Chapter Text
The classroom was too much today. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry bees. The girl across the row kept snapping her gum — pop, pop, pop — each sound stabbing through your ears like needles. And then, to make everything worse, the boy next to you thought it was funny to poke your arm. Once, twice, then again. Every time you shifted away, he leaned closer, smirking.
Your chest felt too tight. You pulled your sleeves down over your hands, pressing your fists against your desk. Maybe if you ignored it… maybe if you just focused on your notebook…
But then the gum popped again. The poking didn’t stop. And the sounds, the pressure, the buzzing — it all built until it was too much.
The breaking point hit you fast. Your throat burned, tears already in your eyes before you could stop them. You covered your ears, rocking forward in your chair as your body trembled.
The teacher called your name softly, but you couldn’t answer. The noise was too loud, the room too bright, everything too much. You hated it — hated how everyone was staring, hated that you couldn’t hold it together.
By the time the principal gently guided you out of class, your face was hot and blotchy. They told you your dad was coming to pick you up. Wilbur.
And when you saw him walking down the hall, long coat swishing around him, his face tight with worry, fresh tears filled your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted, voice cracking. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor tiles. “I didn’t mean to. I tried really hard but— it was too loud and I couldn’t—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Wilbur murmured, kneeling down so he could meet your eyes. His voice was low and warm, not sharp like you feared. “No apologies, dove. None. This wasn’t your fault.”
You sniffled, rubbing your sleeve across your eyes. “But I… I caused a scene. Everyone looked. I should’ve just… handled it.”
Wilbur shook his head, brushing a strand of hair gently out of your face. “You’re not a robot. You can’t just switch offhow your brain works. You did your best, and that’s all I’ll ever ask of you.”
He held out his hand, palm up. You hesitated, then slid your hand into his. His long fingers wrapped gently around yours, grounding, steady.
“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” he said softly. “I’ll take you home. Warm tea, a blanket, no lights on unless you want them. We’ll put on that silly bird documentary you like.”
You nodded, shoulders slumping with tired relief.
And as you walked out of the building together, Wilbur gave your hand the tiniest squeeze, like a secret promise: You don’t have to go through this alone. I’ve got you.
Chapter 2: Loops and Laughter
Summary:
HIII, HOPE YOU'RE DOING WONDERFUL!! <3
Little fluffy request today!
Context: Techno and Will are best friends living in one flat and raising male!reader (he was left on their porch as a newborn one day with the note "he's yours")
It's evening and adults are minding their business peacefully, before their teen son bursts in, all hyped up and almost bouncing off the walls, and all of it because...he bought that big fluff yarn with loops and knitted a test square. He loves it and proud of it. Very much. It's unbelievably soft and his favorite color. This is the first thing that made him so excited in months, if not years (probably bc of mental struggles). And he wanted to show that square to his parents.
-🌌
Notes:
You can take this as Techno x Wilbur if you want, idc
Chapter Text
It was one of those slow, comfortable evenings in the flat. Techno was sprawled sideways in the armchair, reading something thick enough to be used as a doorstop, while Will sat on the couch with his laptop, tapping out an email with that faint little crease in his brow that meant someone in his office had annoyed him again.
The air smelled faintly of tea and the cinnamon candle Will had lit an hour ago.
And then the front door banged open so hard it rattled the keys hanging on the wall.
“PARENTS!”
Both men looked up in mild alarm. Techno’s thumb froze in the middle of turning a page. Will’s fingers hovered over his keyboard.
Their son—sixteen, perpetually in hoodies too big for him, usually more the quiet muttering on the sofa type—stood in the doorway, grinning like he’d just discovered a new planet. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, his hair sticking up in the back from where he’d clearly ripped off his beanie in a hurry.
In his hands was… a square. A very fluffy, loopy, ridiculously soft square.
“Look!” he blurted, practically bouncing forward. “Look, look, look what I made!”
Will blinked. “Is that—?”
“Yarn!” The boy held it out like a knight presenting Excalibur. “It’s that big loopy kind, you don’t even need needles, you just—just loop it through itself, see? I tried it in the shop, and it—oh my god, it’s so soft, feel it!”
Techno reached over and obediently took the square. It was soft. Unreasonably soft. Like a cloud made out of kitten belly fur. “Huh,” he said, inspecting the stitches with surprising seriousness. “That’s… actually pretty clean work for your first try.”
“Right??” Their son was practically vibrating. “It’s my favorite color too—look at it! I was just gonna test it but now I wanna make… I dunno, maybe a blanket? Or a scarf? Or both! I haven’t been this excited about anything in forever.”
