#diamondsnowflakes
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I wanna be your favourite pretty boy!
"Hey Tim," he shouted over his shoulder.
"Yeah?" Tim shouted back.
"Is your Wi-Fi set up yet?"
"Yeah, you wanna do your usual guessing attempts before I give you the password?"
Kon grinned. "Yeah. You good with that?"
"Go ahead!"
Kon fist pumped then grabbed his phone out of his back pocket. He'd been trying to guess the password to Tim's Wi-Fi every time he moved for the past five years, enough that it'd become a tradition for him. Of course, it never worked. Tim preferred to have a bunch of numbers and symbols around, and even then, the main body of it would be akin to 'RedViper' or something equally cryptic.
Still, Kon switched to his settings and clicked on the 'Gold-smithGuitar' network, lowering himself to kneel beside the router.
AO3 Link
"Remind me why you needed a new apartment again?" Kon called out to his best friend as he followed him up into the hall of the fifth-floor apartment, faux-staggering with the last cardboard box (marked 'books') balanced on one hip.
"Technically, this isn't my apartment; it's Arnold Gold's --"
Kon rolled his eyes and shifted the cardboard box to his other hip as Tim disappeared through a white door at the end of the hall.
"-- And there's a weapons trafficking ring that's taken up a base across from here. I needed an excuse to be watching at all hours of the day."
"We're in Bludhaven. Couldn't your older brother do this?"
"Actually, this is to help Dick. I owe him a favour or two."
"I'm guessing this is worth two."
A thud echoed from somewhere in the room as Tim stuck his head around the door, flashing a sheepish grin. "Pretty much." His eyes flicked down to the box. "Can you put that box in the living room?"
Kon shrugged. "Sure."
"Brilliant," Tim smiled, then disappeared again, only leaving time to call back, "Thank you!" over his shoulder.
Kon sighed and rolled his eyes, then turned into the doorway next to him that led into a spacious combination dining room and living room.
It was very fancy for a living room in Kon's mind, but that was how he felt in most of Tim's home bases. He was scared to put the box down near any furniture or walls lest he scratch anything. Even the carpet was so new and thick that his feet were leaving behind tracks in the fibres. It didn't help that Tim had a knack for buying the most uncomfortable, fancy-looking sofas in the world; this time, it was a reddish-brown leather-looking sofa that Kon knew he would slip off when they next hung out.
Strangely enough, Tim had also bought a dining set to fill the dining room section this time. Kon thought it looked like stained and polished ash. Pa would say it was a waste of good wood with how little Tim would use it.
Kon was inclined to agree, but he wasn't about to tell Tim that as he bent down to place the box near the TV. As he straightened up, he caught a little black box in the corner of his eye.
"Hey Tim," he shouted over his shoulder.
"Yeah?" Tim shouted back.
"Is your Wi-Fi set up yet?"
"Yeah, you wanna do your usual guessing attempts before I give you the password?"
Kon grinned. "Yeah. You good with that?"
"Go ahead!"
Kon fist pumped then grabbed his phone out of his back pocket. He'd been trying to guess the password to Tim's Wi-Fi every time he moved for the past five years, enough that it'd become a tradition for him. Of course, it never worked. Tim preferred to have a bunch of numbers and symbols around, and even then, the main body of it would be akin to 'RedViper' or something equally cryptic.
Still, Kon switched to his settings and clicked on the 'Gold-smithGuitar' network, lowering himself to kneel beside the router. First, he tried 'Cassie2'; Cassie for the name and two because she was the second Wondergirl. No cigar. The screen shivered. Then he typed in 'Bart2' -- because he was the second Kid Flash. No cigar again. Then he poised to run over to the kitchen as he tried his favourite password, 'Kon1'. He was ready to laugh it off, but as he pressed 'Join', he froze. It went through. All three bars lit up on his phone, and Kon's heart went quiet.
"Hey Tim," he called. His heart felt like it had restarted with a skip, and his face warmed up. He didn't dare tear his eyes from the screen lest it disappear.
"Yeah?" This time, he sounded closer, meaning Tim had probably stuck his head around the living room door.
"Rob, did you mean to put my name as your Wi-Fi password?" Tim's heartbeat doubled in rate, and Kon tore his eyes away from his screen to glance over his shoulder.
Tim was leaning into the living room, using his right hand to cling to the doorframe barely. It was precarious but quickly forgotten when Kon saw his expression. His face was the same red as his suit on a good day, his eyes wide and averted with his lips pursed.
Tim eventually squared his jaw, and Kon heard him take a measured breath before he nodded and said, "Yes, but I can explain."
Kon raised an eyebrow. Tim's heart hadn't slowed down in his ear. "Can you?"
"Uh, yeah," Tim stuttered. "It's my automatic password. Like, what I use before I have something more secure."
Fuck, was all Kon could think as his heart ramped up, forcing his eyes closed with the force of the feelings hitting him. He'd been trying to put this password in all this time, and the only reason he didn't get it in one was because he was a fraction late. It shouldn't have been so attractive. Nor should it have been so cute that he was the automatic password.
Kon took a steadying breath in and out before opening his eyes and responding, "So, what I'm hearing here is that I'm your automatic password?"
Tim pulled himself up from hanging on the door frame so he could walk into the main living room and shrugged. "Well, yeah, it's comfort for me when I'm first moving into a new place," he laughed awkwardly. "You know how I move often, of my own free will or otherwise."
Oh.
Kon smiled shakily. He couldn't look Tim in the eye. A rush of warmth in his gut was melting him at the idea of being comforting, but that didn't stop his whole body from feeling like it was buzzing.
"Umm, yeah, I understand that," Kon stuttered. His tongue felt enormous. "You move around a lot, and I can see why familiarity would help."
He gathered the courage to look back at Tim, who was staring back at him unblinking. The oxygen felt sucked from the room as their eyes caught each other. Kon could hear Tim's heartbeat as it rocketed in his chest, but his breath caught with every in and out, catching his lips in a part.
Oh.
"And I mean, you're comforting for me too, y'know?"
Tim slowly nodded and began moving towards Kon.
Kon's eyes followed Tim. He licked his lips and gulped. Tim was laser-focused on him, and when he focused on his heartbeat, it had returned to its standard steadiness.
Kon wasn't sure he could sweat, but if he could, he would. He was almost thankful for his skin tone as it disguised at least some of his inevitable blush, but he knew Tim still saw it as his eyes flicked down and his lips flashed the cutest little smirk.
Tim tipped his head to one side. "Was that you… picking up what I'm putting down?"
He'd gotten close enough that Kon could hear Tim's lungs as he regulated his breathing without trying.
Kon quirked an eyebrow. "I don't know, am I?"
"Well," Tim looked away and pretended to think, pursing his lips. "If you were, then maybe we could kiss? But if I'm being too presumptuous and you weren't, then maybe I should—"
He began to step away, but Kon shot out a hand and grabbed his jacket, pulling him back so they were even closer.
"I'm picking it up."
Tim’s smirk widened. "Then I guess we should kiss."
Kon felt, more than saw, the grin split across Tim's face as he leaned in to kiss him.
It was a fairytale. Tim's lips were soft and warm against Kon's, tasting of strawberry bubblegum and Zesti cola from the drive to the complex. There were no fireworks, but there might as well have been with how his heartbeat was echoing in Kon's ears, and his hands were cool where he'd grabbed Kon's forearms to stay upright when he'd been pulled forward.
When he realised he was still holding Tim's lapels, Kon couldn't help pulling him even closer. He then slipped his hands down to his hips, leaving Tim to rest his arms over his shoulders. If Kon's mouth hadn't been busy, he might've laughed at how Tim was almost certainly pressing up on his tiptoes.
It felt like an age before they parted, leaving Tim gasping as he came off tiptoes and rested his forehead against Kon's shoulder.
"I wish humans didn't need oxygen. It's unfair that you Kryptonians can kiss forever."
Kon smiled, resting his hands on his (partner? boyfriend?) Tim's back. On the one hand, he wasn't out of breath at all. On the other, "Half-Kryptonian. I still need to breathe, dude."
Tim lifted his head and shot him a Robin-glare. "You aren't even out of breath, dude. Also, don't dude me when we just kissed."
"Man?"
"No."
"Homie?"
"Definitely not."
