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lilacmingi · 2 months ago

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CRUELLA DE VIL (DISNEY VILLAINS AU)

My works are 14+ ONLY. If you’re under 14 DO NOT interact with me or any of my works. NO SPAM-LIKING PLEASE

Pairing: Cruella!San x boutique owner!fem reader (ft business partner!Hongjoong)

Word count: 6,745

Note: Okay this one might be my fave out of the whole series!! So many people loved it on Wattpad and I personally am really proud of this one to this day!!

The new window display looked incredible. You had stayed after closing the previous night to put it up in hopes that it would attract some new customers. Not just that, but you wanted to show off the jacket you worked so hard to reform.

You went in to make a few minor adjustments before opening for the day. As you were straightening up the outfit on the mannequin, your coworker and business partner, Hongjoong, walked in adjusting his beret.

Today's ensemble consisted of a white t-shirt with safety pins all over it, thick, black suspenders clipped onto a pair of black pants with a partial red, plaid pleated skirt attached to it—he's always dressing in the most wonderfully unique outfits.

"Morning." You greeted, stepping out of the window display. "You're looking fashionable, as usual."

"Thank you." He grinned, doing a little spin so you could see a full 360 view of the outfit. "I'm experimenting with something different."

"You mean the skirt attached to the pants?"

"Yeah. I think it looks cool, don't you?"

"Yes! I love it. We might be able to sell something like that, hm?" You grinned, raising a brow.

"If the people want it, I'll be more than happy to make more." He said. "Oh, here's your coffee, by the way."

"Ah." You placed your hand on your chest. "You're a doll. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He nodded, heading to the back.

Seconds later, music started playing through the speakers in the store, your lips curling into a pleased smile.

You and Hongjoong shared a similar music taste and you'd both curated the perfect playlist for the store. It's a mix of alternative rock, indie, and a touch of classic rock and indie pop—which was fit for your motley boutique.

The two of you had been friends since college. You both majored in business and shared a love for reforming clothes. It wasn't long until you started making plans for a business. You made a deal to go in together, save the money, and start up your own boutique, and as of one year ago, you did. It was a brilliant idea that blossomed into what it is today.

Yours and Hongjoong's business is located

in one of the fashion capitals of the world—London. You both specialize in thrifting and reforming. The two of you check out local thrift shops and buy pieces to cut up and put back together to make something unique. You can't find clothes like yours and Hongjoong's anywhere else.

"So, I stopped at a couple secondhand shops on my way here. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course I don't. What did you find? Anything good?"

"Well, I found this scarf." He spoke, pulling the accessory from a shopping bag. "The print is unique. I thought maybe we could cut up uneven chunks of the fabric and sew them on a jacket or something."

"Ooh." You nodded, envisioning the piece. "I like that. What else?"

"These dainty little chains and these boots."

"Let me guess. Attach the chains to the boots to make them edgy?" You guessed.

"Yes! This is why we're business partners." He grinned. "I'm gonna go put this stuff in the back with the other pieces."

You hummed in acknowledgement and took a sip of coffee, the sweet taste coating your tastebuds, a slightly bitter aftertaste following.

"Please help get me through the day." You spoke to the beverage as you plopped down behind the register.

Hongjoong emerged from the back room, smoothing out his shirt.

"That window display looks nice."

"Thank you. I did stay late last night to get it set up." You grinned, proudly. "I hope it attracts some new customers."

"It will. It looks fantastic. No other storefronts look like ours." Hongjoong assured you, his eyes trailing off to the dog bed behind the counter, your pet Dalmatian curled up asleep inside.

"I didn't even know Valentino was here." He commented.

"Yeah. He's tired today. He's been sleeping ever since I got here."

"Hey. If that window display doesn't attract new customers, Valentino will."

"Yeah, he's a favorite among our usual customers."

"Speaking of customers." Hongjoong pointed towards the front entrance.

Someone was standing outside in front of the display window, you couldn't see them too well from where you were sitting, though.

"I'm gonna go work on those boots. Just call me if you need me."

"Sure." You nodded, watching Hongjoong disappear behind the beaded curtain separating the front of the store from the back.

You stayed sitting behind the register, assuming the person outside was just perusing and most likely wouldn't come inside.

Just then, the door to the boutique opened, catching your attention. You turned your head and watched as a man with unique half black and half white hair strode into the store. He wore pinstripe pants and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, a tight corset cinched around his waist. On top of the entire ensemble was a cream-colored fur coat draped over his shoulders. His entire appearance practically screamed high fashion and you were left speechless as you stared at this incredibly well-dressed man.

"What's that in the display window?" He asked, pointing with his cane.

"A jacket."

"I know what it is. I'm not stupid. I want to know who made it."

"I did." You answered.

"It's wonderful."

"Thank you." You were surprised to hear this man's praise. "Would you like to see it up close?"

"What kind of question is that?"

You stepped onto the platform in the display window and removed the jacket, bringing it to your new and eccentric customer.

He held it up, examining it, running his gloved fingers over the embellishments on it.

When you first got a hold of it, it was a measly little leather jacket with a couple holes in it, but now it looked like something completely new. You put a couple patches printed to look like newspapers on the jacket to cover the holes and added hundreds of studs and chains to it. To top it off, the word rebel was hand-painted on the back in sharp, white letters.

"I'll take it." The customer finally spoke.

"That's wonderful. Let me ring you up."

He followed you to the register where he paid for the jacket.

At this point, Valentino had gotten out of his bed and wandered around the counter.

"What a cute dog." He commented.

"Thank you. His name is Valentino."

"Like the fashion designer."

"The very same."

"Hm." The man gave a hum of what seemed like approval.

"You know, I just put that jacket out last night. You're the first one to show interest in it."

"What can I say? I have an eye for fashion." He grinned.

"I'd say you do. Your outfit is incredible."

"Oh, this?" He questioned as if it were nothing. "I just threw this together."

Your brows raised at his nonchalance.

"Well, darling, thank you for the jacket." He gave you a wink, retrieving the clothing from the counter. "Perhaps I'll see you around."

You blinked a few times as you watched him stride away, your cheeks feeling slightly warm at the nickname darling.

"Wait." You called out.

The man turned to glance over his shoulder.

"What's your name?"

"San. Don't wear it out, dear."

Just then, Hongjoong emerged from the back seeing San leave the store. The door closed and Hongjoong turned to look at you in your flustered state.

"Who was that?"

"San."

"San who?"

"I don't know, but he was beautiful."

Hongjoong let out a snort. "You're drooling."

You brought your hand up to your mouth, not feeling a thing.

"Am not."

"You were about to."

You rolled your eyes, choosing not to argue back.

A few days passed and all you could think about was the fashionable San. He was only in your store for about five minutes, but he made quite an impression on you, capturing your attention as soon as he stepped into your establishment.

A customer had just purchased a pair of pants with a partial skirt attached to it. Hongjoong only made one tester pair just to see if anyone would buy it.

"Looks like you need to make more of those pants." You commented.

"Looks like I do." Hongjoong smiled.

Your eyes widened as you saw San walking past the storefront, his eyes landing on the new display you set up.

"Oh my gosh." You stood from your seat behind the register.

"What?"

"There he is!" You whispered, pointing to the window.

"That San guy from a few days ago?" Hongjoong asked.

"Yes."

"He came back? That must mean he loved what he bought."

Your cheeks became warm thinking about San loving the jacket so much that he came back.

The door opened and in walked the highly fashionable man from the other day. Today he wore a black and white striped shirt with a long, black trench coat over the top. The pants he wore were the same color as his jacket and were cropped above his ankles, showing off his shiny dress shoes with pointed, metallic-capped tips.

"Hello." Hongjoong greeted as he approached San.

"Hello." San responded as he passed Hongjoong, walking straight to you. "Y/n, my dear."

He took your hand, giving a kiss to the back of it. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"Yeah. It's a surprise to see you." You managed to say.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he let go of your hand. "You're surprised I came back?"

"Well, yes."

"I wanted to see what else you've got. Hopefully it's as good as that jacket."

"Ah, well, feel free to look around." You gestured to the endless racks of clothes. "We have plenty more items like that."

San turned towards all the clothes and began perusing the store.

You watched as he strode around, his fingers running over the fabric of the clothes hanging up. Every so often, he would pull a piece of clothing off the rack, examining the garment and rubbing the fabric between his fingers. If he found something he liked, he would take it off the rack and toss it over his arm.

"I must admit, I'm impressed." San spoke up.

"Thank you. I can't take all the credit, though. Hongjoong designs a lot of these pieces as well." You spoke up.

"You're both incredibly talented." San praised. "What about this?" He retrieved a pair of pants from the rack.

You remember the trousers well, Hongjoong designed them. He took two different pairs of pants and cut them in half, one black pair, the other red plaid. He sewed them together and clipped a wallet chain onto the belt loops.

"I made those." Hongjoong spoke up.

"Incredible." San murmured. "I'll take these. I have just the right top to pair with them."

Hongjoong offered to ring up the items San had collected while you made yourself busy rearranging a jewelry display.

Once San had paid for his items, he headed towards the door, briefly coming to a stop beside you.

"Keep doing what you're doing, love. There aren't many people who possess the talent you and your business partner have."

"Thank you." You told him.

"Don't mention it." He waved his hand dismissively as he headed towards the door. "Au revoir." (goodbye in French)

Again, you were left speechless and absolutely awestruck.

