#revivebur x you

[peterrefur]

The days we knew ⅏ Wilbur Soot x GN!Reader

Summary: Wilbur returns from Limbo. Reader reminisces about L'Manberg. Wilbur visits Reader's restaurant, and they recognize each other. Notes: Hey Mate!!! I’m Peter and I say right away that English is not my first language. I’m curious to hear your opinion about this work in the comments! Enjoy!

I am trying to get back to writing after a long break. This story is not the pinnacle of my abilities, but it is the beginning of my return to writing.

𝒲hispers and rumors spread like wildfire about his return from hell. A hell that he referred to as Limbo .

𝒜ccording to tales, this was where every soul must journey after departing from the mortal world, each Limbo tailored to the individual's experiences and memories. Some say his Limbo took the form of an endless underground metro system, with never-ending tunnels and trains that always arrived at the same station no matter how many times he boarded them.

𝐻is screams were said to be so deafeningly loud and relentless that they would echo through the night and linger for weeks, until he inevitably started screaming anew upon waking. Each scream was like a violent eruption from his chest, tearing at his vocal cords until blood filled his throat and spilled from his lips. His cries were like a tortured symphony, haunting and unyielding, they painted a picture of his anguish as a tortured symphony, echoing through the corridors of his mind long after reality had fallen silent.  His knuckles, once sturdy bastions of strength, now lay bare, stripped down to the bone by the unyielding assault against the harsh concrete wall. The bones beneath threatened to breach the surface, a grim testament to his unwavering resolve. Deep furrows marred his palms, etched by the relentless barrage, a stark reminder of his unending battle. Deep grooves crisscrossed his palms from the repeated beatings, leaving behind a permanent reminder of his struggles. His nails, once neat and trimmed, were now jagged and torn off in places from desperate attempts to claw his way out. They bent backwards, painfully pulling away from the fleshy tips of his fingers. 

𝐹or years, he had drifted in and out of sleep, unsure if he was truly awake or trapped in the never-ending purgatory of Limbo. He had grown accustomed to the unchanging landscape of darkness and despair, where hunger and pain were constant companions. But eventually, he came to the realization that this was an eternal torment - a hell without end.  No matter how much he struggled or what he did, death would not release him from this cursed existence. His only escape was to endure and hope for some sort of redemption beyond this bleak realm. 

𝒩o respite, no escape - just an unending abyss of torment. 

𝒜t least that's what they say in town when Reader goes to get groceries from their quaint little restaurant. They fondly remember the days when their establishment was nestled within the borders of L'Manberg, a place where soldiers sought refuge after grueling battles and found comfort in the hearty soups and flavorful dishes they cooked up. Aromas of savory herbs and spices wafted through the air as customers eagerly awaited their meals, their spirits lifted by the warm atmosphere and delicious food. 

The memories flood back to them as they recall the prestigious guests who frequented their restaurant. The elegant President of L'Manburg himself had made special visits for diplomatic meetings, seeking the comfort and privacy of their establishment. And they always made sure to serve him their nationally famous dish - Noodles with meat.  The aroma alone was enough to make mouths water - a rich, savory broth simmered for hours, perfectly cooked hand-prepared noodles that they could tell were ready just by the color and texture, tender pieces of pork carefully placed on top. But it wasn't just about the taste - the presentation was just as important. Carrots, chives, and other fresh garnishes adorned the bowl, along with a sprinkling of sesame seeds and a dollop of fiery chili paste for those who dared.  

𝒯his dish had become synonymous with significant events in the history of this young country, and the Reader couldn't help but feel proud knowing their humble restaurant played a part in shaping its culture and identity. 

A very pleasant past that Reader misses. They remember those times with a smile. 

𝐻owever, amidst the comfortable thoughts in their mind, there are also haunting memories of Pogtopia. They can still feel the weight of poverty and fear that shrouded their daily life like a thick fog. The memories of living in the canyon for what seemed like endless months flood back to them.  Yet, as they try to recall the time frame, it all becomes a blur, the days and years blending together into one hazy period of turmoil. Such is the impact that time had on their memories of that place. 

𝒯he unrelenting grip of poverty, the constant gnawing fear of death, the monotonous routine of preparing potatoes day after day. They had so many potatoes that they ate them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, struggling to find new ways to cook them - boiled, roasted over a fire, mashed into a purée. 

𝐵ut in the end, they always seemed to give up and serve them simply boiled. The bland aroma of boiling water filled their small ravine 'kitchen', as they resigned themselves to yet another meal of plain potatoes. 

𝐼t was a reminder of their meager existence, a symbol of their struggle to survive. 

𝒟espite not having a large customer base, they relish every opportunity to cook for someone and bring joy to their day. The thought of someone not having to worry about food at home and being able to come to them for a satisfying meal fills there with a sense of purpose. For a small fee, they serve up bowls of steaming noodles or simple dishes that they customize to each person's liking.  The aroma of herbs and spices wafts through the air, enticing passersby to stop and sample their cooking. Their humble kitchen is filled with warmth and welcoming energy, creating a haven for anyone in need of a comforting meal. 

As they enter the kitchen, their arms laden with fresh produce, they quickly tie a crisp white apron around their hips. They waste no time in placing the vegetables on the counter and rinsing them under a steady stream of cool water. With practiced efficiency, they pull out a large mixing bowl and various containers to store the ingredients. The cutting board is carefully wiped down, its surface gleaming beneath the bright kitchen lights. They run a hand over its smooth surface before grabbing their sharp knife and getting to work. 

𝒲ith a practiced hand, they reach for their favorite knife, its blade catching the sunlight and gleaming as they slice through the ripe tomato with precise movements. The crisp skin gives way easily and the sweet scent of the fruit fills the air as they carefully carve an even chunk and place it into the container. Moving on to the cucumbers, they expertly cut them into perfect strips, each one identical to the next, before adding them to the growing collection of vegetables in the container. Each ingredient is selected with care, from the vibrant red peppers to the deep green kale leaves and bright orange carrots. Finally, they add to earthy mushrooms their spongy texture completing the colorful array of ingredients that will soon become their customers' daily dishes.  As they work, a sense of pride and satisfaction fills their heart, knowing that these fresh and carefully prepared vegetables will bring joy and nourishment to those who eat them. 

𝒲ith the grace and ease of someone who has spent years perfecting their craft, they carefully wash their sharp knife before deftly cutting into the succulent meat. Every slice is deliberate and precise as they expertly remove any unwanted bones and gristle.  The stray cat that frequents their restaurant in the evening is the only customer who doesn't have to pay, so they always set out a small plate for it in appreciation. It's become a familiar routine, just like the comforting scent of freshly cooked meat that lingers in the air of their cozy establishment.

 

𝒜s the ten o'clock hour strikes, Reader interrupts their preparations and goes to the front door and pulls down the wooden covers that protect their glass window, with a sign that Tommy, one of the former members of L'Manberg, painted a few years ago. Reader opens the door wide and lets fresh air into the small room, which seats less than ten people. 

𝒜s the clock strikes ten, Reader pauses their preparations and strides to the front door with determination. They slide down the wooden covers that protect their glass window, adorned with a hand-painted sign by Tommy, one of the former members of L'Manberg. The aged paint peeling off reveals glimpses of vibrant colors from years past. With a firm grip, Reader pulls open the door, allowing a gust of cool air to sweep inside the small room. A cozy space, barely enough to seat ten people comfortably.  The scent of fresh air intermingles with the comforting aroma of food and freshly brewed tea. 

𝒯heir days pass, every so often consumed by thoughts and doubts of the rumors swirling about the resurrection of L'Manburg's President. Memories flood her mind- of the ravine where he had stood, surrounded by his people, pleading for them to stop calling him President. They remember the look of despair and desperation on his face, a stark contrast to the once hopeful and confident leader he used to be.  The transformation he underwent is etched in their mind, from a man filled with eager ambition and hope to one broken and desolate by the loss of his country. It's a haunting image that lingers in their thoughts, a poignant reminder of what once was and what could have been.  As they reflect on these memories, they can't help but feel a sense of sadness and disillusionment for the fallen leader and his shattered dreams. 

— 

𝒜s the time for cleaning up arrived, Reader moved with swift and precise efficiency. Their movements were like a choreographed dance, each step executed with perfect control and purpose. Without a moment of hesitation or uncertainty, they sorted through the items on the table, placing them carefully on the cat's plate or in the rubbish bin. It was as if they had been programmed for this task, carrying it out flawlessly like a well-oiled machine. The clink of dishes and rustling of paper filled the air as Reader worked, their focused expression never faltering. They were masters at their craft, turning chaos into order with each calculated movement. With a sense of accomplishment, Reader stepped back from the neatly organized items in front of them. Their duties were complete, each task executed with precision and attention to detail. A satisfying feeling of completion washed over there, leaving a smile on their face as they surveyed their flawless work. It was as if each item had found its rightful place, creating a symphony of order and efficiency.

𝒲ith a poised and graceful step, the owners of the charming restaurant emerged from their kitchen, their faces glowing with a warm smile. In one hand, they carried a delicate plate, its contents arranged in an artful display that could rival any high-end eatery. The scent of spices and herbs wafted through the crisp autumn air, drawing in any nearby feline companions. Each carefully selected ingredient had been placed with precision, creating a feast not only for the senses but also for the palate of any fortunate cat. 

As they walked towards their favorite spot outside the restaurant, a small cat curled up under their legs and wrapped its tail around their thighs in grateful contentment.  It was clear that this furry companion held a special place in their heart for providing it with nourishment every evening. 

𝒯he frigid and forbidding darkness of the night hung heavy, engulfing everything in its path. The cold air prickled at their skin, heightening their senses as they gazed upon the lone figure standing in front of their restaurant. His silhouette loomed large against the dimly lit street, casting a daunting shadow that seemed to swallow up everything around it.  The glowing moon above served as a watchful guardian, its silvery light bathing his features in an eerie glow. His intense gaze locked theirs, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still as they stood alone in this deserted city. 

𝐻is voice cut through the silence, sharp and forceful. "Are you open?" he demanded, his words like shards of ice in the stillness of the night. 

