm never going to have a handle on what pop culture you are and aren't aware of, huh?

Jon: We were born within a year of each other, and I've told you that I was a deeply morbid teenager, you should probably be able to intuit some of things, love.

Martin: This coming from a man who has yet to see "It's a Wonderful Life", but has seen every film in the "Banjo Cannibals" franchise, including the Easter special. Jesus doesn't exist in the Banjo Cannibals universe, why does it have an Easter special?

Jon: The movies are rather shoddily translated from Russian, so I'm fairly certain the Easter component of that special was invented wholesale in the English version.

Martin: You say that like it answers more questions than it raises.

Jon: Yes, because it does. Oh, and to answer anonymous's question, no, this isn't an ARG. From my understanding of it, if it were, it'd be a poorly constructed one, as there's no real game element to any of this.

Martin: Hmm. Well, sometimes the game component is just trying to figure out what's going on with the story, or if there's any deeper content, and people are definitely doing that with this show.

Jon: That's not by design though. It's more a side effect of us having poor brain to mouth filters, I'd say.

Martin: Harsh, but fair. Oh, this next one is from Zac, no K, who asks, "Are you two actually even married?"

Jon, flat: We are, but it's under false names because this whole thing is an elaborate insurance scam.

Jon, incredulous: Yes, obviously, we're married. What did you hear in this podcast that would make you wonder otherwise, and how do we rectify it?

Martin: Clearly we need to up our quota for how "disgustingly in love" and "horrifically sappy" we are per episode. Which segues nicely into the next question from Gwen, "What's your favourite wonderful thing you've brought so far?" My answer: my husband. He's kind of my favourite in most things, you know?

Jon: Boooooo

Martin: Why, what's your favourite thing?

[Jon reluctantly sighs]

Jon, indulgent: being married.

Martin: A: serves you right for trying to pretend you're the less horrifically sappy and romantic one even though earlier today someone put a love note in the lunch they packed for me-

Jon:- Lies and slander! I have never, in my life, done that, even once.

Martin: Oh, sure, not even once. And you definitely don't reserve the lilac sticky notes specifically for my lunches because you know I like the colour. 

Jon: I..I don't.. you're rather ruining my image here.

[Martin snorts]

Martin: Can't have the audience think that you are, on occasion, an incredibly doting husband-

Jon: -A title I would argue we both share-

Martin: - which is obviously why, even with it being your favourite thing you've brought, being married to me is just a small wonder-

Jon, audibly rolling his eyes: As I already explained-

[A Pause}

Jon: Actually, you're right-

Martin: Wait-

Jon:- I really should have brought it as a larger wonder-

Martin: Wait-

Jon: though I should warn you, I think I'd have far too much material for just one little segment-

Martin: No no no no no-

Jon:- In fact, I think I might have too much material for just one little episode-

Martin: Joo-oon-

Jon: I might have to do a whole series! Where would I even start? I mean I could talk about how every day I get to watch the early morning sun highlight your curls when I get up first, or hear you quietly humming and shuffling around the kitchen when you do, or I could talk about how the lunch notes only started in the first place as retaliation to the notes you would leave on the mirror for me to find, or how every time I get to see you at ease in a way that you aren't with anyone else, it takes my breath away, or I could talk about how cute I find the lines between your eyebrows that you only get when you're thinking something petty, but you know it's petty so you don't want to say anything-

Martin: Okay, okay, Christ, I give !up I surrender, and will cease my teasing on this particular topic.

Jon, probably making the :3 face: You don't have to stop. I mean, I could also discuss how very, very attractive I find your voice when it takes on a teasi-mmph!

[There's a pleased hum, then a pause.]

[The audio quality is slightly changed, as if the recording has been stopped and then started later]

Martin, giddy: Uh, heh, anyway, Eric asked what the least favourite thing we've brought was, and because of Jon's attempt to embarrass me live-

Jon, overlapping: It's definitely not live-

Martin:- on air, I'm gonna say it's my husband.

[Jon scoffs]

Jon : If the past few minutes are any sort of indication, I'm going to go ahead and saying that you are lying.

Martin, sighing contentedly: Maybe a bit, but how was I supposed to resist when your indigance gives you that adorable little nose scrunch? In reality, my least favourite thing was probably, um, mini golf? Which, I still don't think is inherently bad, definitely superior to regular golf, but when it's the only thing a next door two year old wants to do with you, the charm begins to wear off a bit.

Jon: Wow. A rather scathing review of a toddler.

Martin: Not so much a scathing review of a toddler as it's a scathing review of minigolf's inability to keep its appeal after the third time in the same week.

Jon: Mmm, the sound effects rather quickly go from part of the atmosphere to part of the irritation, don't they?

Martin: So what's your least favorite thing we've covered here?

Jon: Oh, love, I'm not going to pretend to have nearly enough memory of what we've covered so far to have a least favorite.

Martin: Really? Nothing that you regret or rescind?

Jon: Well, regret, certainly. It was one of the weeks where you went first, and your second item was mutual aid funds, and what they can do for marginalized communities, and I had to follow it with fucking Slapchop.

Martin, poorly suppressing laughter: In your defence, Slapchop, or whatever offbrand we have, is pretty useful, especially when either your scar or my arthritis is acting up.

Jon: I'm still not convinced you didn't somehow see my notes for the recording and decided you get revenge for the first year that we knew each other.

Martin, no longer suppressing his laughter: Yep, you got me! This marriage wasn't an act of insurance fraud, but it was a near decade long con to humiliate you on a podcast that about twenty people listen to. I'll draft up the divorce papers immediately, and then we can finally go our separate ways. 

Jon: I'm glad you've at last admitted it. Such a weight off of my shoulders. Goodbye forever then.

Martin: Right.

Jon: Right.

[A beat.]

[There's a pfft from one of them, before both dissolve into giggles that lasts a good 30 seconds.]

Martin, slightly out of breath: I can't believe we're the kind of people that talk this much about speciality kitchen gadgets.

Jon: Sorry about that.

Martin: God, don't apologize. I'm, like, deliriously happy with our varying degrees of useful cooking ware filled life. If you had told 25 year old me that one day he'd be debating the merits of getting a tortilla press with his husband, he'd have wept, I tell you.

Jon: Funny, if you told 25 year old me the same thing, he would've said "You don't know the future,piss off" and then quietly have a bit of a panic at 3 am that night.

Martin: I bet you were insufferable in your mid-twenties.

Jon: First of all, who isn't, secondly, I was fresh out of Oxford, and third, I was insufferable in my late twenties, as you can attest to, and I'm insufferable now, as you can further attest to, so extrapolation would indicate that, yes, I was insufferable back then.

Martin: Probably a different kind of insufferable, though.

Jon: There are different kinds?

Martin: Of course! You used to be "prick boss" insufferable and now you're "smug in a way that I can't admit I find hot or it will go straight to your head" insufferable.

Jon, in the aforementioned smug tone: Oh, really?

Martin: See, see! Straight to your head.

Jon: Well straight is probably the wrong descriptor-

Martin: Oof, 4 out of 10 joke, babe.

Jon: That would be a far more convincing rating if you weren't grinning right now.

Martin: It's a genuine review, I'm just well known to be a sucker.

Jon: You and me both, darling.

Martin: Okay, if you're pulling out darling, you're clearly in too giddy of a mood to be focused on recording. Last question, from Jess, "You two mentioned meeting at work, but how did you actually end up together?" That's easy, Jon pulled me out of a hell dimension and then we went on the lam together to Scotland.

Jon: If that's not the way to tell a cute boy you like him, I don't know what is.

Martin: All right, that wraps up this bonus episode, and as the old saying goes, hiding from murderers in a cottage is more conducive to romance than suggesting you gouge out your eyes together.

Jon, cut off: Hey-!

#tma #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #post canon #wonderful! au #my fic

[amazingphilza]

study buddies :: cc!multiple x reader

fluff , platonic , gender neutral ! some headcanons if the mcyts were trying to help you do hw :D

cc’s included in order: tommyinnit , tubbo , ranboo , wilbur soot , philza , technoblade

tommyinnit

i feel like he’s the type to be in a long discord call with you whilst you both try to finish your work

mans uses the screensharing feature like there’s no tomorrow

“y/n watch my stream on discord and help me guess the answers”

“tommy no! i haven’t even taken a film class before”

“your guess is good as mine”

“just cheat and google the answers!!!”

“fuck you”

he actually just wants your attention because he’s bored out of his mind doing homework

five minutes later of asking you to help him guess questions he’s like

“hey y/n”

“what now?”

“let’s play bedwars”

“oh my god shut up!!!”

if tommy has to speedrun something before a deadline, it is a whole different story tho; he will be so focused on completing that he won’t hear what you’re saying

if you’re struggling in math, you’re on your own

“math is shit, only numbers i need is my primes and youtube analytics” says tommy any time you complain about math

besides the fact he isn’t good at solving math problems, you can’t even read his handwriting if he did try showing you how to do a problem

“okay, y/n, it’s simple, just look” he says in his kareninnit voice and everything

you’d be like “is the variable a G or a 9??”

“fuck you that’s a 4!!!”

tubbo

i don’t know if tubbo ever talked about school before but something about him makes me think he’s actually pretty good at math

like he can explain a few things when it comes to math / algebra

CODING GO BRRRR

no geometry or calculus though, anything past algebra will go bad

if tubbo is doing homework with you, he will definitely tune you out

“hey tubbo can you help me on this question?”

you don’t get a response until like 20 minutes later

“oh yeah, what was it y/n?”

like now you answer? i just got the answer myself after so long, forget you smh

“oh nothing tubbo, nevermind!”

but you’re still grumbling in your head because if he answered just a bit earlier you wouldn’t have gone through the work of finding the answer online

i can also imagine if you’re taking chemistry tubbo is like ;

“oh you’re taking chemistry? let’s make some bombs!” /lh

tubbo would definitely pull an all-nighter with you to finish your projects together

if you had a group project, he would make you do the writing part while he does the drawing part

“we definitely aced this project”

“of course we did, if i made you draw we would’ve ended up with stick figure diagrams”

“TUBBO. THE FUCK?”

ranboo

okay i know ranboo said he isn’t a theatre or band kid (unless im wrong and forgetful) but i feel like he’d be somewhat educated in the topics nonetheless

half the time he’s great moral support, helping you stay motivated !

the other half is him making fun of you

“i cant believe you’re failing, that is so sad, can’t be me”

“it’s literally an honors class, ranboo! it’s supposed to be hard!!”

“taking an honors class willingly? also cant be me AHAHA”

i honestly can’t see ranboo going to school like i know he’s a minor and said he had zoom calls before and plays volleyball but like did i miss something? has he dropped out yet? like something about ranboo does not scream “student” /lh

besides that, i’m not sure what subject he would actually be good in,,, but something about nutrition/health sciences,, he knows a few things

don’t get me wrong, i don’t think he actually likes the subject but somehow remembers what he learned from the class

also gives me the type of energy of the type of person to take a first aid class to be a certified person to do cpr on someone just to kill time during his lunch breaks for a while or something

“i am a certified cpr person”

“my life in ranboo’s hands? oh god please no”

you two would probably joke about the ‘bad’ people in your classes or talk shit about your schools than actually doing anything homework related ngl AHAHAH

“you think your school is down bad? mine went back to campus full time after like 6 months into quarantine because they were running out of money”

“what the hell y/n? your school is a scam, drop out”

“arghhhh i knowww”

“i bet i make more money than your teachers combined AHAHAH”

wilbur soot

he doesn’t seem like the best person to ask for help for homework but can info dump you on very specific historical events + a bit of geography

i kinda see him as the person you can ask to proof read an essay for you and would help it improve immensely

who needs a thesaurus when you have vocabulary boy wilbur?

i dunno if it’s an american thing only or at all, but if/when you get to studying hamilton in your english class, he will get so fucking excited

“no wilbur it isn’t fun! imagine listening to lin-manuel miranda rap ‘alexander hamilton’ at the white house from like 2009 on repeat for over an hour whilst trying to write an analysis about it!! it was so distracting”

“well clearly someone has a personal problem with mr lin-manuel. if i were you, i’d be singing the whole thing”

is this last bit personal and complete spite from my freshman year english class? yes. i do not care? no. /hj

unrelated but i actually scribbled nice guy ballad lyrics and other songs on my english scratch papers in freshman year but anyway

probably isn’t the best person to be in a call to do homework with but wilbur doesn’t mind you ringing him occasionally sometimes

i dunno i can just see him easily get bored of the silence or something but also doesn’t want to bother you too much

but he is genuinely proud of you whenever you tell him you aced a big test you were studying for :D

philza

this man’s bad advice is as bad as him trying to help you on any subject

he’s an old man so /hj

but like honestly, he hasn’t been at school for so long, phil can probably only help with the most basic things when it comes to school

if you have a wack teacher that makes you collect data through surveying people, phil would be one of the best people to ask! straightforward and won’t take too much of your time compared to other people ahem,,

statistics things ! sobs

if you ever complain a lot about your classes and contemplating dropping out and stuff, he will def scold you hard

“ugh phillllllllll can i just like,, never go to school again?”

“do not drop out”

“argh fine, i won’t just ‘cause philza minecraft said so”

honestly if you get a high score in a big test like your sats/gcse’s (whatever you’re taking from wherever you are) he’d probably order you a small meal or something to celebrate :D

like how phil bought ranboo bought him food to his house, it would start as a joke but when you get your test scores back he’s like “YOOO GOOD JOB Y/N”

expect a left meat pizza coming to your house .

technoblade

like wilbur, techno is also helpful when it comes to history!

def knows a decent bit of literature too

besides that i don’t really see him being that helpful

even if he was supposed to be an english major

he will just get mad at the school system for teaching you useless things

“being in school is good but why do you need to know how to know if something is a triangle or not? i can obviously see with my eyes that it’s a triangle”

“i dunno! ask the person that made up geometry”

“just look at a kaleidoscope and be over with it, it isn’t that hard”

“that isn’t how it works—”

“bruhhh”

if you’re looking for the person to call while doing homework, he is not the person /lh

it’s either like 0 or 100 with techno

he can just completely not say anything and ignore you or go on a full rant about whatever class or homework you have

if you have an essay you need written, it will take a lot of bribing but he might take the opportunity if you are rich

“techno i’ll paypal you $10 please help me”

“no. i can make 10 times that amount in 5 minutes if i just started streaming right now”

“techno i don’t have that kind of money! pleaseee”

“no. instead of complaining, you can use that time to actually start you work”

“you’re the worst”

then you speedrun the essay and get an A just to spite him

#dream smp imagines #dream smp x reader #dream smp x y/n #dream smp headcanons #sbi imagine #sbi x reader #sbi headcanons #mcyt imagine #mcyt x reader #mcyt x y/n #mcyt x you #mcyt headcanons

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: NHS non-fatally qi deviates. How do NMJ and the others take that?

ao3 

Untamed

It had always been something of a behind-closed-doors debate – a chicken-and-the-egg problem, what came first, what was the cause and what was the symptom.

Was the Nie sect’s atypical cultivation method the reason behind the notorious Nie temper? Or were they born with the temper, and the cultivation method merely built upon that? Which one was the reason for their clan’s tendency towards early qi deviations?

Nie Huaisang usually threw his money on the “blame the cultivation style”, almost entirely for the sake of pissing off his brother.

He was starting to think, though, that he’d been wrong.

Aituan wasn’t even anywhere nearby, after all, when he started bleeding out of his qiqiao, his qi disordered and violently raging inside of him and still somehow, somehow not enough to assuage the rage in his heart, in his head –

“Nie-xiong! Nie-xiong! Nie Huaisang!”

Nie Huaisang turned with a snarl, but Wei Wuxian was already holding up his hands in surrender, Jiang Cheng quickly following suit a second later, and in the end he wasn’t really angry at them.

“I’m pretty sure you’re done,” Jiang Cheng said cautiously. “You’re – you are done, right?”

“I dunno,” Wei Wuxian muttered. “I don’t think Wen Zhuliu is entirely paste yet – there’s still a few bones Nie-xiong hasn’t crushed down into dust…”

“Shut up.”

“I will not.”

The familiar bickering was soothing, like slipping into a hot bath at the end of a tough day – like arguing with his brother about silly things, scoring a clever point and getting one of his brother’s rare smiles. Nie Huaisang felt his shoulders relax a little, and he lowered the stick –

“Why am I holding a stick?” he asked blankly, looking down at it. He didn’t remember picking it up at any point. “And why is it…uh…”

“Covered in the blood and guts and possibly brain matter of your enemy?”

Nie Huaisang swayed, suddenly light-headed. “…that,” he agreed, voice weak.

He slowly became aware that there was something squishy and wet under his feet, soaking into his shoes, and he very carefully did not look down.

“What happened?” he asked faintly. “What did I – actually, on second thought, don’t tell me.”

Jiang Cheng’s expression was a strange mix of being impressed with him and pitying him, and honestly Nie Huaisang preferred the pity. No one was impressed with him, not ever, and in retrospect he rather liked it that way, if the alternative was…

“You defeated the Core-Melting Hand in one-on-one combat,” Wei Wuxian said. “Congratulations.”

Nie Huaisang gaped at him.

“Don’t you remember?” Jiang Cheng said, blinking at him. “He said something about your brother, and you suddenly lost it –”

Nie Huaisang remembered, suddenly, and he felt a sickening lurch in his stomach as his vision flickered red around the edges again, and he imagined he could hear Aituan shouting his name from thousands of li away. How dare that man, that stone-face bastard who looked so long-suffering and yet underneath it all was so cruel and unfeeling – how dare he say such a thing about his da-ge –

Nie Huaisang had been angry the entire time he’d been here at the indoctrination camp.

Really angry, not the silly little temper tantrums he usually threw back at home or the occasional shouting matches he had with his brother to vent steam. He hated it here. He hated the fact that he was here in the Nightless City, the one place his brother had always refused to bring him no matter how embarrassingly impolitic it was, the place Sect Leader Wen had murdered his father over a stupid dinner table conversation. He hated the fact that his brother had tried to protect him, and failed only because he’d gotten distracted by Meng Yao of all people.

(He hated the fact that he’d had to learn that fact from one of his retainers, weeks too late and him already gone to the Nightless City, too late to apologize or make it up; hated the fact that the last words he’d said to his da-ge on the subject were cruel ones, blaming him for sending away his friend, when in fact his friend had torn off his face to reveal something dark beneath. He hated that his brother had just taken those cruel words from him, suffered under his accusations, without defending himself from them, because he blamed himself for – for what? For being just, the way he was supposed to be?  For protecting him?)

He hated the Yin metal, the vile corruption he could feel for all that they were in a different part of the palace. He hated Wen Chao making them memorize and recite, which he was terrible at, and he hated him for making them do it outside in the hot sun and the hot earth until he fainted from heatstroke, his weak golden core insufficient to protect him the way the others did them.

He hated Wen Ruohan, he hated Wen Chao, and he hated, hated, hated Wen Zhuliu.

Most of the boys at the indoctrination camp had gotten the idea that he wasn’t that bad, for all that he was terrifying, because he always looked so bored about everything, like he was having to fulfil all of this as a torturous duty instead of a pleasure, but he’d been the one to carry Nie Huaisang back inside after he’d fainted and he’d said some things about his brother then, when Nie Huaisang was too weak to do anything, and today he’d come by, watching Nie Huaisang struggle to set up the small tent he’d been given for their travels, and he’d said them again…

“He wanted to steal my brother’s cultivation,” Nie Huaisang said through numb lips. His hands were clenched, quivering with rage that was impossible to bury down in his heart – was this how his brother felt all the time? No wonder he was so straightforward about most things; forget scheming, it was amazing he could even think. “He wanted – he didn’t even think of him as a person. Just dirt beneath his feet, fruit ripe for the plucking, some animal he could slaughter as a prize to give to his wretched master –”

He’d even said, today, that they could use what was left over as a corpse puppet, and chuckled when he thought of what the great Chifeng-zun would have thought of that.

Nie Huaisang had been angry ever since they’d arrived, full of bile and choler and rage.

His family never did handle their rage well.

