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enuniu · 1 year

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compass that leads to home

“He’s your Tubbo,”

A pale shaky hand retrieved a small illuminated compass, glowing with embers of violets and blues, swirling the two colors to create an enchanted effect of something unknown and uneasily beautiful to Tommy.

The ghost in front of him smiled, small and low, crooked teeth of a man once powerful and terminated, held the object up high in the air—body see-through and a sad reminder that someone has been long gone.

Tommy eyed the navigator, it’s pointed red arrows taunting every move as it swished dangerously anytime the distorted figure’s body situated itself uncomfortably against frayed woods and a confused gaze. Fingers itching to grasp the tiny object and run its calloused palms over smooth metal and cold glass; the boy's mind trailed in different directions as the ghost in front only showed curved lips, indicating with a knowing look. The compass itself held a sort of familiarity yet such an unwelcoming presence he was sure his former leader’s crooked smile meant only something great and grand—just like everything else.

Tommy coughed, “What are you talking about?” He situated the nerves skidding about inside and straightened his posture.

Wilbur—what’s left of him—only hummed in reluctance, as if he was calculating the kind of words to say and how exactly to form them. The man always knew what to say to the boy in times of need and desperation; for once when he was full of bright, stringed lights accompanied with coasters of laughs, Wilbur’s presence still held some note of it left behind.

The ghost fiddled with the chain connected to bronze and responded gently, coaxing a silver-feather voice of comfort, “It’s a compass.”

The blond scoffed.

“Of course it’s a compass, Wilbur. I mean—why do you have that?” Tommy decided to go against mentioning that name again. It was only a memoir of haunting words that led to his existence left on unknown planes, an obsidian portal a few grass patches away from somewhere far away he could never return to without the fear of darkness; of death.

The air around them stilled, with breezes directing its way towards blond strands and tattered clothing; a red bandana wrapped around a dirty neck in hope to cover the mist of cold from dark nights to come.

Wilbur’s style never changed. His signature beanie hung loosely from curled, brown hair and threatened to fall after every step but never ceased to hit covered ground, seemingly staying because of different physics in another world. A yellow crew neck only casted a noticeable sign that this man was still here, somewhat giddy and clam compared to vicious growls and crazed eyes for a country he could never have. In some odd, twisted way, Tommy preferred the remnants of a father figure he once had rather than the madman scratching at useless walls, craving for violence—even if death seemed to be the only way out.

The brunette smiled once more and this time, Tommy didn’t mistake it for complexity but rather fondness, something he’s hadn’t seen for a long time.

“This compass, Tommy, is special,” he held it up at eye level, showing off the bouncing colors emitting from the object, “I created it in a way where if you ever want to know where Tubbo is,”

That god forsaken name—

“This compass will lead you to him. It’s tethered to his soul, his body and when you need reassurance or comfort, this will lead you to him. No matter where you are in the world—” Wilbur pointed at the red arrows, pointed jagged triangles opposing the direction of north,”—you can always find your best friend.”

Tommy’s nail dug crescent moons into his palms, fingers tightening and tiny muscles flexing at the thought of sandy colored hair and emerald eyes. Pink, rosy cheeks holding in sputters of laughter that always left the ghost of a smile—of something happy—on Tommy’s own chapped lips. The boy recalls memories of a back pressed against his, a familiar weight as an important reminder that somewhere in this world, someone is right there with him ready to attack demons filled with plagues and men painted in ambushes of green.

Everything that had been done, the two had done together.

Tommy exhaled shakily, limbs shivering at such a simple reference and yet, warm tear tracks had already found a home on his blotched cheeks. They burned as each drop paved a path down his face, sizzling and crackling against his fair skin and holding every piece of emotion he’d been holding back since that dreadful afternoon. Sobs threatened to escape the confined red walls of Tommy’s parched throat but he didn’t let their voices be heard—he couldn’t trust himself to stay upright in front of the dead man.

