#anyway. lime stays there with her

[musubiki]

its been a while since my last summer mochi 🌺🏖️

[enha-stars]

✧ Matchy, matchy ; S.J

Pairing: Bf!Jake x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: To be loved is to be known. And you were. And he was, too. You knew him and he knew you, and neither of you would have it any other way.

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, down bad jake, down bad reader, freak: matched (lovingly), abandoned food, kissing, suggestive, gift giving as a love language,

A/n: happy anniversary to my beloved, @karinasbaby . My love for her inspired this, so… comeback?? Possibly. Stay tuned.

In the dimly lit, slightly damp hallway, Jake carefully turned the key in the lock, pushing the door open with the gentlest of nudges to avoid any noise. He slipped inside his apartment, his footsteps silent against the hardwood floor. The soft glow of evening light filtered through the curtains, casting a warmth hue over the room.

He was about to head to your shared bedroom when an enticing aroma caught his attention, causing him to stop mid-step. His heart skipped a beat as he realized the source of the delightful smell was in fact, coming from his kitchen.

Tip-toeing closer, Jake poked his head into the kitchen to the sight of you standing at the stove, your back turned to him. You were humming a soft tune, completely absorbed in your cooking. The sight of you, dressed in one of his old t-shirts, hair loosely tied up, glasses resting on your head, made his heart swell until it almost burst out of his chest. 

Jake’s lips curved into a bright smile as he quietly moved towards you, setting the gift bag down by the wall. Careful not to make a sound, he reached your side and paused for a moment, taking in the scene. The table was set for two, candles ready to be lit, and the counters were adorned with fresh ingredients. Jake recognized the variety on the table and his smile widened. He knew what avocados and limes meant and his stomach rumbled.

Unable to resist any longer, he stepped forward and gently wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close. You let out a small gasp of surprise, dropping the spoon you were holding as you turned your head to look at him, heart beating rapidly and eyes wide.

“Jake! Oh my gosh,” you exhaled, trying to catch your breath. “You scared me.” The smile that had twisted onto your lips and the sparkle in your shiny eyes told him that he had the same affect on you that you had on him. 

Jake kissed your cheek softly, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, angel.” He did, and she knew it, too. “I just couldn’t resist.” 

You laughed, a sound he was sure the tides pushed towards because you were a celestial being to him, bright and unearthly. If he could bottle your laugh and drink it, have it swim in his veins forever, he would. 

“Well, I missed you and I wanted to surprise you. How was the harbor?” You picked up the spoon once more and stirred the pot of beans and ground meat. Knowing this mood of his, you turned off the stove. 

You wouldn’t be eating anytime soon, anyways. 

“It was okay,” he murmured, tightening his embrace. “Riki fell into the water but it only reached his hips.” He grinned against your skin when you snickered. He could feel your body shake beneath his hands and he pressed himself against you tighter. “I missed you, baby.” 

You turned in his arms, facing him fully. Your eyes met his and you could feel every ounce of stress, every fleeting miscellaneous thought, fade away. His eyes, shiny and sparkling, held yours with nothing but heat and affection. 

Jake swallowed, afraid to blink. He was afraid that if he blinked, you may disappear. It didn’t matter how long he had you, he wanted you for longer. He wanted forever. Eternity, even, if he could ask for it. 

Your eyes glazed over his face, taking him in after not seeing him for a few hours. There was a small smudge of dirt under his right eye and you did the only thing you could do. Holding his chin in place, you licked your thumb and rubbed the dirt off his face. 

Jake stared at you feverishly, eyes on your face; taking in the way you slightly pouted your lips, sticking your tongue out a bit. It was a habit you had learned from him, one he cursed himself for all the time.

“There,” you mumbled to yourself. “All clean.” You dropped your hands to his chest and met his gaze. The warmth in it almost made your legs buckle but his grip held you upright. 

“I love you,” he said. Before you could say anything, he dipped his head towards yours. His lips hovered above your own as he whispered, “I got you something.” 

Your eyes fluttered shut and you tilted your head up, trying to meet his lips but he stayed slightly out of reach, forever teasing you. “Yeah? What’d you get me?”

Jake almost gave in, feeling your warm breath against his lips. He wanted to kiss you until you forgot your name, but he enjoyed this. He enjoyed making you wait, the push and pull.

“It’s a surprise,” he mumbled. “You have to sit on the couch.” His lips briefly, for the lightest of seconds, brushed against yours and you almost whined out his name. 

“Jake,” you exhaled, eyes squeezed shut. Jake loved you like this; all bothered and slightly desperate for him. Usually, he was the one like this, the one on the cusp of begging and asking. When he got you like this, oh, you looked stunning. “Come on,” you tried. “Tell me.” 

Jake simply shook his head, his lips brushing against yours tantalizing. “Gotta wait, angel.” His lips curled upwards at the small noise of frustration you made and he stepped back, hands dropping to his side. He watched with heated eyes as you blinked back into yourself. He loved being the only one to have you like this. 

Before he could take another step back, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him towards you, smashing your lips together. You swallow his slight gasp of surprise and smile against his lips as he melts into it, hands cupping the sides of your face as your lips move harshly against each other. 

Unable to help himself, Jake steps forward and pushes you backwards until your back is flush against the counter. The slight dig makes you gasp in pleasurable pain and he slips his tongue inside your mouth, laying claim to what already belongs to him. He grips the counter, caging you in.

You clutch his shirt, lips moving roughly against his. Jake slots his knee between your legs and the new pressure manages to pull a breathy moan out of you. Jake pulls away, eyes still shut as he tries to catch his breath. There’s a string of saliva that connects your bruised lips and he presses his lips against yours softly, licking your lips clean. 

“Fuck,” he exhales. He opens his eyes and almost groans at the sight of you; breathing deeply, lips red and plump, eyes slightly dazed. You looked almost fucked out and he hasn’t even touched you yet. “Fuck, you’re so perfect.” 

You laughed at his words and slid your hands up to the base of his neck. “So, this gift…” 

Grinning, Jake nipped at your lips before stepping back. “Go sit on the couch, pretty.” He simply shook his head when you frowned at him and he watched you reluctantly walk out of the kitchen and into the living room with eyes filled to the brim with adoration. 

He waited until he heard you fall back onto the couch. Even then, you called out and let him know you were sitting. He was sure his heart was going to burst out his ribs and break through his skin with the amount of love and affection he felt for you. 

Grabbing the small gift bag, Jake made his way to you. When you heard his footsteps, you straightened your back and turned to face him, giving him your utmost attention. Jake often gifted you small, minuscule things, and you loved and appreciated every single thing. It was how he loved, and so you always made sure to focus on him and what his gift was telling you. 

Kneeling down in front of you, he looked up at you as you shifted to the edge of the sofa. You spread your legs a bit and he shuffled between them. His lips twisted and you pinched his nose, immediately seeing the flicker of heat and desire that spread through his eyes. “Don’t even think about it,” you warned. 

“Jokes on you,” he smirked. “I’m always thinking about it.” 

You raised an eyebrow at him and traced the outline of his lips. “Freak.” 

“Matched,” he countered, licking your finger when you pressed it down on his bottom lip. 

You both grinned at each other before he cleared his throat and lifted the gift bag, moving it towards you. Gently, like it was made of gold, which to you, it practically was, you grabbed it and set it down on your thigh. 

Jake watched you curiously as you picked the gift wrapping sheets out of the bag. He stopped breathing momentarily when you reached into the bag and pulled out a small, coffee coloured teddy bear plushie. 

His eyes, which could never and would never stray from you, focused on your expression; the way your eyes widened in surprise and then fondness, the way your small smile twisted into a wide grin before your lips parted in content. He watched as your eyebrows raised in surprise, the way your eyes crinkled. 

You looked so happy, so adorable as you gently patted the bear's head. Lost in the gift, you barely noticed Jake’s warm gaze and the way he shuffled forward, resting his cheek against your other thigh. He was more than pleased with staring at you like this forever. 

“Jake,” you whispered, pulling him out of his staring. He blinked and lifted his head, shaking the hair out of his face. With one hand, you held the bear tightly. With the other, you brushed his hair out his face, smiling a little wobbly. “I love him. What’s the special occasion?” 

Jake shrugged, slightly overcome with emotion. He didn’t think he would be, but you had that effect on him. “It’s uh, well,” he licked his lips. “I saw him at the harbor and thought of you. I knew I had to win it for you.” 

You stared at him, eyes widening at his words before you bit your bottom lip. You glanced at the bear in your hands and let out a quiet chuckle. At the sound, Jake looked back at you, eyes sparkling. 

“Jake,” you sighed. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. His eyes shut automatically and he breathed out in content. “This is actually really funny,” you murmured against his skin. 

“Hm?”

Pulling away, you set the bear down beside you and tapped his head twice. He opened his eyes and frowned in confusion when you motioned for him to move. Looking like a kicked puppy, he shuffled backwards and gave you enough space to get up. 

From the carpet, he watched you as you walked to the breakfast table. You pulled a chair back and grabbed something he couldn’t see. Hiding the item from his sight, you turned to face him. There was a twinkle in your eye, one he loved to see but didn’t understand. 

“Sit up on the couch for me, baby.” You motioned him to get up with your head and like the obedient boyfriend he was, he pushed himself off the carpet and fell back onto the sofa. 

Satisfied, you walked towards him, hiding the item behind your back. Jake tried to glance around you but with one look, he sulked into the couch, crossing his arms. Tsking, you sank to your knees and he immediately spread his legs. 

Your eyes traveled from his thighs up to his eyes and his eyes crinkled in amusement, an arrogant smirk ghosting on his lips. “Thinking about it, aren’t you, angel?”

You licked your lips, trying to focus on the present in your hands. “Don’t be freaky right now, Jake. We’re trying to be sentimental.” 

“So you are thinking about it,” he mused, spreading his legs further. You blinked and tried to ignore his tactics. It wasn’t even your fault really, not when his feelings and excitement were practically staring right in the face. 

Clearing your throat, you pinched his thigh to get his mind out of the gutter. Once the lust in his eyes died down a bit, you smiled bashfully at him. 

“What’re you hiding, angel? What’s in your hand?” He tried to hide the curiosity in his voice but you caught it. Because, while he liked to give you things, you also liked to give him things. Despite his calm demeanor, you knew he was always excited. Just like you were. 

Gosh, the stars really did love you both. 

“Well,” you started. “It’s funny that you got me that bear because I…” When your explanation fell short, you brought the bear in your hand towards Jake, handing it to him. He stared at the chocolate covered teddy bear in pure astonishment, almost like it couldn’t be real. 

You shuffled forward, resting your hand on his thigh. Rubbing small circles on his skin, you tried to ground him. Despite getting small gifts from you all the time, he took them each to heart. You wondered when he would accept the love he deserved. 

With a gentleness that made your stomach tingle, he held the bear carefully in his hand. It was small in his hands, but the weight of it felt almost overwhelming. You watched as his eyes glistened with something adoring, the way his lips parted prettily, curving into a smile so bright and beautiful it could have blinded you. 

“Angel,” his voice was hoarse with emotion, “why did you… how?” With soft, featherlike fingers, he caressed the bear as if it was your skin. His eyes were filled with wonder and if you could have captured this moment in its exactness, you would have lived in it. 

“I saw it the other day while I was shopping. It reminded me of you so I bought it.” 

Your words snapped something in him and he set the bear down, eyes ablaze. You barely got enough time to look at him before he scooped you into his arms and set you in his lap. Blinking, you stared at him, dumbfounded. 

With your legs on either side of him, you shuffled a bit closer until you were comfortable. Then, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed yourself against his chest, his hands wrapping around your waist. 

“Hi,” you whispered. 

His lips wobbled and he brushed his nose against yours. “Hi, angel.” 

“So, do you like the bear I got you?” 

Pressing a kiss to your jaw, he nodded. “I love it so much. So, so, much. I can’t believe we got matching plushies accidentally.” 

You laughed and kissed the edge of his smile, wanting to bask in it forever. “We match each other's freaks so well. We’re practically soulmates at this point.” 

Pulling away, he gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “The fuck you mean practically? We are soulmates. I’m marrying you. We’re going to die together and be buried together in one casket.” 

“Oh.” You grinned at him. “Okay, baby. Whatever you say.” 

He tiled your head upwards and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Then, he grabbed both of the bears and handed you yours while he kept his close to his chest. “What are you naming him?” 

You hummed in thought and stared at the bear in your hand. Naming your plushies was important to you. Names were important, and they had to be meaningful. Jake shouldn’t have been so turned on while watching you think of a name for a plushie, but he was. He knew you could feel it, but, having your priorities straight, you ignored him. 

“I kind of like Buoy.” 

Jake blinked at you before he softly laughed, amazed at your naming ability. “Buoy?” 

“Yeah, Buoy. Named after that slightly orange buoy by the harbor. That, and you’re my anchor. Always keeping me afloat and all.” 

Jake wasn’t a crier, but the amount of times he had almost burst into years tonight had hit a new record. Trying to swallow the emotion that bubbled in his throat, he rested his head against your chest, hiding in your embrace. You laughed at his antics and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

“What about you? What are you naming her?” 

Jake lifted his head and the look in his eyes made you hold your breath. You could feel every single vein in your body vibrate and you knew you were in for a long night. 

“I’m naming her Quesadilla.” The seriousness in his voice threw you off and you weren’t sure if you should laugh or clap him on the back. Instead, you simply raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Why Quesadilla?” 

“I’m naming her that in honour of the quesadillas we won’t be eating tonight.” 

“What are you–” You were cut off by Jake tightening his grip on you and flipping you over. A surprised laugh escaped your lips as you found yourself lying beneath him on the couch, his body hovering over yours.

You weren’t sure where your bears had gone, but that was the least of your worries. Jake leaned down, his face inches from yours, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart beat in your ears.  “I’m only hungry for you tonight, pretty girl.” His lips hovered above your own and your throat went dry. 

You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek as you smiled up at him. “Have me then, Jake.” 

Jake’s expression softened and he closed the distance between you, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. It was a simple tease, a highlight as to how the night was going to go, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You would, after all, have your fun after he had his. 

[clemswinecorner]

Neat [George Clarkey]

Summary: George and Y/N are dating, but no one is aware. It can make going out with their friends a bit... weird, a bit risky, but it works.

Wordcount: 2.1k

Warnings: sexual innuendos and alcohol, other than that it's fine

I'm in love with this man so here's a fic!

Main Masterlist

Gif from @g-xix

“We’re getting drinks, are you staying here?” Chris shouts over the loud Spanish music of whatever club they are in. Y/N looks around, seeing Arthur Television chatting with a couple of friends and Callum and Chip laughing with some guy they met when they went out some other time. “I’ll go with,” she gestures, and Chris nods as he follows George to the bar, occasionally checking if she’s still behind him. Although it was a Friday night, it was still relatively early, so the club wasn’t extremely busy yet. It was busy enough to have fun, but early enough to still be able to have a conversation with no interruptions, so they easily made their way over to the bar. As they arrive at the bar Chris starts speaking to the bartender, having heard everyone’s orders, and she softly puts her hand on George’s shoulder. He turns to her surprised, relaxing when he sees her. “Oh, I didn’t know you were walking with us!” She smiles, “Yeah, the rest was all in conversation anyway,” she explains, and he nods. Chris turns to the pair, “Do you want a pint?” He asks George, who contemplates his options before nodding. “Yeah. You as well?” He looks at the girl next to him, nodding. “Yes, but I also want to do tequila shots. Oh, and did you get a Guinness for Hill?” Chris looks at her surprised, “Wait, no, I didn’t, where is he anyway?” He asks before moving back to the bartender. “Could I get another 3 pints and a Guinness, please. Are we doing the shots now?” Chris turns to George and Y/N, who quickly make eye contact, before nodding. “Yeah, I’m down,” George answers, and Chris turns back to the bartender. “And three tequila shots, please, we’ll do those first and then take those other drinks back if that’s alright,” You look at George as you wait for the bartender. “Arthur went to the bathroom. You enjoying your night so far?” She asks, leaning closer. He nods, looking down at her, their faces a little too close for it to simply be friendly. Y/N glances towards Chris, tapping his phone on the card reader with the shots and limes already in front of him. “Yeah. What are you doing tonight, going to Becky’s?” She shakes her head, “No, she has to leave early tomorrow so she wouldn’t stay out too long. I’m not sure, why do you ask?” He shrugs, with a hint of a smile on his face. “Just thinking,” he says, moving away from her as Chris turns around. She sends him a knowing smirk as Chris hands out the shots. “Salt, babe, we need salt,” she tells him, and George is already leaning over the bar to grab one of the salt shakers. Y/N and Chris lick their palms and George twists some salt on them, “Okay, you do it for me,” he says, looking at the girl next to him. “What, d’you want her to lick you?” Chris chuckles, making a blush appear on the younger’s face, not realising the implications. “No, I meant like, the salt, not, what?!” He stutters, and Chris laughs even harder as she smiles, taking the salt from him. “Hurry up then, I want to take these shots!”

