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straighttohellbuddy · 1 year

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what you love you devour {c!Wilbur Soot}

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

{ masterpost }

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

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

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

Citrus Scale: 💚 LIME 💚

{ full playlist }

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

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

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

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

"Wilbur," he corrected you automatically.

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

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

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

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

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

"It could be a ruse!" Tommy insisted.

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

"You shot me!"

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

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

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

"It's the funniest option."

---

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

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

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

"Thomas, Thomas listen to me -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, absolutely."

----

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

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

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

"You're going to try."

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

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

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

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

"The new guy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

"Stop. Talking."

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

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

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

"I think you overestimate how challenging you are -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What took you so long?"

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't patronise me," he warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A revolutionary jester," you agreed.

----

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

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

"Still?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you lying?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you planning on betraying me?"

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the fuck did you do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Deafening silence.

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

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

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

"What happened?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I absolutely would have," you answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

"What?"

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

“Maybe it’s because I respect them -”

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

"What the hell are you talking about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Their loyalty to me?”

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

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

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

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

----

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

"Of course."

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

"What happened between you and Dream?"

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

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

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

“What did he say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You won’t hurt me, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you wanted to hurt me.”

“Well I can’t.”

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

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

“Who?” Softer this time, Wilbur asks.

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

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

“Understand you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It was novel to feel understood.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you trying to push me away?”

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

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

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

“Yes, absolutely.”

----

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

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

"Of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why the fuck are you here?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You're stalling."

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

Eret swallows hard.

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

"Not quite."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In your house, his voice turns softly malevolent;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you like Quackity more than me?"

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

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

"Wilbur…"

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

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

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

You hesitate. You drop his gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

“It sounds like self sabotage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m always honest with you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

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

“That’s not an answer.”

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

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

“Like this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think it might be why I love you.”

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

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

----

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

“And you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

“Not your fault either,” you shrugged.

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

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

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

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

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

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

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

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

"What then?"

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

"You sound like Dream."

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

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

"My attachment to him is situational at best."

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

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

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

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

"Correction, I almost died for you."

"What's the difference?"

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

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

"You suddenly decided to grow a conscience?"

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

"Sorry about that, again," he muttered.

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

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

"I'll be by your side until -"

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

----

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

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

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

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

“You caught me in a moment of weakness.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t like seeing you sad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard, huffing a humourless laugh.

“And he’s the one who got away.”

“Y/N...”

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

----

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

“Not even close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

“Why what? Why he did what he did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

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

“I know.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You trust me," its not a question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kill me."

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dude -" you're surprised by Dream's honesty in turn, but you do respect it as he clarifies himself.

"He's the one you care about, the only one besides yourself, I know, I've seen it," he gives a faint smirk, "we're still friends, of course, there's no doubt about that, but if I asked you to kill someone that Wilbur would rather have alive, or if I asked you to, say, join me on an adventure with a low survival rate, if Wilbur asked, you'd choose him, wouldn't you? You'd do whatever it takes to make him happy."

"Dream... I -"

"Your loyalty is absolute, but selective; you put yourself first, then Wilbur, and maybe I'm overestimating my place in your life, but I think I may be below him, but above most others..."

"What are you saying? What do you want?" You asked carefully.

"I'll bring back Wilbur, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'll bring him back, but you'll owe me a life," and you can't even begin to properly process what he's saying, "not his," Dream clarifies, "I wouldn't do that to you, but in one way or another, you will owe me a life, and when I ask for it, however that may be, you need to uphold your end of the bargain, or I'll send him right back to where he is now."

I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. That's the four words he'd said that you're fixating on, that're playing through your mind on repeat, and you practically crush Dream in a hug as you agree, breathlessly thanking him. He hugs you back, and you can feel his smile against your shoulder, laughing somewhat fondly at the notes of relief in your voice as you mutter that he's your favourite.

"For now," he snorts when you step back, and you give a sheepish smile, ducking your gaze.

"For now," you agree.

----

"Who let you- does Sam know you're in here?" Quackity's voice is dangerously quiet, a strange smile on his face, like having you here is a boon rather than a terrible mistake.

"Q, what the fuck?" You rubbed at your eyes, forcing the sleep from them. Dream is already scrambling as far as he can from the newcomer, anger and fear in his eyes. He tells Quackity to fuck off.

"What are you doing here? You planning an escape for my favourite little war criminal?" He paused, "have you moved on now that your favourite little war criminal is dead?" Everything about him seems sharp, seems cruel and threatening; something about it is thrilling, like a challenge, and you find yourself standing to your full height, refusing to drop his gaze.

“Big Q,” you take some small pride in the fact that your voice doesn’t shake, “you’re looking markedly more malicious today.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been coming here for a while, looking for one simple thing, and your buddy there really hasn’t exactly been helpful,” there’s a faintly manic gleam in his eye, but your blood is hissing and spitting in your veins, conflicted and delighted in equal measure -

“He was your friend you fucking asshole!” The words burst from you, disgusted as you wear a manic grin.

“I was your friend, you fucking piece of shit!” He hollers back, “I was more than your fr-” but his mouth snaps shut, expression one of seething rage, “don’t fucking talk like you still trust him, like you care about him;” the curl of Quackity’s lip is cruel, the look in his eyes cold as he shifts his grip on his sword; a humourless laugh escapes him, “except, of course it’s you who still cares; first Dream, then Wilbur, the only people you actually care about are just like you,” and there’s so much derision in his voice that it almost stings, almost, if he wasn’t right. How can he not see the way his cruel tone delight you? How can he not see the irony in his words in this very moment; “now fuck off, you’re in my way.” He sneers.

“I’m not letting you hurt him,” you refused to move, and his eyes widened, disbelieving laugh escaping him.

“Look at that! Did the wizard finally give you a fucking heart?”

“Look at that!” You mirror his tone, though your own is acidic, pushing, you’re pushing him now, the way you know best, “did you finally get over your pathetic feelings? You finally getting smart enough to see me as a real threat?” And you’re in his space, in his face, refusing to back down, waiting for the moment he snaps.

“I never cared about you, I cared about the fact that you paid me attention; note the difference,” he snarled; it’s a lie, you know it’s a lie, can remember the way he’d looked at you, how he’d almost died for you, and it’s fucking intoxicating.

“You’re so good at hearing the truth, but you’re fucking shit at obfuscating it,” you tell him with a cool confidence, “I hung the stars in your sky, Quackity,” his jaw clenched tightly at your change in tone, the look in your eye, “but tell me again about how it was all an act for you, say it in a way I’ll believe this time.” It’s designed to cut him, and you can see it in his eyes when it does. Fight back, damn it!

“Maybe I’ll give Dream the day off, kill you instead,” he tries, but you can tell his heart’s not in it.

“This isn’t fun for him like it is for you,” Dream pipes up, and Quackity shoots him a surprisingly confused look, while your look over your shoulder, faint disappointment in your eyes. Dream, however, exhausted and paranoid with Quackity in his cell, still has enough wherewithal to understand you better than almost anyone else.

“I wish you would,” you don’t look away from Quackity. Your voice is cold in the wake of Dream’s revelation, and when he looks back at you, Quackity looks... uncertain. A dangerous state to be in considering his opposition.

“You’re down to your last life, don’t fucking test me,” Quackity warned, but his heart’s not in it like before. As you approach him, he raises his weapon, but your confidence strides never falter, “Sam wouldn’t give a shit if I killed you, no-one would.”

“You would,” you tell him snidely, finding yourself growing sick of the sound of his half-baked cruelty.

“Are you just here to let what you love kill you?” He gives a mean, humourless smile.

“Bold to assume I love you, Q.”

“Well, seeing as the only bastard you ever knew how to love was so eager to off himself, I figured I might be all you have left to get back to him,” there’s faint triumph in his eyes when he can see his malicious words touched a nerve, but he wasn’t playing your game right, and you were tired of not having fun.

“It’s not my fucking fault you look for a home in everyone who’s halfway nice to you,” something in you snaps, and your tone is cold and unwaivering, “don’t blame me for your fragile sense of self; you were so ready to believe anything I told you, but when I did what people fucking do - when I let you down - you had to go and let it shatter you,” you sneered.

“You being a shitty person is my fault?” He scoffed, and you stepped up to him, emboldened. You barely even feel his sword at your throat.

“Before breaking your cheap, little heart, I hadn’t been honest a day in my life; everyone had told you as much, you chose to ignore them; did you think you could fix me?” You gave a harsh laugh, stepping forward, crowding him into taking a step back, expression irate, trying to keep up his strong front, “Actually, I guess, wow, you did; since you, I haven’t told a lie,” and you gave him a derisive look, “because fucking you up wasn’t a challenge, making you fall in love with me wasn’t a challenge, getting you to the point where you’d die for me? Not a fucking challenge, Quackity. You offered me your life and it fucking bored me.

Talking to me makes you want to be a worse person? Good luck with that; you will always be better than you fear, better than you fucking hope or wish you were, because you couldn’t fucking stomach killing me once, you couldn’t fucking stomach being a truly terrible person.

You want my blood on your hands? Your hands were mine, and I couldn’t have given less of a shit, so no, if I have any say, you’re not gonna hurt Dream, because you’re hurting him to get the thing that’s going to bring back the person I actually fucking fell in love with. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time on you when he was out there.

I’m tired of trying to be amicable with you when you’re still - fucking still - picking up the pieces and trying to figure out who the fuck you are; God, I fucking hope you kill me, I hope it brings you peace, I hope it brings you clarity, but you better make sure it counts, you better make sure it fucking sticks!”

----

"You do things that hurt you because you don't know what else to do, even if you don't enjoy them," Ranboo's voice is flat, and your expression twists to something derisive, though you attempt to regain your composure.

"Incredibly presumptuous of you," you respond, still alive, if burned.

----

"How many more?" Ghostbur's touch was light on your forearm, tracing the shiny, healed scar of where you'd thrown your hands up to protect your face as Quackity had shoved you into the lava waterfall that surrounded Dream's cell. It hadn’t killed you; he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and the lava curtain parted as the bridge approached the cell at Sam’s command. But it had still left it’s mark.

"What?" You surfaced from your thoughts as his cool hand stilled against the memory of the burn.

"How many more until you see him again?" He asks, and he doesn't look sad often, but he can't look you in the eyes. Then, gently, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing against the scar that stands out on your neck, a perfect circle, a perfect reminder of what you’d lost the second time you’d died.

And you meet his gaze, can see the nerves hidden just behind his eyes - is this why you do this? Am I… not enough? What a dangerous thought, dangerous territories; how cruel you were to let him fall for you, even a little, even when both of you knew it was a terrible idea.

Dream's voice was in your head - Ghostbur won't be around anymore - and you'd answered without flinching - but Wilbur will be alive.

"One," your voice came out hoarse, "one life and I'll see him again." You can't look him in the eyes, even as he holds your face; he has no idea what to say to that. It's the truth, but not the one he realises.

"You don't love me, right?" You asked, clearing your throat, moving carefully out of his reach.

"You shouldn't kill yourself for him," Ghostbur tells you with uncompromising sincerity instead of answering, "you're worth more than that."

"I need you to tell me that you don't have feelings for me, Ghostbur -"

"Seems like a very worrying thing to be asking given the circumstances," again he tries to deflect, but there's something close to guilt eating you up inside, and you stand, moving out of his space, Dream's voice in your head.

"Do you love me or not, Ghost of Wilbur Soot?" You demanded, and his expression turned hard, so unlike his usual self.

"I'm not him," he said carefully, but his gaze dropped; he couldn't look you in the eyes, "and I don't think it should matter either way, because you've made it abundantly clear that he's the one you want; I'm not going to say I don't and let you kill yourself."

"I promise I'm not going to fucking kill myself!"

Ghostbur went very quiet.

“Any answer is dangerous, really, so it doesn’t matter either way,” he’s pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands, to fiddle with, trying to distract himself, “I love Friend,” his tone was aiming for something light-hearted, an attempt to change the topic, and it did it’s job well enough; your lips twisted into a grin.

“First a Salmon, then a Sheep, your tastes are -” but he looks at you, giving a strangely amused little smile.

“Questionable?” He finishes your sentence, and you find yourself less amused with the situation; he brings up a good point, including you all the same, though you’d been meaning to say bestial, but fuck, what does that make you? For a moment, you find yourself in crisis, wondering if you were technically in a polyamorous relationship with a ghost and an actual sheep. But you push it to the side -

“It’s selfish,” you hear his voice in your head, see him looking at you with wide, shiny eyes in the dim light of a pub, but you can’t help but repeat the words that had been said to you, “but I need to know for me -”

Ghostbur could say anything, and you see the realisation dawning on his face; he knows what you’re asking. He could be silent, he could brush you off, he could say anything else -

“It’s you,” just the way you’d said it to Wilbur, confirming what you feared; Ghostbur drops his gaze when he says those words to you, when he means to say I love you, how can you not see that?

Those two words hang in the air between you, like they always have. You should leave. You should go before you develop a conscience. But you can’t... there’s something familiar, something intoxicating about this moment, his loyalty; you’ve seen this before, you’ve craved this before.

You step up to him, and as if on instinct, he rests his hands on your hips, leaning into your touch when you hold his cheek gently.

“I love you,” your murmur, and his eyes fall closed, breathing deeply, “I love you.” It’s easy, it’s too easy, to fall back into this, to let him rest his forehead against yours, your arms around his neck, knowing in your heart that his loyalty, his love, was a means to an end; “I love you.”

He trusts your words, even now.

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, pulling you close now, moving to press his lips to the crook of your neck. So you stay. Your time with him is limited, though only you know that, so you will enjoy it while you can.

----

"This was your plan," Tommy muttered, horrified, as the realisation dawned on him, "you're the one who pointed out that killing Dream in the prison didn't break any of the prison's rules," he whispered, before turning on you, eyes wide, Friend's leash still looped around his wrist, "you're the one who suggested using Ghostbur as a decoy, because no-one would suspect him."

"You set him up," Ranboo was horrified. One by one they were turning on you.

"You knew Ghostbur didn't- he didn't want to be revived!" Tubbo exclaimed, hurt and betrayed, "I thought - Y/N I thought you loved him, how could you -?!"

"Wilbur and Ghostbur are not the same person! How do you all keep forgetting that?!" You snarled in response, expression contorting to one of rage; that was enough to shock them into silence, taking a step back as they regarded you with a new kind of fear.

"We were happier with Wilbur gone, we liked Ghostbur and he liked us!" Tommy exclaimed, before his voice dropped to something soft and betrayed, hurt in his eyes, "Ghostbur didn't fucking deserve that; you're a terrible person," and your expression dropped to a smirk that didn't reach your eyes.

"I'm sorry about Ghostbur, I am, but the ends justifies the means; do you remember what I told you when L'Manburg was first forming? I told you I'm not on Dream's side, but I'm also not on yours," and you paused for a moment, before looking to the heavy remains of the button room, through which you knew Wilbur himself would finally be returning any moments now, "I'm on Wilbur's."

----

Then you see him, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck this is real and you owe Dream a life and Wilbur is alive. You're frozen in place. He's talking to Tommy, who sounds frankly horrified that Wilbur is back, but you're frozen. Heart beating in your throat, the sunrise that’s coming brings with it a warmth, though to you it feels closer to vindication.

And there’s yelling and horror from the others who’ve accompanied you, but you can’t hear them, approaching slowly, with measured, even steps.

Then, his eyes meet yours and something in his expression softens. When he smiles at you, every terrible thing you did was worth it for this moment. Having the others there is too much. You don't want an audience, you don't want anyone there to judge you and your choices, the things you've done to get to this moment.

"This," Tommy turns on you, "this is what you bloody well wanted; now you're acting all shy? " His lip curled, and your expression turned flat and unamused.

“Don’t mistake respect for shyness,” you tell him bluntly, with a cool confidence that was unrecognisable to the blonde, who hadn’t known you well enough before he’d begun starting conflict to know the depths to which you could sink. But he was beginning to learn.

“She’s part of the reason I’m here at all,” Wilbur reprehends him, while Tommy physically recoils at his tone, "Dream himself said as much." And then he's offering you his hand; nothing else matters.

"I can't be here," there's disgust in Tommy's voice, but its enough that the others leave, giving you and Wilbur peace. Finally.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," you tell him, taking his hand with a sharp smile, which he mirrors.

"Thirteen years I was stuck in that train station, and you're just as stunning as when I last saw you," he muses, and you reaches out to run your fingers gently through the unfamiliar white strands of his hair. His eyes study your face, your expression, drinking you in; you'd missed how dark his eyes could be, and when you look back at him, meet his gaze, you see a hunger there.

"Don't leave me," escapes you, but it comes out as a demand, insistent, “don’t ever fucking leave me again,” and you see him swallow hard, then slowly, he smiles.

"Never again," and he's kissing you desperately, mouth on yours with an intensity you relish. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you - you can taste it on his tongue, sticky sweet and somehow sharp and you dig your nails into him, maybe trying to keep him here, keep you both in this moment. When the kiss breaks and you're breathing hard, you don't let him go, though he doesn't either.

"You lied for me," he muttered, something akin to delight on his face, which shocked you enough that you stepped back, or at least tried to, though he held you tight, "no, not-" he tried to clarify, "I won't leave, I don't plan on it, but- I love you." Your heart is beating in your throat, still not quite sure what he means, "I've loved you for a long time," he added, and reaching out, he cupped your face in his hand, "I remember this," he murmured, "Ghostbur - you're scared I didn't love you because he couldn't remember, but I loved you so much, for so long, I just knew... knew what I was going to do. I knew I was going to leave you, I loved you but I was so doomed, so he couldn't remember."

When had your vision gone cloudy, when had tears started to sting your eyes.

"Don't cry, my love," Wilbur murmured, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours as your breath stuttered from your chest as he soothed the biggest fear that had been plaguing you for months.

"Were you worried that I didn't love you because of him?" He asked, like he enjoyed hearing you bare your soul. Of course he did. You remember kissing Ghostbur, his cold lips and soft apologies when you'd pulled away, and you wonder if Wilbur had those memories too.

