#i reread them all recently and the obsession

[holybibly]

Unholy thoughts of the day, bunnies.

Lately, I can't help but think about how much Yunho is coded as a stalker. This sweet facade of a charming good boy hides his dominant dark side and how damn obsessed he is with you.

Photos, videos, unanswered phone calls just to hear the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line, notes, and tonnes of flowers. This is all for you. After all, this is exactly what you wanted so badly.

The sweet, shy salesman from your favourite bookshop—who would have thought that he was the one who would follow you through the dark streets late at night and sneak into your bedroom to watch you sleep?

You immediately attracted his attention, all radiant like an angel and exquisite like a real doll. You looked so tiny compared to him—so fragile—that he just wanted to protect you from the world.

And then he found out about your addiction to a dark novel, and it brought him to his knees for you.

He reread all the books you read, highlighted his favourite scenes, and imagined himself doing them to you.

Your eyelashes flutter, your lips parted, and your breathing heavy as his hand wraps around your throat as you ride him. Damn, he can imagine how beautiful your tiny pink cunt will stretch around his big, thick dick. At first, it will hurt you; of course, his dick is so huge, but you will get used to it, and he will do everything possible to accustom you to it. Inch by inch, you take it all until you sit on his cock like it’s a throne.

He thinks of how he will watch you touch yourself. Your tiny fingers will never be able to give you as much pleasure as his long and thin fingers, which will immediately hit that special place inside you, making you squirt and squirm.

Damn, he wants to see you crying as your throat constricts around his huge cock. The outline of its massive length can be seen so clearly on your neck.

Yunho wants to bury his face between your legs, worship your cunt with his mouth and tongue, and eat you for hours, prolonging the pleasure. Have you read about this recently? Wasn't that the scene in the book that caught your attention? You can ride his face as much as you want; he is there for you. Just say the word, and Yunho will accept any position.

Damn, he wants you so much. He thinks about you when he's jerking off in the shower in the morning and at night, when he's rolling his hips in the tangled sheets underneath him, imagining that it's you, writhing and moaning underneath him, while his dick goes so deep into you that the head almost pushes into your cervix.

All these words and all the lines from every book you read, he will learn them all for you. "Do you like dirty talk so much, little slut? Daddy will teach you to speak beautifully." "Will you be an obedient girl for your master, kitty?" That's it; you're doing great; your sir is so proud of you."

Yunho will be whatever you want him to be, as long as you belong to him. And that will be soon, but for now...

"Oh, Y/N, we brought some new books; would you like to have a look at them closer?

[interstellarl01]

Part 2 - My most reread Drarry fics

A few weeks ago, I shared a (non-exhaustive) list of the fics that I've reread the most.

All of them were on the short side, since I usually don't have time to reread longer fics, unfortunately. But while I don't often reread longer fics entirely, there are many that I revisit regularly by dipping into bits and pieces or rereading specific scenes that tug at my heart and stay with me.

Here are some of the long fics I keep coming back to, over and over again, and will probably definitely continue to do so in the future.

Nor All That Glisters by @sweet-s0rr0w (110k)

An amazing fic about the spiral of addiction, love and healing. This fic is intense and heartbreaking at times. It will have you root for Draco while yelling at him at the same time, urging him not to do what you fear he will do. One of my favourite Draco of all time.

That Old black Magic by @bixgirl1 (77k)

An absolutely stunning read. A pure enemies to lovers fic. Forced marriage trope at its best, with explosive, scorching hate sex.

I love revisiting the scene with the tapestry when Harry breaks down. It always hits me right in the feels.

Embers by @shiftylinguini (41k)

The a/b/o fic you need to read ! It has such a unique take on the Alpha/Omega trope, with a vulnerable Alpha Draco and a confident and earnest Omega Harry. It’s very intimate and also INCREDIBLY hot.

Lumos by birdsofshore (41k)

A classic. Does it even need an introduction ?

Dwelling on Dreams by @the-sinking-ship (135k)

This fic is incredible with a Draco so in love with Harry but feeling so unworthy of love. Harry will make you weak in the knees. He is incredibly sexy, powerful, charming and funny. And … he rides a motorbike. What more do I need to say?

Title & Possession by @kbrick (49k)

This one is quite recent but I've already revisited it a few times. I'm a little bit obsessed with the dancing scene in chapter 5. The sexual tension in that scene is 🔥

Away Childish Things (153k) and The Boy Who Only Lived Twice (54k) and Another Mask Behind You (116k) by @letteredlettered

Look, I can't choose between any of those three fics. Lettered has such a unique and compelling style that sucks me right in every single time. I’ve gone back to their fics a ridiculous amount of time over the last years.

dirtynumbangelboy by @magpiefngrl (40k)

A wonderful fake dating fic. This is the first drarry fic I ever bookmarked. I often go back to the piano scene. It gets me every single time.

Bonus:

The last two probably don’t belong to the « long » fics category but I forgot to include them in my previous post, and seeing that I do reread them often; here it is :

Nice things by Aideomai (22k)

Harry is touched starved. Draco is helping. A soft, dreamy, atmospheric, and truly amazing fic.

Blueprints for a Dream by Frayach (24k)

This one is for the angst lovers. Warning: infidelity. Endgame Drarry.

Thank you to the amazing writers of those fics (and to the many other writers that are not on that list that I also adore; I couldn't possibly include you all here. There are too many of you). You are all incredible and have brought me so much joy. So, thank you.

[flamingpudding]

Reincarnation is a tricky thing

A/N: This was sort of inspired by this post from @nerdpoe and the rebblogs of it. I came across it again scrolling through tumblr and reread it during my break and couldn't help but continue thinking about DC characters being a different version or a reincarnation of people Danny knew. Blame the too many reincarnation or isekai light novels / manwhas / mangas I read if you want.

At first Danny didn't mind it. Becoming the Ghost King had its pros but its cons as he learned later on. By accepting the title he had become an interdimensional being, and thus had gotten kicked out of the reincarnation cycle. Clockwork nor Pandora thought about telling him that sooner. But in a way Danny still didn't mind it.

He still got to watch and protect his friends and family or at least their souls and reincarnations. Though there were some things with the recent one he definitely did not expect. For one, Dan wasn't part of the reincarnation cycle either, so to pass the years he took up the same position Fright Knight had. Danny suspected that it was more to spent time with his ghostly best friend than actually doing Danny a favor.

Dani on the other hand had become a part of the reincarnation cycle, he hadn't liked how her childhood had been but once the reincarnation of his father took her in things started to turn better for his once upon a time clone sister.

He laughed at the fact that his mother in this life had become a thief, well at least she wasn't ghost obsessed but he wasn't sure if cats were a better one considering a lot of the things she stole were cat themed. But at least she still had a thing for his dad.

The man was still a lovable oaf but different, more stoic and short worded but when he put on acts for the public Danny could see hints of his previous life shining through. His dad was still a genius and inventing things that added him and his goals in protecting the city. Just like he did previously, just a little less extreme and upfront.

Jazz wasn't his dads and mothers direct daughter this time around but she still got counted as a daughter in a way as he watched her becoming a crime fighter alongside his father and the kids his dad picked up before an incident made her take up more of a operator like position. And ancients did Danny cackle watching Jazz still pulling one over everyone every time she gathered information on their family.

He was sad to see how Sam's life went but at the same time he was proud of her. Undergrowth's influence had swapped over into this life for her and he watched how as a criminal at first she continued to fight for what she believed was right. He was definitely happy when he saw her fall in love and turn a new leaf.

Tucker was not as electronic affine as he was before but he had what the humans started to call Meta Powers now. It was funny, whenever Danny compared his usually brain behind the scenes best friend with the vigilante that got mentored by his father.

All in all he was definitely happy with the life's his family has gotten this turn. Even if the start of some of their lives wasn't as ideal as it was supposed to be. He still hadn't figured out where Vlad's reincarnation was and to the ancients he hoped he wasn't the crazy clown obsessed with his dad. That would be just wrong.

Still as he watched them he couldn't help but muse at the knowledge that he originally was supposed to be among them. He also knew who he was supposed to be, thanks to clockwork but that boy had gotten a brand new soul, one that hadn't been in the cycle before. He wasn't mad at that but just a tiny bit sad. He would have loved to become a vigilante alongside his father too, even if this version of him was socially awkward and instead of space had a fascination with animals and art.

He still would have loved to live among them but he had gotten kicked out of the reincarnation cycle so all he could do was watch over them. It still made him feel giddy whenever he found another soul of the ones he had known before.

That was until the cultist decided to use would-be-him as a sacrifice to summon the interdimensional being that was atactual-him and he ended up face to face with some stupid soul magic mumbo jumbo tied to the kid.

Clockwork was laughing at him, he just knew this was pure entertainment for the ancient of time. Pandora was most likely shaking her head and Dan was probably literally rolling on the ground of his throne room laughing.

"You are supposed to be me, aren't you?" The boy had whispered wide eyed and Danny huffed in annoyance as he saw a familiar fear flit across the boy's eyes. A fear he had seen with Dan as well as Dani so long ago before.

"Don't talk bullshit kid. I am an Ancient being. This is your life." He was just now stuck having Danny tied to him like a guardian angel while being the only one able to see him clearly. How was he going to explain to the kid that he was entirely his own soul and not tied to Danny at all aside from taking his place in the reincarnation cycle without mentioning that nearly half the people in the kids life where his family and friends previously?

Danny was starting to have a crisis stuck to his would-be-him in the mortal realm and all he could think was to yell at Dan and Clockwork to stop laughing!

[beenbaanbuun]

Bunnnnyyyy I'm having yuyu withdrawals 😭😭

I recently stumbled across the spiderman yuyu edit on Instagram again and it has me running LAPS

Like can you imagine being roommates with photography major spider!yunho, noticing his odd disappearances and late nights but never saying anything, which he appreciates because lord knows he doesn't have the capacity for it rn sinde I'd headcannon this is right after his uncle's desth when he's still in his angry grief era.

But MC would be sweet even though he's cold and kinda mean, she wouldn't be nosy or pry, always asks him to eat with her out of courtesy (which isn't a big deal for her but it kinda chips away at his heart because she's so sweet about it).

Still he maintains certain boundaries till one day he comes home all beat up and bruised, and MC patches him back up, there’s so much tension in the room when she has to peel off his shirt to check the bruises on his sides, when he softly asks why she cares about him so much, when she quietly admits that it's because she likes him-

AKSHSKSHDKSDBJSBZSJ

I'm just..... obsessed with Yunho

-lyra

so this sent me a little insane and i wrote so much more than i was expecting to 😭😭 spidey!yunho has sent me down a rabbit hole and this is what we ended up with…

——————————————————————————“can we eat together tonight?” you ask as you stir the pasta around the pot. you made two portions, as usual, in the sheer hope that he wouldn’t be going out again. “i found this recipe i thought you’d like. i figured it might help cheer you up!” you shrug as if it’s no big deal.

but it is to yunho. as he picks his backpack up from the floor, he feels his heart break just a little. it would be so much easier for him to leave the apartment every night if it wasn’t for the fact that you were such a sweetheart. the fact that you always cook for him whenever you make something for yourself is something that has been slowly chipping away at his hard exterior for months now. the way that you put it in the fridge along with a cute little note whenever he isn’t there to eat with you has almost properlybroken that exterior in two.

yunho can’t deny that half of those precious little notes are stashed in the drawer of his nightstand; he rereads them whenever his emotions get the better of him. seeing the sweet messages scrawled onto the yellow post-it-notes never fails to make him smile. your pretty little words in your pretty little handwriting… he’d be insane not to keep them.

you turn around, taking your attention away from the pot for just a moment, and spot him with his jacket on and his rucksack slung lazily over one shoulder. as your face falls, he can’t help the way his heart breaks just a little more. you probably think you’ve hidden your disappointment well, and to anyone else you might have done. it’s just a shame that yunho is the way that he is, because he sees the way your shoulders deflate and the shadow of a frown disrupts your pretty face. he can practically feel the sadness radiating from you in waves, the hairs at the back of his neck standing up slightly as your not-so-obvious upset puts him on edge.

but then you seem to remember yourself, and within seconds you’ve picked yourself back up and are offering a small smile to him. he still feels that prickling at the back of his neck, though.

although it becomes apparent pretty quickly that that sensation may be caused by his own disappointment, rather than yours. as much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, he can’t deny the way that the feeling in his neck grows as he watches you pull a tupperware from the cupboard. you swap it with his dish - it was really yours, but you’d named it his because it’s red and red reminds you of him, for some reason - and he has to stifle his own frown. for some reason watching you replace the ceramic bowl with the plastic tub hits him right in the chest…

“i’ll put yours in the fridge, then,” you say as you turn back to the pasta and give it a stir, “you can grab it whenever you’re hungry; maybe when you get back tonight?”

sweetheart, his brain repeats over and over like a mantra. it rattles round his skull whilst he tries to find the words to thank you. to let you know just how much he appreciates it, even if he doesn’t always show it. and the words are right there. right on the top of his tongue…

but for some reason he can’t get them out.

“i’ll see you later,” is all he mumbles before he slips out of the doorway and dashes down the hallway to the open window that awaits him at the end.

you try not to let the way the door slams shut hurt you, but even with the strongest will in the world you wouldn’t be able to take away the ache in your chest. he’s just going through a rough patch, you try to convince yourself as you spoon his serving into the tupperware and clip the lid shut. he just needs some time alone after everything that’s happened to him, you think as you slip it into the fridge. it’ll be better soon, you pray as you pull out a pen and think about what to write on his note.

hope this pasta cheers you up, yun! if you like it, let me know and i’ll make it more often for you!!

the words make you cringe, but you slip it next to the tupperware anyway, closing the fridge with a huff. you doubt he even reads the notes anyway, so why does it matter if what you write on them is a little sickly-sweet.

with a sigh you grab your bowl and turn to the couch, ready to settle in and do nothing for the night. as usual, yunho’s portfolio stuff is everywhere, as well as the photos of that one spider-guy that he’s been collecting for his new job at the daily bugle. you hate the newspaper yourself, thinking that the conspiracy-led journalism is nothing but fear mongering nonsense, but you can’t fault yunho for working there; he’s only in it for the money, afterall. it’s just the life of a collage student to have to sell out your morals for a paycheck.

you pick it all up, organising it into somewhat-coherent piles on the coffee table before flopping down onto the ratty sofa and flicking the TV on. the volume is barely at a whisper, and you can’t help but curse yunho for having such good hearing; no doubt he feels the same when he turns the TV on to a deafening wall of sound after you’ve used it. the thought gives you a quick chuckle as you flick through the channels to find something to watch. you settle on a dumb reality show, quickly settling in for the evening so you can eat your pasta in peace.

———

hours pass before yunho returns, swinging the door open and startling you out of your TV-centred tunnel vision. you turn to him in surprise, ready to gently scold him for putting what would no doubt be another dent in the wall. that will have to come out of both of your deposits, you prepare yourself to tell him, but when you actually see him you pause.

he’s hunched up against a wall, chest rising and falling as he struggles to breathe. there’s a wheeze when he inhales, which only gets stronger when he breathes out, and the look of pain on his face that comes each and every time he respires sends you straight into panic mode. you don’t bother to turn the TV off as you stand up and rush towards him.

“fucking hell, yun,” you cry as you reach him. he winces at your shrill tone, drawing back into himself as you invade his personal space to check for injuries. the obvious one is his side, which he’s clutching in his grip like his life depends on it; you assume it’s a cracked rib, which would explain why breathing looks like it’s taking all of his effort. despite its necessity, its a notoriously painful thing to do with a broken rib.

a broken nose can make it difficult too, and as you begin to scan his face, you realise that he definitely has one of those. the way it twists to the side slightly, blood oozing from his right nostril like a faucet makes you flinch back a little, as if you’re the one that’s injured. you compose yourself quickly as you continue your search. black eye, split brow, split lip - the list goes on, but thankfully none of it seems too irreparable. with your basic knowledge of first aid, and yunho’s weirdly extensive first aid kit, you’re bound to have him fixed up in no time.

“bathroom,” you stutter out, taking a step back to give him some space. he almost misses your warmth as he watches you take a few steps towards the room that separates his bedroom from yours. he chases it, pushing himself away from the wall and stumbling after you. he doesn’t know why he wants you so close all of a sudden, but he feels like he needs it to survive. those brief few seconds he had you close somehow made him breathe a little easier. he follows you into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

silently, you gesture to the toilet and he takes a seat on the closed lid. his broad torso leans back against the tiles, and he relishes in the way that the cold seeps through his shirt and washes over his too-hot body. his head tips back against it too, and he watches you through hooded eyes as you scramble through the cabinet to find his first-aid kit.

sweetheart, his mind whispers again as you sit there on your knees in front of the cabinet, pushing rolls of toilet paper and bottles of cleaning product to the side. only you could be so adorably caring towards him after all these months of him actively pushing you away. only you would be so worried for him after he’d been trying his hardest to avoid you for months on end.

only you.

that feeling at the back of his neck comes back, only this time it’s stronger. every single hair on his body stands on end as he watches you pull the black bag from the back of the cabinet, whispering a cute little ‘a-ha’ to yourself. he smiles at that, not even bothering to hide it from you when you turn to him with the kit in hand. he doesn’t need to anymore; you’ve already seen everything else he used to hide.

which reminds him of his tattered spider-suit in his grasp. yunho holds out the red spandex for you to take from him, half expecting you to examine it and unveil all his secrets, but you don’t. you don’t even look at it as you toss the filthy fabric into the bathtub and turn the cold tap on. it’s the best for getting blood out, afterall. with little more thought about the piece of fabric, you turn back to yunho and unzip the black bag.

“unbutton your shirt,” you mutter as you pull out some wipes, a tube of antiseptic cream, and a large square bandage. you have no idea if his side is actually bleeding or not, but it’s best to be prepared, right? you look back at him with the materials in hand, only to see him staring back at you with an unreadable look in his eyes.

“what?” you grumble, taking notice of the fact that he hasn’t moved an inch. his hand was still clutched over his side and his shirt was still messily buttoned up. you sigh and move towards him, thinking nothing of it when you drop to your knees between his thighs and begin to unbutton the white fabric. his breath hitches as your fingers brush against his chest, but you pay him no mind, “yunho, move your arm - i need to get your shirt off.”

he doesn’t, remaining still as ever as you undo the last button that you can. you sit back on your haunches and watch him from where you sit between his spread legs.

“yun, come on,” you whine, and he closes his eyes at the sound. so beautiful; if only he wasn’t in pain so he could enjoy it more, “i need to undo the rest of your buttons and i can’t when you’re not letting me!”

you lay a hand on his wrist in a pleading gesture, asking wordlessly to let you take care of him. he listens this time and loosens his grip on his ribs. you pull his hand away, sucking in a breath as you catch sight of the red stain that his hand was previously covering. it’s not huge, but it still needs seeing to, so you go back to unbuttoning his shirt.

yunho tries not to think too hard as your hand brushes over his crotch when you undo the last two, just like when you eventually finish and push the sides of his shirt open to reveal his bare chest. it’s covered with bruises, and he bites his lip to suppress a groan as your delicate fingers dance softly across his damaged skin. he finds himself wishing the circumstances were different, and that you sitting between his legs, touching his chest could be so much more than you just worrying about him. as he watches you pick up the antiseptic wipes again, he’s reminded that that’s all it is; you being worried.

but that too confuses him. after all this time of him being a downright dick to you, you’re still so gentle with him. he’s abrupt and rude, and yet you still smile and say hello whenever you see him. he’s never around to eat with you, and yet you never fail to make him a meal every time you cook. he’s kept so much from you, and yet here you are, taking care of him like none of that ever mattered. like you can somehow see the man he is underneath all that.

he whimpers, and he’s not quite sure whether it’s because of the pain of the antiseptic wipe, or the pain he feels in his heart. either way, he needs something to take his mind off it all.

“why?” he asks as you clean his wound with a kind hand. so soft, your touch, as if you’re scared of hurting him. as if anything you could ever do would hurt him.

“why what?” you respond as you toss away the bloodied wipe and move to grab the cream. you put a dollop on your finger and begin to gently press it against the wound. he groans, and you mutter out a small apology. you mean it too; you don’t want to cause him any more pain.

“why are you doing this?” he says through gritted teeth, breathing heavy and laboured as he tried to power through the sting that he feels in his side, “why are you so nice to me when i’m - oh fuck, it hurts - when i’m anything but nice to you?”

you pause for a second, mulling over his question, repeating it in your mind until you can settle on an answer. well, an answer that’s palatable for him, anyway.

“you’re not not nice,” you say, capping the cream and putting it down on top of yunho’s thigh; you’d need it layered anyway. then you grab the bandage and rip off the adhesive cover, “and even if you were, i don’t think that wouldn’t change how i feel about you as a person.”

he watches with confusion in his eyes as you line up the bandage and smooth it over his skin. you run your fingers along the edges, pressing it down the make sure it’s secure. he’s sure that they linger on his skin for a moment longer than they have to, but he says nothing as you pull your hand back and rest it on your lap.

“how do you feel about me?” he whispers quietly into the cold air of the bathroom. it’s quite possibly the worst place he can imagine to have this conversation, and yet it seems the fit the atmosphere perfectly. somehow it feels so natural, talking about feelings whilst you patch up his injuries in the bathroom.

“i’ve fallen for you,” you bite the bullet, just coming straight out with it, “hook, line, and sinker, yun.”

it feels good to get it off your chest at long last. even if it doesn’t lead anywhere, or it makes things weird between the two of you. even if he begins to avoid you more, or just straight up moves out, it’s feels nice to have it out in the open. you’ve cast your net, it’s up to him whether or not he lets you catch him…

“oh,” is all he says at first, and you try not to think too much into that single syllable. you pick up the tube of antiseptic cream again and turn your attention to his eyebrow, “you like me?”

you nod as you put another globule on your finger and lean into him to get closer to the cut. you ignore the way he stares at you as you work, trying you hardest to avoid making eye contact. you already feel like your heart is about to beat itself free from your chest; you don’t need to worry it any more.

but then you feel a finger brush softly against your face, a scabbed up knuckle teasing your soft skin as it’s traces your cheekbone. a breath gets caught in your throat, and your finger stills against yunho’s brow bone. against your better judgement, you let yourself focus on his expression, making eye contact with the chocolate pools that never failed to draw you in. they’re beautiful, as always, but they reveal so much more than they usually do. the corners crinkle up into crows feet as his pupils twinkle with an emotion you’ve never really seen on his face before. it suits him… a lot.

“that’s a relief,” he breathes out, the semblance of a chuckle in his voice, “i’ve been calling you sweetheart in my brain since the moment we moved in together; it’ll be nice to be able to call you that to your face… sweetheart.”

[about-faces]

Last night, I was once again struggling to actually write smut for a Harvey/Bruce/Gilda fic, when I noticed a very timely new guest comment on my Gilda fic, Bust. It was the first truly critical response I’ve gotten so far, and while that sort of thing would normally send me into a depressive tizzy, I actually found it really interesting!

So instead of actually writing the ship, as I should have been, I wanted to take this opportunity to think about just why the heck I shipped them in the first place.

Here’s how I responded, with added scans to hopefully better illustrate my point, plus some additions that occurred to me upon drafting this post:

I’m actually glad you raised this point, because I would have felt the exact same as you just a few years ago!

I’m gray-asexual, and I used to be a bit bothered by the rise of Bruce/Harvey shippers, because it was their canonical platonic FRIENDSHIP that mattered so much to me. I gradually warmed up to the shippers, because 1.) I realized I was ace and they probably weren’t, and 2.) they at least understood the importance of Bruce and Harvey’s bond, which is more than I can say for LOTS of official DC media.

Still, something bugged me about the ship, and I realized what it was: the lack of Gilda from the equation. She’s always been deeply important to me, especially her scant older appearances, and erasing her for a Bruce/Harvey ship (even one I’d come to appreciate) didn’t sit right with me.