It’s busier by the time they’ve had a few rounds of drinks and shots. George was still relatively sober looking, having a fairly high tolerance, and Y/N wanted to be semi-responsible, going a bit easy. Unlike some of their other friends, who were already dancing— most of them dragged away by a drunk Chris, telling them how boring they were sitting around. Because their friends were all on the dance floor —or god knows where else in the club— George and Y/N didn’t really try to hide their affection. They were sitting together, her leg on his lap, one of his hands on her thigh and a drink in the other. “Are you staying at mine tonight?” He asks, and she nods. “Yeah, if the other boys don’t mind. Can’t really do anything then, though,” she says, and he shrugs. “It’d be weirder if I went to yours, I think, and with your roommates and stuff. Either way, I was thinking, maybe we could go out tomorrow? Grab a coffee, maybe have a cute little date?” He asks, just loud enough for her to hear. She chuckles, “You can’t get enough of me, can you? My roommates will be out tomorrow night, if you want to come over. We could make that taco thing you send me?” She suggests, and now he’s the one teasing her. “What were you saying about can’t get enough?” She rolls her eyes as he squeezes her waist. “Whatever, then I’ll make it by myself,” she says, and now he’s the one rolling his eyes. “I do have to hit the gym tomorrow, but you can leave whilst I’m gone, and we’ll meet for coffee after. Then do groceries and go back to yours?” She nods at his suggestion, “Yeah, sounds good. I have some work I planned to do tomorrow so that works perfect for me as well.” He frowns when she suddenly moves her legs away from his, turning towards him in a more casual way as she looks towards the dance floor. He follows her line of eyesight, explaining her change in behaviour, and looks back at her. “Are we letting Chris drag us away?” He asks as the mentioned man makes his way over. She smiles at their friend's clearly drunken state, “Yeah, someone has to look out for him. I could use some fun as well,” she says, and he fakes offence. “Is sitting in the corner of the club with me not fun enough for you?” She laughs, “Of course it is,” she leans closer to his face, as they both laugh, ready to kiss, before Chris’ voice brings them back to reality. They share a quick look, realising they almost got caught, and look over at their friend, that bumped into one of the tables and was cursing it out. They both have to hold in their laughs, as he makes his way over. “It’s funny, it almost looked like you were kissing from there, imagine how crazy that would be,” The two share a look once again, both aware Chris will have forgotten this by the morning. “Yeah, imagine. Hey, do you wanna dance again, or did you come here just because?” She asks, brushing off his comment. George chuckles as Chris enthusiastically nods, “yeah, c’mon!” He says, already turning around. George follows, holding his hand for her to grab, in order to not lose each other. No other reason, of course. She takes it with a smile, as Chris leads them through the crowd. Right when they reach their other friends, the first notes to Maneater are heard, and George turns around, already expecting the big smile on Y/N’s face. “Oh my god, this is a banger!” 

The way home went by fast, if you asked Chris and Arthur. They split off relatively quickly with their other friends, some staying at the club and some sharing an Uber home. Chris, Arthur, George and Y/N decided to simply walk back since it was, in theory, only twenty minutes, and it was nice to be in the fresh air for a bit. Chris and Arthur, both still in a drunken state, were giggling joking around, as George and Y/N walked behind them. “I feel like we’re very much being the parents, right now,” Y/N jokes, already on their way for twenty minutes and still being at least ten minutes away, and George chuckles as they walk with their arms interlocked. They knew their friends wouldn’t think much of it, both of them always being affectionate with their friends even sober, and the pair were also too drunk to realise it could mean something. “Don’t act like it hasn’t been the other way around, do I have to remind you of the XIX party two weeks ago?” She gasps at the memory, where she was in a very similar state as Chris was right this moment, and he was making endless fun of her. “Okay, well. You didn’t have to say that. Next time, I won’t come back to your place then,” she says, reminding him of what happened the morning after. “Hey, I wasn’t complaining!” She chuckles, as she looks at the boys in front of them crossing the road.

They walk in silence for a while, before Y/N speaks up. “Do you think they have any idea this is happening?” She wonders, looking at him. He looks at his roommates and back at her, confused by her question, “About what?” She looks at the boys. “Us. That we’re like, dating,” He turns to her as they stop at the traffic light, waiting for the cars to drive by. “I don’t know. Do you want them to?” He studies her face, trying to find an answer somewhere. She shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s more like… I don’t know, Chris comment made me think. They’re your roommates, I know we’re being a bit careful, but they know the both of us so well. But also, if they knew, would they have said something?” George takes in a deep breath. He looks at the boys walking a couple of meters in front of them, not having realised the other two had to stop at the crossing. “Sometimes I think Arthur might know, from my side at least. He hasn’t said it, but I think he just thinks I haven’t realised, but I obviously have,” she looks up at him curiously. “Realised what?” He turns to her with a soft look in his eyes. “How in love with you I am,” he simply says. Her eyes widen a bit— this was unfamiliar territory for them. He realises too, as he looks away from her again. “Shit, sorry, that, okay, that was quite-,”  She immediately interrupts, as she stops them from walking any further. “I’m in love with you too. Like, actually,” He looks at her, a genuine smile on both their faces. “Okay. Okay, good,” he simply says, as they get closer to each other. She giggles, “yeah?”, she asks, and he nods, “yeah, very good.” They both smile as they kiss each other, lost in their own worlds, before they hear their names being called. “Oh my god, I forgot about them,” George says annoyed, but still with a smile. She laughs, “Yeah, okay, maybe this wasn’t the best place and time for this, but it’s fine. We should definitely get to them before they take the wrong turn,” he laughs and nods, giving her one last quick kiss.

George grabs her hand, but quickly lets it go again as they go around the corner, where their friends are waiting. “Finally!” Arthur exclaims as Chris is leaning against him. “Jesus, what were you doing, shagging each other? Should’ve done that in the bathroom,” Chris jokes, and they awkwardly laugh. Their friends were too drunk to remember the specific comment in the morning, but Y/N doesn’t miss the way Arthur inspects George's face. “Traffic light. Alright, c’mon boys, I want to sleep,” Y/N answers, getting the group to walk on again. “I think you’re right about Arthur,” she softly tells George, who looks down at her with a questioning face. “That he knows you like me. Doesn’t have a clue we’re actually together though, I think,” she explains, and he nods, sighing softly before turning towards her again. “Do you want them to know?” He asks, and she’s somewhat surprised by the question. “I don’t know. I mean, I wouldn’t mind them knowing, like, I don’t care, but… I think it’s neat, us being like this — without anyone interfering with our relationship. I love them, but I also love this little thing we have going on, you know,” she explains, and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, me too,” she inspects his face, trying to find a sign of dishonesty. “You know, if you’re sick of having this relationship being a secret I don’t mind telling them, if that’s what you want,” he looks over at her with a smile. “No, it’s not that. It would make things easier, but once they know we can’t go back, you know?” She nods, looking at their friends, oblivious to the conversation the couple behind them is having. “I think we should just… Let them figure it out. Hide it, but you know, care a little less? If they find out, they find out,” She suggests. He nods, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer. “Yeah, that sounds great. When they ask why I’m so happy tomorrow I’ll say it’s because I had some godly pussy,” she rolls her eyes and pushes him away chuckling. “You’re horrible,” she exclaims, and he just laughs, “You love me!” He says as they approach the boys' flat. She shakes her head, “Unfortunately, I do.”

[incendiobrock]

Drunk Confessions {Chris Sturniolo}

Summary: Chris, Nick, and fem!reader attend the Tara Yummy party and some drunken confessions are made later on in the night.

A/N: I kinda hate how I wrote this but my account is seriously lacking Chris content so hopefully you will enjoy anyways lmao, if it's not too shitty lmk if you might want a part 2

Warnings: drinking, mentions of throwing up, super sweet, fluffy chris 🥹

“Alright, you guys have fun!” Matt said as he dropped you Nick, and Chris off at the front of the building. You could hear the music blasting through the walls as people celebrated Tara. Matt wasn’t really feeling up to going to a party which worked perfectly in your favor knowing you had a reliable DD to pick you up later in the night. Chris and Nick wouldn’t drink either but you would never trust them to safely operate a vehicle so Matt was the best choice for the job.

Nick walked ahead of you as Chris stayed by your side, his right hand lightly touching your lower back as he guided you both inside. You all had smiles etched onto your face as you entered the upbeat atmosphere filled with some of your influencer friends. Tara immediately saw you guys and pulled you into a hug, “Thank you so much for coming!” She shouted over the music.

“We wouldn’t miss it!” You replied, congratulating her on hitting a million subscribers. Your eyes scanned the room noticing the bar, officially deciding that would be your next stop. Chris’s hand never left your lower back as he and Nick continued to talk to Tara. “I’ll be right back,” You said into Chris’s ear, departing the group.

The bar was filled with people trying to order different drinks. A special menu placed in the center with some specific drinks for Tara. You ordered a vodka cran and even got roped into taking a shot with some others that were at the bar. Without your knowledge, Chris kept a close eye on you from across the room. He loved seeing you have fun, especially knowing that you had been stressed with other things the past few weeks.

You needed to let loose and have a little fun, he thought. The liquor burned going down your throat as you took your shot, using a lime wedge as your chaser. Before you knew it, you were a few drinks in, and maybe a couple shots.

You felt like you were floating through the crowd as you made your way back to your friends. You wrapped an arms around both Chris and Nick’s shoulders, standing in between the two. “Heyyyy,” You slurred slightly.

“Where have you been?” Nick chuckled, trying to keep you supported as you swayed slightly into his side. “Yeah, you’ve been all over the place tonight. I saw you over at the bar and then over by the-“ Chris began before you cut him off.

“I wanna dance! Can we please danceee?” You begged, dragging out the end of your sentence. “You guys got this,” Nick said, passing you off to Chris. “Good luck kid.”

You looked up at Chris with big puppy dog eyes, silently restating your request to dance. “Of course, let’s go dance.” He said, placing his hand out for you to take hold of. His fingers interlocked with yours as he pulled you to the crowd of other people dancing. One of your favorite hype songs came on and you felt like you were on top of the world. You were facing Chris with a hand placed on each of his shoulders while his held your waist. You were both jumping around and singing the lyrics to one another. You couldn’t help but admire him as the flashing lights illuminated his face. Maybe it was the alcohol running through your veins but you wanted nothing more than to pull him in for a kiss.

After dancing for a few more songs Chris leaned down to your ear and yelling over the music, “You ready to go? Matt is here to pick us up!” A soft smile played on your face as you nodded, head still spinning from the drinks.

Chris had to practically lift you into your seat as your body stumbled to step up into the vehicle. “Okay- Okay sit still let me buckle you in.” Chris laughed, watching as you immediately started to fill Matt in on the night. The seatbelt buckle latched into place and Chris went to shut your door and hop into the passenger seat. “Chris-“ Your voice comes out in a whine, he glances behind his shoulder looking at you worried. “Are you gonna be sick?”

You shook your head ‘no’, staring into his eyes as he searched your face trying to figure out what was wrong. “Can you sit with me?” Nick agrees and switches seats with his brother, taking over the passenger seat. Chris’s fingers found your hair as he playfully brushed his fingers through it. The drive home was about twenty minutes and you didn’t know if you would make it. Nausea settled in your stomach as the alcohol mixed with the moving car. You ended up rolling down the window to get some fresh, cool air.

As soon as Matt pulled into the garage you were lunging out your door and inside the house. You ran to Chris’s bathroom, not having enough time to shut the door before you were over the toilet bowl. This wasn’t how you were planning on ending the night. Embarrassment started to settle in when you heard footsteps entering the bathroom. “Go awayyy,” you couldn’t lift your head up but you knew who stood in the doorway. The presence was by your side that very next second, “I’m not leaving.” His voice was barely above a whisper, trying to be gentle with you knowing you weren’t feeling well.

“Chris please, this is so embarrassing. I’m okay, I promise.”

“I know you are kid. I brought you some water, do you need anything else?”

“Maybe a shower.” You grumble.

Chris stood up and turned on the hot water for you, letting it heat up before you got in. Delicately, he helped you get out of the outfit you had on as you faced away from him, not wanting to expose yourself. His hand on your bare back as he helped get you into the shower.

Chris stayed right outside the shower, scrolling on his phone but making sure he was readily available if you needed anything. After the shower, you were being dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers.

Your body collided with his mattress as you pulled the covers over your body. Chris got in bed beside you, laying flat on his back and keeping a healthy distance between you two. “Can we please cuddle?” You whisper. Without any hesitation he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around your torso.

“Thank you, Chris.”

“Don’t mention it kid. It’s no problem.”

Kid. That stupid nickname fell out of his mouth again for the second time tonight. It definitely didn’t feel very nice to hear him say it. You might regret this tomorrow but you were still feeling brave right now.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah, what’s up.” He asked, looking down at your face as it continued to rest on his chest.

“I love you.”

A chuckle escaped past his lips, “I love you too-“

“No Chris. Like, I love you… I have for so long.” You watched as he tried to process the new information, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“I was scared to tell you because you’re like my best friend and I didn’t want to ruin that but, it’s true. I love you so much.” You finished your little spiel.

“I feel the same way about you, but please let’s talk about this tomorrow. I want you to be able to remember this.” He was so gentle with you, he always was. You had such a special spot that he held in his heart for you. You were sad that he didn’t want to talk about this right now but you knew he was probably right, he normally was. You wanted to remember this conversation and you weren’t certain that you would remember anything when you woke up the next morning.

“Go to sleepy pretty girl, I will talk to you about this in the morning. I want to be able to kiss you when you’re in the right state of mind.” His lips pressed a soft kiss on your cheek, lulling you to sleep.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 3: The Ones Who Died Without A Name]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Holiday” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

The Tahoe runs out of gas just west of Ashland, Ohio, coasting to a stop along the shoulder of State Route 96, sapphire skies and cotton ball cumulus clouds, emerald fields of Swiss chard and beets slowly being nibbled bare by deer and rabbits, the inheritors of an abandoned earth.

“Well, that’s it,” Baela says, offhand, blasé, as if it’s not a disaster. You’ve sorted this out, it didn’t take long: there are people who aren’t allowed to panic. If they do, it’ll be like a dam crumbling, and the flood will burst through to drown everything, like when Noah’s wrathful God decided it was time for the world to start over. Baela can’t panic. Aemond can’t panic. And maybe you can’t either. Rio gives you a skeptical look—Are we really about to walk to Oregon?—and you slap his thigh encouragingly as you climb over him and out of the Tahoe.

“Everyone gets a gun,” Aemond says as he starts distributing them: Rugers for Rhaena, Baela, and Helaena (although she winces as she obediently takes the revolver, immediately tucking it away into her burlap messenger bag), .22s for Daeron and Aegon, Remington 12 gauges for Jace and Rio, who gives you his M9. You’re better with it anyway. Aemond’s Glock 20 is in a handmade leather holster he took from the cellar of the house back in Distant, Pennsylvania. Luke, still a potential zombie, will not be armed; but Aemond slings the strap of a .22 over his own shoulder for in case Luke recovers.

“Safeties on, right kids?” Rio goes down the line checking everyone’s gun. “Remember what we practiced, use your sights, don’t go pointing the barrel at anyone unless you’re okay with blowing a hole in them. The noise is risky, but getting bit is worse, so use your best judgment.”

“I don’t have any of that,” Aegon says, grinning.

Rio grabs Aegon’s sunburned face roughly and smacks a kiss onto his cheek. “I know, Honey Bun. Don’t you worry. Stick close and I’ll do your thinking for you.”

You spy it up the road a ways on the right, half-obscured by tree limbs: a white and orange sign, a logo shaped like a diamond. “Oh my God. It’s a Stewart’s.”

“A what?” Aemond asks, squinting at the sign. It’s late afternoon, and soon the sun will be sinking into the west like a drowning man through deep water, and like all prey animals you are restless without the promise of shelter.

“A Stewart’s Root Beer. They used to sell hot dogs and barbeque and all these neat soda flavors like key lime and black cherry. We had one where I grew up. That was the fancy place. You knew it was a good day if you ended up at Stewart’s for dinner.”

Aemond considers you, that subtle ceaseless curiosity. “We can stay the night there.”

“I thought we didn’t want to waste any daylight, Aemond,” Jace jabs as he helps Luke—miserable but presently human—out of the Tahoe. “That’s what you said when I wanted to check out that Barnes & Noble, Aemond.”

“What the hell do you need books for?” Aegon says. He’s grabbing clear CD cases out of the center console of the Tahoe. He pounds on the eject button and then punches the CD player when he realizes he won’t be getting that particular disk back. “Oh, you bitch! I had Shakira on there!”

“I would like to preserve my ability to read at higher than a fifth-grade level. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I was going to work for Sullivan & Cromwell, you know.”

“And now you’re a jobless loser just like me. Isn’t life funny?”

“You can’t be serious,” Baela says to Aegon, his arms full of CD cases. “You’re going to carry all those to California? You don’t even have a way to listen to them.”

“I’m not leaving my mixtapes.” Aegon shoves them into a U.S. Army backpack he found at Fort Indiantown Gap and then hoists it onto his back with a grunt.

Aemond tells Jace: “We only have a few hours until the sun starts going down. We don’t know what’s up ahead. We should take advantage of a safe place to sleep if it’s available. Getting caught out in the open after dark is the worst case scenario.”

“Whatever, Aemond. It’s your call. Everything is your fucking call.” Then Jace plods out into a field of rabbit-ravaged Swiss chard to relieve himself semi-privately, his back to the Tahoe.

“Hey, Chips Ahoy,” Aegon says, taking the folded-up map out of the pocket of his shorts, mint green plaid. “Want to tell me if there are any nuclear power plants near our route so we can steer clear of them and not get irradiated?”

“Uh, well, I don’t exactly have them all memorized…” You examine the map, hoping the black-ink cities will jog your memory, trivia you catalogued years ago, snippets you’ve heard from your fellow seamen. “Perry’s in Cleveland. We won’t be anywhere near that one. Fermi is up by Detroit.” You hesitate as your fingertips skate past Chicago. “Braidwood, LaSalle, and Byron are someplace between Chicago and Peoria, but I’m not sure where. And then there are a few others around the border of Illinois and Iowa. West of that, I don’t know. Rio?”