"Homeslice?"
Tim grimaced lightheartedly as he stepped back. "Where are you even getting these?"
Kon pulled Tim closer again. "What about Rob?"
He could feel Tim relax in his arms as he said, "Yeah, that'll work, clone boy."
--
A thought hit Kon a while later as he sat cross-legged on a countertop, watching Tim put away the freshly bought crockery.
"Wait, Tim, what are we gonna do about the whole mission thing?"
Tim jumped from kneeling on the opposite counter to slot some grey mugs into a cupboard. "Who said Arnold Gold couldn't have a boyfriend? He's my alias."
Kon tipped his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. "Won't Nightwing have a problem with that?"
"Nope!" Tim turned around, showing a devious grin. "Dick doesn't care who I date unless they hurt me."
Kon narrowed his eyes as Tim grabbed a pile of tea towels from the box beside him. "You sure about that?"
"Oh yeah," Tim hummed. He thumbed through the tea towels as he walked past Kon to the kitchen door. "Besides, he isn't even the one you have to worry about."
"Wait, what?"
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Little Raccoon Boy
by diamondsnowflakes
Tommy stared at his older brother, trying to come to terms with the fact that this man wanted him, Tommy, to replicate some social media fanart and that he was related to him.
Wilbur, meanwhile, was looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth pushed into one of his long, closed-mouth smiles like he was posing for a sofa picture with a stranger, begging with his eyes to be let go. The longer Tommy stared at him, the wider Wilbur's eyes got.
[Wilbur really wants Tommy to replicate a picture he found on Twitter. Tommy, meanwhile, has his doubts.]
Words: 1104, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Series: Part 3 of the domestic vibe of sbi, Part 6 of blockmen on suffering
Fandoms: Minecraft (Video Game), Dream SMP
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Additional Tags: Raccoon Shifter TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Siren Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot is a Menace, TommyInnit is So Done (Video Blogging RPF), Inspired by Fanart, Betaed, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Slice of Life, Raccoon Hybrid TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Shapeshifter TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Domestic Fluff, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Rated T for swearing, Funny
#ao3feed#wilbur soot#tommyinnit#crimeboys#crime boys#crimebois#crime bois#mcyt#This is an automated process#If you see any fic that breaks boundaries#or the fic is yours and you don't want it shared send an ask#it will be looked at and removed if need be
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but it's over, and you don't exist
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/tkzwcfq
by diamondsnowflakes
Tim could hear the sounds of his friends fighting somewhere beyond the dust. He could just about make out Cassie shouting orders and the doppler effect in the wake of Bart. He briefly wondered why they weren't communicating on comms, but upon pressing the little button on his own, he realised the lines must be down.
It crossed Tim's mind that he should probably help them, but his feet felt like Poison Ivy's plants had rooted him to the floor.
A voice became clear just beyond a pile of concrete and shattered glass.
"Rob! Over here!"
[After he's stabbed by the Widower, Tim's brain wanders into a fever nightmare where he sees Kon again.]
Words: 1121, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen, M/M
Characters: Tim Drake, Kon-El | Conner Kent, Anonymous Ninja
Relationships: Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark, Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Additional Tags: Tim Drake-centric, Hurt Tim Drake, Tim Drake Angst, Canon Compliant, Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Nightmares, Fever Dreams, The League of Assassins (DCU), Implied/Referenced Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Red Robin (2009) Issue 004: The Grail Conclusion, Red Robin (2009) Issue 005: The Council of Spiders Part One, Mentioned Bart Allen - Freeform, Mentioned Cassie Sandsmark, Betaed by Grammarly, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Implied Relationships, Relationship can be read as platonic
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/tkzwcfq
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Just so my moots are aware; if I disappear for long periods, likelihood is I'm just reblogging to the wrong blog. I'm currently having to delete at least a month's worth of reblogs from @diamondsnowflakes.
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Maybe I'm an Old Soul Trapped in a Young Body
Maybe I'm An Old Soul Trapped In A Young Body
by diamondsnowflakes
A snapshot of two exhausted superheroes dozing on the Eiffel Tower.
Words: 480, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Miraculous Ladybug
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: F/M
Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Additional Tags: Wordcount: 100-500, Pining, Miraculous Ladybug Love Square, Fluff without Plot, freeze frame, Post-Battle
Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488534
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The perfect winter accessory...a snowflake as unique as you. 💎 ❄️ 💎 #snowflake #winter #diamondsnowflake #giftsforher #diamonds #jewelrydesign #handmadeisbetter #floatingdiamonds #brilliantcut #diamondpendant #instajewelry #jeweleyaddict #jewerlybox #limitededition #brilliantcut #uniquejewelry #handcraftedjewelry #incogem (at Palm Desert, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/B7P2ZBzhScj/?igshid=lb99qr2ilkal
#snowflake#winter#diamondsnowflake#giftsforher#diamonds#jewelrydesign#handmadeisbetter#floatingdiamonds#brilliantcut#diamondpendant#instajewelry#jeweleyaddict#jewerlybox#limitededition#uniquejewelry#handcraftedjewelry#incogem
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Hi!
I'm just a fanfiction writer in a big community, but as someone whose written the majority of the fanworks they have about MCYT I feel like talking about certain things is probably important.
First of all, I am so ridiculously proud of Shelby Shubble for coming out about her abusive relationship. She is so brave and I applaud her for it. Her story is sadly super common, and her talking about her situation has most definitely woken up some people to theirs and has started their healing journeys. It was very brave of her to take that step to help people.
Secondly, I will address the elephant in the room. It is heavily implied that Shelby's abuser was a very popular content creator who I have written about extensively. Though I did not go looking for evidence, plenty has been provided for me and, though most is circumstancial, there is too much 'coincidence' in it for me to ignore it. I will be steadily distancing myself from him and furthermore his band over the next few months (it is a bit like cutting off a burn for me). All of my works featuring him will be slowly orphaned on AO3, replaced with a newly written fic, and those fics will be deleted from Tumblr.
I wish Shelby Shubble the best and I look forward to continuing to watch her content. She is a wonderful content creator who has had my heart for a long time. If you haven't yet watched her before she came out with her story, I strongly advise you do.
Thank you for reading!
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The lone and level sands stretch far away
Before Wilbur caught the train, he sat in a desert designed by his mum.
Read on AO3
"How do you feel?"
The voice was soft and sympathetic, but as he sat in the desert, Wilbur couldn't help but feel judged.
He snapped his head to look over his shoulder, digging his hands into the sand in front of him. "What does it matter? I'm dead."
The voice sighed, a soft breeze skimming the sand into a beige aura hovering above the dunes. If Wilbur wasn't in limbo, it might've gotten in his eyes, but she was too soft on him to allow that, so it drifted around him harmlessly.
"It matters. Being dead doesn't mean you don't feel or your soul doesn't feel."
Wilbur dug his hands down even further, allowing the sand to spill over and bury them completely, and gritted his teeth. "Well, Mum, I feel dead. I feel like I have died before everyone else that I loved, and now I'm merely waiting."
"Everyone else?" Wilbur could practically hear his mum's raised eyebrow.
"Everyone else who lived. I don't think goddesses live," He rolled his eyes. "And I have a right to be miserable about moving back in with your parents."
The goddess' giggle rippled over the dunes like it was an ocean. "Like you weren't living with Phil before."
"Thing is, I wasn't."
"But you were. I know because I saw you."
Wilbur rolled his eyes at the forever-blue sky again (he found himself doing that a lot nowadays). "With what eyes?"
"Well, if I told you, then it wouldn't be a secret now, would it?" The goddess giggled again. For a moment, Wilbur thought it sounded like a fuse of Tommy and Niki, both maniacal and light in a strange combination that left him feeling warm, then shook his head.
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Little Raccoon Boy
Tommy stared at his older brother, trying to come to terms with the fact that this man wanted him, Tommy, to replicate some social media fanart and that he was related to him.
Wilbur, meanwhile, was looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth pushed into one of his long, closed-mouth smiles like he was posing for a sofa picture with a stranger, begging with his eyes to be let go. The longer Tommy stared at him, the wider Wilbur's eyes got.
Read on AO3
"Tommmmmy! Tommy!"
Wilbur's voice bounced off the kitchen walls, causing Tommy's ears to prick up. He chirped as he lifted his head from where he'd been curled up, sequestered under the kitchen table.