It seemed as though Wilbur didn't need any words from him to know exactly what stopped his once second in command boy from hollering any profanity in ignorance. He didn’t need to know that the blond’s red-rimmed eyes were a call for help or some sense of comfort in the frozen lands of nowhere.

The ghost traced the outlines of the compass, every bump and amateur scratch made skidded across fingertips not really there and a mind lost somewhere in the expanse of reality and subconsciousness. It is such an odd sight; Tommy exiled under horrible circumstances and promptly taken care of by his dead leader’s ghost—really, the teenager is sure his whole situation was just a mereless nightmare on a winter night. That maybe everything that had led to his life relying on skinned logs was something his brainless head had conjured up in hopes to ensure it was a wake-up call.

But it wasn’t.

This is his wake-up call.

Tommy jeopardized his position in his country and casted aside by the one boy he deemed important. He chose blood, red violence and suffered the long talking and meeting of whether he deserved a home in the mainlands.

He sighed, sadness creeping in faintly as he finally responded to Wilbur’s gift.

“Give it to me,”

Wilbur’s head peeked at the young boy’s voice, a sure smile coming along the way as his giddy hands stretched outwards to give to Tommy.

As he delicately placed the item in the blond’s hands, he repeated—“He’s your Tubbo.”

The ghost's hands simply overlapped with Tommy’s own, reflecting just how opposites they were; one shifting between a dreamless stretch of something beyond and below and the other filled with red blood pumping in between blue veins, covered with scars littered across pale skin.

The compass’s bronze metal felt cold and foreign to Tommy. As he firmly held the object, he concluded it must’ve been borrowed from previous owners, possibly the mysterious and charming presence of Ranboo or the stricken veteran of Phil. Though the glowing embers of violets that reckoned with blues showed just how enchanted it is, Tommy could feel the power against his own pulse. He could feel the raw strength of netherite combined with smelted ores and unknown words coursing through the thin glass and curled chains.

Tommy’s breath shook at the very thought that this compass leads to his best friend.

Tubbo.

He shifted his feet in different directions; left, right and then left, left left right, right right right, left right right left—

No matter where he turned, the arrows pointed south. The exact trail he passed by when escorted by a man in a faceless mask and forbidden from entering the festive planks of his home, held marked footprints that couldn’t have been but his own.

The boy shuddered.

“This leads to Tubbo,” it came out shaky and curdled, but it showed exactly what he thought of his new profound present.

Wilbur nodded, pale eyes seeing through Tommy’s in a certain gaze.

The blond wrapped the rusted chain around his wrist, securing it tightly. The compass swished around at every movement but didn’t dare to drop onto unholy lands. It’s scratched gold shining at the low set of the star above.

Tommy peaked at the sunset casted amongst blue waters. The crystal clean liquid reflecting rows of trees tarnished in the shade of greens and browns, sea creatures floating about along the currents and caught tangled in families of bright corals squeezed in between old weeds. Tommy could hear the faint whispers of animals amongst the forest around, hiding and looking out at the same scene he was with one word on their minds—a word that maybe they’ve found already or still on the search for. Or maybe, a word they have lost.

“Home.”

hello! here’s another favorite story of mine i have written. it’s also a proud one of mine. this is set in the timeline where tommy was cast from his home. i hope you enjoyed it! THIS IS NOT A SHIP A POST.

#dsmp tommy #dsmp #dsmp tubbo #dsmp wilbur #ghost wilbur #dream smp #friendship #exile #dream #angst #tommy mcyt #tommy #wilbur dream smp #wilbur mcyt #wilbur #tubbo #tubbo mcyt

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toiletwipes · 11 months

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Don't you see me? | ghost!wilbur

~1.9k words / hi hi hello this a piece written for @lillylvjy 's ghost au! There's only one part out but we've all had the rot since then and I couldn't help myself. [You move into a house and meet two ghosts who haunt it; Wilbur and Tom. You've endeared yourself to them. And now, you've bought a polaroid camera just so they have something of the two of them and you, in the event you ever move out. Written mostly in Wilbur's pov so emotions are on the raw side.]

