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toiletwipes · 6 months

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cry for absolution - episode two

vampire!wilbur x reader - 4.3k - AO3

warnings: typical vampire shenanigans, jared is an asshole

notes: mmmmmmm smooth brain rn, enjoy tho

<;- previous episode -> masterlist

taglist: @your-shifting-gurl @lillylvjy @mosslovestherain @burification @sweet-soot @saccharinesunset

The click of the door shutting is louder than the heart beating in your ears, what with Wilbur being the one to shut the door. You can only watch him while you’re sitting on the bed, holding your arms close to your torso, your nails digging into your exposed skin.

Nothing is said in the first few moments, just Wilbur taking in the room and your observations of him doing so. Truthfully, he acts like he’s never seen this room before, but with how old he is and how many familiars he has had, it’s hard to believe such an act. His hands slide from his sides to pat his legs, puttering with his lips. Avoiding a conversation. You would begin to wonder if he was about to fire you but considering a few minutes ago, he defended- well, it’s not your honor but he still defended you, even if it was over something so trivial as being his familiar. You’re quick to adjust your opinion on it, the business of being a familiar is anything but trivial.

His voice comes out so quick, you’re startled when he speaks, “I want to say that what Jared was saying was completely unacceptable and that he shouldn’t have said that at all to you. He has a horrible habit of trying to harass my familiar and I should’ve taken measures against him entirely. And for the lack of any preparation for him, or for what you’ve gone through in the last few hours, I am sorry.” Half of the words didn’t process, and you almost lost the apology itself in the messy string of words but you caught it still.

“I… appreciate the apology. But you’re right, it was-... -it was cruel to toss me in and expect me to know how to manage all- all of this.” He nods and this time, he’s able to look towards you. You’re still on the fence of whether or not you should be looking at him at all but you risk a glance, catching him staring right at you.

He’s still so, so pretty, your mind sighs, and your eyes dart back down, reaching to pick at a loosely-flying thread on your pants, maybe he’ll be kind enough to let you stare longer, let you have the privilege that he so easily flaunts. Feeling particularly dangerous, going against the guide, you look up for a second time and you’re happy to see that he doesn’t hurt you, doesn’t reprimand you for looking once, then twice. He almost looks… satisfied. Almost.

“I know I didn’t get to finish sweeping, did you want me to do that after we’re done talking…” you trail , when he waves you off, mumbling about how you shouldn’t worry about that for now and under his breath it sounds like he forgot something when he snaps his fingers and gasps..

“I almost forgot,” he says, his smile widening, “here’s a card. Use it to get whatever you need.” His hand disappears into the breast pocket right below his heart and pulls out a small envelope.

You feel you must look dumb for blankly staring, blinking at the offered hand, and upon realizing that, your fingers grab it with the utmost care you could muster. Sliding your finger down the sealed part, you fiddle with the envelope till a card, shiny and new, drops into your lap.

Looking over it, you don’t even realize what you’re saying until Wilbur stiffens hearing the words falling off of your tongue, “Does that mean I get to go outside, like off the property?”

“This isn’t- you’re not a prisoner. You’re my familiar.” He says with a frown as if that made any clear difference.

“You never really, actually explained, in full detail, what that means, you know.” You say as you hold the card up to the light, struck by just how new it appears. It’s cold to the touch, smooth contrasting the raised numbers on the card, still, you could trick yourself you could feel a faux heat emitting from the card, as if fresh from the printer.

“Right, as I’ve said, that’s my mistake.” He clears his throat and is unable to look at you again. And with him looking away, you feel it's okay to look at him now. Especially the sides of his face, truth be told, you don’t think you could ever be bored looking at him. He’s pleasant in the eyes, how are you supposed to defend yourself? Besides when his eyes move back over to your face and you hold eye contact with him, he doesn’t reprimand you. Doesn’t say anything, only holds it. Then he smiles. A win is a win.

“So since I can go, do you need anything from the store?” Wilbur is quickly sent to shock when he sees you slide only a thin jacket over your arms and your sandals on your feet.

“Now- you’re going to go now?” He follows you to the door.

You turn to him, hand on the handle as you give him a dubious look, “I’m going to get snacks, I won’t be out for long.” And true to his word, he doesn’t shackle your ankles to the house, even if for a split moment he looks like he’s close to doing so. He lets you out of the house and waves bye and everything. But even then, on the way to the gas station, you feel someone’s eyes on you. The worst part is you’re unsure if the beholder of the eyes are kind or not. Your gut tells you to be careful.

The nearest gas station isn’t far, just three blocks, a brisk walk in the fall night air that washes away the day. It’s relaxing to listen to the sound of your footsteps and the steady intake and exhale of your breath. It’s normal besides for when you feel pulled to look behind you, just to check if that ever present feeling of being watched is in fact someone following you.