But like you said, it’s not canon, and I’ve always been deeply invested in canon, even the stuff that’s frustrating and contradictory. So yeah, the throuple would have bugged me too.

Except! It all depends on WHICH canon you’re talking about!

So over the past 15 years, I’ve been obsessed with tracking down the entirety of the obscure, forgotten Batman newspaper comic strip from 1989-1991. I’ve posted the entire thing at @batman-daily, and I strongly encourage you to check it out. A couple years ago, I reread it and noticed something really interesting: the remarkable relationship between Bruce, Harvey, and the latter’s wife, Alice, who is Gilda in every way but name. They are all mutual friends, with Alice even going to visit Bruce alone to help/bully him to take care of himself.

It all reads like a perfect long-game setup for a love triangle, or for Harvey—having become Two-Face—to go after his loved ones in a jealous rage, like he did in Paul Dini’s “Two-Timer,” a story which notably showed that Grace had feelings for Bruce.

With that in mind, consider the final story arc of the newspaper strip, wherein Bruce acknowledges his OWN feelings for Alice and PASSIONATELY KISSES HER, all in a hilariously roundabout way to save her marriage to Harvey! It makes sense in context and is frankly hilarious.

And it works! Because Harvey isn’t jealous! The love triangle conflict you expect NEVER HAPPENS! Because they all love one another! And that love saves Harvey in the very end!

Was it explicitly a throuple? No, but nor have Bruce and Harvey ever canonically touched dicks. And yet the love between Bruce and Harvey in canon is true and real enough that shippers who want to make it sexual are perfectly allowed to do so, because it’s the love that matters. At least, for those of us who aren’t afraid to acknowledge the love between men, platonic or otherwise. And that love is rooted in canon.

So consider this: the mutual three-way-love between Bruce, Harvey, and Alice/Gilda is ALSO canon. That comic strip has been officially accepted as DC multiverse canon in the “Crisis on Infinite Earths: Absolute Edition,” which designated it as Earth-1289.

Furthermore, there’s something else you need to consider: the fact that Harvey HAS been used in love triangles against Bruce in several stories in recent decades. I already mentioned “Two-Timer,” but there’s also Nolan’s “The Dark Knight,” the animated “Gotham By Gaslight” film, and the Telltale game. In various ways, these stories serve to throw a wedge in the friendship between Bruce (the protagonist, whose story serves him) and Harvey (the guy who is going to lose it all, the woman included). I hate that shit. I hate the contrived drama that’s meant to stir up needless added conflict between two men who love each other.

And then, on the other hand, you have Mariko Tamaki’s Gilda story from “Batman: Black and White.” Tamaki depicted Harvey and Gilda being in a distant, loveless marriage, where even on their wedding day, he was constantly ignoring her in favor of work. The only person who could actually get his attention was Bruce.

At the time, this felt an awful lot like that problem I was talking about with the Bruce/Harvey shippers: raising up the gay ship while throwing the woman under the bus. In this case, for the purpose of doing an avenging girlboss take on Gilda. I hated that too, especially when Tamaki didn��t even follow through with the gay subtext in her next, miserable Two-Face comic.

You know that meme of a bride, groom, and best man all kissing one another, while the bride flips off the cameraman in the end? @whipbogard redrew the Tamaki wedding scene as that meme, right around the time I reread the comic strip. And suddenly, everything clicked into place for me.

After a lifetime of never, ever having any serious fandom ships, I fell in love with the idea of Bruce/Harvey/Gilda. Take what the comic strip did and bring it into the mainstream canon I love to spite the canon I hate.

In those great old Gilda stories, she saw through Harvey’s bullshit and knew how to reach him, however temporarily. She could do the same with Bruce. She’d be a valuable third voice for the ongoing toxic relationship between Bruce and Harvey, the one who could love them both while also getting to be frustrated with how fucking stupid and fucked-up both these men are.

Before she was reduced to a ride-or-die killer housewife in "The Long Halloween" (which, I'll grant you, has its own appeal), classic Gilda would actually stand up to Harvey and tell him to cut out his shit or else. I love the idea that she can also see right through Bruce, understanding how very alike he and Harvey are, even if they don't want to admit it.

Writing Gilda this way speaks to me as a longtime fan of both men, while also wanting to try to develop her place, as a woman stuck in the middle of their decades' worth of conflict and angst. She sees these men at their best, worst, and most pathetic/ridiculous, and while she's got the nerve to stand up for herself and call them out as needed, she still loves them nonetheless. For me, Gilda has become the voice for fans just like me, who are helpless to stop Batman and Two-Face from continuing the cycle of violent, toxic friendship, but still loving them nonetheless, and always hoping for the best.

So, at this point, let’s say I’ve at least managed to make you grudgingly accept my reasoning for the relationship. Even if that’s true, I’m gonna guess that the mention of a threesome felt like it came out of left field. I can’t argue with that. I wanted to actually write that as its own smutfic but, being ace, I struggle with that. But I really liked the idea, and as I was writing this, it just really wanted to be mentioned, so I included it.

The response has been positive (until now), which indicated to me that I had been successful in introducing Gilda as a viable third into a slice of fandom which had only shipped Bruce and Harvey. This is fanfic, after all, such things are expected, even encouraged, so I leaned into it.

Now, if I were ever (un?)fortunate enough to write for DC, officially? I doubt I’d have the nerve to go that far. But I’d still want to at least embrace the polycule-coded relationship between those three that we saw in the newspaper comic strip. I think it adds a whole new, refreshing spin on their ongoing dynamics, while being rooted in relationships that were established all the way back in 1942 by Bill Finger.

Finger’s story, at its heart, was all about how love can save a life. How love is the only way to defeat the villain. For Harvey Kent’s part, Gilda’s love was every bit as important as Batman’s unwillingness to give up on his friend. So I’m just taking it one step further within the freedom allowed me by fanfic.

Sorry for the length of the reply, but as you can see, I only came to this shit after several decades of thinking about 80+ years of official material. I hope I have at least been able to lessen your feelings of being jarred out of a story you otherwise seemed to appreciate. For my part, I hope to further develop the potential of this fucked-up polycule in future stories, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll be able to get you on board too. Hope to see you then!

(art by ofossart)

[joedirtymadre]

Honeymoon Phase

AIZAWA X READER! (FLUFF!) Hope you enjoy! (Accepting requests!!)

You laid across your couch, reading a new book you grabbed after work. You sighed to yourself, you tried to concentrate on your book, but couldn’t shake off your built up frustration… “Ughh, I’ve reread this page 4 times already and I don’t even know what it’s about!” You groaned as you tossed it onto the side table. You sat up and immediately began bouncing your leg, “It’s been 2 months… 2 whole months… I know the honeymoon stage dies, but this badly?” You sighed as you sat back.

You stared at your wedding photo of you and Shota, “We’ve always been obsessed with each other… but he’s died down drastically… in the span of 2 months. We’ve barely been married for a year and he’s already tired of me? I miss the nights he would…” you felt your cheeks burn as you would think back to those long nights. You stood up and walked over to your bathroom, staring into the mirror. You analyzed your face, body, and hair, “Maybe he thinks I’ve let myself go…” You said to yourself softly.

Suddenly an idea popped into your brain. “I’ll surprise him! Though he hates surprises… but it’ll be fine! Where’s my makeup?” You asked excitedly. Hoping you would finish your plan before he arrives home.

You raced to put on some light makeup, a nice black dress, and fixed your hair. You checked the mirror and nodded, “Now onto the kitchen!” you beamed as you raced over to throw on an apron. You decided to make some curry with rice. After cooking you set up the table and placed two hot plates on the table. You looked over at the clock and rushed over to throw your apron in the laundry room. With a minute to spare you topped off your glasses with some wine and stood excitedly by the door. 

Right on time your husband slowly opened the door, “I’m ho-” he stopped himself as he was surprised by your presence. “(Y/N)?” He asked, confused. “Hi honey,” you smiled. “Hey… what’s up with the get up?” He asked as he placed his stuff down. “I-I just wanted to look nice for y-you…” you trailed off. “Ah,” he nodded. “I also made some food,” you smiled excitedly. “Oh no thanks, I had a pretty big lunch at work so I’m not hungry,” he said as he put on his slippers and headed towards the restroom. “O-Oh…” you said softly. “I’m gonna go wash up,” he said as he shut the door behind him. “Kay…” you replied. You slowly walked over to the table and stared at the plates. 

You grabbed them and decided to toss the food in the garbage. “I’m not hungry either…” you whispered to yourself as you cleared the table. Once finishing you headed towards your bedroom to undress and remove your makeup. “So much for a surprise…” you sighed as you looked into your bedroom mirror and stared at your pajamas. 

You walked back to the living room seeing Shota lounging on the sofa reading a book. You decided to continue yours, you grabbed your book and sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Did you put the food into the fridge?” He asked. “No,” you replied. “Did you eat it all?” He asked. “I tossed it,” You responded, not once looking up from your book. “Huh? Why would you do that?” He asked. “You didn’t want it, I didn’t want it. Why wouldn’t I toss it?” You asked. “I would’ve taken it to work,” he replied. You glanced over to him, and noticed the perplexed look on his face. “I wanted to surprise you with a meal, you didn’t want the meal. So I got rid of it, I didn’t want to see it later and think of how you paid no mind to my efforts,” you said coldly. “Efforts? You’re not making any sense (Y/N),” Shota said as he inched closer. 

“What am I saying that’s making it so hard for you to understand? For the past 2 months I’ve received nothing from you, you’ve changed… You used to bring flowers, desserts, tell me I’m pretty, small things like that. But recently everything stopped, I thought I was the problem… Maybe I let myself get too comfortable or let myself go… so I wanted to surprise you, I got dolled up and made a nice meal for us to sit and catch up. But-... It’s fine, it doesn’t matter…” you explained. “(Y/N)...” you heard him trail off, you felt him move closer to you. But making sure you glue your eyes to your book. “(Y/N) please look at me,” he pleaded. “For?” You asked. “(Y/N), please,” he said softly. You knew he was sitting right next to you, you moved your eyes slightly towards him. “Yes?” You asked softly, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

“I’m sorry… I’ve been so busy with work and the students that I didn’t notice you felt this way,” he said as he cupped your face. “I said it’s fine… Everyone says the honeymoon stage doesn’t last forever. Of course you’d eventually get tired of me,” you said softly as you stared into his eyes. “I would never get tired of you. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t care about you. You know I’m obsessed with you, I love you,” he said softly as he inched towards you. You placed your finger over his lips, “What makes you think I’ll give you a kiss? 2 months with no kissing, hugging, spooning, or…” you felt your ears burn red as you avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. I want to make it up to you,” he smiled softly as he placed your hand in his and kissed it. 

“Hmph,” you turned your face, wanting to hide your blush. “Thank you for dinner, it looked delicious,” he smiled. “It did…” you replied. “And… you looked beautiful, I had to hide away in the restroom or else I would’ve…” he trailed off. “Huh?” You asked as you turned to face him. “Well you always look amazing, but you wore that dress I love. How else would you expect me to act, but normally I always keep my cool around you. I didn’t wanna scare you,” he replied as he cupped your face again. “You noticed? I was afraid you thought it was just any black dress,” you laughed. “Of course I noticed, but I’m sorry I didn’t notice how much I’ve been slacking these past few months. I’ll do better, starting now,” he said as he stood up. 

“Right now?” You asked. You watched as he extended a hand out to you, you slowly placed yours in his. He slowly helped you up, but you were soon tossed over his shoulder. “W-Wait! Shota?” You gasped. He then walked towards the kitchen table, “And we’ll be needing this,” he said as he grabbed a wine bottle. “Now let’s go,” he said. “Go?” you asked. “Yeah, you said I haven’t been showing you any attention for the past 2 months. Well I’ll make up for that, right now. Hope you’re ready (Y/N),” He said as he headed towards your bedroom. 

You felt your face burning. Feeling nervous for the night ahead, but you can’t lie to yourself, you’re also really excited for what’s about to come.  

[hollowed-theory-hall]

What are your thoughts on drarry?

spireasalix asked:

Hi! I just found your blog and find your theories really interesting. I don't know if anyone has asked you before, but what do you think of Draco Malfoy? Do you think he would have a chance with Harry? Could they fall in love or there is too much history between them? Let's make Harry/Draco canon! Hahahaha

Hi, thank you so much! 😊

Since it's a ship/character ask I want to preface that everyone can ship what they want and like whatever characters they want and this is my personal highly subjective opinion.

I'll start with my thoughts on Drarry, as I had an arc there, like, back when I just got into the fandom I really liked the concept of Drarry, so I read some Drarry and didn't like most of what I found back then. That dislike kinda colored Drarry and Draco's character as a whole for me, so it was kinda like: "I can see the appeal on paper, but I don't like it". More recently though I read a lot about canon Drarry from @iamnmbr3 and she honestly got me rethinking my opinion on Draco and Drarry.

As I stand on it now, I'm not invested in Drarry, but I see them occasionally on my dash and sometimes I like what I see. It's the: yeah, I can see it happen, but it's not a pairing I'm passionate about.

Now, to @spireasalix more specific questions.

Draco Malfoy is an interesting character in theory but I don't think it comes across in the books as much as it could. Like, in books 1-5, I find him an annoying spoilt little brat. It can be entertaining when he comes on the page, and I know he'd be whining and dramatic and make a scene. And it makes sense Draco is this way, he's an only child of very rich parents who love him, he looks up to his father like Lucius could do no wrong, but he is lonely and attention-seeking. This need for attention is interesting and is part of why he is so obsessed with Harry. It shows he wants approval and is actually quite insecure under all his pride and mean attitude. He was raised to be a blood-supremacist spoilt jerk, and he does a decent job at being a schoolyard bully without crossing any super major lines.

Younger Draco can be a fun character, he's a problem Harry feels comfortable with because he knows how to deal with him, unlike his other problems (of which he has a lot). I think part of why Harry focuses on Draco as much as he does is because Draco is a predictable problem, one Harry feels he has control over how he wants to deal with him. Which is comforting considering how little control he has over literally every other area of his life.

Then in books 6 and 7, that's when Draco starts actually having his character development, and there are interesting things there, or the potential for them. I love what he goes through, becoming a Death eater only to realize, that: no, he can't really do violence. The constant fear for himself and his family, the torture he most likely goes through, being a prisoner in his own home, like, there is so much potential good angst there but I don't feel like the books really take it as far as it can go.

I recently finished my reread of HBP, and Draco in it was having a crap time, truly. He partially brought it on himself, but he really was thrown into the deep end and he is flailing around to keep his head above water regretting ever asking to leave the kiddie pool (because make no mistake, he asked to be in the grown-ups' pool). And you see how he matures there, going from a spoilt brat to a terrified teen. In one summer he went from the top of his own little world to seeing how powerless he actually is. And, like, out of everyone, the person he apparently confides in is Moaning Myrtle, like, idk, I love that, I think this friendship should be mentioned more. Like, Draco is having a crisis over his family, his worldview, his own worth, being a Death Eater and what it means, and his confidant is the ghost of a muggleborn girl who Tom Riddle, his new master, killed. Like, there are some implications.

I find it fascinating Myrtle says this about Draco:

“No,” said Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly around the old tiled bathroom. “I mean he’s sensitive, people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn’t got anybody to talk to, and he’s not afraid to show his feelings and cry!”

(HBP, 462)

That combined with the fact that Draco doesn't ever really try to harm Harry too badly (@iamnmbr3 wrote many great posts about this). Like, at the beginning of HBP, he has Harry petrified and he just breaks his nose. And this is already after he becomes a Death Eater. He also helps Harry multiple times throughout Deathly Hollows, something that places him and his family at risk.

And, yes, he makes some attempts to kill Dumbledore that harm others (the cursed necklace that hurt Katie Bell and the poison Ron drank) but I think the methods he uses are telling. Draco attempts to kill Dumbledore with methods where he himself is far away from the action. You can say it's due to a Slytherin sense of self-preservation, and that's part of it, I'm sure, but I think the main part of it is that Draco is averse to violence. At the end when he was face to face with Dumbledore he couldn't bring himself to cast the curse. Dumbledore was disarmed and surrounded, there was nothing he could've (or would've) done to hurt Draco, but Draco still hesitated. He couldn't kill him even when his own life and his family's were on the line. Harry also talks about how much Draco is likely hurt from having to torture others on Voldemort's orders in Deathly Hollows, and I think Harry is spot on about it.

If we look at the bullying of younger Draco, he doesn't act out violently. He is the cruel words and insults type, and I remember being honestly surprised he physically hit Harry in HBP because it's not the sort of thing Draco does. So, while Draco as schoolyard bully is mean, he practically is never shown to be physically violent, at least not that I remember. He only starts being more of a physical threat in HBP, and in the cases of Ron and Katie, he does so from a distance in a way he isn't directly involved in the violence.

That being said, while what he goes through is interesting and has plenty of potential and I do like his character, I find him kinda annoying. Like, in my very subjective opinion, I find his whining in the early books incredibly annoying and I find him, even in the later books, kinda underwhelming. Like, I want more out of his character, idk. Like, really, all power to you for liking Draco, he just, unfortunately, doesn't make it into my top Harry Potter characters purely because of personal subjective bias.

Like, for all of Draco being a Slytherin from a long line of Slytherins, he doesn't showcase many Slytherin characteristics (yes, that's something I dislike about his character, go figure 🤷‍♀️). Like, Draco isn't cunning, like, at all. He's smart, I'm not saying he isn't, he gets good and even outstanding grades in various school subjects, and he fixes the vanishing cabinet he knows nothing about on his own. He is skilled and talented magically and he can figure out complex magic on his own, but when it comes to long-term planning or general cunning... yeah, I don't think that's part of Draco's arsenal.

He acts out on useful information on the first opportunity he has, with very little thought about timing or how to best use it and very little forethought in general. In 1st year he gets Harry and Co caught outside after curfew but doesn't think his plan through so he too, is caught out after curfew. And sure, he's 11, but 11-year-old Harry wouldn't have made that mistake, I think (neither would Ron or Hermione). In 3rd year, his plan against Buckbeak and Hagrid was laughable and only worked because Lucius could pull it off. I mean, Draco wasn't even doing a good job at faking an injury compared to Harry who could believably pretend to be the Bloody Baron to scare off Peeves at 11, not to mention lying reliably to McGonagall at 12. In GoF he makes these Potter stinks badges, which are magically impressive (considering they still work 3 years later) but are again, an example of Draco acting on something immediately because that's how he tends to operate. Like how he goes straight to Harry every time he finds something in the Daily Prophet to make fun of.

Even if we look at Draco's later plans, like in HBP, he was mostly trying to buy plans rather than think about how to solve his problem. Because Draco knows how to buy his way out of problems, not think his way out. And while all this does make for an interesting trait for him to have in his rule in the story and he has an invisible arc to break away from this thinking pattern and that does lead him to the vanishing cabinet eventually, it does make me like him less. I'm biased, I can't help it.

His ambition is another thing, I don't know if this is an unpopular opinion, but I don't think Draco is particularly ambitious. Like, he wants to make his parents (especially Lucius) proud, he wants people to like him, and he wants to be popular, sure, but he doesn't have any long-term plans or specific goals in mind. He grew up already having everything, so he doesn't really have any ambitions bigger than that. I'm not saying there needs to be, Harry isn't particularly ambitious either, it's just interesting to me that our poster Slytherin in Harry's year isn't that much of a Slytherin at all.

As I mentioned earlier, Draco also seems to be averse to violence and doesn't have as much of a ruthless streak as his house is usually associated with. Draco, at the end of the day, seems to me like a very sheltered kid who idolized war when he heard about it in stories up until he had to actually take part in it. He is one of the softer characters in the books actually, in my opinion.

While I think he definitely values the traits of house Slytherin as he grew up learning to appreciate them, he doesn't actually possess them, at least, not in abundance. Maybe this is an unpopular opinion, but honestly, I think Draco is more of a Gryffindor than a Slytherin considering he is brave (in the last book especially. I want to note he isn't the same brave as Harry. Draco fears a lot more than Harry does, but when push comes to shove, he keeps going despite his fear. He's more similar to Neville in that regard), bold, and definitely has his personal code of honor and chivalry he acts according to, but I digress.

My personal issue with Draco is the main issue I have with Drarry as a ship, because, like, I can't be actively invested in a ship when I find one of the characters annoying. I have a similar stance on Romione as I have on Drarry. I like Romione well enough, I enjoy the fanart of them I see, but I wouldn't actively search for fics of them. Neither would I write fics where they are the main pairing. In Romione's case, I love Ron but find Hermione kinda annoying, I don't hate her, I don't even dislike her, I actually like her, but she annoys me. Draco is the same way, I like him, but he just gets on my nerves sometimes.

To summarise, I see the appeal of Drarry, and I can see how it could work on paper. I don't think Harry and Draco ever truly hated each other in the books, so, yeah, I think they could get together. They could definitely forgive each other everything, hell, the books practically outright say they forgive each other everything in canon. I think you can build a very compelling love story for them, it's just not a story I'm invested in reading/writing mostly because Draco isn't a character that I'm overly invested in.

[thefrogsthewaterturnedgay]

When I was around eight or nine my dad gave me a book.

In it, there was a gender non-conforming character but I didn’t know that yet. I just knew that I loved that little monster girl, and I wanted to be her so so bad. I wanted to shapeshift, and be in a medieval world that had cool tech, and have bright pink hair and everything. I loved her.

There were two other people in that book too, two guys. And though it was never said, I knew those two were in love. I was so rooting for them to get together, to accept that they loved one another. I remember being so happy that it was implied they were in love.

I don’t know how many times I reread that book.

That book was Nimona.

Recently I watched the movie version as a queer person and I refelt all those same emotions as I had the first time I read that book.

The chaos, the sadness, the love, and the comedy.

I saw the kid I was in Nimona. Younger me being obsessed with chaos and violence and fire. Just a chaotic mass in a little kids body.

I saw my friends in Ballister and Ambrosius. I saw part of myself in them too.

I can imagine how eight year old me, having read Nimona, would react seeing that movie.

Seeing two guys kiss on screen for the first time.

This movie was a relive of my childhood and it was the sweetest one I’ve had in a while.

Movies and books like this are so important for young queer people, and just people in general.

I love Nimona, she was instrumental in who I am as a person and who I was as a kid.

So to the director, the actors, to ND Stevenson and everyone who worked on this movie, thank you so much for this. It was more than I could ever ask for in a movie version of Nimona.

And I do love a happy ending so thanks for that too.

(Sorry about the whole speech but it just meant a lot to me.)

[spncrscasey]

You’re Losing Me (s.r.)

Fandom/Characters: Criminal Minds - Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 863

Summary: Some love lasts. Sadly, yours didn’t.

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, a singular petname, no happy ending (i’m sorry, i hate sad endings too but there was no way of fixing this lol)

a/n: i’ve been obsessed with song fics recently so i decided to do another one inspired by you’re losing me by taylor swift !! so hoping i did my baby spencer’s character justice and portrayed him well considering i’ve restarted this over 4 times and it still ended up shorter than i wanted it to- anyway i’m gonna close my eyes and hit post because the more i reread it the more i start hating it so hopefully yall enjoy reading this more than me while listening to my girl tay <3

“You’re just ending it!? I- I don’t understand.”

“Of course, you don’t Spencer!” You yelled, raising your hands in frustration.

You paced back and forth, looking around at the space you once called home, a concept that now seemed so distant, so foreign. You couldn't understand when everything began to unravel. One minute, you were the love of his life, the woman who he would go to the ends of the earth for, and the next, it was as if you didn't even matter.

He was always at work but on the rare occasions when he was home, he’d head straight to bed, somehow managing to skillfully evade any connection with you throughout the entire evening. The goodbye kisses, the random texts throughout his day, the nightly ‘I love you’s’— they had all slowly stopped as well. It was as if he was absent even when he was right next to you.