"He's not you, no point trying to fret about your feelings based on his actions," you huff a watery laugh, finally letting go of him with one hand to wipe at your tears, “he didn’t understand me like you did, but he...” you swallowed hard, “I’m glad to have had him around in the interim.” Wilbur’s lips twist into an amused smile, and his gaze clouds over for the barest moment; you wonder if he can see your resolve cracking in Ghostbur’s memories, taking comfort in his when he’s the closest thing to Wilbur himself that you can find, the lies you’d told to keep him by your side in your moments of selfish desperation.

“I think he loved you, in his own way,” Wilbur said gently. However, as you made a vaguely guilty noise in the back of your throat, he continues thoughtfully, "though, you know, when Dream came to pick me up on that train, when Ghostbur took my place, Dream made sure we both knew, you know; she's the reason you're here, Ghostbur, he'd said, and said that makes you part of the reason that I'm coming back at all," he muses, strange quality to his voice that you couldn't quite place, though when your eyes were dry, you looked at him definitely, challengingly.

"He's not you," you reiterated, firmer this time, "I cared for him for what he was, but he's not the one I want; I love you." You said without hesitation, before you realise what you've said, and you go still, before taking his face in your hands, making sure he's looking you in the eyes, "I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, Wilbur; I love you, I fucking love you -" and he's endeared by your declaration as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face against the crook of his neck, whispering the words like you're hoping they'll find a place on his skin forever.

"I didn't tell you before and I'm never making that mistake again,” you admitted faintly; “it’s you.”

“Above all others, I choose you,” his smile is warm, and something bright lights up in your chest. Grinning, elated in this moment that you’d worked so hard to finally get to.

“You have my loyalty, my love.”

#wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot imagine #wilbur x reader #wilbur imagine #c!wilbur soot imagine #c!wilbur imagine #c!wilbur x reader #c!wilbur soot x reader #dsmp imagine #dsmp x reader #quackity x reader #c!quackity x reader #c!quackity imagine #quackity imagine #dream smp x reader #dream smp imagine #cyltlanp #Spotify

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scribbling-dragon · 10 months

Text

Forced Acquisition of a Child

summary:

“Jimmy,” he holds the baby awkwardly, gripping it under the arms. The blanket unravels a little, trailing below but not quite touching the floor. He’s never held a baby. He should never be trusted to hold a baby, and yet, somehow, here he is. “Why have you got a baby.”

“fWhip gave it to me,” Jimmy continues to look and sound the most distressed Tango has ever seen him, and Tango was there for the Train Incident. They still don’t have an explanation for how it appeared overnight, but Jimmy is too scared to remove it. Like the train tracks might summon another train if he does. “And then he just left.”

Or: Jimmy "doesn't know" how to take care of babies, and Tango doesn't know how to take care of babies.

(ao3 link)

(masterpost)

(2,185 words)

“But what am I meant to do with it?” He tries not to sound too distressed, but even he can hear how terribly he fails at that, voice coming out higher pitched and squeakier than he intends. He’s never beating the toy allegations. The baby he’s hold at arm's length looks rather content, only wriggling slightly as Jimmy continues to stare at it.

He doesn’t think it’s blinked once.

“I dunno,” fWhip is already walking away, shrugging and not even looking back at Jimmy. “Your problem now, don’t kill it, yeah? Alright, bye!”

“Oh my god,” he looks back at the baby he’s holding. He doesn’t even know how to hold a baby. He’s pretty sure there’s a specific way you’re meant to do it though. He’s not suited for this; he can keep the cats content, easy, they’re cats. If they’re not happy they go a kill something to keep themselves happy. Or they run to Tango so they can use him as a heating pad. Cats are simple, in that they practically take care of themselves. All he needs to remember to do is feed them and shower them in love and affection.

He's never even seen a child this small before. Are children meant to be this small? Do they normally emerge from rocks, is that how it works? It doesn’t seem like the way it should work, but he also doesn’t know enough on the topic to dispute it. He never thought to ask before, but maybe he should have. He really, really should have.

He thinks. Doing his best, at least, as the baby continues to stare at him. Unblinking.

It’s like having a mini-fWhip at arm’s length, judging his every move. Which…actually isn’t far off what the normal fWhip does. Enjoys doing, whichever. But he does normally blink a little more than this. Did fWhip have a staring problem as a baby? He can’t picture fWhip as a baby; he’d always assumed the goblin just sprung from the earth fully formed, or something. He rests a hand over the baby’s eyes, shifting his grip on it so it’s cradled in the crook of his elbow.

God, he knows nothing about children. This is such a horrific idea. Whose idea was it in the first place? Right, yeah, adoption program. It just sounds like a way of foisting childcare onto the other empires because fWhip can’t be bothered to deal with it.

He can think a little clearer now that the baby isn’t staring at him, judging his every move. He keeps his hand firmly pressed over their eyes, but not hard enough to do any damage. He thinks. He doesn’t even know how to hold a baby! He’s doing his best.

Never mind, just…think.

Think. Who would be able to help with this? The other empires have their own goblin children to deal with, and he doesn’t even want to know what some of them are doing to these unfortunate children that have, somehow, managed to end up in their care.

What smart people does he know that have good, well-rounded, and applicable life skills? He knows a lot of people. Not many of them are well-adjusted to normal life, meaning he can easily disregard over half of the people he knows.

He spins on the spot as epiphany strikes him, hooves clattering loudly over the stone as he realises he already has an answer, a remedy to all of his problems: Tango.

=== === ===

Tango hummed quietly to himself as he moved back and forth, tail flicking behind him as he rearranged a few more of the files. It’s not one of his favourite tasks, mainly because Jimmy seems unable to agree on a standard filing system, making everything they have impossible to find in a hurry because it’s in some arbitrary place that made sense at the time.

It’s been a slow process of gradually rearranging everything into a proper system without Jimmy noticing. And also repositioning the documents he puts in the now incorrect places. He had thought by organising it he’d find the system behind Jimmy’s madness. But there is nothing. There is no system. Jimmy loses his files regularly, and then they have to hunt around for them because he managed to remember a tiny detail that means they’ll be able to take one of the local bandits to a proper court and go through proper legal proceedings.

The door crashes open behind him, swinging back into the wall (he’s been meaning to put a doorstop in so that can stop happening. He’s had to repair that wall three times in the past two weeks. It’s getting tiring). He winces at the resounding crash, flinching back from where his hands are in their filing cabinet, still holding one of their thinner files.

“Tango!”

“Jimmy,” he turns around with a smile, relaxing a little as his voice registers to Tango’s ears. “You scared me for a moment there, I thought there was a problem.”

“There is a problem!” Jimmy’s across the room in a moment, looking unusually distressed and cradling something in his arms. “Look!”

And the bundle is thrust unceremoniously into his arms, leaving him fumbling to balance the file and the surprisingly heavy object he’s been given. “Um,” he says, intelligently.

“What am I meant to do with it?”

Tango isn’t even sure what it is yet, so he ignores the question in favour of peeling the blanket back and looking at the thing underneath. A pair of eyes stare back at him, bright blue and unblinking. Right. Alright. That’s a thing.

Right. Goblin King…gave Jimmy a baby goblin. He’s pretty sure goblins just naturally emerge from the stone of their caves, but that doesn’t explain why Jimmy has now come to be in possession of a baby. Even less so why fWhip specifically took the time out of his day to give the baby to Jimmy.

He grimaces at the small creature, more than a little unnerved by the fact that it hasn’t blinked yet.

“And you gave it to me, why?” He holds the baby a little further away from himself, attempting to give it back to Jimmy. Jimmy steps backwards, tripping over his own hooves, and fumbling to catch himself on the edge of the desk. He succeeds in catching himself on Tango’s desk, simultaneously succeeding in disturbing the piles of paper he had spent the morning organising. “I don’t like children.”

“You're smart, you know what to do with a child, right?”

“I might have been a bandit but I never kidnapped a child.” The baby reaches a hand towards his face, grabbing hold of some of his hair and yanking. Tango grimaces at the feeling, pulling his head back to try and avoid the small fists. “I had standards. And a limit on where my patience ends.”

“I wasn’t saying you would, Red,” Jimmy frowns at him. Tango huffs a laugh from his nose, and he watches as Jimmy’s frown deepens. “You were being mean, alright. Nevermind, I don’t think you have any standards. Your standards are terrible.”

“And what does that say about you?”

“That you're lucky to have me.”

The baby makes a small sound, reaching for his hair again. He should have cut it ages ago, should have ignored Jimmy when he said that he liked it. Sure, being able to braid his hair is an added bonus that he gets to enjoy on a morning when Jimmy does it for him, but it’s not worth this. He’s going to have to wash his hair later.

“Did you date fWhip at some point,” he asks.

Jimmy stares at him. “What?” He sounds like he’s either about to start laughing or crying.

“Just,” he gestures helplessly, movements slightly hindered by the baby in his arms. “Babies normally come from a relationship. Or maybe he just really hates you.” The baby makes another grab for his face, aiming for his ear this time. “Just- take the baby, it’s not mine.”

Jimmy almost drops the baby, but manages to catch it quickly enough that it is as though nothing happened. He then cradles the baby in one arm, balancing it perfectly and easily. He looks at the baby, then back at Jimmy, then at the baby again. The baby looks perfectly content, like it might fall asleep.

“It’s not mine either!” Jimmy’s protest is loud enough that Tango worries they might be interrupted by some concerned citizen. He’s not sure how either of them would explain the baby that is very clearly a goblin.

“Alright,” he leans back against the cabinet behind him. “Let’s take this from the top. How did you go from having a meeting with the emperors to acquiring a child.”

“It was part of the meeting.”

“It was part of the meeting,” he repeats. “Alright. Why was it part of the meeting?”

“Because…fWhip got the crown, meaning he got to make a rule. And he wanted…all of us to take care of a goblin child. Like an adoption program.”

“And you just agreed?”

“Uh, yeah?” He’s pretty sure the baby has just fallen asleep. He’s heard Jimmy, several times, protest that he doesn’t know how to deal with children, let alone look after them. He sleeps in the same bed as a liar, apparently. “He has the crown right now.”

“And this crown is all-powerful, is it? All, wow, look at me, I'm so powerful and great and you must listen to my rules?”

“Only one rule.”

“That’s not the point, dear.” He sighs. “Is the crown magical?”

“Maybe?” Jimmy shrugs. “I haven’t been able to get my hands on it yet, but it’s old. Pix found it in a ruin.”

“And his first instinct was to make a game with it? This old and potentially evil crown that might be able to…I don’t know- it might do something!”

“I didn’t think about it very much!” Jimmy protests, still looking at him with his sad eyes. Those eyes stopped working around the time that he figured out Jimmy practiced them in front of a mirror to manipulate him. “This is why you need to come to these meetings with me.”

“No.” He ignores Jimmy’s still sad eyes. “I went for a few, and that was it. You’ll have to tie me up and drag me through the door to get me there.”

“I'm not doing that.”

“Which is why I suggested it,” he smiles. “Now, what you're going to do is take the baby back to Gobland, and we can pretend all of this never happened.”

“But I can’t.”

“Why.” He taps a finger against the cabinet behind him. It isn’t an impatient move, just something he does when he’s thinking hard. He’s calculating, right now, how much work he’ll be able to do while Jimmy returns the baby. He might even be able to finish organising the cabinet. And then he can relax.

“Because of the rule.”

“Alright,” he sighs. “How do you make the rule stop…being in effect.”

“You steal the crown.”

“Well,” he claps his hands together. “Fantabulous, you’ve got your solution. Get him while he’s least expecting it.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Yes it is,” he lies through his teeth. He doesn’t know if it’s a word. Half the words he says aren’t words. It doesn’t matter, they convey his emotions well enough. “Take the baby back to the Goblands.”

“But what if it gets hurt?”

“Bigger chance of it getting hurt with us taking care of it.” He reasons. “I regularly catch on fire. If the cats didn’t land on their feet, you’d have dropped one of them on their head at this point.”

“Harsh.”

“But true,” he presses a kiss to Jimmy’s cheek as he walks past. “If you're quick we might be able to go for an early dinner at Chromia.”

“We’ll go there anyway,” Jimmy grumbles half-heartedly. “It’s a Tuesday. You and Scott have your weird little competition.”

“You love it really.” He calls over his shoulder, already occupying himself again. He prefers doing something to sitting around idly. “Have fun returning the child!” Jimmy doesn’t respond, but he does shut the door gently behind him. Doesn’t make up for the hole in the wall (Tango almost managed to forget about that), but the thought is appreciated.

Jimmy is fantastic, but if he comes back with another child Tango might just kill him.

#juno.writes #red bandit au #jimmy solidarity #tangotek #solidaritek #trafficshipping #empires smp #empires smp fic #empires smp s2 #team rancher #solidarity gaming #solidaritygaming #empires jimmy #empires tango

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odyssean-flower · 8 months

Text

The Winding Path of Fate Chapter 2 - Spring: Three Meetings and a Proposal

Masterpost Pairing: Neuvillette x Female Reader Summary: Somehow, you keep running into Neuvillette. When something unexpected happens, he offers you an unexpected proposal. Warnings: None except for restrictive gender roles, also for some reason Fontaine’s regency england (sort of) now? Note: I update this story on AO3 first so please go over there if you'd like to read it faster

Have a picture of neuvillette standing next to the skull of Oroboshi

Previous | Next

A month had passed since that unexpected encounter. You hadn’t told anyone about it, because it felt unreal even to you. Maybe you really had drank too much champagne.

In any case, the events of the ball were quickly forgotten amidst the immense preparations you had to do to obtain your governess license. It was a long, grueling process that involved leaving your hometown and moving all the way to the city, but it was about to bear fruit at last. After one last history exam, you would finally obtain your license and be able to advertise your services in the newspapers and bulletin boards.

And then, you would finally be blissfully freed from all those marriage-hunting obligations. No more balls, no more disappointments...

It was those thoughts that kept you going as you stared at the tiny words in your history textbook while being surrounded by people who seemed determined to scream their lungs out today.

“Get him, get him!” your sweet, adorable sister shouted next to you.

“Send him to jail!” her new beau also shouted from next to her. I’m pretty sure one can’t be sent to jail for hoarding ashtrays, you thought, but said nothing. He probably couldn’t even hear you, anyways.

Today, you were forced to chaperone your sister and the viscount’s son on their “romantic engagement.” Said “romantic engagement” happened to be attending a trial at the Opera Epiclese. Apparently, this was a popular date spot for young couples. It was things like these that made you feel dreadfully old and out of touch sometimes.

The seats were packed for today’s trial, for good reason. This trial was just one part of a lengthy divorce proceeding between a celebrity couple, in which they were trying to figure out how to divide their many, many assets. It was akin to a serial and even had its own dedicated column in the newspapers.

You glanced over at your sister and the young lord. They were whispering together and giggling. Even though the viscount’s son seemed a bit, for the lack of a better word, dopey, from your short interactions with him you could tell that he was a good-hearted and generous young man. Plus, there was a certain charm in watching him and your sister getting closer, the same feeling one would get from observing two cute puppies playing together. Perhaps your mother would live to see one of her daughters get married after all.

You looked back down at your book. You were on the chapter about Remuria, one of your favorite subjects. You loved reading about that long-deceased God King and his drowned empire of music. You knew that there were extensive ruins from that period near the town of Petrichor, but it was much too far and dangerous (without shelling out the exorbitant amounts of money for protection) to go there from the Court of Fontaine, so you could only ever dream of visiting there.

The cacophony faded into the background as you became engrossed in the topic.

It felt like no time had passed before you felt your sister shake your arm. “Sister, Sister! The trial’s over! Let’s go.”

You looked up to see people walking past you towards the exit. Judging from their chatter, the wife seemed to have won. What she was going to do with a vault of ashtrays, you had no idea.

You snapped your book closed and followed everyone else out. “I don’t know how you can read that boring book when there’s such an exciting show going on,” the viscount’s son commented, eyeing the thick textbook.

“Oh, that’s one of Sister’s special powers! The ability to read anywhere, no matter how loud or unsuitable the place is. I don’t know how she does it,” your sister chimed in.

“You can learn it too, you know, if you apply yourself to it,” you informed her.

“Ugh, you’re already talking like a governess,” your sister pouted.

“A governess? You want to be that?” the viscount’s son said, sounding incredulous. Seriously, why does everyone sound so shocked when they hear about it? “I had a governess once. She was always alone and wasn’t even allowed to eat with the family. Seems like a rather miserable job if you asked me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told her, but she won’t change her mind! She kept talking about how it’s ‘her role in life’ and her ‘fate.’”

You tuned the two out. You had heard variations of this conversation too many times over the years.

Once the three of you reached the main hall, the darling couple decided to go get some refreshments while waiting for the rain to subside. You decided to sit on one of the comfy stuffed couches under the stairs and resume your studying.

The words on the pages flowed into your brain. Remus...Sybilla...harmosts... what would it be like to live in that era? Or at least, to walk the places where these words were once part of everyday life? To touch the artifacts—the once-cherished, once-used items—of the people from back then?

You shook your head. Sometimes, your mind would drift to things that weren’t anywhere on the horizon of your life, just like how you would sometimes indulge yourself by reading romance novels and light novels from Inazuma. No, you needed to hone your mind and focus on your reality. You were in no position to move off your pre-determined path. You needed to think about how you were going to teach these concepts to children—

“Good day to you, Miss [Name].”

You nearly jumped at that voice. A very familiar voice. Knowing who you were going to see, you stood up with your head bowed.

“Good day to you, Monsieur Neuvillette.”

You lifted your head. The man himself was standing in front of you. You had only ever seen his face in the papers and only met him once (in the dark, no less), but you thought he seemed a bit fatigued. You couldn’t blame him, though. You were sure you would feel the same if you had to preside over such a ridiculous series of trials.

“I do apologize for disturbing you,” Neuvillette immediately said upon seeing your face. Maybe your poker face wasn’t as good as you thought.

“It’s alright, Monsieur. I don’t mind.” You tried your best to sound like you meant it.

“May I sit down?” Neuvillette said after a pause. You nodded, and he proceeded to sit next to you. You moved all the way to the other end of the couch. It didn’t seem like anyone had noticed you two, considering how this couch was somewhat hidden away from sight, but you couldn’t take any chances. A governess’s job prospects hinged on having a spotless reputation, after all.

“Are you here with someone?” Neuvillette asked.

“Yes, Monsieur. I’m chaperoning my sister, who has been invited on a date here.”