"He's amazing."

San continued to stop by the boutique over the next couple weeks, always looking for new finds and wanting to know the latest piece of clothing that had been reformed. He even showed interest in Hongjoong's pants with the half skirt attached to it and requested a custom pair of his own. He was practically a regular customer at this point.

Each time he popped into the store, he wore yet another incredible outfit that left you mind blown. He was the most fashionable person you had met—besides Hongjoong, of course.

"You know San?" You asked.

"The one you always ogle at?" Hongjoong asked.

"I do not—" He gave you a look, making you stop mid-sentence. "Yes. That one."

"What about him?"

"Do you think he lives around here?"

"I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"We should hire him."

"What?"

"His style is incredible. We could use someone like him on our staff."

"Hm." Hongjoong hummed. "It's not a bad idea."

The mail slot in the front door opens as today's newspaper falls to the floor. Your dog, Valentino got up to retrieve it, carrying it over to you.

"Ah, the paper. Thank you, Valentino." You thanked your Dalmatian, taking the newspaper from him.

You unrolled the paper, pausing when you saw a photo of a familiar-looking man printed on the front page.

Plastered on the front page of the newspaper was a photo of San, and he was wearing your jacket. The cover read: RENOWNED SOUTH KOREAN FASHION DESIGNER CHOI SAN AT LONDON'S FASHION WEEK.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Hongjoong?" You called out.

Your partner came hurrying over.

"What's wrong? What is it?"

"Look." You showed him the front page.

Hongjoong's eyes widened, his mouth hanging open.

"He's a fashion designer?" He exclaimed in disbelief.

"Apparently so. A renowned fashion designer too."

"I can't believe this. Do you know what that means?" Hongjoong asked.

"We had a popular fashion designer stop by our shop!"

"Exactly! Do you think he told his famous fashion designer friends about us?" He inquired excitedly.

"I don't know. Let's read the article."

South Korean fashion designer Choi San has graced London with his presence, traveling to the bustling city for London Fashion Week. He's been seen around the city wearing some eye-catching outfits that have people talking.

Choi San is known for his uniquely original and out-of-the-box designs. Fans and designers alike are all anticipating what he has in store.

"Wow." You gaped. "I'm speechless."

"Do you think those eye-catching outfits consisted of anything he bought from this store?" Inquired Hongjoong.

"I sure hope so."

You were dying for San to return to the boutique. You wanted so badly to talk to him about the new information you found out.

It was a couple days before he returned.

Those were the longest two days of your life.

One overcast day, he came striding into the boutique, graceful and elegant as ever.

"Hello." He greeted before perusing the items, acting as if he wasn't hiding a huge secret.

"You're a renowned fashion designer?!" You shrieked.

"Of course, doll." He responded, casually as his fingertips trailed over a pair of handmade earrings on display.

"And you didn't say anything?"

"You didn't know?" He asked, raising a brow.

"No. I saw you in the paper the other day."

"Well, I don't fault you for that. I'm fairly new in the fashion scene. A virtuoso, they call me. Can you believe that?" He chuckled. "It's rather flattering."

"I can't believe a famous fashion designer has been visiting our little boutique. I had no idea."

"Don't let it get to you, dear." He chuckled. "My status shouldn't change the relationship between us."

"R-relationship?" You blushed.

"Yes?" He said it like a question. "We're friends, are we not?"

"Yes! Friends. Of course. Yeah." You chuckled nervously.

That was awkward.

Hongjoong emerged from the back room with a newly reformed piece of clothing, a measuring tape draped around his neck.

"Ah! Just the man I wanted to see." He smiled. "What do you think?"

Hongjoong held up a black coat that had been completely redone. It was embellished with silver swirls and had epaulettes added onto the shoulders.

"Wow." San gaped. "I love everything about it. How much?"

Hongjoong gave him the price he was considering for the garment and San immediately bought it.

"I'll probably stop by within the next few days." He told the both of you.

"That's fine. You're welcome any time. Even if we're closed." Hongjoong smiled.

"Good to know." San tossed his shopping bag over his shoulder. "Until next time." He waved, striding out of the shop.

San returned to your store just a few days later, a large bag tossed over his shoulder.

He strode into the boutique, dropping the sack onto the floor. You furrowed your brows at him.

"Well, don't just stand there. Have a look." He gestured.

You opened the bag and began digging through it, gasping as you pulled out multiple pieces of designer clothes.

"What are you doing? This is thousands of dollars worth of your clothing."

"Right. I want you to tear it up."

"I'm sorry?"

"What you do here. Thrifting clothes. Tearing them apart and putting them back together. I'm having a show, that's why I'm here in London. I'd like to do a small showcase during my show."

"So you're talking about a collaboration? Your clothes, our style?" You questioned.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, love."

"We would love to."

"I'd like to watch you work if you don't mind. I can assist you, of course. I would just need a station with a sewing machine."

"Don't worry. We have an extra in the back." Hongjoong chimed in. "We can definitely work something out."

"Fabulous." San grinned. "Let's get to work, shall we?"

Later that evening when the store closed, the three of you gathered in the back room where all of the sorting and reassembling took place. You and Hongjoong would examine each piece San brought in, making plans and sketches, discussing how you would upcycle it. With each piece came a story from San about how he came up with the idea for the garment. You enjoyed hearing him talk about his thought process, hanging on to every word. You took it as an opportunity to learn a bit from the fashion genius.

After examining each piece of clothing, the three of you got to work. You and Hongjoong would cut up clothes while San laid them out on a table and pieced them together, following the sketches the two of you provided. Naturally, you and your business partner had music playing to help keep everyone motivated. Though, sometimes you'd get distracted, prancing around the room and dancing.

Unbeknownst to you, San was watching and admiring you as you goofed off. To see you so carefree while doing what you love made his heart swell.

A couple hours passed and the three of you had gotten a considerable amount of work done. You cut up about half of the clothes San brought to you and laid them out with pieces of other garments of San's that you'd planned to turn into one piece.

Once you had a few pieces laid out, you and San began to sew them together while Hongjoong continued to disassemble any remaining garments in the bag.

At some point, Hongjoong let out a huff, stretching his back.

"I could use something to eat. Is anyone else hungry?"

"Starving." You responded.

Hongjoong glanced at his watch.

"It's only 7:00 PM. I can go and pick something up."

"Sounds good. San and I can stay here and keep working."

"Perfect. What's everyone in the mood for?"

You and San shared a look before you spoke up.

"Pizza?"

You then looked to San for approval, worried that he would turn the idea down and suggest some lavish meal.

"It's a classic. You can't go wrong with pizza." He responded.

"Great." Hongjoong clasped his hands together. "I'll be back soon."

Your partner left the room, the sound of the front entrance closing behind him following shortly after. You paid no mind to it as you worked, sewing the lower half of a red plaid shirt onto the bottom of a cropped, leather jacket.

"So, Y/n, how long have you been into fashion?" San inquired.

"Since I was a kid. I'd get into my parents' closet and take their clothes." You chuckled. "I remember one time I took my dad's suit jacket and tied one of my mom's scarves around the waist. Then, I got a hold of her red heels and put them on. The outfit was horrendous and I was far too little for any of the clothes, but it was so much fun."

A soft smile made its way onto San's face as he pictured a tiny you prancing around in a large jacket and heels.

"I used to draw pictures of outfits too. Most of the drawings were of dresses. I'm talking pages upon pages."

"Did you ever create any of those drawings?"

"Goodness no." You chuckled. "When I got older and learned how to use a sewing machine, my taste had changed quite a bit."

San listened to you talk about how your love for fashion progressed as well as how you and Hongjoong met and started your business together.

"That's quite a story."

"Yeah, it is." You hummed. "Not everyone is lucky enough to have their plans work out like mine and Hongjoong's."

"I'd say you're both very lucky."

Valentino, who had been napping walked up to you, resting his head in your lap. You stopped what you were doing to give him a few soft pets accompanied by ear scratches. His tail wagged happily in response. When you stopped, he lifted his paw, placing it on the side of your thigh as a way to tell you to keep going.

"Alright." You chuckled. "But only for a little while. Mama's got work to do."

San watched you with adoration, his heart thumping heavily in his chest.

"How did you get Valentino?" He asked.

"I actually found him roaming the streets. I was headed here when I spotted him. I felt so bad. He was only a little guy at the time. I brought him into the store and gave him part of the sandwich I packed for lunch. Hongjoong was surprised to see me come in with a dog, but he didn't mind. I decided that day that I would keep him." You gave the Dalmatian a fond look as you stroked his ears. "While I was working, he wandered in the back room. I later found him sleeping on a Valentino shirt Hongjoong thrifted. That's how I decided to name him."

"He's lucky to have you." San smiled.

"I think I'm the lucky one."

It wasn't long before Hongjoong returned with a couple pizzas and some drinks. The three of you took a twenty minute break to eat and rest before getting back to work. When midnight rolled around, you decided to call it a night. The three of you agreeing to close up shop and head home, promising to pick up again the next day.

You continued to meet up for a week, working tirelessly on the clothes. San and Hongjoong stayed in the back room sewing while you worked the store. When you weren't running the boutique, you were in the back helping San, switching out with Hongjoong.

It took two weeks for every piece to be completed. Once finished, each item of clothing was placed on a hanger and put in a garment bag, provided by San, then put inside a van.