You attempted talking to him about it, trying to get him to open up and tell you what's bothering him. Yet, he consistently brushed you off, claiming, 'You wouldn't understand.' You hated being on the sidelines of his life, and you resented him even more for placing you there, little by little.

When had he stopped confiding in you?

The room where you now found yourselves arguing in was once a sanctuary of shared laughter and cherished moments. Its walls had witnessed endless expressions of love and happiness, but the light in it had started to dull.

You sighed, taking a seat on the armchair in the corner of the dimly lit room. You placed your head in your hands, exhausted from the constant screaming.

“When did you stop loving me, Spencer?” You whispered, almost inaudible, but he heard anyway.

The question had been circling your brain nonstop for the last few months. Did you do something wrong? Was there another woman? Did he just randomly fall out of love? Did he ever even love you in the first place?

So many questions, yet he couldn't seem to answer any of them.

You were waiting for him to say something, anything. To tell you that he never stopped, or maybe the exact moment he did. But it never came.

When he didn't respond you continued, “Was it something I did?”

He was quick to reply to that one, “No sweetheart, never.”

The pet name was like a slap to the face. ‘Sweetheart.’ A name that he hadn't used to refer to you in months. So what gave him the right to use it now when you wanted to break up with him?

“You don't get to call me that anymore.” You said, tone almost as sharp as the glare you were sending him.

He visibly flinched. You chuckled to yourself at his reaction, looking up, but there was no humor in your tone.

“I gave you everything Spencer! I showed you endless empathy- after particularly hard cases where all you wanted was to fall asleep, or when-” You took a breath cutting yourself off before continuing, “Or when you came back from prison and had a difficult time opening up, I understood and gave you your space.”

Your eyes had started brimming with tears threatening to fall. You didn't want them to. Didn't want to show him how much he's hurt you, how much his actions affected you.

You composed yourself before adding, “And what did I get in return? Your ignorance.”

When you finally locked eyes, you could see so much hurt in his gaze that you almost felt sorry for him. Almost. You didn't intend to cause him pain, but there was a strange satisfaction in knowing that he was experiencing the same level of hurt that had consumed you for the past few months.

His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he blinked rapidly, struggling to articulate his thoughts. The usually talkative genius was suddenly left in stunned silence, unable to say anything.

You both sat in quiet for a moment, air thick with indecision. You heard him take a breath and speak, breaking the silence, “I'm sorry, Y/N- I didn't know you felt this way. I didn't think my actions were affecting our relationship.” He paused before beginning again, voice lower, “I guess I just didn't realize I stopped loving you.”

Every word he uttered felt like a dagger plunging into your heart. Unleashing a flood of emotions that gradually drained the life out of you, pulse fading, too far gone to bring back to life.

“I guess being myself wasn't enough for you to see me.” You announced, rising from your seat, and heading towards the door.

You turned to glance at him one final time, the moonlight catching the strands of his messy brunette hair and casting a cool glow on his beautiful brown eyes. You wanted to capture every detail into your memory- the gentle crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the way his hair fell across his forehead, and the way his eyes sparkled with emotion.

You slightly smiled before twisting the doorknob, “Thanks for at least being honest with me.”

I can't find a pulse. My heart won't start anymore.

[onecinder]

I'm really late but rereading the recent webcomic chapters reminded me how badly Genos's psyche is deteriorating

Like, Genos has stated THIS is how he thinks of himself SO MANY TIMES. That he’s ‘thrown away his human side’, is ‘a being whose only purpose in life is to fight' among other things really shows just how much he's beating himself up -- and he has been for a while, it's just recently it's probably been triggered by Dr. Kuseno's death.

And this panel is even more disturbing. He sees Boros and says he's a 'pathetic being whose only purpose in life is to fight.... just like me', and that boros (and therefore himself) is just a living being deprived of his will and operated as a weapon.

But the most disturbing thing is that he then he proceeds to try and PUT BOROS OUT OF HIS MISERY. Like, that's basically implying that Genos would put himself out of his misery as well if he could, and that he very well might -- after all, he's got a history of drastically trying to self-destruct or taking actions that may very well lead to self-destruction. He's a hero, yes, but sometimes he comes off as a little too eager to throw away his life in order to save lives, or just defeat a monster. But a large part of why he's still alive is because Saitama stops him.

Which brings me to the other thing that's deteriorating -- Genos and Saitama's relationship (though that could be seen coming from a mile away, honestly. All the little cracks in their relationship have been played off for laughs and gags up till now, but knowing ONE, a gag is always the surface of something more serious.)

Even Dr. Kuseno acknowledged directly that Saitama had a huge part in keeping Genos human, in control, and feeling like a normal teenager, and not self-destructing.

Saitama used to be the thing tethering him TO his humanity, but now that he's not even there for Genos, and Genos is mad at him, and Dr. Kuseno, the only person with sufficient emotional maturity to comfort Genos, is gone, what's left to keep him from absolutely losing it?

When I saw these two pages, I could at first see it being construed as: Genos's belief in the humanity and goodness in people allowed him to let Metal Knight to go unchecked, and then he also believed in Saitama's ability to stop him and save everyone if anything were to go awry, and that's what 'clouded his judgement'. But obviously that isn't how it's supposed to be construed. He's definitely mad at Saitama (my shipper heart went through the five stages of grief reading it)

Saitama can't save everyone, not even Dr. Kuseno. This is another example of the consequences of a gag rearing its ugly head now... his unconcerned nature was funny at first, but Genos now feels Saitama is to blame for the whole situation.

Even at this particular panel, which is pretty early on, it's like Saitama knows that Genos is mad at him and that his self-control may be slipping away, and either doesn't really know what to do or decides to give Genos space.

This is the second time across 2 different mediums that Saitama's tardiness and nonchalance caused someone important to him/the people around him to get killed (for the manga, Genos himself, and for the webcomic, Dr. Kuseno.)

Yet he STILL blames himself and goes back to thinking he's worthless and powerless and a shitty hero.

But there's no denying it, he's super mad. Saitama is no longer the perfect idol he looked up to. It used to be such a gag that Genos was willing to do anything for Saitama, and admired him to the point it was borderline obsessive, but the consequences are really showing now.

Buuuut, maybe this is all for the best. A question I avoided confronting was when Genos would finally blow up. For a relationship to be healthy, I think it definitely requires for the people in it to have arguments, disagreements, and work through them together. That's what constitutes a strong relationship with proper understanding and communication.

Aaand if it's one thing these two are bad at, it's communicating their needs and listening to each other imo. (Even Genos misunderstanding everything Saitama says for something suiting his own 'vision' of him is played off as a gag as well.)

It's just that the consequences of these issues are exaggerated by like x1000 and the fate of many people relies on the health of this relationship, and on Genos's psyche staying intact, so... uh, I hope it's all for the best?

If they both don't come out the other end holding hands and slowly mending then RIP Saigenos :(

(sorry for this long ass post it probably could've been summarised in 20 words about 3 months earlier)

[joeyalohadream]

I was rereading the cooler fic last night (for the 1000th time) and i was wondering if there was a line or a few lines u could share from part 2 and how its coming along! (No intention to put pressure or anything at all) I adore ur writing 🩷🩷🩷🩷

Hi, anon!

Endlessly flattered that you've re-read it so many times!

Small WIP update: I threw out my back at work yesterday and am laid up for a few days. I'm feeling motivated and hoping to use the fact that I can't move much as an opportunity to write a lot!

But here's a small snippet from Part Two to wet your whistle while you wait for me to finish:

“What is it?” He watches as Gale picks at the cuticles around his thumbnail. It strikes him suddenly that the grime under Gale’s nails has been there for a while. It was there when he’d held those trembling fingers in his own the night before, which means it had probably been there since he’d been in isolation. Gale, who has been meticulous about cleanliness, about order and neatness since the moment he met him, is looking down at his dirty hands and he’s not bothered by them. The subtle changes Bucky has been noticing in his demeanor over the last twenty-four hours are starting to pile up.  He’d poked fun at Gale about his almost obsessive need to be hygienic a few months into their confinement. In one of his darker moments, it had made him angry watching Gale act as if such an unimportant thing mattered when they were suspended in such a meaningless state of inactivity. It hurts to remember the way Gale had shrugged off his harsh admonishment of this aspect of his character, not pushing back, just accepting the new normalcy of Bucky being subtly cruel. Right now, he wishes he could go back in time to their moment in the washroom and scrub the dirt from under each of Gale’s fingernails. Wishes he could help give him back something that seems to have been stolen from him in the recent weeks. He takes advantage of their solitude and reaches over the table to grasp Gale’s cold fingers, halting the abuse he had been dolling out on his delicate skin. “Talk to me, Buck. Something’s bothering you.” Red-rimmed blue eyes meet his and a small smirk plays over his lips. “A lots bothering me today, Bucky.” He gives the fingers in his a slight squeeze and the man they belong to a small smile. Between the cold and the hunger and the pain and the sickness, he knows that. But he also knows that there is something else, something maybe he could fix faster than those other ailments. “It’s stupid.” Gale sighs and shakes his head. “Let me be the judge of that.” “It’s selfish,” Gale shifts his gaze to their hands and hunches down in his chair. Bucky frowns at the top of his head. “You don’t have a selfish bone in your body, Buck.” Bucky wishes he did sometimes, because maybe then Gale wouldn’t feel the need to sacrifice his well-being so often. Gale stays silent but Bucky can see his jaw working, knows he’s contemplating his words and deciding whether or not he’s going to share them. “Please,” he leans over the table at the same time he pulls on Gale’s hand, lets his lips brush the cold skin over his knuckles. He smiles again, keeping his face open when those beautiful eyes rise to meet his again. “Before I went in,” Gale starts, voice low, pained. “You weren’t doing well.” Bucky winces internally at the understatement but stays silent, willing Gale to continue. “I tried to give you space and keep you close at the same time. But the only times I felt like you were really with me were when we were in our bunk. And some nights not even then.” Guilt is a vice around Bucky’s heart at the hurt in Gale’s voice. “You wouldn’t talk to the guys or help out or even get outta bed somedays.” Gale pauses, takes a shuddering breath that turns into a harsh cough that he turns into his own shoulder. Bucky looks on, helpless and feeling raw. It takes a minute for Gale to gain his composure and catch his breath enough to continue. “But now, you’re like the old you,” Gale clears his throat and looks back down at the table. “The way the guys were talking to you last night and this morning, I can tell you’ve been like that for a while now.” Bucky thinks back to the slow crawl he made through the metaphorical muck in his mind to get back to himself, to be what the men needed, to be what Gale would need when he finally came back to him. “It’s like I went away, and you got better,” Gale practically grinds the words out, voice whisper soft and Bucky’s heart breaks.

[somewhereincairparavel]

An in depth analysis on Jiper - Why it was much more toxic than we realize.

okay. I know Calypso is known for her horrible treatment of leo, but hear me out, Jason grace was in a toxic relationship without even realizing it. I've recently reread Hoo, and I can't believe that it only just struck me how much of a red flag Piper was in the relationship. I made a whole analysis on this, and I'm going to put it here.

If you are a fan of jiper or Piper Mclean in general, then, this might be triggering for you to read, so I recommend you not to. You can agree to disagree with my analysis, just be respectful about it. I don't dislike Piper, I just dislike the way she is written, so no harm intended on her character.

so let's begin.

♦ She obsesses over him for a long time and then complains that he doesn't give her attention, like mf, he's trying to save the world here. She compares their relationship to percabeth wishing jason wasn't so serious all the time, when she was the one who claimed she liked his rule following nature and chose to date him. Before she got him, she complained that he would never like her, after she got him, she complained that he is too uptight.

Like, him being a rule follower is a part of his personality, take it, or leave it. She really doesn't like him for who he is and seemed very intent on wanting to change his morals. Like wanting his to trash the rules for her, she puts unrealistic expectations on him and gets disappointed when he doesn't meet them.

This highly contrasts Jason's treatment of her, when she vocalises her jealousy of Reyna being so "pretty, powerful and Roman" and jason says that he only wants Piper to be Piper, not anything else. Jason knew better than anyone else what is was like to pretend to be someone he's not.

♦she claimed jason as some kind of prize to drew, I physically cringed when the other Aphrodite kids cheered for her when she when she said jason was her boyfriend and he just didn't know it. Like. Jason said it himself, to Hera, "I belong to no one". If only he'd heard what she said about him behind his back lol.

♦She guilt tripped him so hard till the point he promised her that he would never go to camp Jupiter unless she came along, that's like the biggest red flag ever… Camp Jupiter was like his only home, his sister is busy, his mom is dead, and he wasn't even supposed to go there?

♦she got jealous of Reyna, annabeth and Thalia without any context, simply because they are acquainted with him in some way. Even after all the war chaos, jason reassured her patiently like twice that he only had eyes for her. She got jealous when he spoke about camp Jupiter, is he not allowed to talk about his home, the place he's grown up in for 12 years? She controlled jason like a puppet and took advantage of the fact that jason is very passive and had abandonment issues. If you read into their dynamic, Jason was in an unhealthy relationship without even realising it, because he clung on to anyone who gave him affection, it's honestly sad. He hadn't thought that anything was wrong in their dynamic because of his sheltered upbringing in camp Jupiter and lack of experience in love. His sister was lost for years, his dad is a douche, his mom is dead, so you really cannot blame him for not wanting to leave Piper.

♦ Also, in TOA, she was absolutely despicable, We see that jason is still very confused about why she broke up with him, and didn't properly understand why she dumped him bc he thought that they were still going strong, so we can get the hint that piper never exactly gave him a proper reason or anything and just ended it abruptly. Despite all this, he still respected her choice without any resentment against her, and chose to die so she could have more time with her dad. Fucking thoughtful and selfless.

♦ She doesn't voice out her concerns on their relationship to jason. Only the jealousy thing, but other than that she never seemed to tell jason about her issues she has with their dynamic, jason is more of a blunt kinda guy, so her lack of proper communication really hinders their dynamic in many ways, this is clearly seen in the fact that jason was deluded into thinking that their relationship was going great.

♦ She was also quite cold about their breakup, when Grover asked her why, she said stuff like "you thought what? That we'd be together forever like Percy and annabeth?" Like that's so cold and for what reason?? She ended stuff with him, and was acting like she got dumped.

[Take this single paragraph below with a grain of salt, since this one can only be derived out of assumptions, since it wasnt really confirmed properly, as there seemed to be a LOT going on]

♦ coach hedge and mellie thought he dumped her, so it can be implied that she might have dramatized the break up, if that is true, then she practically victimized herself in front of them. She drew so much attention to herself after the breakup, but then gets all cold when people ask her about it. Leading everyone to dislike jason for the breakup. If she did indeed tell mellie and hedge an aggravated version of their break up, then you can't tell me she did all that "unintentionally". I may sound harsh here but it seemed to me that she just wanted sympathy and attention, it's not all surprising either, considering how she chopped her hair off so that her dad can pay attention to her. So we can see a pattern here, she does go to great lengths to gain everyone's sympathy. I honestly don't know if she does it subconsciously or not. But take this paragraph with a grain of salt, since we dont actually know what she told hedge and mellie, so only strong assumptions can be made.

♦ Mellie treated jason which such hostility that even self absorbed Apollo could take the time to notice it. Jason asked apollo if piper told him that he dumped her or something, so even jason sensed that people were blaming him. he didn't even complain about it either. on the contrary, he literally said it was okay if mellie blamed him and that it was better that way.

”One more thing,” I blurted out. “About Piper. It’s just…you seem like such a good power couple. Did you really—did you break up with her to make it easier for her to leave LA?” Jason stared at me with those azure eyes. “Did she tell you that?” “No,” I admitted. “But Mellie seemed, ah, upset with you.”Jason considered. “I’m okay with Mellie blaming me. It’s probably better.”“Do you mean it’s not true?” In Jason’s eyes, I saw just a hint of desolation—like wildfire smoke momentarily obliterating a blue sky. I remembered Medea’s words: The truth was enough to break Jason Grace.“Piper ended it,” he said quietly. “That was months ago, way before the Burning Maze. Now come on. Let’s go find Caligula.” ‘ ~The Burning Maze, Chapter 23 Last Page

♦ Don't even get me started on how she found someone else weeks after her ex boyfriend whom she was with for a year died for HER. I'm sorry, but I couldn't even think of dating someone else for a long time if I were in her position. It's canon that literally even annabeth cried herself sick when she heard about his death and they weren't even close, and Percy couldn't even mention jason without breaking down, Percy and jason barely knew much about eachother. Heck, even hera, a literal goddess who only saw jason as a pawn, started sobbing at his death. So compared to those, piper literally had the reaction of a stale bread. I'd expected her to react in a similar way to nico, just genuine devastation and anger. Now she is using someone else as a rebound when she isn't even emotionally healed?

Connecting all of these points, it's such a shame how jason got taken advantage of for his passive nature. It dawned on me how jason was SO trapped in the relationship with only Piper as the centre of his world. I know Piper was just a teenager herself, but that doesn't make me feel any better about her treatment of him tbh, she's also seemed to have lots of internal misogyny, bringing down the other girls for ogling at jason as if she weren't the one who did the same like 5 minutes ago. Any thoughts? Rick really fumbled the bag with Piper imo, especially in the trials of Apollo.

[straighttohellbuddy]

what you love you devour {c!Wilbur Soot}

Summary: As someone who is chronically honest and the self-appointed court jester of this world, your place in any conflict or situation had always been whichever place to be amused you the most; being on the side of the grown-ass man who put time and effort into waging war against smartass kids over discs? Of course. Immediately switching sides to join the child as he and someone you've never met before start a drug empire? Of course. Except said newcomer seems to know exactly how to keep you entertained; your place becomes by his side, and you quickly come to realise that no-one else will ever compare.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: She/They Reader. Villain!Reader. Past, toxic c!Quackity/Reader, established platonic c!Dream & Reader. Set during the DSMP timeline. 

A/N: 25,323 words. this has been about 2 years in the making, which is why i haven't tagged the few people on the taglist but anyways, i finally came back and reread what i had and was like.... this actually holds up pretty well as is. so yeah, i've added and subtracted a few things here and there in the last few hours to make it all make sense overall, but holy shit im so happy to have it out there. is it possibly the wankiest/dramatic thing ive posted in a while? yes. but its also 25k so eat up. and if you wanna talk to me about it! PLEASE DO!!

Warnings: VILLAIN!READER, discussions/implied suicidal ideation, violence & blood, implied and joked about smut, heavy psychological/emotional manipulation, romantic obsession, betrayal, murder, implied torture. it gets pretty dark at times, just take care.

Citrus Scale: 💚 LIME 💚

{ full playlist }

"You've created capitalism, good job," sarcasm dripped from your words as you leaned against the side of the Camarvan while Sapnap attempted to arrest Tommy and the most recent newcomer, a brunette with a way with words that you found yourself admiring.

"I didn't create capitalism," Wilbur automatically defends himself, turning on you like he had the words on the tip of his tongue, simply waiting for someone to bring it up. Though he was playing at being innocent, you could see he was holding back a smile.

"What do you mean?" Tommy, behind him, frowned, before spluttering, "you know what, who cares- Wilbur, buddy don't listen to her, she'll say anything to get a rise out of people," he grumbled, but you just talked over him, addressing the newcomer.

"I'm not implying that you, new boy -"

"Wilbur," he corrected you automatically.

"- you, Wilbur, were the theological creator of capitalism," you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help your own smile at the situation, "I'm saying that you're trying to have a monopoly on potions and the ability to brew them, so you can inflate the price to whatever you want with no competition that people would be able to buy from, all that artificial supply and demand bullshit."

"Don't know what you're on about," but Wilbur's back was to the others as he said it, lips twisting into a grin, "this is but a humble hotdog van."

"A humble hotdog van!" Tommy added resolutely for emphasis, which you yourself repeated, much quieter, turning the words over in your mind as you narrowed your eyes and looked over all of them, "oh get lost, go run back to Dream," Tommy huffed, before turning on Wilbur, "why are you even giving her the time of day? She's in his guard, she's probably here helping Sapnap."

And that's when your gaze finally flicked to the man himself in full diamond armour, who was glowering at you, bow half raised. He stays quiet.

"He doesn't seem too keen on her," Wilbur points out, looking over his shoulder, giving the faintest smile to the kitted-out guard.

"It could be a ruse!" Tommy insisted.

"I'm simply a court jester -" you tried, hands raised defensively, but Tommy cuts you off.

"You shot me!"

"What's a humble court jester doing at our humble hotdog van?" Wilbur asks, turning back to you. At this prompt, however, your whole face lit up and you stood up straight, frantically digging around your pockets, searching, until you offer a small stack of blaze rods, like it's an offering.

"Playing along," you tell him, eyes alight with mirth and mischief.

"Why?" But he takes the blaze rods and you give a shrug, shoving your hands into your pockets.

"It's the funniest option."

---

"It's not capitalism, it's a drug empire," Tommy grumbled under his breath the moment they bring you into the Camarvan and shut the door behind you, before he added, "and I still don't like that you're here."

"It's not my fault that the concept of a grown-ass man going to war with literal children over two discs is deeply funny," you raised your hands in mock surrender as you sat on the counter in the hotdog van.

"Then why were you on his side?" He demanded, and you schooled your grin into something seriously.

"Thomas, Thomas listen to me -"

"Do not call me Thomas," Tommy told you flatly, and for a moment you couldn't help your sharp smile.

"Listen, Tommy, my boy, I was on the side of the grown-ass man who was waging war over discs; you're a kid, dude, being on your side would make too much sense and would be far less funny."

"One, you're a terrible person," Tommy says flatly, and you can't help but laugh not exactly inclined to disagree with him, "two, I'm not your boy, and three, if it suddenly becomes fucking funny for you to turn on us, I will kill you a lot, okay?"

"Okay," you nod, conceding, and though he's still frowning at you, mistrustful, you can't help but follow it with, "but I think you underestimate how much I appreciate our new friend, whose first thought, after finding his way to us, was 'I'm going to build a drug empire and recruit Tommy-goddamn-Innit as my first ally'; very few things can top that, honestly."

Wilbur, who was kneeling by a chest a few feet away and had been quiet this whole time, snorts a laugh. Good.

"Does Dream trust you?" However, when he spoke, your bright mood evaporated. Then he stands, turns, and leans his hip against the chest he was just rifling through, cocking his head to one side as he regards you, "it's not bait, I'm not asking you if you're a double agent, I trust you -" though there was something behind his eyes that contradicted his words, "- just, does Dream trust you?"

"Dream and I have... an understanding," you said carefully, "I understand that he is incredibly powerful -" Tommy made a derisive noise in the back of his throat at that, "- and he understands that I am simply a court jester."

"I don't remember many jesters with enchanted netherite axes," Tommy mutters under his breath. For the barest moment, when he looks at you he sees you looking right back, something dangerous, something like a warning in your eyes that vanishes so fast he’s half concerned he imagined it. No-one else seemed to have seen it, judging by how Wilbur’s continuing on. You’ve already looked away.

"So he may expect you to turn on him?"

"Eventually," you agree, "but he also knows I'd turn back to his side with the right incentive," you knew no good could come of trying to hide your nature, especially since it could lead to others actively attempting to win your loyalty, which you couldn't deny was pretty nice. Tommy was actively glaring at you after this particular admission, however Wilbur hums thoughtfully, regarding you with an expression you can't quite read, one that makes you feel like he's evaluating you; you sit a little straighter.

"Would you steal his potion supplies for us if he had any?" And suddenly, Wilbur's tone was light, as if he were asking for you to run an errand rather than commit treason. While Tommy was flabbergasted at his bluntness, you nodded emphatically.

"Oh, absolutely."

----

"Could you be more subtle while robbing me?" Dream frowned the moment he saw you up to your elbows in a chest in what he considered to be his base of operations.

