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#wilbur imagine
cathers-world · 7 months
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Quick NSFW Wilbur HC while you wait!!!!
Warnings: NSFW
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 • solid 8 inches and pretty girthy
• bro him face fucking you when he edits<3
• will send you out the house with cum in your pussy
• you know how he wants kids, well breading kink
• he 100% gets jealous easily and if he does, railed doesn’t matter we’re you are
• size kink because of how tall he is like GOD DAMN because your so small and cute and like a tiny fuck toy he can take advantage of<3
• he wouldn’t have paddles or whips no no no he would use his belt to spank you and if you were really being a brat hit your clit with his belt full force. OMG HE WOULD LOVE DOING THAT AND THEN GOING TO WORK WEARING THAT SAME BELT
• back on the size kink like omg just throwing your little useless body around especially if you chubby
•slapping you because your his little fuck toy with no purpose other than pleasing him
• HE WOULD LOVEEEEEEE IF YOUR HIS LITTLE HOUSE WIFE
•he would be misogynistic in bed fight me
• and lastly a little silly one him fucking you and he moves his hair and you see his big ass four head BAHAHSHAHAH
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thank you for the love and the SFW is coming out “soon!”
 
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ax-y10 · 9 months
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Fluffy
In which- You have an obsession with Wilbur's fluffy hair
A/n: I wasn't meant to be on my phone when I wrote this but y'know. I also found a book I had with a few of these headcanons written in. I know this is short and I'm sorry
Headcanon info: FLUFFY, wilbur being pouty, fluffy hair (bc why not),
Pronouns: None (You/Yours)
Masterlist:
If you were ever scared or worried to ask if you could touch his hair, he would grab your hand softly and run your hand through his hair
After a shower, he would come out with wet hair and all you could do was stare at it. So one night, he came out with a towel, his hair freshly wet, and let you dry it for him
Would definitely get into haircare or styling his hair to accentuate his curls so when you played with his hair, it bounced
If you ever fell asleep with your hand or hands in his hair and he had to readjust himself, he'd love the little pout on your lips when your hands lost contact with his hair
Would definitely let you brush it, wash it, style it, annoy him with your habits
And a follow up to this, you would get all excited and bouncy if his hair poofed up when you brushed it (my fellow curly haired people, pls relate)
You would subconsciously tug at his hair sometimes when you're distracted and you need stimulation in your hand, and you always get confused when little grunts leave him, always asking if he's alright, and he never mentions your tugs
He would do anything to have your hands in his hair
Sitting down? His head is in your lap
Trying to fall asleep? He's against your torso
Cooking dinner? Good luck doing that one-handed
If he was ever at band rehearsal, on tour, or away for a little bit, he knew you would immediately want your hand in his hair, so he would always drop everything to let you have that experience
"Hey, Sweetheart!" He exclaims as he walks through the door after band rehearsal. "Hello. How did it go?" You said, only wanting to run your hands through his hair. As soon as he had his jacket off, the keys placed down, his guitar against the wall and his shoes off, you were already on the couch with him with your fingers threading through his locks.
His little hums of satisfaction when you play with his hair always warm your heart knowing that it feels good for him
He would either talk to you about his day in great detail or hum a song to comfort you if needed.
He began humming 'Since I Saw Vienna' knowing it made you sleepy, and because it was 2 am and he wanted to sleep. "Darling, I'm going to fall asleep if you continue". "But I want sleep" He pouted. "Okay fine" And you both fell asleep cuddled close together.
You love playing with his hair so much that you made a playlist for when it's late at night and you're running your hand through his hair.
He was just so soft when he found out this fact from Tommy, because the boy is a snitch ;)
And he'd definitely fall asleep and enjoy the feeling of your hands tangled in the bush of his hair.
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b0r3dtod3ath · 11 months
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Sweetheart
masterlist
description: Y/N and Wilbur being high school sweethearts 
an: a lil headcanon list that i came up with; i imagine y/n and wilbur being in high school and they both aren’t popular but they aren't underdogs either,
warnings: mention of alcohol and anxiety; y/n not being a fan of public display of affection
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-Wilbur wasn’t very lucky with girls. He had some crushes buy oh boy when his eyes laid on you.. He was walking with his head in the clouds. He regretted that he hasn’t noticed your beauty earlier. To him you were like an angel. Teachers would get mad at him for not paying attention to class while he was admiring you. 
-It was hard not to notice. Will’s best friend quickly connected the dots and started talking to you and inviting you to hang out with them. At first it was quite awkward but with time Wilbur became more and more comfortable around you. He still couldn’t hide his crush. 
-With time you had also developed some feelings towards him. You saw in him what most girls couldn’t - not only his height but also his sense of humour, ability to lift up everybody's mood and this special spark. You always felt safe with him. He would always offer to keep you company while coming back to your house in the evenings. 
-After some convincing Wilbur decided to confess his feelings to you. It was a usual walk from your mutual friend’s house to your home. As soon as you left your friend he started getting nervous “So, I wanted to tell you something.” he lost all his words. You stared at him as he avoided your eyes. The two of you heard a distant yelling of your friend “Are you going to tell her you love her or not?!!” and the rest was history.
-Wilbur was a very sweet person. He would do anything to make you happy - show up with flowers on a random day, bring you coffee to school or even visit you when you were sick just to keep you company,
-You would always wander around a city after school. This would usually end up in cute unplanned dates near the seaside,
-I’m so convinced you would try alcohol for the first time together and end up tipsy in a meadow,
-Also figuring out how to make out- lots of laughs, constantly asking each other is it okay, really listening and paying attention to each other. Anytime a moan escapes your lips Wilbur smiles and makes a little note in his head. (nothing happens beyond this - just to be clear).
-A lot of little dates: going to the theatre, picnics in the parks, lots of walks, 
-It always felt weird for you to be all over your boyfriend at school so you usually behaved like you were just friends. You weren’t hiding your relationship but it felt uncomfortable for you. It quickly began to bother Wilbur. “Did I do something? You act differently when we are at school. The moment we exit the building you are back to normal acting like nothing has happened. I feel as if you don’t want people to know we are a couple.” he randomly stated while you two were sitting at the beach enjoying the afternoon sun. “I just don’t like rubbing into everyone’s faces that we are in a relationship. That’s all.” you looked into his eyes as you spoke. You could clearly see worry in them. “Is it about me?” he quietly asked. “Oh, no, no, honey of course no. It’s just I don’t like being so transparent in school. I love you more than anything, Wilby. I would never be embarrassed or anything because of you.” You grabbed his cheeks in your hands as you spoke. A single tear escaped his eye but you quickly wiped it. To show him you meant what you said you kissed him and pulled into a hug. 
-This boy is so anxious sometimes. A lot of the times he needs your reassurance. Whenever he would feel down his mom would call you and ask if you wanted to stay at theirs overnight. You had those little self care nights for him. You would help him refresh and organise the room a bit. Later you would put on a movie or start a game. You would spend hours praising him, giving him soft massages and kisses, playing with his hair. You wanted to make sure he feels as safe with you as you with him.