The man's appearance is strikingly unkempt, emitting an aura of poverty and potential homelessness. His hair, a mass of shoulder-length brown curls, appears tangled and greasy, with strands protruding in all directions. Among the chaos, a solitary white strand stands out conspicuously, almost luminous against the disorder. It's as if he's aged a decade overnight. His eyes, bloodshot and encircled by a rim of red, convey a sense of sleeplessness that spans days. The profound, dark circles beneath his eyes surpass any exhaustion I've witnessed, even among the most fatigued hybrids or humans. 

𝐻e dons a tattered yellow jumper, its fabric worn thin and punctuated by tears. Draping loosely over his shoulders, a patched coat, once a lively brown, now bears the weight of dirt and grime, concealing any semblance of its former vibrancy. Wrapped around his arm, a bandage, tainted with a red hue, poses a mystery—blood or perhaps wine? Despite the neglect evident in his attire, one detail stands out: his trousers, meticulously pressed, hint at a pride in appearance amidst adversity.  Yet, they're juxtaposed with scuffed and grimy shoes, evidence of a journey endured with little regard for appearance. 

"Unfortunately, it has just closed," Reader says with a warm smile, their gesture directed towards the now darkened restaurant front. "But fear not, for I will be open again at 10 tomorrow morning." As they speak, they absent-mindedly pet the purring cat perched on the counter, savoring its meal of freshly prepared food. "The only customer being served now is this cat. You don't look like a cat, I'm sorry," they add, their hands gently stroking the animal as it enjoys its feast. 

At this, the man chuckles and responds, "I may not look like a cat, but I wouldn't mind meowing or snuggling up to your leg if it means getting some of that delicious food," he laughs.  "I wish I could help you," Reader says with a chuckle, "But I'm afraid my only clients after hours are of the feline persuasion." 

𝒯he man's hearty laughter echoed through the street, blending in with the soft purring of the cat. The tension from earlier seemed to dissipate, replaced by an ease that felt strange but also comforting. "Fair enough," he said, smiling at the Reader. "I think I'll have to find another place then."  "Just down the road there's an all-night dinner," they offered. They pointed towards the end of the street where a neon sign flickered intermittently. "They should still have something warm for you."  "Thanks," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine gratitude. He turned to leave before hesitating and turning back towards Reader "Do you remember cooking noodles with meat in L'Manberg?" 

𝑅eader paused, a flicker of surprise passing across their face. Their eyes, which had been warm and inviting, cooled as they studied the man before there. "Why would you ask me that?" they said, their voices betraying a touch of guarded curiosity. 

The man gave a rueful smile. "It's a memory I've carried for years," he admitted with an odd sort of vulnerability, his gaze never leaving their face. "A chef who cooked the most delicious noodles with meat in L'Manberg."  Their faces softened as they listened to him, their initial wariness fading into curiosity. "That was a long time ago," they finally said, more to themselves than to him.  He nodded slowly. "Yes, it was," he conceded. "But for some reason, those noodles have always stuck with me. I suppose...I've been looking for them ever since." 

𝒜 silence descended upon them then, as they each absorbed what had been said - and perhaps what hadn't been said too. The cat finished its meal and hopped off the counter, brushing against Reader's leg before slipping out into the night.  "Have we met?" Reader said finally. Their voices were soft but resolute.   "Yeah..." he says and puts his hands in his pockets "I'm the one who let you open the restaurant and was the first to eat those noodles." says the man, at which Reader takes two steps backwards and only now in the man does they recognize the former President of L'Manburg. 

"Mr President..." whispers Reader. 

The man's expression softened at their recognition, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. "Please, just call me Wilbur," he said, his voice carrying a note of sincerity.  Reader's mind raced with memories of their time together in L'Manburg, the moments of camaraderie and hardship they had shared. They couldn't help but feel a surge of emotion at the sight of him standing before them, a stark reminder of the past they had tried so hard to leave behind.  "I never thought I'd see you again," they admitted, their voices barely above a whisper. "Not after everything that happened." 

𝒲ilbur's face took on a serious expression; his eyes seemed to be searching the ground for answers. "I understand," he spoke in a hushed tone. "Being brought back to life is just as shocking for me as it is for others.” 

Reader paused, gazing at their small restaurant with its quaint decor. "If you'd like, Mr. President - Wilbur, I believe I can whip up some delicious noodles with savory meat for you. However, it may take a bit of time."  A small, genuine smile graced Wilbur's lips at Reader's kind offer, the corners of his mouth turning up as if pulled by invisible strings. "I would be delighted," his bright brown eyes shone with gratitude, reflecting the warmth in his voice as he replied, a hint of nostalgia woven into his words. 

𝒲ith a graceful sweep, Reader disappeared into the kitchen to prepare their meal. Wilbur followed, sinking into a plush chair at one of the empty tables. His mind wandered back to the days when L'Manburg was a bustling nation, overflowing with life and possibility. Memories rushed in like a powerful river, each one bringing a flutter of nostalgia and longing as he waited patiently for the mouth-watering aroma of food to permeate the air once more. He could almost taste the rich flavors and feel the warmth radiating from the kitchen as Reader worked their magic. 

𝒯he kitchen was alive with a symphony of sounds, as Reader moved with dancer-like grace and purpose. The clinking of pots and pans echoed through the air, each utensil playing its own instrumental part in the culinary orchestra. The scent of simmering broth, infused with aromatic spices, filled Wilbur's senses, wrapping him in a warm and comforting embrace that made his stomach growl with anticipation. It was like being enveloped in a cloud of savory goodness, beckoning him closer to the source of its alluring aroma.  After spending years in the desolate realm of Limbo without any sustenance, the mere scent of these noodles sent a wave of hunger crashing over him. He could practically taste the savory broth and chewy strands as if they were right in front of him. The aroma was so enticing, he felt like he could devour liters of it without hesitation. 

𝒜s Reader emerged from the warm, bustling kitchen with a steaming bowl of noodles in hand, Wilbur's eyes met theirs with a mixture of admiration and longing. The aroma of savory broth and freshly cooked noodles wafted through the air, enticing his senses. As he took the first bite, the flavors exploded on his palate, each mouthful a symphony of tastes that transported him back to simpler times. With every swallow, he could taste the heart and soul that Reader had poured into the dish.  "You have truly outdone yourself," Wilbur exclaimed between bites, his eyes never leaving Reader's face as if trying to convey his gratitude and appreciation through their locked gaze. 

𝒯he words hung heavy in the air, thick with disbelief and awe. "I was at your funeral," Reader's voice trembled as they took a seat in the chair next to Wilbur. "And now I'm serving you noodles." The steam from the hot meal rose and mingled with their breath, a surreal scene unfolding before them. "You really have been revived," Reader marveled at the miracle of Wilbur's return from death.  "Believe me, you're not the only one having trouble adjusting to this." Wilbur says between mouthfuls of steaming noodles. He pauses to take a deep breath, then continues with a tinge of gratitude in his voice, "But thanks to my hero I am back alive. Dream."  He lifts his bowl up in a gesture of gratitude towards Dream, who is now behind bars in prison. Reader can sense the tension and unease between Wilbur and Dream. 

𝐼t's clear that something has changed between them, something that Reader doesn't quite understand or enjoy witnessing. 

𝒯he word fell from Reader's lips with a bitter tone, carrying with it the weight of past struggles and disappointments. The mere mention of "Dream" conjured up a flood of negative memories - the root cause of L'Manberg's seemingly endless problems.  "Dream? Eh, Wasn't he perhaps enemy number one in L'Manberg?” Reader asks. 

𝒲ilbur's gaze darkened at the mention of Dream's name, a storm brewing in his eyes. "Yes, he was," Wilbur admitted, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and betrayal.  "But he was also the one who brought me back from the Limbo." The conflicting emotions within Wilbur were evident in his tense posture and furrowed brow.  Reader could sense the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface, the unresolved issues and complicated history between Wilbur and Dream hanging heavily in the air. "I know it's hard to understand," Wilbur continued, his voice softer now, laced with a hint of sadness. "But things are never as black and white as they seem, especially in a place like L'Manberg." He took another bite of noodles, the warmth of the broth offering a momentary distraction from the weight of their conversation. 

𝑅eader watched Wilbur closely, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together in their minds. Despite the tension between them, Reader couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Wilbur. The weight of expectations and responsibilities had taken its toll on him, leaving behind scars that ran deep. 

𝑅eader smiles and refills the broth in Wilbur's noodles. 

"It's good to have you back." 

[hatchetislostpog]

Y/n: What makes you think I give a single shit about you?

Revivebur: You hallucinating my ghost for the past half a year is a pretty big clue. C'mon, what's the harm in admitting you love me? It's not like I can die again.

[wilbursprincess]

Can you give us a fict how all Bursona would react to finding out that we(reader) is autistic/has autism? pwease

How The Bursonas Would React To You Having Autism

Various Bursonas x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Pure fluff :)

Hello anon! I genuinely love all these autism-related asks, because as an autistic girlie, it’s very therapeutic to write :)

Headcannons below cut!

Superstarbur: “That’s why you’re so passionate about your interests? That’s so cool! I didn’t realize my music was one of your special interests, but I’ve never been so honored.”

Revivebur: “Are you sensitive to loud noises? I know I’m fighting in a war and want you with me, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Simpbur: “You’re still so perfect to me, no matter how your brain works.”

Sirenbur: “I don’t know if we sirens have that. It sounds so interesting, though! Can you tell me more?”

Dadbur: “I’ll make sure Tallulah doesn’t overwhelm you. She’s a sweetheart, but y’know, kids! You know this doesn’t make me love you any less, right? Your brain just works a little differently. Doesn’t make you less lovable.”

Emobur: “Aww, emo culture is so accepting, you’ll be right at home. I can’t wait to find you some comfortable emo clothes!”

Vampirebur: “My biting doesn’t give you sensory issues, right? Ok, good. I love your blood, but your comfort is more important.”

Princebur: “I don’t really know what that means, is it a modern thing? It makes you sensitive to lights, sounds, and textures? You have really passionate interests and you’re socially awkward? It’s always existed, but we only recently had a name for it? That’s so cool! Can you teach me more about it?”