"Not my fault you're bad at hiding your stuff and good at finding me," you huffed in return, not even bothering to look up, even as Dream peered over your shoulder to see what he'd left behind that you were currently looting. Tortoise shells and empty bottles, not much, but it's something.

"I don't appreciate you stealing my shit for Tommy," Dream pointed out, and you snorted a laugh, beginning to pocket your findings. He sat beside the chest, watching you, "I'm going to stop him."

"You're going to try."

"I thought you were on my side," but even as he said it, he wore a grin that was all teeth; you both knew he was joking, "you'd tell me where the discs were if you knew, wouldn't you?"

"In a heartbeat," you agree without hesitation, sitting back on your heels and finally looking at your sort-of ally, "but we both know Tommy doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me."

"He's a smart kid," Dream's smile gets tight at the edges for just a moment, and when you look to him, he’s looking back at you with a shallow gaze - you ever take something from me like that again and I’ll fucking kill you; you hear your own voice in your head, and wonder if Dream’s thinking of that same moment, of your violent, possessiveness rearing it’s head, your axe pressed to his chest in the dead of night. Back in the present, his gaze clears and he looks at the chest you’re currently elbow deep in, pointedly, "you are robbing me." The memory passes from your mind.

"You weren't here and I'm not using actual force; this is looting at best," at your indignance, he rolls his eyes, looking away, and you open the chest again, taking the remaining items, despite their meagre value. "I'm not doing this for Tommy; Wilbur's the one who suggested it."

"The new guy?"

"The new guy," you confirmed with a nod, "the first thing he does after getting here is commit crimes; I think I'm in love," you tell Dream flatly, mostly joking.

"Sounds like a man after your own heart," Dream points out, not even trying to hide the teasing edge to his words; how deeply bizarre this interaction would be if anyone else were to walk in.

With all of the chest's contents safely in your pockets and satchel, you sit back, eyes narrowing as you give Dream and his mischievous smile a look as you finally try and figure out what this whole interaction means. However the teasing does well to hide the faint notes of apprehension in his voice.

"'s the reason I sided with you in the first place;" you said slowly, "you know how chaos gets me going," your tone was flat, clearly conveying that you hadn't deciphered the nature of this interaction, but your actual words were enough to have Dream himself laughing despite this, the air clearing. "You here to stop me?"

"Does anyone else know where my base is, and are you going to steal anything else from me?"

"No and yes," you answer bluntly; if you were anyone else that answer would be two death sentences, one right after the other, "blaze rods," you quickly elaborate, wilfully digging yourself deeper as Dream opens his mouth.

"You can't have my blaze rods," he says, though he's smiling faintly at your well-worn antics.

"Agree to disagree," you stood swiftly, trying to step over his legs to get to the next chest. Dream grabs your shin with one hand, stopping you in your track as he's sighing deeply.

"Go away, Y/N," he says firmly, letting go of you to get to his feet, beginning to push you to the entrance of the bunker, even as you whined; the fact that he let you take as much as you already had was not lost on you however, and you let yourself be nudged to the door, only putting on a show of protesting.

The timer that had started ticking the moment he'd found you in his bunker had finally run out.

"Get better security," you told him, and he gave you a wide, toothy smile.

"Love you too," he responded, "and keep me updated if you ever find those discs." At that, you give him a quick salute and head back in the general direction of the Camarvan.

----

"L'Manberg?" You said, not even trying to hide your scepticism.

"L'Manberg," both Tommy and Wilbur reiterated, sounding completely sincere in their dedication to the ridiculous name.

"L'-Man-Berg?" You said, slower, squinting at them, waiting for their sincerity to crack.

"But don't worry, Tommy himself said that 'even women can work here'," Wilbur said, corners of his mouth twitching at Tommy's various irritated exclamations, "like... in the hotdog van... with us; we're not implying that women have to work to be here, this isn't- this isn't communism -"

"You've made that abundantly clear," your scepticism broke in the face of his floundering, "I remember you brought capitalism to the Greater Dream SMP, Mr Soot," you were desperately trying not to laugh, though Tommy was fairing much worse than you at that.

"I mean- I mean- I mean-" Tommy spluttered through his laughter as it died down, trying to get himself back to being something resembling serious, "you also- you can't be on Dream's side if you're with us."

"I'm not," you answer honestly and easily.

"So you're on our side?" He clarified, though you had to hum at that.

"No..." you said carefully, before finally looking him in his eyes, "I'm on my side, I just happen to like," without breaking eye contact with Tommy or your serious facade, you pointed directly at Wilbur, to his left, "him." Tommy's outrage at your answer was predictably hilarious, hence the main reason as to why you gave it, and Wilbur's delighted 'that's good enough for me' and accompanying smile was enough to solidify your loyalty with them, at least for the time being.

----

"I knew it would be you," they've taken no chances with you when they started taking people prisoner; Tommy was the first to go, and you happened to show up right as Fundy was being lead away. Wilbur and Tommy had both sent you messages, letting you know people were being arrested, and while they probably meant for you to stay away, you had other ideas.

So now, here you were, with Sapnap's crossbow bolt between your shoulder blades as you were being unceremoniously shoved to the courthouse.

"Stop talking," he muttered, poking you probably harder than necessary, but it did little to dim your smile.

"I've barely said anything," you shrugged, the nonchalant movement only serving to remind you, as if you could forget, about the weapon at your back, "but I'm flattered, really; I knew it would be you."

"Stop. Talking."

"They've got several people escorting Tommy, and even Fundy has Eret and Tubbo," you kept chattering away, despite your guard's grumbling, "but we've fought together, you know what I'm like, and so does he," you gave a faint laugh, "they knew I'd listen to you; you're the only one besides Dream himself who could get me to go peacefully."

"Why then? If you're going to keep talking, can you explain why? Why are you going peacefully, why with me? Are you actually saying you would have put up a fight if I were anyone else?"

"Would you trust anyone else to bring me to jail on their own?" You asked simply.

"I think you overestimate how challenging you are -"

"So that's a yes, you'd trust... Tubbo to lead me to the courthouse alone?" Your tone was sly and heavy with implications, "or Ponk? Or what about Eret? I don't know him but he seems nice. I'd like to get to know him, if you're saying you'd like to swap -"

"I don't trust you," he cuts you off, words forced out through gritted teeth.

"But you trust you," you hum thoughtfully, "because you know you're the only one up for it. They're sweet kids, but they're still kids, aren't they? If the right person talked for long enough they'd believe anything. This is why I knew it'd be you taking me to court; you're better than that," you're better than them hangs in the air, unspoken but still so loud, and you're glad he can't see the way you're grinning.

Then, you give a self deprecating chuckle, shrugging again.

"Honestly I'm probably giving myself too much credit here, I'm unarmed and unarmoured, you're easily overkill as my escort, but again, I'm flattered," the pressure between your shoulder blades lessens until the sharp bolt is gone, and you hear Sapnap's footsteps fall silent. Intrigued, you turn, and you see him scowling.

"Don't do that, don't be cute, don't be coy;" he frowned at you, at how your expression had been schooled into something tamer than the delight you were feeling, "you won't trick me; I remember Dream in that warroom, you remember, we were all planning and he assured us that you were your most dangerous unarmed and unarmoured -"

"I can't believe you remember that," you huff a disbelieving laugh, hoping the delight in your eyes didn't give you away.

"Yeah, well I do; don't coy, don't be shitty, okay? I was sent here for you for a reason, me, alright Y/N? I'm the one with the crossbow," already your words were working their way into his psyche, the bestowing of compliments, building him up, only to undermine it all. Whether he realised it or not, the praise you hid amongst your teasing and self-aggrandizing felt good to hear; you're just glad he believed it.

And so you walked with a crossbow bolt nestled between your shoulders, in silence for the rest of the way, being shoved into a cell beside Tommy, who'd been sitting on the bed provided, chattering away loudly to the other guards.

"What took you so long?"

----

The jacket you're given doesn't fit quite right; it's close, but maybe the arms are a little too long, and it sits strangely when you button the front with more than one button, but you wear it with pride, grip tight on the lapels as you spin on your heel, waiting for an approval from the others.

"Looks good on you," Wilbur's voice is carefully neutral, though he nods, his slight smile betraying him.

"Now will you finally admit you're on our side?" Tommy asked, brow pinched as he looked you over.

"What do you mean? She's with us, of course she is," Tubbo voices his confusion, and you finally, finally relinquish.

"Yes, Tommy, I'm fighting for L'manburg," you inclined your head towards him, smiling faintly.

"Say it, say you're on my side," Tommy demanded, "because I wanna remember this moment when you inevitably double cross us."

"Tommy," you said carefully, trying not to show how amused you actually were.

"Don't patronise me," he warned.

"Tommy," you shifted your tone to something a touch more respectful, but the boy's mouth remained set in a firm line, "I'm on your side as long as you're on Wilbur's side."

"Of course," Tubbo pipes up brightly, "we're all on the same side, for L'manburg," and he so cheerfully misses the subtle nuance in your words that it seems to convince Tommy. Wilbur's smiling to himself, genuine, whole face scrunched up and pleased.

"Seems like an overreaction," Eret, who you were yet to get a proper read on, looked over the four of you with interest; he hadn't been here long either, "they robbed Dream for us, they got arrested too -"

"Y/N is a trickster spirit at the best of times," Tommy tells him, "you can never be too careful, trust me."

"I'm just a jester," you raised your hands in a placating gesture, gaze dipping if only to hide the spark of mischief that found its way to your eye every time you found yourself underplaying your abilities.

"A revolutionary jester," Wilbur corrects, and your gaze snaps to him, your smile growing a touch wider, a shade sharper.

"A revolutionary jester," you agreed.

----

"You should have a home here," you hear Wilbur musing as he's chopping wood with a distracted energy, "do you have a home?" He quickly follows it with, and you snort loudly.

"Christ dude, of course I have a house," though you take a moment to reconsider, "well I have a bed in the savannah," you paused, "near... near Dream's Mountain." You admitted. There's a hum, and when you look to Wilbur he's regarding you curiously.

"Still?"

"Dream doesn't operate out of there anymore," you told him candidly, "but I like it; lots of sand," you added, and Wilbur actually paused.

"Can I ask you something very frank?" He asked, leaning against the handle of his axe where it was pressing into the dirt. You nodded, "what incentive would it take for you to turn on us, and on L'manburg? If Dream offered any number of weapons or diamonds or armour, would you take it?"

"I have everything I need," you told him honestly, "and I don't think Dream could offer me enough incentive to turn against L'manburg the way it stands right now," you shrugged, but he tipped his head to the side, frowning.

"So what would it take you to turn on us individually?"

Your mouth fell open, unused to being properly listened to, properly understood.

"You listen too much," you muttered, unused to being caught out in the way you would twist words. Wilbur, seemingly surprised at your reaction, grins from ear to ear.

"You know, while you were all being arrested, I heard something; I heard someone say that you're at your most dangerous when you're unarmed and unassuming, and I think I'm starting to get it-"

"If I find Tommy's discs, I have an obligation to give them to Dream," you let the words fall from your lips in an effort to derail that train of thought, gaze on your hands as you pluck blades of grass from the ground, twisting them in your fingers. Wilbur carefully lowers himself to the ground, to your level.

"From what I understand, that seems perfectly reasonable, in your mind at least," he says with a half smile, looking to you, expression somewhat unreadable, his pause harbouring something quietly hungry; "and what about me?"

Mouth opening and closing at a sudden loss for words, you find yourself unable to look him in the eyes.

"I have no pre-existing reason to turn against you," your voice is quiet, is flat, but your forgetting fingers betray how antsy this particular shred of honesty made you.

"So, Tommy's the only one you'd throw under the bus?"

"Its up to you," you shrugged, "and I'd only steal Tommy's disc and hand them over, I wouldn't hurt him."

"Are you lying?"

"I don't lie;" your tone was harsh, looking to him with a fire in your eyes, "I will not betray them, or Tommy in any other way, so long as they are all... aligning... with... you." There's no pretty way to twist your words around it, and you can't help your faint, flustered embarrasent, "my word is my bond." Then, softer, heart in your throat, "stop looking at me, Wilbur."

"That's a lot of power you've given me there," he said with a faint laugh, "so if it's no longer in my best interest to align with them-"

"It depends on if you mean that they're no longer allies, or if they're actively hostile," you point out, "because the ways in which I would betray them if they are not my allies are... varied. If they're my active enemy, then that's more of a straightforward fight, you know?"

"And if I decided it's no longer beneficial to be allies with you?"

"You'd be smart," you tell him, knee-jerk reaction, which startles a laugh from him; you give a faint, self-conscious apology, "honestly I'd respect it, it'd be an incredibly funny move after the things I've said, you know?"

"But, no, if I betrayed you, what would you do?"

"Are you planning on betraying me?"

"Not currently," he shrugged easily, and you blinked slowly at him.

"I don't know what I'd do, not yet, but I can get planning," you said with an almost teasing air, while he splutters in protest, "yeah I know you just said you weren't planning on it, but I'm pretty sure you've lied to every single question I've asked since getting here," you paused, smile growing wider, and strangely fond, "actually I think you've lied more than you've told the truth in general since you arrived."

A second passes, then another, then finally he breaks out into laughter.

"And you accuse me of listening too much!" His expression was frankly delighted.

----

You follow them into the dark, down the stairs, listening to the way they were joking about Eret managing to come up with a nuke. The night is unassuming. Spirits are high. 

But they bring you all to a small room full of  chests. Something is wrong. You stay with Eret by the door, and he's got a hand on your shoulder - you can't run. 

"The chests are empty-" you hear Wilbur's confusion, right before Tommy asks what the button in the middle of the room does, and before he can even press it, his fingertips barely contacting the wood, you step forward -

"Easy now," Eret's voice is a gentle murmur, only for you, grip tight on your pauldron. When you look at her, a moment of silence amongst the others' confusion, his expression is… unreadable. Ice cold now, there's a sword through your chest, you can feel it where you shouldn't, followed by the searing heat of blood filling your lungs and windpipe -

"Y/N?!" Wilbur's eyes land on you as Tommy presses the button, you fall to your knees, choking on a mouthful of blood, and when your gaze locks with his, the reality of the betrayal sets in. There's horror in his eyes, and you see Tommy and Tubbo turning before you're suddenly gasping awake in your bed in L'manburg, shaking, eyes wide and goosebumps rising along your skin as you hear your comrades screaming and shouting for help, horrified at Eret's betrayal, all coming in tinny through the communicator still on your hip. You don't properly know what happened after the button was pushed, and you think that was a conscious decision.

Your first life is taken quietly, not with a bang but with a whimper.

There's something inevitable about it for you, at least in your mind, but the others didn't deserve this, didn't deserve that betrayal. You can still feel the sticky heat of the blood in your lungs, your throat, ice cold sword where it had pierced through your back, slipped between your ribs, and come out the other side. 

"It was never meant to be," Eret sounds like they’re smiling as they say it, as the others are yelling, and you realise that they're probably reviving in their own homes. You want to ask, want to demand answers, but your hands shake, and when you find your voice, all that comes out is a furious growl, low and full of venomous malice the likes of which the others had never heard from you, judging by how your voice cut through the chaotic mess of shouting.

"What the fuck did you do?" 

Eret leaves the communication channel. The silence rings in your ears.

"He betrayed us," Wilbur said, tone flat, thinly veiling his own fury at the situation, "she had us killed by Dream and his men," and then, "he killed you." Like it means something, like he's worried your apathy, or even your connection to Dream, could sway you from your anger. Like he knows betrayal of your nation means little; like he knows you well. Something about this catches in your mind; you knew it was only a matter of time before you were betrayed, but the rest of them cared - Wilbur cared enough about you to know you, and Eret had him killed too. 

Your communicator vibrates for a moment, and you look down to see a message from Wilbur himself; Where are you?

Your life was of little consequence, the same could not be said for your comrades.

"They killed me," you said softly, before you swallowed hard; home. Dig the ground by the corner of the walls near the river, you send back. "You died too; you all died. Who was there?"

"Who do you think?" Tommy cut in, loud and brimming with rage.

"It was all so fast, but I saw George, and Sap, and Dream," Tubbo cut in, voice a little shaky, bring Tommy's fury down somewhat.

"Punz was there too," Wilbur said carefully, "they have our things." And you stay quiet as they rage, as you sit in your bed, unable to get up, mind moving a thousand miles a minute as you try and figure out how to process all of this, what it all means. It doesn't take too long before there's sunlight streaming into your little, cosy hovel, followed by Wilbur climbing down the ladder provided, packing dirt into the hole he'd made to keep your location secret. 

When he gets to the bottom of the ladder, he takes a deep breath - Tommy and Tubbo are chattering away, audible over both your communicators. Making eye contact, finally, he doesn't quiet seem to know what to do, or where to go. You turn off your communicator. Everything tastes like iron. You don't move. He leans against the wall by the ladder, closing his eyes tightly for few moments, and slowly sliding down, sinking to the ground. 

"Wilb- mate are you alright? Where are you?" Tommy's voice rings out from the communicator still on Wilbur's hip, and he sighs deeply.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just need a few moments, I'll be with you soon," and he turns off the communicator before getting a response. 

Silence. Deafening silence.

"I'm sorry," your voice is a whisper, but it's clearly audible in this little room. 

"What?" Tone immediately defensive and sharp, Wilbur's eyes snap open and he looks to you with a glare.

"No, I- I've had betrayal coming for a long time, but you- you all didn't deserve that," you clarified, hand on your chest, feeling the raised, tender scar tissue where the sword had come out - it had slid through your sternum like fucking butter, it had been so cold, even as the points where it had touched your clothes caught fire, even as it melted through the metal of your armour - your hand starts to shake. Everything tastes like iron. 

"What happened?"

"What did Eret say to you?" His question surprised you, and when you look to him, his gaze is hard and cold.

"Easy now," you remember, "held me back when I went to step forwards, and ran their sword through me before the button had even properly been pressed -"

"I saw," Wilbur's voice was softer.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you -" your lip was trembling, shake in your words as you drew your knees up to your chest. 

"You didn't know, you couldn't have-"

"I could have done more, I could have done something -" the tears start to fall.

"Dream's guard were laying in wait, and the button was their cue to ambush us," Wilbur explained carefully, "but you…" he swallowed hard, "I watched you die." He sounded furious and disgusted, looking at his own hands, twisted into claw-like shapes, ruminating on his own helplessness at the situation.

"You're the only one who noticed," you said, barely audible, "I don't think you were meant to notice."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I wasn't meant to see what happened, and it was meant to be assumed that I died in the skirmish," you said, tone flat and bitter, before your tone grows malicious, "because Dream is a coward."

"I wasn't meant to notice?" He asks, voice weak.

"No-one was; dying in the skirmish is less targeted, but if I had glimpsed any of their team killing -" You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze, "any," you push the word to hide that it's not exactly the truth, "of you… Dream knows I am more than capable of exacting revenge." There was a dark truth to your words that Wilbur couldn’t even begin to fathom, a history he was unaware of.

"I do notice you," Wilbur says, and you're brought from your bitterness momentarily, surprised by the earnestness of his words. He stands, "and I've never heard you speak like this before." 

"There are rules," you tell him, watching him cross the room to your bed, to sit by your side, "and I don't expect the same level of honesty that I give, but I expect- I expect- I-" but you can't find the words for what you're trying to say, sitting forward scowling at your hands.

"You would have let him betray us all still if you'd know, wouldn't you? You would have even let her kill you," Wilbur's tone is alight with realisation, and your mouth drops open with surprise; yes, yes of course you would, how did he put it into words like that? He doesn't even sound particularly hurt by that realisation, more fascinated.

"I absolutely would have," you answer.

"But you had no idea," its not accusatory in the slightest, his tone matching yours, alright with bright interest, "which is why- why- why you're so- why you're reacting like this," its like he's trying to piece together how he sees you out loud, "you need to know where all the chess pieces are, what moves are being made, you're not playing as much as you are a spectator delighting in the chaos of it all, with a front row seat." But he's grinning from ear to ear. Your whole body is alight with the instinct to reach out and touch him, to prove he's real and not something you're imagining, because no one else has even cared to figure you out like this, and no one would even come close to reacting so brightly about it. 

"I'm sorry I'm like this," you say with a momentary huff of disbelieving laughter, but he reaches out and puts a hand on your knee. The contact burns. You look down at his hand like you can't quite believe it, head swimming, trying to process this all. 

"Don't be; knowledge is power and you never lie," he pointed out, "you're a good ally to have." Your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest. Wilbur Soot I'd die for you; the words press against your teeth until it's almost painful, and his hand is still on your knee. You grab it - he's real, he's here, the things he's said are real too!

"I won't betray you," is what you say instead, and Wilbur's expression turns to surprise in the face of your earnestness, your seriousness. You never lie; the thing he's said is playing on both of your minds at this moment, of this you're sure.

"You shouldn't say things like that," he says very carefully.

"Then you understand the full extent of what I'm saying, don't you?" You take his hand now in a handshake, palm to palm, "Wilbur Soot, I will never betray you."

"You have never lied to me," he said, voice low and serious, demanding an answer. You meet his gaze.

"I have never lied to you," you affirm, before adding, "you know me." And you're fairly certain he doesn't quite understand the importance of that, that his understanding of you is the reason for your loyalty. "You don't have to extend the same sentiment, don't worry, like I said I don't expect the same lev of honesty -"

"I will not willingly betray you, Y/N," Wilbur says, matching your earnest seriousness, "and I will attempt to only be honest with you." 

----

“What is it about you?” There was a strange quality to Dream’s voice as he voices a question that had seemingly been weighing on him for a long while. Wilbur, where he was trying to fit all of his friends’ equipment on his person to carry back to them, snaps his attention to Dream, brow furrowed. 

"What?" 

"Loyalty is the one thing Y/N covets above all else, and yet for some reason they’ve given it freely to you -” Dream’s voice was smooth and thoughtful, like he’s not quite aware he’s speaking out loud. 

“Maybe it’s because I respect them -”

“I respected them, but still...” he trailed off; again the idea of a darker shared history between you and Dream makes itself known. Wilbur's scowl deepened, "I don’t think they genuinely respected me... or anyone, before you. They get possessive, like dangerously possessive, but you’re different." 

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know the thing they do, the way they can talk around people and topics without even lying, and make it look, you know, like it’s easy?” And the minute the words leave Dream's mouth, Wilbur's gaze drops; of course he'd noticed.

"They’ve got a way with words," Wilbur's agrees, slowly, eyes narrowed. At the defensive notes in Wilbur’s voice, the smile dropped from Dream’s face. He’s seen this loyalty before, but never before in someone you yourself were loyal to in turn. This is uncharted territory. This suddenly feels like a dangerous conversation to be having. 

“Everything they’ve done is to amuse themselves, so you make no sense to me; what about you is so compelling that they find entertainment in playing revolution?”

“Maybe,” Wilbur says, tone light but clearly well thought out, “someone who is used to listening to everyone else finds a certain novel charm in being heard.” His gaze is icy, but he’s not looking at Dream; he’s standing at the end of the room, gaze hard as he looks at the door, as if focusing intently on something in his mind as he spoke; “I think you assume everyone believes in the ideals that their side stands for, and I also think,” he narrows his eyes, still staring into space. Despite not being the target of his glare, Dream, for the first time in the conversation, feels a strangely familiar powerlessness, “that you underestimate an individual’s loyalty to another individual, rather than to a cause,” he paused, “or a nation.” 

“I’ll fight for you, of course, but I can’t kill any of those kids -” in Dream’s mind, he’s taken back to the moment he’d recruited you to his side after he’d stolen Tommy’s discs. You’re looking up at him from where you’re leaning over a grindstone, sharpening your axe. When he’d asked why, you blinked slowly at him, “I’ve barely spoken to them; I can’t discern if they deserve it.” There’s something cold in your eyes as you look at him, and he hears it clear as day without you needing to say it out loud; I don’t kill people I don’t know.