Speaking of your sister, you glanced out of the corner of your eye to see how the two lovebirds were faring. They were currently in the process of choosing from a large menu, giggling and nudging each other as they did so. They probably weren’t going to be finished any time soon.

“Date...” Neuvillette mused. “Yes, I’ve heard that it has become quite a trend among young people to have romantic engagements at the Opera. I must admit, I don’t quite approve of having the sanctity of trials be used for such purposes.”

“I agree,” you nodded. “Although since trials are already spectacles, I suppose this isn’t so preposterous.”

“You certainly don’t mince words, Miss [Name].” there was an amused note in his voice. All you could do was shrug and smile. It wasn’t like you could refute him.

Another awkward silence. Maybe you had offended him with your comment? You didn’t really know why he would be offended though, considering that trials in Fontaine were like performances.

“What did you think of the trial, Miss [Name]?”

You had to think about it for a minute. It felt like you were being quizzed on something you hadn’t studied for. “I think they are both idiots, Monsieur. They would save everyone’s time by dueling it out between themselves.”

Neuvillette blinked for a minute, and then a small laugh slipped out his mouth. You took that to mean that he agreed with you.

His lilac eyes moved to the thick textbook in your hand, seeing it closely for the first time. His brow furrowed. “Were you reading that during the trial?”

Under his puzzled gaze, you felt like you had done something wrong. “Um, yes. Not out of disrespect for the proceedings, I assure you, Monsieur. But I have an important exam for my governess license coming up, so I need to grab any chance I have to study for it.”

“Studying in such a chaotic environment... you’re very dedicated to your goal. I can think of a few people who might be able to learn from you.”

You didn’t hear any sarcasm in his voice. He sounded genuinely impressed. You felt your shoulders relax. It had become an unfortunate tendency of yours to become defensive when you talked about these things. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“What are you studying?” He leaned closer to you. How long is he going to stay here?

“History, Monsieur. I was reading about the older periods of Fontainian history like the Remurian Dynasty,” you opened your book and flipped to the chapter.

He tilted his head to the side as he looked at all the underlined passages and marginal notes on the pages. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe that the subject of Remuria would make up such a large portion of the exam that it would warrant all these notes. Is it a personal interest of yours?”

The idea that Neuvillette knew what was on the exam was surprising. You didn’t think it was something he would have much knowledge of, but since he was the head of the Maison Gestion, which administered the governess exams, maybe it wasn’t so surprising?

“...I suppose it is,” you said at last.

"What do you like about it?”

That question caught you off guard. "I just...do,” you said at last. “The story of that civilization is very fascinating to me, so I couldn’t help but read more about it.”

No one had ever asked you about this, so you didn’t know how to answer it.

Neuvillette looked down at your notes again. Was he reading them? You had the urge to close your book. Somehow, it felt like a violation of privacy, like he was reading your diary.

You were saved by the footsteps running up to you. “Sister! Sorry we took so long! We got the—oh Archons, is that Monsieur Neuvillette!?”

Your sister and the young master were both holding boxes of Conch Madeleines in their hands, staring at the Chief Justice with identical expressions of shock. You might have laughed if the atmosphere ’t so serious.

Neuvillette stood up. “Good day to you both,” he nodded towards them, then to you. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

The three of you watched as he left. Once he was out of earshot, your sister turned to you excitedly. “Sister! You know the Chief Justice?”

“I don’t,” you said, which was a half-truth. You really didn’t know him. “He just came up to me and started chatting.”

“Really?” she lifted an eyebrow. “The Chief Justice, who is so notoriously private that he rarely even does interviews, just randomly struck up a conversation with a stranger?”

“Look, I wish I could give you a good reason, but I can’t.”

Your sister continued to stare at you with narrowed eyes. You were usually pretty good at lying to people thanks to your excellent poker face, but your sister was one of the few people who could see right through you.

“Hey, it stopped raining!” Luckily, you were saved by the viscount’s son’s shout. “That was quicker than I expected.”

With snacks in hand, the three of you left the opera house and headed towards the aquabus station.

The exam day came, and in your honest opinion, you performed excellently. The questions were so easy that you could answer them in your sleep. The results would be finalized next week, and you knew for certain that you had qualified with flying colors. You handed the exam to the invigilator and left the Palais Mermonia with a spring in your step.

Now that you had the rest of the day free, whatever shall you do? Well, since the weather was so nice out, you thought you’d go to the Café Lucerne and get some Conch Madeleines as a celebratory snack. You had brought along your treasured copy of The History of the Decline and Fall of Remuria Volume 1 as well. Just the thought of spending the day eating sweets and reading your favorite book in the warm sunshine brought a smile to your face as you walked towards the elevator.

The thought distracted you so much that you didn’t notice the other occupant in the elevator until they cleared their throat. You spun around. It was as though fate was playing some kind of sick joke on you, since it was Neuvillette—who else could it be—standing in the tiny elevator space with you.

You thought about excusing yourself and leaving the elevator, but it was already descending.

“We do seem to meet quite often, Miss [Name],” he said. “My apologies.”

“Yes, we do indeed, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you said, resigning yourself to your fate. Why did he apologize just now?

“Did you have business at the Palais Mermonia today?” he asked.

“Yes. I had to write a history exam for my governess license.”

“Ah, I see. I wish you luck in passing.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” you smiled and nodded.

An all-too-familiar silence fell. Couldn’t this elevator go any faster? It felt as though this shaft was going on forever.

You racked your brain for something to say but came up empty. You and Neuvillette simply lived in two completely different worlds. In situations like these, it was better to stay silent and pretend to be invisible, in your experience.

“So, Miss [Name], what do you think of the fall of Remuria? Do you believe it was truly predestined?”

“Huh?” That was the last thing you expected to hear.

Neuvillette repeated his question.

“I heard you the first time, Monsieur...I was just confused as to why you asked me that.”

“I simply want to know what a scholar of history like yourself thinks about it. I’ve asked this question to several others, and I’ve always received different answers. It’s very fascinating.”

A scholar of history? You felt embarrassed at how your heart lifted at hearing yourself described as such.

“Well, if you don’t mind listening to the opinions of an untrained layman like me, Monsieur...”

You cleared your throat and began to launch into the theory you had been brewing inside your head for several years. As you talked, the two of you walked out of the elevator and into the main hall, where people gawked at the Chief Justice listening attentively to a plain-looking woman prattling on about Remus and Boethius.

You noticed none of these things, for you had gotten too carried away with the excitement of finally having the opportunity to express your opinion on things that you actually cared about. You also didn’t notice the soft amusement in Neuvillette’s eyes as he observed you.

“...And so, I believe that Remuria might have lasted for much longer if those in power didn’t covet the things that weren’t meant for them, and instead focused their energies on preparing for their inevitable fate,” you concluded as the two of you neared the Café, then smiled up at him triumphantly. It was then that you realized that you had been the only one talking for the past fifteen minutes. “Oh, my apologies, Monsieur. I got carried away. It must have been dreadfully boring to hear me talk on and on.”

“Not at all. I was the one who asked, and it’s fascinating to hear such long-ago events from the perspective of a modern young lady. Have you ever considered becoming a historian or an archaeologist?”

Your good mood immediately faded upon hearing that. “No, Monsieur,” you said, sounding curter than you meant to. “I have not. Being a governess is my sole goal in life.”

Neuvillette seemed to sense your shift in mood, and the corners of his eyes lowered in regret. “My apologies. I have overstepped my bounds. But still, I do believe that the academic world is missing a brilliant mind like yours.”

You knew he was just being kind, but you still couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. And guilty. Your personal issues weren’t his problem. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“I must admit, I had a very different impression of you from when we first met.”

“You did?” What he said baffled you. You always considered yourself to be a straightforward, “what you see is what you get” kind of person.

“Yes. I assumed you to be much more somber and cynical, but you’re nothing of that sort. You’re much livelier and passionate than you seem.”

“No, I’d say you were right the first time, Monsieur,” you said, amused. Lively and passionate were not words you had ever heard yourself associated with. “I think everyone acts different when they’re talking about the things they like, because they’re really talking about themselves. For instance, my sister loves to tease most of the time, but she gets deathly serious when it comes to shoes. I’m sure even you have moments like that, Monsieur.”

“No, I’m afraid not. My emotions are not so mutable or varied as yours.”

“Hmm…” you stared at him. It was true that his face wasn’t very expressive, but many people had said the same thing of you and assumed that you were unfeeling, which you knew wasn’t true. Perhaps it was the same for him.

The scent of coffee caught your attention as you realized that you were standing in front of the Café. “Ah, this is where I was heading, Monsieur. Would you like to, ah, join me?” you said awkwardly.

“I would be delighted to, but I am in fact invited to the opera house for a special performance, so unfortunately, I must decline.”

“A performance, huh. That sounds wonderful. Well, I mustn’t keep you then. Goodbye, Monsieur Neuvillette.”

“Goodbye, Miss [Name]. Have a lovely day.”

You watched him as he left. You had been looking forward to your reading time, but now you couldn’t help but feel a little lonely.

“Congratulations, Miss [Name], you are successfully qualified as a Court of Fontaine-licensed governess.”

The Gestionnaire’s monotone voice did little to dampen your excitement! You did it! After all your hard work and perseverance, you had finally obtained what you longed for.

“Now, you will be placed on the waiting list.”

You felt your smile drop off your face. “Waiting list?”

“There is a large volume of applicants whose applications are waiting to be processed before yours. Not to mention, there is currently a surplus of governesses in Fontaine. You need to wait for the older ones to retire before taking their spots,” the Gestionnaire dropped their voice to a whisper. “I would advise you to reconsider your career aspirations. If you want, you can also be placed on the waiting list for schoolteacher licenses.”

You frowned. School teachers were a somewhat less respectable profession for noble ladies than governess. It wasn’t as bad as laborer or factory worker, but it was still cause for other nobles to gossip about your family behind their backs.

For poor, low-ranking nobles, a spotless reputation was as valuable as gold. Any perceived blemish could attach undesirable labels that would take generations to erase. You thought of your beautiful, angelic sister, smiling so happily with that viscount’s son. That fragile relationship could be so easily snuffed out by a single bad rumor.

There were other jobs open to you, such as lady’s companion. However, you knew yourself well enough to know that you wouldn’t last very long in a role like that.

But on the other hand, you were desperate. You needed to fulfill your role for the sake of your family’s future and your own.

“Okay, put me on that list too,” you nodded tightly. “How long is it?”

“For both lists, it would take at least a year before we reach your application.”

“A year!?” you said. You hadn’t intended to sound angry, but the Gestionnaire recoiled. You forced yourself to calm down. Getting angry wouldn’t help your case.

A year was far too long. You lived in a boarding house in the centre of the city, and your savings were running out quickly. You didn’t even know if you would be able to pay next month’s rent. As a governess, you were supposed to receive a stipend for the first few months after obtaining your license as you searched for work, but those hopes were now dashed.

You thanked the Gestionnaire and left the Palais Mermonia with heavy steps, eventually ending up at the Café Lucerne. You considered going to a tavern to drown your sorrows in drink but decided against it. You were angry and frustrated, yes, but not to the point of doing something so foolish.

So, instead of a nice bottle of alcohol, you ordered five bottles of Fonta. Maybe you could drown your sorrows with their refreshing taste instead.

You slumped in your chair as you guzzled down the first bottle. You didn’t get it. You had worked so hard to fulfill the role granted to you by fate, and yet an obstacle was inexplicably placed on your path. It was such an inoffensive, unassuming role, so why...?

And what were you going to do from now on?

You could go home. Your family lived in a small town that was some distance away from the Court of Fontaine. But you would rather not. You had moved out in the first place to alleviate the financial burden on your family, and if you did move back, you would have to endure your mother’s tireless attempts to find you a husband.

You tilted your head back and stared up at the sky. It was a clear blue, not a single cloud in sight. It felt like it was mocking you.

Just then, a pale face framed with long silver hair blocked your sight. Lilac eyes looked down into your own.

Of course he would be the one to witness your current state. You wouldn’t be surprised if you went home and found him in your sitting room at this point.

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you stood up and curtseyed half-heartedly. “As you can see, I’m no state to keep you company today. Please feel free to converse with someone else."

Neuvillette did not leave, but instead surveyed your surroundings. His brow furrowed at the bottles of Fonta.

He sat down across from you.

“My apologies for being so presumptuous, but I simply cannot stand by and watch you in such a state. Please, tell me what is distressing you.”

You stared at him. He was leaning forward, his eyes brimming with concern. Even though you barely knew him and was still considering just excusing yourself and leaving...

You sat back down and told him what just happened and your current circumstances. As you did so, you felt hot tears building up at the back of your eyes. You squeezed your eyes in a desperate attempt to stop them from coming out. You prided yourself on never crying, on taking what life threw at you without complaint. But there was also another reason, something you were surprised to admit even to yourself.

You didn’t want Neuvillette to see you cry.

It was a pathetic wish, but you wanted to show your best side to him. You wanted him to keep being impressed by you.

You didn’t know if Neuvillette picked up on your feelings. You hoped not. If he tried to comfort you, you would really lose control.

It felt colder than it did a few seconds ago. The area darkened; the shadows of clouds casted onto the ground. You could hear the people around you discussing if it was going to rain. Perfect. You would welcome rain at this point.

Neuvillette didn’t say anything for a while after you finished talking. You wondered if he understood what you told him. Surely the Iudex, the highest authority figure in the land next to the Hydro Archon, would find the concept of financial issues foreign?

You decided to grab another bottle of Fonta. But just as you reached for it, Neuvillette’s hand blocked yours and gently placed it down on the table.

Unaware of your reeling, he spoke in a quiet voice. “I can see that you’re in an extremely difficult situation, Miss [Name]. It troubles me greatly.”

You simply nodded. What else was there to say.

“I would like to propose an... unorthodox solution to your problems. One that would be beneficial for both of us.”

You looked up at him at that. You had expected him to tell you to go back home and tell your parents what happened and obey their wishes. But Neuvillette himself was offering a solution? What could it be?

Every nerve in your body was telling you that this could lead to nothing good. You usually trusted your instincts, as they were always right, but currently you were desperate enough to listen to anything.

“What do you propose, Monsieur?”

“Marry me.”

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#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x female reader #my works #the winding path of fate

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yuujispinkhair · 6 months

Text

Separation Anxiety (Chapter 11)

Put your lips on my scars and teach me to love

When a ritual separates Sukuna from Yuuji, Sukuna is delighted to find that besides having his own body, there is also another gift handed to him: The brat has lost all his memories and is now the perfect little plaything to take home and manipulate. At least, that's the plan. But the King of Curses isn't prepared for the feelings that come along with being human again. And another complication is how cute the brat is when he has no idea who Sukuna is and, instead of hating him, treats him with genuine love and affection. So, without realizing it, Sukuna suddenly finds himself on a journey of learning how to be loved and how to love.

++ Masterpost ++

Pairing: Sukuna x Yuuji Genre: Memory Loss AU, fluff, smut, light angst Word Count: 1.7k Playlist: Separation Anxiety Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of violence, dub-con (Yuuji has lost his memories, and Sukuna lies to him about being boyfriends). All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

Chapter 11

Honey, you're Atlas in his sleeping. And when you move, I'm moved (Movement by Hozier)

Sukuna can't sleep. His gaze is glued to the sleeping boy next to him. Yuuji looks so peaceful, so comfortable. Even in his sleep, he wears a gentle smile on his pretty face, and Sukuna can't help but be mesmerized by it.

When they still shared a body, Yuuji was often haunted by nightmares, drowning in fear and guilt in his dreams, tossing from side to side, kicking and boxing the enemies he encountered in his nightmares. Now, he looks like he has the sweetest dreams, full of bliss and peace. Is this something Sukuna gave him? Could he give Yuuji peace?

He never expected to be able to do this to someone. All he knew was violence and how to take what he desired, not caring how the other person would feel about it. Is it possible that he is really able to make someone happy? To make someone feel safe and loved?

Yuuji makes a soft humming sound in his sleep and stirs, but only to snuggle closer to Sukuna, automatically searching his warmth and the safety of his arms.

When Sukuna took the boy as an unknowing hostage all those months ago, he thought he would enjoy moments like these because they meant he had power over the brat and could easily break him.

But when he sees the soft, happy smile on Yuuji's sleeping face now, he doesn't want to hurt him. He doesn't feel any satisfaction at the thought of fooling the boy.

Because he isn't even fooling him anymore, is he? He hasn't fooled him in a while. The only one Sukuna was fooling was himself.

He doesn't want to break Yuuji. He wants to care for him, wants to make him smile in his sleep like this, wants to make him laugh that loud, happy laugh. He wants to be the reason Yuuji feels loved.

There it is again. That word. Love.

Is this love?

Sukuna lets the word roll over his tongue, tasting it, feeling it, whispering it to the otherwise silent bedroom.

Love.

Something Sukuna always considered a weakness. A dangerous curse. Something that should be avoided at all costs. But is it?

It is, without a doubt, an extremely powerful force. Isn't love the one thing every song and poem and story seems to be about? What else has the power to be that important? Isn't love a power so strong and devastating that it can lead to the fall of whole empires? That it can lead to wars and burn entire cities down? Something so powerful that it makes people kill for it? That it makes them die for it?

Sukuna lets his gaze trail over Yuuji's pretty face, reaching out to brush a strand of soft pink hair out of his eyes.

Love should feel terrifying after everything he knows about it. But somehow, when he looks at Yuuji, he feels a kind of warmth he has never felt before.

Maybe he got it wrong.

Love has the potential to lead to one's downfall, but maybe that risk is the price you have to pay to gain access to the greatest power this world holds. To the power that moves mountains, the power that moves this world.

It already moves him. Yuuji moves him.

What he feels for Yuuji is more intense than anything Sukuna has ever felt in a thousand years and more. It's earth-shattering. It's more potent than any magic he ever possessed.

Sukuna is Yuuji's now, but it doesn't feel as terrifying anymore as it should. Instead, his chest feels warm and full. He is experiencing a feeling of completion so contrary to the solitude he has felt all his life. As if he finally found an anchor that makes him belong to this modern human world that still seems so foreign to him. As if he finally found a home, something he never had before.

The sunlight is warm on Sukuna's back as he strolls through the small park. His hand is firmly clasped in Yuuji's. He can feel their combined heartbeats in their palms, perfectly in synch, almost like in the past when they still shared a body.