“Cooper’s in Nebraska, dead east of Lincoln. That’s all I got.”

Aegon is nodding, making notes on his map with a glittery forest green gel pen. “Cool, cool. If I don’t end up eaten or a zombie, I can look forward to being a sterile, glow-in-the-dark mutant.”

Luke frets: “What if we accidentally drink contaminated water or something?”

“Then you die an agonizing death, kiddo,” Rio says. “Your cells dissolve and you turn into human Jello and there’s nothing anybody can do about it.”

Luke swallows noisily. “Awesome.”

“You might just get cancer if the dose is small enough,” you tell him. Luke does not seem pacified. Rhaena gives him a sip of warm Coca-Cola from a plastic bottle from the Wawa.

Jace comes trudging back to the road, zipping up his khaki chino shorts. “Alright, are we ready?”

Helaena is gazing solemnly out over the fields of green leaves, red roots that grow like arteries into the soil. “We should try to find antivenom.”

“Antivenom?” Aemond asks, distracted as he makes sure nothing of importance was left in the Tahoe. The keys are still dangling from the ignition; you won’t need them. There’s no breathing the Tahoe back to life. There’s no returning to Aemond’s house back in Boston. There is only the West, beckoning you to cross rivers and plains and mountains to join her, and to do it as people did two hundred years ago, no cars, no phones, no escape hatches. The only way out is through.

“For the snakes,” Helaena says.

Aemond stares at her. The stitches in his face are dissolving as the flesh weaves back together, jagged maroon scar tissue, beautiful savage ruins, landscapes of improbable survival. “Helaena, antivenom has to be refrigerated. Even if we miraculously found some, it wouldn’t be useable.”

She nods, eyes wide and glazed, still peering into the fields, into the earth.

~~~~~~~~~~

A hand brushing the loose strands of hair out of your face, a whisper through the dissipating indigo of sleep: “Guess what today is.”

You startle awake and yelp as you bolt from your assailant. Aegon is watching you without any shame whatsoever. People are laughing as they gather up supplies so you all can get moving again, brushing teeth, arranging hair, drinking glass bottles of Stewart’s soda found last night in crates in the storeroom, snacking on bags of Utz chips. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows; specks of dust glimmer in the air like comets through the inhospitable void of outer space.

Luke says from where he is sitting on the floor, his arms and legs tethered: “Hopefully the day when somebody’s going to untie me.”

“It’s my birthday!” Aegon announces.

You’re still blinking at him, disoriented. “What…?”

“Aegon, I told you,” Aemond says, sipping a bottle of Stewart’s key lime soda. “It’s not your birthday. It’s not the 23rd.”

“It’s the 20th, right?” Rhaena says.

Rio looks to you, bewildered. “Isn’t it like the 25th?”

“We’re still in June?” Luke says. Now Aemond is hacking through his ropes with a hunting knife from the cellar in Distant, Pennsylvania.

“Your hand is healing up. Your color is good, your temperature is normal. I guess we can officially declare you human for the foreseeable future.”

“I knew it,” Jace says, combative so no one will see the desperate relief underneath.

Aemond examines your hands next, calloused over where the heat of the transmission tower burned the skin. There is no pretext for needing to tend to them any longer, no antiseptic or ointment or gauze. Aemond nods somberly at your palms, as if he isn’t entirely happy to pronounce them cured. His hands linger on yours for slow, unnecessary seconds.

“So what are we going to do special for my birthday?” Aegon presses eagerly.

“We’re going to walk between ten and twenty miles towards California,” Baela says.

“That’s not a birthday activity!”

Daeron groans as he inspects the screws and bolts of his compound bow. “Aegon, it’s not your birthday!”

“Shut up. You can’t even apply to get a credit card.”

“No one can get a credit card now! Currency is worthless!”

Rio offers you a cherries and cream soda. You take it and say: “Aegon, how old are you? On today, your alleged birthday?”

He hesitates. “That’s not the important part.”

Aemond smiles as he tells you, mock-whispering: “He’s thirty.”

“Thirty?!” Rio exclaims. “That’s like, an actual adult age. Marriage and a mortgage, shit like that. What were you doing before everything went insane?”

Aegon gestures vaguely. “I was considering a number of opportunities.”

“He was living on my couch,” Aemond says.

Rio shakes his head, grinning. “No job? No school? No nothing?”

“I wasn’t doing nothing. I played a lot of golf.”

“He was totally doing nothing,” Jace says. “I was in my third year of law school at Harvard, Baela was getting a master’s in Aeronautics and Astronautics at MIT, Rhaena just started an Anthropology PhD, Luke was getting a master’s in Screenwriting at Boston University—he was going to be very sad and very broke, but still, he had a plan—and Aegon was doing…nothing.”

“I’ve never had a real birthday party before,” Aegon tells you; and there is something in his murky blue eyes that is tremendously sad, wounded, childlike. “I might not get another chance.”

“What do you want to do?” Now people are alarmed, skittish glances and mouths open to object. You are encouraging him.

“I don’t know yet,” Aegon says. But he’s glad you bothered to ask. You can see it on his face.

It’s not until several hours later—after noon, the sun high and blazing, everyone’s unpracticed feet aching and blistering in their shoes—that Aegon experiences a revelation like the angel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary or Sir Isaac Newton extrapolating gravity from an apple falling on his head. Aegon’s epiphany appears in the form of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio called Luxury Lanes. It is remarkably unluxurious, a nondescript black rectangular building with a few doors in the front, one small tinted window on each, and no other openings. To Aegon, it is an oasis in a desert.

“I want to go bowling!”

“Aegon, we’re not going bowling,” Baela says, breathing heavily but trying to hide it, her hands massaging the small of her back. Aemond is watching her worriedly. Baela is the only person not burdened with carrying any supplies beyond her hammer and shiny new Ruger—and she resisted this accommodation at first—but still, she suffers more than anyone.

“Once again, it is my birthday—”

“Aren’t bowling allies soundproofed?” Rio asks Aemond. “You know, so they don’t get noise complaints?”

“Uh, I guess so…?”

“It’s kind of a fortress, isn’t it?” Rio continues. “Not many ways in or out. We wouldn’t be seen or heard. Might be a good place to stop for the night. ”

“Yeah!” Aegon says. “Right, Aemond?”

Aemond looks at you. It takes you a moment to figure out why. “I think the bowling alley is a good idea,” you tell him. “It’ll be safe, assuming we can clear it. And Aegon can have his party.”

Aemond is skeptical. “A party?”

“Survival isn’t just about not dying. It’s also about holding onto the things that make us human.”

“Like bowling!” Rhaena says excitedly. “It’s preserving a tradition! And I used to be so good at bowling. I bowled a 250 game once.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Aegon says, still delighted to have her on his side.

“There’s a sign for a Walmart maybe half a mile up the road,” Daeron points out. “We could search it for supplies and then double back here.”

Aemond polls the audience. Everyone agrees.

Shenandoah is tiny, rural, religious, and out of the way from the major highways. The Walmart doors are chained shut with padlocks, and amazingly no one has taken that as an invitation to drive their car through them or otherwise shatter the glass yet. Rio is honored to be the first. He takes the butt of his Remington shotgun and punches through the glass of the locked doors, kicks away loose shards, whistles and shouts to lure out any zombies. A dozen of them come reeling out of the aisles and towards the doorway. Daeron shoots down most of them with his compound bow. Rio kills two with the butt of his Remington, his new favorite toy. Aegon, the birthday boy, uses his golf club to beat in the skull of a teenager who is still wearing glittery pink nail polish and fake eyelashes. According to her nametag, her friends and family once called her Raelynn.

Inside the Walmart, Jace and Aemond take one side of the store, you and Rio the other, doing a quick sweep to make sure you didn’t miss any undead employees or customers waiting for the chance to sink their teeth into you. And when that’s done, you begin shopping.

The shelves are probably two-thirds empty, but there are still treasures to be found. You push carts through the aisles and fill them with candles, lighters, Chef Boyardee, Doritos, canned soup, fruit snacks, tuna pouches, 5 gum, bottles of Snapple, socks and underwear, hair ties, t-shirts and shorts, Kleenex tissues, pads and tampons, toilet paper. Baela finds some cute maternity dresses. Helaena picks through the pharmacy for useful medications, Aemond shadowing her with a baseball bat in his hands and his Glock at his waist.

“Chips, they got Cheddar Whales!” Rio exclaims, tossing several boxes into your cart.

“I miss grocery stores,” Rhaena says as she climbs the shelves to get the last box of Teddy Grahams.

“I miss going to the mall and getting Auntie Anne’s pretzel nuggets,” Aegon commiserates. Then he stumbles upon the liquor aisle and his eyes light up like high beams. “Aemond!”

Aemond appears—perhaps a bit flustered—and deliberates for a while as he browses the selection, Aegon waiting anxiously, before he decides: “Since it is allegedly your birthday, you can drink tonight. And you can pick one other person to drink with you. But only one.”

“Rio,” Aegon says immediately.

“Come on!” Daeron whines.

Aegon is already putting bottles of Captain Morgan rum into a cart. “Sorry. Illegal. Underage.”

“I’ve helped you butcher countless zombies, but I can’t drink?!”

“Just Say No, as Nancy Reagan would tell an innocent child such as yourself.”

Jace strides over, sly and playful, gnawing on a Twizzler. “Aemond, were you over there rummaging through the medicine aisles again? What do you keep looking for? Condoms?”

There is an awkward silence, an extremely awkward silence. Aemond glares at Jace. Jace’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, I, uh…I was definitely joking. But…congrats on the possible future sex!”

“I already checked,” Luke tells Aemond apologetically. “You know condoms were the first thing to get bought up or looted everywhere.”

“Okay, great,” Aemond says quickly, willing the conversation to be over. There is blood, hot and mortified, flaring in his cheeks. He was thinking of you, he had to be; the only other single woman here is his sister, and obviously that’s not an option.

Jace takes another bite of his Twizzler. “Just pull out, man.”

Baela, incredulous, gestures to her belly. “Because that worked out super well for us.”

“I told you to stop riding me!”

“Yeah, a whole two seconds before you impregnated me with your super-swimmer Michael Phelps sperm.”

“Please don’t make me listen to this,” Luke begs. “I’m starting to wish I really was bitten.”

“Don’t you know all the tricks to not getting someone pregnant, Aemond?” Jace says. “Wasn’t that going to be your specialty? You wanted to be a vagina doctor? So don’t you know all the mysteries of the vagina, Aemond?”

“He was going to be an OB/GYN,” Baela says, unamused.

“Really?” Rio turns to Aemond. “Why would you want to do that?”

“So he gets to look at pussies all day,” Aegon says morosely, as if heartbroken that such a path is inaccessible to him.

“That’s not why,” Aemond insists, mostly to you.

You smile. “I didn’t think so. What’s the actual reason?”

“Interns do rotations in different departments so we can figure out what we enjoy and what we’re best suited for. I knew within two days of my OB/GYN rotation that that’s where I wanted to be. Giving birth is the only life-threatening trauma that is necessary for humanity to continue. I wanted to help people get through it as safely and painlessly as possible.” Then his gaze darts to Baela. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound worse—”

“No, it’s okay, I’m very much aware. It hurts like hell, people die. Believe me, I’d be thinking about that even if you hadn’t said it. I think about it all the time.”

“I have an idea you’re not going to like.”

“What?” Baela says. Aemond nods to the nearest shopping cart. “No way. You’re not going to push me around in one of those.”

“I believe it’s an adequate solution until an alternative appears.”

She sighs. “I’ve lost my body, my career, my society, my parents…must I lose my dignity too?”

Aemond winks. “Only when you’re too tired to walk.”

“Alright, Aemond. I realize you’re under the impression that this is a favor. So thank you.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Let me give you a favor in return.” Then Baela begins shooing everyone except you and Aemond out of the liquor aisle. “Grab anything else you want, we’re leaving in five minutes! Jace, come look at the baby clothes with me…”

When the two of you are alone, Aemond says: “I really hope that didn’t make you feel too weird. I’m not someone who gets uncomfortable about the…um…the subject matter in general. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I was trying to…I don’t know. Assume anything or pressure you into something that you weren’t already open to. Obviously I like…um…I mean, enthusiastic consent is essential, and I just…I would never try to convince anybody or…you know what, I’m just going to stop talking now. Okay?”

“Aemond, I’m fine. I didn’t think it was weird.”

“It’s a compliment,” he confesses, flushing pink again, touching his chin, perspiration gleaming at his temples.

Now you have to show interest so he knows you’re on the same page. You’ve never had to think this way before, you’ve never liked anyone enough to play the game. “So hypothetically, if someone didn’t want to get pregnant but there were no condoms, pills, etcetera…what are the options?”

He looks at you, pleasantly surprised. “Well, there’s the rhythm method. It’s not perfect, but it’s been around forever and is reasonably reliable if done correctly.”

You are only vaguely familiar. “We didn’t get a lot of sex ed down in Kentucky.”

Aemond chuckles then leans in, a mischievous curl of his lips, a craving in the crystalline river blue of his eye. He grips the shelf above your head, his arm a canopy. His voice is hushed. The front windows of the Walmart face west where the sun is setting; golden light floods in to illuminate the store. “Is your cycle regular?”

“It is, actually.” This should be embarrassing, but it’s not; it’s exhilarating. You’re imagining him seeing you, touching you, unearthing secrets you’ve never been tempted to share with anyone else.

“So if we imagine it like a circle…” He draws one on the back of your hand, invisible, mesmerizing, blue-white lightning crackling up the path of your metacarpals, wrist, ulna and radius, humerus and clavicle, descending ribs like the rungs of a ladder to jolt the sinus rhythm of your heart. “The start of your period would be Day One.”

“Okay,” you say, hypnotized as his fingerprint skates in an arc across the bumps of your knuckles.

“Ovulation doesn’t happen until around Day Fourteen. You might have noticed some increased arousal and…wetness. Clear in color, elastic consistency.”

Your eyes are trapped in his face, smooth skin, jagged scar tissue. You tease him back, stepping closer. You can hear people snickering in the next aisle as they eavesdrop. You don’t care about them, and neither does Aemond anymore. “Now that you mention it…”

“That’s nature trying to trick you into reproducing. Day Fourteen is crunch time. Once ovulation occurs, the egg is only good for up to twenty-four hours. And then the rest of the cycle you’re effectively useless, as far as making miniature humans is concerned.”

“Wait, you’re telling me people can only get pregnant one day a month?” This seems improbable. “How has the species managed to survive this long?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Aemond admits. “Depending on the health of the specimens, sperm can survive up to five days inside a woman’s body. And it’s difficult to tell exactly when ovulation occurs. So, in practice, there’s basically one week a month when you’d want to avoid a man…completing the act, if you will.” He’s still smiling, taunting, famished, imagining the same scenes you are. You know this with a categorical certainty, as if you’re reading his thoughts like stark stripes of distance on a measuring tape. “And that’s also the week when your hormones are demanding you have sex, inspiring you to make all sorts of impulsive yet extremely consequential decisions.”

“Don’t I know it,” Baela laments from the next aisle, and there is a rupture of wild giggles.

“Anyway.” Aemond lifts his finger from the back of your hand and you have to stop yourself from reaching for him as he recedes from you. “There’s a basic overview.”

“It was very educational.” You follow him out of the liquor aisle.

“I’ve used the rhythm method for years,” Rhaena says as everyone makes their way towards the front of the store with their carts. “Clearly that’s just anecdotal, so don’t think I’m officially endorsing it. When I’m in my fertile week we add condoms. Well…we used to. Back when we could get them.”

“Ugh, I hate condoms,” Baela grumbles.

“We can tell,” Aegon says.

“I hate the way they feel, I hate the way they smell…”

“They’ve never bothered me,” Rhaena says. “I don’t notice that much of a difference. And it can be fun to try different kinds.”

“Are you on drugs?” Baela whirls to you. “Seriously, what is wrong with her? I’m right, aren’t I? Condoms are awful.”

Rio gives you a cautious look, uncharacteristically reticent. He’s not going to be the one to reveal it. He doesn’t know if it’s something you’re willing to share. But if anything is going to happen with Aemond—and you want it to, already you know you want him—then it’s something you think you should be honest about. You want him to know about you. You don’t want to have to create some false version of yourself to wear like a pelt, heavy, smothering, something that will inevitably need to be taken off.

“I am regretfully not qualified to say.”

“You’ve never used condoms?” Baela asks, a bit dubious.

“I’ve never done any of it.”

Everyone freezes at the defunct checkout counters and turns to gawk at you. “No sex?” Jace says. “No nothing?”

You shrug, smiling a little self-consciously. “I made out with a guy once.”

“The Marine from Corpus Christi?” Baela asks. They’re obsessed with him, they’re convinced there’s some lore to be excavated, translated, displayed like a relic in a museum. There isn’t. Sometimes people pass in and out of your life as seamlessly as shadows or sunlight, no weight, no indentations, nothing to recall or relay. He existed and then he didn’t. He was an airplane drawing contrails in the sky that faded before the blood red fire of dusk filled the horizon.

“No. Someone from home. Just a guy, not even worth mentioning.”

“Girl, you gotta fix that, soon, pronto, like yesterday.” Jace seems genuinely horrified. “You can’t die a virgin.”

“You really can’t,” Daeron adds, and Aegon pretends to be distraught over the loss of his youngest brother’s virtue.

“That’s what I’m always telling her!” Rio says.

“Not everybody wants to have sex,” Helaena murmurs as she records today’s findings in her spider notebook.

“True,” Jace concedes. “And that is totally legit. Mother Teresa, Queen Elizabeth, Jesus Christ, Buddha, Joan of Arc, Sir Isaac Newton, Nikola Tesla, the Jonas Brothers for a while, all great people. But Chips is not celibate by choice, correct?”

“Buddha had a wife and son,” Aemond says, preoccupied. He isn’t looking at you now, which is concerning; he’s peering down at where his hands grip his shopping cart, his brow creased with…what is that? Unease, disapproval, concern, thoughtfulness, fear?

“It’s not some big thing,” you backpedal. “I don’t have a hangup about it, I just never met a guy I liked enough, and enlisted men, they’re…well, a lot of them are taken, or cheaters, or idiots. Or all three.”

“Not to worry, Chipper.” Aegon claps a hand on your shoulder; and you aren’t sure if it is his purpose to break the tension, but he seems to have that effect regardless. “If you ever wish to be initiated into the art of lovemaking by a slightly below average and entirely unintimidating penis, I’d be thrilled to assist you. I love condoms. But in their absence, I am the king of pulling out. 100% success rate. Zero bastard children running around to my knowledge.”

“You should give Jace lessons,” Baela says.

And the last thing Aegon takes from the Walmart is a green battery-powered Toshiba CD player so he can blast to his mixtapes.