"Tommy, come here, please!"
Tommy heaved a sigh and dug himself out of his sort-of-illegal den of pillows and blankets. As he shifted, he sighed again and cracked his joints one by one. With each crack, he wondered if he could make 'no waking Tommy up from a nap' a new rule, like his oldest brother, Techno, has.
With one last crack of his back, Tommy strode towards the kitchen door and into the hall.
Wilbur's voice drifted out of the living room. "Tommmmmmmmy!"
"What, Wilbur?" Tommy stomped across and shoved the door open, letting it bounce against the doorstop.
Wilbur was slumped on the sofa, feet propped on one arm while his midback was held up by the other. His gaze was fixed on his phone, tilted away from the door so all Tommy could see was the rim around the phone and the glow cast on Wilbur's face and the gills visible on his neck.
"Wilburrrrr, what did you bloody well want?"
Wilbur jolted, then shook his head and blinked a couple of times. It was like watching a hypnotised man released from a trance. Tommy scuffed his foot against the carpet, giving Wilbur time to turn to Tommy, clicking his phone screen off.
"Oh, Tommy!"
Tommy blinked and shifted on his feet. "Yeah, hi."
"Hi, um..." Wilbur trailed off as his gaze drifted into the far corner.
Tommy raised an eyebrow and twisted his lips around, wiggling his fingers. He fixed his eyes on a glass of water next to Wilbur that looked fit for the taking; looking through it, the water was warping the bookshelves beyond, taking the carpet with it when Tommy stood on his tiptoes.
"Oh!"
Tommy's attention shot back to Wilbur, who'd moved into sitting up as he was trying to remember what he'd called Tommy for.
"Can you shift for a bit?"
"What?" Tommy's brain muted itself.
Wilbur twisted his finger together like he did when using hand cream. "Can you do me the biggest favour and shift into a raccoon for a bit?"
Tommy gritted his teeth as he shook his head around. He felt himself puffing out his chest and widening his shoulders as his heart amped up. "Wilbur, what the fuck? Why? I wouldn't ask you to turn into a fish or whatever, or to use your magic voice or whatever the fuck you call it--"
"--Siren song."
"Whatever!" Tommy scrunched his hands together, tiny claws starting to dig into his palms. "Why the fuck do you want me to shift for you?"
Wilbur had the decency to look sheepish, wringing his hands together and drawing his shoulders in as he tried to explain. "Well, I was scrolling on Twitter--"
Tommy growled. "--A shit pastime."
"Shut up and let me speak. I was scrolling on Twitter when I found this fanart, and it was of a guy with a little raccoon in his arms," Wilbur's voice began to pitch up, throwing his hands everywhere as he tried to justify the sheer degradation he was trying to rope Tommy into. "It was just so cute I wanted to try replicating it. So yeah."
Tommy stared at his older brother, trying to come to terms with the fact that this man wanted him, Tommy, to replicate some social media fanart and that he was related to him.
Wilbur, meanwhile, was looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth pushed into one of his long, closed-mouth smiles like he was posing for a sofa picture with a stranger, begging with his eyes to be let go. The longer Tommy stared at him, the wider Wilbur's eyes got.
Until Tommy sighed, dropping his shoulders. "Fine."
Wilbur's face broke into a grin as he jumped to his feet. "Yes!" He dragged Tommy into a hug. "Thank you, Tommy."
Tommy wriggled in his brother's arms for a second, then relaxed into them. "Alright, whatever. Although--" He pushed himself away from Wilbur. "—if we're gonna do this, I want that glass of water in return." Tommy pointed to the water on the side table.
Wilbur froze. His grin didn't quite falter, but his eyebrows scrunched together. "Tommy, I need that so my gills don't dry out."
"Wilbur, I need it. The water does the weird magnifying glass thing, and I want to move it about without having to be changing levels all the time."
Wilbur shook his head, his shoulders shaking in a way that made Tommy shake with them. "Okay, whatever, child, I can get myself another glass of water.--"
"I need that one too." Tommy fought to keep his mouth straight, pursing his lips.
Wilbur closed his eyes again. If Tommy hazarded a guess, he'd say Wilbur was doing that count-to-five thing he did when Tommy was 'being ridiculous'.
Then Wilbur's nostrils flared and he opened his eyes. "I'm not giving you all the water in the house."
Tommy pushed himself to lean back against Wilbur's arms. "Why not?"
"Because I'd like to have a drink. I have gills, Tommy. I'd rather they didn't dry out."
Tommy widened his eyes in the best approximation of puppy eyes, sticking his lip out slightly. "You wouldn't die for your little brother?"
Wilbur deadpanned. "No." And let Tommy go.
Tommy yelped as he fell backwards, landing on his back with a soft thump. His tailbone flared, and he arched upwards, clutching it.
"OOOOWWWWW!" Tommy's eyes squeezed shut. "What the fuck, Wilbur!"
Somewhere to his right, he heard Wilbur's snickering.
Tommy rolled over onto his hands and knees and opened his eyes. He then scuttled around to look at Wilbur.
He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching Tommy as he crawled around. "Are you okay?"
Tommy narrowed his eyes but pushed himself back onto his feet, rubbing his lower back. "I'm okay, I think. It'll just give me a big, black fucking bruise. Thanks a fucking lot."
Tommy wasn't lying. The flare in his tailbone had faded into a dull ache that Tommy was sure would bruise, but he didn't have his tail out at that moment, so it wasn't a problem.
"Okay, good. I'm not sorry for dropping you, though, you deserved it," Wilbur chirped as he left the room, calling back, "Wanna go do that photo?"
Tommy grumbled but followed, muttering, "Still can't believe you pulled me out of my den for this."
"What was that?" Wilbur shouted back from the hallway
"Nothing!"
#diamondsnowflakes#fanfiction#dream smp fanfiction#dream smp#tommyinnit#wilbur soot#crimeboys#oneshot
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My Housemate the Ghostsitter
"Oh," Tommy spun back to his computer, continuing to filter through the history he'd been sent with the doll. "That's Uncle Nasty. He's my new friend for the next week at least."
"Why would you subject us to this?" Wilbur's voice was pitchy with betrayal, causing Tommy to choke back a wave of giggles.
Who knew Wilbur Soot, a near-unshakeable man in his scepticism, would be scared by a doll?
Tommy schooled his face into a bored frown and shrugged, pushing his mouse over to highlight 'wouldn't leave him in the dark overnight' in fluorescent green.
AO3 Link
"What the fuck is that?"
Tommy looked up from his computer to see his housemate, Wilbur, stiffly leaning on the doorframe to his bedroom, staring dead-eyed at something behind his desk chair.
Tommy frowned, scrunching his eyebrows. "What's what?"
"That." Wilbur jolted his arm to point at whatever had fixated him.
Tommy raised an eyebrow at his housemate but still spun his chair around, jamming his feet into the carpet to stabilise himself before following Wilbur's line of vision. Then, finally, he landed on the victorian-style ventriloquist's dummy, clad in Build-A-Bear jeans and a t-shirt, that he'd sat on the old wooden dining chair by his bed earlier that day.
The doll wasn't an unusual object for Tommy to procure, just another job for Tommy Innit, the Biggest Private Supernatural Investigator Ever. However, Wilbur, surprisingly, wasn't as numb to it. Instead, he was still as a stunned statue, completely deadpan and having a staring contest with it.
"Oh," Tommy spun back to his computer, continuing to filter through the history he'd been sent with the doll. "That's Uncle Nasty. He's my new friend for the next week at least."
"Why would you subject us to this?" Wilbur's voice was pitchy with betrayal, causing Tommy to choke back a wave of giggles.
Who knew Wilbur Soot, a near-unshakeable man in his scepticism, would be scared by a doll?
Tommy schooled his face into a bored frown and shrugged, pushing his mouse over to highlight 'wouldn't leave him in the dark overnight' in fluorescent green.
"He's who I'm currently working on. I have to free whoever or whatever is in him," Tommy spun back to face Wilbur and immediately choked down laughter again. Wilbur was still in a staring contest, and Uncle Nasty was winning.
Tommy rolled his eyes, then stood up to pull Wilbur by his giant black anorak sleeve. "Come here. Feel it."