Will’s expression softened immediately. He closed the laptop, set it aside, and reached out to ruffle his son’s hair—earning a halfhearted swat. “That’s brilliant, kid. Seriously. I’m proud of you.”
The boy ducked his head, ears pinking. “It’s just a square.”
“Yeah,” Techno said, still holding it between his fingers. “But it’s a square you made. And you’re grinning like an idiot about it, which means it’s important.”
That earned him a small, sheepish smile.
Will stood up, crossing the room to pull him into a quick hug that turned into one of those long, grounding ones. “You know,” he said, “if you’re making a blanket, we’re going to need… what, fifty more of these? Which means a yarn run.”
“Tomorrow?” their son asked hopefully.
“Tomorrow,” Will confirmed.
Techno tossed the square back to him. “Just… don’t knit the furniture into it. I’m attached to this chair.”
The boy laughed—really laughed—and disappeared into his room, muttering something about pattern ideas.
The flat felt warmer after that.
Chapter 3
Summary:
Anon: Hey !
(with the intention of sadist!wilbur x fem!reader iceplay…?)
Loveee your fics!! :]
Chapter Text
The door shuts with a heavy click, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You glance back on instinct, but the lock’s already turned — he’s made sure of that.
Wilbur leans in the doorway for a moment, his expression unreadable except for that faint twitch of a smirk.
“You’re early,” he says, as though you’ve done something wrong.
Your throat is dry, and you don’t answer — you’ve learned better than to fill the silence before he wants you to.
When he steps forward, you notice his hands are hidden behind his back. He draws them forward slowly, theatrically, revealing a chilled glass tumbler with a few perfect, glistening cubes inside. Condensation slides down the curve of the glass and over his long fingers.
“Oh, don’t look so nervous,” he teases, voice dipped in honey and mockery. “You like playing with me.”
Before you can answer, the first ice cube is between his fingertips. He presses it to the center of your throat.
The shock is immediate — sharp cold flooding into your skin, muscles clenching involuntarily. You jerk, but his other hand is at your jaw instantly, forcing you to stay still.
“Shh,” he breathes, watching the way your lips part with a shuddered inhale. “You don’t want to make me drop it, do you?” The cube drags down slowly, tracing the hollow between your collarbones. He presses it flat there, letting it melt against your skin, his gaze locked on the droplet that escapes and runs downward.
You hate that your breath hitches loud enough for him to hear.
He loves it.
“Do you know what my favorite thing about this is?” Wilbur asks, almost conversational. “Your body’s so warm… I can feel it fighting the cold.”
The second cube appears between his fingers, and before you can brace yourself, he slips it under the hem of your shirt, holding it against the underside of your ribs. You gasp, trying to twist away, but his grip on your chin turns punishing.
He leans in close enough for his breath to stir your hair. “Every flinch, every twitch — you’re just telling me where to go next.”
The cube travels higher, leaving wet trails in its wake. By the time it melts completely, he’s smiling openly, pleased with the goosebumps blooming across your skin.
“Oh, look at you,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing the damp path. “Dripping already.”
You’re not sure if he means the water or you. And you’re not sure which answer would be more dangerous.
Chapter 4: Stars don’t fall forever
Summary:
IM ALIVE!!! Your favorite star pal is back!
I has request for dadbur headcanons pwetteh pwease
Like, Fem!reader goes through first breakup, comes home crying and Wilbur comforts Reader because he is awesomesause dad.
- Anon-☆
Chapter Text
You barely get the front door shut before the tears start all over again. It’s like your whole chest has caved in and your throat’s made of sandpaper. Your hands are still clutched around your phone like it might magically unsend the messages that ended everything. “Hey—woah, hey, hey.” And there he is. Wilbur. Your Dad. The man, the myth, the tall beanpole who looks like he stepped out of a coffee ad. His guitar’s leaning on the couch like it’s been abandoned mid-song, and he’s crossing the room before you can hide your face. You manage to hiccup out, “I’m fine,” which is the world’s most suspicious lie, and he just shakes his head like he’s heard that line a hundred times before. “C’mere, love,” he says, and suddenly you’re folded into one of those dad-hugs where you can feel his heartbeat against your ear. It’s warm. It’s safe. It’s unfair how much you’ve missed this feeling without realizing. The words tumble out of you—how it happened, the awful things you’re sure you did wrong, how it feels like your whole future just… snapped in half. Wilbur doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t give you clichés. He just listens, thumb brushing your shoulder every now and then like he’s keeping time with your breathing. When you finally run out of words, he leans back just enough to look at you. “Breakups,” he says softly, “feel like the universe is caving in because, in a way, yours is. The little world you built with someone—it’s gone. But, sweetheart… you’re made of stars. You’ve got a whole galaxy in you. And one person doesn’t get to take that away.” You sniff, trying to smile. “That was so cheesy.” “Cheesy?” He grins. “No, no—awesomesauce, actually.” You laugh for the first time all day. And in that moment, you start to believe him.