Incelbur: “Can you have a special interest in me? What do you mean, that’s not how it works?”

[ghostiexe]

hiii i saw your reqs are open! could i request anything with a kinda gruff but still sweet revivebur? thank you in advance!

(p.s., can i be ⚰ anon?)

hiiii ⚰ anon! yes of course! tw: wilbur smokes, light swearing, idk it's cold? mentions of hypothermia (lighthearted)

worcount: 970

"Can We Go Back Inside Now?"

You huff softly as the crisp winter air nips at your nose and cheeks, gaze shifted up toward the stars as you blow your breath onto your hands in an attempt to warm them up, though it’s half-hearted. You watch as a couple snowflakes start to drift down around you, wiping your face and blinking up at the night sky. 

You hear him before you see him, the sound of boots crunching in the snow and the smell of cigarettes. The footsteps pause and you can practically feel him hovering behind you. 

“Hello, Will.” You greet him without looking, just leaning back until you’re halfway laying on the snowy ground, blinking up at him. He frowns down at you, taking a long drag of his cigarette before sighing, the smoke blowing away as he snuffs the cigarette on his coat. 

“Are you trying to get sick and die?” He asks, sounding unamused as he puts his hands on his hips, staring down at you. You shrug and sit up again, letting him pull you up to your feet. 

“That was not the goal, no.” You say, wiping your runny nose and cracking a smile at him, amused by how disgruntled he looks with the snow falling into his face and his glasses fogging up.

He scoffs softly and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you slightly closer to him and shoving his free hand into his pocket. “Well, it’s damn cold, so let’s go back inside before you get hypothermia.” He says, looking mildly annoyed.

“You didn’t have to come out and get me.” You remind him, leaning against him and gently bumping your hip against his. “You could’ve stayed inside where it’s nice and warm and left me to my inevitable death by freezing.” 

He grumbles something to himself and pulls you closer so that your chests are pressed together, shoving his face into the crook of your neck and nuzzling his freezing cold nose into your warm skin. You jolt slightly and laugh, trying to squirm out of his arms. 

“Ugh, what was that for?” You complain, not protesting when he just pulls you even closer, practically crushing you. 

“My face is cold, your neck is warm. The goal here seems clear to me.” He deadpans, though you can feel how his lips quirk up into a smile against your neck. “I thought you wanted to go in where it’s warm, not keep my hostage out in the cold.” You protest, wrapping your own arms around him and leaning against him. He loosens his grip slightly, now that you aren’t trying to run away. 

“Maybe you should talk less.” He mumbles, pulling his face away and peering down at you, the tips of his nose and ears red from the cold. 

“Maybe you should make me.” You tease, pulling him in for a little kiss. He brings a hand up to cup your face, the other still around your waist as the two of you kiss sweetly. After a few moments he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against yours.You sigh contentedly and sway slightly from side to side with him. 

“We should dance.” He says after a short, comfortable silence. You look up at him, a little surprised, but not opposed. It’s something the two of you had done on the regular before his, well, untimely demise (and, consequently, resurrection). 

“Really?” You ask, a tentative smile crossing your face. He looks embarrassed, but nods. 

“Okay.” You whisper, cheeks a little pink, a bright grin on your face as he smiles gently down at you, resting one hand on your hip and holding your hand with his free one. Your other hand instinctively goes to rest on his upper arm, and he relaxes slightly into your touch. 

Your movements are awkward at first, a clumsy waltz. You’re both incredibly out of practice, but soon enough you’re back into the swing of things. 

“Sorry we don’t have music.” He apologizes, turning his head down to look at you. You glance up at him, taking your gaze away from your feet (you were examining your steps, trying to avoid stomping his toes (though you doubt he’d feel it through his thick boots). 

“It’s okay, don’t worry.” You promise him, trying to lean in to kiss his cheek right while you step. You both trip over each other at the same time and end up on the ground again, your leg pinned under his while he looks bewilderedly at you. His glasses are falling off the tip of his nose and his mouth is slightly agape. You push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, then kiss the tip of it, and put your hand on his cheek, thumb brushing across the faint stubble. 

He sighs softly and leans into it before wrapping his arms around you and rolling over so that you’re on top of his chest, pulling you tightly into him. 

You laugh softly and shake your head slightly, resting your head on his chest and sliding your hand back into his, fingers interlocking. “You’re just a big ol’ softie, you know that?” You ask, and he grumbles something under his breath before lightly flicking your forehead. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He says, sounding like a grouchy toddler. He sit up with you still on him and scoops you into his arms as he stands. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck and he peers down at you. “Can we please go back inside now?” He asks, and you nod, kissing his cheek.  “Okay, doll.” You say, using his usual nickname for you back on him. A faint blush rises on his cheek but he just carries you back to the house, eager to bundle up and enjoy the warmth of the fire again.

[bursonafied]

Vampire simpbur would be most pathetic loser ever I think maybe

-🍡 anon !! :3

OHH MY GOSH YES!! He would be so pathetic and cold all the time… he would just want you to hold him so he could feel warm… and probably some of your blood too

I love him sm :(

ALSOOOO sorry it’s late! I got busy with classes and other things… I’m working on all requests! I have a doc with all of them on it and I’ll do my best to post one at least once a week. :)

Thank you soso much to my friend honey-with-tea for helping me come up with ideas and inpso for my piece :)

Warnings: blood, biting

Pairing: vamp!wilbur x gn!reader

Pronouns: you/yours

*not proofread*

"Please, y/n…” Wilbur begs, following you around the dim flat like a lost puppy. Ever since he’d revealed to you that he was a vampire, (crazy, right?), he would not stop pestering you. “Just a taste!” He would whine, wanting nothing more than a taste of you. your blood would be like liquid rubies to him. Like a fine wine of the highest cost.

The juxtaposition between his height and his intimidating energy was pretty comedic. Standing at a solid 5’4 seemingly made him even more pathetic. He looked like he should be taller, right?

“No! I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I swear to god, Wilbur. I had a long day at work. Someone’s dog threw up on me after waking up from surgery.” You complain, hurrying to your room to change out of your work clothes, putting on a pair of comfy pajama pants and a t-shirt. You shut the door behind you, and Wilbur just whines behind it. “Seriously?” He groans and you can her him stomp away. You step out of your room, running your fingers through your hair. your room was the only place you could get privacy in your shared place.

Wilbur is immediately beside you again.

“You’re.. pathetic.” You mumble to him. He rolls his eyes yet still follows you. He figured that bothering you would be the only way to get you to say yes. You go to the kitchen to start your dinner, and while Wilbur can eat things other than blood, but nothing could satiate his hunger for it. you start up a pot of water, taking out the pasta and sauce, then grab some frozen meatballs from the freezer. It was a simple meal and you were too tired to make something complicated. As you stir in the pasta, you feel Wilbur creep up behind you, his arms snaking around your waist. You freeze for a moment, but sigh loudly as you feel his breath on the side of your neck. He could practically hear the blood flowing through your veins. You shake your head.

“Wilbur.” You say sternly. “Don’t you dare bite me.” He listens to that much. Instead, he leans close and licks a stripe up your neck, stopping up by your ear. You shiver beneath his touch and turn your head.

“What? I listened.” He speaks in a low, snarky tone. You glance down to his mouth. his fangs. If he wasn’t a vampire that wanted to drain you of your life, maybe you’d be attracted to him. Maybe you already were, and just refused to believe it.

“You’re a pain.” “You love me.” You share a short exchange before it falls silent again. “Whatever.” You add before stirring the pasta, allowing it to boil. You cook the rest of your dinner and happily plate it, eager to dig in. You make a plate for Wilbur, just in case. You hear some light chuckles from Will before he turns to sit at the table.

Now, a few minutes later, you two sit silently at the table. You scroll through social media as you eat. Wilbur sort of pushes the food around on the plate and nibbles on a meatball, but his gaze is mostly on you.

He watches your neck, the way it moves when you swallow. The way your collarbones seemed so prominent and bite-able. He scratches at his hands, his nails scratching harshly along his skin to leave red marks. He was hungry, starving! He could barely contain it! He stares at you for a second before he stands up, the chair he sat in flies back and bangs against the wall.

“I’ll be back!” He shouts, hurrying to the bathroom. You watch him for a moment, then hesitantly turn back to your food. Suddenly, you’re not hungry. You dump the plate as well as Wilbur’s, since you know damn well he wouldn’t eat any of that. Meanwhile, Wilbur stares into the sink as his stomach cramps, he turns on the cold water and runs it over his pale hands, then splashes it over his face. He stands up and stares at himself. His hunger only increased. He would grow weaker if he continued to refuse to eat even mortal food. Would he have to resort to his vampiric tendencies and go out during the night, scouring the streets for any poor soul who happened to be alone and were weak and too nervous to fight back? Or, would you finally give in? It wasn't that hard! Was it? No! Wilbur groans. He shuts off the sink and takes a breath before slapping himself lightly to psych himself out. “Come on Wilbur. Be better, fuckin’ creep.” He mutters to himself before going back out to the living room, where you’re sat on the couch.

“Sorry! Had an emergency!” He smiles at you, but you only blink a few times out of confusion and stand up. “What happened…? You were fine five minutes ago.” “Oh! You know. Drank a lot of water today.” He lies, and you easily catch on. Curse you for paying such close attention to him. “You never drink water, you damn liar.” You cross your arms and shift your weight on your feet. Wilbur gulps, shaking his head. “I felt like it today.” “God you think I’m stupid.” You scoff with a disbelieving laugh. “What?? When did I ever say I thought you’re stupid?” Wilbur shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “You didn’t have to say it!” You retort, “You thinking your lie would work said enough.” You cross your arms over your chest and Wilbur puts his hands up in defense. “Okay, whatever. Sorry.” He mumbles. “It’s always sorry with you. Either sorry or, ‘can I please have some of your blood? Can I please have a taste? Just a bit?” Wilbur seems to shrink into himself and his face flushes, if that was even possible for him. Could vampires blush? “It’s pathetic and embarrassing! I don’t get it. Maybe the fact you—“ You pause and take a long breath.