They are on their way to the small Shinto shrine again. It comes into view behind a path turn, and Yuuji tugs on Sukuna's hand, pulling him along while laughing his typical loud laugh. Sukuna follows with a small smile forming on his lips.

Yuuji takes another ema, scribbling another wish to hang up in the shrine. He writes it down while standing beside Sukuna, letting him see every word he writes. So open about his feelings. Sukuna's chest feels tight when he reads what the boy wrote.

He wishes for Sukuna to be safe and happy. He wishes for them to always be together and live a long, happy life at each other's side. He wishes to get his memories back so he can remember their shared past.

Sukuna's heart aches.

Before they leave, he grabs an ema too.

Let me keep him. Don't let him get his memories back. Let me have this.

He almost laughs when he walks over to the wall with all the other wishes. What is he doing? He is a God himself. Why is he here writing such a desperate plea to a random deity? What has the great Sukuna-sama come to?

But he hears Yuuji's clear, happy laughter, sees his smile and the sunlight reflecting in his golden eyes, and the hand extended towards Sukuna, warm and loving, waiting to pull him along again. And Sukuna stops doubting his actions.

He doesn't want his former life back. He doesn't want to sit on a lonely throne of skulls. He doesn't want to be the untouchable God who cut himself off from anything and anyone.

Yuuji is standing in front of him, so full of life and love, smiling at Sukuna, waiting for him to take his hand. As if telling him: You don't have to be alone.

And Sukuna puts the ema with his wish on the wall. Fixes it with two instead of just one knot, making sure it stays there.

The delicious smell of frying vegetables and sesame seeds drifts through the apartment. Sukuna can't stay on the couch any longer. He gets up, abandoning the book he was reading on the glass table, and walks to the kitchen.

He stops in the large doorway, a fond smile creeping over his face as he watches Yuuji standing at the stove, stirring the large pan in front of him while adding some finely chopped ginger and humming a song he heard on the radio this morning.

Yuuji has been spending more time in the kitchen during the last weeks, naturally discovering his former passion again. Sukuna made sure to keep Uraume at bay, instructing them to let Master Yuuji have free reigns in the kitchen.

The boy becomes aware of Sukuna. Maybe he, too, feels the red string connecting them. He smiles at Sukuna over his shoulder. That big sunshine smile that Sukuna used to think was pathetic, but now it looks beautiful to him. Yuuji beams at him, genuinely happy to see him.

"Heyyy, baby! Dinner is almost ready! I think this one is gonna be a real success!"

Sukuna laughs softly, leaning against the doorframe with a smile playing around his lips.

"I am sure it will be marvelous. Everything you cook tastes exquisite."

Yuuji cocks his head thoughtfully at that, a proud smile on his face,

"I think I might have really been a good cook before my accident. I seem to remember all the routines. Did I cook a lot? Or just occasionally?"

"You cooked almost every day."

Sukuna grins, more to himself than at Yuuji. Even though their shared past is very different from the way Yuuji thinks it was, it is still true that Yuuji cooked, and in a way, he also cooked for Sukuna because Sukuna always managed to taste some of it when the boy ate.

And so Sukuna adds,

"And I always liked your food."

Yuuji's face lights up even more, his golden eyes glittering happily.

"That's nice! I'm glad I took good care of you, even if I can't remember!"

His love for Sukuna emanates from him almost visibly, as warm as the sun and as unwavering as the universe itself. So selfless, so genuine, so good.

Sukuna feels his face contort. He has to look away, taking a shuddering breath as he stares fixedly at a small crack in the wall next to the door frame. The feelings flooding his chest are too much, too intense.

"Kuna? Are you ok, baby? Is something wrong?"

Yuuji's voice is filled with worry. Always so caring, so protective, so full of love. Sukuna lets out a slow breath and meets Yuuji's gaze again, sapphire eyes looking deeply into golden ones.

The intensity of his emotions almost overwhelms him. As if he is standing at the edge of a cliff, about to fall into a deep ocean that will drown him in its powerful waves. But somehow, those waves look warm and inviting, making him want to dive into them willingly and never return to the shore again.

"Yuuji?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Sukuna has said those words so many times during the last few months. They were a lie at first, whispered with the cruelest intentions. A malicious game, a means to break his former vessel.

But now those words mean a different thing. They aren't a lie anymore.

For the first time in his life, Sukuna thinks he knows what love is, and when he says those three words, they carry their true meaning. He loves Yuuji.

Yuuji laughs, eyes wrinkling and lips opening in a happy laugh, waving a hand dismissively as if Sukuna is funny for stating the obvious.

"I know! And I love you too!"

Sukuna tries to join in on Yuuji's laughter, but it only comes out as a strangled huff. He quickly pushes himself off the doorframe and walks over to his lover, wrapping his arms tightly around Yuuji from behind, burying his face in his brat's neck.

No, you don't know, darling. You don't know anything at all. You don't know what you did to me. You don't know how you changed me. You don't know how you move me. How you made me rethink everything I ever thought was true.

You don't know that you taught me love.

You don't know that you became my whole world.

Thank you so much for reading!! This was a short chapter, but I wanted to make the cut here because it is such a big moment!! THE REALIZATION!! THE HONEST LOVE CONFESSION!! I cried once again while writing this. I love how Yuuji feels so comfortable and reassured that to him it is normal for Sukuna to say he loves him. And at the same time, Sukuna is having a huge breakdown because he realizes he isn't playing pretend anymore but is really in love aaaahh!!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs would be very sweet!

#sukuita #sukuna x itadori #sukuna x yuuji #sukuna #ryomen sukuna

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son1c · 1 year

Text

listen to your heart

falling stars fic masterpost

Thunder, but not from a storm. Sonic could hear it pulse in his ears, and he realized it was his heart, pounding on his rib cage like a boxer pounding on a punching bag. He was standing up, though he couldn't remember when he'd left the couch. It was at his back now, and Sonic was facing the TV, staring at his reflection in the blank black screen.

What he saw there brought his hammering heart to a standstill.

It was himself. But it was wrong. His fur was too pale, the color faded like a years-old photograph. And his eyes… They stared back at him, their gaze piercing and far too bright.

They really were glowing, like Stripes had said.

Sonic raised a hand to his face, and the stranger in the TV screen copied him.

He thought about his nightmare. But, no, that wasn't right. There was no way it was a nightmare. The thing reeked in a way that only something real could. It must've been a memory--a rotten, no good memory of something that had happened to him during his time at Scrap Brain. But why was he remembering it now? And how had he forgotten it in the first place?

Sonic recalled the enraged face of the red echidna, Knuckles. That was the last thing he'd seen before… waking up on a table back at Scrap Brain. His body was in pieces, his screen crowded with one hundred emergency alerts.

Eggman was looming over him. He wanted to know what had happened on Angel Island, and Sonic, unable to lie while giving his report, told him the truth. And when he was done, he asked Eggman one question: Who am I?

The images he'd been shown by the Master Emerald refused to leave his addled mind. He was fixated on them, because they didn't make any sense. His code was telling him that he'd always been this way, that he'd never been anything but a robot, a vanguard of the Eggman Empire. But his heart said something different, and it was compelling enough to make him doubt everything.

Eggman said he understood. He said he would help. Then, he placed a hand on Sonic's head and told the Robian not to worry, because he would remember who he was shortly, after a factory reset.

In the present, Sonic shuddered. He realized he'd forgotten about Knuckles and his trip to Angel Island because Eggman had made him forget. The realization tasted like ten jugs of curdled milk smashed together, sour and disgusting.

And it made him furious, too.

Furious to think that Eggman used to have so much control over him.

Sonic was once again faced with his reflection in the TV screen. With those eyes that stared back at him with a sickly green intensity. One thing was for sure: they were different now from how they'd been before. They weren't the eyes of a Robian, but weren't the eyes of his old self, either.

Sonic looked away from the TV, but his glowing eyes were seared into his brain, and their afterimage followed him around the room, their impressions burning holes into the back of the door when he turned toward it.

He felt the need to run. It would help clear his mind, or so he hoped. The questions that haunted him now--What have you become? Is your body your own? Are you really free?--were too much for him to bear.

He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to look at himself, to see how much he'd been changed.

Stay cool. That was what he wanted to do. Yeah, he would take this in stride, like he'd done with his broken leg. And he would remain above it--above his pain. Like he'd been after losing his memory (the first time). After being hunted by soldiers, and tricked by Mr. Ivo, and--

Sonic balled his hands into fists, and couldn't help but think his fingers felt stiff. It was the sort of stiffness that he wouldn’t be able to wring out, because it had settled deep beneath his flesh and into his bones. The temperature of his palms was equally disconcerting; the coldness should’ve meant he was dead, his paws seeming more like bits of the Antarctic than a hedgehog Mobian, even though it was warm inside the casino.

He felt like shivering. Instead, he set his jaw.

Stepping toward the door, Sonic got as far as the welcome mat before he felt a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"It's the middle of the night," Shadow said. "Where are you going at this hour?"

Buggy hugged Shadow's leg, looking up at Sonic with its wide, unblinking eyes.

Sonic shrugged, though he wished he wasn’t having this conversation right now. “Can’t say I had someplace in mind,” he said truthfully. “Maybe the Ferris wheel? Doesn’t matter, so long as I get there fast!”

Shadow crossed his arms and glanced at the clock. It was 4-something AM. “The city will wait for you,” Shadow said. “It’s not going anywhere. Just like you should be—don’t sacrifice your sleep for a whim, Blue.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Sonic said as he pulled open the door. “Let’s both go. That way, we can have a little friendly competition. Our last race was stacked in your favor, but this time, I’ll beat you!”

Shadow was incredulous. He could’ve said a lot about Sonic’s lack of care for his own sleep schedule, but what he said instead was, “Beat me? You must be joking. I’ve seen your speed once before, and I can outdo it.”

Buggy rubbed its claws together nervously. Suddenly, there was a current of tension running through the room, and it was felt by even the robot.

Sonic held the door open for Shadow and stepped to the side, gesturing at the hallway with one hand. “I’m a good sport,” Sonic said with a grin, “so I’ll let you have a head start.”

Through the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door to the first floor of the casino. The two hedgehogs blew past Rouge, who was just finishing turning off the lights at the bar, and she spun around like a dreidel from their combined speed. She tried to shout after them, but whatever she said was swallowed up by the sound of the front doors slamming shut.

The bottoms of Shadow's shoes were lit up. Earlier in the night, he'd attached the rings Rouge had given him to his soles, and now he was using their power to skate Heelys-style through the streets of Night Babylon. The pavement was still wet from the rain, but that was it. There were no floodwaters to wade through, only slick corners to turn as the two hedgehogs raced toward the Ferris wheel.

Streetlamps illuminated the empty roads. Parked cars sometimes stood in Sonic and Shadow's way, but they vaulted over them expertly, using the hoods of the vehicles as springboards. They touched down on the other side and kept moving, always neck-and-neck.

Until Sonic suddenly pulled ahead. After spinning around, Sonic taunted Shadow while running backwards. "Not so easy now that we're on equal footing, huh, Stripes?"

Shadow gritted his teeth. After being woken up by Sonic's motobug friend, thinking something was wrong, he couldn't help but be annoyed by the Blue Blur's cocky attitude. But then he saw it--Sonic's carefree grin. And the way his shoulders were relaxed, his hands folded behind his head in a way that reveled in the motion, cherishing the wind at his back.

After all that time spent with a broken leg, was it really a surprise that Sonic was enjoying himself right now?

Shadow smiled. He wasn't annoyed anymore. In fact, he was happy for Sonic.

"You've been looking forward to this moment, haven't you, hedgehog?" Shadow asked.

Sonic blinked. His grin faltered. He stared at Shadow's expression, at the kind smile his friend wore, so slight that it might've been just a trick of the light, but it wasn't. It was real. And it shocked him--for just a moment, before Sonic recovered and his heart soared, a warm feeling taking hold of his chest, so much nicer than those frigid feelings from earlier.

"Yeah," Sonic said, laughing a little, "I have!"

And then Sonic, still running backwards, slipped on a particularly wet patch of pavement, and tumbled into a bush on the other side of the street.

Shadow's eyes widened. He skidded to a stop in front of the bush.

Laying on his back in the twigs and flowers, Sonic rubbed his forehead. The yellow light from the streetlamp made him squint, but he wasn't hurt, just embarrassed. So much for winning the race! he thought with a sigh.

Then, Sonic saw Shadow extend a hand to him, and the blue hedgehog couldn't help but think that maybe winning didn't matter so much.

Taking Shadow's hand, Sonic said as he pulled himself up, "Haha! What a wipeout!"

Just like that, Sonic's good mood had returned, and now all he wanted to do was bask in the feeling, the warmth of Shadow's touch matching that of his own fluttering heart.

"I gotta give it to you, man," Sonic said. "You've got me beat two-to-none!"

"The rain was an unexpected ally," Shadow admitted, his smile a little wider now, "but who am I to deny my own victory?"

Sonic rolled his eyes, but his grin remained intact. "Oh, sure," he said, "rub it in. Better to live it up while you can, right? Cuz pretty soon, I'll stomp ya! Just gotta, uh… keep my eyes on the road next time. Heh."

"If nothing else," Shadow replied, "it will make for a more dignified defeat."

Then, Shadow's eyes fell to his hand--the one that Sonic was still holding. Even though they were both standing now, and there was no need for it anymore.

Sonic followed Shadow’s gaze, saw what he was looking at, and realized he should probably let go. Somehow, the thought hadn’t occurred to him until now. But he hesitated.

Sonic wasn't sure when it had happened exactly, but at some point during their adventures together, he'd become so comfortable around Shadow that it made him not want to let go of his friend's hand.

So, Sonic listened to his heart, and he laced their fingers together.

“Not bad, huh?” Sonic asked.

At first, Shadow had no reply. From his toes to his teeth, he stood, his posture as rigid as a brick wall. The sudden display of affection from Sonic confused him, and the blue hedgehog's question pierced his brain like a bullet. It brought with it a gnarled tree of feelings, feelings he scarcely recognized, and because of this, Shadow was left feeling vulnerable, and he hated that.

But there was one thing that Shadow did recognize: his friend, Sonic.

Haloed by the streetlamp, Sonic looked so confident, so content. Like holding Shadow's hand was everything he was meant to be doing in that moment, and Shadow envied him. The dark hedgehog once again found himself longing for some of Sonic's confidence.

His own sense of self was still so shaky, still second to that of his Android copy, and when Shadow focused on it for too long, it made the ground itself seem to rumble and crack beneath his feet.

And then there was Sonic. Always there to catch him when he started to fall.

Shadow curled his fingers around Sonic's hand. Finally, he relaxed. He felt steady now, here in the middle of the empty street, surrounded by parked cars and sky scrapers and a glowing Ferris wheel. Not even the blossoming emotions hanging from the branches of his heart seemed so scary anymore.

"Yes," Shadow answered softly.

Sonic beamed. Then, he pulled on Shadow's hand, and the two of them ran up the side of the Ferris wheel together.

From the top, Sonic and Shadow could see all of Night Babylon. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze while hotels stood still, their windows mostly dark. Even this late at night, the casinos remained the center of the action, with people going in and out in a steady stream. Laughter floated up from the streets as people twirled and danced through the city.

With a clear, star-speckled sky, Night Babylon shined, so much richer than it had been on the day of the storm. Sonic and Shadow looked down at it while keeping pace with the Ferris wheel as it continued to spin. Their worries were temporarily forgotten as they watched the purple night change into a pink dawn, the sun poking over the horizon, the moments pressing onward, all while holding onto each other's hand.

#falling stars au #the horrors :)#happy pride month (almost) lol

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lanabenikosdoormat · 2 months

Text

JED MASTERPOST

Fast on his feet with an even sharper mind, Jed worked as a cipher agent for the Galactic Empire. Under the alias Cipher Nine - he was a prodigal secret weapon for the Empire's goals. As time passed, so did the stakes. When Imperial Intelligence disbanded, Jed found himself pursuing more independent ventures, outsourcing his work to broader horizons. He garnered quite a lofty reputation.

Through his extraordinary acts, Jed rose through the ranks, becoming a leading figure in the war that later broke out between the two superpowers. He would eventually become known as the Outlander and later, The Alliance Commander and serves as my main OC, not just for SWTOR - but my artist career as a whole.

MOST OF THIS IS PULLED DIRECTLY FROM HIS TOYHOUSE, WHICH CAN BE FOUND BELOW AND IS MORE COMPREHESIVE

BIO BELOW THE CUT!

Overview:

Full Name: Jedidiah Solaris

Alias: Cipher Nine, Commander Solaris, The Outlander, "The Ginger" (belovingly by friends)

Age: 35 around Onslaught

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay, Biromantic

Mental Conditions: OCD, PTSD

Birthday: March 20th, 11 BTC

Birthplace: Sacorria, Corellian Sector

Species/Race: Human - Augmented with cybernetics

Occupation: Alliance Commander

Status: Engaged (Theron Shan)

Design:

Height: 6'0

Weight: 168 lbs

Body Type: Athletic, inverted triangle

Eye Color: Medium Brown (right eye is a prosthetic and is red)

Cybernetics: Mostly internal but there are two peaking out from the side of his head, just above the top of his ears.

Features: High cheekbones, scar through right eyebrow, clean shaven, well groomed, handsome. Personal hygiene is a high priority.

Markings: Various scars, faint freckles in summer seasons, bruised knuckles

Relationships:

Family: Deceased. KIA on Sacorria during the skirmish.

Love Interests: Hunter ✞ (Enemies to lovers, enemies with benefits type situationship), Theron Shan (Fiancé)

Friends/Allies: Closest friend is Lana Beniko. Additionally close with various others including Vector Hyllus, Koth Vortena, Arcann Tiral and the Them Group (OC group consisting of four of my irl friends ocs and my own sith warrior as follows: Verity Dante, Exxus Gun, LIX, and Obi-Two)

Personality:

He is both practical and visionary as well as a staunch realist. He is imaginative and eloquent, able to problem solve and get himself and his team out of tight situations.

As a leader, he is disciplined and thorough, leaving no stone unturned. Jed is strongly independent and is opposed to authority that he doesn't respect.

