Your moirail likes to touch you.
It's another symptom of his damage, really, all the pitiful, cracked bullshit about him wrapped up in the needy, hungry way he strokes your hair or your horns or takes daring, glancing reach-arounds to brush a hand over your back. Trolls are tough as chitin and claws, and you don't give a shit about your aberrant mutant blood, you're a troll through and through.
You shouldn't like to be touched. You don't.
But Gamzee does. And you, for some godforsaken reason, are infected with some kind of disease that makes you tolerate him.
It's cold tonight, and you can tell as soon as you wake up because Gamzee's curled around you like a grub, face buried in the back of your neck and hands rubbing absently up and down your belly. You have the slime set pretty warm, but not warm enough, apparently. When you move to get untangled, Gamzee grumbles and groans and reels you in even harder, nuzzling behind your ear.
You're a troll, you don't care about being touched. But you also can't get away. So you settle, and grumpily let him pet sleepily at your face, your chest, your neck. The slight, rough scrape of the pads on his palms and then the prickling, controlled threat of his claws.
You don't need to be touched. You don't need anybody for anything. A troll is an island. A troll doesn't give a shit. A troll doesn't get frustrated and irritable if they have to go a few weeks without their moirail touching them, so you don't. You don't.
You don't realize you're purring until he starts purring too. The tips of his claws trail across the curve of your thoracic cage, prickle and knead at you like you're some kind of wriggler comfort object, and you try to choke down the rusty rumble in your thorax and can't make it happen.
Gamzee mumbles, "Best friend, beats every miracle on the sand, sea and sky how sweet you turn for me touching you," and curls around you a little tighter, bites harmlessly at the side of your neck and the nape, where the hair trails off down your posture column. For a second all of his claws and his fangs press just hard enough to catch you still, breath hitching--then his palms smooth past the place his claws pricked at you, and he nuzzles his bare cheek against the mark of his teeth, and you're purring even louder, melting into warm, stupid shivers.
You understand what he actually said a second later, and are immediately, breathlessly indignant.
"I'm, you, fuck you," you retort, which is far from your best work, but in your defense your moirail is a soft embarrassment of a troll and he won't stop touching you, bundling you up into the curve of his freakishly long body, petting the line of one of your thighs, kneading a tense muscle there, going back to rubbing the place your purr hums at the base of your thoracic cage. "I'm humoring you, dipshit, because apparently you fucked up too many cartwheels when you were a wriggler and sloshed most of your panmatter out of your ears."
Gamzee gives a rattling, huffing chirr of amusement, melting into an actual laugh when you growl at him. "If you say so, brother," he says, soothed amiable, and nips at the back of your neck again, where he's definitely going to leave a really obvious mark for all of your chucklefuck hatefriends to hoot about.
"You're embarrassing both of us."
"Aww, motherfucker, that right?"
"You're-- It's not a-- What do you fucking think I am, some kind of--of touch-dependent mammal, huddling in its shitty brood-den with all its wriggling, hairless birth-pupas--"
Gamzee's snickering at you again. "I bet mammals don't purr so nice, best friend."
"Fuck you," you say again, with feeling, and twist half-heartedly at his grip again. He clicks his fangs, a disappointed little noise, and just holds you tighter, tight enough it aches just a little. Tight like it doesn't matter what you are or what you want, or what you don't want to want. He's not letting you go.
You don't like it. You don't, you don't, you don't. A good troll wouldn't. You don't.
He's mumbling some kind of highblood benediction into your hair, some nightmarish honking thing about being anointed in the wicked elixir and the stardust in your eyes. But his claws come to your face, a huge, cool frond wrapped all the way around to cup your cheek, and when his thumbclaw rests on your lip it's just heavy enough to shut you the fuck up, just light enough you know he's not going to hurt you. Just threatening enough to send a thrilling pale shiver through your palms and down your spine, and safe like you can only be like this.
"Little motherfucker gets so fucking hungry for it when he's lonely," Gamzee murmurs, and presses a little harder when you try to open your mouth to argue. "Nah-ah-ah, best friend, shoosh. Shhhh. You're so motherfucking warm, and look at you all soft all over, like clouds or some shit... Lemme all get my feel on. Get a good motherfucking grab-around at you going."
You bite his finger in revenge, a whole lot gentler than you could considering how tough highblood skin is. He laughs at you and then moves all in a rush, pins you into a tight little ball with your arms at your sides and your knees to your chest and dunks you in the sopor, bringing you up growling and squirming.
"What the fuck was that for?!"
"Shooshing," he says, and pats your face again with a stupid-sounding splap-splap noise. "Rowdy little motherfucker's gotta chill the fuck down. And hey, check it out."
His hands find both of your horns, and he combs the sopor through your hair with delicate clawtips and then rubs the sopor at the roots of your horns, right where thin skin gives way to the slight velvet at the bases.
The cool pressure feels completely different combined with the humming, numb-sensitive tingle of sopor, and you're immediately rendered hopelessly, humiliatingly compliant. You melt like a frozen beverage block at high noon in the desert. You make a noise you would murder any of your enemies or friends for hearing. You croon like a pupa who just discovered cotton candy. You'll fucking savage him if he stops.
"...'S real motherfucking sweet how you like it," he says again, peacefully, and this time you feel way too damn good to make yourself argue.
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For the railway roundabout au Is thomas the Rose or Steven this universe Or is he somehow both did he lost his memory or something
I know that I have established Thomas as Pink Diamond/Rose Quartz and that’s because the way he changes in Railroad Roundabout kinda reflects on that. So let me explain!
He initially starts off as an arrogant young man with little to no experience in working on a railway. Although he is hardworking and always eager to make himself useful, his pride and rudeness have led others to have a low opinion of him. Overtime, he realizes that in order to gain the respect and appreciation he truly deserved, he’ll need to change his behavior. He begins helping out others and taking moments to under their feelings, making him realize how valuable his relationships are. He also learns how to appreciate the life around him so that he doesn’t have to tie his self worth solely on his career.
So yeah, like Pink becoming Rose, Thomas matures to become a kinder and more empathetic person, He may have made a few foolish and impulsive decisions while doing so, but what matters is that he is always striving to be better.
I will say that there is also an equivalent to Steven in this AU! And I will elaborate some details about it down below:
A few years have passed and Thomas gradually becomes burnt out by his career. Running his branchline no longer gave him the joy he once had when he had first started. He decided that he had to step away, even though it pained him to do so. He still loved all of his friends and knew that he had built a strong reputation for himself, so leaving everything behind would be a devastating thing for him to do. Still, he knew that this would be best for him. He eventually quit and leaves Sodor so that he can go and pursue a new dream: travel the world to sightsee different railways and expand his knowledge on them.
Meanwhile, back on Sodor, a new recruit was ready to take his place. She was a young woman who had heard about the countless escapades of NWR’s #1 engine driver and was eager to work with him one day. Though she was disappointed to see that he was already gone by the time she joined the railway, she was determined to follow in his footsteps and do the best she can do. Her name was Rosie.
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