Something about Wilbur in this moment reminds Dream of you. He feels the faded scar on his collar bone ache faintly; the part of him that had wanted to somehow warn Wilbur of your true nature was quickly growing quiet in the back of his mind.

Then, Wilbur looks at his own hands for a moment, before digging through his bag, through the various belongings he was now carrying. He pulls out your axe, and looks back up at the space by the door. Then, to the button, before finally looking at Dream, your axe still in hand, but it rested by his side, nonthreatening. Dream can’t look away from the weapon.

“You were laying in wait for us in the name of your nation,” Wilbur says, tone strangely neutral; he looks back at the door; “you complain about a lack of respect but won’t warn them when they’re about to die.” This is where he’d watched you die; that, atop the various other insights Wilbur has shared here have Dream’s blood running cold. Dream wants to argue that you would have tipped them off, but his words die on his tongue; he at least knew you better than to interfere in a good plan, an entertaining plan, where you would be able to watch the effects of a major plot twist play out in real time, even if it meant you too had to be sacrified... And Wilbur knew this about you too.

“I see,” Dream muses, trying to hide how shaken he was by the moment that had just passed, “you’re starting to make more sense now.”

“And you know what,” Wilbur said, unsettling tension breaking as he grinned, “I think you’re making more sense too; Y/N’s willingness to still bring up their loyalty to you does at least.”

“Their loyalty to me?”

“They still look out for Tommy’s discs on your behalf,” he said candidly, “we all know, but they’re yet to find them so Tommy’s yet to have a proper go at them.”

“It’s always sunny in L’Manberg then,” Dream says, dryly. 

“It’s... amusing, to try and see the world the way you see it,” Wilbur’s chipper, but there’s something almost malicious in his bright tone, and Dream’s hair stands on end. His own words haunt him, your loyalty called into question; did you simply help him because you found him trivial and amusing? While it doesn’t exactly surprise him, it stings in a way he didn’t expect. Looking back at Wilbur, it’s clear that at least some of Dream’s feelings about this particular revelation showed on his face, despite his best efforts. Wilbur’s grin was cheshire-esque. Even his smugness somehow had an echo of yours. 

He leaves. Dream feels sick, alone in the final control room.

----

"Can I ask you something?" Wilbur asks tentatively, and you look away from the furnace you'd patiently been waiting to smelt your iron ore.

"Of course."

Another long pause; you approached him where he was sitting at the table, watching you with reservation. 

"What happened between you and Dream?"

Surprisingly, your expression dropped to something blank in an instant, gaze going glassy. 

“He’s my friend,” you say flatly, turning back to the furnace, but not before Wilbur caught a glimpse of your grimace.

“I think he was trying to warn me against you,” Wilbur huffs a faint laugh, but it’s more to test your reaction; when you turn back, your expression is wide and innocent, almost pleading.

“What did he say?”

“That I’m the first person you’ve shown actual respect to,” Wilbur says, tone light but words blunt; it surprises you, which he can read on your face, and you hesitate for a moment, not wanting to confirm or deny as much. His smile grows wider, grows endeared, “and he did say you tend to get possessive.” Your gentle, flustered nature turns into something colder at that, and you look to your hands.

“He says a lot of things,” you mutter, with an air of bitterness. It’s interesting interacting with you; half the time you still seem to try and put on an act around him, though the other half you seem to let yourself be as honest as you’re able, “he says a lot of things to the people I like, then they like me less.” Then, suddenly, you look to him, defiance in your eyes, “I don’t care what he said, I’m not using you, Wilb-”

“Hold on, he never said anything like that,” he holds up his hands, defensive, placating. Your eyes go wide and your mouth snaps shut; you can’t look at him, sitting down, hunching in on yourself. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, sighing deeply enough that your shoulders sag, “Dream is my friend, I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I thought... he’s taken things from me like this before, things I, well...” you can’t quite put it into words, but Wilbur sits back, watching you, when something in his mind clicks.

“Covet.” His voice was soft with understanding, gentle as he asks “who was it?”

You blink slowly; there was something visceral and feral burning through your veins. You’d spent so long intricately designing the way the world would see you, this single moment feels like you’re on the knife’s edge trying to figure out if having him understanding you is endearing and heartwarming, or cloying and dangerous. He promised he wouldn’t betray you, but he’s not as honest as you’ve trained yourself to be. 

But you promised not to betray him, and you’ve become someone defined by your word. All you can do is leave, if that’s what you want. You can’t lash out, you must let him live with the way he knows you, with no promise to keep it to himself. Self preservation is the way your fingers flex, aching for your axe.

“I’ve given you too much power over me,” you swallow hard, hands in fists. 

“You won’t hurt me, though.”

“We both know I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“And you do want to,” he says it like it’s a fact, all light and neutral. You keep your mouth shut; you can’t lie if you don’t speak, no matter how sweet you know it would taste to lie. “I have never felt fear or anger like I felt when I watched you die,” he breaks the silence. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter through clenched teeth, staring intently at the floor.

“You’re not to blame,” he says easily, “none of us deserved that; you didn’t deserve that.” 

“You didn’t deserve to see that,” you corrected automatically. 

“I thought you wanted to hurt me.”

“Well I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he says, tone still light. You glance a look at him, only to see him resting his chin in his hand, regarding you with a gentle smile. The distinction stings in your mind, the way he clearly understands your internal conflict, it sets your teeth on edge, “you knew what you were getting into when you offered your loyalty; Dream was confused, you know, about why you’d given it so freely when you covet it -” that word again, your expression twists into something frustrated as you drop your gaze back to your hands, “- but he doesn’t really get you, does he?”

“He likes to think he’s like me,” you mutter, “but then he acts like he’s better, like he’s building a family from this war, but he’s going to be left with people filled with resentments. I was aquiring resources, but he didn’t like my methods...”

“Who?” Softer this time, Wilbur asks.

After a very, very long time, you look to him, gaze shallow.

“I thought Quackity was like you, I thought he’d understand.”

“Understand you?”

“Understand the world, the truth,” you wet your lips for a moment, “but he clung to pretty words without question; I could see he had potential, so I kept him around, and it was easy - it was so fuckin’ easy -” You recount how you’d set your sights on loud-mouthed, brash, desperate for recognition Quackity, and how you’d made him your whole world, bombing him with affection and attention, making him feel understood, like the place he belonged was by your side. Quackity had always looked for somewhere to belong, that hadn’t changed, though you muse that you may have made it harder for him to trust it when he finally found a place where he felt like he belonged. 

“Everything I fed him was a lie I’d laced with something that sounded close enough to love and sincerity that he’d believed it,” you looked down at where you were tracing shapes on the back of Wilbur’s hand as he listened intently, “I gave him nothing, but made him believe he had everything, until... until I wanted to see how far I could go. I wanted to see if he’d die for me... and he would have, until Dream decided to grow some morals.” You stood, sudden fury burning through your veins at the memory, “he had to sew the fuckin’ seeds of doubt in Q’s mind, had to pick holes in my lies -”

“You lied that much?” This seemed to genuinely shock Wilbur, and you stopped your pacing to look to him.

“It’s why I don’t lie; it’s harder to pick holes in the truth, harder to undermine me,” your lip curled, “Q lost faith in me, stopped trusting me, and there was fucking nothing I could do about it; it was my fault, honestly, so I don’t lie anymore. I’m upfront about who I am. I only keep people around if they’re useful, or they’re entertaining, because that’s the other fucking thing I learned; nothing fucking matters more than keeping me happy, because everyone gets too serious for their own good in the end. Dream was fun before he- he- he-”

“So am I useful or entertaining?” Wilbur asks, and you freeze. Then, slowly, you take a deep breath.

“It was novel to feel understood.”

“And now it’s bloody terrifying you,” he says gently, “because as much as you want to, you can’t trust anyone as much as you trust yourself.”

“I understand people, Wilbur, and no-one I’ve ever met has understood the inherent benefit to honesty the way I have.”

“But you still promised me your loyalty.” He says. You swallowed hard, nodding once. You meet his gaze, refusing to break it, refusing to back down, waiting for him to elaborate. “And I promised you mine, as best I could,” he pauses gives you an evaluative look over, “I can’t trust people, obviously, but I know I can trust you.”

“People don’t like me when they realise I can pick them apart, that I can rewire and reprogram them like I’m an engineer,” and Wilbur regards you curiously as you say this, like he’s going to try and counter it, but you square your shoulders, “even you, Wilbur; do you think, when we met, you’d still trust me if I was upfront about this?” And he closes his mouth, thoughtful, “I wanted so desperately to keep around the first person to halfway understand me, you’re impressed rather than fucking terrified like you should be. Because you know it’s true.”

“Are you trying to push me away?”

“We both know you won’t go,” you say with the faintest, self-deprecating smile, “a stalemate of respect, of our own design.” Then, your expression turned serious, “I have never felt fear or anger like I did when I realised you watched me die.”

Then, very slowly, his gaze meets yours, hard-edged and dark.

“Do you trust me as much as I trust you?” It’s a loaded question; he’s never been given any reason to doubt you, mostly thanks to your honesty and loyalty, but you’d never been afforded that same assurance. But in this instance, it didn’t matter, you knew your answer without a shred of doubt.

“Yes, absolutely.”

----

Its said a shark can smell blood in the water from a mile away, and you, you know there's a traitor living a peaceful life up in the castle. It irritates you, sets your teeth on edge; it's not that they killed you that bothers you, it's that they were careless about it, they let the one person you never wanted to hurt watch you die. The event had shaken Wilbur; the taking of your life was not the matter you cared about. 

"You okay?" Others had noticed how distracted you were; in your mind, all you could see was the shocked horror in Wilbur's eyes, and the feeling of the blade in your back. Blinking quickly, back to the present, you smiled brightly at Tubbo, or as brightly as you could manage.

"Of course." 

You watch the others sparring and training together and your hands ball into fists, as if aching for a fight. But you've got an image to keep up; you're not the brawn here, you're a jester, you're meant to keep those who you care about smiling. 

"You ever wanna hold a sword to my neck like that..." you tone is suggestive as you trail off, grinning at Wilbur, who's got his sword poised beneath a training dummy's chin, glaring at it with ferocity. The moment you call out, however, his focus break, and you see him fighting back a smile as a flush works its way up his cheeks.

"Come test your luck then," he calls back, and you blinked quickly.

"I don't want to fight you, Wilbur," you tell him, quieter, hoping it comes off as soft, as something endeared.

"You should know how to fight," he points out, lowering his sword, digging the tip into the dirt as he leans on the pommel a little.

"I know how to fight," you counter, and a long moment of silence follows as he considers that.

"How have I never seen you with a weapon then?"

"You have, you just haven’t seen me use it as a weapon." You tell him rather pointedly, voice low, and though you’re still smiling, there’s something sharp at the edge of your voice that’s unfamiliar to him. It takes him aback, and for a long moment he’s silent as he regards you with a newfound seriousness, “I’m just a jester; what’s a jester want with a sword anyways?” You half laugh, a little louder now, gaze flicking to the others milling around nearby. Nobody outwardly acknowledges you, nobody apart from Wilbur, who just frowns. His gaze is trained on a spot just past your head, where you know the hilt of your axe sits. 

You know you need to act soon, the idea of Eret living in the lap of luxury after everything that happened has your blood boiling. It's getting out of hand. It's getting distracting. 

"You're very observant," you note, tone fond as you come back to the moment. Wilbur surfaces from his memories too, his own smile turning all kinds of fond.

"Out of necessity," he points out, making his way over to you. There's something about his tone that is fond, is knowing, and it melts your heart a little, those hints of understanding that no-one else had bothered to afford you. The person who'd betrayed the only person to understand you had been crowned king; soon, your retribution would come soon. 

"What's bothering you?" Quiet enough that no-one else could hear, Wilbur reaches out, fingertips gentle on your cheek as he tips your face, has you look him in the eyes. You wonder what he sees when he looks in them, because for a brief second, for a flash, again you see the memory of silent horror as he'd watched you lose your first life. You swallow hard, and close your eyes, leaning into his touch for the briefest moment. 

"I keep thinking about what Eret did," your voice is barely more than a whisper, giving only the truth, no attempt made to obfuscate it, like you usually would. Wilbur was quiet. You didn't want to open your eyes, didn't want to witness his reaction, but he's quiet. 

You don’t tell him what you’re going to do, what you’re planning; there’s no need for him to worry unnecessarily. If you survive, you survive, and if you don’t, well you have another life to fall back on. If you wake up in bed with a new scar and one less life, that was your decision to make. No-one should worry on your behalf, but Eret needed to know that their actions would have consequences. 

So you choose a night where the moon is overshadowed by clouds, and take your axe with you. 

You’ve always been one to make an entrance, and even now you don’t disappoint, laying in wait for as long as it takes, hours spent dead silent and idle, simply waiting.

"You should be very careful if things don't go exactly to plan," finally your voice rings out through the throne room, and Eret, all dark hair and pale eyes, stops dead where they'd been passing through. Slowly, so slow its almost painful, they turn to look at you. You, draped in the throne like you own the place, axe leaning carefully against the arm of the seat. Your name escapes her mouth like a curse.

"It did go to plan," she hisses, tone guarded. 

"If it had gone to plan, I wouldn't be here," you say, shifting a little, sitting a little lower, "if your timing had been better," you paused with a shark-like smile, "I may have been the only person in L'manburg to have no issue with your betrayal," and finally you look at him, watching his face as he tries to piece together what you mean, why you're here, "on paper I admire you." You tell them callously. Their lip curls in derision.

"Dream said you'd see my side," they say carefully.

"Dream says a lot of things to a lot of people," for a moment, your expression darkens, "I'm sure he told you to kill me first."

"To avoid…" she trails off, frown deepening. Your smile returns, wide and dangerous.

"You broke something of mine, Eret," you tell him seriously, a mad glint in your eyes, "and part of your plan worked like a charm; I won't go after anyone else because I've got plausible deniability, I didn't see who killed who in that skirmish." 

"Then why the fuck are you here?"

"Because you killed me, and Wilbur watched; it's all he could do. It was a cruel thing that you did, making someone feel helpless like that."

"You're not here because I killed you?"

"Why would I be? I'm a court jester," you huffed a little laugh, smile turning cruel, "but you used me to make Wilbur sad, and someone's got to take the blame for upsetting the thing I like."

"If that's true, why spend all this time talking? Why not just kill me?"

"Because I like to make sure you get my message; Dream's heard my message, he tried to tell you," this is where you stand, finally, rising, gaze shallow, picking up your axe as you go. Slowly, you descend the steps of the throne, and Eret draws his sword. There's uncertainty in his eyes; he's close to where you want him.

"You're stalling."

"The more I talk, the more you try and remember what people have said about me, don't you? But they don't talk about how I fight, it's never been the most impressive thing about me," you give a low, guttural laugh, axe low in your tight grip, "I'm most dangerous when I'm unarmed and unarmoured, right? That's what they say, right? What do you think that means, really think about it?" 

Eret swallows hard.

"It means that you're all talk," he's trying to put up a confident front, but you watch him tighten his grip on his sword. You raise your axe.

"Not quite." 

There's nothing elegant about the way you attack, movement uncharacteristically blunt with speed that surprised the King before you. Teeth bared, you slash and duck and weave, playing dirty, tripping them up. You take hits and lash out, snarling and spitting with anger until there's no mirth, only malice, and you bring your boot down on their hand, knee pressed to their throat. There's fear behind their glasses. There's a cut above your brow, blood trickling down your face, slashes along your arms, certainly a few on your chest, but Eret's on her back on the cold floor of the throne room.

"You have no fucking idea of what I'm fully capable of," you snarl, leaning in close to their face, applying pressure until they drop their sword, hissing in pain, "this is your only warning; if you hurt- if you fucking touch my things again, I'll make it stick-" and leaning back, you use your axe to separate their head from their shoulders, taking their first life. 

And you're alone, breath coming out shakily, gasping as the adrenaline courses through you. Somewhere in the castle, Eret is waking up with your words echoing in their head. You should leave. Standing slowly, you cast a derisive look to the blood stain on the floor, the only proof of the altercation. Someone else's problem. 

You leave through the front doors, still carrying your bloodstained axe. Really, he should have better security. 

At the doors to the castle, you pause, casting a derisive look over your shoulder; this all could have been avoided. You pull out your communicator, flicking through your contacts.

[keep your things on a shorter leash] you send to Dream. He should have chosen more carefully, or been more insistent. But that was his problem; if he kept up like this, you may have to start questioning your friendship with him. 

But there's something cathartic that comes as the adrenaline is depleting. It's said that revenge doesn't provide the cathartic relief that one hopes for, but you weren't looking for revenge as much as you were looking to send a message. And you're fairly certain that message was thoroughly received. Eret had been afraid, deeply and truly afraid; you'd seen it in her eyes. It made up for the fear you had seen in Wilbur's. 

You breathe a deep sigh, letting your shoulders relax for a moment; you head home.

There's static in your ears as you travel back to L'manburg, and you don't quite register that you're back on your nation's soil until you hear shouts. Tommy, Tubbo; the children, they spot you covered in blood that's both yours and not, and they're full of concern. You smile. The wound on your head starts to ache a little, the adrenaline wearing off fully.

"Don't worry about me -" you try, unable to keep the fondness from your voice.

"Wilbur!" Tommy hollers, because he knows. Everyone knows. You've staked your claim enough that even your allies know where to turn when you're acting out of character. It has you laughing, quietly at first - Dream had tried to warn Eret, how stupid must they be to ignore that, to not follow his instructions to the letter? - but your laughter only gets louder as Tubbo takes off, also calling for Wilbur ad Tommy, genuinely concerned, asks what the fuck happened to you.

"I'm a jester," you laugh, eyes a little wild as you look to the child, "I'm just a fucking jester! A messenger! Can't kill the messenger," there's something wild, something feral about you, covered in blood with a grin that's all teeth, bloody and bruised and covering a bloodstained axe. Tommy takes a step back, wary and quiet. His eyes are wide as he looks to your axe. 

"I thought you used a bow," he says quietly. Your smile grows wider.

"I'm a bad shot with a bow," you tell him seriously. He blinks slowly, processes your words.

"You shot me," there's apprehension in his voice. He's getting it. Perhaps you should take more caution here; you don't want to break the illusion of you he sees.

"I didn't know you then," is what you say, and see the confusion and vague horror as he tries to figure out what you mean by that. But he's interrupted.

"What did you do?" Wilbur doesn't see the humour in your appearance, he seems like he's barely containing rage. When all you do is grin, giving a slight shrug, he turns to Tommy, tells him he'll take care of you, that the boy should join Tubbo. Tommy looks between the two of you; he tells Wilbur to be careful. You laugh again, bright and loud, and Tommy and Wilbur both frown at you, but at least Tommy follows Wilbur's directions.

With the kid gone, Wilbur turns on his heel, making a beeline for where he knows you've hidden your living area, and you follow him without question.

In your house, his voice turns softly malevolent;

"Who did this to you?" Oh. Your heart catches in your throat, and the surprise must read on your face; despite his furious expression he's gentle when he takes hold of your wrist, leading you to your basin.

"You don't need to worry about me," you tell him softly, though you obligingly sit on the edge of the basin. You lean your axe up behind you.

"You're covered in blood," he points out, gaze flicking for a moment to meet yours as the water runs, filling the basin up. 

"Only some of its mine," you try, endeared by the care he was showing, "I just had to deliver a message, that's all."

"You look like you had to go through hell for it," he muses.

"You don't need to worry about me, Wilbur," and you reach out to take his hand where he's dousing a washcloth in the water. He goes still. 

"What message?" He asks, finally conceding, tone finally soft. He flips your hand, carefully wiping the blood from it. 

"People need to be more careful who they use me against," you say idly, and Wilbur is quiet as he works diligently away, cleaning the blood from your hands, from your arms when you offer them. 

"I kept seeing the moment you saw me die," you tell him softly, voice barely more than a whisper as he's rinsing the blood from the cloth. He gives pause; you continue, "I expect betrayal, but I can't imagine how it must feel to have to watch that and be unable to do anything; I suppose that's why Dream told them to kill me first. If their timing wasn't perfect, I'd see one of you slaughtered - I could have seen you slaughtered," you muse, looking down at your hands, at the blood beneath your nails. Carefully, Wilbur finally lifts your chin so he can gently dab at the wound on your forehead, looking as though he was holding back a fond smile. "But I think what happened was worse; I never want to be the source of your unhappiness, on purpose or not," then finally, you look to his eyes, to how he's focusing, and your heart beats hard against your ribs, "I don't want you to worry about me." It's barely more than a whisper, far more honest than the candid way you'd said as much earlier. 

"What did you do?" It's fond now, much lighter than the situation at hand called for, and for a moment he meets your gaze, smiling ever so slightly, your face still in his hands.

His eyes are so dark, you never want him to stop looking at you like this; these feelings are already becoming dangerous, on the verge of swallowing you whole. You need him closer. It had been a blood sacrifice to atone for that look in his eyes.

You will never have the words to tell him all you’re willing to do for him. 

"The king is dead," you tell him, "long live the king." 

----

"Surprised you weren't optioned as their VP," Quackity's smile was all teeth as he slid into the booth, across from you. 

"Surprised you were," you fired back, glad for his company; the two of you don't talk like you once did, but you'd always held a fondness for him.

"POG2020 here to drown their sorrows at losing?" He asked, tone edging on something almost mean, but stopping just short.

"Those of them that can drink," you'd grinned, gaze turning to the bar where Wilbur was glaring into a half drunk pint, "he promised me a drink half an hour ago," but you're tone was fond. Quackity makes a noise of sudden understanding.

"That's why you weren't his VP," he says, sitting a little lower in his seat, expression smug, but eyes alight like a tiger with his interest piqued. You make a noise like you have no idea what he's talking about, "poor form, really, looks bad if he's sleeping with his VP."

"You dirty fuckin pervert," but your grin gets wider as your tone gets flustered, "we're not fucking!"

"But you want to," his grin gets wider, "late nights at the office, just the two of you, all alone, its stressful, it's a tough job you know-" his tone is low, teasing in a way that means you can't meet his eyes, but his tone shifts as he seems to hear what he's saying, "hey do you wanna come work with me?" It's mostly a joke, smile turning to something genuine with the way it crinkles by his eyes, and the tension from mere moments ago disappears, and you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand with a sly smile.

"Depends on the benefits," you match his earlier tone, teasing and low, and he mirrors your positioning, face now close to yours, close to the middle of the table.

"I'm sure I could talk Schlatt into something reasonable for the other benefits," he's still smiling, still mostly joking, as were you, though you couldn't deny the thought of being Quackity's assistant and part of the Jschlatt Administration was deeply amusing given your recent history.

"You really in the market for an assistant?" Your tone was brighter, far less joking, and for an instant, Quackity flushed an amusing shade of pink.

"I could be- this was meant to be a bit-" 

"You here to rub my nose in it, Quackity?" Wilbur's voice, when it joined the pair of you, was accusatory, and though you don't move from your surprisingly intimate moment, Quackity's eyes slide to the side, to watch Wilbur side effortlessly into the seat beside you. 

"Former President Soot," Quackity grinned, but instead of watching Wilbur's reaction, he looked back at you, raising a single, almost challenging eyebrow. Wilbur, at the very least, ignores the comment.

"You conspiring against me?" He asks, mostly directed at you, and while Quackity tries to snort and play it off, you can feel Wilbur's hand slide down the length of your back coming to rest at your hip, arm now around you, and you lean out of your moment with Quackity and into his touch.

Something in Quackity’s gaze turns cold, like he’s awash with memories long past, like he’s quietly mad at himself for losing himself in the moment with you, for forgetting any part of what you’d put him through. 

"Not in a technical sense, but I also hadn't agreed to anything," you tell him, finally looking at him. As you settle into the space beside him, his arm moves to wrap around your shoulders, fingers resting gently on your upper arm; it's a clearly possessive gesture. Something in your heart bursts with warmth.