Wilbur finally tore his eyes away from Uncle Nasty, shooting Tommy a raised eyebrow, but let himself be pulled towards the doll. "Why should I?"
Tommy manoeuvred Wilbur to stand directly in front of Uncle Nasty. "Just do it, dickhead."
Wilbur sneered and attempted to yank his hand back, but meeting Tommy's eyes just earned him an unwavering glare as he was shoved once more towards the doll.
"You get me to do questionable shit all the time, including but not limited to murder. Touching a doll should not be your fucking limit, man."
Wilbur set his face into a determined glare. "Fine." He finally successfully pulled his hand away from Tommy, tentatively took a few steps closer to the doll, and then knelt in front of the chair. He could feel the tremor in his arm as he slowly placed his hand on Uncle Nasty's wooden forehead.
The painted doll was simultaneously smooth and painted-concrete rough under his hand. Wilbur vaguely wondered if it was the materials, time, or just the weird aura of the thing. Every time he shifted slightly, it felt like a section of paint had peeled off into his hand, but when he looked closer, the doll's face was still pristine. In the end, he stopped trying to think and looked back over at Tommy.
"What am I supposed to be feeling?"
Tommy's eyebrows shot up. "The temperature drops?"
Wilbur released an exasperated sigh and tipped his head forward, closing his eyes and letting his hand drop from Uncle Nasty's forehead.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe out.
Wilbur clenched and unclenched his fist before opening his eyes.
"Well, how the fuck am I supposed to feel that?"
Tommy opened and closed his mouth like a very confused goldfish. "Oh."
Wilbur closed his eyes again and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to bury his head in the carpet and scream.
Tommy stared blankly at the doll, then shook his head slightly and scrunched his nose. "But you can still at least feel how wrong it is?"
Wilbur rolled his eyes. "Well, yeah, but I'm pretty sure that's just your room all the time."
"Fuck off, man," Tommy could tell he was whining, but honestly, Wilbur deserved it if he was going to be mean to his client.
The dismissal and denial pantomime Wilbur put on was just old at this point. He should get a new hobby that wasn't just pretending ghosts don't exist and getting him to do shady shit. Tommy was also pretty sure that bad customer service could make future ghosts less compliant (or, he guessed, he didn't actually know if spirits could communicate with each other).
"Look, if you want proof, stay here." Tommy pushed his chair back, launching himself onto his feet before walking towards the doorway.
Wilbur whipped around, eyes wide, and stared at Tommy. "Well, what the fuck's that supposed to do?"
Tommy shrugged thoughtlessly. "I dunno, but I haven't eaten all day, and Uncle Nasty needs babysitting."
"Babysitting? He's a doll!"
Tommy suppressed a flinch as Wilbur's voice rose an octave before raising an eyebrow and leaning against the doorframe. "Well, yeah. Your point? You shouldn't have a problem with it if he's 'just a doll'."
Wilbur narrowed his eyes and stared at Tommy, hoping that maybe if he was determined enough, he could stare down his way out instead of dealing with Creepy Doll Central™.
Tommy just stared back, completely unflinching, until Wilbur broke.
"Fuck it, fine." Wilbur threw himself back around to stare at Uncle Nasty. If he was forced to babysit a 'haunted' doll, he might as well do it right. "I doubt it'll prove anything, but go ahead and leave me alone with your creepy doll friend."
"Client."
"Whatever."
At the dismissal, Tommy spun on his heel, ready to leave, before the light switch on the wall beside him caught his eye. He blinked and stared at it, the white plastic taunting him just that little bit. Then, finally, he cocked his head to the side, reached out and promptly flicked the light off, plunging the room into darkness as he walked out onto the landing.
Wilbur's eyes only flickered slightly from the doll as something behind him clicked. He was left in darkness. Though, not total darkness, thankfully. The streetlights filtered in from behind the curtains, allowing Uncle Nasty's facial features to just about show.
In the half-light, it was also like the doll's face was moving. Wilbur just dismissed it as his eyes playing tricks on him.
Wilbur watched Uncle Nasty in the dark as time crept by. The only sound in the room came from the steady tick-tick-tick of a plastic clock buried somewhere in a back corner and the occasional rush of a car in the faraway land of outside. Wilbur couldn't remember if Tommy could actually read an analogue clock, let alone when he bought one, but it was slowly grating on him.
Tick tick tick. That clock was getting smashed the next time Tommy left the house.
Tick tick tick. Why did he even accept this stupid challenge?
Tick tick tick. It wasn't like Uncle Nasty was going to do anything.
Tick tick tick. He was just a doll.
Tick tick tick tick.
Wilbur finally tore his eyes off Uncle Nasty, turning around to inspect the dim silhouettes of the rest of the room.
Just behind him, Wilbur could make out a cramped sleeping area. The blanket nest he was accustomed to ignoring were piled on top of a cheap excuse for a single bed. Next to it sat a plyboard bedside table, sagging under the weight of its load.
The table housed a lamp and a pile of heavy-looking books, although Wilbur couldn't remember Tommy ever reading books. On top, there looked to be a bundle of thin folders, topped with a precariously placed makeshift woollen coaster housing an empty glass. It felt nearly normal for a teenager who was more into reading browning scrolls and government-stamped documents than anything.
A flash in the corner of his eye. Wilbur snapped his head back to Uncle Nasty.
Tick tick tick. The doll's eyes were still painted wide open.
Tick tick tick. He hadn't moved.
Tick tick tick. Uncle Nasty cannot move.
Wilbur stayed stock-still, keeping his eyes on Uncle Nasty.
Uncle Nasty was still frozen in the same position he was in before. His back was straight against the chair, and his arms limply sat by his side. His head was tilted back towards the right, relying on the rounded back to keep him up.
Uncle Nasty cannot move. Uncle Nasty is a doll.
Wilbur kept breathing and continued to watch.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Wilbur finally tore his eyes away from Uncle Nasty once more to continue looking around the room.
Shoved up against the opposite wall from the bed was the silhouette of the heavy-looking oak desk. Even in the darkness, it looked like it had more use than any other section of the room. Any surface area left after the archaic desktop computer was taken up by paper and school exercise books in primary colours. Meanwhile, splotchy dark stains pooled at the feet of the desk where presumably Coke and coffee had been spilt and hurriedly dabbed up.
Wilbur huffed to himself. He should probably pull Tommy out of his room more often or get him to sleep more. It might be adequate repayment for 'helping' him without being creeped out into believing in ghosts.
Another flash.
Wilbur snapped his eyes back to the doll again.
Uncle Nasty hadn't moved. His arms were still loose by his side. His eyes still looked off blankly into some far corner of the ceiling. The only change was his back. Uncle Nasty had slumped slightly like he'd decided to relax his posture.
Wilbur shrugged. Maybe his stuffing just caved to gravity? It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. The dolls he'd seen on display in museums had stands for a reason, after all. Or maybe it was just the tiny earthquakes? He read somewhere that "the UK's high in seismic activity, but the earthquakes are so light humans can't feel them". Maybe Uncle Nasty slumped because of those.
Still, he didn't quite feel like he could look away yet. So Wilbur stayed, observing the doll with the dedication of the strange Watcher deities Tommy had vaguely mentioned once.
The clock somewhere in the room continued to tick. Wilbur bet it was at least 8 o'clock, but time seemed to drag along the carpet like a heavy corpse riddled with rigor mortis.
A car rushed down the street outside the window. A draft breezed through the room after it, causing the curtains to flutter.
By now, the floor had begun to dig into Wilbur's knees through his jeans, causing his joints to feel like rusting machine parts. Or maybe that pain was how doors felt when their hinges needed oiling. Or a car door handle slowly freezing over. He rubbed his hands together and blew on his palms.
Meanwhile, Uncle Nasty sat, slouching but still. Wilbur couldn't help but wonder whose idea the apathetic ventriloquists-dummy smile was. It didn't feel as friendly as it was probably intended to be.
Wilbur tapped his fingers against his thigh. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. It crossed his mind that he could continue examining the room and find the clock, still letting out the steady tick-tick-tick. He tipped his head slightly to look over Uncle Nasty's chair.
