#sleepy is an idiot | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hitlikehammers · 2 months

Text

safe under you

rating: t ♥️ cw: criminal-levels of softness ♥️ tags: established relationship, rockstar husbands, writing vows, soul-deep love, slice of life, softness

for @steddielovemonth day nineteen: Love is the comfort of quiet moments (@tboygareth)

the rockstar husbands are back on their soft-sleepy-romantic bullshit idk ♥️ maybe I'll get around to writing the ACTUAL VOWS next time

“You’re so quiet.”

Which meant Eddie should have heard his husband approaching but: as it stands he really, really didn’t, and he jumps hard when Steve whispers from behind his shoulder over the back of the couch.

Steve laughs at the glare Eddie shoots him—a half-hearted one at best but there—as he reaches to start rubbing at the crook of his neck, up and down on either side and the glaring goes away instantly because: Steve Harrington?

Has magical hands.

“Whatcha doing?” he murmurs close to Eddie’s ear and Eddie hums a little as he gathers himself from going immediately-boneless under Steve’s touch, the kneading of his palm against Eddie’s strained muscles because he’s been down here…not too long, he doesn’t think. They’d gone to bed together at normal time, and he’d fallen asleep, too; he’d just been restless when he woke up, and knew it was the kind of thing he wouldn’t get more rest out of unless he did something about it, so he’d kissed Steve’s head and rolled out of bed, regretful for it but hopeful, too, that if he gave in to the nagging at the back of his head, he’d quiet it enough to be able to slip back in next to his beloved, and lean against the mattress just so, so that Steve’s arms could curl around him as they always did: soft and sweet and waiting to hold him.

Eddie just hasn’t…managed to get there, yet.

“Writing,” Eddie sighs, and then whines a little as Steve’s hands leave their place on his shoulders, and he turns to look because where’s Steve going, Steve shouldn’t go anywhere, Steve should stay right—

Here.

And look at that: Steve’s plopping himself down on the sofa next to Eddie, a little too far but then he’s scooting further, and Eddie opens his mouth to protest but then Steve’s dropping down, draping his body over Eddie’s lap and laying against him, looking up at him with still-half-sleepy eyes and just…

He’s just so fucking beautiful, y’know?

“You’re never quiet when you’re writing,” Steve says, head tilted up, eyes closed as he leans back against the armrest where Eddie’s got his notebook, his face so soft. His mouth so soft—

“Campaign, you mumble to yourself,” Steve continues on, his voice syrupy, still only half-committed to waking; “lyrics, you hum if you don’t have a guitar,” and then he reaches down toward Eddie’s knee and taps rhythmic there:

“And you drum your fingers,” and Steve smiles as his fingers dance for a few languid moments before he eases his lashes open and meets Eddie’s gaze, because Eddie’s gaze has been on his since he settled in his lap.

Because: duh.

“Looks like it’s hard, too,” Steve sucks his lower lip between his teeth, face still soft but mouth quirked just a little downward, still a little dream-soaked and Eddie love that part, but: never the downturn of that mouth.

“Hmm?” Eddie rumbles low so Steve’ll maybe feel it a little where he’s pressed; the little hazy giggle Steve lets out as he nuzzles into Eddie’s middle just that tiny bit: he felt.

Eddie likes to think he’s never been so in love, but he doesn’t…he doesn’t believe he’s ever not loved Steve with all of his everything.

He’s just wholly convinced that his everything grows with ever moment beside this man, every heartbeat lived together: it stretches him wider, broader every day for the singular purpose of holding the all of his love ever-bigger.

“Whatever you’re working on,” Steve murmurs, just short of sleep-slurred; “you’ve got this,” and he reaches, bats a little around Eddie’s face before he lands between his eyebrows and smooths the skin there which, okay, fine, had been all wrinkled-up.

“Means you’re concentrating too hard,” Steve comments sagely, patting Eddie’s cheek a little blind as he settles wholly back in Eddie’s lap.