[Title is from the song Fallingforyou by the 1975]

Wilbur's time nowadays is spent waiting for you and with you. (Of course, Tom is there so he's not completely lonely, but he's always had Tom. He used to never have you- used to live an after-life without you in it.) It wasn't always like that, of course, but you moved in and everything changed. For the better, he firmly believed. You made things better. For Tom, for him. You pulled the both of them into your life, even when they had anything but. Even when it was a painful fact. You brought joy and peace and laughter and the sun and the stars with you and he can't help the clenching in his chest, the way you smiled and he felt what it could be like breathless again.

Things changed for the better. And he couldn't help the way he wanted to cling to your side and never leave you alone, except he could do something about it. Sometimes he'd back off for days, feeling like he suffocates you more than he can handle. Other days he'd be a second skin- not that you'd ever complain. You never complained, not really, not when it came to him. But today…

But today's different. You had a day off and decided to stay home, turning on some music and pulling out a puzzle, the end picture being a pretty garden of flowers. You were so concentrated and he wanted to smooth out the crease in your forehead but he breathed out silently, flexing his hands as he turned to the windows. You're not his to touch like that.

Something catches his eye from the outside. Because as he was turning around to look out the window, a car drove up and left a box on the porch. And with his predicament, he moved a little too late and Tom was already calling for you to get it and open it, tell them what it was. But you stayed quiet as you ducked under arms, dancing away from Tom's prying hands. You land backwards on the couch, cradling the box as you adjust yourself, laughing to yourself a little.

Wilbur comes away from the window and he approaches the couch, leaning close to you as you fail to open it, giving him puppy eyes as you look up with the box in your palms. "Can't even open a box by yourself, how cringe. Where would you be without-" He'd been in the middle of teasing you when he'd opened the box, finding a polaroid camera, already put together with some extra film at the bottom, "-us?"

"I couldn't stop thinking about the other day, you know. I was thinking about giving you some of my baby photos but I figured it'd be better if you guys had pictures of yourselves and some of us together-" you rambled on, pausing to take a picture of Tom, who is literally snapped out of his silence by the sound of the camera printing out.

"What the hell, there's not even anything on it-" he complains but after you explain to him that he has to shake it a little for the picture to develop faster, he's shaking it as violently as one can shake a polaroid.

Wilbur can't say anything, he's surprised that you went this far and you stare at him, biting your lip before you move abruptly, turning the camera on you two and taking the picture with him and you in it. The picture prints and as you shake the picture, you show Wilbur how to take a picture. And when you do, he doesn't hesitate to take one of just you, laughing as Tom curses again. The laughter dies down as the camera prints for the third time, as Tom wields the picture hanging his head.

A blurry figure with no discernable features in your living room. The living room itself is clear. But Tom is blurry. The only blurry thing in the picture. Panic rises in your chest as you check the two polaroids in your hand, and sure enough, out of the three of you, you're the only clear person in the pictures. "I- I'm so sorry, I thought- if I could see you guys then surely I could-" but Wilbur knows the line of thinking you're going down. He ends it right there, pulling you into a quick, tight hug.

"I know." And he hears the shaky breath you release, struggling to breathe through tears he knows you're fighting back. Once you pull back from the hug, he takes the picture of you out from your fingers in a light tug, looking at it more closely. "I think this may be my favorite picture of you, yet." You roll your eyes as you laugh wetly, wiping under your eyes.

Tom then demands to know how the camera works and we'll you give in pretty easily and soon, the day is spent with everyone finding pretty things, pretty bugs and pretty pictures to take and Tom takes the one of the stray cat from outside, of the sunset over the fence, and a circle of three pairs of shoes. Two are blurry but you drew the details on so it's clearer. He hangs them by the window.