"Thank you so much, darling." San beamed, flashing a bright smile accompanied by the most charming dimples. "The two of you have done marvelous work."

"It was an honor." You told him.

"It really was. To work with someone like you has been such an awesome experience." Hongjoong agreed.

"It's been wonderful working with the both of you." San approached Hongjoong, giving him a brief cheek-to-cheek air kiss.

He then moved over, doing the same to you, except he actually kissed your cheeks.

"I'll see you around." He smirked, giving you a wink before hopping into the van and driving off.

You stood with your mouth open, your cheeks burning from San's sudden kisses.

"He just..." You trailed off, your hands cupping your burning cheeks.

Hongjoong stood off to the side, unable to hold back giggles as he watched you in your flustered state, having witnessed the exchange.

"Y/n! The paper's here!" Hongjoong called. "And San is on the cover again!"

You rushed out of the back room, excitedly.

"Let's see what it says."

Hongjoong laid the paper out on the counter so the both of you could read it. The front page was plastered with photos of San wearing clothes that he bought from the boutique. Your eyes traveled from the photos to the article as you began to read it.

Choi San is set to have a fashion show this weekend where he will showcase his most recent designs. The fashion genius has been spotted walking the streets of London wearing an incredible ensemble from his new fashion line. Critics have been raving over the pieces he's been seen wearing around the city. When asked for any clues about his upcoming line, this was his response.

"Well, I can't reveal much about my designs, but the theme for the show will be 'The Next Generation of Fashion'. So stay tuned, darlings." The designer said.

"What?" You frowned. "His designs?"

"That can't be right." Hongjoong murmured.

His eyes scanned over the article, a frown on his face.

"He didn't say that, did he?"

"It says it right there, plain as day." You pointed. "I can't reveal much about my designs. Not only that, but it says he's been wearing his designs around the city. The clothes he's wearing in the photos is our stuff from the shop."

Hongjoong shook his head in response, unable to believe that San would do that.

"I have to talk with him." You murmured.

"It looks like you'll get your chance."

The door swung open and in walked Choi San, happy as ever.

"Hello, loves." He greeted, striding towards the register.

Hongjoong, who knew what was going to happen, quickly made himself scarce.

Your jaw clenched as he approached you with an arrogant grin that you wanted so badly to slap off his face. You snatched up the newspaper and slammed it onto the counter.

"Care to explain?"

The designer's brows furrowed as he looked down at the front page. "I don't understand."

"The article, San. You totally took credit for mine and Hongjoong's work."

"No, I didn't."

"It says so right here." You pointed.

He leaned down to get a better look at the paper.

"I can't believe I thought you wanted to work with me." You scoffed, shaking your head. "Just go."

San merely turned around and left the boutique without another word.

A huff left you as you spun around, storming into the back room.

"What happened?" Hongjoong inquired.

"I told him to leave."

"He didn't say anything?"

"No."

Valentino trotted in a few moments later with an envelope in his mouth.

"What's that?" Asked Hongjoong.

"I don't know. He already got the mail."

You took the lavish, cream-colored envelope from him, opening it up.

Inside was a card with two tickets to the fashion show. The card had a short note written in neat handwriting:

You've worked hard. Enjoy the show.

- San

"It's tickets to San's fashion show." You scoffed.

"He sent us tickets?" Hongjoong rushed over, peering over your shoulder.

"I guess that's what he came here to do." You assumed.

"Y/n, you need to go." He told you.

"What? No. There's no way. Not after what he did to us."

"I know you're upset that he used us, but I want to go to the show, you should too. The least we can do is show up and see our designs on the runway."

To your disappointment, he had a point. It would be nice to be able to see the clothes you and Hongjoong worked so hard to create.

You walked into the event, loud music blaring throughout the large room. You felt like your whole body was trembling. You didn't want to be there.

"You look great." Hongjoong assured you.

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"It'll be fine, Y/n. Despite what he did, I think he wanted us to be here."

"I can't understand why."

The two of you made your way to a row of seats. Hongjoong stopped suddenly, nudging you.

"Look." He pointed to the first row of seats, each one with a card on them. There were two chairs beside each other, one had a card with Hongjoong's name on it, the other with yours. You were a bit surprised to see that you had reserved seats, especially after what happened just a few days prior.

"C'mon." Hongjoong beckoned you over to your chairs.

After sitting down, you held the name card in your hand, flipping it back and forth. On the cardstock was your name printed in beautiful gold letters, a decorative box framing the print.

The show began shortly after, rock music playing through the speakers in the building as the lights started to dim. A silence settled over the room as everyone focused on the bright catwalk. A voice came over the speakers, kicking off the show.

"Welcome to the next generation of fashion."

Models began striding down the runway, each one donning an outfit you had never seen. You knew immediately that these were San's designs. Though you want very happy with him at the moment you had to admit, his designs were impeccable—they were nothing like you'd ever seen before. It was hard not to be impressed by his incredible work. He truly was a virtuoso.

Halfway through the show, that same voice came over the speakers once again.

"And now, for a special showcase."

Your eyes widened in awe as you watched the models strut down the catwalk wearing designs that you and Hongjoong created. It was like a dream come true. You just wished the circumstances were better. Though your situation wasn't the greatest, you didn't let that put a damper on your excitement.

The both of you watched with awestruck expressions as the models sashayed down the runway, showing off the upcycled pieces of San's previous fashion lines. The models looked incredible, as did their hair and makeup. Every single one had a different look and managed to match the vibe of each ensemble.

"Wow." You gaped.

"Yeah." Hongjoong nodded, his wide eyes staring unblinking at the models.

The last few models made their way off stage, signaling the end of the showcase. You knew what would happen next.

Your chest tightened when San walked up on stage. The crowd clapped and cheered as he made his way to the front of the catwalk.

His black and white hair was pushed away from his face in a messy, yet tidy way that perfectly suited him. His ensemble consisted of a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned halfway, showing off a silver body chain. The shirt was tucked into a pair of black, high-waisted trousers with two rows of buttons on the front and a chain dangling from the waist. He had on a large, spotted fur coat that resembled a Dalmatian, and bold, red gloves with many silver rings on top. The coat was long and swayed behind him as he stepped forward.

"Good evening, everyone." He greeted, scanning the crowd.

You unconsciously pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, afraid of being noticed.

"I hope you all enjoyed the show. First of all, I want to thank every single one of you for coming tonight. I appreciate your support dearly."

The crowd clapped in response.

"The showcase you all just watched was extra special. You might have noticed some familiar elements in each outfit, those elements being my old designs. Each one has gotten a new life, being turned into something different." He explained.

There were a few oohs from the crowd.

"I can't take all the credit for the end result you all saw moments ago. Yes, these may be my clothes, but they were truly brought to life by the amazing people who run a small boutique in town and I have to give all the credit to them. I was only a small part of this." He admitted. "Contrary to what the papers have been saying, all the fashion I've been wearing during my time here has been created by them. The pieces I wore were purchased at their boutique, it was not me giving anyone a sneak peek at what would be showcased tonight. You should all know, I hate giving spoilers."

Your lips pressed together as you felt shame and embarrassment flood your entire body.

"Now, I would like to introduce you all to the two incredibly talented fashionistas who re-created the stunning looks you just saw. Hongjoong and Y/n, will you come up here?" San turned right towards the both of you, your cheeks being set aflame.

Hongjoong nudged you as he stood up, heading onto the catwalk with you nervously following behind.

"Everyone please give these two a rousing applause!"

The whole room erupted in claps and cheers for you and Hongjoong. You were overwhelmed. You got to see your designs displayed on the runway and you were receiving a literal standing ovation from a room full of fashion designers and other luminaries. To top it all off, San was being genuine the entire time. Of course, you totally made a fool out of yourself and snapped at him without bothering to hear him out, and for that you needed to apologize.

San thanked everyone and gave a shoutout to yours and Hongjoong's boutique before closing out the show.

"There's going to be an after party in the next room, so please feel free to stay and hang out."

And with that, the show was over and the after party began. Everyone started getting up from their seats, making their way to the next room as you, San, and Hongjoong exited the catwalk, going backstage.

"Thank you, San. The showcase was incredible." Hongjoong told him.

"I should be thanking you. Tonight was a success and that's because of you two."

You smiled a little, guilt weighing on your heart.

"Well, I believe you two need some time alone, so I'm going to the after party. I'll see you later." Hongjoong quickly excused himself, allowing you and San some privacy.

"San, I'm so terribly sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I was really hateful to you that day." You apologized immediately.

"It's alright." He shook his head with a soft smile. "Don't worry yourself."

"I didn't know the tabloids messed up"

"Well, they did. I read the paper when I got home that day and found that they misquoted me. I never said my designs. I said the designs. They also jumped to conclusions big time and assumed the pieces from your store were my designs. I'd say I can't believe they did that, but honestly, that's how they are." He rolled his eyes. "Magazines, newspapers, websites. They're practically known for mincing people's words. How embarrassing."

"My apology still stands. I should have let you explain."

"I told you not to worry." San brought a gloved finger up under your chin, lifting your face to look at him. "You don't have to apologize."

"Alright." You sighed.

He dropped his hand, giving you a warm smile.

"So, what did you think about the show? Honestly."