Background (pre-imp agent campaign and expacs):

As a young child, Jedidiah came from a tiny community of modest agriculturalists. For the first seven years of his life, he lived fair off. However, war struck and their little slice of the galaxy was caught in the crossfire. Jed was struck by blaster fire, directly in his right side of his skull. The wound was lethal and desperately his mother took a final stand to carry him to the Imperial outpost stationed on the planet. Because of his late uncle's contributions to the Empire, Jed was able to be taken into Imperial custody on one condition: he was never to return home again.

For the next 12 or so years, Jed was stationed on Ziost and Dromound Kaas interchangeably as he completed his initiation and mandatory military training. His superiors noticed he had a natural affinity for sneaking around in the shadows, as well as persuasion and ruthlessness. As such, at the age of just 14, he was transferred to the Imperial Intelligence division where he would begin training as an agent of the Empire.

Other Information:

Likes:

Killing Time

Sharpshooting

Revenge

Physical Touch

Dislikes:

Sucking Up

Unwarranted violence

The Sith

Helplessness

Hobbies:

Dejarik

Target Practice

Reading

Binge watching holo-dramas

Gambling

Social Drinking

Habits: Finger flexing, Pacing

Trivia:

He is ambidextrous, and uses a variety of different weapons depending on the given scenario.

Jed is excellent with kids and animals, he gets very soft and sweet and knows just what to say to them, especially in times of distress.

His favorite color used to be navy, and he'd wear it a lot in his downtime. However, these days its the red color of Theron's jacket as seeing it always reminds Jed of him.

#star wars the old republic #swtor #imperial agent #jed solaris #oc: jed solaris #swtor art #swtor imperial agent #character template ib my mootie vexa-legacy

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harrowharks-iliac-crest · 2 months

Text

Cytherea

Characters

<< Previous: Wake | Masterpost

A few things strike me about Cytherea.

First, her personality as described by the other Lyctors (including John) doesn't seem to match what we saw in Canaan House. She was sweet, self-sacrificial, hardworking. Hardly about to spear a teenager through with bone.

There's one section when they're discussing how to take down a Resurrection Beast, this is said:

“Send a Lyctor to penetrate the layer, plant the bomb close up. I’ll do it, if courage fails in the hearts of my elders.” Ortus said, “Tried that,” and Mercy said, “Cytherea was mad for weeks. And I do not mean mad cross, I mean mad insane. She didn’t even touch on the surface.”

Even looking at Resurrection Beasts hurts Lyctors:

It is here! The Resurrection Beast is come! The seventh colossus, brood of that which murdered Cyrus the First, packmate of that which murdered Ulysses the First, the one and the same that Cassiopeia died for. Oh, God, John, sometimes I wish I were capable of dying—I saw it! I saw it, and it is blue like Loveday’s eyes! It knows what you did to its kin, and it sees my cavalier’s mortal soul burning in my chest!”

-Mercy, upon looking at the RB for like a second.

Blue like Loveday's eyes - Cytherea's cavalier. (Neptune?)

We don't know which RB Cytherea tried to get to the centre of. It could have been this one, or another one. She was "mad for weeks". The Resurrection Beasts hunt those that have committed the "indelible sin" of Lyctorhood, most prominently God himself. They impress upon Lyctors the weight of their guilt.

What if Cytherea went too close, saw the weight of her guilt, and went mad from the cognitive dissonance between what she'd been told her entire life, and the deep, universal knowledge that resurrection, Lyctorhood, and basically everything John and the Empire were doing was wrong? What if she came out of that firmly believing in the mission of Blood of Eden, deeply understanding of their inherent bigotry against all necromancers?

How long ago was this? Did it kickstart the cooperation between Lyctors and Eden, or was it already established at this point?

Is this why she turned up at Canaan House, with the aim to kill the would-be new Lyctors?

(Nobody here seems to care about not killing children very much.)

Speaking of, let's talk about some more of the kids. Harrow's next.

>> Next: Harrow

#tlt liveblog #the locked tomb liveblog #tlt spoilers #the locked tomb #tlt #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #tlt theories #no nona the ninth spoilers please #cytherea #cytherea the first #cytherea loveday

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thelealinhypehouse · 4 months

Text

-----------EYE OF THE EMPIRE------------

Hierarchy: Is simllar to Sith Inteligence but everything is even more strict. They work with Inteligence for intel for mission and based on it is determinated if this is job for Sith intelligence or the Eye of the Empire.

THE WARDEN: The leader. No one know who they are. Chosen by Emperor/Empress. Zero information of what race, gender ect info. They use voice modulator to comunitace with rest. Have personal beef with current Keeper. HANDLERS:

Thier role is to control Hounds with shock collar, work with Watchers from Intelligence to oversee missions and report to Warden. They are skilled in fight but they go only go on missions with Hounds, never alone.

HOUNDS: This rank is filled with most dengerous people in Empire. From former Imperial Agents, to soldiers, Bounty Hunters, Smugglers and People. Each with great skills on thier own. To Dengerous to Live, but to Good to Die. They finally learn at Watcher X mistake. Isolation, stagnation can create opening for escape. Give them puropse, tame them, break them, and they will do whats need to be done. They have no names, titles. Just Hounds and line of numbers as ID for files and reports. Style of: H-XXXXX For the Mission they are given codenames by Handlers for mission for easier communication. Most of the time they are animal based.

#eye of the empire masterpost #eye of the empire #swtor #swtor art #swtor oc #eye of the empire au

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mortifiedatbeingknown · 9 months

Text

"Power Transfer"

Masterpost:

“I’m sorry, pet. If there was any other way I could do this without hurting you… you know I would do so in a heartbeat, right?”

Whumpee nodded, gratefully leaning into the touch as Villain gently stroked the top of his head. “For the good of the world, Master.” He reminded softly.

“Yes. To maintain order and peace, so the empire may never fall.”

“And to crush the rebels, who grow stronger by the day.” Maybe Whumpee shouldn’t have added that last part. Villain hated how strong his enemies were, how desperate he was to defeat them. It was the only reason he was forced to do this to them, over and over.

Sure enough, the punishing slap came swift and strong. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that! Not when we’re on the verge of breaking them. Not when we’re this close, do you hear?”

Whumpee nodded enthusiastically, their eyes lighting up with relief. They’d been close to victory for so long...so long… maybe this was the day. Maybe this was the last session. And the Villain wouldn’t have to chain him up anymore. Villain wouldn’t have to cry over having to treat him so badly. And Villain could be happy… and Whumpee would be the one who made him happy. He would have been useful. He would have been good… The thought alone made him squirm in happiness.

“T-torture me, Master.” He begged, before Villain had a chance to ask him like he usually did. “My pain is yours to transfer. Give it to your enemies.” He was so good, he even added a “Please.”

Whumpee was rewarded with a brief chuckle that sent his heart fluttering in joy. Villain was happy! And it was him who cheered him up! “Very well, my little pet,” He said as he reached for a disciplinary instrument. “And who would you like to make suffer today?”

They made sure to keep their eyes down, even though that was the hardest

part. If he didn’t know what was coming, neither would the enemy, and the pain would be even worse for both of them. If he had the choice, Whumpee would have wanted the cane. But the choice today was different, and that was good, because Whumpee knew just the right answer that would make Villain pleased.

“...Superhero…”

**********************

“I’m telling you, you can’t do this! My men fought and killed and died to free all who were hurt by Villain’s reign, and that would include Whumpee right here, too!”

“With all due respect, “Superhero”, they were the entire reason so many died. Everyone who went insane or died in their sleep?” A harsh boot knocked Whumpee to the ground. “It was this scum’s pain that did it. He deserves the same fate as anyone else.”

And I took it all. All like a good boy.

“You’d kill a victim for being abused? Excuse me, but I didn’t depose a sadistic tyrant to have another put in his place!”

"We would never. But this is not a victim. All testimony we could gather from him points to him being in league with Villain." At least, any testimony Whumpee gave before Villain had hissed at him to be quiet. Their mouth was now sealed, and nothing would make him open up again.

“Superhero's” voice had dropped to a whisper. "Do you know how much pain was transferred to me? The sound of ripping of fabric tore through the air, and there were audible gasps. "His scars match my own. If his only crime is being hurt, then I'm as much to blame as he is!"

Whumpee nodded in agreement. Finally she had said something true! After hours and days of lies… it was nice to hear, even if it didn't make up for the "death sentences", and "new government" and "defeated evil" trash. Villain would never be defeated. But then what was going on? Maybe he wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe… but whatever was happening, could it stop? The light was hurting his eyes, even if Whumpee was keeping him closed. The new chains were too tight, and every voice was slandering Villain like there would be no punishment for it. Was this a test? Yes, yes, a test. And Villain was counting on him not to fail.

I’ll be loyal.

The words above him float out and through. It was a babble of meaningless noise. Meaningless, blasphemous noise. Who cared if it was growing louder? He was being good enough to not be punished by strangers.

I won’t fail.

A hand touched his shoulders. Whumpee snapped at it and rolled over. Hah! He couldn’t be fooled with any old gloved hands. Those weren’t Villain’s gloves, and Whumpee was good enough to know the difference.

I’ll be loyal. I won’t fail. I’ll be loyal. I won’t fail.

I’ll be--

Whumpee bit back a cry as an enemy grabbed at his chains and dragged him backwards.

I’ll-

A smaller hand grabbed at his waist and hoisted him so that Whumpee was forced to stand up, against even his best efforts. No! He had to fight. He had to kneel!

I can’t fail, I can’t fail I can’tfailcan’tfailcan’tf--

The next voice pierced through to his soul. “This is now your charge, Superhero. Any trouble they cause will be on your shoulders, and we trust you to punish it accordingly.”

Whumpee’s thoughts froze. Punish?

no. No. NO. “No!” The thoughts had become so loud they pushed through his lips. “You can’t do that! Only the Master can. Master!”

His cry was cut off by a sharp cuff to the head. Whumpee’s eyes widened in horror. Villain never hit him there. “The rebels can take your pain,” He would say, “But they’ll never take your brains. I like your character too much to lose it, so let’s take care of it, shall we?” Villain would never let anyone touch his head either. Why wasn’t he scolding them? He struggled harder, and was smacked again even as Superhero’s voice cried out in protest.

That was it. They weren’t going to follow the rules he wasn’t either. In a burst of rebellion he opened his eyes to a giant, crowded chamber filled with eyes, all staring at him, judging him, pinning him down as he begged and pleaded for Master, Master,

“Master?”

Villain… His Villain stared helplessly back, in even more chains than Whumpee deserved. No...No! He froze, his eyes filling with tears. Villain… His poor, sweet Master tied up like a dog. It made him sick. What was going to happen to him? What was going to happen to Whumpee? If Master wasn’t around to protect him, then...then…

“I’m sorry.” Villain mouthed. “You be a good boy now, OK?”

“Master!”

Whumpee flailed even harder, kicking and clawing get away, to be free, to be at his rightful side next to Villain. If any voice tried to stop him, he screamed louder, fighting until the very last scrap of him could be given to the cause. He would die if he had to, die loyal and brave and--

His screams died in his throat halfway. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move!” A cruel snicker from behind it confirmed the attacker. “There. That should do it. Gotta say, I don’t pity you a bit, Superhero. You sure you’re not regretting it already?”

“Not a bit. The poor thing is just scared out of his mind, and you’re not doing him any favors!.” The smaller hands now picked him up, and he had no option but to let them. “Besides, if no one here has the heart to take care of him, I will.

Whumpee’s heart stopped. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t! Rebels were “taken care of”. Traitors were “taken care of”. He’d been good! He’d been loyal! He’d been-- The realization crashed over him with the force of a club. He’d been good...for Villain. He’d been loyal...to Villain. These were rebels. Enemies, barbarians, scum… What Master was trying to protect him from. In their hands… he was nothing. A speck of dust. A burden. A burden who had just shown he could scream really, really well.

Tears flowed from his eyes freely, with no barrier to stop them. He couldn’t help it. Everything was gone, everything he and Villain had worked toward… and the freedom he had worked for so very well and so very hard was never going to come. It had all been a lie, like the voice that whispered nonsense in an attempt to sound soothing, or the way his eyes were closed by a hand that proceeded to stroke his hair, like it could ever replace his Master.

Master...I’m never going to see Villain again…

That brought on a new wave of tears, and a new wave of murmurs. “Shhh...shhh...it’s going to be alright now. I’ll get you out of here, and everything’s going to be alright…”

No...No it wasn’t. It never would be. But maybe if he tried hard enough, he could pretend. Pretend he was back, safe underground. Pretend that the cuffs fit perfectly, and his knees were recently bandaged. Pretend that the hand currently stroking his hair was not of his worst enemy, but of Villain, soft and smooth, and caring. That this was all just a bad dream, and he’d wake up to the sweetest words he could ever hear:

“Well done, my little pet. You took that wonderfully.”

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whump writing #whump drabble #whump prompt #whump scenario #hero x villain whump #oneshot

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hermitcraft-8 · 8 months

Text

[system doc]

faq (mandatory reading)

commissions

some current interests

hermitcraft (especially s8) || empires smp (especially s1) || double life || giggs phasmo || team z/jits || legundo 100 day series || disco elysium || tmnt || the mountain goats || bright eyes || homestuck || sally face

ask us about our ocs

blogs and projects:

art blog: @esmp-i

system blog: @guyswhoexist

deiforms masterpost

#pin tag #im wide awake its morning #<- my happy things tag

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fishnets-fingers · 1 year

Text

Underneath the Stars

“So, accept defeat,” he urges.

“Fine. Tell me where the alpha centauri is,” she demands.

“What would my compensation be?”

“How about not making you walk the plank at dawn,” she scoffs.

“You drive a hard bargain, Princess. I was thinking less along the lines of not drowning and more along the lines of this,” he mutters as his hands reach to cup her full cheeks. They are warm under his palms, even against the biting gust, his thumb moves to caress her pillowy lips, eyes flicking down to her mouth landing on the crescent birthmark by her chin.

PAIRING - spy!harry x princess!y/n

a/n - i wrote so much. so, i’ve decided to split it into two parts. i made a banner for forbidden hours and it took me a lot longer than anticipated but i think it tured out great. as always, like and reblog. feed back is not only appreciated but much welcome. happy reading!

Word Count - 6.2k (not proofread)

MASTERPOST | MASTERLIST

….

நீள்பயணம். Voyage. News had spread far and wide across the expanse of the empire about the Princess’ journey far East. Throngs of people gathered on the docks to bid farewell to her and scream out wishes of luck and fortune. It was a busy day, filled with fanfare from the subjects, priests blessing the vessel and ministers of court spewing out strategies whilst handing bundles of parchment of the meticulously crafted plans.

A journey always stirred up feelings of unbridled joy, especially since the aim of this particular voyage is to draw up a treaty with Handuman - three small islands that lie smack in the middle of a crucial trade route between the Cholas and Burmese. A tiny island kingdom that was a thorn on Y/N’s side for the past year; with news of shipment from Burma being pillaged and sabotaged at sea constantly thwarting her plans of bringing components of machinery to assemble aiding with agriculture. She put together a counsel which oversaw striking a peaceful agreement that would mutually benefit both nations, a long drawn process of negotiations with a vacillating King that finally culminated to this day.

A day where she set sail on a three week journey to visit the islands, attend a ball hosted in her honour, and cap it off with signing the treaty. Needless to say the kingdom was ecstatic with the promise of the Princess Royal bringing more riches into the land. All of Y/N’s voyages to neighbouring kingdoms resulted in astounding successes, so people did have a shred of doubt that this one would go south. At the break of dawn, the majestic vessel was filled with her entourage - guards, a trade minister, the guard captain who was responsible for her safety, the sail crew, two of her handmaidens, and her lady-in-waiting, Shobhita.

Shobhita has been by Y/N’s side since they were partnered together for dance lessons fifteen years ago. As kids, Y/N took it upon herself to teach her how to conduct herself properly in court. Despite not liking the bossy Princess Royal, things took a turn for Shobhita when some children of nobility made fun of her lineage - going so far as to calling her ‘murky blood.’ She had light blue irises and hair the colour of sticky toffee - resembling her overseas mother, far different from what everyone else looked like and that made her an easy target. Though Y/N was not around for the name calling, she personally gave the other kids a stern talking, going so far as shoving one them and getting confined to her quarters by the Queen Mother. The two have been thick as thieves ever since.

“Remember Y/N, you are representing our Dynasty from the second you dock there until you set sail,” the Queen Mother starts.

“I know. I know, grandmum. Best behaviour and all,” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“You know better than to roll your eyes at me?!?” The older woman narrows her eyes in warning.

“Have I not conducted myself well on my trips so far?”

“I’m not saying that you haven’t, but be wary. I’ve heard nothing but vile things about the Prince of Handuman. I’ve seen to it that your guards have been doubled.”

“Is that why I’m going there alone without any advisors? You know I can take care of myself-“

“I know you can,” the Queen Mother interrupts her. “Keep an eye out on all our girls.” She whispers, taking her palm in her hands and gives it a warm squeeze, before walking towards the chief.

When she gets a minute to herself, Y/N turns away from the enthusiastic crowd, gripping on to a wooden mast, she closes her eyes, picturing her garden. The patch of flowering shrub - right by her reading bench - which attracted the prettiest of blue butterflies. She feels the tightness in her shoulders ebb away, only to have it disrupted when she feels someone pull on her braid. She flicks her head around in annoyance to find her little brother sheepishly looking at her.

“What do you want?”

“You’re sleeping standing up,” Karthi notes.

“I was not. I was trying to relax,” she sighs.

“I’m sure that the vast blue of the water is relaxing enough. Never knowing what’s under the thousands of leagues under the sea. Maybe there’s a giant fish with razor sharp teeth as long as the mountains waiting to capsize the boat. Shame, won’t even know it’s coming in the dark of the night with nothing but pitch black in the horizon-“

“Shut up, Karthi!”

“Calm down,” he throws his hands over her shoulder, pulling her into his side. “You really think Dad is gonna let that happen to his favourite child. There’s no way this voyage was approved by him without contingencies for every single thing that could go wrong. He’s not gonna let the people’s Princess get lost at sea.”

“I appreciate you trying but it’s not helping. Why are you still here anyway? Didn’t Dad want you at the capital yesterday?”