~~~~~~~~~~

Flickering candles lining the middle lane, drinks and snacks strewn across the tables, Rio’s Moonbeam propped up so it’s aimed at the disco ball still hanging from the ceiling from a time before the dead started devouring the living. Daeron is at the end of the lanes to reset the pins after each player’s turn. Helaena is keeping score in her notebook; Rhaena is currently in the lead by a massive 80 points. Aegon is wasted, dancing on a table and crunching Cool Ranch Doritos beneath his bare feet, his blonde hair flopping. Each time it’s his turn to bowl, Aegon has to roll the ball down the lane with two hands like a child. Rio, several shots deep but unable to feel much shy of half a bottle, is singing along with him to Cruise by Florida Georgia Line, but it’s really more like shouting, each sentence an off-key monstrosity that makes you laugh.

“Baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise!

Down a back road, blowin’ stop signs through the middle, every little farm town with you!

And this brand new Chevy with a lift kit, would look a hell of a lot better with you up in it!

So baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise!”

You cleared Luxury Lanes easily; the only difficult part was figuring out how to get into the area called the pit where, in normal times, felled pins were mechanically collected and sorted. There were two former employees roaming around back there in their tattered uniforms, snarling and drooling blood. Both were rapidly neutralized.

Someone always has to be by the front doors, watching through the small tinted windows for signs of trouble, whether from zombies or living humans. Aemond is currently on guard, nursing a Snapple. According to the bottle, the flavor is called Takes 2 To Mango. You grab your own Snapple—plain and simple Lemon Tea, no charming gimmicks—and walk over to join him.

“So now I guess it’s my turn to say I hope that conversation didn’t make you feel weird.”

He smiles politely, glancing out the window. “No, I’m completely fine.”

“Good. Because I don’t want you to look at me differently than you would any other girl, like I’m better than them, or worse than them, or like there’s anything wrong with me, because it really isn’t something I consider to be paramount to my identity, and people always seem to get all twisted up about it, but it’s a pretty boring story, I just…”

“You’ve never liked someone enough to take the risk. I get it. I don’t think you’re a freak or anything.”

“Okay. Good.” The next song on Aegon’s mixtape is Shaboozey’s A Bar Song. Jace is dancing with Baela, spinning her around as she giggles. With Rhaena’s coaching, Luke bowls his first strike. You rest your head on the door as you gaze up at Aemond, the phantom of a smile on your lips. “I might like you enough.”

And he says as if it’s the worst thing in the world, a plague, an infection, an apocalypse: “You’d fall in love with me.”

It hurts, of course it does, this flippant rejection. He burns you, he cuts you, he stitches you up with no anesthetic. You try not to show it. “You’re…confident.”

“No, I don’t mean because of anything specific I would do, it’s just…it’s natural to form a certain…attachment. To the first person you’re with. It leaves an impression.” Not an impression like a first judgment, superficial and swift; an impression like an imprint, a hollow, a prehistoric fossil that is preserved through eons. “That was already true before. And everything is more intense now, because life is so…” Aemond takes a while to settle on a word. “Precarious.”

You say like a challenge: “Are you still in love with the first girl you slept with?”

A shadow that ripples through his face, a flinching he tries to hide. You shouldn’t have asked. Still, you feel like you need to know, like you’ll run out of oxygen if you don’t. “I think I’ve gotten enough distance from it to realize that she wasn’t…wasn’t good for me in a lot of ways. It was an unconventional situation. But I still carry all these pieces of her around with me, yes. I don’t think that will ever go away.”

“Aemond,” you say gently. “Who was she?”

He is evasive, smirking. “It’s a cliché.”

“Was she a patient? That’s very Grey’s Anatomy of you.”

“No. She was my professor.”

An older woman, wise and experienced and captivating and sophisticated. He’s cut you again, a blade slicing effortlessly through veins like soft butter. “Oh. From med school?”

“Undergrad.”

“You were really young,” you say, a little startled.

He nods. “I was eighteen when it started. I was this shy, insecure, friendless freshman, she was married with two kids around my age. And it was off and on, but there was never anyone else for me, she took up too much space in my head, in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe unless I knew we were okay.”

“It went on for seven years?”

This seems to stun him, hearing how much of his existence she bottled like a terrarium. “I guess so.”

Is she dead? Missing? Safe somewhere with her husband and kids? “Is she…gone?”

His gaze drops to the floor. “Yeah.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“I was the one who killed her when she turned.”

It’s indescribably horrible; you don’t know what to say. “Aemond, I’m…I’m really sorry…”

He is abruptly nonchalant, the blue of his eye cool and dispassionate. “Look, I’m not prepared for this to be anything more than casual. And I don’t think casual is really in the cards for us. So it’s probably best to leave it alone.”

“Right,” you agree numbly, not meaning it.

“We’re headed different places, I’m going to California, you’re planning to end up in Oregon, it’s just…a bad idea to muddy the waters, I think.”

“Because I haven’t done this before.”

He shrugs ambiguously. “It’s a contributing factor.”

“Well you seemed pretty interested before you found that out, so.”

“I don’t mean to offend you.”

“You aren’t offending me. You’re disappointing me.”

Now Aemond is offended. “By trying to protect us?”

“No, by saying you don’t think I’m a freak when you clearly do, and by having some savior complex, or a whore-Madonna complex, or whatever’s going on in your head, it’s always such a mystery to everyone else.”

He downs the rest of his Snapple and shoves the bottle into the nearest trash can. You hear it thump against the bottom, no garbage bag. “Alright. This was fun.”

“Maybe you’re afraid of making a mistake, just like I always was.”

“Maybe I don’t want to have to teach you how to do everything,” Aemond snaps.

“I taught you how to shoot.”

“The fact that you don’t realize how wildly different those two situations are proves you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, bye. Sorry about your zombie girlfriend.”

Aemond glares at you, shocked, furious. “That was so fucking low.”

It was. You regret it. But you can’t bring yourself to tell him that. You flee to the far end of the bowling alley and sit alone at a table draped in shadows. After a while, Rio notices and ventures over to see what’s wrong, a bottle of Captain Morgan swinging from one hand. He’s tipsy now.

Rio sighs as he takes a seat beside you, reaching over to rub your back. His hands are large and indelicate; what he means to be comforting is more like getting manhandled. Sometimes he leaves bruises, but it’s not his fault. Nature gave Rio the body of a killer. If anyone is going to survive the zombie apocalypse, it’s him. “What’s going on, Chips?”

Your voice breaks as you say it; tears sting in your eyes. “I hate caring about people.”

He bursts out laughing. “Yeah, it’s the worst, isn’t it? But once in a while it works out.”

“Bryan.”

And now he knows you’re serious. You have his full attention, large dark eyes fixed on your face, lines etching into his brow beneath the artificial starlight of the disco ball. “What are you asking me?”

“We can’t leave them and walk to the West Coast ourselves, can we?”

“I mean, technically we could, but it would be really stupid. Everything’s so much easier with ten people. And also I think I’d have to kidnap Aegon and take him with us, I love that little dude. Why? Do you really want to leave them?”

“No.”

“I figured.” He offers you the half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan.

“I’m not drinking that.”

“Come on. It’ll take the edge off.”

You look at him. Rio looks back, smiling now.

“I’ll watch out for you,” he says. “And if you get bit I’ll shoot you dead, no hesitation, swear to God. I remember our promise. I won’t let you die alone.”

“You’re a good guy.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm with the bottle of Captain Morgan. “A few swigs won’t hurt. It’ll help you sleep.”

You take the bottle, twist off the cap, drink down amber-gold poison that burns like gasoline, like fire.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

@jegulus-microfic june 9th — lip gloss — 1017 words — cw: slightly nsfw brought to you by james' dirty mind, tw: amab term used for reg's genitalia aka mtf regulus, red heart shaped sunglasses and james potter's thoughts about kneehigh boots

The lights in their flat are dim, music is playing and the air smells faintly of tequila and lime already.

James has been staring at Regulus reapplying her ‘lip combo’ for the past five minutes without blinking. One could reason it’s because Regulus is literally using his sunglasses as a mirror but James argues he wouldn’t have let himself miss out on this for any money in the world either way. He would have found a way to get a front row seat.

The red, heart shaped glasses on his nose do nothing to help him see but that’s why he’s got his contacts in. There’s a cool hand at James’ stubbled jaw, angling him this way and that because Regulus needs proper lighting, Jamie. Stop moving into the shadow! 

First she’d fished around in her small ass purse—how does anyone even fit anything in these little things ever?—and procured a thin, dark red looking pencil of sorts. Regulus has gotten all up in his face, wiggling closer where she was sitting on his leg, rubbing her ass all over James’ lap and by God, James has never felt so lucky and tortured simultaneously. 

Anyway, Regulus had started following the shape of her cupid’s bow, outlining her lips. Her hand had rested right between James’ pecs at first to steady herself, right in the middle of his chest. James hoped she couldn’t feel the wild beating of his heart, the irregular heaving of his torso. She was talking to Pandora while doing so, about some mutual friend James has no clue about but he wasn’t registering any of the words either way. Much too fascinated by the small moles next to Regulus’ left eyes, by her dark lashes, her icy blue eyes. Ruthlessly captivating, breathtaking and immobilising like the bone deep chilling northern sea. 

James isn’t sure he remembers how to swim.

Next is a red lipstick. Regulus’ parts her mouth and James has to suppress a groan. He’s only mildly conscious of the way his palms make their way up over Regulus’ hips, coming to rest in the dip of her waist, thumbs windshield wiping over the silk of her green dress. It’s some sort of nightshirt, actually, with black lace detailing and clearly thrifted. Well loved but in good condition and James has been breaking his brain over what she might be wearing underneath for the better part of the last hour. Ever since Regulus had stepped over the threshold of their flat in her kneehigh boots and that flimsy excuse of a dress that James wants to see crumpled on the floor of his bedroom rather than anywhere else. Preferably while Regulus is splayed out naked on top of his sheets, tits out, cock out. The boots can stay on.

“Fuck,” present James mutters quietly, blinking himself out of his obscene fantasies. Regulus’ leg adjusts and brushes against where James is starting to fill out in his pants. 

James squirms.

“Stop that,” Regulus tsks, tightening her hold on his chin.

The yes, ma’am on the tip of James’ tongue nearly tumbles out but he manages to swallow it back in time.

James tries to glance around the general area around them out of the corners of his eyes, “Is your brother around?”

“Why?” she asks immediately. Her lips are completely filled out with a deep berry sort of red now. Then Regulus is digging around in her purse again.

“Just ’cause,” James replies offhandedly, shrugging.

Regulus hums, low and deep, sceptical and it’s so unfairly sexy. James licks his lips and sighs a long breath out. Level head, Potter, he tells himself. Level head.

The final step seems to be lip gloss. It’s not clear and translucent but rather has a bit of a milky quality to it.

James chokes on nothing. 

Regulus takes it up to her lips and spreads the fluid on her full red lips. It creates a foggy sheen and James is powerless against the mental images of cum slick lips. Both of their cum mixed, James licking it from Regulus’ stomach and then climbing back up. Hovering and tugging at her lower lip until she opens obediently like a good girl and lets James spit it right onto her mouth. 

Regulus leans closer and makes some little p-p-p noises where she smacks her lips together to even out the gloss, presumably. James doesn’t know. Don’t ask James anything right now because the gloss is kind of pulling strings and James is this close to doing something violently indecent to his best friend’s little sister.

Regulus puts the gloss away and then taps against James’ cheek, announcing happily, “Thank you.”

“Any time,” James mumbles.

He expects her to stand up now, join Pandora where she’s conversing with other people on the sofa, but instead Regulus wraps her arms around the back of James’ neck, keeping the close distance. “Y’know,” she starts, shifting in James’ lap, “I haven’t seen Sirius in a while. In fact, I think he might have gone off with Loopy.”

“Lupin,” James corrects automatically, trying to make sense of what Regulus is saying. She’s so warm and soft pressed against him, it’s distracting.

Regulus makes a whatever noise and tilts her head, “I’m guessing they went to his flat instead. Rumour has it, it’s close by.”

James nods in affirmation because that’s true. Remus does live close by.

Regulus’ fingers wind themselves into the curls at James’ nape, “Smart lads. Going somewhere a little more private.”

James nods again, numbly. He feels stupid in the head. 

“By the way,” Regulus keeps going, “Have I seen your room in this flat yet?”

And James might be stupid but he’s not an idiot.

A slow grin spreads over his face and then James has to lean forward to muffle an equally happy as aroused groan into the crook of Regulus’ pale neck. 

“Is that a yes?”

James leaves a kiss on her cheek when he pulls back, squeezes her hips and then lifts them both off the chair, ushering Regulus through the crowd and into his room.

When they come back out, Regulus’ legs are wobbly and there’s red lipstick stains all over James’ mouth and neck and the heady taste of cum in his mouth.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Pregnant II

Hardersson x Baby!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Pernille's pregnancy

During the first month, you're about the size of a poppy seed.

Pernille's fine on her own during this period. She has a little bit of spotting and feels a bit more tired than usual but she's mainly okay. Since the announcement, her teammates have been more careful on the pitch with her.

Everyone knows that the risk of miscarrying is higher before the third month so they all take care not to knock into her as much or, at least, to not hit her head on.

Magda, it seems, is the only one completely stressed out of her mind. She sends regular texts to check in with Pernille. She calls every day (once in the morning and once in the evening).

If she didn't have commitments in England then Pernille's sure that Magda would have flown over daily.

By the second month, you're the size of a kidney bean.

The symptoms have gotten a little worse by now. The tiredness has been replaced by sore breasts and the spotting by morning sickness. It's still manageable and Pernille doesn't even think to tell Magda until she misses a morning call in favour of hunching over the toilet and spewing out her guts.

"Her heart's developing now," Magda's voice comes through the phone, echoing around the tiled walls of Pernille's bathroom," And her brain too. Do you think she'll be smart? I think she'll be smart."

"We don't know if it's a girl yet, Magda," Pernille says. She's still leaning against the toilet but Magda's voice is safe and soothing.

"I know it's a girl," Magda replies, an air of finality in her tone," A little Pernille."

"She's your egg. She'll be a little Magda."

Pernille can hear the smile in Magda's voice as she replies," I made you admit she's a girl."

At the end of month three, you're the same size as a lime.

The morning sickness is extremely bad now and Magda even flies out when she hears from Nilla that Pernille had thrown up on the side of the pitch one morning.

"This brings back memories," Magda quips as she holds Pernille's hair back.

"Of what?"

"Crazy parties in our youth."

"We're still young, Magda. Becoming parents doesn't automatically make us old," Pernille sits up and takes the washcloth from her partner.

"Yeah, but we're more mature now. No more crazy parties and throwing up."

"None recently," Pernille corrects. She smiles for a moment before hunching over the toilet bowl again.

Magda rubs her back. "I've taken a few weeks off," She says," You keep getting sick."

"Magda-"

"No, I've already made my decision. International break is soon anyway. Our next match isn't too difficult. They don't really need me."

Pernille can't find it in herself to argue about it much, with the way that she sags against the wall and stays within arm's length of the toilet.

Magda kisses her stomach. "You're making your Momma sick," She says," You've got to leave her alone. You're still growing in there."

At month four, you're around the size of an avocado.

The morning sickness has stopped completely now but the soreness in her breasts doesn't subside at all.

It's completely coincidental when, one evening as she's changing her shirt, Pernille catches the sight of herself in the mirror.

She's got a baby bump now.

Instantly, her hand goes to touch it, as if she could feel exactly where you are.

She takes a picture and sends it to Magda.

She can see that it's been read but Magda doesn't reply for hours until finally...

MAGDA ❤️ you look so beautiful that's my new lockscreen

It's month five. You're the same length as a banana.

She could have found out earlier but Pernille waits until Magda can make the trip to find out your gender.

"A girl." Magda is still convinced as they sit in the waiting room, her hand stroking over Pernille's knuckles. "I know she's a girl."

"We'll see."

Pernille feels a bit vindictive so has the doctor write your gender on a scrap of paper, folds it up and hands it to Frido (who has come to visit).

"Huh?" Frido says as she looks down at the scunched-up ball of paper.

"You're in charge of that," Pernille says," Magda doesn't see it, she doesn't take it before the gender reveal."

"You guys are planning a gender reveal?"

Pernille shakes her head. "No. You are."

By month six, you're as big as an ear of corn.

You move around a lot now and Pernille never forgets the look on Magda's face when, one evening, Pernille grasps her hand and places it over her swollen stomach.