-Overall a very pure first love :)
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mysticalsoot · 5 months
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sweet christmas
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godbur’s very first christmas
➸ note; i wrote this in probably a total of an hour and i am very proud of that but i do worry that it isn’t very good although i am sure it’s fine, i just fear i rushed it, anyways!! enjoy your godbur fix !
➸ pairing; god!wilbur x gn!reader // godbur x gn!reader
➸ summary; after telling wilbur of the wonders of christmas, he decides to give you the best holiday season you could ever imagine
➸ warning; cheesy nicknames, allusions to past childhood trauma, maybe swearing?
➸ age-rating; 14+
➸ wordcount; 1.7k
main masterlist
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wilbur was hands down one of your favorite people to live with, yes the trail to get to this point was nothing but rocky, but you were quite content with how things turned out.
your life felt more serene and peaceful as an immortal than it did when you were mortal. getting to wake up in his arms, get smothered in kisses and love; then go about your days together, assisting him in whatever matters he may need it in. it felt domestic, and sweet; and god, was he caring. he loved looking out for you, caring for you and treating you with such love and kindness.
he loved to hold you and sway you, cook for you and love on you. you were his pride and joy.
not too long ago, you went on a rant about a lot of things from the mortal realm, explaining them in such detail that it completely captured wil's attention, although one subject sunk in the most; christmas.
he thought the mere idea was beautiful, a gift giving holiday with snowy weather and fun activities? count him in. he wanted nothing more than to treat you to anything and everything, spoiling you to an extent you didn't know was possible.
i think it stuck most for him once you told him of the Christmases you had as a child. of course, they weren't all bad but you had plenty of Christmases that you would have loved to go without. years that it just couldn't bring you joy, or years where it broke you down.
so, he made it his mission to give you the best Christmas he can. a whole month was blocked out for you, starting in what he called November and ending in late December. although there's no true concept of time in his world, he copied the human form of time a while ago, just to give you a better sense of things. to make you feel at home (although he was home, there were bits that you missed from time to time).
he had yet to tell you, keeping it a surprise while he made a little basket of Christmas things.
when you opened it, you almost questioned him on where he found everything but then realized that wouldn't go anywhere. he's a god, with powers you can't even fathom. there's nothing out of the way with him.
it was filled with snacks and a cookie cookbook, a soft blanket, one of his sweaters and various other things (he did go a bit candle crazy, but he knew you loved them and hell, he did too).
after that, then the festivities began. he started off with a Christmas movie and some warm s'mores, both of you sharing as you tucked yourself against his side.
"love," he paused, looking down at you as he lifted your chin, getting your gaze to meet his.
"yes?" he smiles at the softness of your voice before wiping chocolate from the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb. you frown gently up at him, and he places a gentle kiss to your lips.
"that's it," he hums, placing a few more soft kisses to your cheeks and temple.
"that didn't warrant a 'love'," you huff, kissing his cheek before resting back beside him on the couch. you squeak when he pulls you into his lap, "willllllll," you whine, looking up at him with the best pissed look you can give before you begin to giggle at him.
"everything warrants a 'love', baby," he tilts your head back, hand resting on the front of your throat as he kisses all over your face; showering you in all the love he can possibly muster.
"hmmm.. I disagree," you rest your hands on his thighs, to ground yourself somehow, as his hands move down to rub over your stomach, fingers gently tracing shapes on your skin; underneath your sweater.
"disagree all you want, I'm right, little one," wil's lips curl up into a smirk as you groan at his words, head leaned back against his shoulder.
"why do you *always* have to be right?" you huff, crossing your arms over your chest as he pulls you closer, maneuvering you so your legs are draped over his lap.
"I'm a god, remember? *your* god, darling," his smirk then morphs back into a smile as he kisses underneath your chin.
"don't wear it out," you nuzzle your nose up against his neck, your arms now around him as he pulls you closer; your attention now back on the movie, but his still on you.
his next activity, which took place a few days later; was cookie baking. thankfully, he chose a recipe and some premade dough; just in case. you figured the premade stuff was gonna get its use pretty quickly.
"baby, can you pass me the sugar?" he inquired, hand reaching out mindlessly as he reread the recipe for the trillionth time, ensuring that he was processing the material properly and wouldn't fuck this up for you.
you didn't really care if the cookies turned out perfectly, or at all. you just enjoyed the time you could spend with him, and the sweet moments he created with you.
you handed him the sugar, watching him grab the bag with ease (despite it being several pounds in one hand). you then swiftly moved over to stand beside him, gazing up at him as he measured out the ingredients. he placed all the dry ingredients in a bowl, but didn't bother to stir it yet as he moved to pick you up and place you on the counter. he handed you the bowl and a whisk.
"can you stir this for me, little love?" he crooned, and you nodded, stirring while he went over to the fridge to gather the rest of the ingredients (all at once, mind you).
you had to keep yourself from laughing at the sight, his arms filled with all of the ingredients all stacked up and pressed under his chin.
"wil, be careful," you mumbled, smiling softly to him as he nodded his head to you.
"I'm fine! I've got this!" he attempted at reassurance, but it came out squeaky rather than firm.
you shook your head, giggling to yourself as you set down the bowl beside you and swung your legs on the edge of the counter. he placed all of the wet ingredients down on the counter, rather clumsily before he began that mixture.
surprisingly, the cookies turned out well. and you both danced together in the kitchen while they baked, only to cuddle up in front of another Christmas movie when they were done.
various activities had occurred during the two months he blocked out, baking, games, cuddles, ice skating and show angel making in the garden. he planned everything and there wasn't a moment you didn't enjoy. you loved every second of it, and he enjoyed every giggle and smile you had to offer.
Christmas morning rolled around quickly, the both of you having spent Christmas Eve with a small dinner, cookies and a movie. and of course, wil had you open one of your gifts before bed. it was a little Christmas ornament he had sculpted from some clay and then painted. a star, with golden paint and beautiful cursive words spelling 'my star' on the back, with the year underneath. you'd be lying if you said you didn't cry, because you did and could barely mumble out a thank you.
just like every kid on Christmas, you woke up early. beyond excited and just bouncing with excitement.
you shook Wil gently beside you, his sleeping form peacefully tucked in bed beside you.
"wil, wil! it's Christmas!" you giggled, shaking him a bit more as he hummed, eyes daring to flutter open and gaze up at you.
"mm, just a few more minutes? you can wait, little love," he pulls you gently against his chest, sleepy, sloppy kisses placed on your cheek. you squirm, giggling at his kisses before whining gently.
"but it's Christmas!!"
he chuckles, holding you closer as you tuck yourself against him, "but Christmas morning cuddles are the best, mm?"
"maybe," you shrug, settling into him for just a bit longer.
a smirk crawls up on his lips before he sighs, pulling back to look down at you, smirk morphing to a smile before he leans down to kiss you.
you look up at him, eyes trying to close again, despite your tiredness setting in, you're determined to stay awake, "can we watch the disney christmas special? like the parade?"