"It was incredible. I was blown away by your designs and the ones Hongjoong and I worked on looked great too. It was honestly a dream come true. And that was nice of you to give our shop a shoutout at the end."

"You both deserve it." He smiled softly.

"Your outfit tonight is incredible. I especially love the coat."

"Thank you, doll. It's a tribute."

"A tribute?"

"To you. It reminded me of your dear Valentino so I wanted to wear it tonight."

You didn't hold back the flattered grin that spread across your features.

He did that for you?

"Now, let's talk about this ensemble you have on. You look absolutely divine." He told you.

Your eyes widened. "You think so?"

"I know so. Let me have a look at this." He glanced at your outfit, stepping back and allowing you to show him the full look.

You chose a flattering, yet chic ensemble; a bit edgy like what you and Hongjoong reform, but classy enough for a fashion show.

"Oh my." San gasped. "My dear Y/n, you are absolutely stunning."

You tried to stay cool, but San's compliments were getting to you, making your whole body feel like it was going to collapse.

"Love, can I tell you something?" He suddenly asked, his hand reaching for yours.

You allowed him to take it as he pulled you closer.

"Yes. Of course."

"You've captivated me, my dear Y/n. I treasure that night we shared in the back room of your shop. I enjoyed learning more about you and your love for fashion."

That brought a smile to your face.

"I enjoyed that night too, and every night after that when we worked on clothes."

"I'm glad the feeling is mutual." He smiled, his thumb running over the top of your hand.

You could tell there was something he wasn't saying or something he wanted to say, rather.

"We made a great team. Perhaps we should make this duo permanent."

"What are you trying to say?" You inquired.

"I'm saying, I want you to be my girlfriend."

You tried to hold back your smile as you looked at him.

"What if I don't feel the same?" You asked.

"Darling, I know when people are staring at me."

"What?"

"I saw you gawking at me all those times I came into your boutique."

"Oh." You became flustered. "So you noticed."

"Don't be embarrassed, darling. I quite liked it. Attention from the public is nice, but attention from you is even better."

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, your heart racing.

"So, what do you say? You want to make this official?"

"Yes, please."

San was unable to contain himself as a glowing grin spread across his face, his dimples making an appearance. His hand let go of yours, moving to rest against your waist, tugging your body closer. You knew what he was getting around to and you were more than okay with it. His gloved hand cupped your cheek as his sharp, half-lidded eyes darkened slightly, his face inching closer to yours.

"Just kiss me already." You urged, desperate to feel his lips.

"What's the magic word?" He whispered.

Unable to wait any longer, you grabbed the body chain that hung over his chest, using it to pull him to you, your lips crashing against his. The unexpected action caught San off guard, but he didn't mind. In fact, he thought that was very attractive.

His hand immediately moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer so he could deepen the kiss.

"A girl who knows what she wants. I like that." He smirked against your mouth before capturing your lips fully with his own. You clung to him desperately, your hands clenching the fabric of his shirt as your head tilted slightly, wanting to feel closer to San.

A hum of satisfaction from San vibrated against your lips, sending a rush of butterflies through your stomach. His hand that was resting on your waist made its way to the small of your back, holding you firmly against him.

As much as you hated to, you pulled away in need of air. San stared down at you with flushed cheeks and swollen lips, his eyes droopy. His hair had become slightly out of place, a few extra strands hanging over his forehead. You casually brought your hand up to his uniquely-colored hair, gently running your hand over it, careful not to mess it up.

"I've always been fascinated with your hair." You admitted.

"Really?"

You hummed with a nod.

"I used to color it when I was a kid. I felt that I stood out too much."

"You know, sometimes standing out is a good thing."

He smiled, cupping your cheek. "That's exactly right, my dear."

The designer placed one last kiss to your lips before escorting you back out to the main room.

"Now, what do you say we go to that after party?"

"Sounds good." You nodded.

Hongjoong: Hades ⟡ Seonghwa: Maleficent ⟡ Yunho: Captain Hook ⟡ Yeosang: Evil Queen ⟡ Mingi: Dr. Facilier ⟡ Wooyoung: Hyena ⟡ Jongho: Gaston

Masterlist ᝰ — enjoyed this imagine? reblogs & comments are very much appreciated!

DO NOT steal, plagiarize, copy, repost, alter, or translate my works in any way

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#san x reader #choi san x reader #san x you #choi san x you #san x y/n #choi san x y/n #choi san imagines #san imagines #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez oneshot #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop oneshots #ateez disney villains au

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glassartpeasants · 4 months ago

Text

How To Love .04

Trafalgar Law x F!Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, vandalism, awkward ex encoutners

A/N: here, eat up

music playlist

~~~

“Finally! The rush is over.” After what felt like hours, there were no customers or online orders to be fulfilled. Finally, your heart rate could go back to normal.

Picking up some water, you chug it down. “Thirsty much?”

“Piss off, Killer, you’ve been taking orders, and I’ve been running to make them!” You pant as you try to drink more water.

“So rude.” Killer laughs before going to restock things. “I saw you finally got a car.”

“Yeah! I finally got my driver's license after waiting for my appointment to come up. Law was super happy for me when I told him.”

“How are things with you and Law?”

“You're never gonna believe this! So yesterday, we almost kissed, but I got cockblocked by the delivery guy!” A sudden cackle fills your ears, making you turn to see Killer holding his chest.

“Oh, so the only time you laugh is at my misery?” Killer continues to laugh as he grips the counter. “Stop laughing, damnit!”

“Six months of waiting only to be cockblocked is the best thing I’ve heard all week.”

“Hey! I was healing from a breakup, you ass! I wasn’t gonna go out and kiss the next man I saw.” You huff while throwing a paper cup at him. “You're lucky we're in public, or I swear!” Leaning against the counter, you can’t help but let your mind wander back to yesterday.

The rain beat against the windows as the movie played to drown it out. Fighting and the dialogue of the villains ring in your ears. Both you and Law were waiting impatiently for your food to arrive.

“God, I’m so hungry. How long does it take for some grub to get here?” You complain.

“Calm down, it’s 3 pm. The rush is right now.” Law says as he can’t help but chuckle. “Plus, if we had just gone to get it ourselves-”

“But that would require changing, and I’m perfectly content on not doing that right now.” Shifting around, you get slightly closer to Law. “Also, I'm warm and toasty right here.” Law smiles as he looks down at you. Feeling his gaze, you look up and softly smile as your eyes land on his lips and yours.

“Law...” You whisper before moving just a bit closer, as does Law. His breath fanned against your lips, making your heart beat faster.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

The two of you quickly part faces, burning at the ruined moment.

“I’ll go, um, get it.” Law stumbles as he gets up to get the door.

“Yeah, sounds good.” Laughing nervously, you look away. As soon as Law was out of sight and earshot, you hit the couch cushion and whisper yelled a soft “Fuck!”

Letting out a huff, you push yourself off the counter. Last night's memories flood your senses as you feel your body heating at what could’ve happened if the delivery man had been only five more minutes late.

DING DING DING

“(Y/N) can you get that? I’m in storage at the moment!”

“Sure!” Turning around and running to the counter, you shake away the memories. “Hello, how can I-”

“Ah. I…didn’t know you were working today.” Your brain fried as you see your ex standing in front of you, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah.” The awkward tension felt suffocating as you tried to find the words to say. It’s been almost six months since you’ve seen Eustass, and he still looked the same as the day it all went down.

“Do you still get the same drink?”

“I was gonna get that expresso shit you guys do. Didn’t sleep much last night.” You raise your eyebrow.

“I thought you hated expresso?”

“I do. I’m just working a twelve at the shop, and I don’t want to be sleepy.”

“Well, why don't you get a cold brew? And I thought you guys had a coffee machine at the shop?” Eustass's face went red as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I broke it.”

“You…broke it?” His face got even redder as he shifted his gaze.

“Killer and I were throwing tools to see if they’d stick into the wall, and one bounced off the wall and hit the coffee machine.” A silence fell between the two of you as you looked at him wide-eyed and slightly agape. After a few seconds, you managed to compose yourself.

“I have no words other than your total is 5.18.” Eustass let out a cough before pulling out a ten. Grabbing it, you cash it out and give him his change.

“I’ll go make the-”

“I got it.” Killer cuts you off and grabs the ticket before you can make it. You could feel your eye twitch, but shove your irritation down with a sigh. Turning your head, your eyes met Eustass’s, and all the questions you’ve had since rushed through your mind.

“Is there something wrong with me?” Eustass's eyes sift as he sees you grip the counter. “Did I do something wrong?”

With a gentle sigh, he responds. “No. There's nothing wrong with you, and you did nothing wrong. It’s me who has something wrong with them.” Eustass runs his fingers through his hair. “I should’ve got my shit together and grown up instead of always chasing a constant thrill. Too immature that I kept staring at other women.”

“Out of all the people in the world. Why (.....)?”

“Wrong place at the wrong time. She came over to see you cause, apparently, you two had plans that day, and she had just come over early. And you know what happens after that…” You look at him like he was speaking another language cause you know for a fact that you did not have plans with her that day.

“We didn’t have plans that day.” Eutass looks shocked at your revelation.

“What? Why did she come over then?” You throw your arms up.

“How am I supposed to know?!” Another silence falls among the two of you before Eustass speaks.

“Whatever the reason is, it doesn’t matter. Just know that none of it was your fault. Not my cheating or anything. You were perfect in every sense of the word. And I'm a fool for taking you for granted.”

You look away and sigh before turning back to Eustass. “Despite the fact I still want to kick your ass, I’m glad you’ve taken responsibility.”

“It’s the first step to maturity, right?” A small chuckle leaves the two of you.

“I supposed. Just don’t change yourself too much.”

“Here’s the cold brew, Eustass.”

“Oi, thanks, Killer.” Killer nods before leaving you and Eustass alone again. “Wait, I thought I got an expresso?”

“I rang it as a cold brew. It has more caffeine in it and is not as bitter. And it’s cheaper.” Eustass looks down at the coffee before giving it a whiff.

“Just try the damn thing!”

“Give me a second woman, god!” He huffs before taking a sip. “Oh, that’s not so bad.” You roll your eyes before you see another customer come in.

“I guess that's my cue to get the hell outta here. It was…nice to see you and talk to you again.”

“Yeah…you too.” Turning around, he waves before closing the door to the cafe, leaving you to boil in your thoughts.

‘Yeah, you too? Why the hell did I say that? I didn’t miss him at all! Did I?’ The inner turmoil from all those months ago resurfacing. Even if some of his words gave you closure, you still couldn’t help but feel pain in your heart.

The fact that even after breaking your heart, he was still so easy to talk to. That he even got a chuckle out of you! Why? How on earth did he still manage to make you laugh? Why was there this burning in your chest when you thought of him? Months ago, you were filled with hate and hurt, and now, even if it was for a second, talking to him feels normal again.

“Hi, sweetie, how have you been?” An old, gentle voice breaks through your voice.

“Oh! Mrs. June! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. But I’ve been okay.” You give her a small laugh as you look at the little old lady. Your week was going great, but now having that talk with Eustass fucked it up. Filling it with doubt and more questions.

“Is it about the man you were just talking to?”

“What?! No! I’m okay! Really!”

“Dear, I was your age once too. Not to mention, I have children your age, too. I know when troubles are caused by a boy.” The caring voice she carries makes you let out a sigh.

“My ex just came to the shop after not seeing him for six months since he cheated. Talking to him felt so normal, just like it used to be. But I don’t love him anymore. I shouldn’t love him anymore. I’ve fallen in love with someone else. Everything was fine. I was happy. But now he just had to waltz back in, and there's a burning in my heart.” Admitting it did feel much better. Instead of keeping it down and suffering, having an unbiased opinion is nice.

“Oh, sweetie, you simply miss the memories. You miss what once was. It’s normal. I’m sure you loved him very much, so it’ll always hurt, no matter how much time has passed.”

“But I’ve fallen in love with someone else?”

“It happens to everyone. You're not a bad person for it.” Letting out a breath of relief, you feel a weight lifted off your shoulders.

“You really know what to say. Thank you, Mrs. June.” She places her hand on your own.

“Anytime, dear.”