“Wilbur.” You say after a long silence. There was only one way to get him to stop begging, and that was just to give him what he wanted. He looks up from his shameful slump and looks at you. “…yeah?” His voice is as small as his height. What a loser. “Shut the fuck up, and I’ll let you,, um, I’ll let you.. feed.” Wilbur’s eyes instantly light up. He nods rapidly and does his silly little hand-flaps he does when excited. “Yes! Really?? Oh, thank you!I’ll never ask again!!” He says, absolutely elated that you finally agreed. You take a deep breath and approach him, his eyes glimmering. “Just... don’t make it awkward.” You practically beg, not wanting it to be weird as he quite literally feeds of your blood. What am I saying,,, of course it would be weird! Your roommate would be just drinking your blood. “I’ll do my best,” He chuckles nervously and approaches you. “Are you sure this is okay?” He asks, nervously fidgeting with is hands. You shift your weight awkwardly on your feet before nodding. “As long as you leave me alone when you’re done.” “Of course.”

Another moment of awkward silence… it seemed like there were a lot of those lately.

“I…” he pauses, nervously tapping his fingers against your shirt. “Your wrist.” He says after a moment. “What?” You ask, tilting your head. “It— it’ll hurt less. And um, won’t be as much blood. Like, imagine just getting a blood sample at the doctor.” You could tell Wilbur was growing nervous. He never really expected you to say yes to… this. “Oh, right.” You whisper and nod, holding out your wrist. He grabs your arm and guides you to the couch, sitting you down, “Just incase you get.. dizzy.” He runs his thumb over the blue vein that ran along your arm, displaying the precious liquid he’s craved for so long.

His breathing picks up as he lifts your arm to his mouth. He shudders as he can feel the heat radiating off your body, and his mouth waters. He can’t take it anymore. You notice his grip tighten on your arm. “Go ahead.” You whisper after a second. Wilbur nods and then finds the perfect spot, the pulse of your wrist. He opens his mouth and without warning, sinks his fangs right into your vein. Making sure his teeth went deep enough to draw blood. You gasp at the pain, flinching slightly despite expecting it. Wilbur pulls his mouth away for a second and allows some of the blood to pool before sticking out his tongue and lapping up the blood, humming with contentment as he licks up each and every drop. You see the blood, the way it smears over his tongue and lips as he messily drinks it up. your breathing picks up, uneven. He slows down and looks up so his eyes meet yours. You two hold eye contact, Wilbur’s tongue slips out and slides along your skin, stopping the blood that beads up every time he pulls away. Your hand finds it was to his chin, light cupping it as he holds your forearm. “What’re you-“ he whispers, his face lifting from your arm so it was more level with yours. “I— I just..”you shake your head, not so sure what had taken over you. “Is this going to.. change me? You know… like..” You gesture to the bite marks on his neck that were poorly hidden with makeup, and he tilts his head. “Uh- um-“ he stutters out, shrugging. “I don’t know..” He whispers nervously. “I hope you do.” his voice is quiet. “Because I would love to spend the rest of time with you.”

Your eyes widen and your face seem to burn. The stinging in your wrist fades right before Will glances down at it once more. The blood was pooling, threatening to drip over your wrist and right onto the grey couch. You tilt his head back up to meet your gaze again. “You.. want to stay, with me?” Your voice is a bit shaky, head tilting. “Ye— yeah.” Wilbur’s gaze holds yours, he leans closer. And closer, and closer. “I don’t think I would want to spend my life with anyone else.” He adds. Just another inch, he thinks. You swallow the saliva filling your mouth, feeling slightly sick as the blood still spills from your wrist. You have no words for Will. Nothing to say in response to his sudden confession. Not that you had the chance to, because as soon as you went to speak, his lips collide with yours. You momentarily forget the feeling of blood running down toward your fingers as you feel his cold lips on yours. They’re cold, but soft. Softer than you expected. It’s slow at first but soon he scoots himself further, his lips part and his tongue hungrily presses to your lips. He’s practically begging to let him in. So, you do. You part your lips and are instantly met with the metallic taste of your own blood. Your hand moves from his chin to hold his cheek, your blood spreading across his face, in the shape of your hand. The kisses spread, his lips moving down your neck where he simply kisses your skin, but after a moment, his teeth graze your throat. his breath is hot and wet against your skin. You let out a quiet, choked sound at the feeling. Your stomach twists into knots and you can feel the emotions you’ve packed away rushing through your veins, almost at the same speed as your blood pumping through them.

“Do it,” you whisper, tilting your head back a bit. “Please..” You nearly beg, and he nods, smirking against your skin. It’s another second before you feel his fangs sink into your neck. he makes sure it’s higher up on your carotid artery so it bleeds less, hopeful you would turn, joining him in immortality. His teeth remain in your skin and your hands begin to tremble with the pain that’s followed by pleasure. Your eyes pinch shut tightly, ignoring the pain as best you can. He soon pulls away and sweetly licks away the blood before kissing the area.

You aren’t sure how long it’s been since the first bite, nor what time it was now. But Wilbur was fed and happy, so that’s what really mattered.

He comes back with a towel and glass of water for you, wiping up any of the left over blood that began to dry on your skin. You sip the water and lean back against the couch. As soon as he’s done, Wilbur sets down the towel and curls up next to you, looking up at you with loving eyes. “Thank you.” He whispers, running his fingers over the bite marks on your neck. “Hm?” You hum, looking over to him. “For.. letting me bite you and stuff.” You smile and nods, It wasn’t as big of a deal as you initially thought. “Anything to get you to stop whining.” You tease, and he just grins before rolling his eyes. “Whatever, you seemed to like it.” You couldn’t deny that so you remain silent. Wills arms snake around your waist and he pulls himself close to you. “You excited? Get to deal with me for all of eternity now.” He teases with an obnoxious kiss to the cheek. You nod.

“I can’t wait.”

[deadqueerboys]

Surprise hug!!

Quackity, Revivebur (x fem! Reader, separate)

Quackity;

Quackity was working, so worried about everything going well as he probably screamed at the screen. He was busy, he's always busy. So, at this time, Y/n decided to give him a gift. She walked in with some comfortable clothes, Quackity's clothes, probably her new pajama. She called him, his head quickly turning to see his girlfriend, how he really likes, wearing his clothes and only in her panties.

"Oh, hey babe." He smirks, his eyes looking at her up and down before he gets out of his chair and comes closer to her. When he's close enough, she gets him. Jumping on his lap and wrapped her arms and legs around him. He takes a moment to understand, but when he does, he hugs her back. Quackity nuzzle into her neck, smelling her scent, her perfume. "What's wrong? You can't sleep?"

"I just wanted to make a visit." She smiles, cupping his cheeks and kissing him over and over again, barely breathing, but she wouldn't stop giving him comfort. "You're handsome.." Y/n giggles, putting his hand under her shirt, allowing him to touch her as he pleases.

He could deny, oh, how he could.. but it's his girlfriend. His soft spot. His favorite person. He couldn't say no so easily. Quackity guides his own hand to touch her breast, roughly grabbing it. He could feel himself getting hard and he could see how needy she was too.

Revivebur;

Wilbur was playing busy since he came back, not allowing his own girlfriend to take care of him or make sure he's okay. He would just say "no" or "leave me alone." It was stressful. He can't spend so much time with her as he used to. Even when he was a ghost, he was more present in her life, but not now. So, when the night appears, Y/n runs as fast as possible and hugs him from behind, making his cigarette fall on the floor.

"My love!" Y/n smiles, her arms wrapped around him, and it doesn't seem easy to take her out of him. She can see the frown on his face even before he turns around. Surprisingly, he doesn't slap her or complains about how close she was.

"Yes, sure.. love." Wilbur sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns around and puts his hands on her waist. It's possessive. It almost hurts. He avoids her kisses or affection, only pressuring her against the wall and making his bulge touch her stomach during their height difference. "Do you want a little bit of my attention?"

She nods, and he puts his cold hands inside her panties, he makes circles with his fingers, touching her warm and wet pussy. He makes only one finger come inside, and his hands are too big anyway.

[listenheresweaty]

Dead as Disco (Revivebur x Reader)

no proofreading, we die like men

people I’ve tagged: @poraphia, @witheredroseanon, @drop-of-void, @saccharinesunset

Synopsis: Some tough memories arise, so you help Wilbur out by sending Schlatt a final “fuck you” —-

You had a long, complicated relationship with winter. First of all— it wasn’t summer! So you could rest easy in the wonderful absence of mosquitos and nasty, sweaty heat that prevented you from enjoying any potential scenery. On the other hand, it replaced your favorite season (Fall) and brought tidings of stuffy noses and dry skin. 

And your boyfriend never liked the winter, either. Not after his revival. Too cold, too dark— and too quiet, save for when the wind would blow through the open landscape, sounding far too much like the whistle of an oncoming train. 

You both avoided going outside during the winter, choosing to stay curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace— your head on his chest as he muttered about whatever was on his mind, rubbing circles into your scalp. 

But it was unavoidable that you’d end up outside eventually. A good chunk of Wilbur’s family lived in the tundra region and you were bound to end up walking back home late at night, having decided not to inconvenience Phil and Techno any further. 

(In truth, you just wanted to get home before the snowstorm that threatened to keep snowed in for the rest of the week—- and although the Syndicate members were lovely hosts, your anniversary was coming up and you wanted to at least spend it alone together).

“Shit weather.” Wilbur mumbled as you traversed the Prime Path. “Hasn’t even snowed yet.” 

Wilbur kicks at the frosted ground for emphasis, adjusting his grip on your hand and pressing as close as he could without unbalancing you. You felt sufficiently warm in your sweater and jacket, save for the stinging sensation of the wind biting at your knuckles and nose, but Wilbur was still shivering. 

“The frost isn’t that bad. At least it’s crunchy.” You hum. 

“Eugh, there’s so many more terrains that make better crunching sounds than this.” He grumbled. 

“..Such as?” 