"you truly underestimate my powers as a god, baby," his joyful expression stays held on his face as he kisses your nose and helps you out of bed.
he holds out his hand for you, stepping towards the bedroom door as he wiggles his fingers at you. you wrap your hand around his index finger, tugging softly as he chuckles and leads you down the stairs and into the living area. the tree lit up, creating a dim lighting atmosphere that casts beautiful shadows and a warm light over the room.
you both sit down, beginning to exchange gifts and thank one another for each one. not too long passes and he's shooing you onto the couch as he cleans up and throws a quick breakfast in the oven before joining you on the couch, pulling you onto his lap and pressing sweet kisses to your face. he's quiet and quick with turning on the Christmas morning special for you, fingers circling over the skin of your stomach.
"you can nap, y'know?" he hums against the shell of your ear, kissing the skin behind it.
"don't wanna miss the parade," you whine, yawning and curling in against him.
"who's to say you can't rewatch it if you miss it?"
you shrug, nodding before dozing off. he moved his hand to sift through your hair, sleep taking you peacefully as he admires the room around him. the quaint quiet surrounding him, the warmth and love that he feels for you. how sweet, and gentle the holiday was. even if you're asleep only three hours after waking up.
you both know there’s many more christmases to come.
taglist; @lcvejoy @lillylvjy @ella-fella-bo-bella @lotusanonymouse @willgoldszn @whos-nicooo @zebonos @charlieisverybored @haunted-headset @witheredroseanon (lmk if you wanna be added)
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modelbus · 3 months
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HII!! I REALLY LIKE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH!! I just read your wilbur soot fic "Radar Detector" and I really LOVED it. I was hoping you could do another wilbur soot songfic cause theyre so good😭 (preferably lover by taylor swift or just any taylor swift song that you'd like.
THATS ALL!! MWA I LOVE UR WRITING!!🫶
I'm so excited to do another song fic you have no idea. Also, a confession: I'm a closet Swiftie...
Pairing: CC!Wilbur x Gn!Reader
Lover
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We could leave the Christmas lights up 'til January And this is our place, we make the rules
The tree in the living room was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes. In your tiredness, all the colorful lights were out of focus and created a mesh of blob colors. It was pretty, in the way that abstract art flows together.
"We really should take that down." Wilbur says from behind you, and you realize that the general warmth around you is him. The arm over your waist, holding you to him and the couch? Him.
"We can leave it up." You answer, yawning. "I like it."
"It's not Christmastime anymore, love." He smiles into your shoulder, making you smile too.
Something about him generates happiness. In your hazy vision, spotted with colorful christmas lights, you can't imagine anything better.
"So? This is our flat."
He laughs. "Point taken."
We could let our friends crash in the living room This is our place, we make the call.
"You're fine, right?" You ask Tommy, giving him a pointed look.
For once in his life, the boy knows how to be subtle and nods. "Yeah, yeah, I'm great."
"We have more blankets if you want them!" Wilbur announces, strolling in with his arms full of blankets. He dumps them all on top of Tommy, eyebrows creased with worry. "You sure you don't mind staying on the couch?"
He nods, rolling his eyes. "I used to sleep on your floor, Wil."
"That was different! And I gave you an air mattress that time!"
"Which is practically the floor. I'm a big man, I can take the fucking couch."
Wilbur turns to you, as if you'll take his side. You may be dating him, but that doesn't mean you're agreeing with him.
"He'll be fine, Wilbur." You assure him.
Tommy was only staying for the night, anyway. One of his vlogs ran late, leaving him here way after dark. And Wilbur wouldn't stand for letting him head home at this time of night. Honestly, you found their brother thing endearing. And it made Wilbur happy, which made you happy.
Besides, Tommy was a good kid. A nightmare at times, but good in heart. Mostly.
Wilbur gives a regretful look at your couch (which is actually pretty nice) before sighing. "Fine, fine. We'll be just down the hall if something happens, so just... wake us. Yeah?"
"Wilbur!" Tommy groans. "Fuck off! I can sleep on your couch!"
"I know! I'm just making sure!"
"Go fucking cuddle or something." Tommy huffs, settling under all the blankets and turning his back to Wilbur.
You laugh softly, flicking off the lights. "C'mon love. Good night, Tommy."
"Night." Wilbur echoes your words, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and guiding you so you don't run into a wall on your way to the bedroom. "He'll be fine, right?"
"Of course he will." You say, leaning up to give him a quick kiss. "Now it's our turn to get some rest. Go do your night routine, or whatever."
"Will do." Wilbur agrees, quietly heading off toward the bathroom.
With every guitar string scar on my hand I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover.
You ran your thumb over the inside of his palm, prompting Wilbur to squeeze your fingers in return. The callouses on his fingers are rough against your skin, but you don't mind. They're testaments to his love for music, to his commitment to it.
You love them simply because they're a part of him.
"I promised to teach you guitar one day." Wilbur reminds you, voice soft.
"And I still want to learn." You assure him, a smile gracing your face. "Maybe one day I'll get callouses like yours." You add in as a tease.
"No guitar string scars though." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your fingertips. It makes you laugh. "I'll teach you how to play guitar safely."
"What, and you don't play safely?"
He nudges you, because you know the answer to that. You've seen too many broken picks and snapped guitar strings. There's a faint scar on his palm where a snapped string cut him, even.
"You'll be so bad at guitar." Wilbur says with a grin. "I can't wait to love you for it."
"Hey!"
Swear to be overdramatic and true to my lover.
"I'm dying." Wilbur announces, draping himself over the back of your chair dramatically. "I've been shot. I'm dying."
You can't help but roll your eyes, laughing. "Wil, it was a Nerf dart."
"Tell my friends and family I love them." He wails, squeezing onto your hand. "I'll miss you."
"You aren't dying."
"Oh goodbye world! I yearn to feel the sun upon my face, but alas, I die in the cold night!"
"Oh Wilbur!" Tommy crows, darting around a corner with a raised Nerf gun.
Wilbur shouts, hands going for his own Nerf gun, finding nothing. In response, Tommy's smile widens into something evil as he holds up a second Nerf gun.
"Who's the bitch boy?" He asks, eyes wide with delight.
You burst into loud laughter as Wilbur runs from the room, sliding on the wooden floors in his socks.
And at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover.
Hand on the back of the chair, Wilbur pulls it away from the cloth-covered table for you. You can’t help your grateful smile, sinking into it without a second thought. The wedding you two were at was busy, and you had been on your feet for literal hours. He was a godsend at this moment, and judging by his grin he knew it.
“Water?” You ask, holding up a bottle of water for him. You had originally left his side to grab some, knowing he was thirsty but wouldn’t ask for a water.
“Thank you.” Wilbur says, taking it from you. He presses a kiss to your head before pushing in your chair and sitting down at the one next to you, which has his suit jacket thrown over the back. “Almost payment enough for saving your chair?”