You kick almost every day and Pernille rubs her stomach softly as Frido hands her and Magda a knife.

"I bought cake," Frido proclaims," Because this is a celebration and you can't go wrong with cake."

Someone (Pernille's not sure who) on the Wolfsburg team rolls it out.

"If it's blue, it's a boy. If it's pink, it's a girl," Frido explains even though it really didn't need explaining. She's taking her role as future moster very seriously and it's slightly amusing.

"It'll be pink," Magda says," I know it will."

Frido rolls her eyes. "Then cut it. But...just wait until the camera's on. Okay! Ready? Ready!"

Magda's hand is warm around Pernille's, who is holding the knife in her own. They make two cuts into the cake, one after the other, and then pull out the slice.

"A girl," Pernille says softly, smiling as her team celebrates around her. She looks up at Magda, whose eyes are glistening with unshed tears.

"A girl."

Month seven and the only thing different is now you're the size of a large aubergine.

Her doctor has said that you can hear now so she spends countless nights with a pair of headphones on her stomach, playing voice notes Magda has sent throughout the day for you.

It's amusing. They're mostly nonsense, Magda just talking about her day and all the things she looks forward to doing with you but it's incredibly sweet and Pernille ends up crying every time.

Month eight comes around and now you're the same size as a cabbage.

Pernille's back aches more than ever and you enjoy sitting on her bladder so she has to take a bathroom break more often.

The highlight of the month comes when Magda comes over and lifts her bump, allowing Pernille to sag against her and feel slightly weightless for a little bit.

At month nine, you're the same as a head of lettuce.

She and Magda have been arguing over names for months now. There's a list pinned to the fridge and each of them takes a lot of pride in crossing out the other's suggestions in healthy competition.

Your last name is still up for debate too, as is your middle (but, somehow, Frido's gotten in on that action and has been texting Pernille suggestions for weeks now).

Pernille's having trouble getting to sleep too and you get more active than before. Rather than kicking though, it's your little fists thumping against her stomach (something that, many years in the future, she will tell Zećira was you foreshadowing).

Her doctor told her it was normal but it's still a bit disconcerting to see the tiny imprints of your even tinier fingers poking from the inside out.

By month ten (and Pernille hates that she's been lied to and pregnancy does not, in fact, end in the ninth month), you're the same size as a pumpkin.

She feels ready to pop but restless at the same time.

Magda's meant to be flying out later today but Pernille is in desperate need of some fresh air so she pulls on some clothes and gets herself ready to head to the Wolfsburg grounds.

[rrenzwrld]

secreto de amor

connie falling in luv w his bsf sister ; a series? idk

enjoy! it’s been a while i’m sorry😔

“con, this is my sister— step sister, y/n.” jean introduced you to the shorter dude with his buzzcut dyed lime green. “y/n, this is my friend, constance.” jean smiled because he knew he was about to piss connie off.

“nice to meet you, constance—“

“don’t call me that.” he glared at you whilst he spoke in a cold tone. jean snickered as your friendly smile dropped.

“is that not your name?”

“it is but you can call me connie. don’t let your brother get you fucked up.” for it to be the first time meeting him, he was kinda mean. but you guessed you had to respect his boundaries if you two were gonna get along, even if he was rude in establishing them.

jean shoved connie to the side. “don’t talk to her like that. keep on, i’ll kick the shit outta your lil ass.” but all he did was shrug and walk away.

“sure.” jean turned to you with a sympathetic look on his face.

“sorry bout him. he’s an asshole.” you glared your brother down.

“figures.”

jean obviously wasn’t your blood brother but he was your older brother through marriage. his dad married your mom a few years ago but you two had been around each other for longer than that so the marriage brought you closer over time. jean had moved out when he finished college and invited you to move in with him so you did. he was the only man in the world you trusted enough to live with. connie was younger than jean but a little older than you so he was friends with jean for a while. you just never bothered to meet him when he came over and stayed in your room instead. but it was different this time because jean actually asked you to meet his friend this time so you didn’t see a problem with it.

“your sister’s cute.” connie took a hit of the blunt he had in his hand. jean kicked him in the leg.

“you know how i feel about that.”

“what?” he looked clueless but he knew what jean referred to.

“you hittin on my sister and you don’t even do relationships—“

“whoa.. i didn’t say anything about relationships. literally just said she was cute, calm down.”

“i don’t even want you thinking she’s cute. think she’s ugly or something.”

“but she’s not though.”

“oh really? i—“ jean was about to pull out his phone and show the most embarrassing pictures he had of you, but luckily you had walked into the room before he could.

“jean, can i borrow your car?” jean looked at you like you were crazy. the only reason you were asking was because your car was in the shop so you had no choice but to utilize the brother you had. you just hated asking or relying on people for things.

“uh no. take the bus.” connie let out a snicker before your eyes darted to his reaction. all you did was roll your eyes and continued the conversation with jean.

“i haven’t rode public transportation since high school. you know i’m only asking because lola in the shop right now…”

“…lola? you named your car?” connie felt the need to comment for whatever reason.

“shut up. yes, i did. you got a problem, baldy?” connie didn’t respond with anything else. “yeah. anyways, jean?” jean smacked his teeth before allowing you to get his keys.

“thank you, thank you!” you pulled your brother in for a hug. “love you, i’ll be back!”

“you better..” he mumbled.

“it’s the way you actually let her use your car. your dumbass didn’t even ask where she was going.” jean paused because he realized how right connie was. he was going to regret it but felt no need because the deed had been done and he’d deal with it whenever you came back.

“shut up. it’s the way you actually don’t know how to mind your fucking business.”

[apomaro-mellow]

King and Prince 35

Part 34

“Least favorite citrus?”

“Hmm, limes.”

“Limes? Really? Over grapefruit?”

“Limes are too small. Too small for anything. Too small to be of any use.”

Steve shook his head but was smiling through it. He hadn’t expected Eddie to have an answer prepared. But it wasn’t about the question, rather it was about how the person answered. They’d been playing the game of questions for a couple of days now and he learned that Eddie preferred nights over days, that he’d read nearly all the books in the library, and that he had once grown his hair out long enough to reach his feet. But he was more than satisfied with the shoulder-blade length it was now.

He had told Eddie that he liked to eat soup even on the hottest of days, that he’d rarely read for pleasure, and that he’d always wanted a younger sibling. But even as they learned about each other through these games, there was a question that stayed on Steve’s tongue.

For as much as Eddie would kiss and touch, he still kept himself from kissing and touching too much. Whenever Steve tried to take it further, Eddie stopped them in their tracks and came up with some kind of excuse. Steve had been with people who were hesitant due to inexperience, but this didn’t seem like that. And how could Eddie be inexperienced? The legends of him went at least as far back as his grandfather.

“Wait, how old are you?”, Steve asked.

Eddie paused in the middle of his writing and looked up from his desk. Steve was in the middle of penning his own letter. Another message to his parents. But the question came to him because he realized he didn’t have quite the definitive answer. He was lounging on the couch that Eddie had brought in when he realized he could have Steve here more often.

“How old do I look?”, Eddie asked with a grin. Steve had come into his study to get some writing done and Eddie never turned down his company. He hadn’t expected the question though. 

“Hmmm, fifty-five?”, Steve guessed with a grin.

Eddie’s head fell onto his desk, the bun his hair was in flopping as he shook his head from side to side before he lifted his head again. “You wound me. Do I appear that ancient?”

“You call fifty-five ancient? I know for a fact that you are much older than that!”

“Is that really the question you wanted to ask?”, Eddie asked. He had noticed Steve had a furrow in his brow for a while and he was sure the letter had little to do with it.

It wasn’t the only question Steve had. But it was something on his mind. Maybe Eddie thought Steve was too young for him somehow? Even though Eddie looked to be the same age as him, there was a significant age gap. Maybe that was the reason? But if it was, Steve couldn’t imagine that Eddie would have started anything to begin with. Not if he thought he was robbing the cradle.

Steve was saved from having to answer by Jeff and Nancy coming in. At first, Steve didn’t move but then Nancy gave him a look. And if she wanted him out of the room, that could only mean one thing.

“You’ve decided? You know who has passed and who has failed?”, he asked, getting to his feet.

“We have and it’s not for you to know yet”, Jeff said.

Steve looked to Eddie, not afraid to pout. Eddie didn’t even take a second to break and he looked to his advisors, also pouting a little. Jeff sighed and Nancy rolled her eyes and eventually, Steve had to see himself out. He couldn’t be too upset. After all, he was still an outsider. He went to find Lucas to tell him that good news was probably imminent anyway.

Those that passed the trials were told through letter and told to report for the official ceremony. Steve was so proud of Lucas that he didn’t even mind when the boy seemed to break a couple of his ribs barreling into him when he got the news.

Steve met Lucas’ parents for the first time at the ceremony. Lucas had pointed him out as the one who had helped him train these past few months and they were ever so grateful. The ceremony was held in the throne room and this was also the first time Steve had seen Eddie so…regal.

He was announced, there was fanfare and there he was. The knighting ceremony came on the day that fall first touched them with a chilly morning. It would still be some weeks before everything began to cool in earnest, even so Eddie officiated the occasion with the colors he wore. He usually kept to black but today he wore mostly red with just accents of black. His ensemble included a cape and a crown. But this crown wasn’t made of gold or silver. It wasn’t adorned with jewels. 

Instead, it appeared as if branches were wove between his curls. There were even leaves showing throughout, the first of the season to begin changing from green to amber. He looked like a herald of autumn and Steve couldn’t tear his gaze away. He was able to when Lucas was knighted though, his face nearly breaking in half from how big he was smiling. Dustin and Will were nudging the others pretty hard and even Max cracked a small smile. Which meant she was absolutely elated.

After the ceremony, there was a feast and dancing and Steve didn’t have to look too far before his hand was in Eddie’s. He had shed his cape but the crown still hung on his head.

“May I have this dance?”, Eddie asked.

“You may”, Steve said, allowing himself to be led to the dance floor.

Even though Steve’s wardrobe had been elevated recently, it still didn’t compare to a king’s finery. Eddie was looking at him like he always did, though. Like Steve was the most eye-catching person in the room. Steve was used to being the center of attention. And the whispers had only gotten louder since Eddie went public about courting Steve. Maybe…perhaps that was why? Kings usually expected their intended to be virgins, even if they weren’t themselves. Steve didn’t think Eddie would be a king like that but maybe it mattered to him. Maybe Steve’s lack of virtue was why Eddie never let things progress.

“There’s something on your mind, my love. I can tell”, Eddie said.

His words snapped Steve back to reality and made him realize he’d literally just been going through the motions of a dance without really enjoying being this close to Eddie. 

“Yes, I mean no, I um, I’ve gotta go and congratulate Lucas again.” 

Steve’s stomach suddenly rolled but he knew if he admitted to any sickness, Eddie wouldn’t leave his side. And he needed a moment to compose himself. Steve got lost in the crowd but found he didn’t want to sit anywhere for too long. He went outside instead. Fresh air felt good. Steve didn’t want to imagine that Eddie cared about virginity, but despite outward appearances, he was still a king. And the court of public opinion could only look past so many things.

Disregarding Steve’s status as a disowned royal, what did he bring to the table? He wasn’t exceedingly smart. He still had a lot to learn about the lands here. And he had no useful talents outside of fighting. Steve ran his hands through his hair as he leaned against a wall. Where was all of this headed? Was Eddie truly intending to marry him? That was where most courtships ended but did Eddie really well and truly want to be married to him?

“Steve, my darling, my light, have you been here the entire time?”

Eddie’s face came into view, making Steve aware that he’d been bent over. He stood up straight and took a deep breath. Eddie was a vision and he deserved someone as incredible as him.

“I did have a question”, Steve confessed.

Eddie stood next to him and leaned into his space as if he were sure Steve was going to share a secret with him. Steve turned into him. While they were alone, people were always listening. Steve looked into Eddie’s eyes, steeling his nerves. The only way to know was to ask.

“Why won’t you have sex with me?”

Ths misgivings Steve had seeped away just a bit when he saw how red Eddie’s face got. He cleared his throat and fiddled with his hair before answering.

“Are we still playing our game?”

“Do you not want me?”

Eddie cradled Steve’s face and kissed him three times. “Don’t ever think that. Ever. My desire for you knows no bounds.”

“I seem to have noticed a few boundaries”, Steve wasn’t afraid to pout at this point.

Eddie sighed. “I know I have seemed…restrained. I have my reasons.”

“May I know them, then?”

Eddie’s hands went from Steve’s face to his waist. “I will tell you. But later. The story is long and you’ll want to be comfortable. And it’s only a matter of time before one of those kids-”CRASH “-do something like that.”

He offered his arm to Steve and the prince took it. They re-entered the throne room and Eddie threw his free hand up in the air, projecting his voice to get everyone’s attention.

“Everyone knows it’s not a real celebration until something breaks!”

---------------------

That night, Steve was dressed for bed, brushing his hair in front of his vanity. He felt Eddie’s presence at his door before he heard the knock on it. When he answered, he saw that Eddie had dressed for bed as well. And yet he still looked just as handsome as earlier.

Steve followed Eddie without a word as they walked the dark halls. Eddie led Steve to his bedroom, a room Steve hadn’t really seen before. There were a few candles lit but most of the light seemed to come from the moon itself.

Eddie led Steve deeper inside and soon he found himself right in the king’s bed. Eddie’s gaze was intense and Steve got the sense he’d walked into a lion’s den.

“You look like you want to eat me”, Steve said, his voice hushed, feeling that if he was too loud he would break the moment.

“I could”, Eddie replied. “I could devour you and not leave a crumb.”

Steve swallowed. “I bet you say that to all the princes.”

“Never had anyone as pretty as you in my bed. Never had anyone I wanted as much as you…But-”

“But?”

“But I can’t. And I want you to understand why.”

“I’m all ears.” This must be why Eddie had brought him here tonight. He had said the story was long and that he should be comfortable. And he was more than comfortable with Eddie stroking his hair.

“This all started about three hundred years ago…”

Part 36 coming soon

Taglist CLOSED

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent  @snakeorsquid  @ignoremyworld  @theclichefortunecookie 

@goodolefashionedloverboi  @just-a-tiny-void  @0body0disphoria0  @cinnamon-mushroomabomination  @samsoble 

@jamieweasley13  @y4r3luv  @xtkxkrzrizir  @un-knownperson  @greekgeek24 

@justdrugsformethanks  @potato-of-the-lord  @notaqueenakhaleesi  @swimmingbirdrunningrock  @queenie-ofthe-void 

@nebulainajar  @lil-gremlin-things  @nicememerino  @robininblue  @hornedqueenofhell 

@anne-bennett-cosplayer  @moomkin77  @here4thetrama  @bookworm0690  @autumncrocusandladybug

@lil-gremlin-things @littlebluejane @puppy-steve

[here-comes-the-moose]

Some of my Bad Batch Amusement Park Headcanons Under the Cut

Hunter

Emphasizes that they will not be buying anything in the park, since everything is ridiculously overpriced. He ends up buying things they don’t need anyways.

Can only go on some of the rides, since others are way too intense for him. He’ll hang out with Crosshair while the others go on those.

Constantly asking if any of them are hungry or thirsty or feeling okay. Made them stop walking so he could fuss over Echo since he thought he was in pain (Echo was just annoyed at all of Hunter’s mother-henning).

This results in him and Echo getting into a fight that makes them all walk in silence for about fifteen minutes. Someone (Crosshair) almost cries.

Steals bites of the others’ food.

Wrecker

Omega’s riding companion.

He has to close his eyes during the ascent on rollercoasters due to his fear of heights, but once they’re off, he’s totally fine and having a great time.

Going crazy over the food available at the amusement park because what do you mean they can deep-fry key lime pie???? Echo is concerned, but also impressed at how he doesn’t get sick on rides after eating.

He’s in charge of spinning the teacup since he can make it go extremely fast. The workers are impressed at his strength but also horrified.

Tech

Omega’s other riding companion. He flies like an absolute maniac, of course he’s going to enjoy amusement park rides.

He’s the one who has the map and all of their tickets. He has had their route planned out for weeks and has the app on his phone that says the wait times.

Making sure that everyone stays hydrated.

Will lecture Crosshair and Wrecker over all of the fried food they are consuming, but will say nothing to Omega since she’s a child and should get to have some fun. He even accepts bites of her fried Oreos.

Crosshair

Can only ride the Ferris wheel. He gets sick on everything else because his enhanced vision makes him more susceptible to motion sickness.

Absolute pro at all of the games. Can and will win all of the toys for Omega.

Goes absolutely ham on the sweets available at the park (I headcanon him as having a major sweet tooth). Gets fed up with Tech’s lecturing and eats more sweets out of pure spite. This is something he pays for later.

Will deny it, but constantly checking Omega to see where she is, waiting for her if she wants to look at something or needs to tie her shoe, and offering to carry all of her things so she doesn’t get tired.

Echo

Constantly making them take pictures. Has said “act like you love each other” at least twice while taking said pictures. Got mad at Crosshair for not smiling, but then just left it alone when Crosshair smiled in the worst, most unhinged way possible.

Also making sure everyone is staying hydrated and that they are reapplying their sunscreen.

Alternates with Hunter on who will sit with Crosshair when others go on the rides.

Likes all the rides, but rollercoasters are his favorite.

Telling Crosshair, Wrecker, and Omega to take it easy on the snacks. (Some listen more than the others and he has to give the ones who don’t listen pepto later).

Omega

Stealing food from Crosshair and Wrecker (though it isn’t really stealing since they’re fine with it and were under the impression they were sharing).

Loves all of the rides, especially rollercoasters that go upside-down (Crosshair gets dizzy just thinking about it).