“You had a minor qi deviation,” Wei Wuxian said solemnly, looking at him. “You’re still bleeding – your eyes, your nose, your ears…We need to get you to a doctor.”

“We need to hide the body before anyone finds it, that’s what we need to do,” Jiang Cheng said.

“We can do both! Multitasking!”

He was very lucky to have such good friends, Nie Huaisang thought to himself, and toppled over.

He woke up back in the sorry excuse for a camp, with Wen Qing acting as his doctor and Wen Ning as her assistant, taking care of him (it had taken an embarrassingly long while before Nie Huaisang remembered their names, for all that they’d come to lessons at the Cloud Recesses, too, both of them, and even though they’d all gone on a whole mission to the village with the goddess statute together afterwards, but in his defense he was really bad at memorizing - anything), and while Wen Qing kept herself nice and professional, Wen Ning kept shooting him extremely impressed looks that Nie Huaisang didn’t think he deserved.

He hadn’t actually defeated the Core-Melting Hand in one-on-one combat, no matter what Wei Wuxian said. He’d launched a surprise attack at the back of a man who wasn’t expecting it, because no one ever expected anything from Nie Huaisang.

“You have remarkable arm strength,” Wen Qing said (she had looked amused when he asked about her name, blushing with shame), sounding casual but clearly fishing a little. “It’s hidden by your thin frame, and even further minimized by your choice in clothing, but actually you have significant muscle there.”

“Saber practice,” Nie Huaisang explained. “Sabers are heavier than swords, and rely more on brute force. At home, you train a lot with heavy things even before you get your own saber, just to make sure you can wield it properly – you have to have a good arm.”

He’d been barely mediocre by his sect’s standards, and even that level he’d only achieved through years of nagging, threatening, and occasional bribery on his older brother’s part. He shouldn’t have been able to win, but Wen Zhuliu hadn’t even been looking at Nie Huaisang when he’d said what he said, hadn’t seen the moment he’d snapped and attacked, his disordered qi giving him extraordinary strength even as it turned against him to destroy him internally, and if there was one thing that saber style taught you it was not to let someone who’d fallen to your blade get up again.

(Had his brother brought out Baxia against Meng Yao, before deciding to let him go? He couldn’t help but wonder – it was bad luck if he had, a severing of the relationship in an unfixable way, but he wasn’t sure his brother would be strong enough to resist trying to repair it if Meng Yao ever came back. Where was Meng Yao, anyway?)

Attacking a man from behind wasn’t really honorable, he thought glumly, and he thought he understood for the first time why his brother was so strict about such things: it didn’t feel good to have done it this way. It felt like cheating, made every approving gaze feel like a lie, like something he didn’t deserve.

“So what happens now?” he asked, and Wen Qing shrugged a little helplessly. “Does, uh…”

“Wei-gongzi and Jiang-gongzi are hiding the remains,” Wen Ning volunteered. He looked way too cheerfully when he said ‘remains’. Possible budding mass-murderer? Or maybe he’d just been a doctor’s assistant for too long. “Wen-er-gongzi hasn’t noticed yet – he’s still with Wang Lingjiao.”

“But he will notice,” Nie Huaisang said.

“As long as he doesn’t blame any of you, does it matter?” Wen Qing said.

“…if you have an example of Wen Zhuliu’s handwriting, I can probably forge it to look like a note saying he was summoned back by Sect Leader Wen.”

Wen Qing and Wen Ning exchanged looks he didn’t quite understand, but they brought him what he needed, and by the time they got trapped in a horrible underground cave with a gigantic man-eating Xuanwu the next day, Wen Chao still hadn’t figured it out, though he’d been in an awful mood the entire time.

“Why are you sitting down?” Jiang Cheng scolded him even as he dashed around fighting Wen sect soldiers, and see, this was why Nie Huaisang didn’t ever fight. It only made people expect him to do it more – Jiang Cheng hadn’t scolded him at all for hiding behind things before…

Before.

“Leave him alone,” Jin Zixuan said. He hadn’t been there, so he still looked disdainful and dismissive; it was amazing how much of a relief that was. “He can’t help anyway.”

“But –”

“My head hurts,” Nie Huaisang said plaintively, and it had the benefit of being both true and working very effectively to get Jiang Cheng to head as far away from him as possible in a sudden rush. After a while, he got up and picked up one of the swords some unfortunate Wen sect retainer had dropped.

“I have no idea what I’m doing with this,” he said, very seriously, to yet another unfortunate Wen sect retainer, before lifting it and bringing it down, saber-style, the way his brother had all but beaten into his head.

That one didn’t seemed like he was expecting it, either, even though Nie Huaisang was right in front of his face and everything.

It felt a bit better, though – Aituan didn’t like the Wen sect one bit, he thought a little muzzily, and wondered why he’d thought that, since after all Aituan was all the way back at home – and he was a little less ashamed to stand with the rest of them as they tried to figure out a way out of the cave.

“You probably shouldn’t do that,” he said to the Lan disciple who picked up a bow and was trying to aim it at the Xuanwu. “You’ll miss.”

The Lan disciple glared at him.

“Not as bad as I would, mind you,” Nie Huaisang said, looking at it. He felt as though he was standing behind a pane of glass and nothing could touch him - not pain or fear or anything, anything but rage. “I’d probably miss the turtle entirely. I’m just saying that it’s angry now, so the shot’s a lot harder to make; maybe five people could make that shot.”

“Lan-er-gongzi could make it.”

“Yes, well, Lan-er-gongzi isn’t human,” Nie Huaisang said, quite seriously, and the Lan disciple’s lips twitched. “Seriously, don’t waste your time – or your arrows. If you’re anywhere good enough at archery to even think that you could make that shot, you need to keep them to protect me.”

“Are you in need of protection?”

“Oh, always,” Nie Huaisang said blithely, the way he always did, then paused and grimaced. “Most of the time, anyway. I got sick, earlier.”

He was pretty sure the Lan disciple didn’t understand what he meant by sick.

“You don’t really want me to protect you,” the disciple said, frowning. “Do you?”

Nie Huaisang wanted everyone to protect him. He never wanted to fight again in his life.

But the Lan disciple looked like he was a little pleased to have been asked, like no one had ever asked him before, and Nie Huaisang suddenly felt a sudden stab of empathy hitting him straight in the heart.

“I do. I’m pretty sure all the other Nie disciples here are short-range fighters –” His brother had sent as few of them as he could manage, and only sent any at all because he wanted someone there to keep an eye on Nie Huaisang. To protect him. “– and they’re mostly hotheaded idiots –” That was definitely true. “– and I really, really don’t want to end up in another situation where I get sick again, because my brother will never forgive me. So I could use an archer.”

“…okay,” the Lan disciple said. “I’m Su She.”

Nie Huaisang nodded. “I promise to apologize to your sect later on for taking up your time.”

He managed not to be sick the entire journey home.

Maybe it was an aberration, he thought, maybe –

When he got home, his brother was holding Aituan in his hand instead of Baxia – she was in her sheath on his back – and he rushed over to him at once, presenting the saber to him before he did anything else; confused, Nie Huaisang accepted his saber, wondering if he was going to need to go practice or something, and the second his hand wrapped around the hilt –

Oh.

Oh.

His head abruptly cleared, the fog he hadn’t even realized was there finally lifting, the rage draining out of him and back into Aituan – not an especially angry saber, as they went, but still a Nie saber with all that entailed. His qi finally, finally straightened out, stabilized, and he felt like he could breathe again, his mind free and clear now that he had a saber in his hand.

Like all the other Nies before him.

Doomed.

And then he was in his brother’s arms, being held tight.

“Oh, Huaisang,” his brother said, and his voice sounded raw and broken, almost as if he’d been weeping. “I never wanted this for you.”

Nie Huaisang hugged him back.

“It’s okay,” he said, and the buzzing in the back of his head that was Aituan agreed with him. He’d been there the whole time, ever since the first incident; it didn’t matter how far away from each other they were. “It was a small one, it passed, it’s fine…”

It wasn’t fine, and they both knew it – Nie Huaisang might not know the details of all their clan secrets, but he knew enough to know what it was he was so carefully not knowing – but what was there to say?

It was still his family. It was still his heritage.

(He wondered what Meng Yao would say, if he knew. He wondered if he would pull his saber back the way his brother had, if Meng Yao ever betrayed him.)

“At least I can help fight now,” he said, joking, and his brother glared at him.

“Not a chance,” he said. “You’re going to go somewhere safe. You can go with –”

“Su She.”

“– with Su She back to the Cloud Recesses; it’ll be more secure there than here.”

It was about what Nie Huaisang had expected.

“Okay,” he said. “But not now.”

His brother’s eyes flickered down to his saber. His lifeline.

“No,” he said. “Not now.”

#mdzs #nie huaisang #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #su she #nie mingjue #wen ning #wen qing #my fic #my fics #I actually wrote this before the other Su She one #funny to see how things develop over time #Anonymous

[thewillowbends]

So I'm rewatching the first season and reading the book, and I've got Thoughts (TM)

And I've got a LOT of thoughts about what exactly Leigh Bardugo was doing here in terms of the moral and ethical statements of the narrative, so I'm putting it under the cut.

Something that's really glaring on the rewatch is just...the complete lack of compassion every character outside Aleksander has for the plight of the Grisha. The army treats treats them with reciprocal dislike, despite the fact that they couldn't even cross the Fold with the Inferni or Squallers. The tsar and tsarita treat them with condescension and disdain, clearly valuing them mainly as a utility that, historically, they've happily turned on when they felt they were growing too powerful. Baghra has just given up on trying to protect other Grisha who aren't immortal like her or Aleksander. Even Alina is guilty of othering them and has to be told off by multiple characters (Ivan, Aleksander, Baghra) to stop treating her power like a yoke instead of a responsibility and opportunity to help others.

We get this big, bad, armor-piercing line from her to Aleksander about how he doesn't care who suffers as long as he wins. Which is true to some extent, but...where is her compassion? Didn't we just spend a hefty portion of the narrative wanting to give her power away to somebody else so she can, what, be with her bestie? Meanwhile, there's, you know, an actual war going on. This isn't small stakes shit she sees going on around her. People are dying. We literally have an entire plot where we see a Grisha kidnapped, enslaved, and then sent to be put to death...who was given to the enemy by her own people!

And then we get that line from her in 1x07, only to have it followed up by her running away at the end of 1x08 for....why? Most people on the ship are dead or those that survived weren't his supporters. The people on the docks were killed, and most of them actually were traitors trying to kill Alina. Aleksander didn't lie about that. So she's running away to take the blame for some nebulous reason that's not really well explained, which is...well, what the fuck happens to the rest of the Grisha? Do we not care about how Aleksander's actions are going to reflect back on them and cause a potential backlash or something? Not to mention, nobody is on the other side to warn them that Aleksander is a threat to begin with. Even if you assumed he was dead, you'd definitely want to assume he likely had supporters back at the palace, too!

From a character writing perspective, I find it stupid that Aleksander doesn't tell her certain things because if he's such a big, bad, clever manipulator, he would absolutely be weaponizing his own pain and experiences to make her stumble in empathy. That's bad character writing to me when you're telling me somebody's an abusive villain but actually isn't using very real and effective abuser tactics. But then you also have Alina who refuses to even point out...Aleksander, I get it! I've talked to other Grisha! I see what you're going through! But this can't be the answer. You have to see this won't end well for you! Like, her own arguments make no sense to me. They're so myopic and self-involved.

One of the big things that bothers me that gets folded into Aleksander's other manipulations is this idea that he primarily associates and values her for her power, in contrast to Mal who primarily sees her for being herself. While I get the intent of that on a narrative level, in the scope of the wider story...it just literally makes no sense for Aleksander to parse those two as separate. Not when the whole reason Grisha are hunted down and killed is because they don't get the privilege of being people outside of their power. Aleksander doesn't get to be General Kirigan without also being the Darkling. Therefore, Alina doesn't get to be Sankta Alina without also being the Sun Summoner. Not a single other character gets to be relevant without being powerful.

Even on a narrative level, it makes no sense. One, it's frankly kind of sexist (when are male protagonists ever expected to be segregated from their power) and two...that's the whole reason we're telling her story! That's why she's the protagonist! She is special. She can't be separated from this unique power destiny has handed her. We don't tell stories about common, boring people; we tell stories about people who incite conflict or change. So even the mere concept to me of basing a character's identity or value around not wanting value is frankly kind of ridiculous.

There's just this strangely insidious underpinning to the story that power is inherently dangerous, even as it acknowledges that people who are NOT in power can very much suffer at the hands of those who do. So where's the moral and ethical reflection about what this means for the rest of us? What does that mean for minorities?

Think of the scene on the boat where Aleksander has Ivan kill off the nobility. The narrative wants you to see this moment as blackly humorous and awful, but stop for a moment and think about what happened there from his perspective. This is a man who spent centuries watching his people get killed and enslaved, and that isn't a false representation or manipulation from him, either. His statement is backed up both by what we see in the flashbacks and by other Grisha. Nobody created a safe haven for him and his people - he did that! He had to claw his way to the top, flatter, kill, and fuck his way through god knows how many noble houses, just to get to this moment where he could build a Little Palace. And it took him four hundred years just to get that! All while Grisha are dying!

And nobody did anything about it. Not the king, not the landholders, not even the peasantry. They were happy taking advantage of the Grisha's powers, of course, when Aleksander helped raise them up into a position of prominence, making them soldiers and enchanters. And even then, they're mocked! The army can't wait to get rid of them!

And then some noblewoman, who has enjoyed the benefits of her wealth and power, some of which were built on the backs of your people, sits there and tells you, the moment you take hold of the power everybody else has been grabbing for centuries, has the audacity to sit there and tell you that the world will hate Grisha and view him as a heretic?? When less than twenty years ago, your people were being killed right and left? When the enemy is still kidnapping and enslaving your people? When your own countrymen view you with fear and intrigue already? The audacity to sit there and frame it as a hypothetical when it's very much an actual reality still going on. Just look at the barely hidden seething rage and contempt on Barnes face when he delivers that quip about "needing to do that speech again." Motherfucker has been waiting YEARS for this moment, this revenge. And really, who can blame him...if you aren't wrapped up in the narrative wanting you to focus on just what he's doing to poor Alina.

The way the Grisha's situation is framed along with how the Darkling's descent into villainy is handled is so just incongruent to me. The pieces don't fit. You're asking me to see this man as completely irredeemable after you just showed me six episodes of Grisha being killed both for being what they are in the hopes of protecting Alina, after you showed me that Aleksander had already TRIED appealing to the protection of the crown by lending it his power, after making us see that lies and manipulation are the only way he and his mother have been able to survive as long as they have in a world that eradicated them. Where is the compassion in the narrative for that?

And okay, fine, you can do an irredeemable villain. You can do a Kilmonger-esque story with the Darkling, but that requires forcing your protagonists to empathize with the villain and change from it. But then I read ahead and...that doesn't happen?? She winds up walking away from it all at the end?? In fact, she even loses her power. And that's supposed to be a HAPPY ending? After we just saw how badly this minority was treated for how many centuries??

You know what it feels like? It feels like Leigh Bardugo read The Hunger Games, tried to replicate a Katniss, and then completely failed to understand the profound situational differences between her protagonist and that one. Katniss is a girl made extraordinary by her circumstances. She's not special herself other than the fact that she did the right thing at the right place at the right time and helped create the tipping point for a revolution that was already in the works before her. Katniss walking away from the world after makes sense because she's burned out after the war, but it also got its use from her. She helped make the revolution work; she showed up for the event while it was happening and did what she could. The situation was out of her control and power for the most part, and she still managed to rise the occasion.

Alina is NOT Katniss. She is inherently special. She is inherently powerful. She has the ability to create change and bring a new perspective that Aleksander has long given up on and which her country desperately needs. We know the world of the Hunger Games will be better because the creators of real change were always working behind the scenes behind Katniss. She was just their propaganda, their symbol. Alina is a symbol, but she is also a very real power. It's not an act of moral celebration for her to walk away from power at the end, namely because there's a whole minority class of people we still have to worry about. Putting a Grisha on the throne is no promise the country won't turn against them eventually, nor does that protect the hundreds of Grisha at the mercy of a superstitious peasantry and countries that will likely continue to invade them.

It's just...I dunno guys. It's frustrating because all the compelling elements are there in the characters and storyline, but it's like the author had a set of characters telling one story and then she had an entirely different plot in mind, and they just clash all over the place for me and become thematically inconsistent. But what really gets me is that she had seven years to think this shit over...and we're looking to get the same story all over again. Usually, it's a great thing to have an author involved in the show. This is a rare situation where I wonder if it hurts the chances of it improving.

#shadow and bone #shadow and bone spoilers #meta #long post #spoilers for the grisha trilogy too #critical analysis

[joontier]

Subliminal in Scrubs | V2; report xiii

pairings: dr. jeon jungkook x female reader

chapter rating: NC-17 | genre: humor, workplace relationships

warnings: swearing 

word count: 1.8k

g/n: decided on a bit of a filler for this one as a sort of prelude to future scenes 👀👀 ((likewise manifesting my plan to post another chapter this week))

[taglist]:  @nottodayjjk @ditttiii @zeharilisharaban @btsbunny07 @turquoiseandplaidinautumn @aamxxrii @codeinebelle @btsmakesmehappy @stargukkie @moonchild1​

Subliminal in Scrubs (the records) |  navi. | m.list

Jungkook locks his apartment door behind him, jiggling the doorknob afterwards for ‘double security’ as one would usually call it. He grabs his backpack from the floor and places one of the straps on his shoulders and heads on his way. As he passes by two of his neighbors who live in the same floor, he nods at them, adding a brief hum in greeting. 

“Hey man!” One of the men, Jikwang (as what Jungkook believes this man’s name was), calls out just before Jungkook reaches the elevator. “There was this hot girl asking about you last night.” 

Jungkook raises a brow. He hadn’t really met anyone recently, besides that one cute law student who was looking for a new tenant - and eventually turned out to be your neighbor this whole time. She was cute and all, but she didn’t seem like the type that was ‘hot’ to these types of people. 

Jungkook racks his brain for anything, trying to remember the very few number of his one night stands.Surely,none of them would have gotten pregnant with protection on….surely? On top of that, he hadn’t really disclosed his address to a lot of people too, so there was no way someone would be looking for him, all the more a “hot” woman,as these two would claim. 

“Did she say what her name was?” 

The one beside Jikwang shakes his head, adjusting his beanie. He’d seen this dude a couple of times hanging around, but he never actually got his name.  “Nah bro, I don’t think you’re the commitment type of dude…” he comments, dark eyes looking at Jungkook from his head down to his toe. Who was this guy anyways and who was he to judge whether Jungkook was the type to enter a committed relationship or not? 

“She just...looked rich, rich. She had a driver... who helped her come down from a nice Benz.” 

Jungkook feels his heart drop to the ground. No way in hell. 

“I think her name was Hee something...Junghwa? I dunno man, I’m not good with names. But it sounds similar to that…” 

“Was it Junghee?” 

“Yeah I think that’s it…” bonnet-dude replies, tapping a finger against his chin as he approaches Jungkook. “You think maybe you can set me up? With you know…” 

Jikwang knocks the back of bonnet-man’s head. “I got dibs first, shithead. “If she’s not already yours though,” he adds, delivering a wink aimed at Jungkook. “Her friends will do.” 

Jungkook squints his eyes at the duo. “No. She’s my sister. And she doesn’t have any friends.” A chill courses through his spine as he replies, wondering how she managed to find out where he lived, and why would she even reach out? Why now, when she had so many years to do so? 

Beanie guy simply laughs at him - if it was even considered laughing, when he was practically splitting his sides with laughter - like the thought of having a sister was hilarious to him. “You’re real funny, man. There is no...way...in hell… that that lady was your sister.” 

Ah yes, this man is a health vice personified. Jungkook notes the discoloration of his teeth, the god-awful odor coming from his mouth, and they both reek of alcohol and drugs combined. From a safe distance, Jungkook watches their amusement over the subject that is his sister, thinking about why he even indulged these two in the first place. For all he knows, they might have been shitting on him the whole time. 