“Almost?” The laugh you let out isn’t dignified in the slightest, but his eyes sparkle like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
“I had to fight a guy off with my fists to keep it.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’ll never know if it is or isn’t.” He teases, taking a sip of the water. “But I deserve better payment.”
With a roll of your eyes, you lean forward to give him a quick peck on the lips. He cups your cheek, catching your face before you can pull away, just to prolong the kiss for a moment more before he lets go.
“Happy?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.
“The happiest.”
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straighttohellbuddy · 11 months
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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.”
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collapsedatlantis · 7 months
Text
short fluff | Wilbur Soot
warnings: none, fluff, mention of reader struggling, super short, wilbur being supportive, rolling eyes
,,You seem sad; is everything okay?`` Wilbur said after entering your room. You quickly dried your tears and smiled at him. You didn't want anyone to see you cry, mostly because you couldn't talk about your feelings. Not because you didn't want to, but because you couldn't put it into words.
,,I am okay...just`` You didn't have time to finish your sentence since he jumped onto your bed and sat next to you. His arm hugged you around your shoulders, and you put your head on his shoulder. As soon as you felt his touch, you burst into tears, not caring anymore.
,,Y/N, darling, what's wrong`` He said as he put his chin on top of your head. You opened your mouth to respond, but had to close it again because you felt like your voice would crack.
,,Did someone hurt you? Does something hurt?`` He sounded so worried, you forced yourself to swallow your tears. You wiped your eyes and pulled away from him, so you could look into his eyes. You and Wilbur have been friends for the past few months, always jokingly flirting, but neither of you has ever taken the first step. You recently moved out to be closer to your friends, but quickly realized how alone you actually were. There was a problem after a problem, and it felt like you couldn't breathe.
,,Nothing happened. I just feel really tired of everything, that's all`` You whispered, forcing yourself not to cry. You felt stupid. People dealt with worse problems, real problems, and here you were crying about nothing.
,,Aw, I'm sorry, pretty girl. I am here for you; you know that, right?`` His hand gently stroked your cheek, and you smiled at him. Your heart ached for him, but you were so scared of him not feeling the same about you.
,,I know this probably isn't the right time, but I just can't wait anymore`` He said, and you looked at him with a confused look. Before you could ask what he meant, he kissed you. Your heart stopped, and a burst of butterflies filled your lower stomach. He pulled away, and you wished he didn't. He put your hair behind your ear, and you hoped he couldn't hear how fast and loud your heart was beating. Your head was spinning, and you felt like you could pass out any second.
,,Shit I'm sorry, I don't want you to think I don't care about your problems`` He mumbled quickly, and you rolled your eyes.
,,You just solved one`` You said before reaching for his lips again.
--- even though all of us can't have this Wilbur, you can have me. Please, if you ever feel sad, lonely, exhausted, etc., message me. I know these words might sound super empty, but there's nothing I would rather do than try to help you. or if you ever wanna tell someone anything but don't have anyone like that-please let it be me. I wanna hear about your day, your thoughts, your wishes, or your dreams. please, I'm always just one click away.
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yourst4rboy · 1 year
Text
in the back room of the bar
wilbur soot x reader
every night wilbur saw them at the bar, all his morals fell away. his thoughts ran when he saw that dress they would wear that hugged their body so perfectly. what was their name… y/n? god, he wanted to talk to them so badly. he pushed it away for so long, until one day, he snapped.
he always saw them with a man who, for the record, he thought was much more attractive than he was. and probably much more amazing at everything than he was. but hell, he needed them. them. just thinking about them made him go crazy. and-
“will? you there?” ash asked.
“what? oh, yeah, um, sorry. i just…” he pondered for a second, tapping his pen against his yellow notepad. “i’ve been distracted.”
mark chuckled. “yeah, we can tell.”
“guys, focus on the setlist? the show is tomorrow.” joe pressed. “we need to get going.”
wilbur exhaled as thoughts raced through his head. them. the man. the dress. okay wil, calm down. an idea popped into his head. “um, i kind of had a song that you guys probably haven’t heard. it’s, er, called saline solution. is it alright if i play it by myself?” all the boys agreed.
the next day, as wilbur drove to the bar, he couldn’t focus. were they going to be there? were they going to be with him? deep breaths, will, deep breaths.
the whole of lovejoy arrived at the bar and started setting up their equipment as people started trailing in. wilbur held his breath as a group of people walked in, hoping, praying, that y/n was there. he gasped silently once he saw them, looking beautiful, as always. he found himself staring at them, longing, until he saw that man trailing behind them.
“fuck.” he muttered.
eventually, it became time to play. he came up to the stage, shaking, looking through the whole crowd to find them. he saw them staring up at the stage, drink in hand. but with him hext to them. “hello, everyone. um, we’re lovejoy. this is one of our first ‘real’ gigs.” he explained in air quotes. “and, uh, we hope you enjoy the show.” they clapped, he smiled.
lovejoy played a few songs until it became time to play saline solution. wilbur shivered as he picked up the acoustic guitar. he searched y/n’s eyes for something, anything, indicating that they were intrigued. and he found it. they were smiling right at him. that made him find the courage to sing.
“this next song is called saline solution. and i’ll be playing it by myself.” he said, nodding at the rest of the band members. he started to strum the guitar.
“one, two, three and four.”
y/n’s head tilted as the sing started, slowly, contrary to the rest of the songs they had played before that. wilbur took note of this. they smiled and glanced contently as he played the guitar. the man they were with kept stealing looks at them.
“i think this time i’m dying. i’m not melodramatic. i’m just pragmatic beyond any reasoning for thinking i’ve fuckin’ rabies or something.”
they chuckled.
wilbur closed his eyes. “i think this time i’m dying. i think this time i’m dying.”
y/n was practically awestruck at his voice. they thought he was angelic. no, beyond angelic.
as wilbur sang the song, y/n watched his hands on the guitar, his furrowed eyebrows, him smiling and laughing while he sang, desperately wishing they could get closer to him.
“saline solution to all your- saline solution to all your- saline solution to all your… problems.” wilbur finished the song and the whole crowd erupted into applause and cheers. he opened his eyes and saw y/n clapping. the man next to them didn’t seem amused.
y/n decided to bite the bullet and try to talk to wilbur. they walked up to him after the show, the man they were with long forgotten. “hey, um, i’m y/n.” they stuck out their hand. “oh, hi! i’m wilbur, nice to meet you.”
wilbur led them to the side stage. “i’ve seen you hang out a lot around here.” he said nervously. “yeah, i, uh, that guy over there,” they pointed to him. “drags me along with him.”
“oh, well, did you enjoy the show?” wilbur asked, avoiding the talk about the person who brought them there in the first place. “yeah!! it was amazing!! you have a really great voice, i especially loved when you sang saline solution. it’s such a great song. i never heard it before today, who’s it by?” they rambled.