Chapter 5
Summary:
Anon: Teenbur getting drunk for the first time with some of the guys from his school, he didn't remember where he lived but your house was close. He walks dizzy as if he could feel his steps digging into the ground. He tries to knocks on the door, but he hits his forehead against it. You heard and when to check what happened. You find him weak, and you quickly notice what happened. They got him drunk, he probably didn't understand why they were laughing at him for drinking it like water after complaining about the taste and how it burns his throat. He can't stop looking at you with those doggy eyes, and he finally finds courage enough to kiss you.
Chapter Text
Wilbur was only sixteen, but tonight he’d stepped into a world that felt way too big for him. The first time drinking — or trying to — was supposed to be a rite of passage, but instead it turned into something strange and dizzying. The group of guys from school had handed him drink after drink, laughing as he grimaced, complaining about the bitter burn sliding down his throat. Somehow, though, he kept drinking, like water, not fully understanding why it tasted so awful or why they found it so funny.
Hours later, the world spun uncontrollably beneath his feet. He stumbled away from the others, unsure of where he was, barely able to remember where he lived. The cold night air felt sharp as he staggered toward a house close by — your house. His steps felt heavy, as if the ground itself was swallowing him bit by bit.
Reaching the door, he raised a shaky hand and knocked, but instead of a solid rap, his forehead collided with the wood. A soft groan escaped his lips.
You heard the noise from inside and hurried to check. When you opened the door, there he was — weak, flushed, and struggling to keep his balance. The smell of alcohol clung to him faintly, but more than that, there was confusion in his eyes, the kind that came from realizing he’d been tricked or taken advantage of without fully understanding how.
He looked up at you, those wide, searching eyes like a lost dog’s, silently begging for help or forgiveness. You reached out, steadying him with gentle hands. Somehow, amidst the haze, he found courage. His lips pressed softly against yours — a fragile, unsteady kiss, but real.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t planned. But in that moment, it was honest, and it was all Wilbur had to say.
Chapter 6: A morning in the Quiet
Summary:
Been having this lingering thought for a bit. Perhaps I shall turn it into a request.
So Wilbur is both dealing with flu-like symptoms after contracting a common cold (yes this is relevant) and a major depressive episode (for depression). The Reader ("You" in POV) is the next-door support he has as his roommate.
So one morning Wilbur is feeling "the blues" (along with the sickness) while the Reader is with him to help him with showering/bathing for himself. His practice of "self-calming" is to focus on counting the amount of physical sensations around him while he is feeling it. (Think of it like a focus on the temperature of the shower or every time body-wash/soap is applied onto him.)
- 🌹
Chapter Text
You stand just outside the bathroom door, the faint sound of water running mixing with Wilbur’s soft, uneven breaths. His voice is low, hesitant, but there’s a fragile strength in it.
“Hey, I’m ready,” he says, voice scratchy from the cold, but steady.
You nod, stepping inside to help. The bathroom is warm and steamy, the fogged mirror blurring the edges of everything like the haze clouding Wilbur’s mind.
He shivers slightly as you help him undress, the flu weighing him down heavier than usual today. His skin is clammy, flushed with fever. The depression pressing on him makes it hard to breathe, harder still to keep his thoughts from spiraling.
But today, you’re here. His anchor.
You help him step into the shower, warm water cascading down, droplets hitting his skin like gentle reminders he’s still here, still breathing.
Wilbur closes his eyes. You speak softly, “Okay, let’s try your counting, yeah? Focus on the sensations. The water temperature, the sound, the feeling of the soap.”
He nods faintly, head bowed. “One… water on my shoulders. Two… warm, not hot.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you hear it clearly.
You gently rub the body wash onto his arms, slow, deliberate strokes. “Three… soap sliding down my arms.”
Wilbur’s breath evens out. The counting anchors him as the water washes away the physical cold and—bit by bit—the weight in his chest.
“Four… warmth spreading. Five… steady sound of the water.”
You watch him, feeling a swell of quiet love in your chest. You know the sickness isn’t just physical; it’s a storm inside him, a fog he’s trying to navigate.
You rinse the soap from his skin, careful and tender.
“Six… rinse feels soft. Seven… steam fills the room.”