Looking to him, you see he's looking back at you, expression burning, question in his eyes; was I interrupting? Your grin turns sharper. If he had been interrupting, you're more than capable of telling him to fuck off, but just having him around reminds you that this is better than any alternative. 

"Oh," Quackity's voice was alight with realisation, breaking the moment, and you turn to him as Wilbur leans into you a little more, "you would have made the worst VP," he practically crows, tone more mocking than it was light, "you wouldn't have made it a week."

"Don't be a prick," Wilbur scowled, "if they'd wanted the job they of course would have been more than welcome to it -"

"Good old fashioned nepotism," Quackity, sounding especially smug, did little to brighten Wilbur's mood, who was set to mumble something else snide before Quackity's eyes fixed on you, "wait, you didn't want to be VP? I was actually right, wasn't I? You knew exactly what would happen, yet somehow he doesn't?! Have you even seen yourselves? How does he not - Ow!" You kick him in the shins under the table. Hard. 

"What the fuck are you on about?" Wilbur asks, as Quackity brings his leg up to rub at his sore shin. He's still fucking grinning. Asshole.

"Keep your dirty little mouth closed, Q," you warned. 

"Don't worry, I know its not my dirty little mouth you're interested in- fucking ow, Y/N!"

"Good," Wilbur's voice in your ear is warm and pleased and he's leaning on you now, solid and tipsy with his forehead against the side of your head, "he's being a dick, you have terrible friends you know."

"You'd be the worst," you murmur back, voice syrupy and full of affection as Wilbur actually giggles, not even bothering to try and contradict you. Quackity, across from you and still rubbing his shins, mimes gagging. 

"Go be Vice President, Quackity," Wilbur sneers.

"Don't be a salty bitch, Mister Former President," Quackity's lip curls. 

"Kick him in the shins again, my love," the nickname alone, Wilbur in your ear, it has your heart in a vice-like grip, and Quackity must see it in your eyes how eager you are to follow through because he draws his knees up to his chest with gusto, flipping you both off. You laugh.

"Love you, Q," you tell him with sincerity, out of habit. When he tells you to shut up, there’s nothing joking in his tone in that moment, gaze avoiding yours as he’s shimmying from the booth.

"You're so generous with your words," Wilbur's voice is a gentle sigh, something wanting, something almost forlorn. For a moment your breath catches in your throat, but before you can respond, before you can even think of a response, he's already talking again, "what was he on about anyways? Talking shit about you like he has any right to, you would have made a great VP, I asked, you know I asked -" he sits up, as if worried that you think he thinks less of you, but his arm is still around you.

"Will your the only one who wanted me to be VP," which isn't a lie, but in your trademark fashion, it also wasn't the whole truth. 

"They don't trust you with a nation," he sounded so bitter, and for a moment your heart stutters in your chest. 

"They shouldn't," you tell him softly. 

"Do you like Quackity more than me?"

"I think I probably like him more than you like him, yes."

"That wasn't what I was asking and you knew that," then his voice drops, something in his eyes as serious as you've ever seen, "do you like Dream more than me?"

"Wilbur…"

"I know- I know you're close, I know, I just… I need to know, you know?"

"Will…" and as you say his name, voice a hesitant murmur, he cups your face.

"You don't have to- to be worried if you do, I just need to know, for me, it's selfish but I need to know for me; I'd understand, of course of course I'd understand, you two have history-" and his gaze is boring into you, eyes wide and dark and you can't find the words for how much you want him to hold you close, hold you tight and never let go. 

You hesitate. You drop his gaze.

"You do," he sounds heartbroken, his grip on you grows slack.

"I have never lied to you, Wilbur," your tone is nervous and hesitant, "but I'm afraid of answering, I'm afraid of what it means."

"You'd… you'd betray me for him?" Drunk and emotional, he sits back, but your hands are shaking. 

"Wilbur, I'm afraid of answering because… you're wrong. It's you. Over Big Q, over Dream, over everyone… Wilbur I-" your voice caught in your throat, words too honest by half, so you swallow them, choose safer ones, "will choose you," you let out a shaky sigh, "you have my loyalty." 

His eyes were wide as saucers, shiny and overwhelmed and emotional and then he's holding you so tight it's like a vice, face pressed into the crook of your neck.

"You've always had my vote," you tell him faintly, and he holds you tighter still. 

"You," he whispers incredulously, not even your name, just, "its you." And your mind hears them said like a mirror, like he himself can't quite believe your honestly. 

----

“They’re exiling you,” you hear Quackity before you see him; they’ve got you locked away, and probably for good reason, but also probably at his insistence.

“It’s better than the death penalty,” you say, huffing a laugh.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” his tone is gentle but reserved, and when you finally look up from your hands, elbows braced on your knees, you see him leaning on the bars of your cage. It’s too dark to read his expression, but you can tell from his voice, “just play nice with Schlatt and you can stay a citizen.”

“Play nice?” You asked with the faintest of smirks, “what does that entail exactly?”

This is where he grows quiet, crouching down and looking at the floor, mouth in a thin line.

“You’re good at playing nice, it shouldn’t be hard,” you can’t mistake the bitterness in his voice, and you give pause, “just say it was an act, your loyalty to that dictator, Wilbur.”

“Lie, so I can swap out one perceived dictator for another?” You asked softly.

“Helping run a campaign for the former president only to admit that you don’t actually give a shit, and stay loyal to the man who won by forming a coalition with the two losing parties, that sounds exactly like something you’d do,” he pointed out, and there’s something in his voice you can’t identify, something akin to faint desperation, though you can’t quite understand why. But still, something catches in your throat. 

“Isn’t it funnier to stay loyal to the former president who lost after the two losing parties formed a secret coalition? To the point of exile?”

“Can’t you just play nice? Can’t you just lie?”

“You wanna keep me around that bad?” You asked, faintly teasing edge to your words, but as soon as he stands, as soon as he speaks, you can hear him growing defensive.

“I’m the Vice President trying to offer an olive branch to a potentially skilled ally,” he sniped, “don’t get it twisted.”

“I’m not going to lie to try and play nice with the dictator who stole the nation from the person I’m loyal to,” you tell him, blunt. Quackity is quiet for a very long moment. 

“Dream ‘ll be heartbroken,” his voice is suddenly strangely rough, “someone’s knocked him out as top fuckin’ dog in your little, black heart -”

“Q,” it’s finally clicked, and you don’t know what else to say. 

----

“I want you to know what I’m capable of,” you say softly, looking up at the stars. Then, slowly, you look at Wilbur, who’s regarding you with interest, “everyone ends up afraid of me,” you tell him, “and it might be self sabotage, but I want you to fear me too. I’m not used to love, I’m not used to understanding.” 

“More honest than usual tonight,” he muses with a gentle smile.

“If I’m not feared I feel like I’m being underestimated.”

“It sounds like self sabotage.”

“I feel violent today,” then, looking up at the stars you take a deep breath, “I love you. I don’t think I’ve said that before; I love you, Wilbur.”

“You love me and you want me to fear you,” he says slowly. His gaze follows the tense set of your shoulders, “not used to loving someone?” You shake your head. 

“I want to cut off your head, just so you know I could,” you tell him, hands behind your back, gaze skyward, “I think I want to fuck you, but I’m not sure, I’m really not used to loving someone, not genuinely. I don’t think I know how to love you in a way that makes sense.” 

Finally, you turn to him, expression neutral, while inside you were alight with nerves. He’s watching you, dark eyes thoughtful. You swallow hard.

“I’m trying to push you away,” you tell him without hesitation, “because I’ve given you too much power over me, and I-” you voice catches, your façade cracking, and finally you drop your gaze, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m like this.”

Even your honesty was it’s own kind of dishonest mask, and there was nothing more fear inducing than genuinely letting it slip. Your image is a house of cards and you keep handing Wilbur fucking fans. 

“You know at some point I am just going to leave; I don’t want to, but if you keep pushing -” he pauses, as if expecting a rebuttal, but your mouth remains firmly closed, which causes him to frown, “- I’m going to end up leaving. Do you want me to go? I’m just going to ask, because you keep pushing, you keep doing this, I’d rather you were just honest with me.”

“I’m always honest with you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t want you to stay around me out of some sort of moral obligation,” you tell him.

“That’s not an answer.” 

“And I can’t answer because you can’t guarantee you won’t end up fucking fearing me like everyone else! I can’t answer because I am not going to be responsible for someone else’s feelings; if you stop caring about me I don’t want you to feel like you should still be around me, and just go on to resent me!”

Squeezing your eyes closed, face scrunched up, you force the words through your lips, “I would give you the fucking world, Wilbur, but I don’t expect- I don’t want to expect anything in return,” your jaw clenches for a moment, but you relax your face, eyes still closed, “obsession,” you sigh gently, “is safer if I am sure it is not reciprocated. Especially obsession like this...”

“Like this?”

“The things I obsess over... they’re just that; things. And I want to keep them safe, but I don’t... I don’t actually love them like I love you,” your lip curls, and you look at the ground, slowly sinking into a squat as you contemplate, “it’s fucking obscene,” you spit, as if disgusted at yourself. “Love makes me feel fucking filthy; it’s always funnier when I’m the object of desire.”

“You’re still trying to push me away!”

“And yet you’re still here, so who’s the real idiot!?” You snapped, lip curled in a sneer as you shot him a venomous look; the shock of it all was plain as day on his face, but you don’t let the faint guilt you feel show on your face as you look at your hands.

“I love you,” he says faintly, still sounding surprised, like he can’t quite realise what he’s saying, “and I’m just tired to trying to fight you on that, I don’t know how to prove that what I say to you is the truth; you don’t have a patent on honesty, and I just don’t know what to do to get you to believe me.” And then, coming back to himself, anger returning, “it’s not filthy to be in love!”

“It is when it’s obsession,” your answer comes out more like a growl.

“Y/N, my drug empire turned into a nation, I think more people should be obsessed with me,” he says with surprising levity. Something protective, something jealous flares up at that suggestion, but you keep your reaction to yourself, looking up at him as something close to hope flares bright in your chest. “You act like you’re the only one here, like you’re the only one allowed to worry about me, like you’re the only one willing to- to die. You killed the King for me, you have Dream’s respect, if I was going to be afraid of you it would have settled in by now,” then, “the only reason I haven’t killed Eret for what he did to you is because you got there first yourself. Do you believe me when I tell you that I love you?”

The question hangs in the air between you both; you think you can almost see it there, catching starlight. You look at your hands instead.

“I believe there’s something wrong with the type of people who fall in love with me,” you admit, barely louder than a whisper, “and part of me believes you’re better than that.” 

“Listen to yourself,” he gives an exasperated chuckle, “there’s something wrong with you.”

“I know that,” you say almost immediately. Silence lapses out between you, and finally Wilbur sighs, stepping in close and wrapping his arms around you.

“I think it might be why I love you.” 

There’s never been a more dangerous feeling in your chest than in this moment, in his arms. You want to tell him you’d kill for him, you’d die for him, but it’s more than that, more than you could explain or do justice with words alone, so you hug him back, and never want this moment to end.

“There’s something wrong with you, too.”

----

He is silent; cold and unmoving and your hands start to shake. 

"You did what you had to," your tone is flat, no distress, nothing, just flat. Phil is quiet. Neither of you move. You can hear your heart beat in your ears. "We should move his body."

"Yeah…" and then, softer, "actually, no, it won't be around for long… but we can set up a gravestone."

"What do you mean?"

"Bodies here don't stay, they move on-" and as Phil speaks, as you step towards the body on the ground, hand outstretched, it begins to fade to ash, to dust. Only his things were left behind. Your fingers curl into a fist and you lower your hand, "are you okay?" His voice has the barest shake, like he still can't believe what just happened.

"It was never meant to be," you tell him instead of answering truthfully, forcing yourself to smile as you finally look up to the father of your best friend, your- "are you okay, Phil? I'm sorry you had to do that, I'm sorry-"

"You're okay." He sounded deeply concerned by what he'd perceived to be your response. Looking out from the room to the crater, you see Withers flying overhead, and hear shouting and confusion.

"I should go," you say softly, "I'm the only one left who could take the fall for that," you muse, jaw tightening for a moment, though noone can see your expression. When you move past Phil, you pause, and tell him quietly, reassuringly, that he did what had to be done, and that you were sorry. 

"Was he just a means to an end for you, just another joke? You'd gotten better, you'd gotten kinder-" his voice finally betrayed his distress; his son was dead by his own hand and you'd just watched, "what happened?"

It takes you a long time to formulate your response, terrified of letting yourself be vulnerable; you'd been the villain too many times to not expect an opportunist to use your vulnerability against you. Phil may not be that opportunist, but you know better than anyone what dangers may lurk behind a kind face and sincere veneer.

"Whatever I may have felt is no longer relevant, to you, me, or anyone; he's gone, as is L'manburg."

"Did you even care about him?" Phil asks gently, "don't talk your way around me, please, Y/N." Your breath catches for a moment; he's giving you an imploring look, holding your wrist carefully; outside, someone, possibly Tommy, is hollering both yours and Wilbur's names with fury. 

"Care is a very weak word for how I may have felt," you tell him softly, holding his gaze. Your tone is flat, but you see it in his eyes when he catches your meaning, how you can't bring yourself to admit out loud that you loved Wilbur, "not that it matters now… not that anyone would believe you if you told them." You said, tone dismissive. Phil lets you go.

----

"Oh hello, Quackity!" You hear Ghostbur cheerfully greeting someone as he peers out the window, leaning far enough out on the sill, pushed up on his toes, that you're half worried he'll fall. You hear violently loud shushing outside your house and your blood runs cold. Why was he trying to sneak up on your house?

You’re intrigued by it all, and don’t try and put up a fight.

"I suppose the kangaroo court is now in session," you mused, peering up at the precarious contraption above you, "can you at least tell me why you're dropping an anvil on my head?"

"Because you're a threat to society," Quackity grumbles, though he can't bring himself to look at you.

"Because you drove my father to madness, helped him blow up half the land, then you killed him once he'd outlived his purpose," Fundy was unflinching as he levelled a glare at you.

“They didn’t kill me,” it’s Ghostbur’s voice that joins the foray, amid the shouting, while you’re hopping from one foot to the other, looking up at the anvil, the gentle reverb that accompanies his soft speech cuts through the din.

And suddenly the madness stops; all eyes on the Ghost.

“Don’t kill her over me, if that’s your reasoning;” he paused, nervous, “or just don’t kill them…” he trailed off.

“Don’t you get that they’ve already made up their mind?” Quackity’s rolling his eyes, standing by the lever that decides your fate, “if they wanted someone to release them, they could have convinced one of us by now-” and he looks to you, eyes dark and cold, and the moment you’d shared back at Wilbur’s grave surfaces in your mind ‘you’re getting better at hearing the truth’.

"Quackity-" you breathed, alight with intrigue at this development, unable to help yourself. There's an old, familiar flicker of misguided desire, for lack of a better word.

"Keep my fucking name out of your mouth," he muttered, only loud enough for you to hear, "and quit it with that tone." He can't look at you; you delicately wrap press your hands to the glass of your cage.

"Q, what tone, I don't-" but even you could hear the giddy notes that bleed through in your words.

"You're about to die; I'm about to kill you, but you're hear acting- talking like you did when you pretended to care about me-"

"I have cared about you from the moment I met you," you fired back defensively, "I have always cared about you, Quackity."

“God I really fuckin’ preferred it when you lied, then I didn’t have to try and figure out what the fuck you mean when you talk like that,” he snapped, before making his way from the podium, “I’m sick of them, someone else pull the lever.” He called out; he’s taking a stand, trying to block you out, keep your words out of his head. This was the Quackity you’d been so captivated by when you’d met him, the man who intrigued you, who you thought could challenge you, whose very nature excited you. Heart beating in your ears, you press your hands to the glass of the cage, looking out past him, to the others.

“I was not responsible for what happened to Wilbur,” you called, looking to Fundy, who you’re pleased to see looked conflicted, “what happened to L’Manberg wasn’t my fault- I fought with you. I fought with you all,” there’s the faintest notes of desperation in your voice. You had already made peace with your fate, now you were simply intrigued as to whose hands your blood would be on.

“Fine, Fundy if you’re conflicted because they didn’t kill your dad, you can stay out of it,” Quackity’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, but you can see the hard, tense line of his shoulders.

“It feels like our actual execution reasons... aren’t there anymore,” Tubbo points out, “and as a leader, I feel bad killing someone for being a nuisance, and not even a nuisance to me or anyone else.”

“This feels kinda personal,” Ranboo adds, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “which is fine, but they don’t seem like a threat to the country.”

“Did you fucking forget she became Wilbur Soot’s right hand?!” Quackity demanded from them, stepping forward again, “ she may not have been responsible for pressing the button, but she had ample opportunity to stop him; hell, she had ample opportunity to not be a dick. How can we even believe what she says?!”

“People do some fucked up things for love,” Ranboo gives a simple shrug.

“And Y/N doesn’t lie,” Tubbo pointed out, looking to you. In this moment, time freezes; his words buzz in the back of your mind as you look to Quackity, trying to decipher how he’s reacting when you can’t see his face. Because he can’t give it away, can’t bring himself to admit the power you once had over him, the sliver of power you still have, can’t make himself look weak, and it’s killing him.

They’ve only known you to be honest, and for that you’re glad... but Quackity knew you before.

Perhaps your begging, your desperation, had worked too well.

----

“You gonna give the people a show?” Your heart is beating in your throat as you find yourself waiting in your cell, hands restrained behind your back as Dream himself paces in irate silence outside your cell.

“I gave you the option to come back, to join me to not go down this road,” he’s seething, hands balling into white-knuckled fists and unballing again and again, “I don’t understand you, I don’t fucking understand you, Y/N,” and he stops, pulls off his mask to run his hand through his hair in irritation. Then he looks to you, and you’re looking back, expression thoughtful, or at least, you hopes it comes across as thoughtful, rather than betraying the way you’re heart is hammering against your ribs.

“It’s not your fault it’s more amusing to be on the side of revolution,” you told him, lips quirking into the faintest smile, “they called it L’manberg,” your smile widens, unable to help your own laugh, and his distress becomes more evident. Then, smile slowly fading, you meet Dream’s gaze, giving a slight frown.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you tell him seriously, “you could have picked anyone else to do this, you didn’t have to volunteer.”

“If I had picked anyone else,” he swallows hard, looking at the ground and taking a deep breath, “you would have talked your way out, and it would have made them look weak, but there would be a target still on your head and you’d be hunted.”

“And you?”

“You’ve never done that thing you do with me, talk circles, trying to get me on your side -”

“You’re already on my side,” you say gently, but his expression turns pained.

“They know - everyone knows I’m the only person on the side of Pogtopia you haven’t attempted to talk your way around, but I’m also the only person who could convince you to go into exile, to not fucking let yourself be killed, and have the others not hunt you furiously when they find out.”

“Dream the Great and Powerful,” you smile, tone fond and frankly adoring, he winces again.

“You’re a pain,” he mutters, mostly to himself, before he lowers himself into a squat, as if to centre himself, gaze lifting to you finally, “you can go; join Tommy in exile, you don’t have to… to… you don’t have to die, dude.”

“If I die, in their eyes I’ve atoned for my crimes,” you try to sit back, settling in a little against the wall, “you and Tommy will never see eye to eye, but like you said, that thing I do, the way I talk my way around people, that has affected more than just you,” you took a deep breath, “the only person I really respected apart from you died, Dream, the only person who truly vouched for me apart from you is dead, Dream.” Your smile grows tight, and suddenly you can’t look him in the eyes; respect, it was so much more than that. Your heart grows warm at his memory, the mere thought of his smile, before growing cold and sad as he demanded that Phil kill him. It must show on your face.

“Wilbur protected you,” Dream said, tone knowing, but you couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that.

“Wilbur was my limiter,” you corrected, and Dream’s eyebrows rose, momentarily broken from his distress, “I respected him, I… anyways, so if he asked me not to fuck with one of our allies, I wouldn’t - except to give you Tommy’s discs,” you clarified, and for the barest moment, Dream’s lips twitched into something almost resembling a smile.

“You’re kind of awful,” he says gently, “you’d fuck with your allies? Just change sides, don’t mess with the people who trust you and expect them to keep trusting you as such.”

“My ally was Wilbur, the rest of them were on his side,” you explained, “I’m on my own side before anyone else's,” you reminded, and he nodded seriously, looking to the floor, bouncing on his toes.

----

"I- I mean I'm not sorry," Quackity muses. You don't look up, but you hear him sit on the other side of Wilbur's Tombstone. 

"I don't know why you would be; you're not responsible for what happened to me."

“Oh,” Quackity frowns, giving pause, “no, I meant about him,” and he slaps the side of the tombstone with one hand.

“Not your fault either,” you shrugged.

"He did it to himself," which is right, but not in the way Quackity means it. He thinks Wilbur blew up. He doesn't know what was asked of Phil. You're quiet, and finally Quackity speaks; "did you actually love him or was it another one of your stunts?"

"Love is a strong word," you respond, tone devoid of inflection. He can't hear how badly you want to confirm, you want to holler how fucking wide the sky has gotten in Wilbur's absence. 

"Can you just teach me how to not fucking care? Because how is it so easy for you? How do you wake up and decide you're going to ruin lives and stand by while the world goes up in flames?" 

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“It’s just a side effect of who you are as a person,” he says derisively. 

"You find what you love and let it kill you," you tell him, voice quiet. 

"You find who you love and let them kill you," he says, knowingly, "you followed Eret into the control room because of Wilbur," he said knowingly, "and we all saw who gave you that mark on your neck," he laughs humourlessly. "But you can't even entertain the idea that I could hurt you, can you?" He asks.

"Find who you love and let them kill you."

"What then?" 

"Hope your love for them dies too; severing attachments takes great personal sacrifice." 

"You sound like Dream."

"I've known him the longest, you know?"

"He's your best friend, I remember," he tells you derisively, "so did your love die?"

"My attachment to him is situational at best." 

“But does it die?” He asked quietly, “you severed the attachment, but does the love die?” His tone is hollow, and you swallowed hard. 

“You’re getting better at hearing the truth.” You give a humourless laugh, and he responds with a non-committal hum

“I liked you better when you lied," he says quietly.

"I almost got you killed," you tell him flatly, and he huffs a faint laugh.

"Correction, I almost died for you."

"What's the difference?"

"Intention," you can hear his faint smile, "find what you love and let it kill you, after all." Then, quieter, "you should finish the job."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Give me that kind of power over you," you tell him flatly. 

"You should finish what you started," he scoffs, the mood shifting more and more with each word, "you're the one who wanted me to die for you; if you're learning to be all honourable and noble and shit, you should learn to take accountability -" he huffed in frustration, "can I be perfectly fucking honest with you for a moment?"

"I'd appreciate it," you tell him. There's a few moments of silence that follow, and finally you shift, peering at him over your shoulder to where he's leaning against the headstone, legs kicked out in front of him. He looks at you, eyes dark and tired.

"I'm so tired of giving a shit about you."

You know there's something selfish in how you miss seeing his smile in this moment. But then again, did you miss his smile, or did you miss what it represented; his love and loyalty. 

----

"You're getting rained on," Ghostbur said quietly, looking at you with his wide, cloudy eyes as you held an umbrella open and aloft above him.

"I'll live," you said pointedly, and at Ghostbur's smile became faintly strained, but he accept the umbrella. You, however, didn't move, sitting beside him on the log that you'd found him on.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked, shuffling a little closer, if only to try and shield you too with the little umbrella. Instead of looking to him, you look at the grey, drizzling clouds looming overhead.

"I saw it was clouding over," you told him, "and no-one I spoke to had seen you for a while..." you trailed off, shrugging, as if that was enough.