“um, i wrote it.” wilbur scratched his neck.
y/n’s jaw dropped. “no. fucking. way. you’ve gotta be joking. you’re literally a genius!”
he blushed and soon noticed the man glaring at him. “oh, thank you. do you wanna, er, come back to the back room? it’ll be more private to talk there.”
y/n followed him willingly and sat down on one side of the couch in the room. “so, will, how have you seen me a lot here if this was your first gig?”
wilbur cleared his throat and sat next to them. “my friends insist on going here a lot.” he lied.
the pair talked for a while until they landed on music. “my favorite band has got to be los campensinos!” y/n said.
“oh my god. no way! i love los camp! i could kiss you right now, oh my gosh.” wilbur confessed, unknowingly. he realized what he had just said and his eyes widened.
“do it then.” they said plainly.
wilbur leaned in and grabbed their cheek. “what about that guy you were with?” he asked.
“fuck him.” their lips touched and a feeling exploded within the both of them.
love. passion. longing.
their hunger for each other became deeper as they kissed each other eagerly. finally, they both pulled away and gasped for air. somewhere in the mix, y/n had straddled wilbur. they both laughed.
“so, am i a good kisser?” they asked, raising an eyebrow.
“yes, very much so.” wilbur breathed. “i just have to ask, who’s that guy you were with? i mean, is he your boyfriend or what?”
y/n sighed. “he and i were talking. well, he was talking to me. i don’t like him. ever since i laid eyes on you, i just… fell in love.” they confessed.
wilbur’s eyes grew wide and he pulled them by the waist closer. “jesus christ. i felt the same way.” he kissed them again, then pulled away. “but why do you not like him?”
y/n’s eyes furrowed. “he’s such an asshole. i don’t know, i’ve known him for a while and he’s been prowling on me the whole time. i know i don’t really know you well, but you seem like a genuinely nice person.”
wilbur could’ve cried happy tears right then and there. hearing the person of his dreams say this to him was so mind boggling. he kissed them again, just to make sure everything was real. y/n felt him smile on their lips.
all of a sudden, the door slammed open, and the man who was with y/n earlier was in the entrance. “what the hell?!” his mouth was agape.
“hey.” y/n said simply.
wilbur just looked at y/n and back at the man. “i, uh…”
y/n rolled their eyes. “well, now, you need to calm down, matt.”
the man, who wilbur now knew was named matt, came up to y/n and started to get angry. “i thought we had something!”
“i have literally never made conversation with you whenever you forcibly take me here.”
wilbur just looked at the two, y/n still on his lap. he felt the need to intervene. “you know, they told me that they fuckin’ hate you.”
matt just stood there. “whatever, y/n. you were a bitch anyway.” he then walked out.
wilbur looked over at y/n. “well, that was fun.”
“mhm.” y/n said and kissed him again. “i can’t stand him. he’s convinced we’re dating when we’ve never had one real conversation.”
“i’d love to have a real conversation with you. how about i take you out to a coffee shop?”
“that’d be amazing. tomorrow morning good?”
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nikaizkool · 6 months
Text
Them taking you on a date 😋
Quackity - obviously dressing up, taking you out to a nice steak dinner (like the gentleman he is) and then after taking you home and watching a movie with you, definitely ending up in him cuddling you
Wilbur- taking you to the park for a picnic 😋 compliments 24/7 from him on the date “I like your hair, and your outfit.” He’d be teasing you non stop. Ending up with you two playing at the park like toddlers.
Spreen - stream date 😪 building a house in Minecraft with a cat, while he nonstop flirts with you. Chat would be going crazy (he wanted clout) but after you two cuddle and get McDonald’s 😋
Carrera - just cuddling with him and Barry for the whole date. Maybe some scrolling on TikTok 🤷‍♀️
Charlie - cooking date, making cakes, cookies, ect. Making a mess with flour and sugar. 🤓
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if reqs are open or if you take them, (if not ignore this) could you do one where lovejoy is on tour and his gf can’t go with them cause of school or something and a tiktok of him performing the bridge of cmwyl comes onto her fyp and she’s giggling and squirming around on her bed and her little sister records it and sends it to wilbur and he opens it and he’s like dang
dawg jm outta breatj
using this to push one of my old fics i'm proud of (and it's a big fic, 50k words) it's my first story out where the female character is named, but it deals with anxiety and touring wilbur and whatev so-here's that
anyways onto why you're here
Kept You Like A Secret
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TW: cursing, wilbur smokes (oops), mention of anxiety, mention of puking
The first time you hear it, it'll pass over your head.
Wilbur's teased the song for what feels like an eternity; only getting snippets occasionaly: a voice memo at three am when he clearly should be sleeping, his voice thick with sleep:
“you can call me what you like-“ a pause, “call-what you like-“ a heavy sigh, “I’ll fix it in post. Sleep well, darling.”
or, in the middle of an important meeting at work, a notification will pop up, his handwriting is sloppy and lopsided as you bring the laptop closer to your face: this just in?
so like sure-you know of the song, but not the song, really.
you don't push to hear anything-know how intimate it is sharing those small pieces he's been working so hard on, instead saving each one as they come in slowly.
wilbur leaves and the house doesn't feel right anymore.
your house is somehow too big and too small at the same time without wilbur; the mattress is small, all you two can afford, but without Wilbur's arm slung over your chest, his lips pressed against your ear as he sleeps-well, it's hard to find sleep.
Your parents house is only an hour and a half way, so the first night of his concert, when you imagine the walls of your too small house
his phone buzzes once in his pocket, and using one arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead, he opens the text, immediately sees your little sisters name on it.
A smile immediately forms on the corner of his lips, pulls it forward. He all but adores your little sister. Grew up an only child so he really enjoys the banter you two have going, but also the movie nights he insists when your sister comes over and he sleeps on the couch (or floor, as he has the past few times) and Claire takes the bed, gets up early and makes a big breakfast-really enjoys this time.
Claire S.
Look at this
The wifi in the bar venue is shitty at best, doesn't load until he steps outside, shivers when the cold air hits him-
the video begins with a close in of her face, a large smile with missing teeth as she hushes you. She's outside your childhood door as she nudges it open a little more and finally reveals-
you.
his heart speeds up immediately, feels nervous, like the first time he met you, those butterflies truly never going away.
You're wearing one of his old shirts, worn with age, your hair a bun on top of your head (but he'll insist you've never looked more beatufiul) and he can hear-himself. Weird-he brings the phone closer to his face.
"This just in: I am a total, fucking dumbass"
His face burns bright red, hearing his own voice, wants above all for you to enjoy it, because really that's all that matters-
hears his heart beat in his ears, waiting for you, half expecting you to roll your eyes or skip the video. instead, a small giggle out of you, then a large smile as your shoulders drop and relax, the same way they do when he finally gets home after a long day. It quickly becomes you all but squirming in your bed, this huge smile on your face as your nodding along to it, trying to put it to memroy-
the video ends, loops again and you keep watching, but Claire must be bored by now-kicks the door open which makes you jump.