Wilbur doesn't show anyone the pictures he takes because they're all of you. You when you're cooking dinner, stirring a pot. One when you were looking out the window with a hand under your chin. While you were outside checking on the plants you've planted while you've been staying here. With the sun on your face. While you were reading a book he recommended you.

He didn't want a picture of anything else, not when you were just so damn amazing. Beautiful and caring and full of surprises. How can he ignore you at all when you devote your time to be his friend, to be there for him and his brother? When all he can think about these days, is you and you only?

He can't imagine the day you move out, if you move out. But he knows that if you leave, he'd stare at these pictures for the rest of his afterlife.

Even when you apologize again in private, about the pictures and the two of them not showing up, he shushes you. Reassuring you it's okay. The camera sits with Tom and his own set of pictures. The film he has of you and only you burns in his pocket, and it burns against his chest when he pulls you into a quick hug. "I mean it when I say this is more than I could ever ask of you. I appreciate what you've done for us." What you've done for me, he adds silently.

He'd stare at them now, but you were getting ready for bed and you were deep in thought and equally tired. So quiet. You tucked your back against the wall as you lowered the volume on the TV in your room, but he hesitated getting in bed with you. He wants more than anything to hold you, to kiss those bitten lips and bruise them with his own. He wants more than anything to feel your warmth and never let it leave.

However, he is cold. You needed the blanket to keep the warmth in because of how much he made you shiver without it. He is dead. He's sure kissing a dead man isn't the focal point of your romantic dreams. Sure that you'd puke at the thought of it but when you warily open your eyes to find him in the doorway, you tell him to close the door behind him and get in bed.

He thought about his earlier inhibitions of being close, of being too much for you. And throws it out a metaphorical window. For now. Because for now, you want him in your bed. And he'd do anything for you.

He climbs into your bed, letting you pull the covers over his shoulders and lean your face back into your pillow. His fingers twitch between the two of you. He can't fall asleep, watching you slip under the blanket of sleep. When your breath evens out, when he can feel your heart beating softly in your chest, that's when he speaks.

"Love, what you did today- I don't know how I can thank you. It meant a lot for Tom, and I know he loves the camera and the pictures more than the both of us but- for you to do this, to give us this. Words can't explain the gratitude I feel. I know one day, you'll have to leave us, and I won't be able to say these words out when you're awake so you'll never know truly how I feel, the… emotions that are so close to bursting, when I'm around you." He wants to say more. Wants to say just what's on his mind. But you're stirring, the crease coming in between your eyebrows again, and then your face relaxes as you sigh.

"Are you still awake, Wilbur?" You ask without opening your eyes. He murmurs a yes, feeling more as if he was plunged in a bath of ice. "Can you turn the fan off?" And just quickly, relief and a tang of disappointment warms his cold system. He turns the fan off like you asked and you reach for him as soon as he's under the blankets again. "Much better, thank you." And you tuck yourself closer to him, as if seeking for warmth. He can't say anything else, just taking the chance and wrapping you up in his arms. Hating the way you'd let out the occasional shiver.

He can't help being a ghost, being dead. He can't help the feelings he has. The ones about you and the ones about you leaving. It hurts every time he thinks about it, you leaving. You finding someone else. Leaving him behind. And in the end, he'd thank you. For being as generous, as kind, as- as loving as you were to him and to Tom. He doesn't know what to do with these thoughts, these feelings.

Towards the end of the night, when it seemed like the sun was about to rise, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head. And in his head, he finally figures out what he feels for you. "Thank you." He says into the air. He's not sure who he's thanking or what for. But you hum into his clothed collar bone.

"You're welcome." His arms wrap themselves tighter around you, a hand coming up to cup the back of your head. He knows soon he'll have to let you out of his arms and that one day he'd have to let you go and move out and forget about him. But for now. For now, he can pretend you want this, that you want him and his brother in your life, forever, and that you want whatever he has to offer. That you wanted him.

And it's enough for his eyes to mist over but no tears fall down. And they never will.

#c: wilbur soot #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x reader #lilly's ghost au #au: ghost

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