Wilbur’s hands grip the shower bar, steadying himself, but his eyes are clearer now. The counting works, pulling him out of the spiral, one sensation at a time.
You finish washing him and gently wrap him in a warm towel.
“Eight… warmth from the towel. Nine… your hands steadying me. Ten… I’m here.”
His voice cracks, but there’s gratitude beneath the tremor. He looks up at you with tired eyes.
You smile softly. “You’re doing amazing. We’ll take it one moment at a time.”
He leans into you, a fragile, grateful weight.
Together, you face the morning.
Chapter 7: Where’s my Wife?
Summary:
Can we get some Revivebur x fem!reader?
He’s finally been revived and the first thing he thinks is “where is my wife I need to see my wife-“ (like literally bolts to go see her) and has a reunion as well as some romance aspects (maybe a bit nsfw too but only if you’re comfortable) :)
I just found your account and I love your writing :)
Chapter Text
The sterile white light pulsed softly overhead, humming quietly as the machine beside the bed clicked and beeped steadily. Bur—no, Revivebur—opened his eyes, blinking against the brightness. His mind was fuzzy, memories scrambling to catch up, but one thought shattered through the fog like a beacon.
Where is my wife? I need to see my wife.
He bolted upright, muscles weak but determination stronger than ever. The nurses and doctors looked up, startled, but he barely noticed them. His heart thumped wildly as he swung his legs over the bed, feet finding the cold floor.
“I need—where is she?” His voice was rough, desperate.
One nurse hesitated, then pointed down the hall. “She’s in the recovery room, just down that corridor.”
Without another word, Revivebur started moving—his pace quickening to a run, the world narrowing to that one, burning focus: You.
You were sitting by the window, your fingers nervously twisting the hem of your shirt, when you heard footsteps pounding down the hallway. Your heart stuttered as the door flung open, and there he was—your Revivebur, alive and looking exactly like you remembered but somehow more raw, more real.
His eyes locked onto you, wide and shining with something fierce and vulnerable all at once. “You’re here. You’re real. I—I thought I lost you.”
You rushed to him, tears spilling down your cheeks, hands finding his face, memorizing every line. “I’m here. I never left.”
His hands were shaking as they tangled in your hair, pulling you close. The world outside that hospital room disappeared—the sterile lights, the beeping machines, everything but the two of you, holding onto the fragile thread of now.
His lips brushed yours—tentative at first, tasting, searching—and then the kiss deepened, filled with all the longing and relief you both had held back. You melted into him, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady beating of his heart against yours.
Slowly, carefully, he guided you down onto the bed, eyes flickering with need and something more tender—promise, devotion.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against your skin, voice rough but certain. “And I’m never letting go again.”
Chapter 8: Twitch and Grind
Summary:
haiiii, i have a request wren! could you do one where the reader has movement tics—like really really bad tics to where they’re bouncing their leg sporadically like really really fast, and other things, and they ask wilbur to hold/pin them down to like. stifle the movement. and readers hips twitch and that makes wilbur snap and grind his hips against them :333
-🪐
Notes:
I have never written tics before and am not the most educated, please correct me on something I have gotten wrong.
Chapter Text
Your leg bounced uncontrollably beneath you, a rapid blur against the floor. Your hands jerked and twitched, hips spasming sporadically in little jolts you couldn’t stop. The tics had taken over your body completely, and it was exhausting. You leaned toward Wilbur, voice shaky.
“Wilbur... please,” you begged, “can you hold me down? I need you to pin me so I don’t keep moving like this. I can’t control it.”
Wilbur’s eyes darkened with concern—and something else—before he nodded and settled behind you. His large hands found your hips and pressed firmly, holding you still. His fingers dug in just enough to keep your wild movements stifled.
For a few seconds, it helped. Your bouncing slowed, your twitching quieted. But then, your hips gave a sharp, involuntary jerk against his palms.
Wilbur’s breath hitched, and without thinking, he ground his hips hard against yours, a slow, possessive motion that made heat pool low in your belly. The friction was intense, his body pressing into yours as if claiming you right there.
“Fuck,” Wilbur groaned, voice low and rough. “Your hips... they’re driving me crazy.”
Your breath hitched, cheeks flushed deep red as you felt his growing hardness pressing through his pants. The tics didn’t stop completely—your hips twitched again, and he matched the movement with a deep, grinding thrust, hand tightening on your waist.
“You want this?” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I’m not letting you move away.”
You could only whimper, legs still shaking but now with a different kind of tremble—one full of want. Wilbur’s hands pinned you tighter as his hips rolled against yours, slow and deliberate, pushing every twitch into something fiery and urgent.