The video ends by you yelling her name and chucking a pillow at the door, which she narrowing misses.
Wilbur smirks, digs around in his pockets and lights a cigarette up, rests a foot on the brick building, takes a deep inhale of the nictotine.
You pick up at the first ring:
"I assume you saw the video. Don't get a big head; I like pop punk music too, which is shitty." "Oh, pretty girl." He teases, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, "It already went to my head."
You groan, but your voice drops as you play with your fingers: "Miss you. twenty-four sleeps until your back home."
He holds in a sigh, this is the hard part. Talking about missing you will no doubt make him misty eye, but he is still riding the high of you enjoying the song: made himself sick before going out on stage with worry, on his knees as he clutched a garbage can begging whatever powers there may be for him to get this right- just this once-to get it right.
"You heading to bed?"
"Mhm, meeting at 6 tomorrow. I'll let you go-"
you imagine he has rockstar activities to do; drink, take selfies with adoring fans-anything but talk to you:
instead, he shakes his head: "Got nothing but time. Lay down, tell me about your day."
And with a smile you obey, slink into the twin sized mattress you grew up in and for the first time, the walls don't feel like it's closing in on you.
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cathers-world · 5 months
Text
Kinktober
NSFW
Things Wilbur would say in bed
Not proof read!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
•“Your cunts so tiny it cant even take all of me”
•“Whore fucking your self on my cock”
•“So,so, so tight”
• “you just love my cock in you don’t you”
• “shhh you don’t want them to hear how much of a slut you are for me do you?”
• “ such a pain slut”
• “doll I’m glad you love my cock but I can’t fit anymore in”
• “shut the fuck up I know you can take it”
• “fucking whore you like getting other men’s attention?!”
• “so wet I’ve barely touched you”
• “aw so needy, grinding on my fingers”
• “if you don’t stop I’m going to have to punish you doll”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 2? 😋
@bqcornnuts-1
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ax-y10 · 7 months
Text
"I'm Just Tired"
In which- Your boyfriend looks increasingly tired and run down, and he finally breaks when he gets back from his tour.
A/n: you know that clip of young Wilbur saying "I don't thank myself for any of my accomplishments. That's why I'm not happy", this is entirely based off of an edit vid I saw of it. If any of you aren't happy, plsss dm me and I'll help you as best I can. Pls don't suffer in silence.
Chapter info: sad little pouty Wilbur, Wilbur not having faith in his abilities, kissing (cute little nose kissessssss), phone calls, exhaustion, nicknames (Wilbur from Lovejoy, sweetheart blah blah blah)
Pronouns: None (You/Yours)
Masterlist:
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Every call you had while he was on tour, he looked increasingly tired. Of course he was going to be tired, it was essentially a new city every night and you were going to allow that. But when he started looking exhausted, that was when your suspicion arose. He looked like he wasn't getting proper sleep, his texts were shorter, and his bandmates were messaging you asking questions. He wouldn't be losing interest, you knew him too well. But when he got back from tour, you asked him about it.
When you met him at the gate at the airport, you were almost taken aback by his appearance. He look disheveled to say the least. His hair in each and every direction, his shirt buttons buttoned wrong, his string on his sweatpants left undone, his socks mismatched, and the bags under his eyes dark and heavy.
"Hello, my little Wilbur from Lovejoy! How are you, sweetheart?" You spoke excitedly.
You were met with a strained smile, a low mumble, and arms wrapped loosely around your waist. You waved to Ash, Mark and Joe as they walked up to you, and Wilbur's loose hold on your waist tightened, desperate to get back home and lay in your arms.
You squeezed his shoulders reassuringly, letting him know you'd be home soon. You peeled him off of you and walked out to the car, him trailing behind like a lost puppy, Ash, Mark and Joe following.
It felt like the longest 45 minutes of your life driving home, telling the boys that they can stay for the night so Wilbur could stop whining, despite how adorable it was when he whined at each inconvenience. Every turn you took, Wilbur didn't bother holding himself up and let himself flop onto you. Every red light you stopped at he leaned against you and mumbled at his bandmates when they poked fun at him.
The smile on his face when you all got home and he got settled in bed was enough to warm up your entire day, even if it was a lopsided smile and a strained mumble of appreciation of a comfortable bed and his favourite person. The last thing on his mind was confrontation, so you left it for the morning when he felt better.
"Good morning sweet. How'd you sleep?" You asked, voice raspy and broken up from sleep, as you looked up at Wilbur staring at your sleepy face.
"I slept better with you here."
"Are you alright? You seem more exhausted lately?"
"Eh, I don't thank myself for any of my accomplishments. That's why I'm not happy. I don't thank myself for getting here, and being up on these stages and performing at festivals. I don't thank myself for my streaming success. I don't even thank myself for my friends and I feel horrible about it." Tears welling up and brimming his eyes, you pulled him back down to lay against you, squeezing him tightly.
"Darling, you are absolutely amazing. If you can't thank yourself, I can always assure you. And we can make sure we can fix it," a smile spread across his face and a nudge of his hand against your own was enough to tell you he loved you but wanted more sleep. You pressed a bunch of kisses along the bridge of his nose and the tip before fully relaxing.
"Alright, goodnight lovely. Get a bit more sleep and you'll feel better," You whispered and fell asleep with him.
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b0r3dtod3ath · 9 months
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🙈 anon here
I saw your post for Wilbur requests and I am gladly going to accept your ask
Wilburs favourite ways to fluster you
Idk I thought it was cute
a/n: thank you for the request!! with pleasure i present you the outcome
masterlist
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-He loves to see the subtle red color appear on your face. He often makes it his goal to make you flustered either by catching you off guard or flirting.
-Random cheesy, flirty lines. Preceded by silence. He walks in the living room? "I was going to say something really sweet about you. But when I saw you, I became speechless". Laying in the bed trying to fall asleep? "Het, Y/N. I have a serious question. How was heaven when you left it?". It's stupid but it's sweet.
-He calls you his wife/husband/spouse. First time he did it you were supposed to go out for a fancy dinner to celebrate your anniversary. You entered the restaurant and were greeted by a man and Wilbur said "Hello, me and my spouse, we had a reservation for two for 7pm". It perfectly rolled from his tongue. It was so natural for him even though it was the first time you have heard him say it. You were too stunned to speak. Once you were sat and got the menus he said you but you were too lost in your thoughts - thinking about what had happened moments before. "Hey, earth to Y/N." "Huh?" "I asked what would you prefer to drink". He noticed the blush on your cheeks and a slight difference in behaviour but it took a while before he connected the dots.
-Catches you off guard with kisses. Especially when you are in front of your friends. Don't get me wrong - PDA isn't unusual but its often limited to hugs and holding hands so a kiss while in public is a surprise.
-Also buys you little presents from time to time. Flowers, favorite snacks or some vending machine toys "just because it reminded him of you".