SCREEEEEEEEEEEE
A sound like the rusty drainpipe finally tearing itself off the side of the house crashed through, grating Wilbur's eardrums and cutting into his brain stem with the sharp edge of something smooth. The force screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth together. Every muscle from top to toe was flinched and cringing.
The unholy metallic screeching felt like it went on forever. Nausea bubbled in the back of Wilbur's throat until it felt like he'd been gargling his acid reflux for a century.
When the screeching eventually faded, the silence left behind felt equally relieving and damningly deafening.
Wilbur relaxed his muscles, then slowly opened his eyes again.
Uncle Nasty was stood up on the chair. His legs held his weight as if he'd never needed the chair back to hold him up.
Wilbur was once again frozen.
Then Uncle Nasty turned his head to fix his cold, blank eyes on Wilbur. He blinked.
The floor beneath Wilbur was moving before he'd even thought to stand. He flung himself through the bedroom door, slamming his palms into the frame as he ejected himself, and dashed across the landing. Blood roared in his ears.
"FUCK! Noooooooopenopenopenope! Not today!"
The stumbling xylophone rhythm of Wilbur's socked feet thudding against the carpet as he threw himself down the stairs harmonised with the arrhythmic beat of his heart in his throat.
"TOMMY! Holy shit, piss, fuck, Tommy!"
The kitchen door quickly gave way as Wilbur burst through, careening it into the cupboard behind it with an echoey BANG. He shoved it shut, then slammed his back against it before he sank to sit cross-legged on the floor.
Wilbur's heart was still hammering in his chest, his breath coming out in sharp pants. His legs felt like moulded jelly tipped out onto a plate at a boisterous and bouncy children's party, the kind that would be served with ice cream after the birthday kid had blown out their candles. His arms were making up for it by holding him upright (with help from the door) though they didn't feel much better.
To Wilbur's relief, the 2000s vinyl fake tiling was thin and plastic beneath his jeans, the complete opposite of the kind-of-scratchy thick carpet of Tommy's bedroom. Likewise, the paint of the door behind his back was just that, smooth and synthetic.
Wilbur relished the changes, along with the still darkness behind his eyelids and the knowledge that he'll have to let his pupils adjust to the yellow-washed kitchen lighting when he chose to open his eyes.
All the while, Wilbur could feel Tommy's eyes on him, the steady crunch of whatever he was eating creating a background noise that wasn't the infernal ticking.
Eventually, the chewing stopped, and Wilbur heard Tommy mutter, "What the fuck?"
Wilbur opened his eyes to glare, catching Tommy taking a messy bite out of a marmite sandwich.
Tommy froze mid-bite as he caught Wilbur watching him. "What?" His voice was muffled by food, and crumbs spewed onto the floor. "What is it?"
"The fucking doll, Tommy. It moved."
Tommy stared blankly at Wilbur, blinking a few times before finally swallowing the half-bite he'd pulled off.
"You know that thing that happens when I ignore your warning, get fucked over, and you say I told you so?"
Wilbur tilted his head, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah?"
"Well, I fucking told you so."
"Tommy, I don't think you understand. It's a doll; it's not supposed to move!"
"But I fucking told you, he's haunted and my new roommate until he's exorcised."
Wilbur set his jaw and fixed Tommy with a stormy glare. "Get rid of it. Now."
"Wilbur, what do you think I'm trying to do? I'm exorcising him, and then I'm gonna send the doll back to the old lady this is a favour for."
Wilbur tipped his head into his hands, running his palms down his face. "Tommy, please tell me you're getting paid for housing this thing."
"No?" Tommy cocked his head to the side. "Why would I? It's for a favour."
"It's an atrocity, and it's coming to kill me. If you aren't getting paid, why the fuck are you letting it stay here?"
"Well, you see, the old lady who owns the doll, she's a farmer. She said she'll name a cow after me."
"That is not a good reason to let a cursed doll into the house."
"Haunted, not cursed. Get it right, Wilbur."
"Potato, potahto, I still want it gone."
"It's not a po-ta-to either," Tommy sneered. "Look, I'll get rid once you tell me what the fuck you've hidden in the cellar that is so important I don't touch it."
Wilbur tensed slightly, but in his slight desperation, he almost considered it. After all, the cellar would have to come to light at some point?
Then again, Wilbur shook his head to himself, dismissing the thought. It would come to light when it came to light, not for doll disposal. So instead, Wilbur deadened his eyes so he wouldn't have to blink and tilted his head to the side.
"Tommy, have you ever heard of Bluebeard's castle?"
Tommy grimaced at Wilbur's low tone. "No, and I don't want to."
"Then keep away from the cellar."
"Well, then fuck off. I'm not getting rid of Uncle Nasty until he's free and tiny baby cow Tommy can exist."
Tommy then walked out of the kitchen, only pausing to let Wilbur scooch out of the way of the door so he could pull it open and leave.
"I think you mean calf!" Wilbur shouted after him.
Tommy scoffed.
"Whatever!"
-
Tommy clicked the light back on as he entered his room, carefully pushing the door closed behind him until he heard the clockwork click of the latch.
Uncle Nasty was sat peacefully on his chair, a little slumped but otherwise wholly the same as he was when Tommy left him with Wilbur.
Tommy nodded to himself before going to kneel down next to Uncle Nasty.
"Thank you for that; his scepticism was getting pretty annoying," Tommy paused and looked away. "And thank you for not hurting him or 'owt. A scare is enough."
#fanfiction#wilbur soot#oneshot#tommyinnit#uncle nasty#halloween#horror#argbur#arginnit#crimeboys#diamondsnowflakes
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I don't know what I'm supposed to do (haunted by the ghost of you)
Gwen tied Lillian to a nearby tree and then walked to the marker. She hitched up her skirt with one hand, then used her other hand to tuck the cloak under her as she sat down.
She sighed, leaning back on her hands. "Good morning, my lady."
Read on AO3
Gwen had one weakness as Queen… a secret. Still, though, shame nipped at her heels as she snuck breakfast from the kitchens into a saddle bag, and nostalgia watched her from beside a sleeping Leon as she dressed in her old serving clothes. In the end, Gwen never regretted it when she visited Morgana's gravesite.
She left the castle before sunrise, while dawn was still watery and grey no matter the day's outcome. The first time she visited, Gwen found an old blue cloak in a trunk, which she tucked around to hide her clothes as she stole through the castle. To this day, she wondered if she should've been worried about her clothes in the first place, given how Morgana and Arthur had a streak for spoiling their closest servants.
There was always a horse ready in the stables. The stable hands would still be asleep, but Lillian stood there, brushed and ready. Gwen didn't know if it was Leon or Percy, but she'd sneak them both something from the forest as thanks. Then, by the time Lillian had a saddle on, sunrise was stretching its golden fingers through the stable doors.
It was just as the first of her people were rising for the day when Gwen rode through the town. She tucked the cloak's hood over her head, ducking her face into it. On a good day, nostalgia led her past the smiths. On a bad day, shame pushed her as fast as she could, Lillian's hooves hammering against the well-worn cobbles past the city gates.
The trees were good company once she reached the tree line. Faithful old friends.
Once, on the way to meet the druids on their own ground, Merlin told her that the trees recognised her, that they were there to the very end and would be well after. At the time, Gwen wondered whether Merlin meant them as a warning or a comfort, but the words followed her as she rode amongst them.
Gwen counted ten trees before the birds started to sing their chorus. Her shoulders relaxed as she passed a loud robin screaming atop a scrubby bush. Then she counted to five before she pulled back her hood and leaned over to ferret in her bag.
Crows gathered on a patch near Morgana's grave marker in the warm seasons. Gwen liked to offer them berries when she sat down for breakfast. She never found herself to be hungry, but they always were.
Today, as Gwen sat on her spread-out cloak, she kept an eye on a crow she'd seen before. She'd carried him back to the castle last spring after she found him injured near the road on the way back and bundled him up in her cloak. He seemed to be fairing much better as he hopped around her, flapping his wings as something flashed in his beak.
"Come on then, what have you got?" She spoke softly, just as with the younger children at court.
The crow bent its head and opened its beak. A coin tumbled to the ground.
Gwen reached over the berries and picked up the coin, bringing it close to her face. It was a copper sovereign marked with the Pendragon crest, still shining from the mint.
Gwen smiled and tilted her head towards the crow. "Where did you get this?"