“Sorry man. I mean...she’s rich and hot… and you?” Jikwang shrugs his shoulders. 

‘And he?’ What about him? 

What the hell was that supposed to mean? 

Jungkook clicks his tongue silently, clearly taking full offense with Jikwang’s statement. Did they just imply he didn’t look rich and hot too? Well, compared to them though, they’ll obviously have way longer to go. 

Jungkook blinks before equally returning their level of disbelief. “For real, bro?” These men diss him, won’t believe he has a sister whose aura dwarfs his by a million percent, and now they want him to set up a date with her? He shakes his head. Only crooks like these would say insane shit like this. 

If only this wasn’t the cheapest and most convenient apartment he could find to accommodate his daily hustle, Jungkook would have moved out of this crap excuse of an apartment building a long time ago. 

“Keep dreaming man.” 

“Hey, this is what I get for selling you my bike for a good price?” Jikwang eyes Jungkook, taunting him. 

“I owe you nothing. I paid for it ages ago.” Jungkook turns on his heel, leaving the two in the crusty ass corridor of their apartment building. He needs to get a new place. Quickly. 

With a sigh, he pulls on his down jacket, keeping himself warm as he walks to the garage. 

‘King Auto’ 

There’s a certain warmth that envelops Jungkook whenever he sees the garage, a place he’d rather call home than his terrible apartment building. It sits right at the corner of two busy streets, just six blocks away from his apartment. 

Funnily enough, it wasn’t him who first found out about the garage but the other way around. Well, technically, the owner did. Lee Dongmin, owner and manager of ‘King Auto’ repairs and restores almost all types of cars and bikes alike, occasionally servicing high-end cars on lucky days. 

Dongmin would usually see Jungkook pass by the garage in the morning on his way to the university or his part-time job.Well, being located at a busy street in the city of Seoul, there would normally be a lot of passersby but Dongmin knew these people either worked or lived around the area; Jungkook, however, always lingered when he walks past the garage. 

It had come to Dongmin’s knowledge a few months later that Jungkook purposefully used a longer route on his way, walking two extra blocks just so that he could pass by the garage. Dongmin hadn’t initially done anything about it, as he thought Jungkook simply took interest in cars - especially when the shop had its fair share of servicing cars from the western market. 

There was this particular day though one summer, that their paths would finally cross. Jungkook’s bike, the same bike he bought from sketchy Jikwang, broke down. Coincidentally just in front of King Auto too. Funnily enough, no one in the garage was familiar with fixing up bikes, but Jungkook simply asked if he could borrow a few tools and he’d fix his bike himself. 

Ultimately, Jungkook became part of the King Auto family. He’d spend his spare time in the garage when he’s not busy with his part-time jobs and on occasion, Jungkook gets to keep a tiny commission whenever he helps out with the repairs. 

Jungkook goes through the front door greeting the new receptionist, Clark, a good morning before heading straight to the garage. Jungkook spots a familiar shade of blue peeking through the scissor lifts, just by the end row. He practically dashes to the car in excitement, too thrilled to greet his favorite car he had worked on previously. 

“My baby!” The boy exclaims as he rests his chin on the Porsche Panamera’s roof. “Kook! Get your hands off that! I just had it cleaned!” gruffs Mansik from the other side of the car, flinging his towel at Jungkook who mumbles a sorry but continues to cradle the car, a little more gently this time. 

“If you continue doing that, you know a towel isn’t the only thing Mansik is going to throw at you.” Lee Dongmin’s voice is low, careful that the man he’s referring to won’t hear his words. “I’m glad he hasn’t resorted to tools yet...just a couple of smelly socks and a t-shirt that smells like it hasn’t been washed for months... “ 

“Fuckers.” True to Jungkook’s foreboding, Mansik does throw a sock ball from out of nowhere, one which barely misses Jungkook’s face. Dongmin simply shakes his head at his workers, who he has considered family at this point, Jungkook included. “I’m just glad none of that fell into my first coffee of the day.” Dongmin observes, drawing himself father from the Porsche and any flying objects later on. 

“By the way, the owner is actually here to pick up the car. I may or may not have mentioned your infatuation with it.” 

Jungkook almost instantly jumps to his feet, searching for the owner inside the garage, but disappointingly ending up with all the familiar faces at the garage. “Chill, kid. He just grabbed some coffee down the street,” Dongmin mentions as he takes a sip of his own. “Ah, speaking of the devil,” the latter states, nodding his head towards someone behind Jungkook. 

“Seokjin-sunbaenim?” 

“Oh hey! Wasn’t expecting to see you here...Jungkook, right?” 

“Yes sir!” Jungkook’s pupils shake, animatedly looking back and forth between the garage owner and his upper-level resident. “So...you’re the one who owns this Porsche?” Seokjin raises his cup, adding a small nod in Jungkook’s direction. He internalizes his excitement, before confessing his love for Seokjin’s Panamera. 

“And so, Dongmin here mentioned. Also said you were the one who fixed her up. Thanks man!” 

Dongmin looks at the two of them, eyebrows creased in the middle. “You two know each other?” 

“Seokjin-sunbaenim is a senior of mine at Woocheon.” Seemingly shellshocked at the new piece of information, Dongmin turns to Seokjin, “You’re a doctor?” The owner of the Porsche rolls his eyes fondly, “Yes, Dongmin. We can have lives outside the hospital too, you know.” 

“Anyways, ‘Mera’s ready to go yeah?” 

“Of course. Kook fixed it up just fine.” 

“Alright. Got a shift today man? Need a ride to the hospital?” 

Jungkook is tempted to give in, but merely fixing Seokjin’s car is enough honor for him and he can’t take advantage of his generosity. “No thank you, sunbae. I’ve already got a ride to work today.” Jungkook points to his bike on the other side of the garage. 

Seokjin tuts his disbelief. “You’re kidding me right? In this weather?” The older doctor points outside, then rubs his palm against his down coat. “No way in hell, kid. Get in the car.” 

“Really?” Jungkook mumbles, dimple on display as his lips form a thin line. Seokjin makes a hum of approval as he takes off his jacket while Jungkook dashes back to where he’d left his backpack. “He’s a good kid, Jungkook. Can be a bit of a delinquent sometimes, but he’s good. Take care of him, yeah?” 

“Huh,” Seokjin smirks, “this handsome face got nothing he can’t handle.” Dongmin rolls his eyes this time, “Seriously doubt we’re the same age honestly.” 

Jungkook returns to where the Porsche is parked, and Seokjin gets a spur-of-the-moment idea. The surgical resident throws his keys to Jungkook before settling inside the passenger seat. Jungkook, surprised as ever, simply stands there in surprise. “Well?” Seokjin asks, ducking towards the dashboard so he could take a look at Jungkook, “We’re gonna be late!” 

© joontier 2021

#jungkook x reader #btswritingcafe #bangtanarmynet #btsghostie #jeon jungkook #bts aus #bts fic #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #doctors au

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Notting Hill AU Snippet #6

When they finally leave her brother's house, Lena is simultaneously exhausted and wired. Exhausted, because even a good time takes it out of her, and yet wired because the world's most famous woman is right next to her on the sidewalk, nudging shoulders as they walk down the block. It makes for a heady combination, which is the only reason at all that Lena finds herself rising to Kara's challenge of climbing over a wrought iron gate to the garden beyond.

"For the record," she huffs, struggling to find purchase with her bare hands, "I am not dressed for this-- whoopsie daisy!"

What the FUCK did she just say?

"What did you just say?" Kara echoes, her smile audible in the dark.

"Nothing," Lena brushes off as she resets. "Just, trying to get a decent foothold-- whoops!"

She slips again, and this time Kara laughs, the sound loud and musical. "You said whoopsy daisy. Like some mid-century housewife--"

"You keep distracting me!"

"From what? Another whoopsy daisy?" Kara nudges her aside, dusting off her hands. "Step aside, miss priss. Watch the professional work."

Lena obeys, turning her head aside to avoid her nose brushing a very toned, very firm ass as Kara shimmied her way up and over the fence in one try. Lena's mouth goes dry at the smoothness of the motion, and the way Kara's arms strain against the slim cut of her blouse.

Kara may be an actress, but she's clearly no waif.

The woman in question grins at her from the other side of the fence. "You know, you say you're not intimidated by a silly rule, but I think there may be some subliminal hangups..."

Lena scowls. "Oh, like hell."

Boots scrabbling against the fenceposts, Lena hauls herself up through sheer willpower alone. By the time she lands on her feet on the far side, Kara has disappeared further into the garden. With a quiet curse, Lena brushes herself off and straightens her hair before trotting after her.

"Wow..." Kara breathes when Lena catches up. "It's like it's own little world in here."

Lena watches her observe the garden, noting the way her eyes sparkle in the faint light trickling in around them. The field they stand in is lush beneath their feet, and even in the dark the scent of fragrant flowers fills the air.

Kara makes her way over to a bench, and reads the inscription on. "To June, who sat on this bench every day. From John, who always sat beside her."

Lena smiles at the sentiment, and the way Kara's voice softens as she reads it. It's beautiful, and she says so.

"I guess some love does last forever," Kara remarks, half to herself. She sits on the bench, smoothing her hands across the wood as if to ask its owners for the privilege. After a moment, she notices Lena watching. "Come sit with me."

Lena does, and they spend the night with Kara's head on Lena's shoulders, looking at the stars.

---

The next night, they go on a proper date. Or at least they try to, except Lena can't find her glasses and Querl is absolutely no help in finding them, so she watches the entire movie through the prescription lenses of her snorkel mask.

Luckily, it only makes Kara laugh, even if it earns Lena a couple handfuls of popcorn in her hair from being pelted. Afterwards, Lena takes them to her favorite sushi restaurant, and makes a show of ordering in Japanese.

"Arigato gozaimasu," she finishes, handing over her menu. When she looks across the table at Kara, she's pleased to see she's impressed.

"Now how did you learn Japanese if you've never traveled?"

Lena shrugs. "I may have dated a few travelers in my day."

"Uh huh," Kara deadpans. "What else did they show you?"

Looking up, Lena lets a lascivious grin curl her lips. "Maybe I'll get to show you."

Lena revels in the fluster that marks Kara's acceptance of the sake that comes a moment later, and marks the red blush that heats under tan skin. The conversation shifts away, but continues, and Lena lets it, content with the impact she's made.

As the meal winds down, they linger a little bit, trading information they haven't shared yet.

"What's the one place you want to go, above all others?" Kara asks.

Lena sighs. "I don't know." Kara looks at her suspiciously, and Lena lifts her hands. "I could give you the same tripe I give any customer in my shop, but the truth is, the idea of travel has never really been the destination for me."

Kara looks surprised at that. "Oh?"

With a hum, Lena nods. "For me, it's always been more about who you're traveling with. And for a while there, I thought I had someone, but she never wanted to go anywhere. In the end, it turned out she just never wanted to go anywhere with me."

It still aches. Her split with Veronica had been so sudden, it split Lena's entire entire world apart. It had been bad enough to learn that Veronica had well and truly checked out of their relationship long before she ended it. To hear that Veronica had never really been in it in the first place had--

"Then she's an idiot," Kara says, bringing Lena out of her thoughts back to the present day. She reaches across the table, and links their fingers together. "And it's her loss."

Lena forces a grin. "Funnily, that's exactly what my therapist said..."

A round of raucous table from the table behind them drowns out whatever else she might have said. Glancing over, Lena registers a group of young to middle aged men in suits-- likely stock brokers, in this part of town. They were rowdy even when they came in, but now--a round of sake later-- they're downright obnoxious.

The next one who speaks doesn't bother to mind his words or his volume.

"Give me Kara Danvers any day."

Kara meets Lena's eye across the table, rolling her eyes as his buddy chimed in.

"Didn't like her last film. Fell asleep as soon as the lights went down."

"Don't care what the films like-- if it's got Kara Danvers, it's fine by me. I mean, have you seen that ass."

Lena's jaw clenches. Kara's hand slips away, as does her gaze.

"Oh hell yeah," another one continues. "And you know she's just begging for it. Never wonder how she got that gig in Dirty Dancing, did you?"

"It sure as hell wasn't because she could dance!" They all laughed. Lena shifts in her seat, blood boiling, but Kara catches her eye, shaking her head no. Too late.

Lena rises to her feet and marches to the offending table. "Excuse me, boys, but every single person in this restaurant can hear you. And while I'm perfectly happy to watch you reveal yourselves to be the absolute cunts you are, I take exception to the fact that you're talking about a very real person in the process."

The table stares at her, shocked.

"You." Lena glares at the worst offender. "Does your mother know you debase women with the same mouth you use to kiss her on the cheek? How about your girlfriend, though I find it incredibly doubtful you've managed to shag anyone with that kind of charm."

Kara tugs on Lena's arm, trying to pull her away. Lena almost goes, but turns back at the last minute, nearly colliding with the server hurrying in with the table's paid check.

"Actually, I'm not finished. Until each and every one of you learns a woman's favorite song, color and five year goal, you sure as hell don't get to wonder what flavor condom she prefers, you got it?" Her gaze lands on the platinum credit card in the ticket tray, and smirks in triumph when she sees it's a corporate card.

"And I'm sure that Lord Holdings will be thrilled to hear all about how their employees behave while they're out eating on the company's dime."

At that, the man she'd skewered a moment ago finally recovers enough to scoff. "Hah, and what do you care? What are you, her sister?"

"Actually," Kara speaks up, coming to stand beside Lena. "She's my date."

Dead silence follows as every single one of them registers who exactly is speaking. Finally, one of them tries to sputter an apology, but Kara waves it off.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it. I'm sure it was just joking between friends, just as I'm sure your dicks are the size of peanuts. Enjoy your dinner!"

With that, Kara turns away, snagging Lena's hand as she does. Allowing herself to be towed away, Lena flips them the vee and grins, then joins Kara in trotting out of the restaurant.

As soon as they hit the street they both start to cackle, drawing stares as they laugh maniacally. Lena's heart is pounding, as is Kara's, judging from the way she holds a hand against her chest.

"Oh, my god... I-- I've never done that before!" Kara laughs. "I don't know what came over me!"

"What, standing up for yourself? You're a natural!"

"No, you were amazing! I dunno, I just heard you and I saw you facing off against them all alone, and I just-- did that! I just did that!"

Kara laughs again, and Lena tugs her closer by the hips. Pressing a kiss to her lips, Lena smiles at her. "It looks good on you," she purrs. "You should do it more often."

Kara smiles back at her, rubbing her thumbs on the ridges of Lena's hips. "Maybe I will."

Lena could kiss her again, but Kara steps back, tugging them back in the direction of the hotel. "Walk me home?"

The walk back is spent in comfortable silence, but as they near the marquee of the Ritz, Lena's heart starts to pound for a whole new reason when Kara turns to her. "Wanna come up?"

Lena nods. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Kara gives a small of relief, and smiles. "Good. Give me five minutes."

The next five minutes are the longest of Lena's life. But she waits them, hands jammed into her pockets, and counts every second before finally allowing herself to head up to the room.

When she knocks, she isn't entirely sure what to expect. A robe, maybe, left open to reveal tantalzyingly firm abs. Matching lingerie, even, to match Kara's eyes.

What she doesn't expect is Kara fully clothed with panic in her eyes.

"You've got to go," Kara whispers.

Lena freezes, but keeps her smile in place. "Why?" she whispers back.

"Because my boyfriend, who was in America, is in fact here in the next room."

previous / next

#supercorp #notting hill au

[pparkerpoetry]

A Son Not Worth Saving

Summary: [“Cut them off.” Tommy said harshly. “I don’t want to look at them. I hate everyone they’re connected to, so I want them gone. Permanently.”]

-or-

Tommy grows wings, and Phil doesn't stick around to help. He discovers the consequences of his neglect, but it's too late. Too late to do anything.

___

It was after Doomsday. Things were tense, and Tommy just wanted a rest. He and Tubbo had gone to his little dirt hut for the night, and though it wasn’t the cleanest place, it was warm enough. 

His back had been itchy during the fight, but he’d passed it off as nerves. Now, though? The slight itch had progressed to a small ache, then a stinging, then agonizing pain. He was on his stomach, arms pressing into the dirt floor, crying as Tubbo tried to figure out what to do. 

“What’s wrong? Tommy, what’s wrong?”

Tommy shook his head. “Tubs, it hurts, make it stop, please,” He sobbed, his fist aimlessly grabbing at small tufts of grass that had grown, despite everything.

“I’m trying, but this is way out of my area of expertise!” Tubbo panicked. “I… I think I’m gonna have to call Philza, or something, I don’t know what to do!”

“Are you crazy?” Tommy yelled. “Don’t call Phil! He’s not gonna help, he just blew up- Don’t call Phil!” 

Tubbo laughed, but it was stressed, “What else am I gonna do, Tommy? I- I don’t know, it kinda seems like you’re growing wings, and-”

“Wings?” Tommy’s disbelief was cut off by a shriek of pain. “I dunno, call Quackity? Doesn’t he have those little chicken wings?”

“Duck, Tommy!”

“I’m on the floor, I can’t duck anymore, Tubbo.”

Tubbo chuckled, but it was high-pitched and panicked. “No, he has duck wings. I definitely need to call Phil, I’ll be right back.”

Tommy tried to reach out, he didn’t want Tubbo leaving, but instead, he just curled into a ball and whimpered. He could catch snippets of the conversation, and it didn’t seem to be going well.

__

“Hi, Mr. Minecraft, Sir? I know it’s a bad time, because you just blew up my whole nation, but, uh,”

A sigh echoed from the other end of the call. “What d’you want, Tubbo?”

Tubbo giggled, but you could tell it wasn’t a casual one. “Well, you see, Philza, uh, I think Tommy-”

“Really? You’re gonna call me about Tommy? Tubbo, thanks for the call, but I gotta go-”

“No, you don’t understand, I think he’s growing wings. I- I need your help.”

Philza didn’t screech. But it was kind of close. “What? He’s growing wings? Tubbo, I hate to break it to you, but I doubt it, and I’m in the arctic anyway,”

Tommy’s whimpers grew louder, and must’ve reached the phone. Phil sighed, heavy and weighted. “Tubbo, I-”

“Please, the only person I could call was Quackity but I figured you’re kind of Tommy’s dad and all-”

“Fine. Tubbo, I’ll be there in a bit. Just- don’t touch his back. Okay?” He hung up, and Tubbo went back to Tommy.

His condition had worsened. He was on the floor, forearms pressed against it as he struggled to keep his head up. “Tubbo?”

Tubbo moved to him, letting Tommy put his arms around his neck in an awkward hug as he cried. “Yeah, Tommy. It’s okay, It’s okay, I’m here. I’m here.”

“Tubbo, I think- I think I’m gonna sleep- pass out, it hurts,”

As much as Tubbo tried to keep Tommy awake, by the time Philza arrived, Tubbo was struggling to hold up an unconscious Tommy. His face looked peaceful, almost. It was the first rest he’d gotten in a long time, but the dried streaks of tears that were there told him it wasn’t a good rest.

Philza looked almost awkward in the small hut. “Tubbo, you should probably leave, I’ll handle this.”

Tubbo wanted to trust Phil, he really did. But something was off about those eyes. Something made Tubbo need to stay here. To monitor. To make sure that Tommy was going to be okay.

“No, that’s fine. I’ll stay here.”

Phil hummed. “Which one of us has wings? You should leave, Tubbo.”

“Which one of us sided with his abuser to blow up the one thing he had left of Wilbur?” Tubbo hissed. “I’m staying here.”

It was quiet, except for the whines that Tommy let out as he clutched at Tubbo. Phil didn’t really do… much, at all. Sure, he had a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, but Tubbo was the one whispering comforting thoughts, Tubbo was the one crying in sympathy, Tubbo, Tubbo, Tubbo.

Why had he called Phil again?

Oh, right.

Tommy woke up when the skin on his back started stretching and they had to tear off his shirt. There was a better way to describe it, but Tubbo started to panic more and couldn’t really think about it. 

“Phil, Phil is this supposed to be happening?”

Phil nodded slowly, and was going to say something, but Tommy managed to slur out some words. “Phil- Dad, is that you?”