“This happens to be very important,” Eddie counters with a tiny flick to Steve’s ear, which is met with a little squeak that warms his insides so delicate, so thorough and full.

“Doubtful,” Steve manages to scoff, like he’s tipping closer to wakefulness but not there yet; “not important enough to make you,” and Steve’s the one flicking now, light at Eddie’s forearm in emphasis:

“Quiet and frowny.”

He’s so…he’s fucking edible he’s so adorable, that’s what he is—Jesus.

“Not frowny,” Eddie lets a little at Steve’s hair, all tousled from the bed; “invested.”

Steve purses his lips and tries—fails, but tries—to peek at the notebook on level with his temple.

“What’s got you so invested, then?” he finally gives up trying to turn and read where Eddie’s hasn’t even bothered trying to hide, not least because there is nothing there, and just asks. And Eddie could dodge it. Steve would respect it if he did.

But he…he doesn’t. Generally speaking he doesn’t hide anything from Steve. Big or small. Their life is a shared thing from top to bottom and Eddie loves that about them so fucking fierce, so. He just sighs and admit it.

“My vows.”

Because that’s what’s been keeping him up, that’s what drove him out of the soft joy of their bed, that’s what amounted to scribbles and cross-outs alone on the page in front of him and it should be this hard, Eddie’s a decent enough lyricist, not to mention most of his songs all this time are for, or inspired by, or just about, generally, all-encompassingly: Steve. It’s always Steve.

Which makes it that much more unbearable that he can’t seem to fucking write his goddamn vows.

Then, though, just then; the most unexpected thing happens. Or starts.

Steve starts shaking against him and there a half-second he’s worried—does it hurt his sweetheart, that he can’t get the words down, does it make him sad, is he cryi—

No.

No: it only takes half-a-second for the anxiety to fade and the sound to register alongside the trembling: Beautiful. Radiant. Still wholly unexpected.

Steve’s laughing.

“That’s silly,” Steve finally tells him, looking up at him with genuine north in his eyes and yes, he’s still a little sleepy-drunk, but the feeling is wholly present and…

Eddie isn’t sure what to do with it—wants to just wrap himself inside it and savor but: his vows…laughable?

Silly?

“What?”

“You’ve already made your vows,” Steve grins up at him, all brightness; “like, three times,” and, okay.

Okay, that’s not exactly wrong, though he could probably try to argue that it was more three proposals’ worth of vows, and are those actually vows, if it’s just a proposal—

“Proposals fucking count,” Steve waves his wrist definitively and…Eddie isn’t sure if he said any of that out loud?

Then: probably wouldn’t make a difference either way. They know each other.

“The first one was legitimately with the twisty-tie from a loaf of Home Pride,” Eddie points out because: because that…that’s probably not as important—

“Mmhmm,” Steve hums, and lifts his left hand: there’s a simple ring on his left hand, pricey for their budget when they’d gathered their family and committed to always in front of them under a temperate Indiana summer’s sky, bonfire and barbecue lively in the background: but that ring wasn’t smooth; it had a long-worn-bare stick of metal wrapped around it and soldered, one that used to be covered in bright paper to stick out against a plastic bread bag:

“I remember well,” and Steve sounds so soft, so blissfully taken in by the memory of that first time Eddie had proposed and, fuck.

Fuck, the butterflies never go away, do they? That effervescent joy stays fresh and vivacious forever.

Thank fuck; he wants no less of this; for them. The love they have deserves no less.

“Still want to melt down the Ring Pop,” Steve says as he plays with his ring; “make it match,” and that’d been the second time: Steve had bought Eddie a ring at a ren faire, and Eddie’d been beside himself to reciprocate, immediately, because Steve deserved no less, and that was how the bum-end of a long-licked Ring Pop came to live eternally on Steve’s keys.

To be eyed for melting into a full-hoop shape for years, now, but Eddie kinda thinks it’s loved and treasured plenty, just as it already is.

“I love you so fucking much,” Steve tells him, apropos of nothing, and that’s…that’s kind of exactly how they work, yeah. They just love.

So fucking much.