“It can wait,” he shrugs it off. “I’m not going to leave without saying goodbye to my favourite sister.” He bends down to engulf his big sister in a hug.

“I’m your only sister,” she chuckles, swatting him away. “In other words you hung around for morsels of attention from Shobhita.”

“Give me some credit!” He says feigning being wounded. “I brushed my hand against her arm,” he whispers, pointing to his left palm.

Y/N shakes her head at the smirk that tugged at the corner of her little brother’s lips. They’ve had a crush on each other from when they were both old enough to understand what that meant. Being the daughter of a vassal king, who happened to be close friends with her father, it was agreed upon by the elders that Shobhita and Karthi were to wed. Though Shobhita was a Princess of a small hilly region in the dynasty, it was thought best by the parents to have her grow up in the palace and serve with Y/N as her lady-in-waiting to learn the ropes of handing the responsibilities that would fall on her shoulders once she married.

Right as Y/N was going to say something witty, their attention was pulled to the commotion at the gangplank. When Y/N peers over she sees Harry hold up his royal seal to the guards before lugging up his things.

“What’s he doing here?” Y/N asks her grandmother, but finds the Queen Mother cluelessly staring at her grandchildren.

“Your majesties,” Harry bows, and wordlessly hands the Queen Mother’s guard the parchment before it’s passed to the old woman.

His eyes flit over to Y/N with a small smile tugging but he finds her pointedly staring over his shoulder with a scowl. He frowns, did she forget our time at the docks? The last time he saw her was filled with fiery passionate kisses and sweet nothings. He didn’t expect the Princess Royal to throw herself at him in front of everyone but was he not warranted a polite smile.

“It’s from your brother,” the Queen Mother tells the siblings. “Looks like Harry over here would also be travelling with you.”

“What? Why?” Y/N asks, dreading the thought of being locked in close quarters with the spy.

“He wants Harry to accompany you and be added to oversee your guard detail along with the chief.”

“But that makes no sense, he’s hardly a guard,” she protests.

“That’s quite true, Princess but I do know a thing or two about fighting. The Crown Prince wants you to be protected, that-“

“I do not require your protection, Mister Styles,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“The Crown Prince has spoken. His reasons are clear,” the Queen Mother tells Y/N firmly, handing her the parchment. “Harry Styles will be accompanying you.”

////

The texts spoke of the majestic wonders of the sea in all its boundless beauty, sailors talked about the vast bodies of water being their companion; the sea was glorified by almost everyone Y/N had met and even by herself - she’d allow herself to stand at the edge of the shoreline and daydream about what life on the other side of the water looked like. There was immeasurable poetry that was either written at sea or took place at sea, but what none of them talked about was what it did to your psyche. Four days of constantly bobbing about the tides, with nothing around but endless blue and a blanket of darkness at nightfall, not to mention the terrifying sounds that accompanied no visibility. She missed the feel of the earth beneath her feet, the smell of her freshly watered gardens, the buzz of bees, birdsong, the vivid colours of her flowers against the green.

She brushed them aside as champagne problems for the first two days but the confines of close quarters were slowly creeping up on her. It didn’t help that she was avoiding Harry on top of all this, so she’d holed herself up in her room with Shobhita working on a project for the gala that’s being thrown in her honour. That’s how she found herself standing at the stern, hands clasped firmly on the wooden banister, at an odd hour in the night. She had her eyes closed, not that it made much of a difference in pitch darkness as she felt the wind against her face. It was eerily quiet, yet noisy as the vessel zipped through the tides, and everytime she flicked her eyes open she would only stare into the vast expanse of the hazy abyss. An insidious fear crept in which made her bones tremble about the nightmarish creatures that would leap out from the water at any moment.

“Careful there, Princess, any more harder and you might splinter the wood,” Harry’s voice cuts through the silence, the teasing apparent in the undercurrent of his tone.

She blinks down at her the way her knuckles have gone pale from gripping onto the wood. Sighing she turns her head to the side, to catch a sweet smile painted on his face as he bows spitting out the formalities.

“Mister Styles,” she acknowledges him halfheartedly, turning her attention back to the abyss.

“Trouble sleeping?” He enquires, stepping forward but the guard captain steps out from the shadow, directly in front of him, blocking his path. Harry throws his arms up, pausing. “I don’t mean any trouble, Captain.”

“You may not approach her royal highness,” he warns, the captain towers over Harry.

“It’s alright, Captain. He may step closer,” Y/N says.

“Princess, no man is allowed in your vicinity without a chaperone,” the Captain reminds her, and it doesn’t escape Y/N, the way he flexes his mammoth muscles to intimidate the spy.

“He is no ordinary man, remember. The Crown Prince has instated him to oversee my guard detail,” she points out. “I think it is time he took over the watch. I have kept you up for three nights now, and it’s high time you get some sleep. You may retire to your cabin for the night, Captain.” She smiles, wordlessly thanking him for being diligent enough to follow her each night.

He nods, muttering something to Harry as he hands over his spear to him. He bids Y/N goodnight and disappears down to his cabin.

“Whew,” Harry breathes out in relief. “Thought I’d be tossed overboard. Thanks for the save.” He mutters, making his way to the banister, leaving a comfortable distance between the two in case the Captain decides to check in on him.

“Don’t go thanking your lucky stars yet, I can certainly see to it that it’s arranged,” she bites back at him.

“You’re angry with me,” he states, making her chuckle.

“Wonder what gave that away,” she mutters, directing an eye roll at him.

He ignores her retort and continues, “You’ve been avoiding me since the minute I came on board.”

“That’s two for two. Gee for a spy, you sure do have a knack for picking up on the fucking obvious,” she shakes her head.

“I don’t understa-”

“Of course you don’t,” she huffs out a weak chuckle. “Apologies start with an I’m sorry.”

“Princess-” he starts, running his hand through his locks. “Y/N, I don’t understand why you’re cross with me. Is it because I’m sailing with you unannounced?”

“God, you’re thick,” she lets out a weak chuckle. “A storm hit the coast two days after you set sail to Lanka, Harry. I didn’t know for weeks if Karthi got the message on time!”

“I’m a good spy, am I not? When have I ever faltered in keeping to your word? Prince Karthi reached the Port Palace two weeks ago, according to your word, did he not?”

“That’s not the point, you idiot!” She turns to face him. “I did not hear from you! I did not know if you made it there. For three whole months! I didn’t know what to think.”

“Oh.” His face reddens as warmth spreads across his chest. He doesn’t understand why but he feels his face split into a wide grin as he replies, “I was doing my job and protocol states that - .”

“And you rode off to Vikram up north,” her tone was still accusatory.

“I had to, Y/N.”

“Why? Why did you have to get to him with such urgency? Was it Karthi’s orders? Why was it so important that you come with me all this way? Don’t give me all that poppycock about me needing extra security. My brother and I trust the captain with our lives. He’s overseen our protection since we were children.”

“Vikram’s mingled with the close friend of the Prince of Handuman. He’s foul, according to his best friend’s admission. He hits women and beds them without consent. He has complete disregard for matters of the court and he is well known for schmoozing -”

“Why does that even matter?”

Harry lets out a frustrated groan, “Will you please just listen to me.” He continues when Y/N quietens down. “The royal astrologer had seen to it that your portraits were sent to all neighbouring kingdoms - under your father’s orders - for matrimony. Prince Vinay had come across it when you were liaising with them for the trade deal. He, um, publicly vowed to…”

“Vowed to what?” She implores when he trails off.

“I’m sorry for being crude but he said that he wanted to ‘tear off your clothes, pin you against his throne and thrust some obedience into you while the court watches.’” He takes in a long breath before he continues, “So you will be under his pinkie and he can boast that the great Chola Princess was another notch on his bedpost.”

Y/N’s face twists in disgust as she processes what Harry had just shared with her. “Vikram knows I can handle myself around such odious men. I have more protection during this trip than I ever had in my life. Why did he send you to supervise my security? You have no experience…”

“It was my idea actually. I asked him to sign that decree to let me join this company and this was the only way to not raise any eyebrows among our men. I know you can handle yourself around the Handuman Prince, but I would not forgive myself if something were to happen to you…” He pauses, eyes roaming around for any lurking shadows, what comes next is communicated in a murmur, “This could provide a perfect cover for a Chola spy to be digging around Handuman.”

“A cover for what?” Her eyebrows scrunch, mouth twisting down in displeasure of being kept in the dark.

“Too many ears around,” he reminds her. He interjects before she can protest, “You will be the first to know once I have evidence.”

They hear a heavy splash making the ship drag, and the two lurch forward at the sudden movement. Y/N gasps, grabbing hold of the bannister and tightening her grip as a strong hand wraps around her elbow and tries to pull her away.

Things feel dissonant for her, there’s a ringing in her ears that’s managed to make all other sounds feel like it’s echoing from deep inside a well, she feels her body spasm as she struggles to draw in breaths, like her throat has something blocking the way. Her vision fades around the edges making her scrunch her eyes shut, but that only makes the successive shallow drum of her heart louder. She can feel the way the boat has a pull under her feet, like it was lugging around something heavy as it resists the sway of the vessel. She’s experienced unease before, but this time was different. This uneasiness was not fleeting. It was a type of fear. Fear oozes from the centre of her bones, slowly following its wake across everything it could consume inside her being. Paralysing to her anomalous senses. “I knew it,” she whispers. “Consumed by the waters, of course.”

If this was how she was going to perish, so be it.

“Princess,” his voice is distorted and faint but she picks it up. “Y/N.” It’s louder this time, floating closer. “We’re fine.” She feels his arms tightening around her frame. “Y/N, look at me.”

////

Harry does not understand what’s happening. Once second, he hears the men throw the anchor into the water and the next Y/N’s crumpled over the banister beside him. She looks to be in pain, her face ashen under the silver beam, he tries to tug her back - away from the edge but she’s bolted, hunching over the banister. He tries getting her attention, but can hear her mutter something about being engulfed by the water and it all makes sense to him. Why she was so hesitant to get on his boat when they were at the docks, how uncomfortable she was sitting opposite him, what made her hole up in her quarters all this time, the way she was gripping onto the banister earlier. The ocean petrified her.

He understands why she was mad for not hearing from him sooner. He left right before a storm hit the coast, showering her in kisses and whispering sweet promises. Promises. Well, promise. He promised to be safe and he did keep up his word, and he left for the battle tents of the Crown Prince, like he normally would when his job was done. But things were not normal. They’d kissed. Several times in fact. And he’d confessed his fondness for her.

He never faltered in his duties, he’d kept them up this time too. He had not realised a duty had implicitly fallen in his shoulders to bear when their lips met. To let her know that he was safe and not taken by the treacherous waters of the stormy seas as she’d let herself imagine. She had been worried about him. He made her worry.

“We’re fine,” he reassures, moving closer to her, holding her close to him.

It takes him a few tries but he gets her to look at him and a few more to convince her to let go of the banister. Her quivering lips and glassy eyes pierce his heart, but he manages to get her to slump to the floor beside him. It takes her a long while to stop trembling but he tightens her torso to his side, hoping to instill some warmth into her.

“We’re fine now,” he reassures, squeezing her hands. “The men tossed the anchor overboard. That is what made us jerk forward along with the ship. It takes a while for the anchor to latch onto the seabed. They’ve retired to their cabins for the night. It’s just that. It has happened everyday since we boarded the ship. It will keep happening until we reach home. We will sail again just before the break of dawn. Nothing is wrong with the ship. We are not in the way of any harm.”

She nods as he continues, “I apologise for not letting you know that I had reached Lanka in one piece. I’m sorry for all the worry I have caused you. I never intended to. I promise to never make you fret again.”

“Okay,” she tells him in a quiet voice, closing her eyes, as she forces her shallow shuddering breath to regain its steadiness.

He looks around once more, making sure that they’re truly alone, before focusing on her blinking back her watery eyes. “Why did you agree to the voyage in the first place?”

“King’s orders,” she tells him softly.

“You’re terrified of the ocean,Y/N ,” he reasons.

“I have duties, Harry. I get to experience all the luxuries one can imagine, compared to all that-” she shrugs. “Champagne problems, I guess.”

Harry shakes his head, she says king like it wasn’t her father. He would never do something that he didn’t want to, no matter who’s orders. But it was important to the princess in front of him and there was no use trying to challenge that. This was her deal, and it only made sense that she saw it through - she owed her people that. Instead he picks a different route, one that would help him understand her better, “What’s got you this scared? I’ve never seen you like this before.” It’s true. She was the first Chola Princess to be trained in combat alongside her brothers - demanding her father that when it came to the worst, she wanted to defend her people. She did not want to be holed underground with other women of court or in a temple praying for victory. She was an excellent rider, often would compete in races and encouraged young girls to follow suit.

“I do not wish to say,” she says hesitantly. She leans back and scoots away, her face slowly regaining composure.

“I don’t mean to pry, Princess. I grew up sailing the waters, I understand not wanting to recount a time -”

“It’s not that. I don’t have a harrowing story or anything.” She adds the next part quietly, “It is risible,” and her cheeks heat in response. Harry quickly notes the way she blushes, making him smile down at her in endearment.

“I promise not to laugh. Sailor’s honour,” he crosses over his heart.

Y/N lets out a peeling giggle in response, “You’re no sailor, Harry.”

“Yes, I am! Was practically born on a ship, Y/N.”

“You were born on a ship?” Y/N asks, sometimes it felt like he knew more about her than she did him.

Harry shakes his head, “Was born in my mother’s cottage in North England.”

“Did you grow up there?”

He shakes his head again, this time quicker with a frown. “No. I grew up on my father’s ship. Back to what we were talking about; you can’t discredit me as a sailor.”

Y/N’s brows scrunch at the sudden pivot in the conversation, but she doesn’t press on further, opting to say, “I thought you were a spy.”

A warmth blossomed in Harry’s chest from the mocking undercurrent of her tone. He’s never had anyone volley a conversation with him, and it came easy with her. “I am more of a ‘Jack of all trades’ kind of person.”

“Ah, I see,” she chuckles, bringing her knees up to her chest and encircling her arms around it. “So a master of none?”

Harry laughs, a high pitched carefree one, “Better than a master of one.”

Companionate silence blankets around the two, Harry passes her his leather water flask - that was clasped to his belt - and she quickly drains it muttering a quiet thank you. Harry leans back on his elbows, looking up at the shimmering moon above, it’s lovely tonight, he thinks. He’s spent many nights in a bobbing vessel with nothing around but the moon as company but he doesn’t feel the familiar solitude tonight. There was no intolerable silence this particular night, just the tinkle of Y/N’s anklet and silent sighs that escapes her lungs. His gaze flits over to her cheek, smushed against her arm, her gaze is fixed on her fingers as they fiddle with the ornament. A simple gold rope with a small lotus motif made from three pink diamonds and an emerald, clasped around her ankle.

Her foot. That’s what caught his attention, not the precious stones, but the curve of the arch of her bare feet. He wonders if it would tickle when he runs his lips over them, as he slowly nudged her knees apart, the fabric slipping away, the way her anklets would tinkle over his shoulders in sync with his head between her thighs. He shakes his head, rubbing his face, shifting to conceal his hardening cock and shoots her a polite smile.

“Not knowing,” Y/N says. “I do not like the deep waters because I have no idea what’s underneath.”

“No one does, Y/N,” he reminds her.

“I know. It is uncomfortable to not know. It feels like I am at its mercy, with the currents that can drag me under in a split second, if I’m not careful enough. It’s vast, and we have not explored these territories. I met with this woman that studies living creatures, and she believes that there is a high possibility of colossal squids and fishes deep down. There are old sailing accounts and drawings as proof. You have seen giant sharks and whales, have you not?”

Harry nods, as she continues fidgeting with her anklet.

“Life began in the waters, Harry, and we hardly know a thing about it. We cannot survive diving the depths; we certainly cannot compete with the predators that we know of. Imagine being at mercy of something unknown. It is the biggest mystery known, quite possibly the worst because it takes up much of our planet and we cannot even begin to understand it. The ocean has had a longer time to evolve than us, and we know much of the sky than we do about what is below.”

Y/N looks up at him, chin resting on her arm, as she waits for a response. She feels a pang of regret opening up to him when she is not met with anything. You expect him to comfort him just because you kissed a few times, a voice rings in her head followed by her grandmother’s lecture of having one’s cards close to your chest. No royal ever spoke of things that frightened them, she never did either. So, why did she think this was a good idea? Her maternal great - grandfather, a Chera king, was thrown into the castle moat filled with crocodiles by his subjects. He was vain and cruel to his people - granted that could have been the reason - but it had been prophesied that he would meet his end by the scaly reptilians, so he rewarded people to poach every last one of them and had them all in his moat. Ironically, he actively participated in furthering his prophecy while trying to avoid it. People would not have picked death by crocodiles if they never knew about his irrational fear. The kingdom was in shambles for many years until the birth of her mother, which enabled them to forge an alliance with the Cholas through matrimony.

While the Princess was caught in her own dilemma, Harry had a similar one running through his mind. He wants to assure her how secure ships are. He wants to explain how when you’re in the middle of nowhere with dwindling supplies, you start to see and hear things that aren’t really there. He wants to tell her that worrying would do her no good, especially the things that were occupying her mind because they were simply out of her control. All of the things he’d come to learn from his father’s experiences and his own. She was right, they barely knew about the ocean, but it wasn’t something to lose sleep over. But he understands, Harry was also scared of the ocean as a child before he got used to it. This was Y/N’s first time, and fears aren’t supposed to be rational. It wasn’t far-fetched, she had her nose stuck in books for answers and was born into duties, which required she understood the workings of life. She prided herself for being a step ahead of people around her and to do that one needed control. But the moment didn’t call for revelations; she needed solace.

He gives her a sympathetic smile before going on to say, “I was scared of the endless ocean as a child too, especially at night. You’re right, we don’t know much about the sea but we do know a lot about the sky.

“Look up for me, Princess,” he continues and they both take in the twinkling dots in the blanket of the night.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, beaming up at the gleaming moon.

“It is. We’re so caught up by things around us, we often forget to look up. The sky's the one thing that will not change. The moon will wax and wane and the stars will stay right where they are, flickering, guiding us to shore. It helped to look up at the sky when I was scared or in trouble. To be reminded that in the grand scheme of things, my fears didn’t matter. For whatever reason, the cosmos flows through me and that would mean my existence is a marvel. Even for a speck - no bigger than a grain of sand on the beach - the sky has many wonders in store for me.”