His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing, and your body shuddered, caught between the need to move and the need to stay still under his control. The line between your tics and his touch blurred, leaving you breathless and trembling.
“Let me be your anchor,” Wilbur whispered, grinding harder, “I’ll keep you still... and make you feel so fucking good while I do it.”
Your hips jerked again, and he didn’t stop—his hands and body holding you tight, chasing every twitch with a fierce, slow rhythm that left you gasping and aching.
Chapter 9: Trying for a Baby (with a Twist)
Summary:
Anon: fem!reader convincing husband!wilbur to cockwarm while they try for a baby, but it ends up not lasting long at all 😛
Chapter Text
You smiled softly as you watched Wilbur settle into the couch, already looking a little tired after the long day. You knew this was the perfect time to try the plan you’d been thinking about all day.
“Hey, Wilb,” you purred, sliding closer to him. “How about you come keep me warm while we... you know... try for the baby?”
Wilbur’s eyebrows shot up, but the corners of his lips twitched into a grin. “Cockwarm, huh? That’s quite the suggestion.”
You giggled and gave his thigh a playful squeeze. “Well, if it helps the baby-making process, why not? Plus, it sounds kinda cozy.”
He chuckled, shaking his head but not moving away. “Alright, I’m game.”
You lifted your legs and made space, patting your lap like a queen inviting her king. Wilbur didn’t hesitate; he crawled over and nestled between your thighs, a warm weight pressing against you. You both sighed contentedly, feeling close and connected.
For a few moments, the world was perfect—soft touches, lazy warmth, quiet laughter. But as time ticked by, it became clear Wilbur wasn’t going to last long at all. He squirmed, whispered, “Uh, babe, I think I’m melting.”
You laughed, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Yeah, you’re not cut out for long cockwarming sessions, are you?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Guess not. But hey, we gave it a shot.”
“Definitely,” you teased. “Maybe next time, we try something a little less... fiery.”
Wilbur nuzzled into your neck. “As long as I get to be close to you, I’m happy.”
And with that, the two of you settled in, warm and hopeful, knowing this baby adventure was just getting started.
Chapter 10: Home is You
Summary:
waves hihi!!
I request more fluff... because i love fluffy stuff :3
Wilbur x Trans masc!reader
Wilbur gets home after being out all day doing stuff, and reader greets him happily (like an excited puppy), and then once everything settles down they lay down and wilbur spoils them with lots of love :]
🌙 anon !
Chapter Text
The sound of keys at the door was all it took for your ears—metaphorically speaking—to perk up. You’d been curled up on the couch, scrolling aimlessly, but as soon as you heard it, you were up and halfway to the door.
It creaked open, and there he was—Wilbur, hair ruffled from the wind, cheeks tinged pink from the chill outside.
“Wilbur!” you beamed, practically bouncing in place. “You’re home!”
He barely had time to get both feet inside before you wrapped your arms around him. He stumbled back half a step, laughing as he hugged you close.
“Missed me that much, huh?” His voice was warm, teasing, but his hands lingered against your back.
“You were gone forever,” you mumbled into his coat, your grin refusing to fade.
“Forever,” he echoed with a smirk, as if testing the weight of the word. “Guess I’ll have to make it up to you.”
And he did.
Once he’d kicked off his shoes and shed his jacket, you both flopped onto the couch together, limbs tangling naturally. He lay behind you, one arm around your waist, his chin nestled into your shoulder. You could feel his slow, steady breaths against your neck.
His free hand absentmindedly played with your hair, brushing it back from your face. “You know,” he murmured, “I think you’re the best part of coming home.”
You made a quiet noise of protest that was more embarrassment than disagreement. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, love.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and certain. “I mean it. Every time I walk through that door, I’m reminded why I want to be here. Why I want to be with you.”
Heat pooled in your chest—soft, steady, like sunlight through a window. You shifted, letting yourself sink even more into his arms.
He peppered kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your forehead, each one gentle but deliberate, until you were laughing from how much he was spoiling you. “Wilbur!” you half-whined through your grin.
“What?” he asked innocently, though his smirk gave him away. “I’ve got to make up for being gone forever, remember?”
Eventually, the laughter quieted into a peaceful silence. His hand found yours, fingers weaving together, and you realized—Wilbur might have left the house earlier today, but right now? He was exactly where he belonged.
And so were you.
Chapter 11: Between Cities, Between Songs
Summary:
My own
Chapter Text
The venue’s hum was still in Wilbur’s ears when he found himself alone in the green room, guitar still leaning against the wall where he left it. He should’ve been basking in the adrenaline, maybe grabbing a drink with the rest of the band—but instead, his thumb hovered over your name on his phone.