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mysticalsoot · 5 months
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heaven is you (godbur au)
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first installment of my godbur au & gift to my sister &lt;3
➸ note; i wanted to finish this for @lillylvjy. lillys been a big play in why i still write and why i haven’t given up on shifting or given up on myself or this account. thanks to her i don’t impulsively delete things and i move forward. a few months ago i threw the idea of godbur at her and we talked about it and formed this character, she gives me the credit but she deserves just as much credit as i do. she’s my sister, regardless of biological attachment, she is my sister. i love her and i will protect her for as long as she’ll let me. she’s always there for me, holding me up and supporting me. if i’m upset or hurt, she’s there to listen and offer support. she also spends way more money on me than she should. and i love her, so a little note, don’t mess with her. thank you lills, i love you and enjoy this lil fic i somehow managed to finish in a day! also big thanks to @sleeby-anon for helping me pick out the photo and just helping me with this fic- tysm! you’re very cool and i love u (thank you for being a good friend to lilly :3 )
➸ pairing; godbur x gn!reader
➸ summary; after a few (actually, many) instances where you risked your life in order to reach your beloved wilbur’s world, you have a final disagreement that brings him to a few realizations and maybe some more effort to bring you want you want
➸ warning; kinda hurt but comfort at end, illusions to suicide but not flat out said, probably swearing, is there an unbalanced power dynamic? probably, uses of baby (i’m sorry i’m a sucker for it-), i think that’s it!
➸ age-rating; 15+
➸ wordcount; 2k
main masterlist
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"darling," the word rolled off wilbur's tongue with ease, like it had been spoken millions of times. perhaps it had been, but your mind was too foggy with fear and desperation to think clearly, "you can't keep doing this."
he pleads for you, hands on your shoulders and eyebrows pulling together as he looks down at you.
"what else am I supposed to do?" your voice cracks as the words flow out, and he frowns, shaking his head and looking to the side.
"live," he pauses, turning his head to face you. his grip on your shoulders tightens just a bit, "there's more to life than seeking refuge in my world. be alive, live in mortality."
he's begging you, pleading for you. he hates to see you hurt, and he hates the way his world's laws are. you can't be thrust into immortal responsibilities yet, and you can't stay long as a mortal with purpose. you have to go, but you would rather die a million more times before you accept that.
"can't you just let me stay? what's the problem in letting me be free where I want to be, with you," you're pleading with him now. on your hands and knees praying to the god before you to just let you stay. you're standing, knees going weak just a smidge. your eyes are burning from tears and your cheeks are wet with a desperation.
"I can't, I really can't," his frown deepens and he pulls you into his chest, face in his white ruffly shirt. he smells like home, but a home you can never truly have. he cups the back of your head with his hand, rubbing at your scalp with his fingertips as you sigh.
"it's the rules," a kiss to the top of your head and you want to scream and cry and bang at his chest. but you don't, you stay still in his grasp, holding your calm in your hands so tightly.
"the rules are stupid," you mumble into his shirt, he moves a hand to rub your back.
he chuckles, nodding in agreement before speaking again, "I agree, love."
days pass after he sent you back, you mulled over ways and methods you could reach him again in desperate hope he'd finally give in to your pleas and let you stay.
you were wandering the woods, pacing between trees as you tried to narrow down your plans. you could try summoning him, but it wasn't fool proof. you could try to speak to him through meditation, but he sometimes ignored you 'for your sake'.
you weren't sure what would work, and you were kicking yourself for not knowing. but also for the doubts that filled your mind. what if he kicked you out again? told you to never see him again and made sure you couldn't? what if he forced you to live out your mortality purely out of his anger at you. what if he was angry?
you sigh, resting your head against the tree, sighing as you screw your eyes shut, banging your fist against the bark before stepping back.
"what more do you want?" you beckon up at the sky, he's not listening, you're sure of it but you need to be angry at something, somewhere. it's unfair.
"for you to listen," his voice mumbles in your mind and you scoff, shaking your head as the memory of his accent echoes in your mind.
"yeah well, you don't have the best ideas, now do you?"
"y/n.." he murmurs, his tone a gentle warning to you so you don't say something you'll regret. or do something, for that matter.
"wilbur," you copy his tone, mocking it almost before you groan, falling to sit on the ground.
"you know you can't do this, you know that," you can hear the strain in his voice, the way he draws it out and softens it just to reach out to you and make amends for it.
"but what else am I meant to do?" you want to scream at the top of your lungs, cry to him and bitch about the situation you're in. how you're continually denied what you want. you thought you proved yourself, you thought you proved that you could handle immortality. that you could handle him.
it's silent, not a sound is made around you or even echoed in your mind. you wondered if his methods of communication were a curse or a blessing. it felt more like a curse at the moment. it felt like a taunt to you, how powerless you felt down on earth, in morality. you felt so out of control, like a puppet. and maybe wilbur was the puppeteer, but who’s to say it wasn’t someone else? maybe he was just an illusion, a hallucination that controlled your motives and thoughts simply by the prospect of maybe having some hope to grasp onto. a nice, soft candle in the middle of a dark and empty room.
he was the light you couldn’t quite reach.
he finally speaks up, his tone rushed and worried, but his words keep you from second guessing it, “i have an idea.”
“what?” you mumble, nearly tripping over the single word.
“you want to stay with me, yes?” he sounds almost frustrated for a moment before sighing almost exasperated.
“yes, yes, that’s what i’ve been saying. you never listen-“
wilbur cuts you off, “i listen, i promise. okay? i listen to you, now, listen to me for a second, okay baby?”
you ponder for a moment before giving in, “fine.”
“i’ll let you come back, under a few conditions,” you wait a moment, giving him time to list his conditions but he doesn’t seem to budge on his own.
“and what are those?” you fold your arms over your chest, huffing as you imagine wilbur pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing at you.
“i’ll tell you when you get here, okay?” he pauses, sand surprisingly you can hear the hesitation almost as if he were there with you and not just speaking through your mind, “there’s a tree-“
“a tree? wow, so fancy,” your annoyance bubbling up at the way he wasn’t being direct.
he warns you again, a whispering of your name to keep you in line before he continues, “there’s a tree a few minutes in front of you, there will be lilliums around the base and a circle door in the middle. it’ll take you here, no need to do what you normally do, okay? please just, don’t do something stupid and get up here, okay?”
you take a moment before answering, wondering if you want to believe him or ignore him at the moment, “okay, fine.”
you wait a few minutes, making sure he doesn’t have anything more to say before standing up and beginning the walk over to the tree. it feels stupid, how hopeful you are and how confident you feel over walking to a damn tree as if it’ll fix your biggest qualm with the way your god’s world works. you stop short, maybe a good eight feet from the base of the tree, your eyes dancing around and staring at the lilly flowers lining the base and spreading over the roots. you play with the idea of turning around and walking back, abandoning him and any loyalty you had to him. but then you look back at the trunk before you and sigh, giving in and stepping back towards it. your fingers reach out to grasp the hook on the corner, pulling it back and crawling in, not without doubts of course but you aren’t sure what you have to lose.
you pull the door back to close it and turn around, darkness encompassing your whole being as you feel a sort of light feeling take over your senses. are you dreaming? it doesn’t feel like a dream, but it seems like one. are you real? is this real?
your thoughts shut off, cut like a guillotine, but the blade being the darkness and silence. you no longer felt anything but a void, and then you began to feel warm fabric, and then a whiff of cologne hit your nose and then you were finally able to open your eyes.