Every time you find the space behind you on the sidewalk to be empty as the ominous sight of your new home fades into the distance.

When you get to the gas station it feels almost strange how normal it is, so separate from your new world of grandiose paintings and hiding bodies. You never thought the buzzing of fluorescent lighting would be comforting. The cashier flashes you a tired smile before returning to scrolling on her phone, idly pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. You pick out a few things, foods you know you would eat, ramen that could be considered a meal enough, and a Gatorade from the fridge that leaves your skin wet with condensation.

“Will that be all?” the front counter lady asks you as you push your arms full worth of stuff to her.

“Yep,” you chirp, fumbling to fish out Wilbur’s card from your worn wallet. You look at the piece of plastic again, it feels slightly like you are stealing. When you look back up the cashier is waiting for you expectantly and you mumble an apology before paying with a small thank you.

“Have a good night,” she says, handing you the bags full of food with a raised brow.

“You too!” you say, pretending like you weren’t being just a bit strange. It still feels nice to talk to a normal breathing person, one you can assume doesn’t believe in vampires. You sigh when you leave though, the knowledge unknowingly weighing on you? It’s stupid, the way it seems your new job has changed your perspective on life. You wonder if bigfoot is real, if mummies are? You are almost certain that Mothman is, it just makes sense.

‘Home’ doesn’t seem appealing as you wander your way to a bench, settling down with your companion in the shape of your groceries beside you as you crack open the previously bought Gatorade. Your brain swims with questions, with possibilities that allude you. Your new life is confusing but you can’t bring yourself to hate it even if deep down you think you should.

You still feel watched as you get up and mosey your way back to your broom closet of a room. When you get home no one greets you but for that you are thankful. You stuff the various snacks you bought into the trunk under your bed. You assume it’s as good a place as any. You can’t help but collapse into the shitty mattress and fall asleep.

That itching feeling of being watched ends up returning every time you leave the house during the night, two weeks pass and it persists. You guess you wouldn’t put it past Wilbur to make sure you are behaving? But two weeks seemed like overkill to you and more than just slightly unsettling, so you focused on leaving during the day. Wilbur usually gave you a small list of things to do during the hours of light, but so far the tasks remained mundane, more cleaning and organizing, fruitless things such as reorganizing the bookshelf.

Sometimes they delved darker, cleaning up messes of blood that were not there one second but were the next. Red that trailed down the walls and pooled on the wooden floors, scarlet just barely staining the dark rug in the library, and vermillion on the unused kitchen floor.

You had read more of the manual besides Roger’s advice to turn away from it. You laughed as it detailed which urban legends of vampires were true. Yes, they had to be invited in but no, they do not sparkle in the sun. Yes, they can turn into bats? I guess you would have to wait to see that. Yes, they could not see themselves in mirrors, silver burned their skin, and the sun would burn them. You raised your brow as the manual seemed to insist you find virgins? for your Master. You reread the page again and again searching for some clarity on why but found no such answer. It made you feel kind of gross so you sought out Roger, the man of, you assume, infinite knowledge.

“Roger?” you ask quietly, carefully tapping him on the shoulder, disturbing his own cleaning regimen that seemed simultaneously more in-depth but also less work than yours.

“Hm?” he asks, tilting his head at your sudden want to speak.

“Can I ask you some more questions, just been reading the manual and-” he cuts you off.

“No need to explain, what it is?” he asks and suddenly you feel heat in your cheeks.

“Virgins, why, uhm, why could that possibly be relevant ooo-or,”

“They taste better,” he says simply, turning back to his chore.

“Like their blood?” you clarify even though you don’t know any other possibilities for the answer to that question. He nods without looking at you, carefully rearranging the mantle place. You wince slightly as the knowledge runs over you. It’s partly because maybe this endangers you in the workplace. I mean, there is no way it works like that, that they taste better? You shiver slightly and nod to yourself, wringing your fingers as the time passes by silently until you turn, putting one foot after the other. Roger watches you walk away intently, it makes your skin crawl even if just for a moment.

You guess you have to find virgins now? The manual said you were responsible for bringing your Master food, and you couldn’t deny the fact that bringing breathing, thinking people to a house to die didn’t make you feel good.

Wilbur hadn’t asked you yet anyway.

Maybe your virgin blood, you wince, can be a kinda, last resort, though it may get you into some hot water, mainly death. You let out a heavy sigh.

You used the daytime when you were awake to escape the sometimes oppressive atmosphere within the house, to feel sunlight on your skin. Usually, you just walked, ran errands to get more hydrogen peroxide and cleaning supplies. Today, though, you decided to go out to eat and use the last of the money left on your card to treat yourself to something that wasn’t ramen.

You didn’t go anywhere fancy, another destination within walking distance, a place with bar food and a welcoming enough atmosphere you could sit down and feel normal for a moment. You didn’t expect to see anyone you knew and yet it seemed fate had other plans for you.