Tubbo spoke up when it was clear that Phil wasn’t. “Yeah. Yeah, he came to help you.”

Tubbo hated lying to Tommy. Calling Phil had been a bad idea.

When the skin on Tommy’s back started to show that something was growing underneath it, Phil started to do what he was called here for. “Alright, Tubbo. This is what’s going to happen next. The things right here are the frames of the wings, pretty much. There’s not going to be any feathers yet, those need to grow wings, but there is going to be a lot of blood,” He got up and dusted off his robes. “You’re going to be fine, but I really need to go,”

“What?” Tubbo yelled. “You’re leaving?”

Phil shrugged. “I’ve got some important stuff to get to. I can’t just hold your hands all the way through it.”

“You- Tommy’s important! You can,” Tubbo protested. “You're his father! You can’t just leave!”

“I did years ago,” Phil said, “And he turned out fine. Besides, Wilbur was more his father than I was.”

“Maybe you think so, because of how shittily you treated him!” Tubbo growled. “But whether you want to acknowledge it or not, he was your son.”

Phil shrugged, turning to look at Tommy, who was crying, reaching out for something he’d never get. “He’s not my son. Never was. Even if he was, there’s not much worth saving in him, is there?”

“Get out.” Tubbo mumbled. “Go hang out with Technoblade, cause I know that’s where you’re going. If I ever see you around here again, I’ll kill you.”

“You’d have to get through Techno.” Phil said, clearly amused.

Tubbo turned to look Phil in the eye, and Phil knew he wasn’t lying. “I’ll kill him too.”

____

Tommy didn’t remember what happened. One minute he was on the dirt floor and his dad- Phil was there, and the next he was on a bed, with Quackity and Tubbo.

“Tubs?” He croaked.

Tubbo moved over. “Hi, you’re awake, hi! Are you doing okay? How’re you feeling?”

Tommy blinked, his eyelids heavy. His back ached. “My back is sore. Where’s dad?”

“I should hope your back hurts,” Quackity laughed. “You just grew wings.”

“But where- where’s Phil?”

Tubbo wouldn’t meet Tommy’s dazed gaze. “He can’t be here right now. Had to leave.”

“Probably some bullshit excuse about something important.” Tommy sighed. “Right? He always does that. Always has. Don’t know why I hoped it would be different.”

Quackity frowned. “On the plus side, hermano, you’ve been out for a bit and have already got some feathers! It’s just the fluff though, so they look really cute.”

“What the- no, I don’t wanna look cute, I’m a big man!” Tommy tried to protest, but Quackity laughed more.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, but they all fluffed up and-” He doubled over, and Tubbo managed a small smile.

Tommy swallowed, and sat up. He had to turn around, since he’d been on his stomach, but he was met with the familiar view of his bedroom. “Can I have some time alone, please?”

“Okay,” Tubbo said reluctantly. “But shout if you need anything, okay?”

Tommy said he would, and then as soon as the two others left, started crying. He remembered what Phil had said, even if he’d been listening while in immense pain. For as long as he could recall, he’d just wanted a family. People to love him. People to care about him. People to look at him and support him when they noticed he was down. 

He used to have that. Or maybe not, maybe he was just remembering it wrong. Glorifying the small amounts of affection that Phil had given him. God, Phil really never cared, did he? He just went on with Techno, trusting Wilbur to take care of the child. 

It hurt more that Phil had killed Wilbur than it did Phil disowning him. He knew deep down that it would’ve happened eventually, but he wished it hadn’t been so soon. Tommy knew he had a small family, right outside his door, but he couldn’t help but yearn for the family he used to be a part of. 

Everything in his room reminded Tommy of Philza. If he was going to go and pretend that he was fine, that he could leave his old family behind and love the new one, then he didn’t want the reminders.

Out went the old photo of the four of them, Tommy’s smile reflecting Phil’s, the glass breaking in the trash can. Goodbye to the scarf that hung on the wall with his other winter stuff that Phil had bought for him when they visited a village together. One of the only gifts that he’d ever gotten, while Techno paraded around with swords and jewels and everything that Tommy wanted. Tommy put on a beanie that Quackity had given him a while ago instead, covering the hair that so matched his father’s. 

Away went the pale blue cloak that carried memories of an arctic kingdom. Adios to the little gold bracelet that Techno had given to him to convince Tommy to leave him alone. 

Finally, when he stood in an empty room, all the reminders gone, he looked in the mirror. 

And, he saw his wings.

His wings- the soft feathers stretching into a huge wingspan, pale and hiding what colors the true feathers would be. God, he hoped they weren’t grey.

His wings were perhaps the biggest connection he had to Phil. They were the last tie that he needed to sever. 

Tommy thought it over. He didn’t want his decision to be rushed, or hasty, but he knew what he wanted. It was a few days later, when he was taking a walk with Tubbo, that he finally let his desire be known. 

“Tubbo,” He started, seemingly unaware of the shadow in the woods that watched them. “Do you like my wings?”

“Of course I do,” Tubbo replied, looking over. “Why?”

“Oh, well, I was just thinking they reminded me of Phil, a lot. And, considering he disowned me, I don’t like the reminder of a family that doesn’t love me.”

Tubbo frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

Tommy took out an axe, and shoved it into Tubbo’s hands. “I want you to cut them off.”

“What?”

“Cut them off.” Tommy said harshly. “I don’t want to look at them. I hate everyone they’re connected to, so I want them gone. Permanently.”

“If it’s… Are you sure that’s what you want?”

The grey-winged watcher didn’t stay any longer.

___

Philza visited Tommy the next day. Tommy was planting flowers outside of his house, which was remade out of wood, now.

“I see you’ve been busy.” Phil said, and Tommy scoffed.

“Why’re you here?”

Phil sighed. “I just… I’m scared I was too harsh. I wanted to apologize.”

Tommy’s back was covered with a bright red cloak. “You’re a little too late for that.”

“What do you mean?” Phil asked, fear settling down a little.

“All the times you could’ve apologised, and you choose now. I mean, of course you would.” Tommy said, sitting against the walls and looking up at Phil. “You could’ve come home from any of your adventures and been a better father. You could’ve helped Wilbur and I make a country of our own, ‘cause we had no idea what we were doing. You could’ve stopped Techno from killing Tubbo, because he only listens to you. You could’ve taken me home when Wilbur started keeping me from leaving our little ravine. You could’ve stopped Wilbur. You didn’t have to kill him.” Tommy started crying a little, and Phil sighed.

“I’m sorry, Tommy, but I had no idea-” 

“And whose fault is that?” Tommy screamed. “I sent you letters the whole time. I knew you’d never read them- maybe that’s why when Dream was abusing me I put every little detail into those little slips of papers. I said what I was really feeling in those letters when I couldn’t admit it to myself. You could’ve taken me down from that pillar. You could’ve realized what was going on when I had panic attacks every time you shut the door a little too loudly. You aren’t stupid. You just don’t care- and that’s why you sided with Dream to destroy the one place that I could truly call home. It’s your own fault that our relationship is irreparable, because you had chance after chance after chance to be my father, and you ignored them. Ignored me. No, Philza Minecraft, it’s far too late to apologise.”

“Do you still have them?” Phil asked softly.

“What, the wings?” Tommy scoffed again. “Of course that’s what you’d ask. Making sure I’m still under your control. Well, Phil, no.”

“No, what?” Phil asked, temper flaring. “Do you have them or not?”

“I know you were in the woods, eavesdropping.” Tommy said. “No, I’m not under your control anymore, Philza.” He took his cloak off, and Phil gasped. 

Tommy’s wings were still there. They were beautiful, too. Striking reds and oranges and yellows- a painting of a sunset as a symbol of the ending chapter. “You kept them.”

“I did.” Tommy said, glaring at Phil. “Not for you, though. I was going to let Tubbo chop them off, but I decided that I could go through the pain of losing them after just growing them and have them always in my mind, or,” He tilted his head. “I could keep them. Claim them as mine, learn to fly while you’re grounded forever. I think keeping them hurts you more than it does me- to know that I’m soaring above all of your bullshit, on wings that you gave me, would crush you, I think.”

“Aren’t you still my son, though?” Philza pleaded.

Tommy laughed. “I haven’t been since you walked out the door with Technoblade and left me alone with Wilbur for an entire year, missing my birthday that you promised you’d be at, without so much as a card. I haven’t been your son since you decided to prioritize everything over me, and I certainly am not your son now, when it only benefits you. Bye, Phil. I think you should leave.”

“Tommy, I-”

“You heard him,” came a voice from the doorway. Quackity stood there, arms crossed. Tubbo was behind him. “You should leave. It’s almost time for our family dinner, anyway.”

Phil took a step back. “They’ll never be your true family, Tommy.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Tubbo mentioned. “His biological family kinda treated him like shit.”

Tommy laughed, and patted Tubbo on the shoulder as he went inside. “Bye, Phil. Tell Technoblade I told him to fuck off, will you?”

The countryside echoed Tommy’s laughter as Phil went back to his own home. Apologising was worth a try, but Tommy had been right. He really didn’t care, did he? Maybe that was a realization for another day- Techno needed help with the next farm he was making, after all.

#tommyinnit #philza #dadza #tubbo #quackity #technoblade #dream #dreamsmp #angst #found family #hurt no comfort #hurt/comfort #its both #sorry dadza fans i poured your juice on the floor #quackity fans come get it tho #winged tommyinnit #winged philza

[bibliocratic]

I come bearing a sort-of fic idea! (Only if you feel inspired to use it, of course 😊) Back in ep 101, Martin figures out that/where the Stranger has taken Jon, and goes all BAMF to save him, using either Web powers or his developing Backup Archivist powers to do it. (Dealer's choice) Some of that sweet sweet emotional h/c...

Dearest anon, this fic has been so long in the writing, and it’s only distantly related to what you asked for. Hope you like it regardless. :)

Set in an S3 AU, implied JonMartin. Tim-centric.

Content warnings for strongly implied graphic violence, canonical S3 captivity and imprisonment, hospitals and hospitalisation.  Rated T for language and implied violence

Jon’s skittering, sprawl-legged slam against the archive door startles Tim from the shadowed walkways of his reveries.

The tilted legs of his chair thump back in a slap to the floor. Almost physically wrenched into the now, there’s a snapback to Tim’s spine, a vice-clench knot tightening in his jaw. His mood cranking up from frosty to furious.

“The fuck?” he barks at the intrusion. His snarling primed with teeth, his temper clawed to rend. He’s up and standing, whereas Jon’s practically handing off the door handle, the impact of his arrival almost knocking his legs out like ten pins from under him. An ugly, airless heaving of his chest. His eyes bloodshot, wild. In the weeks since Tim saw him, his hair has grown out unwashed and limp. His skin shimmering wrong in the light in a way that’s oddly greasy.

He’s a shattering mannequin of a man tending to ruin but Tim’s long pared down his own capacity for compassion. He loads up his questions in their chambers, and he knows where to place emphasis, where to press at the bruising, the soft-tissue targets; where the hell have you been, oh wait, don’t fucking bother, why would you even tell us anything anyway huh, because you don’t even trust us. So why the bloody hell should we care where you go galivanting off to for weeks without a word, fine by us, just fucking peachy.

“Martin,” Jon rasps out finally. His words floundering beached in his mouth, and Tim has never seen this particular mania, this bruise-sick shade of pathetic desperation. “T-tim, please, help, please, god, i-i-it’s Martin.”

Jon’s spasming, quivering hands are staining brown with blood.

-

“He wouldn’t have just left! Not – not like – like this!”

“You mean without saying anything. Not sharing with the class. I dunno, Martin, sounds exactly like something he’d have done. Classic Jon.”

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong!”

“Ha – everything’s wrong. Narrow it down.”

“You know what I mean! Something’s… He should be here, is all I’m saying, and Elias, well he’s useless but he – he knows something, I’m sure of it. We have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Find him!”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Huh, what about that? Maybe he’s finally managed to fuck off and leave here, legged it and left the rest of us to rot.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“We should – ”

“No. No, listen, Martin. This isn’t a team sport. Jon made his choice to go this alone. If he’s gone off somewhere, then that’s on him. There’s no ‘we’.”

“There used to be.”

-

Martin didn’t come in for work, and Tim assumed he’d left. Just like Jon.

He’d stewed in that betrayal, pacing lupine and furious, bricking up the walls of himself with his self-righteous anger. Because he’d been right, hadn’t he, he’d been vindicated in his bitterness, because of course Martin had left scurrying after Jon, of course there was never any loyalty to Tim despite his pretensions to their friendship. Of course, Martin hadn’t fucking stayed, and Tim was glad he was gone, free of his nagging and needling and whining.

Tim was acquitted in all his furies, every one of his poisonous doubts. The rose-thorns of his betrayals tore deeper, and he let the wounds fester.

-

Elias arrives in the aftermath.

Jon collapsed not too long ago. Shock and dehydration and whatever the hell happened to him threaded through him like blood poisoning. He’d babbled to the ambulance crews, his tongue a senseless oracle of clowns and skin and blood. They’d given him a shock blanket, the foil treating the light around them erratically, but he kept shaking it off and trying to stand, dressed in grubby boxers, an overlong coat, the fabric worn to grey at the pockets and stretched to billowing at the chest, clearly belonging to Martin.

It was hard for Tim to hate him like that, even as he’d barked at Jon to stay down. Jon’s face a theatre mask of ghoulish blood, begging the paramedics to help Martin, manic and spiralling.

The old bastard had had a heart after all.

There’s a bank of chairs outside the part of the ward where they’re keeping Jon. He’s pin-cushioned with IV’s, a set of machines monitoring his vitals. He wakes fitfully, and every waking is a pitiful confusion before he sinks back under.

Martin’s still in surgery.

Elias, deigning to leave his ivory tower, his face formed in an impeccable replica of concern. He wants to speak to Jon. To have, as he put it, ‘a private word’. He talks a precisely ordered stream of bullshit in his infuriatingly reasonable tone, about all this being such a terrible tragedy, such a blow to their little family, if only they’d known. Poor Martin, of course, what a horrible ordeal, we’ll naturally help him with recovery, cover any time off, no expense considered.

Tim watches his mouth move, and knows in his gut that Elias could have stopped all this.

That he chose not to.

Elias doesn’t get within a hundred feet of Jon. Tim makes sure of it.

-

Jon does not speak for days. Delirious and distraught. Martin’s condition worsens, then stabilises, then lingers at critical. There are several more operations, and Tim does not know what they are doing, only that they are reforming a heap of blood and bone back into a person.

Tim wants to know what happened. Where Jon went, where Martin found him, who he needs to hate.

Tim learns to temper his frustration, the desire for knowing that curls at the bottom of his stomach. It is not a natural wanting, and it’s a spiteful, gleeful action, to deny that rot within him.

-

“Tim?”

“Stay still, boss,” Tim says. “You’ll pull everything out.”

Jon doesn’t say anything more for a long while. Tim shifts uneasy on the chair provided, thinking, hoping that Jon might have sunk back into sleep, when:

“Martin? Is he…?”

Jon turns his head to look at him. His eyes wide, beseeching, wet with fear. Wanting Tim to make this all ok.

Jon’s eyes in this light are a lot like Danny’s. Tim sucks back a hard breath, and doesn’t meet his gaze, and he knows that only distresses Jon further, who will take the avoidance as a death knell, as a punishment he is expecting to have earned.

“He’s alive, boss,” Tim says eventually. The words hard won. “He’s… he’ll be alright.”

That could be a lie. He doesn’t know much these days.

-

“Th-there was a room,” Jon stammers one day. He’s sat up, pillows stuffed behind his back. Tim’s bought him an apple juice carton like you buy for children, and he hasn’t touched it, even to push the plastic straw through the top.

His fingers at his lap twist, twist, twist.

“It must have been a … a factory floor, or something. One of those old textile mills or something, up near Manchester. It used to have those big machines for spinning cotton, there were big, discoloured spaces on the boards where they would have sat. There were columns, load-bearing, every fifty feet or so, and t-the chair that they – they had me tied to was anchored against one of those s-so it didn’t – so I couldn’t move it, or knock it over. I-I don’t know how long I was… I.” Jon stops, out of breath. “I don’t even know the date.”

Tim tells him. Jon blinks, and murmurs ‘oh’ like it’s not what he was expecting. His hands are shaking. Tim should reach out, shouldn’t he, it should not be this difficult to provide comfort.

His hands have forgotten how easily reassurance used to come to him.

“Th-they didn’t, they didn’t hurt me. Not, well, not exactly, I-I-I mean, it wasn’t – they wanted me unharmed.” Jon’s voice has crept small and crouched, words tuck under his tongue. “They were waiting. For the right time. They were going to t-take my, um, my skin. For their – for the ritual.”

“Christ.” Tim hisses out, because that is fucked, this whole thing is fucked. How the hell is this the way their lives have turned.

Only Jon’s fingers, his restless hands make noise for the next minute.

“I don’t know how Martin found me,” Jon says.

Tim has a creeping suspicion. It’s the same thing that helps Tim spits out exactly the right seeds to allow hurt to take root. What told Martin that there was something wrong. He could call it intuition, but that’s not how their world works.

Gifts, of a sort. For their faithful service at the temple of their all-seeing god.

“He tried to get me out. Snuck in somehow, cut the ropes with this – huh, this battered old kitchen knife. But I couldn’t… they’d had me tied to the chair for so long that standing up was… I couldn’t walk, and it’s my fault, he was half-carrying me but – I slowed him down, a-and then Nikola came back. And I couldn’t do, I couldn’t do anything, there’s never anything I can do, and they pulled me away and I. I tried, Tim, I-I tried, and I wasn’t… please, Tim, you’ve got to believe I tried to stop them.”

Jon’s fingers are moving to fist in his hair, yanking, tugging, his spine moving to fold himself over.

“Stop,” Tim says sharply. Trying to loosen Jon’s clenched hold.

“I tried, I tried – everything, I offered them anything they wanted, and they just kept – I-I-I tried, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim replies. Quieter. Softer. Separating Jon’s hands from his hair, pressing them back down to his lap, his burnt one held over the other pocked with worm scars. Tim doesn’t move his own away from the fragile tower they’ve made. “I – I know, Jon.”

“Martin – there was more of them. It was easy for them, to hurt him until he stopped struggling. They didn’t tie him up, they knew they didn’t need to. A-and Nikola, she was… she s-s-smiled as they pushed him over onto his back. She – she kept smiling. And she said they didn’t need the two of us. That they could have a bit of fun, a bit of – ” Jon’s voice chokes horrified. “A bit of practise. And wouldn’t I like that. To watch. To give the Eye something to look at.”

Jon crumples into tears then. In on himself like a disintegrating star. Tim feels cold and distant for a moment as he watches this shipwreck as though through the porthole of another boat. Listening to Jon’s hitching sobbing from elsewhere.

The rage is burning off him to reveal something plain and hideous in its humanity, and Tim hates it.

Jon falls apart, and Tim stays.

-

“You know your Archivist killed them all? He’s got a bit of a temper on him after all. Must be all that repression.”

The newest form of the Distortion still smiles like a headache. Her fingers curve corkscrewing. Tim, who is trying to get a Snickers from the vending machine two wards along from Jon, whips his head around to glower at the unwelcome visitor.

“What do you want?”

The Distortion, who has previously called themselves Michael, and is now still Michael but not entirely, whose face has refracted into a different form – there’s been a sort of change in management, if you like, except, well, that’s not really it at all, but do feel free to call me Helen.

“I was hoping for a teeny bit of gratitude. I was the gallant rescue, after that assistant of yours blundered in and made such a pig’s ear of it.”

Tim snarls. The Distortion’s expression wavers displeased.

“Ooh, touchy, alright. Calm down, firecracker. I bought them both back breathing for you. Your Archivist would be still strapped to a chair in Stockport if it wasn’t for me, to say nothing of that woebegone assistant. Blood all over my carpets.”

Tim ignores her. The glint in her eyes suggests she’s disappointed not to have riled him up.

“What now then?”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about the Circus for a while! Dear Jonathan’s seen to that quite splendidly. Knew he had it in him. Although, I suspect, even he didn’t know he could. The Circus was always good at pushing too far.”