The crow squawked, flaring its wings as if telling her it was none of her business.
Gwen huffed a laugh and shook her head, still smiling. "Well, no matter. I'm sure Morgana would approve." She stood up and returned to Lillian, tucking the coin in her bag. She then turned back to the crow. "I'd better get going anyway. She's expecting me."
The crow hopped about and squawked again but turned to scarf down some of the blackberries Gwen had scattered about the patch.
Gwen snorted, then turned back to Lillian and untied her reins, loosely holding them in her left as she led her away from the picnic site. Gwen liked to walk the last leg to Morgana's grave. After sitting down to eat, it was only five minutes of walking, and she figured that it gave Lillian more time to rest before the trip back. Then, they'd approach the marker just as Gwen started to see diurnal animals foraging through the undergrowth.
The wooden marker wasn't much. It wasn't supposed to be. Truly, if Gwen and Merlin weren't so weak to their own pasts, it wouldn't be there at all. A grave marker to an enemy. As Gwen approached the stake, she smiled bitterly. It was almost poetic.
Gwen tied Lillian to a nearby tree and then walked to the marker. She hitched up her skirt with one hand, then used her other hand to tuck the cloak under her as she sat down. She used to run to the marker, but as the decade wore on, she realised it wasn't going anywhere, and neither was she.
She sighed, leaning back on her hands. "Good morning, my lady."
--
"Good morning, Gwen."
Morgana sat on the ground beside Gwen, her dress fluttering around her.
The first Monday of every month. Morgana visited her grave as a reminder to herself and, by extension, to see her oldest friend.
She could still remember the first time. Gwen came running through the underbrush, tears running down her face, and skidded to her knees. It caught Morgana's breath as she knelt, gasping. She was like a monk in front of her grave marker. However, instead of prayers, what poured from Gwen's lips was a torrent of pleas and abuse.
"Sorry", "I hate you", "I love you", and "I could never believe you would do it, but you did", and "You made my life hell for so long, and now you don't have a life at all", and "You haunt me more than my mistakes". The words burbled and bumped into each other.
Morgana never believed she deserved Avalon. But as Gwen bent over her grave, she had never been so sure. Even when she knew it was her home until the timeline reset.
That day was when the reality of her death set in at last. As Gwen stood up and brushed herself off, Morgana tried to catch her sleeve, to pull her back and say... something. But her fingers passed through. Instead, Morgana stumbled forward through Gwen, then was forced to watch her leave, pulling her cloak around her with a visible shudder.
Morgana didn't think that Gwen would return after that. Nausea bubbled at the bottom of her throat as she thought about it. She was dead. Why visit a dead enemy for anything beyond closure? Even one you once loved.
And yet, the next month, at the same time, there she was. Tears still streaming down her face, but she was at peace with sitting in the plant litter and watching the sun begin to peek its rays through the trees without a word. Morgana never tried to hold her again.
Visits passed since then, and now Morgana sat crosslegged next to Gwen, facing her grave. By now, she knew it was pointless to tuck her skirt under her; the ground's cold wouldn't seep into her legs, nor would it get her dirty.
Gwen sighed again. "I was thinking of skipping this month. It's been ten years. Can you believe that?"
Morgana shook her head. Every visit felt like it was punctuated by a night's rest. It had only been about four months for her.
"Well, they're pestering us for an heir again," Gwen curled into herself, brushing her hands clean to circle her knees with them. "I'm scared this might be when we can't fend them off. We've never talked about it, y'know?"
Morgana raised her eyebrows. "About children?"
"About him. About his... everything," Gwen pressed her lips together, looking down briefly before looking back at the marker. "He- Leon- He just... He isn't really into that. And I don't think I'd want to either. I don't love him." She sniffed and wiped her nose with the side of her fingers. "Not like you. Not like Arthur. Not like Lance. He's one of my best friends, but I don't love him."
Morgana pressed her lips together in a sad smile. Her arms itched to hold her, to give Gwen some kind of comfort.
"And Merlin. Gods, Merlin," Gwen wiped her nose again and put her hand on the dirt between her and Morgana. "He's gone, Morgana. He's- It's like nobody's home half the time, and I'm watching him waste himself away. You remember one time I said he was missing?"
Morgana nodded. She remembered the way Gwen shuddered as she reported Merlin missing. Her dress and cloak were soaking at the bottoms from the snow. It was the last time she'd knelt in the same way she had the first visit.
"Well, it turns out he was starving himself, just to see if he could and still survive."
Morgana's brow wrinkled, and her chest heaved as she sighed. It felt odd when she couldn't breathe.
"It's only been a decade. What's that compared to forever? He's apparently immortal." Gwen's voice muffled as she tucked her face into her knees.
Morgana raised her eyebrows again, frowning. "And here the druids were saying he had a purpose."
Gwen squeezed herself further into her ball. "I'm just worried sick about everything the council wants from me versus what Camelot needs. And he's-" She untucked her face and wiped her eyes. "I offered him the court sorcerer role. He declined."
"That's not-"
"I just need to forget about him. At least for now. Leon and Percy know how to help, I can rely on them." Gwen nodded to herself, closing her eyes as she breathed in and out. When she opened her eyes, Morgana saw the queen Camelot saw daily. "Camelot needs me to be their queen; I can't be stuck chasing a ghost that isn't even dead, friend or otherwise."
"You shouldn't have to." Morgana's control snapped. She placed her hand on the hand Gwen had placed between them. She could imagine the warmth seeping into her palm and how the touch would feel in her heart. She swallowed down a wave of tears, then felt them come back up as she caught Gwen shivering in the corner of her eye. They dripped down her face. She never saw them hit the ground. "You shouldn't have to."
The sun was brushing the tops of the trees above. At Morgana's calculation, it was probably nine or ten o'clock. It shouldn't have startled her when Gwen stood up, passing her hand through Morgana's.
"I'll see you next month, Morgana," She smiled, brushing down her skirts. "I'd better be getting back before people start worrying."
"I'm sure you do," Morgana muttered. Her face felt sticky and dry anyway; she'd need to return to Avalon to wash her face.
Gwen curtseyed to the grave marker. Then, she turned to walk back to her horse.
Meanwhile, Morgana curtseyed to Gwen's back.
#diamondsnowflakes#fanfiction#oneshot#merlin fanfic#merlin bbc#morgana#guinevere#morgwen#angst#hurt no comfort
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but it’s not real, and you don’t exist
Tim could hear the sounds of his friends fighting somewhere beyond the dust. He could just about make out Cassie shouting orders and the doppler effect in the wake of Bart. He briefly wondered why they weren't communicating on comms, but upon pressing the little button on his own, he realised the lines must be down.
It crossed Tim's mind that he should probably help them, but his feet felt like Poison Ivy's plants had rooted him to the floor.
A voice became clear just beyond a pile of concrete and shattered glass.
"Rob! Over here!"
AO3 Link
The battlefield was all dust and wind. Slabs of concrete lay pancake-ed on top of each other, and steel struts jutted out between piles like silvery stalagmites. The sky they pierced into was the fragile yellow of the calm in the middle of a storm, but a crackling fire blazed somewhere below.
Tim could hear himself panting as sweat gathered on his brow, the effects of the hours of fighting finally taking its toll. His mouth felt dry as his vision faded in and out, forcing him to bend his knees more for balance. Meanwhile, his hands were beginning to feel slippery as he firmly held his bō in front of him - he mentally thanked Alfred for the grips on his gloves.
Tim could hear the sounds of his friends fighting somewhere beyond the dust. He could just about make out Cassie shouting orders and the doppler effect in the wake of Bart. He briefly wondered why they weren't communicating on comms, but upon pressing the little button on his own, he realised the lines must be down.
It crossed Tim's mind that he should probably help them, but his feet felt like Poison Ivy's plants had rooted him to the floor.
A voice became clear just beyond a pile of concrete and shattered glass.
"Rob! Over here!"
It's wheezy and rough. Tim knows the owner is struggling to breathe, but he can't make sense of it. Why would he be weak when the sun is out above them, turning the dust a hazy gold, like desert sand? He should be okay.
Tim shifted his feet and tightened his grip on his staff. The metal felt cool through his gloves, sending goosebumps up his arms and back.