"You've always been a lovely friend, I remember that, I remember..." but his own voice trails off, dies in his throat; you look at him with interest, and after a beat he looks back at you, "I remember the good times, the happy times, and you, in the beginning you were a wonderful friend, but I don't... they say I blew up a nation, you know, and I don't remember that, but I don't remember a lot leading up to that either. It -" he hesitates before backtracking, choosing his words carefully, "did something bad happen between us?"

Your understanding of the word, of the time you spent with Wilbur, it was all shattering in your mind at once. His eyes were wide and full of concern when you look back at him, and he reaches out gently, wiping away a tear you hadn't realised had fallen; you hear the hiss of the water against his thumb and move out of his touch.

"Sorry," he says softly, genuine apology in his voice, "was it because of what I did to L'Manberg?" He asks gently. Around you, the rain was getting heavier.

"I thought we were happy," it came out barely louder than a whisper, and you quickly wiped your eyes, despite the rain now coming down hard enough to hide your tears, "I should have... I know I should have said something, but I thought we both just knew, you know? I should have..." and you turn, bottom lip trembling, "I'm sorry, Ghostbur, I know you're not him, you keep saying that, but I never got to tell Alive-You that I... you know," you swallowed hard, "that I love him. You? Him? I never actually got to tell him properly, in a way that makes sense. But I did. I do. And I thought... Fuck," the word comes out in a harsh breath, and you find yourself scowling and looking away, "probably for the best that I didn't say anything if he - you, I guess - weren't - wasn't? - happy."

"I know he cared about you, as much as I can remember, he never stopped caring," Ghostbur's voice is quiet, and finally, you look at him. His face is scrunched up with concentration, but there's small trails of steam -

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry," you're genuinely apologetic, and he looks shocked when you look up, as if he hadn't even noticed.

"Just because I don't remember doesn't mean... well a lot of things were not good memories towards the end, but that's because of everything going on up here," he was wiping at his eyes quickly to dispel the tears before he taps his temple with two fingers, "and if what you're saying is true, he wasn't unhappy because of you, he was just unhappy, and it... there are months missing for me, and that's no-one's fault."

Oh... well you supposed you could understand that, still, it was difficult to process this whole conversation and all it's implications.

"How is this the most amusing option, if you don't mind me asking?" He suddenly speaks up, and you look up with confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"You're upset, I don't think I've ever seen you upset -"

"Well it probably wouldn't be a good memory if you had," you reminded, to which he conceded.

"But I remember clear as day when we met, and you told me and Tommy that you simply did whatever amused you the most, this... this doesn't seem particularly amusing."

"I don't operate like that anymore," you told him frankly, staring at your hands.

"Oh," he muttered softly, before asking, voice tentatively, "why did you think to come find me?"

You take a moment to deliberate, to consider your own reasoning and motivations, still looking at your hands, fingers twisting and curling and locking into inconsistent shapes.

"You used to do this near the end," you said softly, "used to run off and sit near the button and think and think and think but never do anything," you paused, "and I never cared about the land like I cared about you, so I was all for blowing it all up, but it... I could see it was doing something to you. The election, everything that was happening, it did something to you; you were spiralling, and I knew if I didn't know where you were, you were by the button. Awful and fucking beautiful, and dude, I'm- I'm so sorry I didn't tell you but, Christ, I was so in love with you, Wilb-" looking sharply at him, your voice died in your throat, and you corrected yourself, "him. Not... you're different. Right. Ghostbur." He blinked at you, a little taken aback by the sudden passion of your outburst, of your explanation. You cleared your throat. "No-one else had the balls to acknowledge that the land no longer functioned by the ideals it was built for, and I loved your passion; I could listen to you talk down there for hours. Sometimes I did. It was like a prison and a safe space all at once, and I don't know if it made things better or worse, but when he couldn't stand to see what the world had become, we'd sit in that room with the button and talk."

Finally, you looked at him, seeing him and not the man he used to be.

"And today I couldn't find you, and I knew it was going to rain, and... I know rain hurts you. There's no button, but you don't spend time in town anymore, so I looked for Friend." You looked at the little, blue sheep who'd been happily munching on some grass during your conversation. Then a faint, cold pressure in your hands, and you look down to see Ghostbur pressing a vial of a thick, blue liquid into your hands.

"Have some blue," he said softly, "it'll make you feel better." And then, much softer, he thanks you for finding him, he takes your free hand and laces your fingers with his, "thank you for talking to me."

"Thank you for talking to me." You mumble, giving his hand a squeeze, feeling a touch guilty for unloading all of this on him. No-one else would listen, or if they would, they didn't care; people had gone from not trusting you because you refused to be completely loyal to any thing but yourself, now they hated you for staying loyal to what they deemed to be the wrong thing. Allies were few and far between, and Ghostbur may see himself as separate to Wilbur, but you weren't going to stop yourself from caring about him too.

----

"You're in here," Tommy's voice is quiet where he's thumbing through a notebook you half recognise. Making a noise of interest, you look a little closer at the notebook - What I Remember. Ghostbur's notes, you feel yourself growing tongue tied.

"I don't- you shouldn't be reading that."

"You suddenly decided to grow a conscience?"

"Shut up," your lip curled, "and I'm not in it."

"Who else would be the Favourite Jester?" He asked, turning the book around, but you covered your eyes. 

"Don't be a sook," he sneered.

"Does Ghostbur know you have it?" You asked, and he grew a little antsy at that, to which you simply growled at him to give it back. But still, you catch a glimpse of it;

“Its you.” - in the notebook, in Ghostbur's neat scrawl - you chose me when no-one else did.

----

"I think Tommy trusts me," you told Dream, frowning at your brewing stand. Dream, for his part, finds the humour in your statement where he's sitting at your table, leaning back, his feet on the table.

"Tommy, I've changed!" Your tone shifts to a mocking imitation of your earlier conversation with the boy, "death has changed me!" And you dropped the act with a snort, "getting a scar doesn't make me a different person," you rolled your eyes. Dream clears his throat.

"Sorry about that, again," he muttered.

"No hard feelings, dude, obviously," you grinned over your shoulder.

"So you- you're okay with my plan; the two of you fought side by side for your nation -"

"I'll be by your side until -"

"Until something better comes along," Dream nods in resignation.

----

“I’m sorr- Ghostbur I’m so sorry,” you sniffled, angrily rubbing at your eyes, frustrated that he had even seen you get so emotional, “I’m not- you shouldn’t have seen that, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, crying’s normal,” he said, voice a gentle echo of the one you loved, “do you want to talk about it?”

“Not with you, Ghostbur,” though you’re shooting for light, it doesn’t land, and instead, he looks to the floor, apologising. You wipe the tears that refuse to stop spilling from your eyes.

“You still miss him so much it moves you to tears?”

“You caught me in a moment of weakness.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of those,” he says with a faint laugh, and you look at him, see his quietly fond smile, and for a moment you see the memory of Wilbur himself, and your expression crumples. Immediately as you bury your face in your hands, you feel him by your side, apologising, trying to lay a comforting hand on your arm. The touch is cold but familiar, and you reach out instinctively and grab his hand.

“Ghostbur, my life is a fucking joke and I’m not laughing anym-” he kisses you quick when he gets the chance, his mouth on yours so close to being familiar, but not quite. It knocks the wind from you, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, grabbing his sweater and pulling him closer. 

“Does that help?” He asks a little breathless when you part, and you can’t look him in the eyes, only at your shaking hands balled up in his perfect, yellow sweater. 

“You’re not him,” your voice is a shaky whisper.

“I...” his words get caught in his throat, “I think right now I’m close enough. Does this,” and he holds your face with one hand like it’s porcelain, like he’s afraid you’re about to shatter, “does this help?”

“Why?” You can feel how weak you are in this moment, unable to let him go, knowing the truth of the whole situation. 

“I don’t like seeing you sad.”

“It’s not your job to make me happy, give me time and I’ll be alright,” but you don’t let him go, then, “tell me you don’t love me, please.”

“It seems dangerous to even entertain the idea; I’m not Wilbur,” he says gently, and finally you look at him, meeting his gaze, leaning into his touch. 

“Do you even want any of this?” Your voice is barely a whisper, “me, or anything like this moment?” Ghostbur visibly hesitated.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” he said with a surprising firmness, “I want to do whatever makes you happy,” then, his voice goes quiet, “even now, I forget sad things, people tell me sad things and the conversation ends, and I just... lose whatever they said,” he gives a faint smile, “but even in time that aren’t... aren’t the happiest, I haven’t forgotten you; something about being around you makes me happy, happy enough to remember you. All I want is for you to be happy too.”

“Did you lie to me?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, and you can’t look him in the eyes, so you watch his lips twist into something thin and unhappy, before stumbling over his words, trying to deny, “did you lie about not remembering me? About not remembering... not remembering how close we were?”

“I thought...” his expression reads apology, his hands coming to cover yours where you can’t bring yourself to let him go, still holding him close by his sweater, “it would be easier for you to let go, to move on, if you didn’t know.” 

“But you don’t care about me like he did.”

“I care about you,” his eyes go wide and concerned, “but I’m not him. You understood him better than anyone and- and- and- he needed you- uh, your company,” he correct, faint blush rising on his cheeks at his own implicit wording, “more than anything else. You’re the one who stayed.” 

You swallowed hard, huffing a humourless laugh.

“And he’s the one who got away.”

“Y/N...”

“This feels...” you look to your hands still holding him close, then to his mouth, then his eyes, taking a shakey breath, “self destructive, for us both,” and his expression reads shock, reads apology, but in that instance you cave to your need for contact, leaning into him, to find what comfort you could in him. A shiver runs down your spine as you make a snap decision, “I know you’re not him, but I still love you,” you lie; he’s not the one you promised to always be honest with, but for now he’s as close as you’ve got, and you can’t let him go, “please don’t go.” 

----

It’s been a long time, relatively since you’d seen Q when you run into him. You’re not looking for him, you’re merely roaming on an overcast day, but he looks like he’s on a mission. He seems surprised to see you, right before his expression turns dark.

“Figures I’d run into you out here sooner or later,” his words genuinely confuse you, which he seems to pick up on, because at least for a moment, he seems confused himself, before clarifying, “Dream’s in prison.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me.” His audible irritation makes your own smile grow just a touch wider, “you know you should be there too.”

“Cruel, Q, they’ve already killed me for my crimes once,” you practically sing, amused smile stretched from ear to ear, “haven’t I suffered enough?” His smile was thin and mean.

“Not even close.”

“You make me miss being a bad person,” you say with a hint of self deprecation.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Quackity snorted, “you’re still terrible.”

“I like you standing up for yourself; self confidence is a good look on you.”

“You like anyone who actually challenges you,” he rolled his eyes, “which makes me feel fucking stupid for ever caring about you like I did. You don’t give a shit about simps, I get it now.”

“You’re better than that,” you tell him, which is a metaphorical slippery-slope, a half truth, since you only half-believe it, but your tone is low, is sincere, and he blinks quickly, surprised. 

“I- yeah, I know,” he scowls, but turns away. 

“Good, it’s good you know your worth,” you tell him seriously, “you have...” and you huff a faint laugh, tone awed and gentle, “so much potential, Q.” And for the barest moment, his expression softens. Carefully, he steps up to you.

“This is how it started last time,” his tone is low as you feel the feather-light way his fingertips ghost up your arm. He’s in your space, gaze locked with yours, searching for something in you that you can’t begin to guess at, right before he grabs your chin hard enough that it hurts, “you try and  build me up so you can tear me down - I’m not doing this again.” 

God damn it, you can feel your heart beat against your ribs at the sight of the fury in his eyes. 

“Q-” you try, soft and a little helpless. For a moment, both his grip and his gaze softens, and you know that look, that faint gentleness, from a time long passed, “I never spoke poorly of you, you just lost faith in me.” 

The look in his eyes before he storms off gives him away; he hates that in a twisted way, it’s still the truth.

----

“I’ve always appreciated your honesty,” Ghostbur muses; night is falling over the snowy biome you’d decided to call home, the house Dream had built for himself that sat abandoned since he was taken prisoner. Ghostbur is sitting on a bench, looking around, ankles crossed wearing a sunny smile.

“It’s the only thing I’m consistent about,” gave a wry smile, not looking up from where you were crouched in front of you brewing stand; everything started because of these brewing stands, just look how far you’ve come. You try not to dwell on that.

“Consistently inconsistent,” his tone was bright and fond, but then he hums, “you’re consistent in a lot of ways; you’re loyal -” he points out, but you’re so quick to respond it doesn’t even register at first. 

“Only because I love you,” then, silence, and you scrunch up your whole face with regret, “him, Wilbur,” you sigh deeply, “don’t get me wrong, Ghostbur, I care about you, probably too much by my standards, but...” and you trail off, a touch apologetic.

“Everyone keeps telling me that I did, or well, he did, all these terrible things; I just... I just want to know why.”

“Why what? Why he did what he did?”

“Why you still loved him when he did all those things,” Ghostbur clarified. You freeze.

“You want me to be honest?” Your voice is soft, and when you look over, you see he’s drawn his legs up to sit cross-legged on the counter, tearing apart a loaf of bread for something to do with his hands. 

“You’re always honest,” his tone is earnest, but he can’t look at you, before you can speak, however, he goes on, tone softer, “I remember bits and pieces, more and more as time goes on. More of you is always coming back; more of us, and I thought not remembering would be the most painful part about being around you, making you sad because I can’t remember what happened to make you feel so close to me before... before I died, but I think remembering’s worse,” he looked up, “because I’m not him. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s memories even though they’re mine, because I don’t think like he did; I don’t think I understood you the way he does. I don’t...”

“Everyone’s so quick to tell me what terrible things I’ve done - my son, Fundy, I spoke to him, he’s- he’s- he’s not happy with me, you know? Nor is Tommy, I mean most people just need me to know how awful I was, but you... you speak his name with love and honey on your lips and I don’t know how or why, you make all the terrible things sound like miracles and I don’t know why.” 

Slowly, you get to your feet, stretching a little, as your words begin to fall from you and you make your way over to Ghostbur, his pale form golden in the candlelight.

“I don’t know how to put it, but I don’t... I never feel quite real, not - for lack of a better word, given the nature of everyone here - human enough, and I look around and I see Tommy and Tubbo and George and Puffy and -” you rest your hands on his knees, gently, as you watch his hands tearing apart the loaf of bread, “and they’re all effortlessly people, they’re good, they’ve got dirt beneath their nails and a sparkle in their eyes, and I tried being good and noble and honest, and the only part I liked was being honest but being too honest somehow made me the villain; no-one understood. Dream came the closest, he felt like another amalgamation of interactions pretending to be human, but he knew his power and his place and his role, and he didn’t understand that I had no interest in playing the same part over and over again; consistently inconsistent, apart from my honesty and my loyalty. He liked my honesty and loyalty, so he did his best to accept the rest of me that came with it.”

Looking him in the eyes, finally, you could see it dawning on Ghostbur. Your fingers tapped a gentle, inconsistent rhythm on his knees. 

“But Wilbur... you - he - he... he...”

“He loved you,” Ghostbur’s voice was gentle, but after all this time, the confirmation from his returning memories, it was enough for your voice to catch in your throat. Then, he nodded again like it was a confirmation, “he loved you.”

“He loved me,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper, “not despite who I was, but because of it, loved all of me, at least, that’s what it felt like... I’d never felt that before, and I... I never wanted to let it go,” he’s putting the bread to the side, slowly sliding off of the counter and into your space, “he was staying true to himself, and they hated him for it, but I never could, and I never will.” You murmur, as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly in the dimly lit room. 

“It’s you,” you whispered against the fabric of his sweater, echoing your words from what feels like a lifetime ago, “above everyone else, I choose you. You have my loyalty.”

A moment of silence; he swallows hard, presses his face into the crook of your neck.

“It’s you,” he whispers back, just as Wilbur had those months ago; at the time you though they were an incredulous echo of your own thoughts, but now you know it’s an admission, a return of affection, a declaration; you have my loyalty, he’d been trying to tell you. 

You can’t tell Ghostbur you love him, you can’t tell him you love him, you cannot tell him you love him, no matter how much you want to. He’s not Wilbur. He’s not the Wilbur you fell in love with. 

You tell him anyways. Whisper it like it’s a secret. 

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

His answer comes whispered with a kiss at your temple, a small token of comfort.

“I know.”

----

The world had fallen still in a way you had only felt before natural disasters. There was quiet. There was peace. Something was wrong. Your conversation with Dream played on repeat in your mind, over and over and over.

"You will owe me a life." You can't forget the gravitas with which he'd said it, eyes dark and eerie as he sat cross-legged on the floor of his prison; you will owe me a life.

The phrasing had caught you off guard, because what in the hell did that even mean? It could mean anything, hell he could claim your first child if he wanted to, but you'd been desperate enough to not question, to just accept.

"You really do love him, don't you?" He'd said softly as you'd sat opposite him, when he'd jokingly asked if you'd take his place in the prison in exchange for Wilbur back.

"Of course," had been your serious answer to both questions. Dream had laughed, equal parts fond and weary, his gaze drifting up to the impossibly high ceiling.

"Its a nice thought, though I doubt Sam would simply let you switch with me," he mused, adding, "you know Ghostbur won't be around anymore."

"But Wilbur will be alive," you insisted, and finally he looks at you.

"You trust me," its not a question.

"I've always trusted you," its not a lie. Dream blinks at you, surprised by your honesty. He should be, somehow everyone overlooks your defining trait being brutal honestly. Moments like this remind you why you need Wilbur back so desperately; he understood you in a way no-one else did, not even Dream.

"I killed you," he says, almost to himself, like he's just remembered that fact.

"I know," you nodded, "and I trusted you then, and I trust you now. Everything happens-"

"Don't say for a reason," Dream gritted his teeth with irritation at the phrase, but you gave a faint smile.

"No, I was just going to say that everything happens. We live, we die," you shrugged.

"Then why are you asking me to bring him back?"

"I didn't realise your book of necromancy was purely for decoration," there's a slight edge to your words, lip curling in knee-jerk defensiveness. Dream looked back at you suddenly, eyebrows rising at your tone.

"Is that why you trust me?" There's something betrayed in his voice, and he sits back, away from you, something dangerous in his eyes.

"That's..." you tried to find a way to talk your way out of the situation, but your inability to lie was more of a hindrance now than anything else, "so reductive," you settle on. But you're fidgeting.

"Then complicate it for me," he's practically ordering, and if he weren't the only way to bring back Wilbur, you wouldn't be complying so easily. Then, like a bolt of lighting it hits you; you look up, gaze unwaivering as you meet his.

"Kill me."

"What?"

"Kill me. Don't bring me back," you yourself are almost ordering, tone leaving little room for argument.

"What the fuck; why?" He hissed in confusion, and you knew, in that instance, that your point would be clear.

"Why not?" Something amused and sinister curled at the edge of your lips as you regained the upper hand in the conversation, "if you'd prefer, I could kill myself; walk straight into the lava until my lives run out," and with that, you carefully get to your feet as he frowns at you. Sauntering over to the flowing, molten walls, you stick your hands in your pockets, looking pensively at the liquid rock.

"Wouldn't it kill two birds with one stone? If I'm dead, maybe I'll find my way back to Will, and you won't have to revive him. That's what the kids call a win-win, right? I won't ask you for anything, but, you know, I won't owe you anything either."

When you look to him, you get to watch in real time as it dawns on him. The way his face contorts with bitter anger makes your own, imposing, gloating stance soften, even as he looks away, refusing to look at you.

"I don't..." you sighed deeply, "I don't trust you because I know you can revive me, I trust you because you're a pragmatist, Dream, and as long as I'm useful to you, well..." you trail off, coming back to him.

"I don't understand you," he said, finally, voice terse, "you've fucking commodified your existence and sold your allegiance to the highest bidder; how do you stand it? I get it, you think I'm controlling, fucking news flash, so was Wilbur, so was fucking Techno, so is everyone. We're a bunch of cruel, self-canalising, power-hungry assholes masquerading as heroes and villains trying to make ourselves feel better for the atrocities we commit."

"And what currency am I selling myself for?" You snort, despite his serious tone; when he looks at you, as if he can't believe you're laughing at his rant, you tip your head and regard him thoughtfully, "while I appreciate that that seemed to have been weighing on you for a while, I'd advise you to not project your shit onto me; have I ever cared about having power for myself?"

That's actually a good point, he seems to realise, and finally, his expression softens, and he gets to his feet.

"Do you care about anyone other than yourself?" Surprisingly, it's not judgemental, it's intrigued, like he has a sudden understand of you that makes everything else make sense. Your smile is so soft and unguarded as you gently cup his cheek with one hand, fondly rubbing your thumb across his cheek.

"You know, you might be my best friend," you told him instead of answering, "and I trust you." He takes a deep breath, expression going serious as you can almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

"Despite... fucking everything, and who you are as a person," he said with the faintest smile, "I actually trust you too," but he hesitates, the slightest crease forming above his brow, "but I don't think I can still say that if Wilbur comes back -"

"Dude -" you're surprised by Dream's honesty in turn, but you do respect it as he clarifies himself.

"He's the one you care about, the only one besides yourself, I know, I've seen it," he gives a faint smirk, "we're still friends, of course, there's no doubt about that, but if I asked you to kill someone that Wilbur would rather have alive, or if I asked you to, say, join me on an adventure with a low survival rate, if Wilbur asked, you'd choose him, wouldn't you? You'd do whatever it takes to make him happy."

"Dream... I -"

"Your loyalty is absolute, but selective; you put yourself first, then Wilbur, and maybe I'm overestimating my place in your life, but I think I may be below him, but above most others..."

"What are you saying? What do you want?" You asked carefully.

"I'll bring back Wilbur, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'll bring him back, but you'll owe me a life," and you can't even begin to properly process what he's saying, "not his," Dream clarifies, "I wouldn't do that to you, but in one way or another, you will owe me a life, and when I ask for it, however that may be, you need to uphold your end of the bargain, or I'll send him right back to where he is now."

I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. That's the four words he'd said that you're fixating on, that're playing through your mind on repeat, and you practically crush Dream in a hug as you agree, breathlessly thanking him. He hugs you back, and you can feel his smile against your shoulder, laughing somewhat fondly at the notes of relief in your voice as you mutter that he's your favourite.

"For now," he snorts when you step back, and you give a sheepish smile, ducking your gaze.

"For now," you agree.

----

"Who let you- does Sam know you're in here?" Quackity's voice is dangerously quiet, a strange smile on his face, like having you here is a boon rather than a terrible mistake.

"Q, what the fuck?" You rubbed at your eyes, forcing the sleep from them. Dream is already scrambling as far as he can from the newcomer, anger and fear in his eyes. He tells Quackity to fuck off.

"What are you doing here? You planning an escape for my favourite little war criminal?" He paused, "have you moved on now that your favourite little war criminal is dead?" Everything about him seems sharp, seems cruel and threatening; something about it is thrilling, like a challenge, and you find yourself standing to your full height, refusing to drop his gaze.

“Big Q,” you take some small pride in the fact that your voice doesn’t shake, “you’re looking markedly more malicious today.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been coming here for a while, looking for one simple thing, and your buddy there really hasn’t exactly been helpful,” there’s a faintly manic gleam in his eye, but your blood is hissing and spitting in your veins, conflicted and delighted in equal measure -

“He was your friend you fucking asshole!” The words burst from you, disgusted as you wear a manic grin. 

“I was your friend, you fucking piece of shit!” He hollers back, “I was more than your fr-” but his mouth snaps shut, expression one of seething rage, “don’t fucking talk like you still trust him, like you care about him;” the curl of Quackity’s lip is cruel, the look in his eyes cold as he shifts his grip on his sword; a humourless laugh escapes him, “except, of course it’s you who still cares; first Dream, then Wilbur, the only people you actually care about are just like you,” and there’s so much derision in his voice that it almost stings, almost, if he wasn’t right. How can he not see the way his cruel tone delight you? How can he not see the irony in his words in this very moment; “now fuck off, you’re in my way.” He sneers.