“And you. What about you?”

The Distortion’s smile reflects a hundred alternatives.

“Oh, I’m just waiting to see what happens next.”

-

Tim’s thoughts have been straying to Danny a lot. Naturally, all things considered, his trauma’s head reared high and made horrifically manifest.

Jon is not like Danny was, too stiff and self-conscious in his own bones. But Danny’s skin had been lit up with that same live-wire intensity that last night, smeared in shadows and exhaustion and tears that shone foreign on his cheeks. Tim had not recognised the crying, silent, shaking stranger in his room, just as he barely recognises Jon.

Watching him finally fall apart holds no victory for any of them.

Martin is not like Danny was. Taller, for one, wound-up over tight in his own clockwork of fears. He’d be about Danny’s age though. Maybe.

Danny went back to the Covent Garden Theatre, alone, and the being that had then gone by the name of Joseph Grimaldi had torn off his skin as easily as wrapping paper.

Martin went alone. He didn’t ask Tim for help, because he knew Tim would have said no, and there’s an ashy shame coating his tongue, knowing it would have been true.

It’s powerlessness that’s snarled him up in barbed wire, toothless and immobile. Tim’s felt powerless for a long time. That is not going to stop.

But his anger hasn’t protected him. Hasn’t protected Jon. Certainly hasn’t protected Martin.

Jon is not in bed when Tim goes back during visiting hours. The nurse directs him to another ward, indicating in few words that this jaunt was neither encouraged nor advised, but the patient was not one to be dissuaded.

Sounds like Jon.

The man himself has dressed erratically in the spares Tim bought. A t-shirt that is divorced from his own style, the colouring drawing him over-sallow, the jeans too short and trailing above his ankle. He’s squashed himself into a chair, his back folded like a shepherd’s crook, his scatter-shot energy spent into exhaustion. His hand in Martin’s wrapped one.

Martin’s awake. The ministrations of the Circus left his face mostly alone, clear enough for tubing to be threaded into his nostrils and down his throat but the bandaging is extensive. Tim would have thought he’d be away with the fairies on morphine by now, and rightly so, but his jaw sets imperious when he sees Tim. He doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

“You doing alright there, Marto?” Tim asks. There is another chair nearby that’s been left by a visitor long gone, and he drags it over. Tim chooses to keep his voice low, chooses to squash the anger that sparks up in him at the violence done to Martin’s body.

“What does it look like?” Martin replies. Not snapping, no wisp of anger there, but there’s a pained whipcord strain to his response, a forced pace to his breathing.

“I thought they’d have you on the good stuff,” Tim says after a moment.

Martin gestures with imprecise movements at a remote off to his right, a grey blocky shape with buttons, hooked up to some sort of patient-controlled analgesia machine.

“You not taken any?”

Martin, as best as he can, shakes his head.

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to, alright?”

Tim doesn’t push. The silence between the two of them is protracted, uncomfortable, but Tim can stand to learn some patience.

Martin’s eyes are watery, clearly trying to push through the pain. Jon sleeps on.

“He won’t tell me,” Martin says. “But it’s bad. I know it’s bad. Right?”

“Yes.”

Martin deserves his honesty. Tim doesn’t know how long Martin suffered on that factory floor until Jon ripped the Circus’ sawdust out with his fury. Long enough for the bandages to coat his arms and legs and back like lacquer, changed multiple times a day to make sure the skin grafts take, and the stitching holds.

Tim should have been there. Like he should have been there for Danny.

“God, Martin,” he says, and he’s surprised to find his throat has clenched tight. “It’s… I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? I went and got myself…” Martin trails off, swallows with difficulty. “I did this, it was all, all me. Fat lot of good it did.”

“You don’t know that…” Tim starts, but Martin looks at him and he seethes without raising his voice.

“What good’s come out of this then? Go on, Tim, tell me. I’m a – I’m a mess, and what the fuck do I have to show for it. What the fuck have any of us gained from this? I just fucked up, and it – I thought I was going to die. And worse, I thought they mightn’t let me, that they might take what they left as scraps a-a-and – ” Martin’s jaw clacks shut as he pushes down his distress.

“You saved Jon.”

“I didn’t though. The bloody – the bloody door monster showed up and did that simply fine without my help!”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what you changed. God, Martin, this whole, this entire thing is all so, it’s fucked, right, it’s…” Tim’s voice wobbles, cracks. “But you tried to do something. You tried to help. And I’m – I’m so sorry you did it alone.”

Martin doesn’t leap to forgiveness. But he nods and Tim puts his hand on the wrappings up his arm and he doesn’t move away.

“What now?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

Martin closes his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he confesses. “I’m just so tired of all… all this.”

“We’ll think of something,” Tim says. Finding that he means it. It’s not a promise, but it’s as good as he’s able to offer these days. “You should take some of that morphine. It’ll… it’ll help.”

“It makes me feel out of it. Like, sluggish. And everything’s far away.”

“That means it’s working, Marto,” Tim says, trying for light-hearted, but Martin’s shaking his head, and the shivering is back in his hands. A wide and trembling glaze to his expression.

“If they come back…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I’ll stay,” Tim says. Pats Martin’s arm in a way he hopes conveys reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Martin nods. Tim helps him grasp the grey remote, push down the button. It’s not long before Martin’s drifted off.

Tim sits there for a long while, thinking about the future.

#tma #tim stoker #fic #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #cw violence #cw implied torture #cw hospitals #hurt/comfort #the magnus archives

[ptergwen]

last christmas

w/c: 2.0k

warnings: a few descriptions of dizziness

summary: someone might be able to get you back into the holiday spirit

a/n: hi hi hi i’m really excited about this :,) i’ve had the idea for a while and i like where it’s going! it’s based it off of the movie last christmas and this is only part one, so if it feels a little slow that’s why AND on that note i hope you enjoy

━━━ *:･。.

“you’re late,” harry comments as the coat room door bursts open. he’s not wrong, but he doesn’t have to announce it. you slip behind the counter while tying up your apron. “only ten minutes. besides, we’re never busy this early.” he presses his lips together and grabs a large cup.

that’s the face he makes whenever you say or do something stupid. you’ve learned a lot about harry in your year of working together. he’s a pretty laidback guy. funny, too. you’d consider him a friend and not just your coworker. the only time he isn’t chill is when your coffee shop has what you like to call its rush hour.

it’s in a pretty prominent area in london, and it gets packed every afternoon. people like to pop in for a muffin or some tea on their lunch break. with it being christmas time and all, the shop is way more chaotic than usual. the seasonal flavors clearly draw a crowd. you take that as a compliment since you came up with a few of them.

the point is, harry can get stressed and pretty mean. you’re afraid he’ll explode if you ask him a question sometimes. he turns super red. but, he also knows more than you do. he’s had to fix countless machines you’ve almost broken. you two make an interesting team. it’s just you and harry who work mornings.

your mouth drops open when you see the line of people squished into the shop. “oh, shit,” you whisper to yourself. harry hears it and hums smugly. “rush hour came early. get out there.” you quickly take your spot at the register. a man with a fuzzy red sweater and judgy look steps up. “hi, sorry for the wait. what can i get started for you?”

the rest of your morning is exactly the same. you deal with the crabby customers, harry makes the drinks. it gets better once your other coworkers clock in for the day. orders get done faster, and you have someone to joke around with from time to time.

you and harry eventually switch because he’s bored of making hot chocolates. you’re in charge of drinks while he rings people up now. it’s not too bad at first. all you have to do is dump some mixes into water and call names. then, everyone starts shouting at you. the drinks gets harder, you keep messing up, and customers aren’t happy.

harry is about to tell you off when he sees you stumble. he rushes to your side before you hit the ground. you grab his arm with an apologetic smile. “thanks.” “is it...” you nod, not wanting him to finish his sentence.

he’s your only coworker you told about your accident. it happened last year, almost a full one to date. you got this job a few months after. harry has always been understanding of it all, and he accommodates you however he can. you’re grateful to have his support.

“i’m just a little lightheaded. i’ll be fine,” you wave him off. he clicks his tongue. “you can’t stand if i let go of you.” you’d try to prove him wrong, but you don’t feel like falling on your face in front of all these people. “go take your break, y/n,” harry says softer this time. you give in, letting him take you to the coat room.

━ ❆

it’s finally the end of the day. your shift ended fine, and now you’re walking out with harry. you’re laughing at something he said inside. you pull your coat up around your face, smiling as you say your goodbyes. harry looks off to the car you assume is his before returning it. he waits until you’re out of sight to get into the passenger seat.

“who was that?” tom asks before harry can even shut his door. “y/n. we work together,” harry replies casually and buckles his seatbelt. the car engine is the only thing holding off silence. he raises an eyebrow at his brother.

“why do you ask?” “dunno. looks like you’re friends,” tom says quietly, pulling out of the spot he parked in. “you haven’t mentioned her.” “i have. you’re never home when i do,” he deadpans. tom drums his fingers on the steering wheel as they stop at a light.

there’s that void begging to be filled again. harry gives him a small smile. “thanks for picking me up, by the way. you’re cheaper than uber.” “does that mean i’m getting paid?” tom looks over at him. “joking. anytime, bro.”

harry can tell he’s waiting to bring you up again. all he did was look at you, and he’s falling. he’s never been subtle about his crushes. harry knows the two of you would get on well, but he’s not sure if you can handle a relationship right now. this year hasn’t been easy for you. you should be focusing on your health, not his tool of a brother.

at the same time, you could use some cheering up. you haven’t sang along to one christmas song playing at the shop. tom gets so into christmas every year, so maybe some of his festivity could rub off on you. it’s possible to work on two things at once, right? you’ll be happy and healthy for the new year. that’s all harry wants for you.

he wouldn’t mind the same for tom, either.

“she’s in all day tomorrow,” harry sighs. tom scrunches his face up in the side mirror. “who is?” “y/n, div. i knew you were going to ask.” there’s no denying that one. “right. i’ll stop in for a drink.”

he smiles about it the whole way home.

━ ❆

the next day is just like the last one. harry seems more on edge than usual, but you don’t know what that’s about. he does let you stay on register today so the chances of you passing out are lower. that all changes when your next customer walks in. you recognize him immediately, even with a scarf covering half his face.

what the hell is tom holland doing in your café? he pulls his scarf down and walks up to place an order. you sort of forget how to act. “you... you’re...” you stammer, eyes wide on him. smiling, he presses a finger to his lips. all he wants is a coffee, and you’re about to get him mobbed. you raise your hands in defense and focus on the register.

“sorry. can i get you anything?” you try again, lowering your voice. he’s still smiling. “sure, thanks. i’ll try an iced peppermint mocha.” a smile takes over your own face. “cool, i suggested that one.” you punch it into the register, keeping your eyes on tom. “i’ll bet it’s good, then. i trust your judgement.” he sounds genuine but teasing at the same time.

“hey, harry.” tom waves at him while he makes something in the blender. harry unenthusiastically waves back before getting to work again. you turn to harry with your eyebrows knitted together. “you know each other?” “really well. we’re brothers,” tom replies, your eyebrows now raised to the top of your head.

“what? how come you never told me?” you almost yell at harry. he awkwardly dumps the contents of the blender into a cup. “it never came up.” “you don’t talk about me, baby bro?” tom jokes, getting his card out. you give harry one more look before turning back to him. “oh, don’t worry about it. it’s on the house,” you dismiss him.

“he’s a multimillionaire, y/n. i think he’ll be fine,” harry chimes in. “family discount,” you decide. tom chuckles and shoves his wallet back into his pocket. “you’re a funny one. can i make it up to you somehow?” his eyes lock with yours. you feel fluttery, like your heart is going to jump out of your chest. there could be a few reasons for that.

“um, can i get your autograph?” you murmur out. “easy. do you have something to write with?” he watches you scramble to get a piece of paper. you pull a pen from behind the counter and hand them both to him. a line is starting to form, but you can’t even pretend to care. there are more important things going on.

harry starts making tom’s drink while he signs the paper. he leans on the counter, his tongue poking out. he’s so sweet for doing this. your alarm goes off before you can tell him that. you quickly shut it and peek over the register to see. harry comes up to you.

“isn’t that for your medication? you should probably go take it,” he says so only you hear. you shrug a shoulder. “i set it a few minutes early. i’ll be fine.”

“here we go.” tom grins and hands you the paper, then the pen. you put it down with another smile before looking over his signature. you’re confused when you don’t see one. instead, he wrote down a bunch of numbers.

it can’t be...

“it’s my number,” tom explains, glancing over at harry for a second. he scoffs and puts the lid on his drink. “i figured you’d like it more than my terrible cursive.”

your whole body feels hot. whether it’s from putting off your meds or getting hit on by tom holland, you’re not sure. you wouldn’t mind the latter, though. it’s the safer of the two. in all seriousness, the fact that he has any sort of interest in you is pretty insane.

“wow, for real? thank you.” you look at the piece of paper in your hands, then at tom. “does this mean i can text you?” he’s practically beaming at you. “or call.” “tom,” harry calls from the pickup counter. he rolls his eyes for good measure. “i guess your drink is ready,” you laugh out. tom adjusts his scarf again.

“i guess it is. i’ll talk to you later?” you hold up the piece of paper. “that’s what this is for.” he breathes out a laugh and turns to go. you’re about to call up the next customer, but he looks back at you. you shake your head. it’s going to be impossible getting through what’s left of your shift. “enjoy.” tom nods confidently. “i will.”

━ ❆

the first thing you do once you get home is call tom. your roommate is out with friends, so you’re spread out on the couch. all the lights are off to help the headache you got. with your luck, you’ll wake up with a migraine. you’ve become too familiar with nursing those. it’s given considering everything that happened.

tom picks up on the third ring. you hold your phone to your ear and sit up. “hello?” he asks sternly. you cringe at yourself for not texting him who you are first. “hi, it’s y/n. i probably should’ve texted.” his tone softens. “no, you’re fine. i was waiting for you to call.”

“were you really?” you lay your head back on the arm of the couch. he hums proudly. “tom holland was waiting for me to call him?” “he was.” you can hear the smirk in his voice. “he really enjoyed your conversation earlier.” sighing, you look at your reflection in the tv. “i did, too. i don’t think harry could say the same.”

“he hates having me around. i’m embarrassing, apparently,” tom laughs at his brother’s behavior. you press your lips into a pout. “is that why i’ve never heard about you?” “probably,” he confirms. it seemed weird that he wouldn’t want to tell the world his brother is spider-man. then again, harry isn’t like that.

“that’s nice, though. it’s like i’m the same me before the movies,” tom lightens the mood. “not that i know you, but i feel like you are,” you agree with a small smile. he’s grinning at his phone. “speaking of not knowing me, when are you free?” he smoothly transitions to the asking you out part. you were hoping you’d get there.

“saturday. why?” “i was wondering if you’d want to go out with me.” you hold the phone away from your face and silently squeal. tom didn’t need to witness that. “that would be fun, yeah.” “anywhere special you want to go?” he asks. he’s hoping there isn’t because he already has a place in mind. you actually don’t.

“surprise me.”

-

i made a new taglist form, so fill it out if you want!! the link is in my bio

#tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland imagine #tom holland x you #tom holland smut

[do-y0u-have-to-let-it-linger]

EXT. The Roof (Winter) - Sunset

Not Just Attracted to Women!Peter Maximoff x Fem and Not Just Attracted to Men!Reader

Based off of a dream I recently had: Peter and Y/N have a conversation on the roof of Xavier's in mid-December. Peter accidentally lets it slip that he might not be straight, and he is afraid that Y/N will think less of him because of it because this is the 80s. Y/N reveals that she is also not straight, and is saddened by the fact that Peter could think that she could ever hate him- especially for that. She calls him wonderful. Feelings ensue. Also, a touch of Cherik at the end because I give the people what they want.

Warnings: Swearing, Peter cries, internalized homophobia (this is the 80s-ish and Peter uses the word 'queer' in a kind of incorrect and kind of offensive manner, but it was internalized homophobia and not actually intended to be mean to anyone but himself so I forgive him), a touch of angst but mostly fluff, Charles called you two "children" even though you are obviously not, Erik is happy that his son has someone that cares about him the way you do, Peter is insecure but not super blunt about it, Peter has been deprived of being adored his entire life, bad writing, I mention a serial killer twice, historical inaccuracy because the word queer was still a slur so yeah.

A/N: This is literally the first thing I have ever written so please be nice to me, I wrote this instead of an essay. I would love a comment of any kind, even if it's just a heart emoji or something, and constructive criticism would be highly appreciated. Also 'N/N' stands for nick-name.

(Ok, so, full discloser: the format is odd. The bullet points represent dialogue, and the only dialogue is between you two love birds. The first bullet point is Peter, the second is Y/N, the third is Peter, and so on.)

“I dunno, the whole ‘liking people’ thing has always been weird for me.”

“How do you mean?"

“Pppffftt- 'how do you mean,' what are you, Shakespeare or somethin’?”

“Yeah, because that’s the era when ‘how do you mean' would have been a popular term. Ok, what do you mean?”

“Just- when other people were liking people I never really was?”

He was gesturing wildly and avoiding eye contact, as always. He wasn't uncomfortable with eye contact, he just got bored easily in conversations, he needed to keep himself occupied. In this situation that meant staring at the red and green lights covering the rest of the roof, the snowy trees all over the yard, and a holly garland around the gate. Peter wasn't Christian, but man, did he love their Christmas decorations.

“Like… now? In school?”

“Well- yeah… but also when I was younger. And I never liked the right people? Or... liked them in the right way?”

“So you’ve never liked anyone.”

“No, no… I definitely have. It was just… weird! I don't-”

His hands dropped to his side in defeat.

“I don’t think it’s that out of the ordinary. I would tell you if it was. Also, if it was... 'weird', like you said, that wouldn’t mean it was necessarily bad.”

He hadn’t really heard what she said, he was too busy pondering what his next sentence would be. When she wasn't speaking, he was rambling.

"I had some of the normal crap… like in movies when they talk about the fluttery stomach junk. I've had that around a few girls I've been friends with, also that phase with the boy stuff, a-"

“Wait, what phase with the boy stuff?”

“Like- when you’re in middle school or whatever and you're gay for a second.”

His phrasing was a joke, but the statement as a whole was not.

“…‘Gay for a second’?”

“…Yeah?”

“Hmmm..."

"Is that- not-"

"I don't think that is... 'normal'... per-say..."

“Oh… Really?”

His heart sunk.

“…Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“…Mhm.”

“…Shit.”

He suddenly looked almost embarrassed. He shifted his posture, seemingly trying to shrink into himself.

“Do you... wanna chat about it?”

Panic started to slowly rise in him.

“Um- forget I said anything.”

“Why?”

Something in him said to go on the "defense". He did not appear as calm as he was intending to.

“I’m not- gay! or anything. I like girls! I do!”

She put her hand on his arm.

“Hey- look at me for a second. We are not in court, and I never 'accused' you of being gay. That would be a very funny reality TV show, but not what is happening right now. Listen, theoretically if you were gay that wouldn’t be bad! And I wouldn’t be… whatever you.. think that I would be? I mean- however you are afraid I would act in a negative reaction to it? I would try to be here for you, and be as supportive as possible.”

He didn’t believe her.

“Ok, sure.”

“Peter.”

“What? You’re going to tell me that you would honestly be friends with a queer person- be friends with me if I was... not... normal?”

She was taken aback by his tone, the word he had used, and the way he said it, felt like a weight dropping on her shoulders.

“Oh. would you… not?”

It was her turn to seem nervous.

“What?”

“Would you- stop being friends with someone for liking someone that they… I don’t know… shouldn’t... would be the word I guess?”

Why, in this situation, was she nervous? Oh. His fear was replaced with guilt.

“No.”

“Ok.”

“So… are you… do you… why were you scared?”

“... Why were you?”

She expected a joke from him, something along the lines of “touché".

“Are you… gay?”

“No.”

Yeah, he didn’t believe her.

“Uh-huh”

“Really, I’m not. I’ve liked boys, but also... I've had feelings for girls. I’m not… straight. So I just want to let you know that it’s okay if you aren’t too.”