~~~

The day seemed to drag as he couldn’t help but think about you and the kiss you almost shared. How, after dreaming of your lips on his, he would finally get to feel them. But of course, it was just his luck; the delivery guy ruined the moment. Law’s never wanted to strangle someone more in his life.

“Hey doc, we got a female, age 24, coming in for back pain. Room two.”

“Hmm? Oh. Okay, thanks.” Grabbing the chart, Law movies towards the room.

“Hello, I’ll be your-”

“Law! It's you!” Hearing that ear bleeding voice ring in his ears make a scowl appear on his face. Of course, it had to be her, of all people, when he was already annoyed. Gritting his teeth, Law could only picture going home to you and Bepo to calm him down. You smile and ask him about his day, and Bepo comes up to welcome him home.

“I’ve missed you so much! I’ve tried to get in contact with you, but-”

“You said you're here for back pain, correct?”

“Well, yes but-”

“Have you hit anything? Where does it hurt specifically?”

It’s evident that Law’s lack of normal conversation bothered (.....). Her nostrils flared, and her eye twitched, but she quickly shoved it down. “How’s Bepo doing? I’m sure he misses his mom.”

“He’s fine.”

“I mean, I’m sure he’d be delighted to see me.”

“He doesn’t care. He’s a cat.” While Bepo obviously was more than just a cat, (.....) didn’t deserve the thought that she was missed, even if it was something as simple as a cat.

“I’m sure you’ve missed me, isn’t that right, traffy?” Her voice, trying to be sickeningly sweet, only sounded like the screaming of a fox. Her use of her old nickname for him makes him feel sick.

“Don’t call me that. It’s Dr. or Trafalgar to you.” Law snaps at (.....). No one was allowed to call him that. Hell, she was the only one that did. The nickname grinds his gears.

Cracking her knuckles, (.....) takes a deep breath before scoffing. “...Is that mooch (Y/N) still living with you?”

Law gripped the clipboard violently. He was already struggling with remaining calm just seeing her, but now that she’s trying to insult you? The one person who seemed to get him and care about him genuinely? That would not stand.

“She’s not a mooch, and yes, she is.” Law answered with gritted teeth.

(.....) rolled her eyes before continuing. “She’s probably still working that dead-end job at the cafe. I told her that she was going into a stupid career path.” (.....) words made Law grip the clipboard even tighter. “She isn’t even good at art or writing.”

Hearing (.....)’s final words, Law’s grip on the clipboard was tight enough to put a crack in the plastic. “Take that back (.....). Right now.”

“Why? We all know it’s true.” Seeing red, Law finally snapped.

“She’s one of the most creative people I’ve ever met. Her creativity is something you could never hope to achieve. Not to mention, she took those as minor classes. If you ever dared to use your fucking ears, you’d know she went to major in being a chef.” Law’s words pierced through (..... like bullets. Each more painful than the last.

“Everything about her is nothing you could ever hope to be!”

“You're acting like you love her!”

“That’s because I do!” Law immediately slammed his mouth shut with his hand. The room became tense and silent.

“That fuck did you just say?” (.....)’s voice drops as she clutches her fists. Her pupils dilate. Once full of awkwardness, the room is now full of uneasy tension. Law’s body filled with concern as the look on (.....) was murderous.

“There’s no fucking way I’ll let that bitch take you away from me.” She sneered as she looked at Law. “I refuse to let that bitch take you!” Her scream echoed off the walls.

“What the hell?! I’m my own fucking person.”

“You are supposed to be with me!” Suddenly, two men come into the room. The screaming from earlier had already prompted security to call.

“We got called for screaming?”

Pointing to (.....) Law quickly answers. “Her! She needs to leave!” Nodding and taking his word as fact, the security guards go to (.....).

“Ma’am, you need to leave. Please don’t make this harder than this has to be.”

“Don’t fucking touch me! I’m not leaving until I finish talking to Law!” (.....) turned her head towards Law, who stood by the door.

“Leave (.....) there's nothing to talk about.”

“No!” Pushing past the guards, (.....) tries to run up to Law, only to be stopped by security. “Get off me!” The sound of (.....)’s scream echoed throughout the hospital as she was dragged out of the hospital.

The whole encounter had Law shaken as he sat in his office and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Holy fuck…” Of the two years he’s dated (.....), never has he seen that side of her. It’s been so long since he’s broken up with (.....), yet with her reaction, it felt like it only happened yesterday. It was unnerving, to say the least.

DING

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he sees a text from you and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. With a soft smile, he opens it.

“It sounds great.” A soft chuckle leaves Law’s lips before he replies and puts the phone back in his pocket. Looking down at his desk, he couldn’t help but smile at the prospect of getting off work to see you once again.

-I made a drink inspired by you :)

-Is it good?