Eddie’s pulse kinda skips with it, bounces like pigtails hopscotching along, all unbridled glee. He draws Steve hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles.

“Aren’t you,” Eddie swallows as he lifts his blank notebook and shakes it around a little: “aren’t you stressing over them?”

Because it doesn’t sound like he is, and that’s…sure, they’ve done this before, if not with a license in hand like they will this time. But Steve’s always been more prone to worry over stuff like this. So while Eddie doesn’t want the man he loves to be anxious, he is…kinda wondering, is all.

“Not writing any,” Steve shrugs and lets the motion turn him a little against Eddie’s lap, to look up more straight-on.

“You know I’m not great with words,” Steve tells him simply; “like, planning them out, I’ll fuck it up in the moment and then I’ll just be more flustered.”

And, yeah: okay. That’s a fair point.

Then there’s a hand slipping up his jaw, and crawling his cheek, and turning him down to look at Steve closer:

“Figured I can just look at you, and I’ll,” Steve’s pupils get bigger as he exhales, as he takes in Eddie’s face and beams at him, strokes his cheekbone with his thumb.

“The most important things are always right there,” Steve breathes warm: “so I’ll just say what’s already waiting.”

And shit. The man says he’s bad at words.

“You’re the light of life, Steve Harrington,” Eddie whispers, contorting himself to lean and Steve sees, arches up to press their lips as Eddie mouths against him: “the song in my soul,” and fuck: he means it so many times over he could never count it, could never pin a number to it. It’s too vast.

“See, look at you,” Steve taps his cheek playfully, but so soaked up with love; “you’ve already got all your words, so,” and then he lets his hand slide off Eddie’ face, and he sits up just to grab at Eddie’s legs, swing them up onto the couch and settles himself between them, tugging Eddie from the calves further down until he’s propping himself up by his palms.

“C’mon,” Steve coaxes, and uses his back to ease Eddie down and: oh. Oh, he wants them laid out on the cushions.

And well: Eddie could, would, will only ever oblige, if the question is do you want to lay down with your husband thrice-almost-four-times-over?

Because again: duh. If they were really in the market for silly ideas.

Steve sighs so happily, so airy and bright even as Eddie reaches to flick the light off, and wraps his arms to rest around Steve, sure and close where he holds him to his chest, folds him in where he already nuzzles deeper and:

It’s how safe my heart feels under the weight of your head.

Well, fuck him.

Maybe he does know his vows already.

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

divider credit here

166 notes · View notes

tetchy-frog · 11 months

Text

Happy Pride Month!

This is also an early birthday present for myself I guess, since it’s tomorrow!

Gotta crawl out of the grave for Pride month and also Getting Older™️-

#the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #thorin and company #bagginshield #bilbo baggins #thilbo #thorin is an idiot #a flustered one!#Froje’s annual bday post #god that hand is so janky but listen I was sleepy okay?

859 notes · View notes

stonelovesbeer · 1 month

Text

You know y'all sung this out..... I did 🍻🍻

#p diddy #sean disdy combs #joe biden #sleepy joe #idiots #mountain dew #fuck joe biden

141 notes · View notes

b4kuch1n · 8 months

Text

fanciful stories (you're way too good at this)

(that's not what it's about. being good at it)

#pokemon #swsh #champion leon #gym leader raihan #assistant sonia #three parts of a whole idiot #hi. this is mostly me testing just goin at it with ink again. its wonky but! thats not what its about!#thinking abt little boy... in the arena with a set of league uniform a size too big. winning because it's fun #leon truly is like a recurring nightmare I have. every other month I wake up in the middle of the night like oh shit leon pokemon #also reintroducing the dragonfly motif for raihan... I debuted it for leon but tbh? it fits raihan better #this is like magical girl to me. the image genre of using kids toys to do archetypal hero things #man. I really need to draw a very specific thing for gloria. leon may be in it but I want it to be for gloria #we'll see! Im so fucking sleepy rn #theres a feast to be made tomorrow. I need to lay down n save up my energy for cookin #have a good night lads! remember: making bad art is fucking awesome

383 notes · View notes

midnights-dragon · 7 months

Text

I think Crowley would accidentally fall asleep on Aziraphale sometimes and I think that Aziraphale trying to get up and move for whatever reason would go something like this:

“Nnrgh,” Crowley protested in a low mumble as Aziraphale shifted, his grip tightening weakly around Aziraphale’s middle. “Don’ go,” he ordered bossily, his words slurred. “Warm.”