Treasures all of the toys Crosshair wins for her.

Enlists the others’ help in carrying all of said toys.

Sharing her food with everyone.

She is eating the most balanced out of all of them, since Tech and Echo are making sure she’s getting enough fruits and veggies as well as enough protein. She’s probably also the most hydrated out of them due to everyone fussing over her.

[lihhelsing]

Part 5 - Catfish Steddie

You can also read it on AO3!

Eddie isn’t sure how many doubles he pulled in the past week, but he’s not too interested in counting, anyway. He just needs to keep himself busy. Just busy enough. 

He’s also trying to stay out of the house as much as he can because he can’t seem to find it in him to face Gareth. Not right now. 

Not when Gareth was fucking right. 

He didn’t say it to be mean, Edie knows it, but in all the time they’ve known each other, nerdy, weird Eddie was never the one to get the attention of guys built like a Greek god and Gareth had been wary of it from the beginning. 

Eddie couldn’t even get himself to tell him about the catfish because, in the end, he managed to get a date with Steve, and what Gareth didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right? 

But the joke’s on Eddie because he’s the one who ended up hurt. 

So yeah, maybe he’s been doing that avoidance thing that annoyed Gareth ever since middle school when Eddie would pretend to not be interested in playing with Max Steel anymore just because he had broken Gareth’s favorite figure and couldn’t find a way to tell him. 

Eddie can be a real piece of work sometimes and he knows that all too well. Gareth knows it too and it is beyond Eddie to understand why does he still put up with his shit after so many years, but after some nasty fights where Gareth had to yell at Eddie to believe he fucking likes him and is definitely sticking around and that Eddie needs to drop that shitty way of acting, Eddie prefers not to say anything.

He’s also aware Gareth can tell something is up and that he’s on borrowed time but that’s for future Eddie to worry about. 

The good thing is that the bar keeps him busy. He's always making a drink or another, cleaning something up and when there are no clients, Eddie can just let the music take over. Let his brain swim in the blissfulness of loud, angry music. 

"Can I get a vodka soda?" Eddie is nodding before he even looks at the person, his body moving with the familiarity of the bar work. 

He grabs the vodka with one hand and twists it around just to show off. His other hand is already filling a glass with ice cubes. Then it's alcohol, measured to be sure, soda, and a half lime wedge at the rim of the glass. 

It's as easy as breathing and it feels good to do something that doesn't involve thinking. 

"Here you go," he slides the glass in front of his customer and it's the first time he looks at her. She has short, brown hair and is looking straight at Eddie, not moving to get her drink. 

"Thanks, Eddie."

He frowns for a second. Doesn't remember telling her his name. Doesn't remember seeing her before, but at the same time, her face looks familiar. 

"Did you need anything else?"

Maybe she asked for another drink and Eddie didn't hear. His mind isn't the most reliable lately, hence why he can't quite place where he knows her from. Maybe she's a regular at the bar and Eddie has just forgotten about it? 

"When's your break?" she asks and oh. Oh, no. Can't she tell Eddie would prefer to suck face with any one of the other patrons that aren't a woman? 

"Sorry. I don't, uh, mess around with paying customers," he says even though he followed a few cute boys out through the back door for sloppy hand-jobs and messy kisses. 

Her frown deepens and Eddie thinks maybe he offended her. He tried letting her down easy but maybe-

"Uh, first of all, gross. Second of all, I just want to talk. Please."

Something isn't adding up. "Do I know you?"

She offers her hand as if she's in an indie movie and she's the edgy main character. Eddie doesn't take it but it doesn't seem to bother her. 

"I thought you knew. I'm Robin Buckley. Steve's roommate."

Oh, fuck. 

x

Eddie feels like he needs a cigarette even though he hasn't smoked in ages. He tends to stay with just weed for most of the time, but this situation right now is so fucked up it calls for one. 

He wonders if he should tell her he's going to 7/11 to get one but he realizes he's just stalling. He doesn't particularly want to hear what she has to say but he couldn't find it in himself to say no. 

Steve tried calling a few times but he gave up once it was clear Eddie wasn't picking up the phone. He wonders if Steve sent her. 

"I have 15 minutes and I was really counting on a nap during my break so make this quick," his voice comes out harsher than usual and Eddie's not mad about it. Maybe if he can put on a hard front she and Steve will leave him alone. 

Eddie's brain has been trying to trick him into believing Steve really didn't have anything to do with the catfish thing, but it just doesn't add up. He spent way too many nights awake thinking about Steve laughing at his expense, at how dumb he was for falling for the thing not once but twice. 

He just wants to move on, forget all about Steve and about how stupid he was to fall for his game. 

"You're bitchier than I remember," she shakes her head as if she can't believe it and Eddie frowns again. He really doesn't remember her. "Guess you're just not that bitchy when it comes to pretty boys, huh."

It takes a second for Eddie's brain to get the message but then…

"You."

She nods and even though she sounds playful as if all of this is nothing more than a joke her face is pinched up. 

"Guilty. Sorry about that, by the way."

Now Eddie is sure Steve sent her and he really doesn't want to hear whatever excuse he has for this. He doesn't even understand what's their goal here. Do they want Eddie to forgive them just so they can feel better about themselves?

"Tell Steve I don't need any apologies. You both can just forget it and leave me alone."

He hopes he doesn't sound too pathetic because he sure feels like it. But Robin doesn't move, she just blinks at him. 

"Steve doesn't know I'm here."

Eddie huffs out a breath. He's getting annoyed at this conversation really fast. 

"Will you just say what it is that you want to say and leave me alone, then? I really need a nap."

"Steve doesn't know I'm here and he didn't know I was, uh, using his face to-"

"Catfish people."

"Is it considered catfishing if I had no intention of dating anyone?"

Eddie frowns. What the fuck is wrong with this girl? 

"Yes."

She closes her eyes and presses her hands to her face. "Shit. I'm fucking this up even more, aren't I? I'm not good at this."

Eddie is honestly so fucking done with her. He's confused and honestly a little angry at this person he doesn't know but thought it was ok to mess with his life for apparently no good reason. 

"Well, I'm gonna go."

Eddie pushes himself off the wall he was leaning on and is walking back to the bar when she calls for him. 

"Wait. Please. I'm sorry… I have this tendency to joke around whenever I'm feeling bad or uncomfortable. It's just a shitty defense mechanism that I kind of can't control."

He honestly wants to tell her to fuck off but at the same time… He gets it. He is the same, after all, and Gareth would probably call him out on his bullshit if he ever complained about it. He can hear what she has to say, at least. 

"Ok. Go on, but I desperately need a Slurpee and you're buying."

Slurpees beat cigarettes every day of the week, no doubt. 

x

Robin's story was… Kind of crazy if Eddie was being honest. He was still confused about some things because how the hell did her professor support that idea? 

"I knew it was a crazy thing I was doing. I thought it would be harmless but once I realized it wasn't it was a little too late to back down and he was all over my case."

Eddie clicks his tongue. "You should report him, you know."

She looks completely terrified. "I thought about it but it's probably going to spill all over me."

Eddie shrugged. "Maybe you deserve it."

Robin worried her lower lip in between her teeth. "Maybe I do."

"I'm not saying that to be an asshole, it's just the way things are. When I fuck up at work I have to deal with the consequences and it fucking sucks so maybe you just need to deal with yours. It's not going to be the end of the world."

Robin sighs loudly. She's clutching her blue Slurpee as if her life depends on it and Eddie wants to warn her that it's going to melt. They are both sitting on a bench outside the store and Eddie is probably already running late to get back to his shift but he thinks he needs to be here right now. 

Robin's explanation was not what he was expecting. She swore Steve had absolutely nothing to do with that and proceeded to tell him Steve wasn't even speaking to her anymore.

He still can't wrap his head around the whys. Robin doesn't seem like a psychopath so it makes no sense that she would do something like this. It's an asshole move, especially given she and Steve weren't even friends. But Eddie had been an asshole before. He has fucked up with people he loves and he doesn't think that makes him a bad person.

He doesn't think it makes Robin a bad person. She at least looks really ashamed. 

"Are you going to throw that Slurpee at me?" Robin asks when the silence gets too long. Eddie looks at her and she's joking. Or at least he thinks she is. 

"Would it make you feel better if I did?"

"Honestly? Maybe. I can deal with screaming and fighting and saying dumb shit to each other. It's harder when all he gives me is silence and blank stares. It's like I'm not even there anymore."

Yeah, Eddie has been there. It fucking sucks. 

"Sorry," she says. "I didn't come here to make you feel bad for me. I know I fucked up and you have no obligation in forgiving me but I thought you should know what happened. Steve…"

Eddie has no idea if he can afford thinking about Steve right now. He misses the hell out of him and if he's being honest he misses Robin, too. 

"I know. He didn't know about any of that but I think maybe… Maybe he won't want to hear from me after I shut him out, you know? Maybe he'll be better off forgetting this whole thing."

Robin finally drinks her Slurpee. It's probably all water now, Eddie thinks. She looks at him and there's a glint in her eyes. 

"I think I've never seen him that happy. When he was talking to you, I mean. He was always glued to his phone, a dumb smile on his face. It was kind of adorable, if you like cute puppies."

Eddie did have a soft spot for puppies. 

"It doesn't matter anyway. Like I said, I don't think he will want to hear from me. I think I offended him, too."

"But would you want to? Talk to him again?"

He thinks for a second but he nods before his brain even registers the question. There's this ache in his chest that tells him he's probably going to miss Steve forever if he never talk to him again. 

"Ok, good. Because I might have a plan."

Previous | Next

[pumpkinroll]

history class ⊹₊ obey me! thirteen x f! reader︱one shot (1.3k) ⊹₊ tags⟢ 18+ only, dubcon, public sex & some exhibitionism, fingering/oral on reader, use of “my girl” & “good girl”, some dirty talk, established relationship, pervy levi (just a cameo)

“Eh? Who are you!?”

You couldn't remember the last time Thirteen actually showed up to class willingly.

She rolled her eyes and let out a dramatic sigh, “I'm allowed to be here y'know!” 

The reaper plopped into the seat next to you and opened her textbook, huffing, “I can come and go as I please, I just felt like coming today! Nothing wrong with that. Hmph.”

You cocked an eyebrow, wondering what she was really up to, before opening your own textbook to today's history lesson. You patiently waited for the professor to start as he fumbled around up front trying to get the projector started.

“Just saying, don't try to copy me if we have a pop quiz, you're on your own.” You shook your head and turned your attention back to the professor, who was already drawling into the lesson.

He never failed to make minutes seem like hours. 

You turned your head slightly to glance at the beautiful reaper, wondering how she was holding up.

To no one's surprise, she was already fast asleep on her textbook, snoozing away without any care in the world. You love her — but even you fail to see why she bothered to come today.

At least the two of you were furthest in the back, the professor paying no mind to anything other than what was on the board.

“Mmm…mmmff…just a little…more…” Thirteen murmured. You glanced to see some drool on the corner of her mouth and a not-so-angelic look on her face. To be fair, that's rarely a thing to begin with.

Leave it to Thirteen to have a wet dream during class.

You peeked around hoping no one heard her and luckily all seemed well. Levi who was in front of you was thankfully engrossed in his game.

Gently you shook Thirteen’s shoulder and woke her up, looking none too pleased.

“Hey, c'mon! I was having the BEST dream, what the hell!” she whisper-shouted, shuffling around in her seat, her thighs rubbing together. “You were so close — !”

“Excuse me!?”

Thirteen crossed her arms and shot you a pouty look, “It's been a while since we fucked, don't tell me you haven't had any urges lately!?”

“Thirteen!”

Mortified you looked around once more, hoping no one heard her, noticing Levi ever so briefly stopped playing his game before continuing. He was probably just changing to a different game; at least that's what you told yourself to feel better.

“Ugh, Thirteen, we can talk about this later!”

“No I want to talk about this now. I've barely seen you lately, I miss you, you're always so busy...” A perfectly manicured hand rubbed your thigh with a feather-like touch. Teasing. Just the way you love it — it then clicked and you caught on to what she was up to.

You bit your bottom lip before taking a quick shaky breath. 

“That's not f-fair…” your voice cracked, “Let's just talk after classes later and —” 

Her hand moved higher up your thigh, beneath your uniform skirt. “Can you really wait until later? Can you resist this?” 

Lime green eyes scanned the room quickly and in a flash she pulled her top down, revealing big soft bouncy breasts and perky pink nipples to match.

Fuck.

She smirked and shook her breasts, “Your favorite yeah? — Ugh, Levi I'll cut off your balls with a rusty sword! Turn around!” Thirteen covered up quickly before anyone else noticed, grumbling about the otaku in front of her before turning her attention back to you.

“Anyway…” her hand resumed rubbing light sensual circles upon your upper thigh, getting dangerously close to the aching spot between your legs. “I just want a small taste. Just stay quiet and enjoy it alright?” 

You let out a small sigh and nodded, feeling crazy for going along with it but feeling a thrill from it at the same time. Thirteen always did have that intoxicating power over you. She, ironically, always made you feel so alive.

“That's my girl~ ♡” she murmured, her finger pressing softly against your clothed clit, making you squirm in your seat.

You tried to keep your attention on the professor, hoping to not rouse suspicion to the back. You thanked Diavolo's decision for the enclosed desks at the academy also wondering how many others have used this to their advantage .

Thirteen tried to follow your lead, resting her cheek on her hand as the other one beneath the desk continued rubbing up and down along your slit, relishing the sweet damp spot that's formed.

She slowly added more pressure against your cunt, feeling the pool of stickiness seep through the thin fabric, covering her fingers. A small giggle escaped her lips before finally pulling your drenched panties aside, rubbing her thumb against your naked swollen clit.

A barely audible moan escaped, you felt your face burn as you tried to keep your focus on the lesson.

Why did you ever agree to this!?

Your legs betrayed you and opened further on their own, letting her delicate fingers toy around your sopping wet cunt, another small moan slipped between your lips.

This is way too dangerous.

Reaching down, you reluctantly pulled her soaked fingers that were pumping into you, away from your cunt.

“W-we should s-stop…s'too good—” you feebly spoke.

“What? No way…” Thirteen glanced towards you and waved her wet fingers before sucking your essence off them, “Yummy as always. Definitely not enough for me nor you.”

“But — ”

Unfortunately, the reaper swiftly and quietly slipped beneath the desk, propping herself between your slick covered thighs. Her hot breath tickled your exposed swollen clit.

Oh no. 

Oh fuck. 

There was no getting out of this. Not unless you wanted to get caught by everyone. 

Panicking, you peeked around before glancing back down at the lewd sight between your legs.

“Such a good girl, look at this pretty wet pussy,” she licked her plum stained lips, holding eye contact with you as her warm slippery tongue slipped between your folds. “Mmm...'could eat you all fucking day.”

You bit your lip as hard as you could, daring to not let a single sound out no matter how much you wanted to.

It had been ages since she went down on you and you never imagined this would be how she would do it, never imagined how fucking good it would feel. So fucking naughty and dirty but so sinfully good.

At this point, you had no idea what the lesson was about, you could only focus on the way Thirteen deliciously wrapped her lips around your sensitive clit, sucking and licking while her fingers fucked you to a new height of pleasure. 

“Your cunt is so delicious, ” she mumbled, flattening her tongue and lapping along your slit.

You closed your eyes and panted as quietly as you could, unable to stay silent anymore, your mouth slightly agape.

Opening your eyes again, you briefly saw Levi gawk in your direction — undoubtedly knowing what you two were up to. You didn't care anymore, you knew the pervy demon would keep quiet.

You stared at each other for a few seconds as you continued lewdly panting before biting your hand, closing your eyes, and putting your head down on the desk. Fuck you were so so close. 

You rocked onto Thirteens tongue, aching for release. 

“Mmm,”

Grabbing the back of her head you continued rubbing your clit against her tongue before finally reaching your peak, squirting into her mouth as a small groan escaped you. 

You continued panting as your eyes fluttered open, riding out your high. Luckily there was still no one aware of what was going on in the back of the room.

Well, except Levi, who you could see was jacking off beneath his desk and very shortly let out a satisfied grunt. Figures.

Once again, Thirteen swiftly made it back into her chair, wiping her mouth as she grinned and looked to you.

“See, that was great right? Let me know if you want to go again.” She teased, giving a flirty wink. 

You let out a satisfied sigh and fixed yourself up before cleaning your chair just as the bell rang for the next class.

“You know damn well I do. We're going back to my room.”

Thirteen squealed and grabbed your hand as the two of you rushed out the academy to get back to the house of lamentation.

divider by sister-lucifer

[starrclown]

Yall I like this duo a lot I don’t know why.

Random lime soda headcanons but it’s Litteraly 1:14 am and I’m not proof reading ANYTHING.

(Yall I searched for that photo of Mei and Wukong smiling together but I couldn’t find it)

They go shopping together. Both have money and both have enough to spend it.

Wukong sees bits and pieces of Ao Lie in Mei. It’s mostly their personality’s match up at times and it brings Wukong comfort.

Girls night is very important to them. Sometimes Redson and Bai He join.

Mei is an artist like Mk but she does more digital stuff. She taught Wukong how to draw with a iPad and he LOVES it.

Wukong is Mei’s vent buddy. Even though Mk is her best friend, some times she needs to talk to someone that can relate. She feels Wukong can relate to some of her issues and self esteem problems. Wukong lets her stay on the mountain and cry into his shoulder,

Wukong fixed Mei’s dragon plushie when it ripped.

Wukong is better with technology than someone like Macaque but he still struggles. So when he gets mean comments on photos he takes (mostly by Macaque let’s be real), Mei gets PISSED. She isn’t above doxxing.