“Gravel, for one. Sand— when it’s spread sparsely enough. But technically beaches make crunching sounds too, it’s just— muffled. I guess.” He turned to you. “Why don’t we ever go to the beach?”

“Because last time we went, I couldn’t kiss you for a week without getting sand in my mouth.” 

“That’s why you wouldn’t kiss me??” Wilbur exclaimed, looking scandalized.  “Because you’d get a little sand in your mouth!”

“It’s disgusting!” 

“It’s not!”

“Yes it is— it doesn’t leave your mouth, and then your going about your day and suddenly feel it crunchbetween your molars—“ 

“That’s the best part, the fuck are you talking about?” 

“What—-“ you splutter, at a loss for words. “I can’t with you. I just can’t.” 

“Ouch.” He pouted in mock offense. “You know darling, with how you treat me sometimes, one would think you…”

He trails off. You continue walking, staring at the frozen grass as you wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, you look back up. 

“Wilbur?”

Wilbur tears his eyes away from whatever he was looking at and glances back at you. “—Oh. Yeah. Nothing, we’re… lost my train of thought.”

You peer down into the darkness and spot an array of cobblestone and flags in the distance. 

Oh. You had forgotten that it was visible from this route. 

The banners on Schlatt’s grave, scrawled with graffiti from over the years, flapped silently in the wind. 

It’s no wonder he had gone silent— especially with that incident the last time Tommy visited the Tundra. 

“You ought to be careful around Quackity, Wilbur.” Philza and warned, sitting by the fire as Tommy raided his pantry for more honey bottles. 

“Nah, he’s no threat.” Wilbur said, stretching his limbs. “He’s all bark, no bite. Sure, he acts all tough, but he’s just like his country. All style, no substance.”

You heard Tommy snort. “No bite? Dude literally ate Schlatt’s heart at his funeral.”

Wilbur choked. “He what?” 

“Yeah, and I still have his lungs somewhere. Good times.” Tommy closed the pantry and began stuffing Phil’s belongings into his pockets. 

“I sure hope you didn’t do that at my funeral.” Wilbur snorts. “…How was it, by the way?”

Tommy’s movements freeze, and you avert your eyes. “How was what, again? Sorry, I wasn’t listening. Anyway, the, um, honey—-“

“My funeral.” Wilbur repeated, smile faltering. “Was it— like— how was it?”

“We, um…” Tommy couldn’t look his brother in the eye. “It was a— wiggly time back then. There was so much going on, and—-“

“Oh.” Wilbur’s smile had completely disappeared. 

“With—with— with rebuilding, and threats of further destruction—“

“Yeah.”

“We didn’t— we couldn’t—“

“Yeah. Okay.” Wilbur cleared his throat. “Okay. Alright! I get it.” He stood up, clapping his hands with a strained grin. “So! Phil, you said Technoblade was outside?”

“..Yeah.” Phil said. “He’s outside.”

Phil had barely the time to finish the sentence before Wilbur was gone, leaving a slamming door and a puff of frigid air in his wake. 

Wilbur Soot, the silvertongued General, Founder, Brother, Father, Son, lover—- had never gotten a funeral. 

Schlatt, on the other hand…

To everyone’s credit, Schlatt’s funeral had been more of a celebration, an opportunity for everyone he had wronged to spit, laugh, and dance on his grave. 

Well. Almost everyone. 

You glanced sideways at Wilbur, wondering if you should give it a shot. 

“Hey.” You say and his head snaps to you. “Cmere.” You take his hand and gently pull him off the path, heading to the gravesite. 

“Uh—“ Wilbur hesitates, clearly reluctant to approach the very object of his inner turmoil. “What are we doing?”

“Wait.” You scale the hill and pass by the worn benches, heading straight to where the marble tomb lay. 

“Uh, [Name]?” He repeats, laughing a little incredulously. “I don’t really understand why we’re—-“

“Shush!” You march right up to the coffin— and with two definitive stomp, stomps— climb right on top. Swiveling on the spot, you turn and hold a hand out to a dumbfounded Wilbur. “Cmere.”

He lets you pull him up, awkwardly finding his footing on the rectangular lid. “Uh, alright. Why— woah!”

You tug him closer, guiding his hands to your waist and wrapping yours around the back of his neck. 

Wilbur stares, and you stare back. 

Your confidence begins to falter— crap, this was a dumb idea. “Um. I just— thought we could dance? Yknow.. here?”

“Dance.” He echoed, a light beginning to dawn in his eyes. A smile spreads across his face— a lovestruck, wobbly smile— and he steps closer, pulling you to his chest as he buries his face in your neck, suppressing a laugh. “..Alright.” He murmurs against your skin, grinning like an idiot. 

“I know there’s no music, but—“

“It’s okay.” He says quietly, holding you close as you both sway to an inaudible tune. 

You let yourself melt into it, reaching a hand up to idly pet the back of his neck, playing with his hair. 

It’s less of a dance and more of a prolonged embrace since there isn’t much room for foot movement, but neither of you mind. 

You tilt your head to press a kiss to the stretch of jaw just below his ear, feeling his lips twitch into another smile against the crook of your neck. 

“I don’t deserve you.” He murmurs, so quiet it barely disturbs the silence around you. 

“You deserve the world.” You say. 

Wilbur lets out a puff of laughter, shaking his head against your shoulder and wrapping his arms around you tighter. “Mkay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I’ll never understand, but I know.” He sighs, turning his head to rest his chin against your shoulder, staring out into the open fields behind you. 

“You’re not a bad person.” You move a hand to scratch at his scalp and he hums contentedly. “You may not have been a good one. ..Although, admittedly, this server hasn’t been the most.. conducive to good morals. You’re a person though, a human being, and all this—-“ you squeeze him tighter, kissing his jaw, “—-you deserve.”

He’s silent for a while. You let him think, rubbing circles into his back and pretend you don’t hear the quiet sniffles he tries to choke down. 

When Wilbur speaks again, his voice is steady, if not a little hoarse. “Do you, uh.. think I could be one?”

“A what? A good person, you mean?” You furrow your brow.

“Yeah. That.” 

Wilbur has always had different views of humanity than you do. He presented the world like a stage, bustling with heroes and villains, characters predestined by fate. Life was a story, and they were in center stage, the protagonists of it all, following a script until met with triumph or tragedy. It’s with these grand, romanticized views of reality that Wilbur had managed to win over so many people. Everyone loves a good story, after all. 

As a rigidly scientific mind, you never shared those sentiments. Humans were merely developed animals, that’s all. Each struggle would be lost and rendered meaningless to the sands of time, and so would the morals on which they stood. 

“I think you could.”  The night is getting colder and your feet are freezing, but neither of you are willing to leave this pocket of warmth you’ve created, heads tucked into necks and hands running through hair. 

“But you don’t believe good and bad people, do you? You never did.” Wilbur said quietly. 

“Maybe not. But I still think you could fit your definition of ‘good person’. You are kind. That’s a start.” You continue rubbing circles into his scalp, carefully twisting and combing the curls with your fingers. 

Wilbur doesn’t respond. He only lifts his head, trailing his lips in a pathway from your shoulder to your jaw, up your cheek to rest against your forehead. He stays like that, eyes closed for one, two, three heartbeats before he pulls away to look you in the eye. 

Wilbur’s  ears, nose, and eyes are tinged red, the first two from the cold and the last from silently crying into your shoulder. 

Both your hands and his cheek are frigid, but when you brush your thumb under his eye he leans into the touch anyway, not looking away from you for even a moment. 

He only closes his eyes when you lean forward, pressing your lips to his. 

It’s the collapsing of a star, pulled magnetically inwards, striving to be as close as physically possible. He’s cradling your face like it’s made of sugarglass and you treat him with equal gentleness, running a hand through his hair, mindlessly stepping backwards as he crowds your space, adjusting to get closer, closer because it’s still cold—-

You take one last step and suddenly there’s no more marble under your heel, and you pitch backwards, toppling off the tomb with a yelp. Wilbur follows suit, sprawling out on the grass next to you with grunt. 

Within seconds, you’re both wheezing with laughter, pulling each other closer and leaning back to rest

After catching his breath, Wilbur speaks. “We should do this more often.”

You don’t miss the tinge of sadness in his voice, and suddenly become very aware about how distant this relationship has gotten. It’s not neglected, by any means, but you can’t remember the last time you did something like this. 

(Actually, you can. The last time you danced like this was November 15th, 2020). 

But you opt for a more lighthearted tone. “What? Dance on this grave more often?”

“No, no— I mean yes, I’d love to make this our designated date spot— yknow?” He looks over at you with a sly grin. 

“Mm-hm. Maybe bring some music next time.” You smile back. 

“And a few blankets. Maybe some wine.” Wilbur leans a bit closer. 

“Picnic?” You whisper. 

“Definitely.” He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours. “But.. also in general. We could… have more dates, in general. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah. It has.” You murmur, closing your eyes as well. “…So, next Friday?”

 You feel him laugh softly. “Yeah! Yeah, next Friday sounds great.”

Unable to help yourself, you cup his cheek and pull him into a kiss. It’s a lot softer than the last kiss, lips lingering together as you both pull apart to breathe. 

“…I hope Schlatt’s fuming in hell right now.” Wilbur says quietly, eyes still closed and lips still close. 

“I bet he is.” 

[dontfindmerain]

HOLA ITS ME AGAIN-

Making out with revivebur-

That’s it.

okay now this i can do ;)

revivebur is the same as wilbur. you know this. just your average, psychopathic, former president. the man you had served through countless battles and never saw as anything more than a good friend.

so why is he so goddamn hot?

maybe it was how roughed up he was, or the smell of cigarette smoke he now seemed to carry with him, or maybe even the trench coat that was folded over his arms, which of course were showing due to the rolled up sleeves of his button down. always those fucking button downs....

so.. how did you end up pinned against a wall of his stupid burger van with his gorgeous lips against yours?

quite easily really, all he had to do was say your name with that authoritative tone and you were already dumbed down. he took note of that immediately of course, softly cooing at you sweetly and luring you into the van before roughly slamming the door shut and shoving you up against the nearest surface. he kissed you with a hunger more intense than anything you had ever seen, which seemed fair considering he's been deprived for thirteen and a half years.

he takes his time at first, simply enjoying the way your lips feel on his. he could do this for hours, gripping your waist and pushing himself against you every so often. It's too bad that he's just too desperate.