“i see you’re awake?” you peek up, rubbing your eyes as you take in your surroundings, eyes catching on the familiar figure of wilbur, sitting in a reading chair in the corner of his bedroom. you’ve been here before, you’ve slept in this bed but now it feels different. it’s a good different, but it isn’t the same.
“i am now,” you pause, tossing the covers over and off your legs as you sit up against the ornate headboard, gazing over at him as he meets your eyes and sets down his journal, “what happened?”
“i convinced myself that i could manage switching your role to immortal,” he sighs, moving his gaze to the floor as he chews his lip, mind reeling as he lists off all the rules he broke just to bring his love into his life.
“mm, was it paperwork that kept you from it?” you chuckle, much too happy at the moment to even think of how angry you were and still are at him.
“no,” he chuckles dryly, shaking his head, “it was.. more serious than that but that’s no talk for now. how are you feeling, love?” he stands from his chair, finding a spot on the edge of the bed by your feet and resting his hands on your legs.
“i couldn’t be more tired, what the hell happened? how did i get here?” you murmur, rubbing your eyes as you take note of the pulsing ache at your temples.
“i guided you through a dream, to get here, and once you reached this world, i switched some things around in your file,” he squeezes your calf, his eyes staring at the wall for a good minute before meeting your gaze.
“so that means…?”
“you’re immortal and no longer have any ties with your old world, you’re mine now, just the way you wanted,” he sighs, lifting your legs to lay over his lap as he reaches over and kisses your forehead. there’s a sort of calmness about him that you’ve yet to see until now. you never knew such peace could exist in him.
“i’ll answer any question you have.” you nod to him, acknowledging his offer but not knowing where to start,
you have too many questions to even verbalize, or let alone ask, and the growing headache isn’t helping either. so after a moment’s contemplation, you decide to let the piles questions take a rest while you enjoy your wilbur’s company.
you lean forward and kiss his cheek once, and you watch as a gentle rosiness floods the pale skin that he adorns and his lips curl up in a smile.
“how about we have a day to ourselves and celebrate?” you suggest, grabbing his hand to play with his fingers, chewing on your lip as you keep your eyes down.
“okay, as long as you promise to ask questions later?” he tilts your head up by your chin, a loving care in his eyes.
“promise,” you smile, kissing the tip of his nose before continuing and jumping off the bed, “now show me that pretty garden you have, yeah?”
he smiles, standing up and meeting you where you stand. he leans down, hands resting on your cheeks with giggles escaping his lips at your excitement, “may i kiss you first?”
“yes, sir you may,” your fingers wrap around his waist as he brings his lips to yours, smiling softly as your mouths move in sync. a moments pass before you both need air and you pull back, moving to tug on his hand, “now come on! show me the lilliums!”
he leads you out to the garden, smiling the whole way as he can’t help but to think how grateful he is that he broke a few rules and let heaven be you.
taglist; @lcvejoy @lillylvjy @ella-fella-bo-bella @lotusanonymouse @willgoldszn @whos-nicooo @zebonos
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modelbus · 7 months
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Heyy! Could you do Wilbur x artist!reader dating hcs because a musician and an artist? I feel like Y/N like Wilbur makes so much art of him to the point she actually probably made one of their lovejoy posters!! And Wil would teach Y/N guitar and Y/N teach Wil how to draw and its so SDHDSGJ
I'm an artist and I think this would be cute! Hope you can answer this ask <3
- 🍄anon :D
I’m not an artist myself, but my two artist friends came in clutch here!
Pairing: Cc!Wilbur x Gn!Artist!Reader
Adored Artist
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Idle drawings of Wilbur completely fill your sketchbook. Him playing guitar. Him sitting there. A specific doodle of him with a large forehead— for the joke.
The two of you tend to sit together without talking. You drawing, him creating Melodies and lyrics.
Getting showered in compliments.
He talked about decorating his guitar once, and you drew nothing but guitar designs for the next week.
His callouses and your graphite-stains are jokingly called “battle wounds” together.
When Wilbur buys you art supplies as gifts, he is painfully meticulous in making sure the supplies are good and ones you like.
Him peering over your shoulder to see what you’re working on, always delighted when it’s something related to him. Whether that be a simple guitar sketch for practice, or actually him.
And 100% yes he’d be yoinking your drawings to use for Lovejoy or merch reasons.
“Hey Love, remember that drawing you did the other night?” He asked, leaning against the couch where you’re curled up with a sketch pad. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, Wil.” You had laughed, finishing part of the sketch and looking up at him. He laughs too, leaning down to kiss you. “The one with the Lovejoy mascots. And our skull.” He had elaborated for you. Your eyes had lit up, flipping to the page for him. “Yes! That one. I was thinking, maybe it’d be cool to use as a design for merch?”
You couldn’t believe it, that he actually wanted to use your drawings. But, when you realized he was serious, you jumped at the chance.
(He insisted on paying you for it, too, even though you assured him you were perfectly happy giving him the designs. For two weeks you played a game where you passed the money back and forth until you gave up and just accepted it)
He doesn’t shut up about you or your talents ever. Met someone new? He’s pulling out his phone to share your art. Saw someone online talking about art? He’s tagging you to say you’re the best artist ever.
Teaching each other <333
Wilbur had made a small comment, and you jumped on it.
”I wish I could draw like that. You’re so talented, you’re incredible.” “I can teach you.” “What?”
Did not go well at all.
“Imagine that the light is here, okay? So you have to shade where shadows would be, making it darker there.” You explained patiently, gently tapping the areas you’re talking about.
“Shadows. Darker. Shading.” Wilbur repeated, looking up at you. You were leaning on him, your head on his shoulder to see his drawing. A very… admirable attempt at you.
“Go for it.” You encouraged, and he blinked.
“What?”
“…Were you listening?”
“Of course I was, love.” But the way he had leaned in to kiss you—to distract you—certainly said otherwise.
Since you “made” him draw, he convinced you to learn how to play guitar.
You protested (secretly loving the idea of learning from him) but in the end he got you to agree.
Sitting on his lap, his arms wrapped around you to help you form the chord shapes. It’s cozy, and you’re absolutely failing.
“This is a G—“ “My fingers don’t do that, Wil!”
In the end, it turns into him playing a song for you. But only after you manage to make that G chord, finger pain be damned.
He loves putting up your art on the walls. Taped.
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straighttohellbuddy · 9 months
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a series of (fake) tweets about NSFW pop musician and occasional menace Y/N and their ongoing feud(???) with Wilbur Soot in reference to my upcoming fic let me know if you want to be tagged????
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