Wilbur: Hey. You still awake?
The read receipt popped up almost instantly.
You: Of course I am. How was the show?
He leaned back on the sofa, smiling despite the ache in his shoulders. The show was fine—great, even—but it wasn’t the same without you in the crowd.
Wilbur: Good. But not as good as if you were here.
You: Cheesy.
Wilbur: You love it.
A few messages turned into a longer conversation—random things you’d done that day, silly photos of your dinner, and him sending blurry snaps of the dressing room and a poorly lit selfie that made you laugh. Every time the tour pulled him further from you, these texts felt like a lifeline.
Eventually, his thumbs slowed. He typed, deleted, typed again.
Wilbur: Can I call you? Just for a minute?
Your “yes” came before he even had time to overthink it. He hit the button, and your voice poured into his ear like warmth after the cold. You teased him about how tired he sounded, and he swore he could hear your smile in the background noise.
For a while, he didn’t say much—just listened to you talk about anything, the steady rhythm of your words grounding him better than any stage ever could. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer.
“I just… miss you. More than I can say.”
There was a pause on your end, not awkward, just full. Then, “I miss you too. But you’re coming home soon.”
He closed his eyes, imagining you there beside him instead of hundreds of miles away. “Soon,” he agreed, though it still felt far. Until then, he’d keep these calls, these moments between shows, as something to hold onto.
When you finally said goodnight, Wilbur kept the phone pressed to his ear for a few seconds longer, as if the silence could still carry you across the distance.
Chapter 12: Public Showdown (and Secret Softness)
Summary:
Can we get TnTDuo (as parents) one day putting up their routinely soft rivalry act in public and are overheard on accident by Transmasc!Reader (in POV) and their twin sister who are both hanging out with their shared group of friends?
(AKA two very embarrassed twin siblings with their very public squabble-loving act parents (and who love to dial up their parenting to 11 when they're all back home). It all dies down into a family night anyway.)
- 🌹
Chapter Text
I’m chilling at the park with my twin sister and the rest of our crew, enjoying that rare day off from school where everything feels just a little bit easier.
And then, of course, they show up.
Quackity and Wilbur — aka The TNT Duo, aka my dads — stride in like they’re on a mission. Right away, I can hear the distinct low growl of their “rivalry” kicking into gear.
“Honestly, Wilb, you cannot make a grilled cheese without turning the kitchen into a war zone,” Quackity says loud enough that heads turn, but he’s got that mischievous grin like he’s daring Wilbur to fire back.
Wilbur scoffs dramatically. “Says the man whose idea of cooking is a burnt microwave burrito.”
My twin sister and I exchange a look. Oh no. Here we go again.
They don’t even notice us. They’re so caught up in their routine squabble act — bickering over everything from the best coffee to whether a ‘fanny pack’ is cool or criminal. Honestly, it’s like a live sitcom.
The group tries not to laugh. I can feel my cheeks heating up.
At one point, I whisper to my sister, “Do they ever stop?”
She snorts quietly. “Not until we drag them home.”
We watch as they bicker their way across the park, playfully shoving each other and talking loud enough that even the toddlers nearby pause to stare.
But then, just as quickly as it started, their faces soften. Quackity ruffles my sister’s hair when she comes over for a hug, Wilbur smiles at me with those gentle eyes that say, “You’re my world.”
The ‘rivalry’ is a show — a silly way to keep things spicy in public — but at home? It’s all about warmth and laughter.
Later that evening, back in our cozy living room, the playful bickering has dissolved. We’re all sprawled out on the couch, a big blanket thrown over us, surrounded by popcorn and the soft glow of fairy lights.
Quackity nudges Wilbur, who smiles back, the tension gone. “Alright, Wilbur. Truce?”
“Truce,” Wilbur agrees, handing me a cup of hot chocolate.
My sister leans her head on my shoulder. “They’re ridiculous.”
I grin. “But they’re ours.”
And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter 13
Summary:
meow
I don’t really have a full idea for this one,, but whatever
tnt duo as parents :D
trans masc!teen reader
have fun with it, all I request is something fluffy :]
I feel like they’d be rivals in public and then really loving fathers when theyre alone-
🌙 anon!
Chapter Text
The grocery store is always a battlefield.
You stand there, hands shoved in your hoodie pocket, watching your two dads bicker over which brand of cereal to get. Wilbur is dramatically holding a box of something with “organic whole grain oat goodness” written in cursive, while Quackity is gripping the biggest, most sugar-infested chocolate puffs the aisle has ever seen.