Aziraphale chucked a little despite himself, settling back down, his cheeks glowing. “I’m warm, hm?”

“Mhrm,” Crowley agreed.

“You are silly,” Aziraphale responded fondly, beginning to stroke a hand absentmindedly through Crowley’s hair without even fully registering what he was doing. The demon, still half-asleep, pressed against his touch, burying his face in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Not,” came his muffled protest. “Not ssssilly.” Crowley’s hiss was pronounced, a sign of his tiredness. “I’m evil. Very evil, me.”

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale resigned. He carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair, still smiling, surrendering himself to his fate of being a heating pad for his lovely serpent. “Very scary demon, you are.”

“Mhm,” Crowley mumbled, before curling around Aziraphale and promptly falling back to sleep, one hand hooked around the angel’s middle, his face pressed into his chest. Aziraphale looked down at him, his heart seizing, and gently hugged him close.

“You are silly,” he whispered, sparing a single kiss to the demon’s smoothed forehead. “And I love you.”

And even in his sleep, Crowley smiled as he felt the warmth of the angel’s love wrapping around him like the softest blanket, casting over him like the warmest strike of sun through clouds.

Love you too, angel.

Note: this is a full fic now!

#ineffable husbands #sleepy intimacy my beloved #ineffable idiots #ineffable husbands fanfiction #gomens #good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #fanfic #fanfiction #writer #crowley x aziraphale #Crowley #aziraphale

251 notes · View notes

sleepy-achilles · 2 years

Text

I honestly don't know what to do.

My police apprenticeship application has been rejected. I failed my behavioural stye questionnaire.

I can't reapply again until three months from today. And if I fail again its another 12 months.

I don't know how to tell my parents.

#police force #police #sleepy updates #sleepy is an idiot

2 notes · View notes

sleep-nurse · 1 month

Text

queres

#miu himawari #sleepy nurse #kyuuzero #my sona #my art #warning another stupid idiot incoming (this one)

66 notes · View notes

mayhemspreadingguy · 1 year

Text

This is where the goth cat belongs.

#dreamling #the feeling when you have a wip of Dream sitting on Hob's lap but didn't finish it yet because there's too much furniture in the background #and instead of finishing that you start another lap sitting sketch but forget that you'll have to add at least one piece of furniture too #so no shading today only the flats because drawing furniture always sucks the life out of me #im sure once i post it I'll see dozen things that I'd like to changexD - as always - but I have to draw the line somewhere. I'm very sleepy #also #her little brother au #the au made me do this xDD #cuubism #magnusbae #(magnusbae you systematically kept feeding me the brainrot so this was bound to happen x'D)#(and I don't know anymore what's canonical to this au and what's not xD)#oh well #just vibin and lovin the two idiots #mayhem art

431 notes · View notes

muffinlance · 1 year

Note

Would you be willing to do one where the g'aang meets zuko with his dragons and is like? Wtf? Because I would appreciate the image of aang seeing thw dragons and going, can I pet em, while sokka or katara is like, can I fight dragons? No, no I cannot, and the other is going, not evil fire lord, bet. Please?

(Continued from parts one, two, and three.)

“My older brother should have had the throne, of course,” said the man Aang had come to meet. “But he was still mourning for his son, when… Well, when I think of it now, it was the beginning. My father, poisoned in his bedchambers. My wife, missing in the night. It took me years to piece together what must have happened. It was unthinkable, for a child so young to…”

Aang swallowed thickly, his hands balls on his legs. “Zuko… did all that?”