“I never s-“

She smiled at him with a bit of pity, she had been there. The self-loathing, the feeling of walking on minefields with so many people in your life.

“You are…”

She paused.

“I am… what?”

“Give me a second I’m trying to find the perfect word.”

“… Okay?”

“Wonderful.”

That was not exactly the word he was expecting. Like, at all.

“Huh?”

“That’s the word. Wait- let me start over. You gotta look me in my eyes as I say it, because it’s gonna be really poetic.”

“Uh… should I be scared?”

“No. Maybe a little. No.”

“… Okay.”

He looked at her.

“You are… wonderful.”

“Oh... Thanks?“

He looked away again, to be honest, he was a bit uncomfortable. He rarely received compliments, especially ones that seem so... genuine.

“I’m not finished, look back at me, just for a second. You are so wonderful- and I will support you as whatever you are! I want you to know that I can- I can barely even think of something you could do that would make me genuinely hate you- like… maybe if you Dahmer-ed people or like chopped up a-“

He found this was amusing, yet disturbing.

“Y/N?”

“Sorry- I just- the fact that you thought, even for a second, that I could hate you… is just-“

“I’m sorry”

“No! Stop it. Don’t be sorry.”

She stared at him expectantly.

“What do you want me to-“

“Take it back! The sorry!”

“How?”

“Say you aren’t sorry”

“N/N-“

“Peter.”

“Ok. I’m, ya know, not sorry.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be”

“You’re weird.”

“Yuh-huh. Says the most likely, from the little information I've gathered, bisexual in denial who also happens to be the fastest boy on earth who had to slow down exponentially to interact with other people who also, also, happens sitting on a roof in the dead of winter with me.”

“What’s by smexual?”

Something about the way he attempted to repeat her words must have been hilarious, he thought, because here she was, sitting in front of him, in a fit of childish giggles. He would smile if he weren't so confused.

“No- that’s not- what I said- it’s… wait!”

“What?”

“You’re tryna get me off topic!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Am not!”

“Are t- shit.”

“HAHA! Victory is a sweet dessert... wait is that even the saying? Still, I win you lose, nerd.”

“Ok, okay! go on.”

She was attempting to gather herself to give off a less jokey aura. It was half working, the "am not! are too!" argument a few moments ago made it hard for him to take her seriously, but he could tell it was important to her that he did, so he tried his best.

“You have to look at me again. just for a second.”

“I sw-”

“Just do it? Please?”

His attempt to put up a fight was thwarted by her small "please". He was pathetic.

“Okay.”

He looked at her.

“You…”

“Me… or- wait- I…”

“Are w-“

“Wonderful, yeah yeah. just get to the n-”

“No.”

“… No?”

“When you say it it doesn’t encapsulate it. It sounds silly.”

“Ok little miss ‘you art thou wonderful’, how would you have me say it?”

“I am you wonderful?”

“What?”

“You called me ‘little miss you are you wonderful’ what does that-“

“Ok! Would you just- shut up and call me wonderful one more time, please?”

She looked at him and blinked. That sentence surely came off as less ironic than intended.

“You are wonderful.”

She grabbed his face, in a half-joking manner. Her grab smushed his cheeks and she couldn't help but laugh a bit when she did it. Even though it was clearly a bit, he was still flustered.

“W-“

She shook him a bit.

"Shut up 'cause I'm about to say some beautiful and true shit. You are wonderful. You are wonderful. You are wonderful. You are absolutely, unchangingly, and irrevocably wonderful and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it, Maximoff.”

After saying what she would (in 40 years or so) recall as a painfully John Green-ish statement in her blunt and matter-of-fact manner, she let go of her semi-ironic hold on his pink cheeks. Were his cheeks pink because it was absolutely freezing, or because his heart was beating faster than he had ever (and would ever, mind you) run, you ask? No comment.

“Wow.”

“Wow what.”

“You do say it better than I do.”

“Did you like how I stressed different parts of the sentence each time? I thought that was a nice detail.”

“Wow.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Wow.”

Did his voice just... break a little?

“Peter?”

“Uh- yeah?”

Was he a little... sniffle-y? She was now very concerned.

“Are you okay?!”

“Oh- um... yeah!”

No! No he was clearly not! He was sniffling!

“Really? 'Cause, you don't seem it.”

“It’s just- I just- wow.”

“Wow, what!?”

“That was just- uh-"

“Just what? It really wasn't that fancy, you seem much too impressed with me. Oh my God, was it terrible?”

“I mean it was really corny but w-“

“I swear to God if you say 'wow' one more time I may have to add ‘use of the word wow too much’ to the list of things that could make me hate you. Right next to the Dahmer stuff. That was a joke. Your use of the word wow is only mildly perturbing. Sorry."

She was panicking "just a bit".

“I’m sorry, I mean I’m not sorry. Sorry. Shit! sorry! I mean I’m not!”

And he was absolutely... full-on crying at this point.

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

He was looking down at his mittens. Not that this is important, but they were very pretty mittens.

“Look at me, you klepto.”

He didn’t.

“You know- I’ve been hearing a lot of that 'look at me' stuff from you today. I mean- the klepto part is new-“

“Peter.”

“What?!”

He peaked up at her.

“Talk to me. Please, you're kinda scaring me, let me help.”

“I’m not sad!”

“You’re crying!”

“Yeah but not from the sads!”

“… The ‘sads’?”

“You know- when you get sad! It just means being sad! I don't- that’s what Wanda calls it, not me!"

He wiped his nose, tears still running down from his puffy eyes to his reddened cheeks.

“What are you crying from?”

“No one’s ever called me wonderful before.”

“I'm sorry! I did a few minutes ago and you didn’t cry!”

“No! You can't 'sorry' me if I can't 'sorry' you! And- yeah but that doesn’t count!”

“Why?”

“Because it only felt big when you said it the certain way!”

“What way!?”

“You look at me, you grab my cheeks-“

“I'm sorry about that by the way I was j-“

“No! It’s really ok! Do it whenever! I mean don’t do it whene- shut up!”

“I’m not even talking! You're the one talking!”

“You look at me, you grab my cheeks, and you go: you are wonderful.”

“Yeah???”

“No one ever called me that before!”

"Peter, I- well- they- they should! They should! More often! Then the amount that it happens now! I think. In my opinion."

"Or really looked at me like that!”

“Looked at you like what, Peter?”

“Like I was somethin’!”

“Well, you are… ‘somethin'! Whatever that means! And- I think you deserve to be looked at as such!”

“See?”

“What!?”

“You just-“

A strangled sob escaped from his throat. He didn't know how to explain.

“Pete.”

“Ew. I hate that nickname.”

He crossed his arms over his chest like a toddler, trying to completely ignore the fact that he was an emotional wreck.

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

She opened her arms and gestured for him to come closer. He was hesitant at first- but gave up all the reasons he shouldn't move to be closer to her in exchange for the promise of comfort she was offering him. He crawled over to her and curled up in her arms. The way she held him made him want to cry more. Who does she think she is- holding him like he was worth holding? With her chin sitting on top of his hair? Letting him do that gross cry sob with the spit and the snot into her only winter coat? Rocking him, and shushing him, and petting his stupid, silver hair? She was warm, too! The audacity of this woman.

When Erik brought Charles into his office to grab a chess set, they saw the two in the window. For a moment Charles considered telling Peter and Y/N to get off of the high platform, seeing as the two were the reasons the "no sitting on the roof" rule was enacted in the first place (neither of them were coordinated whatsoever). Charles quickly dropped this notion when he saw the look on Erik's face, Charles could tell it made him so happy to see Peter be held like that, cared for like that. Erik's expression made Charles want to both tell Erik that he is the most precious thing in the world, and make fun of him (look at Mr. Metal, gone completely soft). Possibly he could do both at the same time. But for now, he is just going to pretend he didn't see the two outside of the window, and have Erik grab them their game, go to the living room, and pretend not to have read Erik's mind when he inevitably asks him how he always manages to pick the white chess piece at "random".

#is this even good #i wrote this instead of an essay #peter maximoff #peter maximoff fluff #peter maximoff x reader #me 🤝 commas #me 🤝 ... okay #the quality of this fic 📈📉📈📉📈

[alwaysfeelingsaintlike]

Driving Me Mad [G.W] - Part 4

Series Description: You and George come up with a plan to pretend to date each other. But what happens when you actually start to catch feelings...

Pairing: George Weasley x Gryffindor fem!reader 

Word Count: 2k

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Taglist: @obsssedwithjustaboutanything

Description: George takes you on a secret trip to the Three Broomsticks.

                                                              X

“Hey, what are you doing?” You were sitting in the library taking notes and completing your assigned reading.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you responded, peeling your eyes from the text to shoot George a look. 

“I could use your help.”

“My help? What could you possibly need my help for?”

“Come with me and you’ll find out.” Your curiosity peaked as you raised an eyebrow at him. He gave you a pleading look and moments later you agreed. You packed up your things and followed him out of the library. You assumed you were heading to the common room but George grabbed your hand and pulled you around a different corner. 

“Where are we going?”

“We may or may not be sneaking out.” 

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“Just wait. It will soon become clear.”

You reached an isolated hallway in the castle where the One-Eyed Witch statue was perched. 

“Here we are.”

“Here?”

“Yes. Now I will be lookout so you can go first.”

“Go where?” Instead of answering your question he cast a spell and the hump on the witch opened up, creating a passageway. 

“Climb in there when I say go. I’ll follow you down a few seconds after.” You decided not to question his instruction. You trusted him and knew your window of opportunity was limited. He gave you the signal and you hoisted yourself up and slid down into the statue. You fell down the corridor and let out a little squeal, unsure of what was ahead. After a short slide, you were airborne and barely landed on your feet. The ground was rough and uneven. You stood up, wiping the dust off yourself and you cast the Lumos charm to illuminate the hallway. You heard movement a few seconds later and George landed swiftly right behind you. This clearly was not his first time.

“You okay?” he asked. You nodded and curiously looked around.

“Okay, I tried to keep my questions to a minimum, but where the hell are we going?”

“Hogsmeade of course.”

“Hogsmeade? Why?”

“Now I know you’re aware of the party happening tonight.”

“Of course.”

“Someone’s gotta supply the butterbeer.”

“Ah, I see now. And pray tell why am I accompanying you on this journey instead of Fred?”

“Fred’s been avoiding me lately. I offered to get everything tonight so I imagine he’s spending time with Lee and some of the other Gryffindors.”

“Anything happen?”

“We just got into an argument. It’s fine.”

“That’s not like you two. You never fight. Seriously what happened,” George was quiet, putting his words together carefully. It didn’t take long for you to jump to conclusions. “No…no. This isn’t because of me is it? I don’t want to drive a wedge between you.”

“No, it's not because of you.”

“If it was, you would tell me right? There’s an easy out clause for a reason, we don’t have to go through with this if it’s causing tension.”

“It’s not because of you. I promise,” he lied.

“Okay. That’s all I needed to hear,” you said.

“So, will you be my date to the party this evening?” 

“I sure will.”

You made your way through the dark and dusty corridor until you reached a stopping point. You were expecting a doorway or something but the hallway just stopped. You looked at George, about to ask him where to next and you followed his eyes up the ceiling.

“You’re joking,” you spoke. He shook his head back and forth. There was no way you could get up there. George stood up on his tiptoes and reached his long arms up to displace a trap door. “Come here,” he instructed you. You moved closer to him as he crouched to the ground. “Sit on my shoulders. I’ll hoist you up through the door.”

“Are you sure about this George? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What, you don’t think my broad man shoulders can handle it?” he joked.

“No, it’s not that-“

“Just hop on. You’re light as a feather.” You slowly put one leg over his shoulder and braced yourself before swinging over the other. You gently rested your hands on his head, to keep balanced. 

“You ready?” he asked.

“Go for it.” 

He slowly stood up and took a few steps forward until he was directly under the trap door. He fully extended his legs and you were looking into a dusty shop room. You held onto the sides of the trap door and hoisted yourself  up ever so slightly, extending your legs. You climbed out and dusted yourself off when you saw George’s fingertips claw the side of the opening and soon he was pushing his torso through the hole in the ground. You offered him a hand but knew he didn’t need it. He had done this so many times before, he had the process down. 

“And where are we right now?”

“Honeydukes cellar. Fred and I know the owner. He lets us come and go as we like in exchange for free marketing. That’s why we always have free samples of the latest sweets.”

“How do you have all these connections?”

“Dunno. Fred and I have a knack for getting into trouble and then talking our way out. Make a lot friends doing that.” George placed the cover diagonally over the trap door and led you upstairs. The shop was closed but he continued walking through the aisles towards the front door. He magically unlocked the door and you made your way to the Three Broomsticks.

It was a cool night, but the air wasn’t as crisp as you expected as you walked through the quiet village. You made small talk as you walked down the empty streets. Most of the shops and stores were closed at this time of night. As you neared the pub, you heard the buzz of the regulars and drunks carrying on and having a laugh. Part of you wanted to stay and enjoy a butterbeer here with George, but you knew there wasn’t exactly time for that.

“Madame Rosmerta! And how are we doing this fine evening?” George said as you approached the bar.

“No! No, you’re not getting any more butterbeers! I told you last time.”

“Now that is not fair. You know this is a special occasion. We’re hosting the Triwizard Tournament this year. We have to make sure our guests enjoy themselves and have a good time.”

“I don’t care. You’re not getting anything this time.”

“Oh, come on. You’re making me look bad in front of my new girl.” She stopped pouring beers, turned to look at us, and cocked her eyebrow. You shot her a smile, trying to help George’s case.

“Now, I recognize her. She’s always in here with a group of giggling girls. What’s your name love?”

“Y/N,” you answered.

“Well Y/N, you’ve got yourself a good one. Underneath all the pranks and scheming, Georgie’s a catch.”

You nodded at her statement and looked at George, trying out your acting skills, “He’s so good to me. I’m a lucky girl,” you said rubbing his shoulder.

Madame Rosmerta looked charmed and you could see her starting to soften up. “All right, all right. You’ll get your butterbeers. But this is the last time, you hear me?”

“Rosmerta you are truly a saint. Thank you.”

“Save your flattery. Meet me around back. Y/N, look after the bar.” You shrugged and agreed as she led you behind the bar and gave you nowhere near as much instruction as you needed. You made conversation with the patrons as you poured refills and collected empty mugs. You had to admit, it was a little bit fun. Once everyone seemed to be taken care of, you snuck out from behind the bar to look for George. Surely you would be on your way out soon. You headed to the back office and saw George carrying a crate filled with bottles of butterbeer.

“She’s beautiful that one. You make sure you treat her well, ya hear? She deserves a good guy to take care of her,” you heard from around the corner. You waited a moment to hear his response, your curiosity getting the best of you.

“Trust me, I won’t hurt her. She’s special.” You grinned at his response for a moment before returning to reality.

“So everything’s all taken care of back there. Glasses are full, bar’s wiped down, and everyone’s happy. Well…almost everyone. Keep an eye on Henry out there. He’s about to start weeping over his ex-wife.”

“Ah, I suppose it is about that time,” George chuckled.

“You handled everything?” she asked you, stunned.

“Yeah, I think. Everyone seems to be in good spirits.”

“No one’s ever done that before, aside from me of course. Listen here, if you ever need a job in the future, you come straight here and I’ll hire you on the spot.”

“Wow, I will keep that in mind. Thanks!”  

Rosemerta gave George a pat on the back and came over to give you a kiss on the cheek, “You best be off. Have fun tonight you two.”

“Thanks again Rosemerta,” George said as you made your way out the back door.

“And if you get caught with that, it didn’t come from here!” she added. You both laughed as you stumbled outside into the cool breeze. 

“She loves me,” he stated as you walked through the empty road.

“Oh is that so.”

“Oh absolutely. I mean every time, without fail, she starts with a stern no. Then I talk to her a little bit and she remembers how much she likes me, minutes later she’s shoving a crate of contraband into my hands. Look, she even put a bottle of Firewhiskey in this batch.”

“Wow, well done George.”

“I should say the same to you. You really know how to tend a bar. Anytime Fred steps behind there to hold the place over, about five different things go wrong and there’s always broken glass and some sort of spill. Rosemerta returns and goes ballistic; until Fred reminds her that he is indeed a wizard and magically cleans everything up. But she was thoroughly impressed with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if she asks for you next time around.”

“I would be more than happy to accompany you. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up taking her up on that job offer.”

“I’m sure you can do a lot better than running a bar. What’s your long term plan?”

“To be honest, I have no idea.”

“That’s a joke. You’re a Gryffindor prefect. You’re brilliant in all your classes. You have so much ahead of you and you don’t know?”

“It’s not like that’s uncommon. Are you telling me you already have a plan post-Hogwarts?”

“Course I do. Fred and I are opening a shop where we can sell our brilliant products.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“That’s actually great. I wish I had that kind of clarity.”

“Well, what are you good at?”

“I’m fairly decent at every subject, but I don’t feel a strong connection to one subject over the others. Maybe charms or transfiguration if anything.”

“What do you like? And don’t just limit yourself to school. Just in general.”

You had never really thought about it before. Whenever the subject of the future had come up you changed the subject or completely stopped thinking about it.

“I suppose…I like people. Being around people and talking to people. That’s not much to go off is it?”

“It’s a start. You’ll find your calling soon enough. You’re smart and personable, people love that combination.”

“Thanks George. That is oddly reassuring.” 

By this point you had reached Honeydukes. You led the way inside and you ended up scanning the aisles, salivating over all the sweets.

“Here,” George said, handing you a giant, heart-shaped lollipop. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Wow, stealing candy for me. You’re too generous,” you joked. He rolled his eyes and you gave him a genuine thank you as you made your way back down to the tunnel.

#george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #george weasley fanfic #hp fanfic #weasley twins fanfic

[saint-eridell]

7:41 AM | Deku/F!reader fluffsmut

By demand of @lemonlordleah-shinzawa-kitten​, here’s a oneshot I wrote months ago while on an AU spree. Unbeta’d, I just wanted to put something up for people here to read. c:

8.3k, no major content warnings (aside from the possibility of dental work once your teeth start falling out from the fluff). All characters are in their early twenties.

It’s an exceedingly rare occasion when you and Izuku have the same day off. It’s such an uncommon thing that you can’t remember the last time it happened. When you peek over at the alarm clock next to your bed, you immediately smile - the green-faced display says it’s 7:41, a new record for Longest Morning Cuddle. You resolve yourself to keep the streak going as long as possible as you tuck an elbow under your pillow and consider dozing off again.

Something moves in the corner of your vision - an arm, your still mostly asleep brain registers - and drapes itself over your waist. A strong hand flattens itself over your midsection as an equally solid body tucks itself against your back. Izuku groans quietly, clearly still sound asleep. You chuckle quietly and curl back into him. “Good morning,” you whisper to test the waters.

You feel a set of lips curl into a smile against the back of your neck. “Morning,” he murmurs back, rough and gravelly with fatigue. Was he even awake yet? You’d seen him essentially sleepwalk to the coffee maker in the kitchen plenty of times; talking in his sleep is more than plausible. He settles again with a sigh that brushes over your neck and the back of your ear, and you can’t help but quietly laugh to yourself. Yep. Definitely still asleep, then.

Not that it matters in the slightest. The sun has only barely begun to light up the blinds that cover the bedroom windows. If he wants to sleep in, you’ll be the last one to stop him. Izuku never took time for himself anymore; between everything that Deku required of him and the constant training it took to keep up with the top spot, there wasn’t much left for the man behind the suit. Izuku’s the one in your bed, not the superhero he is during the day, and that means he doesn’t owe anyone shit for once. The fact that you have even a tiny bit to do with this makes you more than a little happy.

The hand not pushed under your pillow traces idle lines up and down his forearm, careful to not linger on any rough spots or seams. You’ve yet to work up the nerve to ask about the marks that cover his body, despite things being consistent between you for several months. It just doesn’t feel right to ask about. When Izuku wants to talk about it, he’ll say so… right?