She stays quiet, her eyes glassing over, blurring her vision. Harry quickly catches the stray tear from the corner of her eyes with the backs of his fingers. He coos, leaning over to brush his lips against her temple, “I apologise for saying something out of line, Y/N.”

“You're not out of line, Harry,” she hastily blinks back her tears. “It helps. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to-“

“I want to.”

Anyone else pondering their significance by looking out into the universe might end up feeling helpless, paralysed even, but she feels none of that. She was born into significance and her roles only cemented the burden of upholding the legacy of the Crown. So, letting herself feel like a mere speckle was liberating.

////

The days that follow the same routine - the Princess holes herself up in her cabin during the day with Shobhita. Harry’s unsure what she was up to - and formulating any judgement from the box of fabric spools one of the handmaidens carted into her room, and the occasional laughs from behind the door - he’s happy she was occupied. It was hard to catch a glimpse of her when the sun was shining; there were guard’s stationed outside at all times and he did not want to tick off the guard captain.

The nights. That solely belongs to the two of them. She would come out of her cabin two hours before midnight to catch some fresh air to find him softly smiling at her. He'd readily stand, at the ship’s bow, with a spear in his hand by the intricately carved wooden swan figurehead. Y/N had ordered the guard captain to retire at night, since he’d been stationed by her cabin all day. When he’d resisted - uncomfortable that the Crown Prince had instated a young man with no prior expertise as head of security- she’d gently reminded him that it was best for Harry to learn what guarding actually entailed in the safe confines of their ship. They’d spend the nights in each other’s companionship, Y/N’s heart swelled with Harry’s stories. Particularly the one of him as a boy, where he was convinced that someone had left a giant bunny up the moon. She looked at him endeared as he pointed out the outline of the rabbit in the dark markings of the full moon. It soothed her, looking up at the heavens with someone made her confining thoughts about the ocean melt away.

This night was no different, the Princess pads to her usual spot to find a blanket spread out with two pillows. Her eyes fly to meet him and he gives her the same smile he did every night, bending down to light the two oil lamps, illuminating the jade of his eyes. “Your highness,” he bows, stepping away.

She nods, shooting him a surprised smirk as she curls up with her book. Harry eyes the old parchment she unfolds, a star catalogue, and he can’t help the chortle that escapes his lips.

“Stop it, Mr. Styles,” Y/N shoots him a warning look, not wanting to draw the attention of the crew.

“I apologise, majesty,” he murmurs, but Y/N notices the mocking smile that paints his lips.

She pointedly ignores him with a roll of her eyes, as she focuses her attention on Aryabhata’s text in front of her. Harry had challenged her last night, and she was determined not to lose.

The crew had dropped the anchor and had retired below deck a short while ago, and Harry could not help but admire the furrow in between her brows as she concentrated. Harry had spent the last few nights pointing out different constellations that Y/N simply could not fathom. Harry was amused that it bugged her so much that she couldn’t map out the stars in the night’s sky with ease. Her anklet falls on the blanket, and he’s sure that she had loosened the clasp from how much she fiddled with it while reading. She sighs, turning her attention back to the gold rope, fastening it in place, making sure to press down on the hook.

“Rijl al-Qinṭūrus”, she reads out loud in Arabic after a long while, flicking up to look at the sky. The star map had a figure of a centaur and all she had to do was find the brightest one right at the bottom. Her head cranes to find the brightest spot in the sky - the alpha centauri.

The only problem was, there were multiple bright specks and she lets out a defeated sigh, pushing her hair back, “Fuck this,” she mutters.

“Not very royal of you, Princess,” Harry’s teasing tone floats over, she finds him slumped over the bannister looking at her.

“It is the brightest and biggest star to spot at night,” he reminds her.

She narrows her eyes at him, looking back at the star catalogue again, and slumps back in defeat. “There’s something wrong with this star catalogue,” she declares. “There has to be, Harry.”

“Or maybe you are inept at this,” he smirks, coming to sit beside her.

“I am not!” She protests. “The illustrations are misleading. None of the constellations look like this,” she points to the image of a centaur holding a spear on one hand and a dead goat on the other.

“That’s because it’s meant for people like you,” he chuckles.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She arches her brow.

“Someone who learns from books. It only makes sense the catalogue has full fledged pictures of animals on there, otherwise it would be a mess of lines connecting one dot to another. So, accept defeat,” he urges.

“Fine. Tell me where the alpha centauri is,” she demands.

“What would my compensation be?”

“How about not making you walk the plank at dawn,” she scoffs.

“You drive a hard bargain, Princess. I was thinking less along the lines of drowning and more along the lines of this,” he mutters as his hands reach to cup her full cheeks. They are warm under his palms, even against the biting gust, his thumb moves to caress her pillowy lips, eyes flicking down to her mouth landing on the crescent birthmark by her chin. They hadn’t kissed since he’d left for Lanka and every night he’d spend in her presence, Harry’s mind could not stop drifting to the way her mouth pressed against his with urgency.

Y/N eyes flutter shut, leaning towards him, nudging his cupid's bow with her lips. Her mouth brushes his as she whispers, “Not before I get my information, spy.” She backs away, observing the way his pupils dilate under the soft buttery light.

“You can’t spot the alpha centauri-”

“I know, which is why I asked you.”

He rolls his eyes at her hastiness. “No one can, because it can only be seen from the southern hemisphere.”

“You tricked me,” she gasps.

He shrugs, as he tugs her to him, wasting no time in capturing her lips against his. It was more heavenly than he’d remembered. Y/N’s hands snake up to bury them in the baby curls at the nape of his neck, bringing him closer. She melts against his chest, curiously slicking her tongue against his lips, smiling as he parts his mouth for her. She tasted like the tamarind candy she loved. Harry drops one of his hands from her cheek, finding home in the curve of her hip. It’s heady, both greedily smacking wet kisses the curve of their jaw when they part to draw in air. Harry’s heart thumps loudly against his chest, sending him rhythmic reminders that he was twitterpated by the woman trailing her lips against the stubble of his jaw. Plebeians and royalty don’t mix, and on the rare occasion that they did, it never ended well. But until midday tomorrow - when they would reach the port of Handuman - she was just a woman, made from the same stardust as him, whom he wanted to keep melding lips with.

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK SO FAR!

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #spy!harry #princess!reader #princess!y/n #indian!princess #COME SAY HI #fishnets-fingers #please leave tags if you reblog #underneath the stars #harry styles fanfiction

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scribbling-dragon · 9 months

Text

Crown of Antlers

Chapter 8: The Damned Kingdom

summary:

What’s the point in stars when you don’t even know their names?

(ao3 link)

(masterpost)

(6,463 words)

[reblogs are appreciated!]

Scott was…satisfied with the outcome of their meeting. It had lasted longer than he first anticipated when he visited the marshy lands of the Cod Empire, but that extra time spent was not for naught. The Codfather is certainly the character that every other empire swears he is – quoting him as impulsive and reckless, yet passionate and only ever acting on what he thinks is for the best – though Scott had very few opportunities to ever observe him properly.

The rumours are somewhat accurate. Some are so incredibly outside of reality that he cannot help but laugh at them; Cormac had agreed with him on those, xir disbelief at some of the more unsavoury rumours surrounding Jimmy had certainly overstepped some boundaries. And Scott places all of his money on those rumours being started by Jimmy’s Council.

Such thoughts are only at the back of his mind as he stands, rather patiently, and allows Axen to flutter around him anxiously. His advisor pulls at some of the layers of clothing, muttering about the heat as they run their hands over the fabric of his cloak, smoothing it out so it sits more comfortably on his shoulders.

Only when they reach to adjust his gloves does he halt them, circling one hand gently around their wrist and pulling it away.

“I do believe I am capable of adjusting my gloves myself, if I see fit.”

“If you were trusted on matters like ensuring you are presentable, then we would have you arriving in Mezalea looking like you had been hauled through several bramble bushes.”

“You overexaggerate.” He almost rolls his eyes at Axen’s fussing, only pausing because he’s rather certain they’d smack him for the disrespect. Aeor stands further back in the room, not having said anything; and yet He still manages to positively radiate amusement.

As a child, Scott had been a firm believer that animals were less adapted to communicate feelings based on expressions. Deer, he found, were rather inexpressive unless you studied their eyes or body language closely. Aeor destroyed all of those beliefs, presenting him with the knowledge that a deer can look incredibly smug when it wants to.

“I most certainly do not,” Axen protests, attempting to adjust something else with their still free hand before Scott manages to capture that one too. He can hear several elves snickering behind him, like the children they often are. “Do you not remember the most recent Mythland coronation? How you and your brother had to be wrangled into looking halfway presentable? There were so many resignations over the course of your fittings I worried there would be no tailors left to finish your clothes.”

“Again,” he releases Axen’s hands and steps back, carefully outside of fussing range. “You overexaggerate.”

Axen looks like they're going to continue. Scott ignores them easily, turning to where the rest of his Court stands, all of them abruptly straightening up as though that would disguise how they’ve been stood there snickering for the past few minutes as Scott was subjected to the torment of Axen’s last-minute fretting.

“I assume we are all ready to depart?” He clasps his hands neatly in front of him, feeling rather than seeing Aeor come to stand at his shoulder. The warm breath of the deer brushes over his cheek as he surveys the elves in front of him. Their luggage consists of only the bare minimum, Scott warning them that they were not to impose upon their hosts for the duration of their stay. “Fantastic,” he doesn’t wait for a response. “Now, I know a few of you dislike this method of transportation, but it beats having to travel by horse, hm?”

There’s a small round of assenting hums and quiet yeses, though no-one looks particularly pleased about the concept.

“Then we shan’t delay any further-“

“Sire,” Leukos interrupts him, looking rather out of place in the stark light of day rather than the muted tones of their library. “Please, let’s not make a grand entrance out of this? I don’t think any of us can cope with it after the last time.”

“Last time was not as bad as you all made it out to be,” he scoffs. He’d been a lot younger, and far more inexperienced with this specific talent. It had not been his finest moment, but at least he hadn’t been left to suffer it alone. “And I can promise, this time will be far less embarrassing.”

He ignores the murmured comment from Cormac about seaweed and fish, closing his eyes instead and feeling for the humming in the air around him. It reaches out to him easily, aided by Aeor’s close proximity.

It responds quickly, the sound of crackling ice travelling over stone reaching his ears. He tugs a little harder, a little harsher, and the sound of wind roars up around them, buffeting his clothes and drowning out any other noise.

It disappears just as quickly, leaving a wave of warmth behind it as he peeks first one eye and then the second eye open, looking around at the red sands of Mezalea gleefully.

“See?” He turns to his slightly dazed Court, a few of them looking rather pale. “What did I say, nice, non-dramatic entrances.”

“I think you’ll find that’s still rather dramatic.” Someone kicks at the ground behind him, and he turns with a smile to greet the Mezalean King. He’s nudging at the edge of the frozen ring of sand disdainfully, before looking up at Scott. “How am I meant to clear this up? Your ice doesn’t melt.”

“It will eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough,” the King crosses his arms, looking more annoyed than angry. “I quite liked this bit of ground. Nice, not too much sun, not too much shade. A rather pretty spot with a good view. And now it’s covered in ice. What am I meant to do with all this ice?”

“You could use it as ice cubes in drinks.” Scott suggests.

“Ah, yes,” the man nods along, looking thoughtful. “A new trend – take the ice from the sand and put it in your drinks. It won’t ruin it at all, with the bits of sand stuck in it, why would you ever suggest such a thing?”

“Do you make it a habit to harass all of your guests?” He asks, voice dry. The warm air is beginning to make him feel overdressed in all of his layers, something that is normally not a problem suddenly rearing it’s head and making him feel uncomfortable in the heat.

“Just you,” the King smiles up at him. “Special treatment for my favourite person.”

Mezalea and Rivendell have never had great relations. What had started out as Mezalea distrusting anything magical, had quickly turned into them vehemently denying the existence of any magic. It was enough to break off the alliance between his great-grandfather and the King of Mezalea that had been ruling at the time. Such an event has been misconstrued and even stricken from records, leaving the actual cause of such a falling out to become blurred over time. The resentment has faithfully been upheld, however.

“Why, I thank you for your generous hospitality,” he presses a hand to his chest, bowing himself forward a little. He notices, with slight glee, that it does nothing to put them at eye level. “Though, some of us have a little baggage. Is there anywhere we would be able to leave this?”

“Your rooms are with everyone else’s,” the King jabs a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the steady flow of people heading in one direction. It’s an interesting mix of people, with all the different colours and clothes of other empires mixing in together. He sees a few flashes of House Blossom lavender and whirling Grimland greys and blacks. “Someone’s waiting for you to arrive, and they’ll guide you to your rooms.”

He sounds bored, like he’s rattled the speech off a thousand times already. He likely has, judging by the sheer number of people that have arrived. Scott thought he might be pushing it by bringing the entirety of his Court, but his group seems like the smallest here.

…Ah, well. It simply means other people have a higher chance of embarrassing their empire.

He has to shove his way through the crowd none too gently, most of the people standing and speaking to their friends rather than actually moving towards their destination. Really, he cannot understand how someone can bear to move so slowly, inching along at a snail’s pace – do they not realise walking faster means they reach their destination earlier?

The “rooms” with everyone else that the Mezalean King had mentioned is actually several buildings specifically built with the idea of hosting people in mind. Rivendell hosts it’s guests in the Palace, with a specific quarter dedicated to visiting dignitaries and diplomats.

But Mezalea’s Palace is rather unfinished still. He can see workers scurrying over one of the domed roofs like ants, passing materials and clambering over the scaffolding. He hasn’t kept track of how many years this project has taken, but it’s something that had been ongoing for several generations of rulers at this point. It was being handed down like some kind of inheritance, but one that acted as a burden on their resources rather than anything actually useful.

Still, he much prefers sleeping in something with a completed roof, so he’ll take the accommodation they’ve been provided with happily.

“Elvenking,” one of the workers greets him. “And other esteemed guests. I hope the journey wasn’t too difficult.” The poor woman looks bored out of her mind, eyes drifting around the room as though looking for something more entertaining to occupy herself with. He wonders if they had to draw straws for which group they would receive. And which empire had the shortest straw assigned to them.

“Oh, it wasn’t too terrible.” He smiles, “A little cold, certainly, but nothing we aren’t already accustomed to.”

“That’s wonderful to hear.” Her tone of voice suggests she couldn’t care less. “Right this way, please.”

They're guided up a grand and winding staircase in the centre of the room. He may dislike everything Mezalea stands for, but they really can make a rather grand staircase. She stops them on the second floor, handing out keys she fishes out of her pockets seemingly at random.

She disappears a moment later, a shout from downstairs summoning her. She gives him what he assumes is meant to be an apologetic smile, but comes across as more of a grimace before she descends again, leaving him alone with his Court.

With the outsider gone, they begin squabbling again over who is sharing rooms with who. And then it devolves into squabbling over which rooms they wish to be in. He sighs and reaches for Cormac when xe look as though xe are about to wrestle a key from Ophelia. He admires xir bravery, but he prefers his Head Mage in one piece.

“Alright,” he yanks the keys towards himself, pulling them together with the minimal cold lingering in the shaded corridors. His grasp over it is weaker than usual, driven by Mezalea’s refusal to acknowledge anything other. Disregarding the fact that their land is nourished by a magical tree. “I will be assigning rooms to each of you, seeing as you are unable to keep your manners intact for more than five seconds.”

He pauses at the sound of footsteps on the staircase behind them, turning his head slightly to watch the Crystal Cliffs diplomat meander their way on up, eyes set in a far-off look, not even seeing them. He waits until they're gone, far out of earshot, before he returns to berating the elves in front of him.

“You are representing Rivendell right now, I do not care that this is a celebration of an engagement. You will not be getting drunk and making a fool out of yourself where the other empires can watch you. Whilst we are here, we are the ones that make Rivendell look good and I will not hesitate to send you home if I think you are not taking this seriously enough, alright?”

“You sound like our mother.” Calla comments, snickering as he turns to look at them. “Sorry, sorry, I was just saying what everyone else was thinking.”

“Alright,” he takes a deep breath in, reminding himself that he would definitely be heard by everyone else in the building if he raised his voice any more. “Ground rules, yes? Those are always a good way to make sure there is no confusion on what I expect from you, is that clear?”

“Aeor above,” Cormac mutters, “he really is acting like our mother.”

Scott gracefully ignores xem. “I expect you to exercise the entirety of your court training, meaning I expect there to be impeccable manners and for you to be polite. Please, I beg of you, be polite. I do not need to be defusing any situations because you riled up the wrong person and their ruler took it personally. And,” he overrides Sorin before he can even think to protest, “I do not care if someone else started it. You are all much, much older than them and therefore know better. You might act like children, but you are certainly not, so please, be the mature adult if someone else is determined to be the child.”

“You take all the fun outta these things,” Cormac huffs. “What’s a little scuffle between friends?”

“It’s the difference between keeping peace and stoking conflict.” There’s enough conflict looming in their future, he hardly needs anything more on his plate. He has been bored as of late, but overworking himself in an effort to maintain semi-peaceful relations is not the solution for that boredom that he envisioned. “Now, room assignments.”

He hands the keys out to people, ignoring Cormac’s protests when he pairs xem with Axen rather than Leukos. He silently apologises to his advisor, but Cormac needs someone to keep an eye on xem, and he certainly doesn’t need to hear whatever it is that xe do with xir boyfriend.

Leukos accepts it quietly and with far more grace than their partner. That is the way that he expects his Court to behave while in the public eye.

He manages to have a room entirely to himself, slotting the key neatly into the lock and ignoring the beginnings of another squabble behind him. It might be his circus and his monkeys, but he is far past his threshold of tolerance for the day, and it’s barely past noon.

It is with a barely restrained sigh of relief that he shuts the door behind him, blocking out the worst of the noise.

His room is nice, spacious enough for his three-day stay here, at least. He sets his bag down at the foot of the bed and pulls his cloak off a moment later, feeling far too warm still.

“You should bring fewer of them next time,” Aeor says.

“Yes, yes,” Scott sighs, shaking his head. “I expected them to be better than this really, I would have thought our last incident would be enough to dissuade them from acting in such a manner.”