“When he was younger than you are now. There was always something wrong with that child,” former Fire Lord Ozai said, from between the ruin of his twisted lips in his scared face. Aang wasn’t sure how much farther the scaring extended, but… but he could see it creeping down under the man’s collar, emerging again on his hands. “I was not—I am not—a good man, Avatar Aang. I know that. I was like King Kuei, sheltered in my palace, unaware of the true extent of this war. A spare prince; I was never meant to rule. Neither was he. But obstacles were removed from his path, one by one, until I was the only one who stood in his way. I was not a good man, Avatar. But I would never try to kill my own father.”

“Thank you for speaking with me,” Aang said. “And… I accept your offer, Sifu Ozai.”

Sokka and Katara shifted behind him, uneasily. Long Feng gave no sign as to his opinion, beyond being the one to make this meeting with the Fire Nation’s rebel leader possible. But there were very few firebenders not under Fire Lord Zuko’s control. Aang had to learn from someone. And… at least Ozai understood, how dangerous fire could be.

* * *

Earth King Kuei had thrown out the treaty his advisors had spent so long negotiating, and slapped together his own private agreement with Fire Lord Zuko after only a few days; Ba Sing Se and the eastern part of the continent were left intact and under Kuei’s reign, while the western coast was handed off to the Fire Nation as tribute.

The North Pole’s borders remained closed.

The South had been the first nation pressed into an end-of-war treaty, while the Fire Lord’s dragons watched on.

The Air Nomads… if there were any left, still hiding somewhere, they hadn’t come out for Aang.

* * *

Master Yagoda wasn’t a fighter, and claimed that one world journey was quite enough for her lifetime. She’d remained in the South Pole after Aang’s training there was complete, to help her new tribe.

Long Feng’s responsibilities as the Earth Kingdom’s own rebel leader made it inadvisable for him to place himself in enemy hands. The Fire Lord and King Kuei were close; if Long Feng were taken prisoner, he would be handed off to Ba Sing Se for a quick trial, and likely a quicker execution.

Sifu Ozai’s injuries made it impossible for him to truly fight by Aang’s side, of course, even if he didn’t face an even swifter death than Long Feng should they be captured on Fire Nation soil.

But this was Aang’s job. He was the Avatar, so he had to do this. He had to give all the nations of the world a chance to grow, free from the Fire Lord’s enforced peace.

“We’re not leaving you now,” Katara said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her brother mirrored her, a moment later.

They’d started as his escorts, in this terrifying new world. He’d trained under the same master Katara had; learned everything there was to know about healing, from Master Yagoda, who’d used the false peace to travel south. Healing was… it was so much better, than the training Sifu Long Feng had put him through, the precise way earthbending could be used to contain or kill. Or Sifu Ozai’s lessons, hard learned, about just how much fire it took to truly stop a fellow bender. At least Ozai had been sympathetic to Aang’s concerns, to the culture only he seemed to remember. Ozai didn’t want his son dead, either. He still loved him, even after what he’d done. He just… wanted him stopped.

Fire didn’t kill easily. But it could definitely stop someone. And then Aang could heal him, and just… keep him in jail. The Fire Lord had a little sister, kept hostage all these years, who Ozai thought might still be convinced to join them. She could be the new Fire Lord, with Ozai as her regent. And then the Earth King’s main ally would be gone, and Long Feng could go back to reclaim his home for the people, instead of the nobility who’d grown rich on war without ever stepping foot outside of their walled inner city.

And. And Aang could travel, and relearn this world, and practice his healing more. That was what the world really needed: healing.

But it was like Yagoda had taught him. Sometimes a break had to be reset, before it could really heal.

* * *

It was… really easy, getting into the Fire Nation palace. They rolled Appa in soot, and came in the night. Landed on a roof. Entered through an upper window on an inner courtyard, where guards wouldn’t think to stand watch. The Fire Nation had uncontested aerial supremacy, after all.

They knew where the Fire Lord’s rooms were; they were Ozai’s old ones. They were also very empty. Which they’d been warned about, because apparently the Fire Lord did his best evil planning at night when his advisors couldn’t reign him in.