Mei is SEVERALY critical of Wukong’s exes. She thinks Ao Lie was the best option (obviously)

They go to the arcade sometimes. Wukong LOVES the claw machine.

Mei FUCKS UP Wukong’s cooking. She LOVES it. She is ALWAYS getting seconds.

Mei LOVES horror movies. Wukong doesn’t but he’ll push through and watch them.

Mei made Wukong a friendship bracelet once. He has it hung up on his vanity so it doesn’t break it.

Guys I’m so sleepy and I’m breaking out and my iPad hit my face so I now have a bump on my lip.

Anyways you guys should watch Scream Queens. It’s free on YouTube with adds. It’s such a trashy tv show and it’s so stupid but it’s so fun.

[dpr-stay]

Whoops | YT22

Yuki Tsunoda x driver!reader

SMAU & written

Warnings: A little bit of smut (more lime iykwim) Still would recommend MDNI

Wc ~ 2.3k

Hey y’all 🤪

Anyways, wrote this last night and spent forever doing the social media part bcs it was fun. Haven’t edited it! Sorry! And it may be a bit ooc (?) but I imagine Yuki as some suave guy behind doors so whoops.

(Also sorry if you’re here for stray kids)

———

Heavy hands lay secure on your hips as you sat perched on his lap. Dark eyes stared into yours, both of them encapsulated in unrestrained lust. Yuki squeezed your hips as he brought you in for another kiss.

If only Franz Tost could see you now, huh. He’d been hesitant about hiring a girl to fill Gasly’s seat after he left because he was worried that her and Yuki wouldn’t get along. Boy was he wrong.

Yuki groaned into your mouth as you lowered yourself down till you were aligned. A quick nudge of your hips caused you both to moan, as the tension from the day released out of the both of you.

It was tough race, you barely making it into the points and Yuki a bit below you. The car was shit, but that was to be expected. You’d both spent countless hours in the sims, trying to somehow uncover a way to make the car work better but it was a lost cause.

After one long day that you’d both spent in the sims, you’d arrived at your hotel rooms that were side-by-side at the same time and the rest was history. You wouldn’t say you used each other, there was definitely some level of emotion involved (if the way you spent more time together than anyone else and the numerous times you’ve contemplated moving in together count) but it was definitely a more effective stress relief than collapsing in the gym.

His hips shifted upwards, causing a tingling sensation to spread through your lower half, a sensation that was increased the longer he continued doing that. You brought your arms around Yukis neck, bringing him in for a kiss as you adjusted your hips to match his speed.

He leaned his head back as he closed his eyes and you smiled, quickly leaning in to begin kissing his neck.

“Honey…” He sighed, as you continued moving your hips, his excitement very obvious even through the jeans he was wearing.

“Feels good right?” You murmured on his neck as you began sucking, trying your very best not to leave a mark. That may have been a lie. A deep mark started to form on his skin and you smiled as he continued sighing his pleasure.

“I may have left a mark.” He groaned, this time in mock annoyance, and a giddy smile overtook your lips this time as he brought his head down to look at you, his own smile making your glow brighter.

“It’s hard to be mad at you.” He whispered against your lips and you responded with a quick kiss on his lips, continuing your eye contact, as you didn’t trust yourself to respond appropriately with words.

He gently bucked his hips in response to your kiss and you gasped as a jolt of pleasure ran up your spine. He smirked against your lips and he leaned forward to grab the back of your thighs.

A loud banging on your door startled you both out of your daze, a yelp leaving your lips as Yuki nearly dropped you. You both, almost comically, turned to face the door as the banging continued and the person behind it started to shout.

“Hello? We’re here to film that room tour?” Shit, you’d totally forgotten about that. The team had organized for a film crew to come over and do a nice tour of the hotel room you were staying in. Wasn’t that tomorrow? You cleared your throat before yelling out.

“Yep just give me a minute! I’m finishing a round of Mario Kart!” You quickly hurried to jump off Yuki and started running around the room, turning on your switch and throwing a controller at Yuki.

“Just go with it!” You pleaded and he nodded, a firm nod with a small smile on his lips. God his lips are gorgeous aren’t they? Fuck, not right now!

You sprinted to the bathroom and tried to smooth your hair to look normal and splashed your face with water, hoping it would cool you down.

You ran back to the main area of the room, threw on your Alpha Tauri shirt and turned around to find Yuki booting up Mario Kart on your room's TV.

You sighed, physically feeling your shoulders and tension deflate, before leaning in for one last kiss.

“You look beautiful.” He said as you pulled away and you slapped his shoulder, duly noting the blanket he had thrown over his lap as he sat on the edge of your bed.

“I’m supposed to be turned off right now, not turned on.” You said bashfully and he grinned before you turned back the door and opened it.

You came face to face with a man holding a camera and a man holding a microphone. Your eyes widened.

“Hi there! Should we get straight to it?” The man holding the mic asked and you nodded before turning to the camera and introducing yourself.

“This is the uhh standard room. I’m pretty sure all staff got it, it’s pretty good.” You said as you opened the door.

Yuki waved at the camera from his spot sitting at the edge of your bed and, to their credit, both the other men tried to look unsurprised.

“We were playing Mario kart together, getting out all the aggression from the track.” You explained, over-gesturing with your hands. They both nodded and ‘ahh-ed’.

“So anyways, here’s the bathroom.” You led them into the bathroom, did a little tour, showing them around the room. You opened a few drawers, forgetting about the one that held Yuki’s toiletries bag and quickly slamming it shut. You met their curious looks with a quick “Can’t reveal my hair-care secrets!” And tried to carry on.

You took them through the small kitchenette, showing them the teabags you brought from home and showing them the high quality green tea bags Yuki bought you as a gift. You asked if they wanted a tea and the cameraman took you up on the offer, so eventually you were brewing four teas, one for every person in your room.

Eventually you all moved to the dining table beside your bed, the cameraman setting up his camera to face your bed with you in front of it before you were asked some relatively normal, non-invasive questions which you really appreciated. Yuki was also asked some questions, mostly about how good he is at Mario kart.

You ended up giving them a small tour of the bed, not much to see there. You took them through your switch, let them play a game on it, before eventually showing them the view from the hotel room, letting them onto the balcony.

As they surveyed the view, Yuki came up behind you, quickly muttering into your ear a complaint that they were taking too long. You rested your head back on his shoulder and murmured that they would be gone soon.

And they were, with a final sweep of the room and a panned shot of you sitting at the table watching Yuki play Mario Kart, they were out, thanking you for the tea and for being such a good host.

The second you had closed and locked the door, Yuki was at your back, missing your neck and grabbing at your waist to lead to your bed. You smiled and let yourself be walked backwards before he turned you around and kissed your lips.

“Been holding back for an hour lovely.” He whispered as he subtly pushed you backwards onto the bed, you landing with an ‘umph’ which he released a giggle at.

“Mhhmm I’m sorry about that.” You responded to his previous statement. “I thought it was another day.”

“It’s ok.” He said as crawled over you, beginning to mouth at your ear. “Just means I get less time to fuck you, yeah?” You groaned in response and he laughed at you.

“If people knew how much of a smooth talker you were…” You trailed off as he continued down from your ear to your neck to your collarbones, leaving small bites as he went.

“Lucky they don’t, means I get to use this.” He said smugly before leaning over to the bedside table and retrieving a condom. You rolled your eyes, a fond smile playing on your lips, as he flashed the condom at you. He reached back to place the condom back on the table and moved back to you.

Wait. Hold on.

Yuki continued to kiss down, leaving small nibbles on your collarbones as your eyes shot open.

Oh fuck.

You released a loud gasp and Yuki pulled back and looked up, worried.

“I’m sorry! Are you ok…?” He trailed off at your flabbergasted expression as you both sat up.

“Yuki.” You began, grabbing his shoulders.

“Did you reach in the drawer to grab that or not?” You asked, drawing him close to you. His face immediately paled as he took in the implications of what you said. He scrambled to move closer to the edge of the mattress, turning to look at the side table.

“I swear I reached in, didn’t I?” He said, turning to you but you could only look on in horror.

“There’s no way right?” He started. “We didn’t just film a room tour with a condom on the side table?”

You groaned, grinding the heels of your palms into your eyes as you learnt back into the bed, hoping the mattress would swallow you whole. Yuki let out an incredulous laugh, barely registering the hand you slapped his thigh with.

“What do we do?” You eventually asked, staring at the roof.

“I have no clue.” He said as you rolled to face him. His face softened as he reached out a hand to put on the side of your face.

“We might have to tell people.” You groaned in despair, closing your eyes. The last thing you wanted was for people to think the only female driver was fucking the other drivers. You were only fucking one.

You also didn’t want to have to deal with HR and the complications that would pose, you’d mentioned Franz Tost as a joke but damn. You really don’t want to have to deal with all the questions about your loyalty to the company and if you were just there because of Yuki.

Saying that, you were also reminded that you’d have to face the media and twitter if you confirmed it. Cheers to more speculations as to whether you were the gridwhore or the gridslut. Somehow the same thing with different names.

To be fair, you'd have to face the media anyway in this scenario. You couldn’t just chase them down and ask them to do the story again ‘just because’ and you were certain some eagle-eyed fan would definitely notice the package in the original video anyway. Yuki interrupted your thoughts by speaking.

“You know I’d fistfight someone for you?” You opened your eyes to face his genuine ones, the seriousness of his face causing you to smile.

“I know. I’d do the same for you.” The smile he had in return caused you to grab the hand he was holding your face in and turn your face to kiss it.

“I could call Pierre, he’d probably know what to do.” You immediately scoffed, closing your eyes and laughing into Yuki’s hand as you grasped it.

“I’m serious! He might have some sort of way for it to be passed off as something else!”

“Darling, I’m not sure about that.” You were careful to make your voice not sound condescending.

“You never know!” He said, pulling away (which you did definitely not whine at) and grabbing his phone from the table, quickly dialling Pierre’s number.

You watched as Yuki paced, giving you a thumbs up when the call went through. The loud blasting club music through the phone did clue you in to that though.

“Hi Pierre!” He started and you watched as he moved from foot-to-foot.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He said and then continued. “Sorry to take you away from your party but I have a question.”

A pause.

“Ah ok. If you needed to pass off a condom wrapper as something else, what would you choose?” Yuki said, giving you another thumbs up.

The raucous laughter Pierre released was heard through the phone (he really ought to turn the volume down) and it made you start to giggle, especially as Yuki furrowed his eyebrows.

“Of course I’m serious!” He said, starting to pace again.

“Why? We accidentally had one out on the side table when a room tour was taking place.” He explained as he finally sat down after you patted the space in front of you on the bed.

“What? Who? You know who!” He said and you tilted your head in confusion. He sighed before muttering into the phone.

“Yes, the person I had a crush on the whole last year. Go away.” You tilted your head back as a wave of elation washed over you, it was always nice to know the people you want, want you too. Even if you’d been dating, it’s still nice to know.

Pierre’s reaction to this could also be heard through the phone, a loud “WHAT?” that had Yuki sighing before hanging up. He took a second before looking at you.

“Useless.” He simply said and it was enough to send you into a minutes long laughing fit. He giggled along with you, though he admittedly found it a lot less funny.

“So there’s nothing we can do?” You asked and he nodded.

“Seems like we just have to let things run their course.” You nodded in agreement, already having mentally prepared yourself.

“However…” You looked up at the tone of his voice.

“We could… Y’know… use the condom?” He said and you started to giggle again before nodding.

“Seems the only acceptable course.” You replied and he smiled before climbing back onto the bed.

—-

Yippee, does this mean I can make a masterlist?

[straighttohellbuddy]

what you love you devour {c!Wilbur Soot}

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

{ masterpost }

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

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

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

Citrus Scale: 💚 LIME 💚

{ full playlist }

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

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

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

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

"Wilbur," he corrected you automatically.

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

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

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

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

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

"It could be a ruse!" Tommy insisted.

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

"You shot me!"

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

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

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

"It's the funniest option."

---

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

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

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

"Thomas, Thomas listen to me -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, absolutely."

----

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

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

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

"You're going to try."

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

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

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

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

"The new guy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

"Stop. Talking."

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

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

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

"I think you overestimate how challenging you are -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What took you so long?"

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't patronise me," he warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A revolutionary jester," you agreed.

----

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

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

"Still?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you lying?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you planning on betraying me?"

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the fuck did you do?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Deafening silence.

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

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

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

"What happened?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I absolutely would have," you answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

"What?" 

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

“Maybe it’s because I respect them -”

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

"What the hell are you talking about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Their loyalty to me?”

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

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

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

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

----

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

"Of course."

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

"What happened between you and Dream?"

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

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

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

“What did he say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You won’t hurt me, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you wanted to hurt me.”

“Well I can’t.”

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

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

“Who?” Softer this time, Wilbur asks.

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

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

“Understand you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It was novel to feel understood.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you trying to push me away?”

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

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

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

“Yes, absolutely.”

----

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

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

"Of course." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why the fuck are you here?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You're stalling."

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

Eret swallows hard.

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

"Not quite." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your house, his voice turns softly malevolent;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you like Quackity more than me?"

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

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

"Wilbur…"

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

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

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

You hesitate. You drop his gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

“It sounds like self sabotage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m always honest with you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

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

“That’s not an answer.” 

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

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

“Like this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

“And you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

“Not your fault either,” you shrugged.

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

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

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

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

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

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

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

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

"What then?" 

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

"You sound like Dream."

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

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

"My attachment to him is situational at best." 

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

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

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

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

"Correction, I almost died for you."

"What's the difference?"

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

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

"You suddenly decided to grow a conscience?"

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

"Sorry about that, again," he muttered.

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

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

"I'll be by your side until -"

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

----

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

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

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

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

“You caught me in a moment of weakness.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t like seeing you sad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard, huffing a humourless laugh.

“And he’s the one who got away.”

“Y/N...”

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

----

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

“Not even close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

“Why what? Why he did what he did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

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

“I know.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You trust me," its not a question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kill me."

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dude -" you're surprised by Dream's honesty in turn, but you do respect it as he clarifies himself.

"He's the one you care about, the only one besides yourself, I know, I've seen it," he gives a faint smirk, "we're still friends, of course, there's no doubt about that, but if I asked you to kill someone that Wilbur would rather have alive, or if I asked you to, say, join me on an adventure with a low survival rate, if Wilbur asked, you'd choose him, wouldn't you? You'd do whatever it takes to make him happy."

"Dream... I -"

"Your loyalty is absolute, but selective; you put yourself first, then Wilbur, and maybe I'm overestimating my place in your life, but I think I may be below him, but above most others..."

"What are you saying? What do you want?" You asked carefully.

"I'll bring back Wilbur, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'll bring him back, but you'll owe me a life," and you can't even begin to properly process what he's saying, "not his," Dream clarifies, "I wouldn't do that to you, but in one way or another, you will owe me a life, and when I ask for it, however that may be, you need to uphold your end of the bargain, or I'll send him right back to where he is now."

I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. That's the four words he'd said that you're fixating on, that're playing through your mind on repeat, and you practically crush Dream in a hug as you agree, breathlessly thanking him. He hugs you back, and you can feel his smile against your shoulder, laughing somewhat fondly at the notes of relief in your voice as you mutter that he's your favourite.

"For now," he snorts when you step back, and you give a sheepish smile, ducking your gaze.

"For now," you agree.

----

"Who let you- does Sam know you're in here?" Quackity's voice is dangerously quiet, a strange smile on his face, like having you here is a boon rather than a terrible mistake.

"Q, what the fuck?" You rubbed at your eyes, forcing the sleep from them. Dream is already scrambling as far as he can from the newcomer, anger and fear in his eyes. He tells Quackity to fuck off.

"What are you doing here? You planning an escape for my favourite little war criminal?" He paused, "have you moved on now that your favourite little war criminal is dead?" Everything about him seems sharp, seems cruel and threatening; something about it is thrilling, like a challenge, and you find yourself standing to your full height, refusing to drop his gaze.

“Big Q,” you take some small pride in the fact that your voice doesn’t shake, “you’re looking markedly more malicious today.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been coming here for a while, looking for one simple thing, and your buddy there really hasn’t exactly been helpful,” there’s a faintly manic gleam in his eye, but your blood is hissing and spitting in your veins, conflicted and delighted in equal measure -

“He was your friend you fucking asshole!” The words burst from you, disgusted as you wear a manic grin. 

“I was your friend, you fucking piece of shit!” He hollers back, “I was more than your fr-” but his mouth snaps shut, expression one of seething rage, “don’t fucking talk like you still trust him, like you care about him;” the curl of Quackity’s lip is cruel, the look in his eyes cold as he shifts his grip on his sword; a humourless laugh escapes him, “except, of course it’s you who still cares; first Dream, then Wilbur, the only people you actually care about are just like you,” and there’s so much derision in his voice that it almost stings, almost, if he wasn’t right. How can he not see the way his cruel tone delight you? How can he not see the irony in his words in this very moment; “now fuck off, you’re in my way.” He sneers.

“I’m not letting you hurt him,” you refused to move, and his eyes widened, disbelieving laugh escaping him.

“Look at that! Did the wizard finally give you a fucking heart?” 

“Look at that!” You mirror his tone, though your own is acidic, pushing, you’re pushing him now, the way you know best, “did you finally get over your pathetic feelings? You finally getting smart enough to see me as a real threat?” And you’re in his space, in his face, refusing to back down, waiting for the moment he snaps.

“I never cared about you, I cared about the fact that you paid me attention; note the difference,” he snarled; it’s a lie, you know it’s a lie, can remember the way he’d looked at you, how he’d almost died for you, and it’s fucking intoxicating.