"So pretty and all for me, right darling? Yeah? All fucked out and I've barely even touched you, gods you're pathetic," he breathes, harshly pressing his lips against yours, his long fingers wrapping themselves around your neck and squeezing. when you gasp into him he takes advantage and invades your mouth with his tongue. he fucking adores the sounds that pour out of you, so much so he doesn't even realize that his hips are twitching and bucking against yours.

how unfortunate that humans need oxygen, but of course as he pulls away he bites your lower lip, relishing the whine you let out, drawing blood and licking it up before he moves his attention to your neck.

"Well, look at that, it appears there is empty space here. We've got to do something about that, wouldn't you agree, my love? cant have you walking around without everyone knowing that you're mine." the smirk on his face is smug and his tone condescending as he coos, "Oh but don't worry, dear. I have all night."

[saccharinesunsetretired]

Okay disregard my last revivebur blurb i have a better one

After Wilbur death, his partner goes to live out of the smp

there is an incident, but it is relatively more peaceful

instead of UTAH, Wilbur leaves the SMP to go travel in other servers, and gets caught up in some weird shit idk idk. Point of the story— he’s in disguise

he meets the reader as the new neighbor in town! Reader doesn’t recognize him since their sight is balls after the incident, and maybe Wilbur is wearing a mask

wibbbbber is afraid of revealing himself as Wilbur due to fear of rejection so he tries to get close to you while still under the “neighbor” role

yall become friends, and the reader confides in [Wilbur] about her late fiancé, Wilbur soot!

”he was a lovely singer but a hopeless dancer…”

”our poet”

”I wish I had been there for him in the end, at least more often.”

speaks very highly of him, clearly loves him still while Wilbur is actually there and just 💘

OKAY I am responding to this one and probably the last one (later) because I have THOUGHTS

First of all, I love everything about this. Maybe reader is essentially blind after the incident (a fire? a final battle? idk). Reader has a service dog, and they “meet” Wilbur when he compliments how adorable the dog is (mans has a soft spot for animals and you cannot convince me otherwise). Wilbur recognizes you—of course—but how could he speak to you after everything? He doesn’t deserve redemption (he never did quite forgive himself), but maybe he could at least be close to you.

Meanwhile, reader can only sort of see Wilbur (maybe they’re the sort of blind where you can only make out shadows/light), but something about his presence feels warm and familiar. His voice sounds familiar too, but just a little off. Reader can’t quite place it, but they feel safe with Wilbur in a way that they themself don’t fully understand. This means, of course, that Wilbur visits a lot.

It’s a late night conversation, one held over warm tea as the rain patters gently on the roof. You’re sitting on the loveseat in your living room, dog curled up beside you, dozing off. Wilbur sits across from you in a chair, and you can barely see his silhouette. He’s asking you about your life before you arrived in town, asking less like he’s curious and more like he already knows. You write your suspicions off as your own paranoia as you begin telling him about Wilbur.

“He was too ambitious for his own good, sometimes,” you say wistfully, setting your tea on a side table. “That’s why I loved him. He wouldn’t take a ‘no’ from anyone. He had an idea of how the world should be, and nothing could deter him from that.”

Wilbur is quiet for a moment. “Sounds foolish,” he says. His tone is somewhat bitter, and he regrets the words as soon as they’re spoken.

“Maybe,” you reply thoughtfully. “Maybe sometimes…but I think his heart was always in the right place.” You pause. “Even at the end.”

You continue telling him about Wilbur, about himself, though you may not know it. How he was a terrible dancer, how he would apologize for stepping on your toes with a kiss pressed to the back of your hand. How, even when his mind was slipping, he held you at night whenever he could (so tightly, as if he feared you would slip away). How he always spoke highly of you. How he would recite poetry and respond to your light teasing with mock offense before showering you in kisses. How, during the fighting and whenever he was away, you’d receive his handwritten letters.

And then, you reach his death. “I would have done anything to save him,” you say. “Even then. Even at his worst, I would have done anything.” Your voice trembles, and you try to calm yourself with another sip of tea. When that doesn’t work, you find yourself sighing. “I wonder if he knew that. I was never good at telling him. I just wish…I wish I would have told him I loved him more, especially at the end.”

Wilbur’s heart breaks at the words, at the solemn expression on your face. He finds himself asking the question that he’s been dying to ask this whole time. “And…and did you forgive him? For all of it?” His breath hitches in his throat. He desperately wants a yes, but part of him wants a no. Part of him wants you to affirm what he’s believed about himself the whole time—that he’s unforgivable. That it’s a good thing that he died, and that you left.

Instead, you pause. “Yeah. For all of it. And I would do it all again, if I could go back. I would relive every painful moment just to be with him.”

Wilbur slowly gets out of his chair to kneel in front of yours. Hesitantly, he takes your hands in his. “I think he knows,” he says softly. “I think he knows that you loved him. Even at the end.” His breaths are short, and his legs tremble. He knows that you’ll recognize him now, and it terrifies him. The thought of losing you again is unbearable, but how can he watch you be in so much pain?

Your brows furrow slightly as you feel the steady weight of his hands in yours. And then, all the pieces fall together. These are familiar hands. These are the hands that held yours the day his nation gained independence. They’re the hands that held yours again in a dark cavern as he plotted a second revolution. You know every callous on these fingers.

“Wilbur…” His name has hardly left your lips before you’re pulling him close. He hesitates for a moment before wrapping his arms around you. The embrace feels like home. “It’s you.” You can hardly get the words out, too much in shock and disbelief.

“It’s me,” he confirms. He buries his face in your shoulder. “I’m sorry—I’m—I’m so sorry, love. I would redo it—“

“Shh,” you say. “Please. Just…” You pull back slightly and cup his face in your hands. You may only see his silhouette, but you know exactly how he’s looking at you. You can see those brown eyes in your mind just as clearly. “Don’t apologize. I know you’re sorry.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.” His voice is slowly crumbling, and he feels your arms around him once more.

“I know.” There are so many questions in your mind, so many things you want to ask. How is he here? Why has he said nothing about his own identity?

But those can all wait. “Make it up to me,” you say quietly. “Stay this time.”

He nods. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then to your cheek, then one to your lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises.

And this time, you know he’s telling the truth.

[simpleeshea]

On the clock!

C!Wilbur x reader

< previous chapter Next chapter >

Chapter 4.

Go to work, get paid, but not enough.

“It’s Wednesday, my dude!” I burst into the store door, an empty disposable cup of coffee in my hand.

“It is,” Wilbur confirmed, putting his phone down on the counter as he looked up at me. His face contorted into an odd expression before he gave a small smile. “Why does that matter? You religious or something?”

I give him a quick shake of my head. “No, definitely not.” I slide behind the counter and plop myself onto the stool.

“Really?” he muses, “then what’s with the dressy clothes?”

I look down at my attire, it was true that I didn’t normally wear anything this nice to work (not to say that my clothes weren’t nice in the first place.)

I find myself going quiet at his question. Wilbur didn’t mind, he just passively nodded before picking up his phone to check the time. That was something I admired about my and Wilbur’s friendship. We both had shit that went on in our lives, but neither of us ever asked about that. We decided nonverbally to keep our shit lives and our friendships separate. He didn’t know much about my life outside of work and I didn’t know much about his, and that’s how we liked it. So Wilbur didn’t pressure me to tell him how the rent was getting harder and harder to pay or how I had an interview for a second job during my lunch break.

“So,” Wilbur spoke up, “whose turn is it to restock the shelves?”

I looked over at him and groaned. He had a cheeky smile on his face because he knew whose turn it was.

Laughing he pointed over at me, “It’s your turn,” he said in a sickeningly sing-song voice.

“If you don’t shut up, I will literally kill you.”

“Can we get a threat jar too?” he asked looking over to the nearing full swear jars and poking at my head.

I scrunched my nose at him, “I will bite your finger off.”

He chuckled as he stopped poking my head. Wednesdays were Wilbur’s favorite because it meant he got to mock my pain. Wednesdays are the days that I dread.

“Better get to work stocker!” he said sounding far too amused.

I grumbled before standing up from my stool and heading toward the back storage room and grabbing a clipboard with the list of things that were supposed to be put out today. I glanced over the list before grabbing a few boxes and carrying them out of the storage room.

Wilbur was helping a customer whose card kept declining. I cringed and felt bad for the poor woman because she looked really panicked. Eventually, her card worked and with a sigh of relief, she took her drink and cigarettes and walked out the door.

I begrudgingly popped open the box in my hand, setting it down on the floor, and began to take the contents out of it to place on the shelves.

Wilbur propped himself up on his arm, his cheek resting peacefully on his hand. “You look so funny when you’re mad,” he said with a laugh.

“You just look funny.”

Wilbur reared back in faux pain. “I can’t believe you just said that! I mean I’m genuinely hurt.”

I took my middle finger and shoved it in his direction while my other hand dug through the box.

“Twenty-five cents.”

“It was nonverbal.”

“That still counts,” he argued.

I look up at him, completely fed up with his nonsense for the day and I hadn’t even been at work for an hour. “Wilbur… I am going to shove my twenty-five cents down your throat,” I smile passive aggressively.

Wilbur put a hand on his throat for a moment, seeming lost in thought before laughing. “Why can’t you be angry like this all the time?”

“Because then I have to deal with you being all smiley and sh- crap,” I awkwardly caught myself before swearing.

“Would you rather I be grumpy?” he asked with a smile spread wide across his lips.

“That’s how you normally are.” I crossed my arms and pretended to mope, “I’m Wilbur and I’m writing a book where I’m the main character,” I deepened my voice and mocked him.

He began to laugh and fall into a giggle fit, banging his hand on the counter as he laughed.

I shook my head as I tried not to laugh with him. His laughs were so contagious.

“I’m surprised you didn’t take that chance to make a jab at my height,” he said as he gained some form of composure.

“Nah,” I waved him off, “that’s too easy to make fun of.”