"Superboy?" Tim internally winced. He also sounded breathless. The taste of iron and rocksalt spread across his tongue, irritating his throat; the iron got stronger as he coughed.
His lungs began to ache as Tim tried to shift his feet again. They wouldn't move. One glance down, his boots looked free, but it still felt like they were rooted to the ground.
"Rob! Wonder boy! A little help over here?"
Tim snapped his head back up. It didn't matter how rooted his feet felt; he just needed to move. He narrowed his eyes at his feet before reaching down to drag his feet manually.
"I'm coming! I promise!"
Tim's heart was in his throat as he lifted each foot step by step. It was like he was wearing concrete shoes in a silo, dragging him down and choking him as he scrambled towards the voice - Conner's voice. His feet even sounded like breezeblocks as he scraped them across the dirt.
"Superboy?" As Tim passed the pile of rubble he thought the voice was coming from, he started to search the floor, craning his neck to see if Kon might be beyond the heaps in front of him when he found nothing. "Kon?"
"Rob!"
Tim's heart sank as the voice echoed from beyond the mist, bouncing strangely off the rubble. He let his last step drop, rolling his shoulders as he straightened up. Turns out concrete shoes are heavy, even when they're invisible.
Behind him, the vague shouting and clashing of metal started to die off bit by bit, even Bart's zooming quieting to a mosquito's whine. Tim closed his eyes, letting tears well up and drip into his domino mask as he basked in the silence. A layer of calm, the kind that sits straight after an overload, rushed over his chest. It was like he'd finally wiggled his toes like Babs occasionally suggested when they were both on tech duty, and his shoulders had dropped.
Tim subconsciously shuffled his feet. Then froze. He looked down at his boots and kicked one of his feet against the ground, throwing up a small plume of orange dust which settled over his black boots. Momentarily he wondered if they should be green, but he shook his head quickly. Now that he could move, there was no time to question reality.
"Robin! Dude!" Conner's voice echoed again, just beyond Tim's view.
One step. Two steps. Three four-five. Tim's boots scuffed on the ground until he was running toward Kon's voice, mentally crossing his fingers that he wouldn't run into concrete as he blindly threw himself into the mist.
As he ran, the wind powdered Tim in dust, rushing towards his face like horizontal rain. He skidded a few times to avoid sudden slabs of wall or floor, holding his arms out to steady himself, but it wasn't long until he could see a silhouette. A dark brown figure that slowly began to colour in red and black as he got closer.
Tim tried to speed up, reaching his hand out, but suddenly the silhouette started to get farther away again. Then, finally, the red and black faded back to brown and into the monochromatic orange.
Tim kept trying to run, his legs getting weaker and weaker under him, but the road was a treadmill. It was all he could do to stay upright as he started to stumble.
Then Tim's cloak finally tore at his legs, tripping him face-first and leaving the road to stretch far away, taking Kon with it.
-
Cold. It was colder here than it was above ground. Tim could feel his skin prickling up in goosebumps as a draft circulated, scraping against the hard surface of whatever he was lying on. It was definitely a cave. Wherever 'here' was. Although, maybe Hell had frozen over, and he was dead.
At this point, Tim wasn't sure he should be alive if he was. Even if he survived the blood loss, there was no way that sword missed an organ. A hot-cold sharp pain was going through his upper abdomen, and his head felt like he'd been thrown off of Fido again. Would he still feel those if he was dead?
Tim finally blearily blinked open his eyes. A blur of warm yellow-orange watercolour slowly focused into a dimly lit cavern doming above him. For a moment, it looked familiar - like the cave with the paintings (and proof that Batman was alive) - then it was just another sandstone cavern.
Tim pushed himself up a little, continuing to let his vision adjust. He regretted it near immediately as he watched a black blur clarify into a ninja - and looking around, they weren't the only one nearby.
Tim regretted it even more when he craned his neck towards a pit near the centre of the room. He felt like he'd been dowsed in ice water and lava simultaneously. A Lazarus Pit sat glowing, green, and bubbling like a hot spring.
One thought dominated Tim's mind. Oh God.
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Holy shit! I only just realised that RCWD overtook Pushing Our Luck! How the fuck? /pos
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My Housemate the Ghostsitter
by diamondsnowflakes
"Oh," Tommy spun back to his computer, continuing to filter through the history he'd been sent with the doll. "That's Uncle Nasty. He's my new friend for the next week at least."
"Why would you subject us to this?" Wilbur's voice was pitchy with betrayal, causing Tommy to choke back a wave of giggles.
Who knew Wilbur Soot, a near-unshakeable man in his scepticism, would be scared by a doll?
Tommy schooled his face into a bored frown and shrugged, pushing his mouse over to highlight 'wouldn't leave him in the dark overnight' in fluorescent green.
Words: 2930, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Series: Part 6 of blockmen on suffering
Fandoms: Minecraft (Video Game), Dream SMP, Video Blogging RPF
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: Gen
Characters: Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Uncle Nasty | TommyInnit's Doll (Video Blogging RPF)
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, BAMF TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Implied Killer Wilbur Soot, Supernatural Investigator Tommyinnit, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Not Siblings, ARGbur - Freeform, ARGInnit, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Not Related, Alternate Universe - Horror, Skeptic Wilbur Soot, Betaed by Grammarly, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
#ao3feed#wilbur soot#tommyinnit#crimeboys#crime boys#crimebois#crime bois#mcyt#This is an automated process#If you see any fic that breaks boundaries#or the fic is yours and you don't want it shared send an ask#it will be looked at and removed if need be
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The Devil I Know Wasn’t Supposed To Care
"I'm alive," He whispered, holding the remaining two fingers to his pulse point. "I'm alive."
Quackity's thumb brushed the top of Wilbur's hand gently as eyes flicked between their hands, "You're alive."
[Wilbur's back after a six-month retreat he told no one about, neither Quackity nor Wilbur are having a great time. So begins something.]
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Quackity had honestly never felt stupider. The more he thought about his relationship with Sapnap and Karl, the more he realised he should've seen it before. If there was anything that relationship uncovered, it was that Sapnap and Karl had eyes only for each other. He was just a spare part they picked up. Even when they grew closer, they were closer to each other than Quackity. They had in-jokes and private places, couple things that neither of them shared with Quackity. It hits Quackity that, even as they built Mexican L'Manburg for the three of them, Sapnap and Karl were a unit. Quackity was just too optimistic to let it bother him. He was too bright to realise that they'd forget him at some point.
Now here he was, forgotten. Quackity was lying face-up on his office carpet in a country he made for Karl and Sapnap while they were off in their cottagecore utopia. It all sat heavy in his chest like a testament to being unloveable.
Quackity tipped his head to the side, the solid fibres scratching his neck and messing up his hair. Okay, maybe he could admit that there's more build-up to feeling unloveable. Schlatt alone proved it well enough. Then there was the mound of lost friendships that just came with living in the Dream SMP. Even Wilbur had left.
Quackity threw his arm across his head, attempting to block out the sanitised light of the white LEDs as his head began to buzz. Everyone assumed Wilbur had committed suicide again. Or something along those lines. He couldn't really talk clearly about it. Every conversation involving the words 'Wilbur' and 'died' usually results in a stake to the heart and another hour on some random office carpet letting corporate anonymity wash over him like antibacterial cream cleaning his open wounds. Still, it was generally assumed.
Quackity felt like he laid there for a long while, the buzz in his head steadily increasing until it was an unbearable splitting. Eventually, it got too much, and he pushed himself up so he could click the light off.
Quackity returned to the floor, and his eyes flickered to the frame left face-down on the desk. Then there was his family: Sam, who just got more numb with every day spent as the Warden (not that Quackity himself was much better), and George, his hypersomniac older brother, whom he barely saw anymore (and joined his exes in their mushroom kingdom). The list goes on. He sighed, letting his body sink further into the rock-solid industrial carpet. Maybe he was just a testament to being unloveable.
Quackity was on the precipice of continuing his spiral when a hollow knock echoed throughout the office.
---
The hollow knock on the office door echoed around the narrow passage. Wilbur rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited. Though the definitely-had-bones receptionist said Quackity was in, the darkness that swallowed the cracks around the door unnerved him, as did the silence that seemed to stretch every second into millennia. And it felt like many millennia before there was a muted scratchy shuffle then "come in", and Wilbur allowed himself a quiet sigh before letting himself in.