-Of course it’s good! I also made Bepo out of wiped cream

-Bepo’s not that fat

-One day, you’ll take off your rose-colored glasses. Does pasta sound good for dinner?

~~~

As the day turned into night and the street lights shown bright, it was finally time for you to go home. With all the rushes through the day and that emotional encounter with Eustass, the concept of home sounded heavenly.

Considering Killer left earlier for a doctor's appointment, you were the only one to close up. Thankfully, the rest of the day was quick and easy. There were no rude customers or rushes. It's the perfect night to be closing by yourself.

It also happened to be the first day you got the car you had saved enough money for and bought off the Facebook Marketplace. It was a beater, sure, but it was your first car. Taking the bus was fine for the first two months, but after almost getting robbed at the bus station, you decided it was time to face your fears and go get your driver's license.

You didn’t tell Law until it was all said and done because you wanted it to be a surprise. Even getting in to take your driver's test took eons. It was booked months out! So when you finally managed to take it, you made sure you passed that test. After that, you just had to save up. And now, you have a driver's license and a new car. There was a nick or two of missing paint, but you loved it.

As you close up shop, you notice something on your car's back window. Squinting your eyes, you let out a gasp at the sight of your back window shattered.

“No, no, no, no! What the hell happened?!” As you run up and get closer, your mouth drops open, and you can only look on in horror.

The closer you got, the worse it got. Instead of what you thought was just a broken window, you're met with your tires slashed, every window shattered, and horrible names carved into the side of your car. Glass shards covered the pavement around the car and in the inside of your seats. The metal of the car ruined as the words ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ were carved into the car doors. Each headlight busted along with your mirrors.

The car you had spent so long saving up for and were so proud of is now reduced to nothing but a hunk of junk. As you stared at your car in horror, one thought ran through your mind. ‘Who could have done this?’

A feeling of unease fills your body as you look around the dark, empty parking lot. The only one there was you, and what was your car. Grabbing the store key from your key ring, you run back into the store. As soon as you lock the door behind you, you make a break from the security camera footage.

Logging into the computer, you click on today’s date and start recording. You put it on 2x speed as you scan carefully. It showed your co-worker opening the shop, and then a few others showed up before the customers. The day goes by before you show up. Now, you get even closer to the monitor, determined to figure out who would do such a thing.

Finally, at 7 p.m., you see a person dressed in all black emerge from the shadows. Trying to get a closer look at their face, you see they are wearing a mask, which makes you frown, but you continue.

You watched them pull out a knife from their pockets before slashing each of your tires. Zooming in, you watch as they use what you assume is a key to carve into your car. They go to both sides before getting up, looking around, and moving out of frame. Not even seconds later, the person comes back into the frame. Your mouth drops open as you watch them use a rock to violently smash your windows.

“What?! How did I not hear that?!” Switching to the inside security camera, you fast-forward to 7 p.m. to see what was happening. You immediately lower your head and let out a quick “God damnit” at the sight of you dancing to the music you had on blast while closing.

Standing up straight, rage boiled in your veins as you kicked the nearby trash can “Fuck!” Looking down at the camera footage again, your heart stops when you see the hooded figure staring straight into the camera only minutes before you see what happened to your car. The shine of a knife in their pocket made you swallow the lump in your throat.

You pull out your phone and get to Law’s number. “Come on, come on, come on!” The sound of the ringer going to voicemail causes a sweat to start. Ending the call with Law, you immediately try to call Killer. Every second you heard it ring, it felt as if you’re getting grey hairs. Yet just like Law’s, his, too, went voicemail.

You begin to panic as you try to think of anyone else to come pick you up or at least talk you through what to do. You didn’t have many friends. At least ones that you trust enough to give you a ride. Biting your lip, you start panicking before a number comes to you.

“No, I can’t call him.” You begin to pace around as you fight with yourself. Finally, after taking another look at your destroyed car in the camera footage, you dial the number.

“Please pick up the phone.” Crossing your fingers, your heart beats with every ring.

“Oi-”

“Eustass! Is this you?!”

“(Y/N)? What-”

“I know you said you're working late, but please, I need you to come to the cafe.”

“Are you okay? What’s going on?” Your breathing becomes ragged.

“It’s hard to explain, but I don’t feel safe right now and-”

“I’ll be right there. Stay inside the cafe till I get there, alright?”

“Alright.”

“I’ll see you in five.”

“Okay.” the call ends, and you look at the security footage and set it to live.

~~~

Like he said, it took only five minutes before you heard his car pull up. You watched him park up front and get out of the car, and only then did you go back outside. “Thank god you're here, Eustass.”

“Yeah, so am I. What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Follow me.” You wave your hand for him to follow. As you stop in front of your car, you hear Eustass exhale before running his fingers through his hair.

“Holy shit, is this your car?” Nodding, you look at it with heartache.

“It was my car. But some hooded figure vandalized it while I was closing up shop. I couldn’t see their face or anything. What’s worse is that after they trashed it, they stared at the camera for a minute or two before leaving. They had a knife to slash my tires, and when they looked in the camera, they made sure I could see it.” Crossing your arms, you sigh as you think about it all.

“I didn’t even know you got your license. So this is a bigger shock than I originally thought.”

“I just don’t understand. Who have I done wrong to deserve this? Not to mention, I had just bought this car yesterday!”

“Maybe it was a case of the wrong car?”

“No one has a car like mine. At least that I work with.”

“How about you call the cops and have them check it?”

“That’s not a bad idea. But can you stay here until they come? I’m not sure I feel safe being alone…”

“Yeah, of course.”

~~~

Despite the cops taking forever to arrive, they managed to tow your car to the station as they took your story and the security footage. You gave them your number, and they said they’d contact you with any updates. This left you now in the passenger seat of Eustass’s car with a bag of McDonald's chicken nugget meal and a shake, taking a fry from the bag every once in a while.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so depressed eating fries.” Eustass chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. “Do they taste bad?”

“They taste like 3,000 dollars down the drain.”

“Not very salty?”

Grabbing another fry from the bag, you pop it into your mouth. “No.” Laying your head down on the window, your eyes follow the street lights. “Thanks for taking me to get chicken nuggets and driving me home.”

“No problem. It’s been a day for you.” The tense silence was as overwhelming as the elephant in the room, suffocating.

“I got a dog.”

“Oh? I thought the place didn’t allow animals?”

“I moved a month after you left. Bigger place and allows animals.”

“What kind of dog?”

“It’s a pittie I found eating out of my trash can.” You couldn’t help the small chuckle that left your lips.

“Probably smelled all the beef jerky wrappers and thought they were in for a snack. What’s their name?”

“Rocky.”

“Of course, you named them Rocky.” The two of you begin to argue playfully as you approach you and Law’s apartment. It felt nostalgic almost. Sitting in the car talking and arguing about whatever. But even if it felt nice to talk, the thought of Law and the way he looks at you has overtaken the spot in your heart the Eustass once owned.

As you once again enter the apartment's parking lot, a sigh left your lips. “Well, we’re here. Thanks again for staying with me and driving me home once again during all that.”

“It’s fine, I promise. I’ll see you sometime…?”

“Yeah…see you sometime.” Leaving Eustass’s car, you make your descent up the stairs.

Throwing his head back, Eustass stares up at the roof of his car. “Can’t believe I fucked it all up.” He sighs. Looking at your shared apartment with Law, Eustass rubs his eyes from the tears that threatened to spill. “Treat her better than I did, Law.”

~~~

Parking in his spot, Law gets out of his car and is finally ready to be home after such a long day. Looking around, he notices your car isn’t anywhere to be seen. Were you still out? Law scratched his head before walking upstairs.

As he unlocked the door, he heard cries and saw your shoes on the shoe rack. You were home but crying, and without the car, you were so excited about. Slowly closing the door, Law listened to your cries. It led him into the living room, where he saw you crying. A case of chicken nuggets was open, and a half-drank shake was on the coffee table. Tissues were overflowing the trash can.

“(Y/N)?” Taking a simple step, he sees the mascara running down your face. “Are you okay?”

“No! I’m not okay!” Plopping a nugget into your mouth while you sniffled. “My car got vandalized to the point I can’t drive it! I haven’t even had it for a full twenty-four hours!”

Law’s eyes widened at your words. “What? What do you mean vandalized?”

“My tires were slashed, windows busted, the side of my car carved with horrible names, and my mirrors and headlights smashed! Everything was destroyed!” Letting out a hiccup, you take a sip of your shake. “Then I fucking saw Eustass today, so that was perfect!” You huff.

“Really? Odd. I had (.....) at the ER today. That was a whole ordeal.-”

“That’s when I tried to call you and Killer. Neither of you answered, so I had to call Eustass to pick me up and bring me home!”

“I’m sorry (Y/N) if I had known…”

You sigh. “It's not your fault. It was just an awkward and horrible day.” Law looks at your form. He hasn’t seen you so distraught since the first day he took you to his place to stay.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Law looks at you. “Do you…want a hug?”

Nodding, you get up from your cocoon of blankets off the couch. “Yeah.” You wrap your arms around Law’s frame and begin to cry into his clothes. Wrapping his arms around you, Law delicately places his chin on your head. “It’s not fair.”

“Not it’s not. But I'm sure the police will find the asshole that did it.” Law tried to reassure you.

“I tried to check the camera at the cafe, but there was a hooded figure with a knife. They even looked into the camera and made sure I could see it.” You let out a shaky breath and hold him closer. “How did they know it was mine? I was the only one closing, and no one was there with me. What would have happened if they decided to break in or wait for me to leave the store?”

Rubbing your back, Law tries to comfort your worries. “You're home now. Your home, and I’m here.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “I promise. I won’t let anything ever happen to you.”