When he looks up, Aeor is wavery and opaque, almost entirely see through with how little of Him seems to retain a solid form. He wisps away into smoke and mist at the edges, looking for all the world as though He would disappear with a small breeze.

“You should not hold a physical form if it will be a drain on you.”

“It does not drain me,” Aeor sniffs. “It simply weakens me. As though I am stood on the other side of a door rather than in the room with you.”

“Not exactly a comforting metaphor.” He comments. “Nor one that fills me with any kind of hope.”

“It was not meant to make you feel more hopeful, only to make it so that you understand the situation. To send you forward with false information would be foolish, if you were to find yourself wedged into a corner, you may reach for power you do not have access to.”

“Yes, whatever,” he sits down on the bed with a thump, toying with the edges of his gloves. He almost takes them off, just to see what Mezalea is doing to his hands. “I thought it had been getting better? When we visited for the coronation-”

“The current King’s claim over the land was not fully settled,” Aeor interrupts. He flickers out of view for a moment before He consolidates Himself into a deer once more. “The Mother Tree was still recovering from the loss of her previous child, and he was still growing accustomed to the matters of the throne. It is not surprising that whatever protection She has placed was not yet functioning at its fullest potential.”

He sighs, staring down at his upturned hands. “Shame.”

“Oh?” Aeor’s hooves do not make a sound against the tiled floor as He steps closer, but Scott can see the sparks of frost that sparkle for a moment before fading away. “Did you have something planned?”

“I don’t always have something planned,” he rebuts. “I had simply thought that Her protection for the land was failing – She could have been dying for all we know. Can you imagine the state of things if she simply began withering and nothing could be done for it?”

Aeor hums. “I see your point. However, if it got to that point, someone would be able to bring in a mage to heal Her. If the She begins to die, so too does her protection. If that protection dies, then magic can once again be performed on these soils.”

“Hm.”

“You can simply tell me to stop talking if you grow bored,” Aeor’s nose nudges at him. Where he would normally feel a slightly wet sensation and the pressure that comes with being touched, he only feels the whisper of cold over his skin before it disappears again. “I do not wish to lull you to sleep.”

“I am simply thinking.”

“About what?” Aeor asks, ever persistent. Scott has seen His realm before, on the few occasions he’s been invited into that landscape; it’s possibly the most boring place he’s ever seen, with everything a sterile white and glowing slightly, stretching on for miles and miles of nothing but the same white expanse. He would prefer to bother whatever Champion he had chosen too. “No, don’t tell me, actually, allow me to guess.”

“I don’t need to tell you if you're right.”

“You can’t bear to let someone go uncorrected. Now, let’s see if I can get it with my first guess: you're attempting to decide whether to go looking for your dearest ally.”

He continues to stare at his gloved hands, but his non-answer is apparently enough to amuse Aeor. The faint sound of bells fills the air as Aeor laughs, shaking His massive head in disbelief. “Are you sure he is right for it?”

“I am rather sure,” Scott replies. “He’s been around for several years, settled comfortably into his power and influence for just as long.”

“And yet you never interacted with him before now.”

“Interacting with him wasn’t something that mattered. I was simply watching him. He is a rather interesting being, don’t you think?”

“Oh, there are many interesting things about the Codfather. Which one is it that you wish to discuss with me?”

“None of them.”

“Not even his purpose? Not even the reason why you had chosen to accept his proposal when it promises nothing but calamity for you? Did you think about the possible repercussions of your actions before you agreed to assist him in his ill-planned revenge plot, or were you simply considering what he could do for you?”

“You make me sound so shallow.” He complains.

“I did not call you shallow, I am saying that you rarely do anything without some ulterior motive. Forgive me for being doubtful of your motives in this situation.”

“You already know the motives.”

“Do I now?” Aeor laughs, again. “I may know a lot of what goes on inside of your head, but I don’t know everything, dear Champion. Are you sure your mind will remain clear during this alliance, and that it won’t be…polluted by whatever infatuation he has with you.”

“Infatuation is so offensive.”

“And what else would you call it? He has watched you at every single meeting for the last few years – the entire time he has held the title of Codfather, he has seemed to hold some level of attraction to you.”

“I am aware.”

“And do you intend to act on that?” Aeor continues to prod. His voice hasn’t changed at all, but the tension in the air grows, becoming heavy like the moments before it begins to snow. “Guiding someone because they find themselves attracted to you is a new low, even for you.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, curling over it slightly. “Right through the heart, that one. You wound me, really.”

“I would find that easier to believe if you injected even a little emotion into that.” Aeor pauses, as though waiting for his response, before sighing, “Mortals are fragile little things, their hearts especially so. Did you know they can die from a broken heart?”

“I am just as capable of doing so.”

“Which is why I am warning you of this.” Aeor forces his way into Scott’s field of view, forcing him to look his God in the eye. “You are valuable to me, no matter the outcome of this plan, but seafolk are a fickle species, as prone to change as the tides are. Do not let yourself be led astray by your heart when you have more important matters to focus on.”

“I am not being led astray, sometimes I am able to act upon my feelings without compromising anything. It’s called balancing something. Have you ever heard of it?”

“I have yet to see you successfully put it into practice.”

“Gods, sometimes I am almost glad my mother died. I don’t know how I would cope with two of you attempting to mother me at once.”

Aeor makes an offended noise at that and promptly disappears, leaving Scott to stew in silence until the celebration in the evening – he doesn’t understand the point of holding a celebration for their engagement when they're getting married tomorrow.

Apparently it’s a Mezalean tradition. Everything wrong with the world seems to be a Mezalean tradition.

=== === ===

He has discovered that it does not cool down once the sun sets. He had been hoping for some relief from the stifling heat once the sun disappeared below the horizon, but no such relief has been granted thus far.

The stone all around them seems to radiate heat, having absorbed it during the long day and only now releasing it into the environment. He can be a little thankful, at least, about the celebration being hosted outside. He cannot imagine it would be pleasant inside one of those furnace homes at this time.

It seems they often host celebrations outside, at least, as there is an entire courtyard outfitted to host a part of thrice their size. He’s heard tales of the parties the King is apparently willing to throw, with noise complaints coming in from their neighbours due to how late these celebrations seem to run.

Scott can’t think of one thing that Mezalea has done recently worth celebrating.

He and his Court arrive a few minutes late, just enough to not be the first people there and thus awkwardly standing around as they wait for more people to arrive, but not late enough to offend their hosts. One of which already holds some resentment towards him.

Jimmy does not hold the same qualms as his allies, brightening up as he sees Scott entering the courtyard, passing beneath an intricately weaved flower archway. It’s rather impressive, unfortunately.

Jimmy waves at him, turns back to his allies, and then breaks away from the group to come towards Scott. Huh. He had expected Jimmy to stick with his allies, perhaps to keep the peace for the evening when one of his closest allies holds so much obvious disdain for him. Apparently, though, he has no such qualms about displaying their not-yet announced allyship.

It seems this evening will be the time where this alliance is announced informally. The entire courtyard of people seem to hold their breath as Jimmy comes to a stop in front of him, tilting his head back slightly to look up at him.

“You clean up nicely,” Scott compliments, if only to watch the way Jimmy immediately averts his eyes and goes a little pink in the cheeks. Cormac makes a gagging sound behind him.

“Ah, you look nice too.” Jimmy responds, still averting his eyes. Scott makes eye contact with the Mezalean King for long enough to see him roll his eyes hard enough that he almost falls over. He’s only saved by his fiancée grabbing onto his arm and keeping him upright. She sends a tight smile in Scott’s direction. “I like the, uh, gloves.”

Scott looks down at his gloves. They're different to the more practical leather ones he usually wears, these ones more delicate and made from silk. He turns his hands over slightly, looking at the gloves from all angles, as though he’s never seen them before.

“Thank you.”

“Ah-hah, yeah,” Jimmy pauses. “Did you want a drink?”

“A drink would be lovely, thank you.” Jimmy nods at his response and promptly flees, getting to the nearest refreshments table as quickly as possible without running and looking like an idiot.

“Must you stand and stare at him the entire time?” He turns on his Court, switching to elvish so he can berate them in relative privacy. “He is nervous and you watching on like a flock of hungry vultures hoping for a good meal does not help.”

“He’s pathetic,” Calla says, with some amazement in their voice. “Like a little, cold cat. One you’d find on the side of the road in a cardboard box because no-one else wanted him, and then you can’t help but be drawn in by his sad eyes and general pathetic aura-”

“Thank you, Calla.” He interrupts. “I think we got the idea.”

“Only doing my job.” They chirp, before disappearing as well. Ophelia follows behind them with a quick promise to look after the youngest of their party.

“The walls are thin,” is Cormac’s parting statement before xe leave with Leukos, the librarian giving him an amused look as they link their arm with Cormac’s. He grimaces a little at the thought that forces into his mind, doing his best to banish it before Jimmy returns.

He just about manages, focusing instead on the different details of his outfit – all the ways it differs from what he normally wears. It doesn’t help much, drawing his attention to the cut-out windows of fabric that frames his hips, leaving very little to the imagination.

He averts his eyes, taking his drink from Jimmy with a murmured thanks and immediately downing half of it.

“I didn’t know you liked Mezalean wine so much,” Jimmy laughs, cradling his own drink close to his chest.

“I don’t.” He responds, reminded immediately of why he dislikes it so much when the sourness of it floods his mouth. It’s something to do with the type of berries used and the way it’s fermented out in the heat rather than in a cellar. He had searched for answers after the first drink that had left him feeling discontented rather than elated, a sour taste invading his senses rather than a sweet one.

He drinks a little more of it, if only to ignore the way that Jimmy’s hair has been braided intricately, enough so that he wouldn’t have been able to do it himself and thus would have required outside help…

“Do you know when the dancing starts?” He interrupts his own thoughts with the first question that comes to mind, hand tightening momentarily around his glass, before he looks at Jimmy again.

“Uh, pretty soon.” Jimmy’s eyes meet his, darker than usual in the rapidly approaching nighttime. “I think. I didn’t really ask, actually. Do you want me to?”

“No, no,” he sips at his wine again, unable to help the nervous response. “I was simply wondering if you would like to dance with me when it does start.”

“That’s a rather formal way of asking me, don’t you think?” Jimmy tilts his head to the side, still smiling in that utterly disarming way of his. Everything about Jimmy sets him at odds with himself, leaving him off-kilter and utterly unsure of how to respond to him. “What happened to spur-of-the-moment actions?”

Jimmy must certainly know what he’s doing, watching him from beneath thick eyelashes, idly rubbing his thumb back and forth over the rim of his glass. It’s horrible etiquette to hold your glass in such a manner, but Scott ignores it easily as the wine he’s just drunk turns thick and syrupy in his throat, threatening to choke him if he doesn’t swallow and glance away for a moment.

“I am of the kind to plan my movements out with immense detail. To impose a plan onto someone else without their consent when the purpose is for enjoyment would not be…productive.”

“Wow,” Jimmy blinks, once, then twice. “Did you eat a dictionary before you got here or something?”

“I- no?” He has to resist taking another sip of the wine to fill the silence, regretting the several mouthfuls he’s already had as sourness continues to coat his tongue. Jimmy’s sincereness makes him feel almost dizzy, the sour taste in his mouth intensifying the longer the silence drags on. It’s been no more than a second before he speaks again. “Why would I choose to eat a dictionary? The paper would certainly be rather unpleasant-”

“It’s a saying,” Jimmy laughs. “A joke, I thought it was funny.”

“I am aware. I was responding to your joke with sarcasm, re-emphasising how ridiculous and outlandish your initial statement was.”

“Alright,” Jimmy holds a hand up, his wine sloshing dangerously close to the edges of his glass, threatening to spill over. Scott jerks back, imagining that wine staining his pristine incredibly white clothes. “There’s something up with you, you don’t speak like this outside of meetings.”

“This is technically a meeting.”

“This is a party.” Jimmy sighs, looking immediately like a kicked puppy- and Aeor dammit, he can see the pathetic cat comparison Calla made earlier. He’s never getting that out of his head now, Aeor above. “You're meant to have fun, relax and all that.”

“I am aware.” He swallows, the sour taste in his mouth persisting. Aeor wavers into being behind Jimmy, just over his shoulder, before disappearing again. Scott’s not even certain that he actually saw Aeor and that it wasn’t just some figment of his imagination. Some kind of reminder. “Parties…aren’t my thing.”

“Not…your thing?” Jimmy tries the words out while Scott tries not to shrivel up from embarrassment. The party hasn’t even truly started yet, and he already can’t stand to be enclosed within this courtyard for much longer. These things are far easier when he’s the one hosting them and able to disappear to a secret corridor for a few moments.

“Please don’t speak so loud,” he presses a hand to his head, rubbing at his temples. “It’s not something good for my image.”

“One of my Elders is already drunk.”

“That is besides the point.” His Court knows he’ll strangle them if they get drunk here. “Though I do extend my condolences.”

“Thanks.”

The music bursts to life between sentences, catching both him and Jimmy off-guard by the sudden surge in sound around them. Lights flicker on, too, bright and colourful. It sets a cheery atmosphere that is only bolstered by the happy couple already on the dance floor, hands entwined and practically leaning against each other.

“That’s definitely loud,” Jimmy laughs, releasing Scott’s sleeve. He hadn’t even realised Jimmy was holding onto him. “Jo- uh, he was worried about it not being loud enough.” Jimmy nods his head towards the Mezalean King.

“I think he can be assured that it is plenty loud enough.” He grimaces as a particularly high note is hit, burrowing into his skull in just the worst way possible. He’s been nursing a headache ever since they arrived in this damned place, reeling from the almost complete severance from Aeor’s presence and suffering with the heat that permeates this entire place.

“Why don’t we get out of here?”

Scott looks down at Jimmy, narrowing his eyes. “How will they feel about their most treasured ally leaving them?”

“They won’t notice,” Jimmy says. “Really!” He insists, when Scott continues to look doubtful. “C’mon, they're all wrapped up in each other, all cutesy. I think we’ll be lucky if they notice when the music stops. They're not gonna miss me.”

“That’s rather hard to imagine.”

“I know the best places around here, too.” Jimmy assures, jerking oddly, before slowly reaching his hand out. He offers it palm up, hiding the scales that dot the back of his hand from view. Scott’s own hand hovers over the top of Jimmy’s for a moment, not quite touching, not quite closing the gap between their palms.

His hands are cold. Always have been and likely always will be. There is no way around that fact, and he’s learned to be rather grateful with the gifts that have been bestowed upon him. The leather of his normal gloves does much to disguise the chill that radiates from him, but the silken gloves he currently wears will do nothing to block that.

Jimmy’s hand is bare, warm and inviting below his frigid palm.

He joins their hands together with a held breath, preparing for Jimmy to shout and jerk away at the burning cold of their hands meeting. For him to draw the attention of the crowd towards them, exposing them for their…whatever their small moment in the corner of a party is. He feels almost embarrassed at the thought that people have laid eyes upon them in these moments that they’ve shared.

Jimmy doesn’t react. His fingers curl around Scott’s hand, humming happily as he uses their joined hands as a way to pull Scott along behind him.

They duck back beneath the weaved archway, the fragrant petals brushing over them as they sneak through like children sneaking out. He hunches over awkwardly to fit his antlers beneath the bushes, twisting his head and neck so he doesn’t get caught on the bush.

The Mezalean King certainly didn’t take him into consideration when designing this ridiculous thing. Possibly on purpose, now that he thinks about it, hoping to catch him acting a fool and stuck in the vines like some stupid animal.

“Welcome,” Jimmy glances back at him, eyes reflecting the lights from the engagement party. Scott couldn’t care less about the engagement party right now, or the fact that his advisors could be doing whatever they please with themselves without a care for how it reflects on him. All he can think about is the way that the lights reflect in Jimmy’s eyes and make it seem as though he’s cradling the entire night sky in them. “To my favourite spot in the entirety of Mezalea.”

It doesn’t take much for Scott to realise why this is his favourite spot, looking around himself first, before glancing upwards, and…

The sky is breath-taking. The polar lights are missing here, their colours not filling the sky in the same way, but the shimmering canvas of velvet blue and pale cream is enough to leave him in awe, head craned back so he can take the entirety of it in.

“Fan of the stars?”

“I appreciate them on occasion.” He replies, returning Jimmy’s smile more easily now that they are alone. The wisp of Aeor’s presence at the back of his mind disapproves, but it’s easy enough to brush Him away, as weak as He currently is.

“And by appreciate I assume you mean study them intensively?” Jimmy questions, poking further into him with a smile. The ease with which Jimmy now talks to him, almost an entirely different person to the one that had first approached him with the proposition of an alliance, is exhilarating. He can’t seem to get enough of it.

Maybe there is something wrong with him.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, glancing down for a moment, if only to make his head stop spinning. The sight of his hand in Jimmy’s doesn’t help with that. “My brother was far fonder of the stars than I was; they could name every single one within sight, tell you all the stories they held. It was fantastic, the idea that someone looked at the very same stars I did, and found some kindred spirit in those lights that can only watch over us.”

“Ah,” Jimmy clears his throat, hand beginning to retreat from where Scott grasps it. “I'm sorry.”

He tightens his hand around Jimmy’s, unwilling to release this new warmth that he’s found himself. “Whatever for?”

“Your brother,” Jimmy refuses to look at him, strands of hair drifting over his face as he glances downwards. Scott only barely resists the urge to brush it away, reminding himself that Jimmy is a skittish thing, even if he boasts confidence with everything he says, and too much may scare him away for good. “I didn’t mean to re-open old wounds.”

“Ah, yes, well.” The sour taste of the wine returns, though he had been certain that the lingering flavour of it had long disappeared. “It has been a rather long time since then. I choose not to dwell.”

Jimmy’s silence speaks volumes.

Scott sighs, “I do not believe they would wish for me to mope every time I sit and look at the stars. Perhaps they would not be proud of the person I have become, but they would not wish such grief upon me for so long. Such a burden would send anyone to the grave.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“And I am telling you there is no need.” He squeezes Jimmy’s hand, and waits until he feels the tension in his shoulders loosen again. He looks up at the stars again, studying. No matter how many times he looks, he can never find the same stories that his brother had told him in hushed whispers. “I think they would have liked the stars tonight.”

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