Your nails circle the top of his wrist, then trail over the back of his hand. He picks his hand up and slides your fingertips between his knuckles before you can drift back up his arm, your fingers interlocked when he tucks them under your chin. You smile again, halfway obscured by your pillow, your conundrum momentarily forgotten. “Sneaky,” you murmur.

You feel him chuckle against the back of your neck, the soft breath that he huffs out enough to have the hair on the base of your scalp standing on end. “Observant,” he replies quietly, his voice rough from a night of sleeping like a boulder. “You turned your alarms off.”

“So did you,” you point out.

Izuku shrugs. “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” He’s beginning to sound a little more lucid, but his arm is still a heavy weight over your side and his frame sags into you like a weighted blanket. It’s entirely too early for him to be doubting himself, and you’re far too comfortable to even flirt with the idea of him running off.

You roll your eyes. “From getting cold,” you jab back. “You’re not going anywhere, so don’t get any funny ideas.”

His smile widens against your neck. “Funny ideas?” he asks back, his sleepy but earnest tone juxtaposed against the teeth you can feel brushing against your hairline. Even while mostly asleep, Izuku can still play the Boy Scout card like an absolute bastard. “I dunno what you mean.” You glance back toward him out of the corner of your eye, and even if he’s out of direct sight for you he’s close enough to see you looking because he immediately noses behind your ear. “What, don’t trust me?” he pouts.

You tilt your head and give him more room to nuzzle against your neck. “With my life,” you reply honestly. “But you’re a shitty liar when you’re fully cognizant and trying your hardest.”

Izuku laughs, a low sound that rumbles through you from behind and lingers under your skin as he pulls you closer. “I’m as innocent as a church mouse,” he murmurs back, mirth dripping through the mock innocence. He lets go of your hand, his index finger tracing down the hollow of your throat. “What would make you think otherwise?”

You have a hunch. You curve your back into his chest, and are rewarded with a half-hard but definitely interested shaft pressed to your backside. He lets out a quiet noise somewhere between a squeak and a groan and reciprocates the movement. “Nn- now that is entirely on you.”

You smile into your pillow. “No, that was you.” You grind against him again, slotting him between your cheeks for more contact. “This is me.” His hand immediately closes around your hip and pulls you in closer, his own hips returning the motion with enthusiasm. “Still feeling innocent?”

His lips brush over the side of your neck, not enough to make direct contact but enough to have you shivering on the spot. The huff he lets out ghosts over your loose tee shirt collar. “Why, you wanna corrupt me?” he asked back. The hand on your hip lets go, returning to palm the round curve of your ass. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to a low rumble that sinks directly into your bones and renders them down to gelatin in mere seconds. “Because I could be convinced to lay still with the right offer.”

Bastard. That purr. Memories of the things he’s poured into your ears using that voice have gotten you through many a multi-day mission. He knows what it does to you, just like he’s perfectly aware that his shy act is precisely that - a pretense, an amusing yet convenient wall to keep all but the most intimately familiar of people out. And to top it off with a shiny bow, Izuku can weaponize it at the drop of a hat. He’s a clever, quick-witted bastard and the realization that he’s really the one lying behind you, baiting his obscenity with honey and only letting you get a taste, has a happy bubble of warmth blooming in your chest.

The absolute bastard.

He catches you off guard by pressing a kiss just behind your ear. He places another just below it and continues downward as you squirm against the hand gripped to your ass. “Thought you were gonna show off,” you point out, very aware of how warm the skin under your shirt collar is getting as he approaches your shoulder with the edges of his teeth.

He tilts his head far enough to catch your eye. He’s sitting up on an elbow that’s planted behind your head, dark teal eyes fixated on you with only traces of the fatigue that had dragged him down earlier. “Thought you were gonna convince me to,” he purrs back, a sharp edge peering through his smile.

That’s enough of a hint for you. You turn onto your back and grab him by the chin, his smile only widening as you pull him down and seal your mouths together with a hungry noise. He shifts to kneel between your spread knees without argument, draping them around his hips.The kiss gets progressively needier as you both shake what remains of your sleepiness, tongues more grappling than dancing by the time you separate for a desperately needed breath.

It takes you an extra second. The window behind your headboard has lit up enough to allow soft golden light to filter through, the rays illuminating only the longest curls that stick out of his head. His cheeks are flushed a bright pink under a spray of freckles that stand out in sharp relief, as is his heavily shifting chest as he stares down at you with wet, parted lips. The scars that cover every part of him you can see stand out like his freckles, stripes of jagged, smooth pink against weathered tan that both entice and entrance you as you look them over. It’s a fact that you’ve obviously realized already, but… Izuku really is gorgeous. Like, the kind of gorgeous that has you swallowing down butterflies the second they walk in the room.

He blinks and reaches a hand to push a stray lock of your hair behind your ear, snapping you from your reverie with a sharp inhale. “You okay?” he asks, devoid of anything but genuine concern and a softness that makes your heart ache in your chest.

You nod and dart your tongue over your lips. “Yeah,” you confirm, winded. It would be a little awkward to explain that you’d been momentarily dumbstruck and reduced to a puddle because your bedroom has God-tier selfie lighting and your boyfriend looks like an angel when he’s not spazzing out. You pull him down again, this time with a hand spread over his jaw as you dive back into trying to remove any trace of his own taste from his mouth. He tugs the hem of your shirt upward and you break away to remove the offending garment, tossing it somewhere off the bed before Izuku begins kissing his way down your bare chest.

Your head tilts back and you let your eyes close. “Show me what you know,” you breathe. “And we’ll go from there.” You feel him grin against your sternum, where he nips a small mark into your skin before doing the same on the underside of a breast. You jump at the second nip; it didn’t hurt, but it was a sharp sensation you hadn’t been prepared for. You open your eyes and begin to say something, but your complaint dies in your throat as Izuku pulls a nipple between his teeth and rolls it against his tongue. Your eyes shut again and a quiet whimper escapes you. He matches his tongue with a hand on the opposite breast, swapping off without warning and quick enough to leave you no room to react. You can’t bring yourself to look down again, but you know he’s watching: you can feel his eyes boring into you, searching for every little twitch and whimper and cataloging it away like ticker tape. He gently bites the bud between his teeth and you finally have to relent, peering down through heavy lashes as his hand trails toward your shorts.

“I think I know what I’m doing here,” he says. He pokes a finger under the waistband and pops it against your stomach, his smile widening despite how fucking earnest he still sounds. “You’ll tell me if I can do something better, right?”

UGH. Absolute fucking bastard. “You’re pushing it,” you warn, though it’s heatless and you’re smiling around the retort. He seems to know he’s toeing the line and leans in to softly bite at your throat, which you happily accept with a quiet, high pitched yelp. You slip a hand through the curls on top of his head, and he arches his head into your palm with an appreciative groan against your collarbone. His hair is a melting point for him; one good scratching session and he’s passed out in your lap every single time. For how dense the curls are, they’re incredibly soft and slip effortlessly around your fingers like strips of dark green silk as you drag your nails across the crown of his head.

Izuku melts underneath your soft grip. For a moment he seems to forget where he’s going and any sense of what he’s doing, only aware of the nails running through his hair. Just as Izuku’s shoulders begin to slump, your fingers slowly tighten until you have a decent handful of curls wrapped around them when they begin to tug. Izuku keens into it with another groan, this one lower and guttural around his slackened jaw. “Don’t go to sleep on me,” you murmur down to him.

He grins against your sternum with half-open eyes. “Couldn’t if I wanted to,” he promises. You give the top of his head a gentle push, and he quickly gets with the program and shifts his way downward. He kisses your abdomen, then just above your navel, then just below it as he grabs the waistband of your shorts and guides them down over the swell of your hips. You let go of his hair and lift your ass to let him pull them all the way off before he throws them somewhere out of sight.

You eye his basketball shorts with disdain, lingering on the heavy tent standing up in the front. “You’re wearing too much,” you pout.

Izuku glances down to his lower half. “Later,” he replies. Without bothering to strip them off, he shoots you a grin and lowers himself with a startling quickness. You yelp, both in surprise at the sudden movement and protest at being blown off, but immediately shove the noise back into your own mouth as you slap a hand over it. He lays his chest flat to the bed in one quick shift and pins you with a wide, intense stare as he drags his tongue in a single flat stripe up the length of your slit. They part against the flat surface of his tongue and he wastes no time pressing inside you, his terrifyingly strong hands wrapped around the bend of your hips to keep you glued to his face.

A strangled moan creaks out as you writhe on the spot. For how often Izuku chokes on his own tongue in day to day life, he’s an undeniable master when he puts it to work. He’s long figured out which angles and spots made you lose your marbles, and he cycles between all of them as easy as turning a page. Your hands once again grab into his soft curls as your thighs slacken and fall away from his ears. He latches around your clit when he feels you relax, laving his tongue over it and pulling another sharp cry out of you as your legs tighten over his ears again.

He keeps you hovering there for what feels like hours. He doesn’t bother moving either of his hands, seemingly too content to press finger-shaped bruises into the valleys of your hips as you slowly fall apart in his arms. You glance downward and feel the same brick from before smash into your chest: he looks wild with tousled green curls sticking out in every direction, his wide eyes locked onto you with laser-sharp focus over the curve of your mound with the barest hint of an obscured smile just beneath. He knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing, and the devilish curl of his tongue through the wetness that has collected at your opening screams it.

“Am I doing alright?” he asks when he surfaces for air, his wet cheek pressed to your inner thigh. His breath tickles your overstimulated folds and you jump on the spot. You nod, unable to formulate a verbal response. He grins against your leg, his lips shining in the faint morning light. With the shadows pulled into sharp relief, his darkened eyes look almost bottomless as they follow your every movement. He watches you, hungry and devious in equal parts, before briefly biting into your thigh and returning to your slit.

Your back arches off the bed as you suck in a sharp breath. He lets go with one hand and traces a fingertip through your soaked folds, prepping it briefly before sliding it into you all the way to the top knuckle. You keen hard with your lower lip between your teeth. His hands are covered in calluses, the shift of just one finger inside you enough to make your brain short circuit. Despite their roughness, he curves them at the exact angle to light you up from the inside out and continues laving over your clit to keep you off center.

It works. By the time he slides a second finger inside, you’re openly moaning toward the ceiling. You glance down again, and for the first time he isn’t looking up at you. His eyes are shut and pinched with focus, his forehead free of any of the usual tension he carried there. He’s as lost as you, drowning in the same obscene noises that echo off the walls as he ruts down into the comforter through the fabric of his shorts. In an instant the intimacy of the moment punches you in the gut, ripping a loud moan out of you as your fingers grip tighter into his hair.

“M’go-” No good. Words aren’t happening. You make do with pulling him into you by the scalp, something he seems to be completely fine with as he relaxes his neck and picks up the pace with his fingers. Your breathy noises become full on wails as he pushes you closer to the edge and, with one particularly skillful twist of his wrist, shoves you over. Your thighs clamp around his head as you wail his name up toward the ceiling, your back arched high as every muscle in your body contracts at the same time. He keeps up the pace until you finally collapse like a broken marionette, falling to pieces around him as you struggle to regain your breath.

He leans his head against your thigh and hugs it to his cheek with his clean hand, his own breathing harsh and ragged. He’s flushed from the hairline down, a sharp contrast to the damp green curls that stick to his forehead. He’s obviously worked up and hasn’t stopped grinding himself down into the mattress (he might not even realize he’s doing it, with how hazy his eyes are), but he’s watching you with a wet grin as he corrects his own breathing. “You okay?” he asks again.

You roll your eyes toward the headboard behind you. “I’m pretty sure I just lost feeling in my feet for a second,” you respond between exhales. It’s hard to hold your head up, let alone form cohesive words, when your entire body feels like it’s been melted to a sticky puddle.

His eyes flicker wider, his body suddenly very still. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

You let a cackle roll out of you unabated. “Are you joking?” you ask back. “Relax, Izuku. That’s a good thing.” Your head luls back as your neck begins to protest how heavy your head is. The pillow catches it and you spend a moment just staring at the ceiling, letting the last of the aftershocks roll through you as Izuku kisses at your inner thigh.

His cheek shifts along your thigh as you regain a chunk of your composure. He’s staring up at you, his cheeks still flushed a bright pink and his lips parted. “I know how to do more,” he murmurs into the pause. A hand slips off your hip and down to his shorts, which he finally peel off and kick away without any regard for where they landed. He sits up and guides your legs back over his hips, hovering over you with his bare dick resting in the cleft of your ass. “If you want to see.”

You pick your hips up in response, giving him something to grind against as you roll into his lap. His jaw slackens in response as he takes a handful of ass on each side and squeezes, lifting you into the motion of grinding against him. His arms flex, the sharp lines of muscle he’d built up over many years standing out in bold, dark lines as he effortlessly holds your weight with just his grip. You let him take hold of your lower half and relax into the pillows under your head and shoulders, your stomach muscles pulled taut against the arch of your back. If he’s going to show off, then you can dish it right back.

He swallows hard, his eyes widening. A devilish spark dances across them as he stretches a hand down between you and presses the pad of his thumb to your still sensitive nub. You squeal in response and thrash in his grip, but he holds you steady and guides you through it as he takes his time preparing himself. When you twist and catch the head of his length for a brief swipe across your soaked entrance, you buck again and only fail in pushing him into you because he grips your hips tighter and forces you to stay in one place.

“Easy,” he soothes in a low tone. “We’ll get there. Don’t wanna hurt you.” Fuck that, if you get what you want it’s going to hurt in every good way possible, and the sooner you get started the better. You twist in his hands again, but he’s far too strong and holds you in place with obvious ease. He seems to read the tension building on your features and swipes himself through your folds just as much as he absolutely has to before pushing you down half of his length.

The sting of him pressing your walls outward is intense, almost blinding. You let out loud cries in unison, his jaw nearly falling off his face with visible effort to maintain his composure. “So tight,” he manages to growl out from behind his teeth after his jaw snaps shut. “Don’t move, please, not yet.” You obey his plea and go still in his hands, watching intently as his eyes slide shut for just a moment. He pulls himself almost all the way out of you with a slow inhale, exhaling as he thrusts in again and ending it with a sharp little noise from the bottom of his chest when your hips seat together.

Izuku isn’t an absolute monster behind the zipper, but he’s got more than enough and he absolutely knows what he’s doing with it… despite his typical oblivious act. As soon as you’re both adjusted he begins thrusting deep, using his wide planted knees as a sturdy base to bounce you off his lap with hard pops of skin. It’s rougher than it probably should be, but the burn of it is so incredible you can’t bring yourself to tell him to slow down. He watches from above, ragged breaths puffing out of him every time you thrust back against him. He hits a spot that makes your lungs freeze and he thrusts there again hard and deep, rolling against it with a drawn out groan that seems to come directly from his core. You reciprocate the with a desperate one of your own, leveraging your toes against the bed to push down against him as your eyes roll toward the back of your head.

“Beautiful,” he gasps out, his grip nearly unbearable across your ass until he lets go and you finally get some relief. “So fucking beautiful.” You moan in gratitude and let your hips relax into his palms as he guides them down so your spine is flat to the sheets again. He leans in to plant his forearms flat to the bed over your shoulders and kisses you deep. You wrap your legs around his slim waist, your arms snaking around his neck so you can reach his hair once again. He rumbles into the kiss as you find a couple handfuls of curly green locks at the back of his head and give them an experimental squeeze, his hips snapping into you in response.

Tugging his hair like a set of reins kicks him into a higher gear. As he drills you into the mattress, all hesitation abandoned, he gasps and groans into the crook of your neck without a single attempt to quiet them. A litany of praise and vulgarity mixes in with the desperate breaths, mirrored by your own calls to deities and encouragement when he finds an angle that has your legs clamping around him hard enough to hurt. “Fuckin- unh, so good,” he chokes out, his lips a mere inch from your ear. “Mine. All mine. Nn- fuck, lift up like that oh my God yes…”

He can’t seem to stop his mouth, and every word out of it is praise for you as he hovers in your face, unavoidable and stripped down to his rawest thoughts as you hold him close with both hands. “So gorgeous. So sweet. Wanna taste you every day forever.” It’s so sincere, so unfiltered and so goddamn him it makes your heart ache like it’s trying to burst in your chest as he floods you with a wave of vulnerability you’re not sure you even deserve.

You feel a coil begin to tighten behind your navel as he presses hard kisses to the front of your throat, his pace needy and focused as his words begin to slur together and mutate into simple noises from the back of his throat. “Almost there,” he warns, his voice high and tight against your skin. You nod your acknowledgment and pull him by the hair until your faces are level again, when you crush your lips together and immediately seek out his tongue. The kiss itself is more an open mouth display of tongues and obscene noises than anything intimate, both of you momentarily chasing your own release until they sync up and, with one last hard tug to his scalp, you wail his name toward the ceiling again and let your orgasm completely wreck you.

Izuku follows immediately afterward, his teeth sunk into the hill of muscle where your neck meets your shoulder, muffling the shaky moan that tore through him. He seats himself deep and rides out his own release with hard rolls of his hips, your insides lighting up hot with the load he streaks your inner walls with. You hadn’t even been aware that it was possible to go that deep, but there’s no denying it when you can literally feel where he is.

The silence that lapses is punctuated only by ragged breaths and the smack of lips pulling off each other as you both struggle to piece your brains back together. Unable to sit still you let go of his hair and skate your nails down his back, earning you a quiet groan of approval and a scar-riddled back arching up into your fingertips. “Holy shit,” he breathes to break the silence, looking down at you with a lopsided grin. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You giggle and hurriedly exhale. “Morning,” you reply airily. You reach a hand up to brush away a particularly long curl that’s stuck to his forehead. He watches your hand but doesn’t move away from it, and when the stray lock is pushed away he gently takes your hand and guides it to his lips. He opens his mouth to say something but pauses, seemingly reconsidering it and choosing to kiss your knuckles instead.

You frown at him. “What?” you ask. “You can’t make a face like that and then just leave it.”

Izuku opens his mouth again, appearing like he might argue, before he closes it again. You arch an eyebrow up at him. “Sorry, sorry,” he says defenselessly with a shake of his head. “It’s hard to think.”

You give him a soft smile. “Relax. You’re okay.” You guide your tangled hands toward your face and brush your lips over his knuckles like he did to yours. “Now, what were you gonna say?”

The moment of focus seems to be enough to force a hard reset of Izuku’s brain. He blinks hard and shakes his head with a chuckle. “Sorry,” he repeats, holding his hands up again when you shoot him a dubious look. “I was gonna say that-” He pauses again and scratches idly at the back of his head. His gaze averts to the few inches of bedsheet that sit between them and it clicks - he’s getting bashful about something. Your dubious look shifts into a cheshire grin as you sit up to look him in the eye on his level. “I was gonna say- um…”

You nod to encourage him, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs around another hard swallow. “Go on,” you goad, sitting forward a little to distract him with your bare chest. It works; his gaze drifts downward and lingers for a few seconds before he snaps his focus back up to your face, his cheeks once again flushed a pale pink.

“Well…” He rubs the back of his neck and squirms on the spot. He peers around the room like he expects someone to be eavesdropping behind the dresser or something before leaning in, a hand cupped around one side of his mouth. You roll your eyes but play along and lean in closer so he can whisper in your ear:

“You’ve got a nice ass.”

Your elation flips to irritation like a lightswitch, and just as quickly you’re letting out a loud, raucous laugh. You grab a pillow from behind you and whip it in a crescent to peg him across the face with it. He takes the shot with a muffled grunt and bats the pillow down to his lap, a wide grin slapped across his face. “What? It’s true!”

“That’s not what you were gonna say and you know it,” you grouse back through a mock look of anger before poking your tongue out at him. He returns the gesture and the two of you fall into a moment of spastic laughter before coming back to reality with a chaste but tender kiss. You can forgive the leading on; he’d already communicated what remained unsaid in the bruises you can feel forming across your skin, on the teeth marks stinging at your shoulder, on the soft lips and sharp teeth you can still feel pulling at your bottom lip. You break it off and take his hand, scooting toward the edge of the bed and dragging a willing Izuku with you. “Shower, then coffee. You’re stuck with me today.”