“You’re so good at hearing the truth, but you’re fucking shit at obfuscating it,” you tell him with a cool confidence, “I hung the stars in your sky, Quackity,” his jaw clenched tightly at your change in tone, the look in your eye, “but tell me again about how it was all an act for you, say it in a way I’ll believe this time.” It’s designed to cut him, and you can see it in his eyes when it does. Fight back, damn it! 

“Maybe I’ll give Dream the day off, kill you instead,” he tries, but you can tell his heart’s not in it. 

“This isn’t fun for him like it is for you,” Dream pipes up, and Quackity shoots him a surprisingly confused look, while your look over your shoulder, faint disappointment in your eyes. Dream, however, exhausted and paranoid with Quackity in his cell, still has enough wherewithal to understand you better than almost anyone else.  

“I wish you would,” you don’t look away from Quackity. Your voice is cold in the wake of Dream’s revelation, and when he looks back at you, Quackity looks... uncertain. A dangerous state to be in considering his opposition.

“You’re down to your last life, don’t fucking test me,” Quackity warned, but his heart’s not in it like before. As you approach him, he raises his weapon, but your confidence strides never falter, “Sam wouldn’t give a shit if I killed you, no-one would.” 

“You would,” you tell him snidely, finding yourself growing sick of the sound of his half-baked cruelty. 

“Are you just here to let what you love kill you?” He gives a mean, humourless smile. 

“Bold to assume I love you, Q.”

“Well, seeing as the only bastard you ever knew how to love was so eager to off himself, I figured I might be all you have left to get back to him,” there’s faint triumph in his eyes when he can see his malicious words touched a nerve, but he wasn’t playing your game right, and you were tired of not having fun.

“It’s not my fucking fault you look for a home in everyone who’s halfway nice to you,” something in you snaps, and your tone is cold and unwaivering, “don’t blame me for your fragile sense of self; you were so ready to believe anything I told you, but when I did what people fucking do - when I let you down - you had to go and let it shatter you,” you sneered.

“You being a shitty person is my fault?” He scoffed, and you stepped up to him, emboldened. You barely even feel his sword at your throat.

“Before breaking your cheap, little heart, I hadn’t been honest a day in my life; everyone had told you as much, you chose to ignore them; did you think you could fix me?” You gave a harsh laugh, stepping forward, crowding him into taking a step back, expression irate, trying to keep up his strong front, “Actually, I guess, wow, you did; since you, I haven’t told a lie,” and you gave him a derisive look, “because fucking you up wasn’t a challenge, making you fall in love with me wasn’t a challenge, getting you to the point where you’d die for me? Not a fucking challenge, Quackity. You offered me your life and it fucking bored me.

Talking to me makes you want to be a worse person? Good luck with that; you will always be better than you fear, better than you fucking hope or wish you were, because you couldn’t fucking stomach killing me once, you couldn’t fucking stomach being a truly terrible person.

You want my blood on your hands? Your hands were mine, and I couldn’t have given less of a shit, so no, if I have any say, you’re not gonna hurt Dream, because you’re hurting him to get the thing that’s going to bring back the person I actually fucking fell in love with. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time on you when he was out there.

I’m tired of trying to be amicable with you when you’re still - fucking still - picking up the pieces and trying to figure out who the fuck you are; God, I fucking hope you kill me, I hope it brings you peace, I hope it brings you clarity, but you better make sure it counts, you better make sure it fucking sticks!” 

----

"You do things that hurt you because you don't know what else to do, even if you don't enjoy them," Ranboo's voice is flat, and your expression twists to something derisive, though you attempt to regain your composure.

"Incredibly presumptuous of you," you respond, still alive, if burned.

----

"How many more?" Ghostbur's touch was light on your forearm, tracing the shiny, healed scar of where you'd thrown your hands up to protect your face as Quackity had shoved you into the lava waterfall that surrounded Dream's cell. It hadn’t killed you; he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and the lava curtain parted as the bridge approached the cell at Sam’s command. But it had still left it’s mark.

"What?" You surfaced from your thoughts as his cool hand stilled against the memory of the burn.

"How many more until you see him again?" He asks, and he doesn't look sad often, but he can't look you in the eyes. Then, gently, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing against the scar that stands out on your neck, a perfect circle, a perfect reminder of what you’d lost the second time you’d died.  

And you meet his gaze, can see the nerves hidden just behind his eyes - is this why you do this? Am I… not enough? What a dangerous thought, dangerous territories; how cruel you were to let him fall for you, even a little, even when both of you knew it was a terrible idea. 

Dream's voice was in your head - Ghostbur won't be around anymore - and you'd answered without flinching - but Wilbur will be alive. 

"One," your voice came out hoarse, "one life and I'll see him again." You can't look him in the eyes, even as he holds your face; he has no idea what to say to that. It's the truth, but not the one he realises. 

"You don't love me, right?" You asked, clearing your throat, moving carefully out of his reach.

"You shouldn't kill yourself for him," Ghostbur tells you with uncompromising sincerity instead of answering, "you're worth more than that."

"I need you to tell me that you don't have feelings for me, Ghostbur -"

"Seems like a very worrying thing to be asking given the circumstances," again he tries to deflect, but there's something close to guilt eating you up inside, and you stand, moving out of his space, Dream's voice in your head.

"Do you love me or not, Ghost of Wilbur Soot?" You demanded, and his expression turned hard, so unlike his usual self.

"I'm not him," he said carefully, but his gaze dropped; he couldn't look you in the eyes, "and I don't think it should matter either way, because you've made it abundantly clear that he's the one you want; I'm not going to say I don't and let you kill yourself."

"I promise I'm not going to fucking kill myself!"

Ghostbur went very quiet. 

“Any answer is dangerous, really, so it doesn’t matter either way,” he’s pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands, to fiddle with, trying to distract himself, “I love Friend,” his tone was aiming for something light-hearted, an attempt to change the topic, and it did it’s job well enough; your lips twisted into a grin.

“First a Salmon, then a Sheep, your tastes are -” but he looks at you, giving a strangely amused little smile.

“Questionable?” He finishes your sentence, and you find yourself less amused with the situation; he brings up a good point, including you all the same, though you’d been meaning to say bestial, but fuck, what does that make you? For a moment, you find yourself in crisis, wondering if you were technically in a polyamorous relationship with a ghost and an actual sheep. But you push it to the side -

“It’s selfish,” you hear his voice in your head, see him looking at you with wide, shiny eyes in the dim light of a pub, but you can’t help but repeat the words that had been said to you, “but I need to know for me -”

Ghostbur could say anything, and you see the realisation dawning on his face; he knows what you’re asking. He could be silent, he could brush you off, he could say anything else -

“It’s you,” just the way you’d said it to Wilbur, confirming what you feared; Ghostbur drops his gaze when he says those words to you, when he means to say I love you, how can you not see that?

Those two words hang in the air between you, like they always have. You should leave. You should go before you develop a conscience. But you can’t... there’s something familiar, something intoxicating about this moment, his loyalty; you’ve seen this before, you’ve craved this before. 

You step up to him, and as if on instinct, he rests his hands on your hips, leaning into your touch when you hold his cheek gently. 

“I love you,” your murmur, and his eyes fall closed, breathing deeply, “I love you.” It’s easy, it’s too easy, to fall back into this, to let him rest his forehead against yours, your arms around his neck, knowing in your heart that his loyalty, his love, was a means to an end; “I love you.”

He trusts your words, even now. 

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, pulling you close now, moving to press his lips to the crook of your neck. So you stay. Your time with him is limited, though only you know that, so you will enjoy it while you can.

----

"This was your plan," Tommy muttered, horrified, as the realisation dawned on him, "you're the one who pointed out that killing Dream in the prison didn't break any of the prison's rules," he whispered, before turning on you, eyes wide, Friend's leash still looped around his wrist, "you're the one who suggested using Ghostbur as a decoy, because no-one would suspect him."

"You set him up," Ranboo was horrified. One by one they were turning on you.

"You knew Ghostbur didn't- he didn't want to be revived!" Tubbo exclaimed, hurt and betrayed, "I thought - Y/N I thought you loved him, how could you -?!"

"Wilbur and Ghostbur are not the same person! How do you all keep forgetting that?!" You snarled in response, expression contorting to one of rage; that was enough to shock them into silence, taking a step back as they regarded you with a new kind of fear.

"We were happier with Wilbur gone, we liked Ghostbur and he liked us!" Tommy exclaimed, before his voice dropped to something soft and betrayed, hurt in his eyes, "Ghostbur didn't fucking deserve that; you're a terrible person," and your expression dropped to a smirk that didn't reach your eyes.

"I'm sorry about Ghostbur, I am, but the ends justifies the means; do you remember what I told you when L'Manburg was first forming? I told you I'm not on Dream's side, but I'm also not on yours," and you paused for a moment, before looking to the heavy remains of the button room, through which you knew Wilbur himself would finally be returning any moments now, "I'm on Wilbur's."

----

Then you see him, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck this is real and you owe Dream a life and Wilbur is alive. You're frozen in place. He's talking to Tommy, who sounds frankly horrified that Wilbur is back, but you're frozen. Heart beating in your throat, the sunrise that’s coming brings with it a warmth, though to you it feels closer to vindication. 

And there’s yelling and horror from the others who’ve accompanied you, but you can’t hear them, approaching slowly, with measured, even steps.

Then, his eyes meet yours and something in his expression softens. When he smiles at you, every terrible thing you did was worth it for this moment. Having the others there is too much. You don't want an audience, you don't want anyone there to judge you and your choices, the things you've done to get to this moment.

"This," Tommy turns on you, "this is what you bloody well wanted; now you're acting all shy? " His lip curled, and your expression turned flat and unamused.

“Don’t mistake respect for shyness,” you tell him bluntly, with a cool confidence that was unrecognisable to the blonde, who hadn’t known you well enough before he’d begun starting conflict to know the depths to which you could sink. But he was beginning to learn. 

“She’s part of the reason I’m here at all,” Wilbur reprehends him, while Tommy physically recoils at his tone, "Dream himself said as much." And then he's offering you his hand; nothing else matters.

"I can't be here," there's disgust in Tommy's voice, but its enough that the others leave, giving you and Wilbur peace. Finally.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," you tell him, taking his hand with a sharp smile, which he mirrors.

"Thirteen years I was stuck in that train station, and you're just as stunning as when I last saw you," he muses, and you reaches out to run your fingers gently through the unfamiliar white strands of his hair. His eyes study your face, your expression, drinking you in; you'd missed how dark his eyes could be, and when you look back at him, meet his gaze, you see a hunger there.

"Don't leave me," escapes you, but it comes out as a demand, insistent, “don’t ever fucking leave me again,” and you see him swallow hard, then slowly, he smiles.

"Never again," and he's kissing you desperately, mouth on yours with an intensity you relish. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you - you can taste it on his tongue, sticky sweet and somehow sharp and you dig your nails into him, maybe trying to keep him here, keep you both in this moment. When the kiss breaks and you're breathing hard, you don't let him go, though he doesn't either.

"You lied for me," he muttered, something akin to delight on his face, which shocked you enough that you stepped back, or at least tried to, though he held you tight, "no, not-" he tried to clarify, "I won't leave, I don't plan on it, but- I love you." Your heart is beating in your throat, still not quite sure what he means, "I've loved you for a long time," he added, and reaching out, he cupped your face in his hand, "I remember this," he murmured, "Ghostbur - you're scared I didn't love you because he couldn't remember, but I loved you so much, for so long, I just knew... knew what I was going to do. I knew I was going to leave you, I loved you but I was so doomed, so he couldn't remember."

When had your vision gone cloudy, when had tears started to sting your eyes.

"Don't cry, my love," Wilbur murmured, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours as your breath stuttered from your chest as he soothed the biggest fear that had been plaguing you for months.

"Were you worried that I didn't love you because of him?" He asked, like he enjoyed hearing you bare your soul. Of course he did. You remember kissing Ghostbur, his cold lips and soft apologies when you'd pulled away, and you wonder if Wilbur had those memories too.

"He's not you, no point trying to fret about your feelings based on his actions," you huff a watery laugh, finally letting go of him with one hand to wipe at your tears, “he didn’t understand me like you did, but he...” you swallowed hard, “I’m glad to have had him around in the interim.” Wilbur’s lips twist into an amused smile, and his gaze clouds over for the barest moment; you wonder if he can see your resolve cracking in Ghostbur’s memories, taking comfort in his when he’s the closest thing to Wilbur himself that you can find, the lies you’d told to keep him by your side in your moments of selfish desperation.

“I think he loved you, in his own way,” Wilbur said gently. However, as you made a vaguely guilty noise in the back of your throat, he continues thoughtfully, "though, you know, when Dream came to pick me up on that train, when Ghostbur took my place, Dream made sure we both knew, you know; she's the reason you're here, Ghostbur, he'd said, and said that makes you part of the reason that I'm coming back at all," he muses, strange quality to his voice that you couldn't quite place, though when your eyes were dry, you looked at him definitely, challengingly.

"He's not you," you reiterated, firmer this time, "I cared for him for what he was, but he's not the one I want; I love you." You said without hesitation, before you realise what you've said, and you go still, before taking his face in your hands, making sure he's looking you in the eyes, "I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, Wilbur; I love you, I fucking love you -" and he's endeared by your declaration as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face against the crook of his neck, whispering the words like you're hoping they'll find a place on his skin forever.

"I didn't tell you before and I'm never making that mistake again,” you admitted faintly; “it’s you.”

“Above all others, I choose you,” his smile is warm, and something bright lights up in your chest. Grinning, elated in this moment that you’d worked so hard to finally get to.

“You have my loyalty, my love.”

[chuuyasheaven]

“A slumber party? Seriously?”

Summary: You and Chuuya were holding a slumber party, what could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: fem!Chuuya, fem!Reader, mostly fluff, slight lime, slight making out, mentions of hickeys, few petnames, friends to lovers, drunk!Chuuya is basically flirty!Chuuya, lesbians, everything is consented!, lazy & typos, etc.

Pairing(s): fem!Chuuya / fem!Reader (romantically)

Format: short fic

Notes: first lesbian fic i wrote, enjoy!

It was your idea.

You wanted to hold a slumber party with her!

“Seriously? A slumber party?”, she asked, you just replied with a smile on your face.

“Why not? It’s a reward for all these missions we got through this week! Come on!”, Chuuya looked at your eyes, filled with everything she loves..how could she decline?

With a defeated look at her face, she gave in. ...

“Fine, just this once..”

———

You guys were just casually talking about stuff, having a few laughs here and there.

But you couldn’t stop looking at her nightgown, but her lips looked so kissable too!

Not that she wasn’t having such feelings too.

Chuuya felt happy in your presence, your tank top fitted you perfectly, your lips looked really soft!

She was getting nervous. ...

Maybe some wine would help her relax..

“Hey, do you have any alcohol here?”, Chuuya asked out of no where, you stared at her for a few seconds and then answered.

“Well, i don’t really know, let me go check!”, you got up and left.

Atleast Chuuya got a few minutes to calm herself down, right?

And to think she’ll sleep in the same bed as you..or should she rather sleep on the couch tonight?

Well, she would rather wanna sleep in the same bed as you, to be closer to your warmth. Maybe cuddle with you too, just as friends of course, right?

This was too confusing, Chuuya should confess to you at this point!

“Surprisingly, i found a bottle of wine..!”, you nervously laughed, setting it down on the table, with a glass, of course.

“Thanks, [-], r-really appreciate it..”, thank god, she couldn’t make a fool out of herself in front of you!

———

Now she was drunk, maybe too drunk to function..

“Woah, Chuuya, you shouldn’t drink too much! It’s already getting late..”, you mentioned worried.

“C-come on..don’t be such a boomer!..”, Chuuya slurred drunk, you just sighed.

Suddenly, you felt the sofa shift slightly.

Was Chuuya coming, sorry, crawling towards your way?

She kept moving until you could feel her wine-like breath in your face.

“Uh, Chuuya..what are you doing?..”, you could feel your heart beat get faster each second.

“Nothing special, darling...have i ever told that your eyes are so damn pretty..?”, excuse me, did Chuuya just call you..darling?

Just as you wanted to say something, she kept on talking..

“Y’know, you’re so fucking pretty..I’ll stay up at night thinking about you..i just wanna kiss you..”, you were truly shook.

Was she serious?

Did she, Chuuya Nakahara, just say that she wants to kiss you?

“A-are you sure? I-i mean you’re drunk anyway-”, she was really sure, serious infact, or else-

..she wouldn’t have kissed you by now.

This felt surreal, like a dream..a dream too good to be true.

Her soft lips kissed yours so ever lovely, filled with love. Love, the love she had kept hidden from you for something which felt like an entirety.

You felt butterflies inside your stomach, you didn’t pull away, you just let her.

Your cheeks were getting hotter each second, Chuuya still didn’t part from this kiss, hell, this kiss was more addictive than wine.

Finally, after the air was running thin, you parted.

“...How did that feel, love?”, Chuuya asked with a small smirk on her face.

Still breathless, you just went back to her lips.

(i mean who wouldn’t)

Chuuya found her lips wandering to your neck after a little while, trying to cover it in hickeys.

You enjoyed it nonetheless, it was truly heavenly.

But soon you were desperate for her lips again.

Oh well, that might be a crazy sleepover..

———

As the sun hit your face, you got up to see Chuuya sleep next to you, in the same bed of you!

Does matter though? ...

No it didn’t, really, because you guys were girlfriends now. (Literally)

Still, you need to find a way to hide these hickeys though..

Came out longer than I intended to..