“Thank you, Law.”

~~~

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#trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #one piece x reader

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straighttohellbuddy · 2 years ago

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what you love you devour {c!Wilbur Soot}

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

{ masterpost }

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

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

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

Citrus Scale: 💚 LIME 💚

{ full playlist }

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

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

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

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

"Wilbur," he corrected you automatically.

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

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

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

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

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

"It could be a ruse!" Tommy insisted.

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

"You shot me!"

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

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

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

"It's the funniest option."

---

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

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

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

"Thomas, Thomas listen to me -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, absolutely."

----

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

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

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

"You're going to try."

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

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

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

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

"The new guy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

"Stop. Talking."

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

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

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

"I think you overestimate how challenging you are -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What took you so long?"

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't patronise me," he warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A revolutionary jester," you agreed.

----

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

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

"Still?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you lying?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you planning on betraying me?"

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the fuck did you do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Deafening silence.

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

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

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

"What happened?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I absolutely would have," you answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

"What?"

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

“Maybe it’s because I respect them -”

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

"What the hell are you talking about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Their loyalty to me?”

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

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

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

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

----

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

"Of course."

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

"What happened between you and Dream?"

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

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

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

“What did he say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You won’t hurt me, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you wanted to hurt me.”

“Well I can’t.”

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

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

“Who?” Softer this time, Wilbur asks.

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

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

“Understand you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It was novel to feel understood.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you trying to push me away?”

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

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

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

“Yes, absolutely.”

----

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

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

"Of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why the fuck are you here?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You're stalling."

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

Eret swallows hard.

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

"Not quite."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your house, his voice turns softly malevolent;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you like Quackity more than me?"

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

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

"Wilbur…"

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

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

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

You hesitate. You drop his gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

“It sounds like self sabotage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m always honest with you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

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

“That’s not an answer.”

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

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

“Like this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think it might be why I love you.”

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

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

----

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

“And you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

“Not your fault either,” you shrugged.

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

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

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

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

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

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

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

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

"What then?"

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

"You sound like Dream."

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

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

"My attachment to him is situational at best."

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

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

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

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

"Correction, I almost died for you."

"What's the difference?"

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

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

"You suddenly decided to grow a conscience?"

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

"Sorry about that, again," he muttered.

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

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

"I'll be by your side until -"

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

----

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

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

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

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

“You caught me in a moment of weakness.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t like seeing you sad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard, huffing a humourless laugh.

“And he’s the one who got away.”

“Y/N...”

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

----

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

“Not even close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

“Why what? Why he did what he did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

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

“I know.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You trust me," its not a question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kill me."

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dude -" you're surprised by Dream's honesty in turn, but you do respect it as he clarifies himself.

"He's the one you care about, the only one besides yourself, I know, I've seen it," he gives a faint smirk, "we're still friends, of course, there's no doubt about that, but if I asked you to kill someone that Wilbur would rather have alive, or if I asked you to, say, join me on an adventure with a low survival rate, if Wilbur asked, you'd choose him, wouldn't you? You'd do whatever it takes to make him happy."

"Dream... I -"

"Your loyalty is absolute, but selective; you put yourself first, then Wilbur, and maybe I'm overestimating my place in your life, but I think I may be below him, but above most others..."

"What are you saying? What do you want?" You asked carefully.

"I'll bring back Wilbur, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'll bring him back, but you'll owe me a life," and you can't even begin to properly process what he's saying, "not his," Dream clarifies, "I wouldn't do that to you, but in one way or another, you will owe me a life, and when I ask for it, however that may be, you need to uphold your end of the bargain, or I'll send him right back to where he is now."

I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. That's the four words he'd said that you're fixating on, that're playing through your mind on repeat, and you practically crush Dream in a hug as you agree, breathlessly thanking him. He hugs you back, and you can feel his smile against your shoulder, laughing somewhat fondly at the notes of relief in your voice as you mutter that he's your favourite.

"For now," he snorts when you step back, and you give a sheepish smile, ducking your gaze.

"For now," you agree.

----

"Who let you- does Sam know you're in here?" Quackity's voice is dangerously quiet, a strange smile on his face, like having you here is a boon rather than a terrible mistake.

"Q, what the fuck?" You rubbed at your eyes, forcing the sleep from them. Dream is already scrambling as far as he can from the newcomer, anger and fear in his eyes. He tells Quackity to fuck off.

"What are you doing here? You planning an escape for my favourite little war criminal?" He paused, "have you moved on now that your favourite little war criminal is dead?" Everything about him seems sharp, seems cruel and threatening; something about it is thrilling, like a challenge, and you find yourself standing to your full height, refusing to drop his gaze.

“Big Q,” you take some small pride in the fact that your voice doesn’t shake, “you’re looking markedly more malicious today.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been coming here for a while, looking for one simple thing, and your buddy there really hasn’t exactly been helpful,” there’s a faintly manic gleam in his eye, but your blood is hissing and spitting in your veins, conflicted and delighted in equal measure -

“He was your friend you fucking asshole!” The words burst from you, disgusted as you wear a manic grin.

“I was your friend, you fucking piece of shit!” He hollers back, “I was more than your fr-” but his mouth snaps shut, expression one of seething rage, “don’t fucking talk like you still trust him, like you care about him;” the curl of Quackity’s lip is cruel, the look in his eyes cold as he shifts his grip on his sword; a humourless laugh escapes him, “except, of course it’s you who still cares; first Dream, then Wilbur, the only people you actually care about are just like you,” and there’s so much derision in his voice that it almost stings, almost, if he wasn’t right. How can he not see the way his cruel tone delight you? How can he not see the irony in his words in this very moment; “now fuck off, you’re in my way.” He sneers.

“I’m not letting you hurt him,” you refused to move, and his eyes widened, disbelieving laugh escaping him.

“Look at that! Did the wizard finally give you a fucking heart?”

“Look at that!” You mirror his tone, though your own is acidic, pushing, you’re pushing him now, the way you know best, “did you finally get over your pathetic feelings? You finally getting smart enough to see me as a real threat?” And you’re in his space, in his face, refusing to back down, waiting for the moment he snaps.

“I never cared about you, I cared about the fact that you paid me attention; note the difference,” he snarled; it’s a lie, you know it’s a lie, can remember the way he’d looked at you, how he’d almost died for you, and it’s fucking intoxicating.

“You’re so good at hearing the truth, but you’re fucking shit at obfuscating it,” you tell him with a cool confidence, “I hung the stars in your sky, Quackity,” his jaw clenched tightly at your change in tone, the look in your eye, “but tell me again about how it was all an act for you, say it in a way I’ll believe this time.” It’s designed to cut him, and you can see it in his eyes when it does. Fight back, damn it!

“Maybe I’ll give Dream the day off, kill you instead,” he tries, but you can tell his heart’s not in it.

“This isn’t fun for him like it is for you,” Dream pipes up, and Quackity shoots him a surprisingly confused look, while your look over your shoulder, faint disappointment in your eyes. Dream, however, exhausted and paranoid with Quackity in his cell, still has enough wherewithal to understand you better than almost anyone else.

“I wish you would,” you don’t look away from Quackity. Your voice is cold in the wake of Dream’s revelation, and when he looks back at you, Quackity looks... uncertain. A dangerous state to be in considering his opposition.

“You’re down to your last life, don’t fucking test me,” Quackity warned, but his heart’s not in it like before. As you approach him, he raises his weapon, but your confidence strides never falter, “Sam wouldn’t give a shit if I killed you, no-one would.”

“You would,” you tell him snidely, finding yourself growing sick of the sound of his half-baked cruelty.

“Are you just here to let what you love kill you?” He gives a mean, humourless smile.

“Bold to assume I love you, Q.”