Wilbur first noticed the generic aesthetic upon stepping into the office, which struck him as the antithesis of the rival he was supposed to loathe. Then he saw Quackity. His shoulders drooped with the same burden as Atlas, and his hands looked heavy even to lift, let alone use. Wilbur would bet that his eyebags would be deep enough to challenge bin bags and win in the daylight. Nevertheless, he was almost impressed that Quackity's eyes still tracked him with a clenched jaw and hard eyes as he closed the door and walked further into the room.
"What are you doing here?"
Wilbur gave his best teasing smirk, "No 'hi'? No 'Wilbur, oh I've missed you so, my dear rival'?"
Quackity took a step forward. The look behind his eyes was unnervingly frosty. "Not after six months of radio silence. What the fuck do you want?"
"Am I not allowed to visit my dearest rival?"
Wilbur could hear the grinding of Quackity's teeth in the quiet of the building. He could also hear the barely repressed growl beneath it.
Wilbur couldn't help but grin. Bingo. "Y'know, Quackity, growling like that, you sound like a mutt."
"Y'know what?" Quackity's eyes narrowed into slits. Suddenly he was two giant steps closer, his hand forcefully clamped around Wilbur's neck, pinning him to the door. "Once I've heard the one thing you have to say, I want you out of my fucking office."
The wind was knocked out of him by the impact of the door. Wilbur's vision then slowly began to blur with the pressure on his windpipe. His breathing was stuttering and clogging his chest. Everything felt too much, like a boat on his chest, shining searchlights in his eyes and regularly using the fog horn. Still, he kept his eyes fixed on the glare aimed at him by his esteemed rival, made complete by his set jaw and the shoulders that Wilbur had watched bunch up as he teased him, and frantically nodded.
"I just- Quackity, I need somewhere to stay." Wilbur choked out, his voice scratching his throat like freshly-mined flint and steel.
The glare intensified, "Oh really? Don't you have like three other people who'd be willing to offer that?"
Wilbur grimaced, "Ah yes, what a great idea. The dad and his old friend and the disappointment of yet another apology, the younger brother with no house to spare and what I'm about 60% sure is distrust towards me, or the rival who might kill me, but that just makes him more attractive. Such great candidates. Which would you say is the best?"
Quackity's glare (and hand) eased as Wilbur spoke, then raised an eyebrow, still frowning, "Don't you have a van at the border?"
"That's still there?" Wilbur let his eyes go wide as he mentally reeled back, taking note of the cleaner voice after Quackity's hand loosened up.
Quackity shrugged, almost mild enough to be the Q Wilbur once knew, "Well, yeah, we didn't remove it if that's what you're asking."
"Wow, I would've thought you would've taken the first opportunity to get rid and ran with it."
Quackity's shoulders set back into the new, eyes hardening again, "Believe me, part of me wanted to, but it looked like a waste of resources."
Wilbur's lips quirked into a tiny smirk, "Ah yes, wouldn't want to waste resources in a fake desert, would we?"
Quackity's eyes narrowed, then he suddenly pushed his arm forward, tightening his hand again, "Which is why I want to know why the fuck I should let you stay."
A surge of panic rushed up through Wilbur's chest again. He clawed desperately to find some leeway to let himself breathe. Fuck, when did he get so strong? This time he couldn't focus on anything aside from the painful squeezing. If he didn't know his rival so well, he'd think he was about to die. His vision began to blur and blacken, and he whined desperately.
The hand suddenly let go. Wilbur sagged forward, desperately refilling his lungs in gasps, and slid to the ground. His head drooped forward as his vision clarified before wrenching it back up.
Quackity's eyes were wide, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. He'd taken a step back, and his hands were very carefully placed by his side. He looked stiff like that. Wilbur could also just about see the crease between his brows.
"Y'know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were worried about me." Wilbur could feel his tired smirk while he continued to refill his lungs.
Quackity's shoulders dropped as he let out a huff and a half-hearted "Shut up." His eyes refused to meet Wilbur's.
Wilbur's brow pinched even further for a second. Then his eyes slid towards where Quackity's choking hand was fidgeting slightly, and he felt his face flush as he made an educated guess as to why. Then, finally, he pushed himself a little forward and slowly reached forward before pausing to try and catch Quackity's eye.
"May I?"
Quackity's eyes shifted cautiously between the hand and Wilbur's face, which Wilbur was half-focused on keeping open and non-threatening. Quackity nodded shakily. Wilbur gently caught his wrist and then slid down to hold his hand. He then carefully guided it back to his neck, using his thumb to push Quackity's first two fingers down.
"I'm alive," He whispered, holding the remaining two fingers to his pulse point. "I'm alive."
Quackity's thumb brushed the top of Wilbur's hand gently as eyes flicked between their hands, "You're alive."
They settled in the moment. Then Quackity nodded and backed away slowly, tugging his arm away and back down to his side. The tender feeling that'd welled up in Wilbur's chest sank painfully, but Wilbur just tilted his head and let him go. If he were an idealist, he'd be sure that Quackity's cheeks looked slightly pinker, and he stepped back (not that his own were any better).
The silence that followed lasted a minute.
Wilbur watched as Quackity took a few deeply measured breaths. His eyes were closed. It felt like he was building up to something, and his mouth thinned further and further as his shoulders tensed.
Then the rains began again.
"Six months? I thought you were dead! Again! Fucking hell Wilbur, you would've thought that a brain like yours could've thought to fucking warn people? But apparently not!" Quackity's beanie was long gone at his feet, his hands combing through his hair at record rates as he paced through his tirade. " Tommy didn't even know where you were. How fucked do you have to be not to tell Tommy ."
Wilbur floundered, mouth opening and closing in an almost mirror of Quackity after choking him, eventually settling on "He would've followed me-"
"Yeah, well, you could've told me!" Wilbur's mouth closed with a click. Quackity's chest was heaving as he stopped abruptly in front of Wilbur, hands paused mid-gesture. "You could've told me. At least I could've told them you weren't dead ."
Quackity's hands were thrown back to his sides, fists clenched, while his eyes roamed Wilbur's face, searching for something. His mouth was pressed in a thin line before smearing into a sneer. He didn't seem to find it.
"I mean, fuck Wilbur , you could've at least sent a letter if you were that desperate to be alone. Anything, anything at all."
A moment passed. Silence. Wilbur went to reply but stopped before he could get a sound out. The downpour weighed heavy on the atmosphere; he could almost feel the water soaking their clothes. It only added to the Earth on Quackity's shoulders as he finally let his entire body sag, sighing. He was still regaining his breath from the tirade. Wilbur stopped trying and just blinked, distracting himself by admiring the clearing sky in Quackity's eyes. A clock ticked. And still, the moment hung between them on a string.
"Quackity..."
"Y'know what, Wilbur? I've had enough. I entertained your point. Save it. Get out."
Wilbur nodded mutely and watched as Quackity picked up his beanie and walked behind his desk. The dim light from the country below filtering in from the wall of windows behind him made him look damn near angelic—just another item to a list of newly misleading attributes.
Wilbur forced himself to look away and then picked himself up from the floor, brushing himself off. Then, finally, he turned around to the door.
"And Wilbur."
His hand paused on the handle, "Yes?"
"You can stay in the hotel. Room 209."
Wilbur smiled to himself, "Why thank you, Mr President, and if you want to talk, at least you'll know where to find me."
If looks could kill, Wilbur had a feeling he'd be back in Limbo with a shot through the back of his head. "Thanks. I won't."
---
Quackity's entire body felt tired as he watched Wilbur exit the building, pulling his ratty trench coat around himself to presumably keep out the desert cold. Still, his chest felt calm. The quiet, smooth kind of calm that settles after a satisfying cry and a hug from someone close. It was a calm he hadn't felt since the beginning of his relationship with Karl and Sapnap.
Tears pricked at the corners of Quackity's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He couldn't help but hope that maybe he was just a little wanted by someone. Perhaps, suppose he's optimistic or just unjaded for the day. In that case, he could even hope that he's loved, even if it is by the bastard zombie who ran away for six months out of cowardice and blew up his own country.
Quackity shook his head at himself before tearing himself away from the window. After all, he had to make a call, so someone had a bed for the night.
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