There was the flicker of candlelight under the sliding doors to his office. And… no guards. Which led to a round of is-this-the-right-place looks shared between them, but. This was where the map Ozai had given them said to go. So they had another round of looks, with resolute nods this time, and then Katara was sliding open the door as he and Sokka ran in and…

…And a very tired looking servant was standing in front of a desk, shuffling papers around like there was something he’d missed in them. His long hair was partially tied up in a frazzled bun, but mostly down his back. He blinked at them through a pair of glasses that were almost an exact match for the ones in fashion at King Kuei’s court, like he’d gotten them from the same artisan. And also there were some ink stains on his face, like maybe he’d fallen asleep on some still-drying documents. So… maybe a scribe?

“Where’s the Fire Lord?” Sokka demanded, club raised.

“...I can see the family resemblance,” said the servant, who had turned fully to face them, and oh. He… had the Fire Lord’s scar. And there was the Fire Lord’s crown, being used as a paperweight at the edge of the desk.

“Does Chief Hakoda know his children are here to assassinate his ally—” Fire Lord Zuko said.

“ ‘Ally’ is a little strong,” interrupted Sokka.

“—Or do the Water Tribes have their own ‘rebel leader’ now?”

“ ‘Assassinate’ is a little strong, too,” Aang said softly, shuffling his feet, his hands tight around his staff.

The Fire Lord stared at him a moment. “...Ah. So my father would prefer that you maim me, and drop me in a dark cell for the rest of my life?”

“Umm.”

Zuko stared, and stared, and then pushed up his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Listen. Can we just… reschedule this?”

“Reschedule,” Katara repeated. “This.”

“You haven’t attacked me yet, so this isn’t technically a diplomatic incident. It’s just… a scheduling conflict?”

Sokka snorted, and then looked vaguely angry at himself. Katara elbowed him. Aang kept gripping his glider, but maybe a little less tightly.

“We got news of an earthquake on Shojima not even two candlemarks ago,” the Fire Lord said, sliding his glasses back down. “Which means the tsunami is on its way to the main coast by now, if it hasn’t hit already, and I need to get these out if the relief supplies are going to be on their way by morning. So we can either have a really fast assassination attempt and then I have to add ‘explain to the world why the Fire Lord killed the Avatar and a nation’s heirs’ to my schedule sometime this week. Or we can talk first, but I don’t have time for that, so can we reschedule this to…”

And the very evil Fire Lord turned away from them to begin shuffling through his papers.

“First,” Sokka said, pointing a finger at the teenager, “Aang would be more than a quick fight, rude. Second: I’m still working on the second, but seriously, rude. And third, what do you mean you’d put our fiery-death-explanations into your schedule sometime this week?”

The Fire Lord didn’t seem to be listening. But he’d apparently found his appointment book, so that was good? Except for all the flipping.

“I can do… lunch tomorrow? If you’re okay with actually eating while we talk. I’m not allowed to skip meals, or Captain Izumi cancels my appointments ‘for national security’.”

Sokka slowly lowered down his pointing finger.

“Talking would be good,” Aang said. “I like talking.”

And then they got to meet Captain Izumi, which was a lot scarier than meeting the Fire Lord.

And then they realized that what they’d thought was vaguely tacky dragon-print paneling along two walls was actual dragon skin and this wasn’t an office it was an open-air veranda and—

“Quick fight” might have been an accurate prediction, yes.

More accurate than Sifu Ozai’s map.

(Read more prompts || Longer ATLA fics || Original works)

#Zuko’s Guards Five Minutes Later Back From Getting Him More Parchment: And then you… rescheduled your assassination #Azula: Ah the power of being an idiot #And Father thinks he can control me as regent?#that's adorable #Meanwhile the Gaang: Wow this heavily guarded suite of rooms is WAY nicer than the refurbished chamber that was once bad #Ran and Shaw: were sleeping this entire time #the sounds of Zuko shuffling papers and making unhappy mouth-noises are their usual nighttime serenade #the sound of Captain Izumi firmly berating her Fire Lord for co-scheduling work with meals is not #sleepy dragons yawn and look in #Sokka sees no scheduling conflicts down their maws #Avatar The Last Airbender #atla #Zuko #Aang #Hello Dragons Here

666 notes · View notes

nomsfaultau · 3 months

Text

The Lambs Wolves Wear part 6

Dark SBI AU where Philza’s human children were replaced by monsters. Start of ficlet is here.