He shook his head, smiling. I looked down at the box on the floor; it was empty. I bent over to pick the box up and chunked it toward the trashcan beside the register counter.

“Careful where you're throwing that thing. You might take someone’s head off.”

“That was the goal, I just missed.”

“Loser. Get better aim,” he teased.

“There’s always the next box… and the next, and the next, and the next,” I shrugged as I turned on my heel, walking toward the storage room again.

This nonsense went on for a few hours. Wilbur poking fun at me and me just grumbling about it or threatening him in various ways. Wednesdays were a very different kind of day for Wilbur and I. Tomorrow it would be back to normal, I’d spend the whole day trying to find ways to make him laugh or listen to him talk about his book, or tell me about how he tried to cook some meal for dinner which almost burnt down his kitchen. I would never admit it to Wilbur, but Wednesdays were my favorite because those were the days he smiled the most.

—

“And what do you think makes you the most qualified for this position?”

I folded my hands in my lap, trying to keep my legs from shaking too nervously. “I’m a great fit for this position because you will never find someone as much of a perfectionist as I am. Those coffees will surely be brewed to absolute perfection.”

“Right…” the interviewer woman wrote something down in her notebook. “And do you have any experience making coffee? And not just the kind you brew at home.”

My breath hitched. “Don’t put too much creamer kiddo, you’ll make yourself sick.”

“But it tastes betteerrrrrr!”

“Yeah, I have coffee making experience.”

“Elaborate please.”

“Me and my parents make frappes and stuff at home.” I would have corrected myself and put all of that in the past tense, but in all honesty, I hadn’t made coffee with my parents since I was little. They never had time for that when I got older.

“Well,” the woman whose name I didn’t care to learn stood up, “It was a pleasure to meet you and you should get an email in about two to three weeks regarding whether you were excepted into the position.” She held out her hand. I stood up and firmly took her hand in mine, her skin cold like ice. I shook her hand once before letting go. Her expression gave me the vibe that she was the type of person to immediately go and sanitize her hands after touching anyone.

I exited the small back room and left the café. “That could have gone better,” I sighed as I sat down in my dingey Chevy truck and slammed the door. I put the key in the engine and started the vehicle as it revved to life (much too loud for my liking).

“Well,” I looked at the small stuffed animal I jokingly kept in my passenger seat, “Looks like it’s time to get back to work.” I blinked hard as I realized I was talking to a stuffed animal and pulled out of the parking lot to head back to work.

A/n

If you can’t tell, brain ain’t braining. It’s late at shit and I’m tired. Aslo if you couldn’t tell tehn I have absolutely no retail experience. I’ve never worked at a gas station so this is probably all super inaccurate.

Also I’m trying to keep things lighthearted with a few mild dips into your character’s background.

[bee--blossom]

Helloo! I was wondering if u could write a revivebur x gn!reader where he says goodbye to them before leaving for utah? Mostly fluff but with a little angst or whatever u think will work best if u choose to write this ^-^ no pressure!

howdy !! i am shamefully early to this because, admittedly, i was so excited i got a request lol. thank you sm for the prompt and i hope i did well by it ! xx

 ○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○

He wasn’t going to change his mind. He had already told you weeks ago of his plan… he could hide it from everyone else, but he could never hide it from you. You had observed him at his desk, writing letters upon letters to different people from his past by candlelight each night. When you finally asked what he was up to, he just couldn’t bring himself to lie. He was going back home.

You didn’t even know he came from the states… I mean, for starters, he’s british. But he never mentioned Utah, or what it was like growing up there, so you figured he’d just always lived on the SMP. When he told you he was going back, you did everything expected of the situation: begged, pleaded, sobbed… It just wasn’t fair. His life was always a bit of a mess, sure, but it just wasn’t right that he decided now of all times to leave it behind. To leave you behind.

Yet there was no changing it. You accepted it, begrudgingly or not, because there was no use trying to talk the man out of it- he was always a stubborn prick. You decided it would be best at this point to treasure the time you had left together, and to silently hope and pray he’d come back for you one day. 

It was the night before he departed, and no matter how tightly he held you, you already felt him slipping away. You hadn’t stopped crying, just holding tightly to his yellow knitted jumper like you could stick to him with your tears and force him to stay stuck to you forever. You couldn’t even call it crying at this point, the tears were just flowing out silently. He just held you back, lightly rubbing your back in circles. You don’t know how long you stayed like that- it could’ve been hours- before he pulled back. Your face was a mess- puffy, wet and tinted pink. He smiled warmly down at you and sat up from the couch you were lying on, climbing over you and walking over to your record player. It was a suitcase style leather player you had brought with you when you first arrived, and over the past few years you had been collecting discs to play on it. He pulled out one of the said discs and laid it down on the turntable, turning the machine on and moving the needle to the first grooves.

“Care for a dance, darling?” He offered his hand out to you as you slowly pulled yourself off the couch.

“I look awful.” You said, catching your own reflection in a mirror mounted on the wall. 

He stood over you and wiped your face before kissing your forehead, causing heat to gather in your cheeks. 

“Nonsense. You’re as charming as the first time I laid eyes on you.”

“That’s really corny.” You mumbled with a small smile, throwing your arms over his shoulders. It was a bit of a reach, but you managed. He put his hands on your waist, and the two of you swayed together. Gentle piano music filled the room, enveloping you both with sweet, small sounds. Soft amber glows from hovering lanterns lit the room gently above you, your shared cabin exuding comfort. You wish you could bottle his smell at the moment- some mix between a tobacco cologne and the scent of a freshly blown out candle. It was strange, but so unique to him. Just one more thing to miss.

You sighed, and he pulled you in closer by the hip, once again embracing you. 

“I love you.” He whispered down to your ear.

“I love you, too.” Your voice became weak and muffled from his closeness.

He pulled back and went down for a kiss, before you interrupted him.

“I’ve decided I won’t miss you, actually.” You said, looking up to him with a faint smile.

“Oh?” He cocked his brow, but smiled back to you. 

“Yep. I’ll be fine.” You said, swaying around on your heels.

“Oh. Then, I’ll be fine too.” He shrugged.

“You won’t be fine. You’ll be bored to death. What even is there to do in Utah? Go to 7/11? Join mormonism?” You said, voice gaining more strength.

“Oh yeah. Maybe work at Subway, who knows. A real land of opportunities.” He assured, grinning.

You both laughed a bit, dancing the whole time. When the record ended and you both were done cracking jokes about how shitty your homes were, you headed to bed. You held him tightly under the woolen blankets, the lightness of the night helping you forget the day ahead. He occasionally would bend down to kiss or caress you, eyes heavy with exhaust and content. You breathed him in and remained in his warmth all the way to sleep. When you woke, golden sunlight just breaking beyond your sheer curtains, he was gone.

You found one of his yellow sweaters at the foot of the bed, along with a note on top of it. It was short and sweet, but said everything you needed to hear. He loved you dearly, and one day- one day relatively soon- he’d be back for you. You slipped on his sweater over your sleep shirt, wrapping your arms around yourself and squeezing tight. You could still smell his cologne on it. You smiled, tucked the note into your bedside drawer, and got ready for one of many days awaiting his return.

[cloverhasnobrain]

Something we dont talk nearly enough about:

Touchstarved Revivebur.

Think about it, this man spent 13 years all by himself, he is so touchstarved it almost physically hurts. Humans are social creatures, after all, the body has its needs!

You are helping Wilbur in his burger van, as Ranboo asked you to since he wanted to take the day off with his family.

As Wilbur cleans the cabinets, you reach out for a spice bottle that is in the wrong place, and your hands accidentally brush.

It was only for a split second really, but such a simple touch shifted something in Wilbur, something he had repressed for far too long. His entire arm seemed to have caught fire, and a lump started to form in his throat.

You and Wilbur weren't very intimate now. He used to be your best friend, even your lover for some time, but he distanced himself from you, and when he died, your heart broke in a million pieces. There was an unspoken peace treaty between you now, but the elephant remained in the room.

You finished rearranging the various seasonings when you noticed Wilbur had stopped. You assumed he had just dozed off, but you could hear his soft shaky breaths, and knew something was wrong. "Wilbur?"

No response.

"Wilbur... Will? Are you ok?"

You reached out to touch his shoulder, fingers slightly grazing his greasy trench coat, when he inhaled sharply, his fists clenching at his side.

As you carefully peaked at his face, you saw a glimpse of the old Wilbur. His eyes were widened and glassy with emotion, fear? Longing? You had no idea.

It was like a punch to the gut, seeing him so shaky and vulnerable.

"Oh Wilbur..." Your hands glided up to his shoulders, thumbs caressing the nape of his neck.

That was it for Wilbur. He tipped over the small amount of control over his emotions he had left. Pearly tears stained his face, making his already proeminent eyebags stand out even more, and your heart broke as his lip trembled and he averted your gaze.

"Wilbur, what happened?" You whispered softly as you huged him and he melted into your touch, almost taking both of you down. He clinged onto the back of your button up with all his might, nuzzling softly onto the side of your neck.

He let out a sob as you lovingly stroked his back, your soothing contact being all too much for him, yet not enough.

He couldn't find the words, he couldn't verbalize anything, his comprehension of reality twisted, but you were there. You were grounding him.

"You... so soft- Y/N, I'm sorry. M' so sorry" he babbled as you stroked his back and lightly scratching his scalp, and he could ask for nothing more. "It's ok, Will... It's ok..."

Neither of you knew exactly what he was applogizing for, but primes, you forgave him. You slid onto the floor with him still clinging onto you, climbing onto your neck, shaking and engaging in a string of apologies, as you kept repeating he was ok.

You kissed his temple, squeezing him lightly as he played with the collar of your shirt, he layed on you, his stubble grazing against your clothed chest. He blushed, curled into a ball, before burying his face onto your collarbone, pressing light kissed onto it, as you tangled your fingers in his chocolate curls, some white threads of hair beggining to grow as he aged.

You swayed lightly, pressing several kisses on his face, and he looked up with those tired, doe eyes, a faint smile starting to brew, as he sniffed lightly and once again buried his face on your chest, squeezing you tenderly.