Izuku presses the back of his free hand to his forehead as he follows you toward the bathroom door. “Oh no, whatever will I do?” he titters.

You shrug as you push the door open. “Get your dick sucked if you’re good.” You let go of his hand and enter the bathroom, a wide-eyed Izuku hot on your heels.

---

@the-angriestpineapple @deadassqueeraf @practisewhatyoupeach @cherrycolabomb

#midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya izuku x female reader #bnha smut #bnha lemon #bnha fluff #my fics

[joezworld]

Flesh is Temporary, Steel is Eternal. (2/5)

Sister

1967

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” Skarloey asked Nancy one afternoon in early summer.

“Nope!” She said, and draped herself over his saddle tank to continue reading her novel.

“Really?”

“Uh huh! All my friends are away, and mum and dad both work here, so I might as well stay here with you!”

Skarloey rolled his eyes. Nancy was too old for this to be called ‘babysitting’, but even when she wasn’t, the time for objections had long passed. She had been draping herself over himself and Rheneas for so long that The Thin Clergyman had written about it! At this point he was more used to her being around than not, and his grouchiness was growing more and more amiable with each passing month.

“What are you reading?”

“A pulp novel about a boy who is cursed by a witch to turn into a locomotive under the light of the full moon.” Nancy sounded especially sarcastic as she read the plot to him.

Skarloey stared up at her. “Really?”

“Yeah!” A hand dropped in front of his smokebox, showing the gaudy cover of the book; It did indeed feature a young man holding up his arm in horror as his hand turned into a locomotive wheel. CURSE OF THE WERE-ENGINE was printed in lurid red letters across the top of the cover.

“That is the worst book cover I have ever seen.” Skarloey said once he finished goggling at it.

“The book isn’t much better.” Nancy admitted as she retracted her arm.

“Then why are you reading it?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t interesting. Besides, I want to see how the witch did it!”

“You want to see how to turn someone into an engine?”

“Yeah!”

“Why?”

“Becauuuseeee...” She said as she draped her entire head over the edge of Skarloey’s smokebox. “I’m curious!”

“About what?”

“About being an engine, silly!” She said as though it was totally reasonable. “I spend so much time with you and Rheneas and the others that I’m curious about what it’s like!”

“You could just ask me what it’s like.” Skarloey said, more than a little shocked at this

“Yeah, but you don’t know what it’s like to be a person, so it’d be like comparing apples to oranges - this book shows both sides.”

“What does it say then?”

“Honestly not much. The bloke is too busy being scared to actually notice anything. Typical boy.” She muttered.

“Nance” Rheneas asked groggily as he woke up from his nap. “Why do you want to be an engine?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“I imagine a lot of people.”

“Like who?”

“You parents for one, your friends for another.”

“Eh. I’d rather be what I want to be than what they want me to be. ‘Sides, if I had to be like someone, I’d rather be like you two.”

Skarloey and Rheneas looked at each other. “Why?” Skarloey asked slowly.

“’Cause you’re brothers.” Nancy said simply. She’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, and kept talking like it had been on her mind. “And you’ve got Peter Sam and Duncan and Sir Handel and everyone else. I’ve just got me.”

Skarloey and Rheneas looked at each other again. They had no idea what being an only child was like, but evidently Nancy didn’t like being one.

“And if you turned into an engine,” Skarloey said with exceptional care. “What would that make you?”

“I dunno - your sister or something?” Nancy said blithely, unaware of the wide-eyed looks the two engines were having. “I feel like I already am sometimes, but it’s weird to say that when you two are older than my parents.”

“Well,” said Rheneas in a small voice before Skarloey could say anything. “If you ever manage that, I think you would be our sister then.”

“Okay!” Nancy said, blissfully ignorant of the emotional impact of her words in a way that only young people can be.

---

Two Years Later

It was a clear, cloudless night in July. The moon was supposed to be full and bright that night, and Skarloey and Rheneas had asked to be parked outside so that they could see it.

They were both half-asleep in the bright light of the very full moon when a dark-dressed figure came crunching up the gravel towards them.

Now fully awake, Skarloey called out to the figure. “Who goes there! Show yourself!”

“Keep your voice down!” Hissed the figured, who tore off their hat to reveal:

“Nancy!” Rheneas hissed. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!”

“I need to show you guys something,” Nancy looked strangely determined. “And it can only be done under a full moon!"

“What?”

“Look!” Nancy took this as permission to keep going, and rummaged through her bag to produce a thick, leather-bound book. “I found this in a second-hand shop on the mainland.”

“What is it?” Rheneas asked, instantly more interested in the book than in Nancy’s late night escapade. Skarloey would have whooshed steam at Rheneas to keep him focused on Nancy being out so late, but his fire had been dropped so long ago that there was nothing left.

“It’s a big book of enchantments and cantrips! Magic!” She said with excitement.

“Oh Nancy,” Skarloey wasn’t sure whether to be indignant at her or disappointed on her behalf. “Magic isn’t real!”

“I thought you’d say that,” She said quickly. “So I brought proof!”

She reached back into her bag, and pulled out a battered old school book. In the light of the moon, Skarloey could see that the book’s hard cover had words and shapes carved into it.

As the two engines watched, Nancy brought the book up to their eye level and then let go.

Instead of falling to the ballast below, the book hovered in mid-air. Skarloey watched with amazement, all objections forgotten.

“Amazing...” Whispered Rheneas, instantly very interested. “Did you learn that from the book?”

“Yeah!” Nancy exclaimed as she flipped the spell book open to a different page. “I found that and a load of other spells, but I wanted to try this one with you two!”

Skarloey was hesitant. Rheneas was not. “We’ll do it!” He cried before his brother could say anything.

Nancy squealed joyfully and knelt down between the two engines, quickly marking on their cylinder blocks with a grease pencil that she’d produced from... somewhere.

“What are you doing?” Asked Skarloey as the grease markings suddenly began to itch.

“I’m making a rune.” Nancy said, quietly concentrating as she made sure that the marks were identical.

“A what?”

“A rune - it’s a magic thing from the book.”

Skarloey wanted to roll his eyes at Rheneas and Nancy’s misplaced enthusiasm, but he looked back at the school book, still hovering over the tracks, and realized that he might be the wrong one in this situation.

Rheneas gasping broke him from his ruminations. “What are you doing?!”

What Nancy was doing was slicing both her palms open with a folding knife. “It needs blood to work!” She winced, before slapping both hands onto the runes.

Skarloey expected a wet slapping noise, and was vaguely horrified when a sharp sizzle emanated from beneath her hands instead. It sounded like Nancy was being horribly burned - even though neither of them were in steam, but she didn’t wince or cry out; if anything, it looked like whatever just happened had healed her hands, since her pained look lessened significantly.

Much to both engine’s concern, she then started reciting something in what Skarloey was certain was Latin:

“Duae familiae fiet unum,

Tenetur per metallum et sanguinem,

Fratrem in hac parte,

In lumine lunae,

Hoc autem creatus est vinculum solum potest conteram Deorum”

Her recitation was slow and methodical, and her face was deeply calm as she said it, ignoring the blood that was dripping down from both of her palms.

Rheneas looked to be somewhere on the ‘fascinated’ side of ‘horrified fascination’, while Skarloey was firmly on the other side - to the point where he couldn’t even muster up the words to tell Nancy what he thought of this macabre ritual, he was so horrified.

As she finished the string of ominous-sounding Latin, a bright light surged out from beneath Nancy’s fingers, tracing along the grease pen runes before running its way up her arms and Skarloey and Rheneas’ connecting rods. The light built to a hugely bright flash that looked like a silent lightning bolt.

When Skarloey blinked the spots out of his eyes, it was over. Nancy was lying flat on her back in the gravel a few feet away from where she started, the grease paint was gone from both engines, and when she stood up and brushed herself off, Skarloey could see no trace of the cuts to Nancy’s palms.

If one ignored the floating book, it was almost like nothing had happened.

Skarloey was still speechless from shock and horror at the whole affair, but Rheneas was somehow much calmer. “Now that the light show is over, are you going to tell us what that did?”

“Oh!” Skarloey didn’t need to see Nancy’s cheeks to know that she was blushing - the silly girl had totally forgotten to say what this spell did. “It’s suppose-”

“Hey you! What are you doing here?” The night watchman from the big railway’s works had been alerted by the bright flash of light, and was making his way across the yard, his flashlight bobbing up and down as he crossed the standard gauge rails.

“I’ll tell you later!” Nancy whispered as she stuffed the floating book into her bag and took off running up the narrow gauge line. Within a few moments, her dark clothing was swallowed up by the night, and she vanished.

The two little old engines waited until the watchman had run back to his office in the works to phone the police before speaking.

“Our sister is crazy.” Rheneas said finally.

“That’s not the word I’d use.” Skarloey muttered. “Foolish, irresponsible, worrying even, but-”

He stopped midsentence as something occurred to him.

“Rheneas, since when is Nancy our sister?”

“Since always?”

“Since always?! She wasn’t ten minutes ago!”

Both engines blinked for a moment.

“I guess we found out what that spell was supposed to do then.” Rheneas said quietly.

-

The next afternoon, Skarloey rolled into the yard after taking a train of slate trucks down from the mines. Nancy, who had been slumped bonelessly over an old chair in the shed with a magazine, hopped up and clambered up on top of his boiler without so much as a hello.

“That was an incredibly stupid thing to do last night.” Skarloey chided gently.

“I know,” Nancy said as she laid down between his funnel and dome and started reading. “Was worth it though.”

“Isn’t it hot up there? I’m still in steam.”

“Nope.”

“At some point you must really show me exactly what that book said.”

“Can you read Latin?’

“No.”

“Then I don’t think it will help if you read it.”

----

Two weeks later

It was another wonderful clear night, and Nancy was half asleep on Rheneas’ cab roof while he and Skarloey bickered over something incredibly minor as their fires died down. As much as Skarloey would complain about her sitting around idly, she did actually do odd jobs for the railroad, and had volunteered to drop the two engines’ fires once they got low enough. The problem was that this minor argument was keeping both of them thoroughly ‘fired up’ as it were, and she’d likely have to wait until the coal burned out entirely before she could clear out their ash pans.

Eventually, the argument got Rheneas in such a tizzy that he belched a gout of thick, sooty smoke out of his funnel, covering all three in a choking cloud of ash and coal dust.

When the smoke cleared, Skarloey was still blinking soot from his eyes while Rheneas spat chunks of clinker out of his mouth.

Nancy, meanwhile, had been directly in the cloud's path and was black from head to toe. She was not pleased about it.

Not that Skarloey and Rheneas cared, and the argument was quickly forgotten as they laughed themselves silly at their sibling’s predicament.

“It’s not funny you two! I just bought this jumper!” Nancy protested as Skarloey and Rheneas howled with laughter. “Aren’t you both - achoo!”

She cut herself off as she began sneezing massively from the ash in her nose. In fact, there was so much ash in her nose that it started coming out in little black puffs, which only fueled her brothers’ heaving laughter.

Skarloey could barely see, he was laughing so hard, and was therefore surprised to hear Rheneas’ voice go from mocking to concerned in the span of two seconds

“What’s wrong...” He trailed off as he opened his eyes.

What was wrong was plainly obvious - Nancy was still sneezing, but was now doing so from within an impossibly large cloud of black smoke. There was no way that it had all come from her, as the cloud was bigger than Nancy was, and was still growing with each sneeze.

By the time the cloud had grown to the size of Skarloey, neither brother was laughing any more, and were beside themselves with concern.

“Are you all right?” Rheneas called into the cloud.

“Ye- achoo! Yes! I think!” Nancy called back. “But something feels weird! Achoo!”

After a few more tense minutes, Nancy stopped sneezing and the smoke began to clear up.

Skarloey blinked once, then once more, then a third time. Next to him he could hear Rheneas quietly swearing.

“What?” Came Nancy’s voice. “What happened?”

Skarloey tried to speak, but his mouth just flapped open like a dying fish.

“What?” Nancy’s voice sounded increasingly concerned, which was impressive considering that she wasn’t even in sight anymore.

Well, she couldn’t be in sight anymore - there was an engine parked directly in front of where she had been standing, which meant that she had to be behind it.

It was a very familiar looking engine too - like if someone had taken off Skarloey’s two rear wheels and put them onto Rheneas’ frame.

“Will either of you say something!” Nancy’s voice demanded. It’s funny - if Skarloey didn’t know any better, he’d say that the engine was speaking with Nancy’s voice.

“Nancy?” Rheneas said in a small voice. “is that you?”

“Is what me?” The engine asked, its eyes darting around.

"You-you-you..." Rheneas spluttered incoherently.

“WHAT IS IT?!” The locomotive asked. A small corner of Skarloey’s mind was astounded that they hadn’t woken the other engines.

After another frantic moment, the locomotive looked down at its bufferbeam. Whatever it saw deeply surprised it, because its eyes snapped back up to look at Skarloey and Rheneas before looking back down at itself.

“Am... am I...?” It asked slowly. Skarloey felt like he was having an out of body experience - the pieces were there, but he wasn’t quite putting everything together.

“Yes!” Rheneas was quicker on the uptake. “Yes you are!”

The engine looked like it wanted to say something else, but it suddenly morphed and changed in a dark flash of movement. When it settled back down, Nancy was once again standing in the middle of the tracks.

“What?” She asked, in no small amount of shock as she patted herself down.

Seeing the engine turn back into Nancy suddenly made everything come together for Skarloey, and he tried to speak, or scream, or say something! Instead, all the words tried to come out at once and he just babbled incoherently.

Rheneas wasn’t in a much better state, and was saying something that he might have thought were words, but were actually just syllables.

Meanwhile, Nancy had suddenly stopped patting herself down, sprinted for her bag, which was hanging on a coat hook near the shed door, and flipped it over while she scrabbled for something in it. Eventually finding what she was looking for, she sprinted back in front of Skarloey and Rheneas, revealing that she was holding the same book of magic spells from two weeks ago.

Her brothers were not in any state to speak, let alone question her, and so she was able to quickly flip to the page she was looking for.

“That was not listed as a result!” She said after a minute, before carefully setting the book down on the ground and taking a few steps back. "But maybe... I switched some words around because you're made of metal. Let me try this again..."

Skarloey and Rheneas lost what little of their composure they had regained when Nancy’s form blurred once again, and the engine appeared in her place.

The engine - Nancy?! - blinked once, then blurred back to a human form. This continued back and forth several times, before Nancy, once again a person, staggered back on her heels, a look of joy on her face.

Wordlessly, she approached Skarloey and wrapped her arms around his smokebox.

“Now I really am your sister!” She said, tears beginning to stream down her face.

-

As the years went on, Nancy’s ability became normal to Skarloey and Rheneas. They had to keep it away from the other engines, because they were certain that some engines (Sir Handel, Duncan) would be unable to keep it secret, but it was not a secret that they considered Nancy to be their sister - even if nobody understood how or why!

If they had wanted to keep it a secret, then that option went out the window when Nancy’s daughters greeted the old engines as “unca Ska’oey!” and “unca ‘Neas!”

Similarly, Nancy could never pull any trains, because someone might notice, and ask where the new engine came from, but the trio were content to spend time with each other late at night when nobody was watching.

In the early 1990′s, Nancy and her husband moved to the Isle of Man for work. While they visited often, neither of them liked being so far away from their family, who all worked or went to school on Sodor, and they came back in 2002. Skarloey and Rheneas were thrilled to see her, which cemented her resolve to never leave Sodor again.

In 2013, Nancy’s oldest daughter entered the “family business”, and joined the board of directors for the Skarloey Railway. She proved to be a capable administrator, and was promoted to head of operations in after only a decade.

Even as she grew older, Nancy continued to hang around the sheds, never quite able to stay away...

-

2045

One bright summer morning, Nancy hobbled her way into the yards. Skarloey and Rheneas watched with no small amount of discomfort - age had not been kind to their sister, and she no longer moved with the grace of a young person. Coming to a stop on the tracks in front of Rheneas, she closed her eyes and morphed back into an engine.

Unlike her human form, she was just as young-looking an engine in 2045 as she was in 1969.

“That’s better.” She sighed quietly as she rested on her wheels.

“Nance?” Rheneas said quietly. “You do know that people can see you?”

“I don’t care.” She said as a wisp of steam curled out of her funnel, causing Skarloey to raise an eyebrow.

“Do you want to explain something?” He asked.

“I am old and I am creaky and I am tired of it.” She said, looking at Skarloey pointedly.

Skarloey’s other eyebrow rose, and Rheneas’ jaw dropped. “You don’t mean...”

“I do.”

The engines sat in silence for a moment - Nancy enjoying the Summer sun, while Skarloey and Rheneas digested her words.

After a while, a voice could be heard coming closer to them. Nancy’s daughter Elaine made her way across the tracks, deep in conversation on her earphone.

Although they could only hear one side of the conversation, Skarloey and Rheneas could pick up enough context clues to know that she was talking to the board about when it would become necessary to find another engine.

The two old engines eyed their younger sister - they had a feeling that this wasn’t a coincidence.

“-yes, I know that we only got Wolfgang five years ago, but traffic has increased ten percent since then! We can barely keep up with the Amazon traffic as it is. Thank god that we have Rusty back at full power after his rebuild-”

She stopped mid-stride as she looked over at the trio of engines. “Let me call you back.”

She stood there for a moment, glaring at her mother. Skarloey did not need to look at Nancy to know that she was making a face right back - the shite-eating grim was so prominent he could almost feel it.

Elaine gave up first, burying her head in her hands. “Mum, mum. We talked about this.”

“You talked about this. I ignored you.” Nancy smirked. Rheneas couldn’t hold back a gasp of laughter at his sister’s unadulterated snark.

“How am I supposed to explain this?” Elaine said, not even lifting her head out of her hands.

“I don’t care. I’m not going back.”

“What about dad? Isn’t he going to be waiting for you?” Elaine was trying to be upset and it wasn’t quite sticking.

“Your father will be waiting for me in heaven whether it’s for ten years or ten thousand. I’m staying here with my family.” Nancy wasn’t budging from her position.

Elaine drew her head out of her hands to glare at her mother again. Eventually, she admitted defeat, and threw her hands into the air. “Fine! Fine! You win! I give up!” She shouted as she stalked away towards the railroad’s offices.

She tapped her ear twice to engage another call, and Skarloey could hear her start talking to someone- presumably her sister. “Hey - she actually did it. No I’m not joking. Yeah, I’m gonna have to explain this to the board somehow. I don’t know how. Do you have the book still? Why? Because if she can do it then so can I when the time is-”

The door to the office closed behind her, silencing the conversation.

The trio of engines looked at each other meaningfully. No words were said until Duke puffed into the yards. He eyed Nancy with suspicion.

“There were two of you earlier.” The striking similarity between the three was not lost on him.

Skarloey was wondering how he was going to explain this to the normally-superstitious old engine when Nancy spoke up.

“For shame, Duke!” I go to the works for a month and you forget all about me?”

“I’m sure I don’t know you.” Duke was unconvinced.

For once, Skarloey was the first off the draw. “Really, you forgetful old engine? You know my sister for almost a hundred years and you forget her after a month?”

“How can you forget Nancy? She’s been here longer than you have!” Rheneas chipped in, once it was clear they were just going to gaslight their colleague.

Duke stared at them, unamused. “I only know one Nancy, and she most assuredly does not...”

The surety faded from his eyes as Kitten, woken from a nap by the argument, sauntered across the rails, hopped up onto Nancy’s bufferbeam, and fell asleep once more.

“...” Duke blinked several times as he tried to reconcile his memories of Nancy not being there with the engine sitting in front of him.

“I apologize. The years must be finally getting to me.” He said quietly, and steamed into the sheds, the automatic door sliding shut behind him.

It took all of Skarloey, Rheneas, and Nancy’s strength not to dissolve into laughter then and there.

#ttte skarloey #ttte rheneas #ttte nancy #ttte duke #rheneas' cat #ttte #sodor #fic #headcanon #this is all headcanon compliant #excuse me but this is a reverse-humanization blog #flesh is temporary steel is eternal #magic #nancy you found a magic book and this is what you did with it? #long