It wasn’t unusual that “Technoblade” was late to meals. Philza wasn’t entirely sure if he needed to eat anymore. The hoard of spirits using Technoblade as a conduit assured Philza the body of his real son was technically still alive, but it didn’t change the fact his child looked less alive every day, pallid skin and sunken sockets. “Technoblade” was rather diligent in feeding the body they possessed, though often grew distracted, consumed with ghostly obsession. “Technoblade” had taken it upon themselves to farm the land, and with armies of ghosts set upon the task, there was little use for Philza. He was left to domestic upkeep, shaved down into nothing more than a sweet and nurturing caretaker. Hopefully such a docile persona would cause them to underestimate him.

Technoblade was stolen from him, but not truly gone. Perhaps it could have been some relief. Only his darkest nightmares could begin to fathom what the fates of his other children were, and yet he could still embrace Technoblade. It didn’t change the gut feeling that he was cradling the icy corpse of his son. Philza wasn’t sure if he could handle realizing he was watching his dead son’s carcass laugh and walk alongside him, puppeteered by ancient specters. No. The real Technoblade had to be in there somewhere. He had to.

“Technoblade” hadn’t come back from the barn yet. Philza frowned as he dished out stew, then ordered “Tommy” to fetch his brother. While Philza only pretended to care if the others ate, he needed to believe Technoblade’s body was still alive.

The demon whined about waiting to eat, then hmph’d and crashed through a window, morphing into a dark stallion as he raced for a distant barn. Philza flinched at the shattering glass, then sighed as Wilbur began to weave yet another illusion to ‘fix’ the broken window. Sometimes Philza wondered how much of his life was distorted into the image of a happy normal family, pasted over with magic to hide the real damage.

A sound like distant thunder cracked through the air. Suddenly he could see the towering true form of the demon that stole Tommy, hissing and recoiling as dark waves of an undead legion poured out of the barn, attacking everything in their path. War unfurled from the barn.

Ah. So the façade was finally over. There was a grim relief in relinquishing the fragile peace. It was too soon, he still didn’t know where all his children were. But Philza was prepared. He’d been covertly stockpiling the means to defend himself for a long time now. These creatures wearing his children wouldn’t kill him that easily.

“Tommy” scrambled back from the ghosts that charged at him. Powerful claws slashed through the ranks, but their fury was ceaseless and phantasmal. “Tommy” turned tail and scampered back to the house. A blur of his form, and a bristling raccoon burrowed around Philza’s shoulders, shaking and bleeding.

“He’s crazy,” the demon hissed, ringed tail puffed up. “I tried to help him like you taught me to,” “Tommy” insisted, expecting reprimand. “He attacked me! And he was rude! He wouldn’t die even when I tried to kill him!” Philza pressed a kiss to the injured raccoon’s forehead, ignoring the sulfuric smell. Only a little longer must he pretend to love them. He coaxed the demon and changeling into resuming lunch, promising to handle it.

And then Philza prepared to finally kill the thing festering inside Technoblade’s body. It would have to be fast, before the others realized they were next.

Ghosts poured out of the barn, the restless legions of the slain pouring out upon the land they once tilled. Philza gripped his iron sword, praying the clumsy holy runes he’d scratched into would be enough against the undead. And then Philza charged in, flashes of blessed metal carving through the ghosts. It caught the spectral blows of swords that otherwise would have cut him to ribbons. He plunged into an army. Flashes of searing cold scraped through his form, numbing his soul. Still he sliced his way through the ghostly legion, fighting to the heart of the war. The world was a blur of darkness, but a trail of blood guided him to where ancient armies poured out of his child.