“I’m not letting you hurt him,” you refused to move, and his eyes widened, disbelieving laugh escaping him.

“Look at that! Did the wizard finally give you a fucking heart?” 

“Look at that!” You mirror his tone, though your own is acidic, pushing, you’re pushing him now, the way you know best, “did you finally get over your pathetic feelings? You finally getting smart enough to see me as a real threat?” And you’re in his space, in his face, refusing to back down, waiting for the moment he snaps.

“I never cared about you, I cared about the fact that you paid me attention; note the difference,” he snarled; it’s a lie, you know it’s a lie, can remember the way he’d looked at you, how he’d almost died for you, and it’s fucking intoxicating.

“You’re so good at hearing the truth, but you’re fucking shit at obfuscating it,” you tell him with a cool confidence, “I hung the stars in your sky, Quackity,” his jaw clenched tightly at your change in tone, the look in your eye, “but tell me again about how it was all an act for you, say it in a way I’ll believe this time.” It’s designed to cut him, and you can see it in his eyes when it does. Fight back, damn it! 

“Maybe I’ll give Dream the day off, kill you instead,” he tries, but you can tell his heart’s not in it. 

“This isn’t fun for him like it is for you,” Dream pipes up, and Quackity shoots him a surprisingly confused look, while your look over your shoulder, faint disappointment in your eyes. Dream, however, exhausted and paranoid with Quackity in his cell, still has enough wherewithal to understand you better than almost anyone else.  

“I wish you would,” you don’t look away from Quackity. Your voice is cold in the wake of Dream’s revelation, and when he looks back at you, Quackity looks... uncertain. A dangerous state to be in considering his opposition.

“You’re down to your last life, don’t fucking test me,” Quackity warned, but his heart’s not in it like before. As you approach him, he raises his weapon, but your confidence strides never falter, “Sam wouldn’t give a shit if I killed you, no-one would.” 

“You would,” you tell him snidely, finding yourself growing sick of the sound of his half-baked cruelty. 

“Are you just here to let what you love kill you?” He gives a mean, humourless smile. 

“Bold to assume I love you, Q.”

“Well, seeing as the only bastard you ever knew how to love was so eager to off himself, I figured I might be all you have left to get back to him,” there’s faint triumph in his eyes when he can see his malicious words touched a nerve, but he wasn’t playing your game right, and you were tired of not having fun.

“It’s not my fucking fault you look for a home in everyone who’s halfway nice to you,” something in you snaps, and your tone is cold and unwaivering, “don’t blame me for your fragile sense of self; you were so ready to believe anything I told you, but when I did what people fucking do - when I let you down - you had to go and let it shatter you,” you sneered.

“You being a shitty person is my fault?” He scoffed, and you stepped up to him, emboldened. You barely even feel his sword at your throat.

“Before breaking your cheap, little heart, I hadn’t been honest a day in my life; everyone had told you as much, you chose to ignore them; did you think you could fix me?” You gave a harsh laugh, stepping forward, crowding him into taking a step back, expression irate, trying to keep up his strong front, “Actually, I guess, wow, you did; since you, I haven’t told a lie,” and you gave him a derisive look, “because fucking you up wasn’t a challenge, making you fall in love with me wasn’t a challenge, getting you to the point where you’d die for me? Not a fucking challenge, Quackity. You offered me your life and it fucking bored me.

Talking to me makes you want to be a worse person? Good luck with that; you will always be better than you fear, better than you fucking hope or wish you were, because you couldn’t fucking stomach killing me once, you couldn’t fucking stomach being a truly terrible person.

You want my blood on your hands? Your hands were mine, and I couldn’t have given less of a shit, so no, if I have any say, you’re not gonna hurt Dream, because you’re hurting him to get the thing that’s going to bring back the person I actually fucking fell in love with. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time on you when he was out there.

I’m tired of trying to be amicable with you when you’re still - fucking still - picking up the pieces and trying to figure out who the fuck you are; God, I fucking hope you kill me, I hope it brings you peace, I hope it brings you clarity, but you better make sure it counts, you better make sure it fucking sticks!” 

----

"You do things that hurt you because you don't know what else to do, even if you don't enjoy them," Ranboo's voice is flat, and your expression twists to something derisive, though you attempt to regain your composure.

"Incredibly presumptuous of you," you respond, still alive, if burned.

----

"How many more?" Ghostbur's touch was light on your forearm, tracing the shiny, healed scar of where you'd thrown your hands up to protect your face as Quackity had shoved you into the lava waterfall that surrounded Dream's cell. It hadn’t killed you; he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and the lava curtain parted as the bridge approached the cell at Sam’s command. But it had still left it’s mark.

"What?" You surfaced from your thoughts as his cool hand stilled against the memory of the burn.

"How many more until you see him again?" He asks, and he doesn't look sad often, but he can't look you in the eyes. Then, gently, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing against the scar that stands out on your neck, a perfect circle, a perfect reminder of what you’d lost the second time you’d died.  

And you meet his gaze, can see the nerves hidden just behind his eyes - is this why you do this? Am I… not enough? What a dangerous thought, dangerous territories; how cruel you were to let him fall for you, even a little, even when both of you knew it was a terrible idea. 

Dream's voice was in your head - Ghostbur won't be around anymore - and you'd answered without flinching - but Wilbur will be alive. 

"One," your voice came out hoarse, "one life and I'll see him again." You can't look him in the eyes, even as he holds your face; he has no idea what to say to that. It's the truth, but not the one he realises. 

"You don't love me, right?" You asked, clearing your throat, moving carefully out of his reach.

"You shouldn't kill yourself for him," Ghostbur tells you with uncompromising sincerity instead of answering, "you're worth more than that."

"I need you to tell me that you don't have feelings for me, Ghostbur -"

"Seems like a very worrying thing to be asking given the circumstances," again he tries to deflect, but there's something close to guilt eating you up inside, and you stand, moving out of his space, Dream's voice in your head.

"Do you love me or not, Ghost of Wilbur Soot?" You demanded, and his expression turned hard, so unlike his usual self.

"I'm not him," he said carefully, but his gaze dropped; he couldn't look you in the eyes, "and I don't think it should matter either way, because you've made it abundantly clear that he's the one you want; I'm not going to say I don't and let you kill yourself."

"I promise I'm not going to fucking kill myself!"

Ghostbur went very quiet. 

“Any answer is dangerous, really, so it doesn’t matter either way,” he’s pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands, to fiddle with, trying to distract himself, “I love Friend,” his tone was aiming for something light-hearted, an attempt to change the topic, and it did it’s job well enough; your lips twisted into a grin.

“First a Salmon, then a Sheep, your tastes are -” but he looks at you, giving a strangely amused little smile.

“Questionable?” He finishes your sentence, and you find yourself less amused with the situation; he brings up a good point, including you all the same, though you’d been meaning to say bestial, but fuck, what does that make you? For a moment, you find yourself in crisis, wondering if you were technically in a polyamorous relationship with a ghost and an actual sheep. But you push it to the side -

“It’s selfish,” you hear his voice in your head, see him looking at you with wide, shiny eyes in the dim light of a pub, but you can’t help but repeat the words that had been said to you, “but I need to know for me -”

Ghostbur could say anything, and you see the realisation dawning on his face; he knows what you’re asking. He could be silent, he could brush you off, he could say anything else -

“It’s you,” just the way you’d said it to Wilbur, confirming what you feared; Ghostbur drops his gaze when he says those words to you, when he means to say I love you, how can you not see that?

Those two words hang in the air between you, like they always have. You should leave. You should go before you develop a conscience. But you can’t... there’s something familiar, something intoxicating about this moment, his loyalty; you’ve seen this before, you’ve craved this before. 

You step up to him, and as if on instinct, he rests his hands on your hips, leaning into your touch when you hold his cheek gently. 

“I love you,” your murmur, and his eyes fall closed, breathing deeply, “I love you.” It’s easy, it’s too easy, to fall back into this, to let him rest his forehead against yours, your arms around his neck, knowing in your heart that his loyalty, his love, was a means to an end; “I love you.”

He trusts your words, even now. 

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, pulling you close now, moving to press his lips to the crook of your neck. So you stay. Your time with him is limited, though only you know that, so you will enjoy it while you can.

----

"This was your plan," Tommy muttered, horrified, as the realisation dawned on him, "you're the one who pointed out that killing Dream in the prison didn't break any of the prison's rules," he whispered, before turning on you, eyes wide, Friend's leash still looped around his wrist, "you're the one who suggested using Ghostbur as a decoy, because no-one would suspect him."

"You set him up," Ranboo was horrified. One by one they were turning on you.

"You knew Ghostbur didn't- he didn't want to be revived!" Tubbo exclaimed, hurt and betrayed, "I thought - Y/N I thought you loved him, how could you -?!"

"Wilbur and Ghostbur are not the same person! How do you all keep forgetting that?!" You snarled in response, expression contorting to one of rage; that was enough to shock them into silence, taking a step back as they regarded you with a new kind of fear.

"We were happier with Wilbur gone, we liked Ghostbur and he liked us!" Tommy exclaimed, before his voice dropped to something soft and betrayed, hurt in his eyes, "Ghostbur didn't fucking deserve that; you're a terrible person," and your expression dropped to a smirk that didn't reach your eyes.

"I'm sorry about Ghostbur, I am, but the ends justifies the means; do you remember what I told you when L'Manburg was first forming? I told you I'm not on Dream's side, but I'm also not on yours," and you paused for a moment, before looking to the heavy remains of the button room, through which you knew Wilbur himself would finally be returning any moments now, "I'm on Wilbur's."

----

Then you see him, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck this is real and you owe Dream a life and Wilbur is alive. You're frozen in place. He's talking to Tommy, who sounds frankly horrified that Wilbur is back, but you're frozen. Heart beating in your throat, the sunrise that’s coming brings with it a warmth, though to you it feels closer to vindication. 

And there’s yelling and horror from the others who’ve accompanied you, but you can’t hear them, approaching slowly, with measured, even steps.

Then, his eyes meet yours and something in his expression softens. When he smiles at you, every terrible thing you did was worth it for this moment. Having the others there is too much. You don't want an audience, you don't want anyone there to judge you and your choices, the things you've done to get to this moment.

"This," Tommy turns on you, "this is what you bloody well wanted; now you're acting all shy? " His lip curled, and your expression turned flat and unamused.

“Don’t mistake respect for shyness,” you tell him bluntly, with a cool confidence that was unrecognisable to the blonde, who hadn’t known you well enough before he’d begun starting conflict to know the depths to which you could sink. But he was beginning to learn. 

“She’s part of the reason I’m here at all,” Wilbur reprehends him, while Tommy physically recoils at his tone, "Dream himself said as much." And then he's offering you his hand; nothing else matters.

"I can't be here," there's disgust in Tommy's voice, but its enough that the others leave, giving you and Wilbur peace. Finally.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," you tell him, taking his hand with a sharp smile, which he mirrors.

"Thirteen years I was stuck in that train station, and you're just as stunning as when I last saw you," he muses, and you reaches out to run your fingers gently through the unfamiliar white strands of his hair. His eyes study your face, your expression, drinking you in; you'd missed how dark his eyes could be, and when you look back at him, meet his gaze, you see a hunger there.

"Don't leave me," escapes you, but it comes out as a demand, insistent, “don’t ever fucking leave me again,” and you see him swallow hard, then slowly, he smiles.

"Never again," and he's kissing you desperately, mouth on yours with an intensity you relish. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you - you can taste it on his tongue, sticky sweet and somehow sharp and you dig your nails into him, maybe trying to keep him here, keep you both in this moment. When the kiss breaks and you're breathing hard, you don't let him go, though he doesn't either.

"You lied for me," he muttered, something akin to delight on his face, which shocked you enough that you stepped back, or at least tried to, though he held you tight, "no, not-" he tried to clarify, "I won't leave, I don't plan on it, but- I love you." Your heart is beating in your throat, still not quite sure what he means, "I've loved you for a long time," he added, and reaching out, he cupped your face in his hand, "I remember this," he murmured, "Ghostbur - you're scared I didn't love you because he couldn't remember, but I loved you so much, for so long, I just knew... knew what I was going to do. I knew I was going to leave you, I loved you but I was so doomed, so he couldn't remember."

When had your vision gone cloudy, when had tears started to sting your eyes.

"Don't cry, my love," Wilbur murmured, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours as your breath stuttered from your chest as he soothed the biggest fear that had been plaguing you for months.

"Were you worried that I didn't love you because of him?" He asked, like he enjoyed hearing you bare your soul. Of course he did. You remember kissing Ghostbur, his cold lips and soft apologies when you'd pulled away, and you wonder if Wilbur had those memories too.

"He's not you, no point trying to fret about your feelings based on his actions," you huff a watery laugh, finally letting go of him with one hand to wipe at your tears, “he didn’t understand me like you did, but he...” you swallowed hard, “I’m glad to have had him around in the interim.” Wilbur’s lips twist into an amused smile, and his gaze clouds over for the barest moment; you wonder if he can see your resolve cracking in Ghostbur’s memories, taking comfort in his when he’s the closest thing to Wilbur himself that you can find, the lies you’d told to keep him by your side in your moments of selfish desperation.

“I think he loved you, in his own way,” Wilbur said gently. However, as you made a vaguely guilty noise in the back of your throat, he continues thoughtfully, "though, you know, when Dream came to pick me up on that train, when Ghostbur took my place, Dream made sure we both knew, you know; she's the reason you're here, Ghostbur, he'd said, and said that makes you part of the reason that I'm coming back at all," he muses, strange quality to his voice that you couldn't quite place, though when your eyes were dry, you looked at him definitely, challengingly.

"He's not you," you reiterated, firmer this time, "I cared for him for what he was, but he's not the one I want; I love you." You said without hesitation, before you realise what you've said, and you go still, before taking his face in your hands, making sure he's looking you in the eyes, "I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, Wilbur; I love you, I fucking love you -" and he's endeared by your declaration as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face against the crook of his neck, whispering the words like you're hoping they'll find a place on his skin forever.

"I didn't tell you before and I'm never making that mistake again,” you admitted faintly; “it’s you.”

“Above all others, I choose you,” his smile is warm, and something bright lights up in your chest. Grinning, elated in this moment that you’d worked so hard to finally get to.

“You have my loyalty, my love.”

[tetheredfeathers]

My favourite post Mockingjay fics

@notafraidtodissapear since you asked 💕

One shots

making a blank page bloom: drabble collection by songbirdheart

A writer I have discovered recently, I cannot emphasize how much I love her writing. If an angel could write it would be her. This fic is sweet and short. Katniss sings her poem to Peeta.

eden by songbirdheart

Another one by the same author. Can you tell how obsessed I am?!!? Dw you'll understand her genius when you read it. A poem about everlark growing back together.

What's In A Name? by Joshs_left_earlobe

Everlark's first fight, lots of fluff and angst.

Fighting the Rain by starsmahogany (Jodalyn)

Cute fluffy fic of Peeta taking care of Katniss after she comes homes soaked from the rain.

The Unexpected Message by Diana_Flynn

Years after the war has ended Katniss has a fight with Peeta, but she finds an a gift that changes her perspective.

Multi chapter fics.

Baby Steps by Ronja

Growing back together/pregnancy fic, goes back and forth between her pregnancy and their initial growing back post war. Delves into some of the political aspects of Panem, and Katniss and Peeta's involvement. Enjoyed reading this alot.

When the Red X is on the Door By: MADAM BETH

A growing back that fixates more on Peeta's episodes, very realistic and perfect characterization. Timeline goes back and forth from initial post war to their with children. Loved this, it's also 57 chapters so might as well think of it as the 4th missing book.

Growing New Wings By: SkyLark89

Very accurate to the book, I always come back to this fic after my rereads. They rewatch the games to help Peeta's memory and work on the book. Starts off after Peeta's arrival and ends with "real".

A Little Drop of Hope By: Chinchilla17

In Peeta's pov, most growing back fics are in Katniss' pov so it was quite interesting to be in Peeta's mind after the hijacking.

The List orphan_account by silvercistern

This one is a must read, I'm sure everyone has heard of this one. Like if Collins were to write another book it would be this one.

Back to Twelve igsygrace

Another popular one, by the same author who wrote Peeta's games. I don't even need to tell you how good this. I will admit though I had some mixed feelings about the ending, because the author makes them go through another war. I'm not really sure if it's war tbh, but someone is trying to overthrow the government typa shit..

I have a problem with canon divergence so I didn't read the final chapter. idk why canon divergence just feels so wrong to me. But if you do like canon divergence this one could be really good. Anyway it's only the last chapter that is like that, the rest are all regular growing back material.

Synchronicity by ashyblondwaves

A collection of one shots and stories examining Katniss and Peeta's relationship post-Mockingjay. Peeta's POV. Pretty long but I really liked it. There's something about the writing that drew me to it. The problem is I have read a lot of these along time ago so I can't remember the exacts reasons any of these fics stuck out to me, I just remember they did.

Worse Games to Play By: Belmione

How Katniss finally decides to have children. Read a long time ago, but it's really sweet.

[quiet-desperationn]

okay i finished reading my fourth pink floyd book and i want to share my thoughts on them:

Inside Out by Nick Mason: first one i read, so i didn't know much of the band’s lore or the side characters, will probably reread it in the near future. Nick is funny and he was definitely the best one and the only that could write a book about themselves. He gives a lot of details on how things were recorded, but kind of just glazes over other stuff I wanted more details on. And he makes fun of Roger and I love him for that.

Pigs Might Fly by Mark Blake: i think most people consider this the best one and it is very complete, specially up until dark side, for wywh and animals i needed more. It is very up to date as well, I think the last edition is from 2017 and has extra stuff. Really liked when he would start the chapter with some more recent pink floyd happening and use it to segue back into their history. He also tells Syd story after pf in parallel with the band’s , giving Syd updates at the start of almost every chapter, I liked this approach.

The Making of Pink Floyd The Wall by Gerald Scarfe: i got a great deal on a used copy of this and i absolutely adore it. His art suits Pink Floyd so well and I’ve become obsessed with him while reading this. Really interesting insights on some of the creative processes and the band’s personalities. Probably one of my most treasured pf items.

A Saucerful of Secrets by Nicholas Schaffner: this one was written in the late 80s and early 90s so it is very interesting view of the band up to that point. He didn’t follow the same linear approach as Mark Blake and it kind of bothered me a bit, i.e. he finished all of Syd story before getting to the post Syd floyd. Some new stuff I learned was that peter jenner really hates roger lol and that roger and judy were trying to have a child but it wasn’t happening.

next one will probably be ginger gilmour one

if you know a good one that is not impossible to find (rip in the pink) please let me know :)

[syrstab]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ SUNSET SPOTTING!

a/n : hi so this isnt my best piece of work, i js felt like i needed 2 post :P (also, im REALLY shit at writing furina + neuvillette, i js wanted to try writing them, sorry if its inaccurate :( +THE BEGINNING IS HARD TO READ LIKE I HATE IT SM ARRRGHHH - i reread this and i found it MAD cringey sooo..

SUMMARY - basically you and furina suggested to neuvillette to go out in public. of course neuvillette was a busy man, but he just has to make time for you. ( also watching the sunset :> )

you and furina were catching up over some tea, as you two rarely saw each other as you were both so busy with work.

“hey furina..”

“yes y/n?” furina looked up, her bright blue eyes meeting yours, taking a sip of her tea

“you, me and my darling neuvillette should go out today.” you say proudly, as if all three of you would go out together. it’s always just been you and furina.

furina giggled when you called neuvillette your 'darling' and took another sip of her tea whilst looking around. “your absolutely obsessed with neuvillette, y/n. I personally find it adorable how you gush over him twenty-four seven , but, i highly doubt all three of us would go out. neuvillette is practically drowning in work…”

you pursed your lips, as if you really thought about it

“just you watch furina, all three of us WILL go out together!” you say with a smug smirk, getting out of your chair.

“y/n, y/n, y/n…” furina sighed putting her tea down and following you.

you proudly walked to neuvillettes office, where of course, he’s doing boring documents and signing papers.

“how’s my gorgeous, cunning, sexy, handsome, beautiful, iconic, courageous boyfriend THE neuvillette doing?” you beam whilst opening the door, furina trailing behind you

“well, hello to you too, y/n.” neuvillette smiles. he knew you were going to ask him for something, as you don’t usually call him those lovey-dovey names. at least, not all together.

“i have a teeny, tiny itzy bitzy request for you.” you grin, furina facepalming knowing damn well this whole 'going out together' thing isn’t going to happen and it’s just going to be you and furina, again.

“go on, my love.” neuvillette stops writing and places his quill down, then interlocking his fingers together like some sort of ceo, i mean he is chief justice of fontaine..

“sooo… i was wondering if you could stop working for an hour or two, to go out in public to clear our minds? we both know how stressed out you’ve been recently.” you furrowed your brows at that last comment, attempting to persuade him to stop working

he purses his lips, glancing at the window in his office “mmm… as much as i want too, i simply cannot. i’m sure furina told you about how much work i’m doing.”

“pretty pleaaaaseeeeee neuuuuuvi?” neuvillette knew you were the type to try to get anyone do anything for you, and the fact you added his adorable nickname you made for him, he REALLY thought about it.

“come on y/n, maybe just us TWO should go out together. let’s LEAVE this poor man alone.” furina says, adjusting her little top hat on her head, attempting to egg you on with the comment she just made

“you’re SO right furina!! we should DEFINITELY go out together, WITHOUT the chief justice of Fontaine!!” you and furina turned around, backs facing neuvillette, arm in arm, smiling at eachother

“have fun, you two. don’t get into too much trouble.” neuvillette waved you and furina off, your mouth agape as neuvi said this. was this man REALLY being serious?

“uggghhhhhhh please neuvi? just for an hour! pretty please with a cherry on top?” you turned around, and at this point you were properly begging for this man, and neuvi took notice of your whiny voice

furina chuckled at how desperate you were for him to go out. neuvillette usually kept himself out of the public eye, unless you dragged him outside.

you grasped neuvillette’s hand, pulling him outside his office. “you can do those shitty documents later, the suns about to set.. and there’s nothing like watching the sunset with my lovely boyfriend!” you gleamed at neuvi, furina leading you outside to the nearest aquabus station she could find.

you found yourself on the aquabus which Aeval was always on, and you, furina and neuvillette stroke up a conversation with her. you weren’t talking about anything specific, just whatever came to mind.

after a while, you came to romaritime harbor. there weren’t many people there, as it was getting late.

“you don’t have to act all tough and regal, neuvi.” you nudged him lightly, as it seemed he was holding a lot of weight on his shoulders, after all, he is a very important man.

“i suppose so. there isn’t many civilians around today..” neuvillette huffed, dropping his shoulders ever so slightly

“awwh, what cuties you two are…” furina giggled to herself as the three of you walked towards the edge of the balcony

the sun was setting behind sumeru’s desert mountains, and everything felt perfect.

you stood in between furina and neuvillette, staring out whilst your head rested on neuvillette’s shoulder. there was a comfortable silence in the air.

“i love you, neuvillette.”

“i love you too, y/n.”

“...aaaaaaand BOOM! you get married to eachother, have kids and live happily ever after.” furina smirked, knowing you’d blush at the thought of getting married to the iudex himself,  neuvillette.

“oh shush, furina.” you waved her off, one hand covering your cheeks as they were painted a rosy pink

“…i would like that.” neuvillette says, looking at the painted sky

“...like what?” you asked, looking up at him

“i would like to get married to you, and have children with you.” neuvi looked down at you, making eye contact

“i would like that, too.” you smiled at him.

“ooooooooooooooh~” furina says in a high pitched voice, leaning forwards

“oh shut up, furina!” you and neuvillette groaned in unison, and once you both realised you said that at the exact same time, you all started laughing together.