“It’s not real breakfast if it turns the milk into syrup!” Quackity insists, jabbing the box like it’s Exhibit A.
“Breakfast is supposed to fuel you, not send you into a sugar coma before school,” Wilbur counters, gesturing grandly as if the fluorescent lights are his stage.
You sigh and mutter, “You guys know we could just… get both?”
Both of them freeze. Quackity’s eyes narrow like you just suggested betraying the family name. Wilbur shakes his head with the gravitas of a man making a moral stand. “That’s not how wars are won, son.”
They bicker all the way to the checkout. The cashier gives you a look—that quiet, “are they always like this?” look. You just shrug. This is Tuesday.
When you get home, though, everything shifts.
The front door shuts, the grocery bags hit the counter, and the war dissolves like sugar in hot tea. Wilbur’s ruffling your hair while Quackity’s asking if you want him to slice up some fruit to go with your snack.
Wilbur makes tea for the three of you, the good kind, the one he says is “only for special evenings.” Quackity hands you the chocolate cereal anyway, saying, “Don’t tell Wilbur.” Wilbur, from the other side of the kitchen, calls, “I heard that, and I allow it this time.”
You end up on the couch between them, their arms draped along the backrest so you’re cocooned without them making a big deal of it. Wilbur’s talking about some weird bird he saw near the train station, Quackity’s scrolling through memes to show you, and you’re just… warm.
They’ll fight in public until the end of time, but at home? You’re the center of the universe.
Chapter 14
Summary:
Anon: Wilbur showed his arm in the video of him walking around and everything, the northpoint scam. I keep seeing people say that it looks like he has a cigarette burn and honestly I see it too and it’s making me really nervous and sad for him. Could you write a story for Wilbur being comforted for SH by burning from reader, she/her
Chapter Text
Title: "The Burn That Showed" Genre: Hurt/Comfort | Characters: Wilbur x Reader (she/her) Warnings: Discussion of self-harm (burning), emotional distress, comfort.
You hadn’t meant to see it.
The video was casual, almost silly — Wilbur filming himself walking around Northpoint, gesturing wildly as he narrated some niche historical fact in that animated, endearing way he always did when he was passionate. You’d smiled at first, thumbs hovering over the comment section, until the frame shifted just enough.
His sleeve pulled back.
The mark on his arm wasn’t big, but it was there. Round, red, and unmistakable.
Your stomach turned in that quiet, breathless way it always did when something was wrong. You rewatched it three times, hoping it was a trick of lighting, a scrape, anything else. But it lingered too long. Too circular. Too familiar.
That night, Wilbur came back to your shared flat a little later than usual. He was buzzing, still riding the high from filming. “I think this one’s gonna be great,” he grinned, dropping his camera bag and flopping next to you on the couch.
You didn’t smile. Not right away.
“Wil,” you said quietly, eyes on his arm — the one he’d unconsciously tucked under a hoodie now. “Can I ask you something?”
He blinked, noticing your tone. “Yeah, course.”
“That video today. The one from Northpoint… People noticed something.”
He froze.
You saw it in his posture — how the air left his chest, how his shoulder tensed, how his fingers curled just slightly into the fabric at his side.
“I wasn’t trying to dig,” you added, gently. “But I saw it too. And I’m not here to accuse you. I just… I’m worried.”
Silence settled between you, thick and unsteady. You let it.
Finally, he exhaled, long and shaky. “It was just once,” he murmured. “I didn’t think it would show.”
He didn’t meet your eyes.
You reached for his hand — not grabbing, just offering. And after a moment, he let his fingers thread into yours.
“I know what it looks like,” he continued, voice strained. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t planning on it. It just— It got really loud, that day. In my head. Like it used to. And I didn’t know how else to shut it up.”
You nodded, heart aching but steady. “You don’t owe me reasons,” you said. “But I want to be here for you if you’re hurting. Even when it’s loud. Especially then.”
His eyes flicked up to yours then, wide and raw. “I didn’t want you to find out like that.”
“I know.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“I know that too.” You paused. “But I’m not disappointed in you, Wilbur.”
He looked like he might break. You let him.
After a few moments, you shifted closer, guiding his hand into your lap, pressing your cheek gently to his shoulder. He leaned into you like he’d been waiting all day to do it.
“You’re not alone,” you whispered. “Even when it’s loud. Even when it feels like it’s going to swallow you.”
His breath caught. You felt it.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admitted, quiet and scared. “Sometimes I think I’m better and then—”
“And then it comes back,” you finished for him. “Yeah. I know.”
He turned slightly, pressing his forehead against your temple. “I want to be better.”