Spectral hands ripped at him, though he warded them off best he could with his Prime-blessed blade. His sword was torn out of his cold-numbed hands, too rigid from the rime crawling up them to pick it up again. And yet Philza pressed on, weathering the arctic shadows cutting to his core. In the heart of the darkness, “Technoblade” curled into a haystack, shuddering as waves of undead soldiers clawed their way out of him.

The hoards descended upon Philza, shrieking and ripping into him. Frost struck through him, brutal in its cold. Philza stumbled, struggling to pass through the gale of spirits to the body they possessed. His heart began to freeze inside his chest, sluggish as it tried to join the host of the undead. He reached for the boy, fighting with everything he had, and slammed the binding tag onto him.

The spirits screeched as they were suddenly ripped backward and shoved back into “Technoblade”. It snapped to silence abruptly, the spell tag having done its work. The ghosts couldn’t leave their vessel now. Philza panted, each exhale no longer spilling condensation. His fingers were still numb even as the soul frost melted, but he stumbled over to his dropped weapon, dragging it as he slowly approached the shaking boy. Blood trailed toward “Technoblade”, staining the hay he curled in.

Philza pointed his sword at the hyperventilating ghost. “Give me back my son.”

“Technoblade” didn’t seem to hear him, mumbling over and over to themselves. “Don’t hurt him don’t hurt him don’t-" the monster began sobbing as he raised the sword.

And Philza realized he wasn’t going to be able to kill them. Not when they begged for mercy in the voice of his children. No, not when they shared his home for months, when they looked to him for guidance to mold them into gentler lives. “Technoblade” putting down their swords in favor of plows, “Tommy” learning to be careful in his affections, “Wilbur” slowly realizing he might be loved for himself and not the child he replaced. They all called him father long past when the deception was broken.

His heart howled. He wanted the monsters that destroyed his children dead. And yet Philza couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

The sword clattered to the barn floor. “Technoblade” whimpered and struggled at his approach, kicking out wildly. Philza wrestled them down, catching the hands clawing at him. “Technoblade” was a bloodied mess, a gash crossed over an eye and digging down his collarbone to his heart. “Don’t hurt him dON’T HURT HIM PLEASE—“

And suddenly, Philza remembered that “Technoblade’s” last vessel had been murdered.

Philza brushed “Technoblade’s” hair from where it fell into the wound. “Shhh, it’s okay. If I wanted you dead, you would be.” It soothed the strategically-minded spirits a little. Philza would exorcise them in a heartbeat, but then he’d have to deal with the others and in that time Technoblade could very well bleed out. Never mind the fact he still didn’t know where the other children were.

He peeled out of his jacket and used it to soak up the blood, murmuring assurances. Slowly “Technoblade” began to calm, realizing they weren’t being attacked. Shakily, they explained that they’d accidentally hurt Technoblade’s body when tilling, and panicked, sure they’d be finished off while weakened. They kept apologizing for hurting the body, like Philza couldn’t see how deeply the ghosts cared for their vessel. Carefully, Philza removed the binding spell tagging the spirit, shoving it into a pocket for later. “Technoblade” reached dark hands for him, clinging on for comfort.

Foolishly, Philza thought that was all they did, till too late he saw the shadow and whirled to find his sword hovering over him in a phantom grasp. “Technoblade” examined the runes Philza scratched into the metal. “You have been scheming against us,” they said almost levelly. Red eyes pinned him from within dark sockets, staring up from where “Technoblade” clung to his chest. A spectral hand clawed at the fabric covering his hammering heart, poised to rip it out. He’d let his guard down.

Philza was silent, realizing he’d revealed his intent far, far too soon. “…I’m not a foolish man. You’re a warrior, are you not? Would you deny me strength? We all know I’m nowhere near you boys’ equal.”

“Technoblade” pressed the sword hilt back into his palm. “True. A far better man than any of us. Few soldiers are strong enough to stop fighting.”

Next>

56 notes · View notes