"This is nice. I missed this."

"What happened Will?"

"I- " he swallowed tightly, blinking away tears. "When I was in the limbo... I had no one- no one to talk to, no one to touch- for 13 years" he sighed sadly.

"Oh, Will..." It broke your heart to see him like this. You peppered his face with kisses once more, making him giggle. You could only imagine how sexually frustrated he must be, but pushed thought away quickly.

You both stayed like this for hours, you could watch how the Sun painted his hair gold, and gave his chocolate eyes an amber glimmer. You caught a very rare glimpse of Wilbur. He, for the first time since he died, felt like he was resting in peace.

As the Sun went down, you noticed him nodding off, and decided to let him sleep. You would be so sore, but he really needed it, you figured, brushing your thumb over his slitghly swollen eyebags and kissing his forehead as he nuzzled into you.

Yeah, you would have to take care of him more often.

[listenheresweaty]

AUUGH SATRUN WHAT THE FUCK

This is more hurt than comfort bestie 😭

Love it tho

Without You.

wilbur soot x gn!reader, HURT/COMFORT, hurt heavy and comfort heavy, reader dies! ouch!, 1k words, idk I’m sad.

Wilbur who knows he will never be able to love someone the same, fallen to his knees at grave, staring so intensely at your gravestone, hoping to remove your name from it with just his gaze. Wishing it was his name instead. 

Wilbur who pushes flirting attempts off with a firm no, and doesn’t ever plan on warming himself back up to the idea. He’s taken, and death won’t do you part. He’s started to believe in ghosts in hopes it’ll help him see some part of you he couldn’t before. 

Wilbur can’t bear to look you in the eyes during your open casket funeral, rejecting his offer to come up and say some final words to your sewn together corpse. Can’t bear to have to look you in the eyes after not being able to keep you safe.

Wilbur who starts to sleep at your grave some nights. He’ll cry so hard at your grave he’ll fall asleep next to it, next to you. It’ll rain and he’ll wake up in soaked-through clothes, seeing the pools of water at your grave. He’ll kiss the top of your headstone and drag himself back home.

Wilbur who doesn’t talk to his dad or his brothers anymore. They’re lucky if he’s at home for more than a couple hours. Or even if he’s in bed for the night. Techno has tried to talk him out of it a couple times, only to get shot with a glare when he insisted death wasn’t permanent, or that soulmates aren’t real. Tommy wasn’t aloud to try and talk him out of it. Phil tried once. Couldn’t bring himself to do it again after hearing what thoughts had been brewing up in his sons brain.

Wilbur who only can’t kill himself because of your cursed words, making him promise not to join you. You had made him promise this long ago, and promised to do the same. If anything happens to me, Will you said in the early morning sunlight, cupping his hand in yours and kissing his palm, You aren’t allowed to come running in after me. You made him promise again and again. You swore on the same. 

Wilbur who has cut off every other connection in his life, even his friends. Who had tried everything as well, throwing pebbles at his window, coming into his house to knock on his bedroom door. They’ll get to him, and he’ll insist he just needs a little more time. They’re scared that a little more time will turn into years. 

Wilbur who has sung, drawn, and written every last piece of you away into his notebooks, every memory. He jotted it down faster than he could read, his handwriting messy and uncoordinated. He couldn’t forget, he wouldn’t forget. Wilbur who made tens of copies of every video and recording of you, because he couldn’t forget your voice. 

Wilbur who’s fallen to the floor and sobbed for hours on to your voicemail, listening to you talk in that cheery voice, telling him to Leave a message, I’ll get back to you in no time, that a guarantee! Before you giggled softly, the beep always shaking him out of his trance, reminding him that you had been temporary, that he wouldn’t get you back ever again. That you had forced him to stay alive and suffer when you had found peace. 

Wilbur who had been startled when a shy Tommy opened his bedroom door, his little with bouncy curls and his normal gap-toothed smile turned into an uncertain frown. Lifting up his hand slowly and waving to him without saying a word. Wilbur cracked a smile. He waved back. 

Wilbur who started to let himself go through a process. Of grief, of happiness, or recovery. Wilbur who was going down for dinners and finding out ways to make up for his lost school time, Wilbur who allowed himself to write songs about you that were happy again, about how beautiful you were, and how you made him feel when you got within an inch of him.

Wilbur who was back in school, softly warming up or his friends again. Wilbur who let himself cry and throw himself into fits of sadness but also Wilbur who let himself stay alive for you. Wilbur who still visited your grave every day, but now with new stories about the new friends he was making, his new job at a guitar shop, and brought you flowers. Different kinds each week, so you wouldn’t get bored.

Wilbur who loved you enough to get better for you, sitting by your grave in the fall as he did his math homework, talking to you like you were helping him every step of the way through calculus. Wilbur who painted flowers on your headstone with washable paint, so he could paint new ones every couple of days when it rained. Wilbur who visited your grave as someone to talk with, instead of a knife to the heart to prolong his own suffering.

Wilbur who was going to live in another country, a new one with a million amazing opportunities and stories he could come back and tell you. Wilbur who spent most of the week before telling you he’d text you everyday, laying next to your grave and telling you all about how cool it would be. Wilbur showing you the locket he got with your face in it, and the two backups he also had made in case he lost one. 

Wilbur who came back home and beelined to your grave, hugging it with a squeeze and smiling from ear to ear as he felt the cold marble stone against his chest, kissing the top of it again and again as he told you how much he missed you, before laying back and starting to talk all about how cool this new place was. How he wishes he could bring you with him. How he knows you would love everything about it too. 

Wilbur, who loves you just as much as the day you died. 

[wilbursprincess]

October 11- Aftercare with Revivebur

Revivebur x Female Reader

Warnings: None! All fluff!

Revivebur my beloved :)

Fic below cut!

“Aww, baby, look at how much you came!” Wilbur coos, rubbing my hips as I come down from my dizzying high. “That’s my good girl.”

Weakly, I give him a smile and a peck on the nose. “Mmm.”

I feel him slide out of me, glancing down to see a mix of my arousal and his cum glistening on his shaft. “You were amazing, princess,” he praises, brushing a sweaty lock of hair off my forehead. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

“A shower or bath doesn’t sound half-bad,” I murmur, giving Wilbur’s hand a squeeze as he cleans us both up, wiping up the mess between my thighs with a towel.

Wilbur pecks my forehead. “I could run us both a bath, if you’d like?” He asks, and I nod. “A nice bubble bath with those salts you like?”

“Really?” I ask, propping myself on my elbows in excitement, and he gently pushes me back down.

“Yes, really,” he says, smiling. “Wait here while I run it.”

The next thing I know, I’m gently being shaken awake. “Bath’s ready, baby,” Wilbur murmurs, slipping an arm around my waist. “C’mon.”

I let him help me into the hot, sudsy water; the bubbles smelling richly of lavender and vanilla. Two icy-cold glasses of water sit on the stool next to the tub, as well as my favorite candle, flames flickering in the dim bathroom light.

Wilbur slips into the bathtub behind me, letting me relax back into his chest and dotting some bubbles on my nose. I giggle, blowing some bubbles back at him.

“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, covering my face with feather-light kisses. “How did I get so lucky?”

I brush a hand down the white streak in his hair. “By coming back.”

“Being revived is more than worth it when I can look at you.” His soapy hands flutter down my chest. “You’re all I could ever want.”

[bursonafied]

can you guys send me anons of your favorite tropes so i have ideas for later reference maybe .... it would be so appreciated <33

also jealousy simpbur out this week maybe 👀👀

[deadqueerboys]

More simpbur 🙏🙏

Or argbur 🙏🙏

Or revivebur (oh my lord this man brings out the worst in me holy)

Idk that much about Revivebur, but here are more Argbur and Simpbur x Male Reader (separately).

Simpbur nsfw headcanons (not problematic as the last one).

Argbur sfw headcanons (chill stuff).

Simpbur;

Just a little bitch who need love and attention, I know he's obsessed for you, but who cares?? Absolutely loves when you show love, more sexually than any other thing. I believe that this man is more physically obsessed than emotionally obsessed.

Needs your hands on him all the time. Don't be silly. It's not for holding hands. He wants your hands around his neck, treating him like a prey.

Simpbur put your hands on his body in random times at the day when he's bored, if you don't give him attention that means you don't love him anymore.

"Baaaaabe.." Simpbur begs, punting at you while he takes your hand and put it on his shoulder. "Come on, scratch those nails into my skin.."

He begs for anything.

If you're at work and he works with you as well, he might ask your help for a "leak in the sink " on the bathroom. Let's say that when you got there, the only thing leaking was his cock.

Fuck him while looking him dead in the eyes, say that you hate him, fucking let him wrap those legs around your hips while you get inside of him with all your strongest.

Oh, God, never ask him to shut up. He won't! He needs it. That's his time with you, and he needs to speak!

He's so messy, begging and sobbing above you. "Yes, please, please, babe. I love you, i love you so much.."

Let's make a deal, humiliation sex. Overstimulate him.

Fuck this man in front of a mirror, let he see how pathetic he's while you keep going deeper on him. That mouth closed, his lips almost bleeding because he was so needy, and he tried not to moan so much, even though he loves moan for you.

Argbur;

Oh, my sweet man, who feels cold all the time.. what can I say about him? Let's see..

Argbur is just.. sweet in every way possible.

He likes so much to keep you close, not good with feeling but amazing in showing it physically.

Argbur hugs you all the time. His body shakes with the cold while he just tries to get warm from you.

The little spoon, always with his head on your chest.

There's something careful in his emotions about you. He likes it when you bite his ears, in a soft way, of course. I mean..

LOOK AT THIS ^@**@×<@*&#&#;×*@&÷<*#&#

Soft kisses on his lips, slightly fall apart when he sighs.

Your warm breath on his neck is what makes he feel better.

Play with his fingers, please.

Argbur usually bites his nails when he's nervous.

I know he might be crazy, but jeez.. he's just need some rest.

Argbur sleep on your shoulder sometimes, usually after editing a video.

Takes some of your clothes, especially the hoodies and beanies.