“You are better,” you said softly. “Even when you struggle. Better doesn’t mean perfect. It means trying. And you’re trying.”
Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t hide them. Not from you.
That night, you sat together in the quiet, his arm in your lap, your fingers tracing over the edge of his sleeve — not prying, just reminding him you were there.
When he finally fell asleep against your shoulder, you stayed up a while longer, hand still gently over his.
Protecting it. And him.
Chapter 15: “Will, Please, It's 2 A.M.”
Summary:
GREETINGS DEAR WREN, dearest wishes for your pillow to always be cold and lucky socks to be lucky every time you need it
I just went across all emotional spectrum possible for human being, watching the new geography video on yt. Hilarious, thunt/10, please let me die.
So, my today's request is Will yapping about stuff at any possible moment he finds out/remembers something. And of course, the reader is his loyal listener.
Nonbinary!reader(he/they), Will and reader are platonic, just silly things, thank you for your hard efforts anyway<3
-🌌
Chapter Text
“GREETINGS DEAR WREN,” the message started. Wilbur had texted you that, all caps, as you were halfway through brushing your teeth. You hadn’t even made it to bed yet, and the man was already on one.
“Dearest wishes for your pillow to always be cold and lucky socks to be lucky every time you need it,” he added. You didn’t bother responding. You knew what was coming.
A minute later: WILBUR: I just went across all emotional spectrum possible for human being. Watching the new geography video. On YouTube. Hilarious. Thunt/10. Please let me die.
Your phone buzzed again as you flopped onto bed. YOU: go to bed Will WILBUR: i will not. i have THOUGHTS. and they need AIRTIME.
The call came in five seconds later. You accepted with a sigh, rolling onto your side and muttering a groggy, “You’re lucky I’m fond of you.”
“YOU EVER THINK about how Andorra exists?” Wilbur blurted without so much as a hello. You could hear rustling in the background—he was pacing. Of course he was pacing.
“Frequently,” you said, deadpan. “It’s how I stay grounded.”
“No, no, but LISTEN,” he was already spiraling, “Andorra is this tiny mountain goblin kingdom. Like, it has co-princes. CO-PRINCES, Wren. Who shares a monarchy? Who looked at royal power and said ‘I think this should be a group project’?”
You groaned into your pillow. “Will…”
“AND ONE OF THEM,” he powered through, voice like a caffeinated wind tunnel, “IS THE PRESIDENT OF FRANCE. A WHOLE PRESIDENT. He rules a whole country and then moonlights as Mountain Goblin Prince Number Two.”
You blinked, trying to visualize it. “So what you’re saying is the president of France has a fantasy side gig?”
“EXACTLY!” he gasped, triumphant. “It’s like if Joe Biden spent half the year ruling a secret mushroom kingdom with talking goats.”
That actually made you laugh, which unfortunately fueled him.
“And—and—there was a part where they mentioned the official language of San Marino is Italian but they speak this weirdo Sanmarinese dialect, which sounds like Italian but drunk and full of secrets.”
“Like you?”
“Exactly like me. I’m basically a microstate in human form.”
You rolled onto your back, grinning now despite the hour. This was the rhythm: Wilbur with his endless fountain of trivia and rabbit holes, you the reliable wall he could bounce it all off of. You liked being that wall. He never seemed to get tired of talking to you, and you never quite got tired of listening.
“Okay, but now you’ve unlocked a memory,” he said abruptly, his tone suddenly conspiratorial.
“God help me,” you whispered.
“NO,” he snapped, dramatic. “Listen. One time I was in an airport bathroom and heard a man on the phone ordering plumbing parts in Swedish. Like full business transaction while actively washing his hands.”
“Was it important to the story that he was washing his hands?”
“Yes,” Wilbur said firmly. “Because that means he was effortlessly multitasking. Like, imagine being that composed. I can't even pick what cereal I want without spiraling into a brief personal crisis.”
“Maybe you’re just built for chaos.”
He made a pleased humming sound. “Yeah. Like, entropy is my brand. Anyway. Can I read you a list of bizarre micronations that might not be real?”
You yawned into the receiver. “I’m going to fall asleep halfway through.”
“That’s fine,” he said warmly. “I’ll talk to you anyway. You just focus on dreaming about cold pillows and socks that know your darkest hour.”
“...Did you just quote your own text message to me?”
Wilbur laughed. “Yes. Because I meant it.”
And as he kept listing weird places—each one more questionably real than the last—you slowly drifted off, his voice a steady, ridiculous comfort in your ear. Kingdoms rose and fell in your dreams, small and strange and lovingly described by your best friend.