“Well, seeing as the only bastard you ever knew how to love was so eager to off himself, I figured I might be all you have left to get back to him,” there’s faint triumph in his eyes when he can see his malicious words touched a nerve, but he wasn’t playing your game right, and you were tired of not having fun.

“It’s not my fucking fault you look for a home in everyone who’s halfway nice to you,” something in you snaps, and your tone is cold and unwaivering, “don’t blame me for your fragile sense of self; you were so ready to believe anything I told you, but when I did what people fucking do - when I let you down - you had to go and let it shatter you,” you sneered.

“You being a shitty person is my fault?” He scoffed, and you stepped up to him, emboldened. You barely even feel his sword at your throat.

“Before breaking your cheap, little heart, I hadn’t been honest a day in my life; everyone had told you as much, you chose to ignore them; did you think you could fix me?” You gave a harsh laugh, stepping forward, crowding him into taking a step back, expression irate, trying to keep up his strong front, “Actually, I guess, wow, you did; since you, I haven’t told a lie,” and you gave him a derisive look, “because fucking you up wasn’t a challenge, making you fall in love with me wasn’t a challenge, getting you to the point where you’d die for me? Not a fucking challenge, Quackity. You offered me your life and it fucking bored me.

Talking to me makes you want to be a worse person? Good luck with that; you will always be better than you fear, better than you fucking hope or wish you were, because you couldn’t fucking stomach killing me once, you couldn’t fucking stomach being a truly terrible person.

You want my blood on your hands? Your hands were mine, and I couldn’t have given less of a shit, so no, if I have any say, you’re not gonna hurt Dream, because you’re hurting him to get the thing that’s going to bring back the person I actually fucking fell in love with. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time on you when he was out there.

I’m tired of trying to be amicable with you when you’re still - fucking still - picking up the pieces and trying to figure out who the fuck you are; God, I fucking hope you kill me, I hope it brings you peace, I hope it brings you clarity, but you better make sure it counts, you better make sure it fucking sticks!”

----

"You do things that hurt you because you don't know what else to do, even if you don't enjoy them," Ranboo's voice is flat, and your expression twists to something derisive, though you attempt to regain your composure.

"Incredibly presumptuous of you," you respond, still alive, if burned.

----

"How many more?" Ghostbur's touch was light on your forearm, tracing the shiny, healed scar of where you'd thrown your hands up to protect your face as Quackity had shoved you into the lava waterfall that surrounded Dream's cell. It hadn’t killed you; he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and the lava curtain parted as the bridge approached the cell at Sam’s command. But it had still left it’s mark.

"What?" You surfaced from your thoughts as his cool hand stilled against the memory of the burn.

"How many more until you see him again?" He asks, and he doesn't look sad often, but he can't look you in the eyes. Then, gently, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing against the scar that stands out on your neck, a perfect circle, a perfect reminder of what you’d lost the second time you’d died.

And you meet his gaze, can see the nerves hidden just behind his eyes - is this why you do this? Am I… not enough? What a dangerous thought, dangerous territories; how cruel you were to let him fall for you, even a little, even when both of you knew it was a terrible idea.

Dream's voice was in your head - Ghostbur won't be around anymore - and you'd answered without flinching - but Wilbur will be alive.

"One," your voice came out hoarse, "one life and I'll see him again." You can't look him in the eyes, even as he holds your face; he has no idea what to say to that. It's the truth, but not the one he realises.

"You don't love me, right?" You asked, clearing your throat, moving carefully out of his reach.

"You shouldn't kill yourself for him," Ghostbur tells you with uncompromising sincerity instead of answering, "you're worth more than that."

"I need you to tell me that you don't have feelings for me, Ghostbur -"

"Seems like a very worrying thing to be asking given the circumstances," again he tries to deflect, but there's something close to guilt eating you up inside, and you stand, moving out of his space, Dream's voice in your head.

"Do you love me or not, Ghost of Wilbur Soot?" You demanded, and his expression turned hard, so unlike his usual self.

"I'm not him," he said carefully, but his gaze dropped; he couldn't look you in the eyes, "and I don't think it should matter either way, because you've made it abundantly clear that he's the one you want; I'm not going to say I don't and let you kill yourself."

"I promise I'm not going to fucking kill myself!"

Ghostbur went very quiet.

“Any answer is dangerous, really, so it doesn’t matter either way,” he’s pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands, to fiddle with, trying to distract himself, “I love Friend,” his tone was aiming for something light-hearted, an attempt to change the topic, and it did it’s job well enough; your lips twisted into a grin.

“First a Salmon, then a Sheep, your tastes are -” but he looks at you, giving a strangely amused little smile.

“Questionable?” He finishes your sentence, and you find yourself less amused with the situation; he brings up a good point, including you all the same, though you’d been meaning to say bestial, but fuck, what does that make you? For a moment, you find yourself in crisis, wondering if you were technically in a polyamorous relationship with a ghost and an actual sheep. But you push it to the side -

“It’s selfish,” you hear his voice in your head, see him looking at you with wide, shiny eyes in the dim light of a pub, but you can’t help but repeat the words that had been said to you, “but I need to know for me -”

Ghostbur could say anything, and you see the realisation dawning on his face; he knows what you’re asking. He could be silent, he could brush you off, he could say anything else -

“It’s you,” just the way you’d said it to Wilbur, confirming what you feared; Ghostbur drops his gaze when he says those words to you, when he means to say I love you, how can you not see that?

Those two words hang in the air between you, like they always have. You should leave. You should go before you develop a conscience. But you can’t... there’s something familiar, something intoxicating about this moment, his loyalty; you’ve seen this before, you’ve craved this before.

You step up to him, and as if on instinct, he rests his hands on your hips, leaning into your touch when you hold his cheek gently.

“I love you,” your murmur, and his eyes fall closed, breathing deeply, “I love you.” It’s easy, it’s too easy, to fall back into this, to let him rest his forehead against yours, your arms around his neck, knowing in your heart that his loyalty, his love, was a means to an end; “I love you.”

He trusts your words, even now.

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, pulling you close now, moving to press his lips to the crook of your neck. So you stay. Your time with him is limited, though only you know that, so you will enjoy it while you can.

----

"This was your plan," Tommy muttered, horrified, as the realisation dawned on him, "you're the one who pointed out that killing Dream in the prison didn't break any of the prison's rules," he whispered, before turning on you, eyes wide, Friend's leash still looped around his wrist, "you're the one who suggested using Ghostbur as a decoy, because no-one would suspect him."

"You set him up," Ranboo was horrified. One by one they were turning on you.

"You knew Ghostbur didn't- he didn't want to be revived!" Tubbo exclaimed, hurt and betrayed, "I thought - Y/N I thought you loved him, how could you -?!"

"Wilbur and Ghostbur are not the same person! How do you all keep forgetting that?!" You snarled in response, expression contorting to one of rage; that was enough to shock them into silence, taking a step back as they regarded you with a new kind of fear.

"We were happier with Wilbur gone, we liked Ghostbur and he liked us!" Tommy exclaimed, before his voice dropped to something soft and betrayed, hurt in his eyes, "Ghostbur didn't fucking deserve that; you're a terrible person," and your expression dropped to a smirk that didn't reach your eyes.

"I'm sorry about Ghostbur, I am, but the ends justifies the means; do you remember what I told you when L'Manburg was first forming? I told you I'm not on Dream's side, but I'm also not on yours," and you paused for a moment, before looking to the heavy remains of the button room, through which you knew Wilbur himself would finally be returning any moments now, "I'm on Wilbur's."

----

Then you see him, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck this is real and you owe Dream a life and Wilbur is alive. You're frozen in place. He's talking to Tommy, who sounds frankly horrified that Wilbur is back, but you're frozen. Heart beating in your throat, the sunrise that’s coming brings with it a warmth, though to you it feels closer to vindication.

And there’s yelling and horror from the others who’ve accompanied you, but you can’t hear them, approaching slowly, with measured, even steps.

Then, his eyes meet yours and something in his expression softens. When he smiles at you, every terrible thing you did was worth it for this moment. Having the others there is too much. You don't want an audience, you don't want anyone there to judge you and your choices, the things you've done to get to this moment.

"This," Tommy turns on you, "this is what you bloody well wanted; now you're acting all shy? " His lip curled, and your expression turned flat and unamused.

“Don’t mistake respect for shyness,” you tell him bluntly, with a cool confidence that was unrecognisable to the blonde, who hadn’t known you well enough before he’d begun starting conflict to know the depths to which you could sink. But he was beginning to learn.

“She’s part of the reason I’m here at all,” Wilbur reprehends him, while Tommy physically recoils at his tone, "Dream himself said as much." And then he's offering you his hand; nothing else matters.

"I can't be here," there's disgust in Tommy's voice, but its enough that the others leave, giving you and Wilbur peace. Finally.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," you tell him, taking his hand with a sharp smile, which he mirrors.

"Thirteen years I was stuck in that train station, and you're just as stunning as when I last saw you," he muses, and you reaches out to run your fingers gently through the unfamiliar white strands of his hair. His eyes study your face, your expression, drinking you in; you'd missed how dark his eyes could be, and when you look back at him, meet his gaze, you see a hunger there.

"Don't leave me," escapes you, but it comes out as a demand, insistent, “don’t ever fucking leave me again,” and you see him swallow hard, then slowly, he smiles.

"Never again," and he's kissing you desperately, mouth on yours with an intensity you relish. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you - you can taste it on his tongue, sticky sweet and somehow sharp and you dig your nails into him, maybe trying to keep him here, keep you both in this moment. When the kiss breaks and you're breathing hard, you don't let him go, though he doesn't either.

"You lied for me," he muttered, something akin to delight on his face, which shocked you enough that you stepped back, or at least tried to, though he held you tight, "no, not-" he tried to clarify, "I won't leave, I don't plan on it, but- I love you." Your heart is beating in your throat, still not quite sure what he means, "I've loved you for a long time," he added, and reaching out, he cupped your face in his hand, "I remember this," he murmured, "Ghostbur - you're scared I didn't love you because he couldn't remember, but I loved you so much, for so long, I just knew... knew what I was going to do. I knew I was going to leave you, I loved you but I was so doomed, so he couldn't remember."

When had your vision gone cloudy, when had tears started to sting your eyes.

"Don't cry, my love," Wilbur murmured, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours as your breath stuttered from your chest as he soothed the biggest fear that had been plaguing you for months.

"Were you worried that I didn't love you because of him?" He asked, like he enjoyed hearing you bare your soul. Of course he did. You remember kissing Ghostbur, his cold lips and soft apologies when you'd pulled away, and you wonder if Wilbur had those memories too.

"He's not you, no point trying to fret about your feelings based on his actions," you huff a watery laugh, finally letting go of him with one hand to wipe at your tears, “he didn’t understand me like you did, but he...” you swallowed hard, “I’m glad to have had him around in the interim.” Wilbur’s lips twist into an amused smile, and his gaze clouds over for the barest moment; you wonder if he can see your resolve cracking in Ghostbur’s memories, taking comfort in his when he’s the closest thing to Wilbur himself that you can find, the lies you’d told to keep him by your side in your moments of selfish desperation.

“I think he loved you, in his own way,” Wilbur said gently. However, as you made a vaguely guilty noise in the back of your throat, he continues thoughtfully, "though, you know, when Dream came to pick me up on that train, when Ghostbur took my place, Dream made sure we both knew, you know; she's the reason you're here, Ghostbur, he'd said, and said that makes you part of the reason that I'm coming back at all," he muses, strange quality to his voice that you couldn't quite place, though when your eyes were dry, you looked at him definitely, challengingly.

"He's not you," you reiterated, firmer this time, "I cared for him for what he was, but he's not the one I want; I love you." You said without hesitation, before you realise what you've said, and you go still, before taking his face in your hands, making sure he's looking you in the eyes, "I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, Wilbur; I love you, I fucking love you -" and he's endeared by your declaration as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face against the crook of his neck, whispering the words like you're hoping they'll find a place on his skin forever.

"I didn't tell you before and I'm never making that mistake again,” you admitted faintly; “it’s you.”

“Above all others, I choose you,” his smile is warm, and something bright lights up in your chest. Grinning, elated in this moment that you’d worked so hard to finally get to.

“You have my loyalty, my love.”

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