“Y/n?” someone asks and you can’t help but turn to face them. “I thought that was you! I haven’t heard from you in like, forever! Have you fallen off the face of the earth or something?” Jess, a former coworker, you guess, and friend, asks in jest, a light laugh under her words as she invites herself to sit in the empty chair across from you.

"I-," you stammer, flashes of burying bodies, scrubbing the red from wood and carpet. “I got a new job, keeps me really busy,” you say with a sheepish smile. She flashes a look of concern for a moment but it quickly passes. She doesn’t ask you what the job is, doesn’t even bother to pretend to be interested in your life beyond how it affects her.

She talks about her new boyfriend, first dates and happiness you don’t have. She goes on and on about her dead-end desk job like it’s the most interesting thing in the world like you hadn’t lived it with her as her coworker just a few weeks ago. She details new clothes she bought, insignificant facets of her life, that by the time someone is asking if you’ve ordered you are quick to speak up.

“I was actually just about to get going,” you say, mouthing an ‘i’m sorry’ to Jess, someone you are starting to think really isn’t a friend at all. You hurry out, savor the sound of the bell on the door, and find yourself realizing you don’t miss the mundane all that much. What were you before you were this? An office worker with no significance? At least helping people get killed made a difference in the world. You shook your head, condemned yourself back to that damned house, and sought out Wilbur when he finally woke.

Maybe you were craving some sense of company, maybe you wanted to feel useful, or maybe you were lonely.

It didn’t matter.

Jared found you first though, sat beside you on that couch as you waited for Wilbur to exit his room. The sleazy vampire, an adjective that felt fair to you, was quick to run his hand up your leg. You yelped, moving away.

“Jared,” you spat and he shrugged, sitting back.

“Worth a shot, you looked contemplative,” he said and you rolled your eyes. You noticed his collar was dotted in what was likely blood. “You could be having a much better time with me, I’ll turn you in a month tops, doesn’t that sound nice?” your expression screws up into distaste as he speaks. Maybe that is what usually worked, dangling immortality like a carrot on a stick, but you weren’t all that interested in being a vampire in the first place.

This was Jared's routine though, to savor those precious minutes where it could be just you and him. He would beg you to be his familiar, make you squirm just a little bit, then either walk off or Wilbur would appear to dissuade him. He was definitely your least favorite person (vampire?) in the house.

It’s then that Wilbur calls you up to his room, and you flash Jared a quick feigned apologetic smile. Then you are quick to escape him, to bound up the stairs, and blink at Wilbur as he invites you into his own room.

“I’d prefer if you waited inside when I am about to wake up,” he says as the door closes, his gaze intense yet words reminding you of waking up a child almost.

“Oh, I just thought you would want space,” you mumble.

“I’d prefer not actually, besides then you don’t need to see Jared just as he crawls out of his coffin, he has horrible hygiene… and manners that I can not apologize enough for,” you thought of Jared’s bloodied clothes and nodded, though you only later realized it might have been an attempt to make you laugh. Wilbur looked nice, even when he was just waking up like this. The back of his hair was slightly flat, it made you resist running your hand through it to fix it but that seemed rather unprofessional, your fingers twitching at your sides.

“Do I look okay?” Wilbur is asking, all of a sudden he is just in front of you. It’s not abnormal for him to ask but the proximity shakes you.

“Master, may I… fix your hair?” and the more you look the more the curly strands seem out of place, and it was your job after all, to be his mirror.

“Yes, go ahead,” he is quick to say. You carefully card your fingers through his hair, electing to ignore the way he can’t even look you in the eyes as you do it. You step back and admire your work but he remains stunned for a second, rebooting.

“All done,” you smile “Do- do you have tasks for me today?” you ask with a tilt of your head and his eyes linger on you.

His mouth opens and a second later his voice comes out stilted, “it’s only a few things today.”

You think to yourself, perhaps vampires need a lesson on what few means, you’ve noticed that whenever the vampires in the house say the word like Wilbur had, it was never really what they meant. Or even what you thought they meant. Maybe eternity takes a toll on their senses. You’re not entirely sure but whenever Wilbur means a few tasks, they last you until right before he goes back to sleep, ready to skip the sun and spend the day in his coffin.

Sweep and mop the foyer and living room, wash and fold the laundry, tend to the flowers outside with his name staked next to them, assemble the furniture he ordered from the internet. Such as those are never few and are never small tasks. You don’t mind it too much, especially when it could be worse. (Like finding new, virgin, bodies for him to drain, surprisingly, he hasn’t asked you that in the time you’ve been here. You’re almost curious. Then you remember how easily it could’ve been you and you’re content to remain in the unknown.)

Kicking your sneakers off and slipping into your garden boots, you step into the moonlit garden, purveying the area and searching for his name. Surprisingly, he hadn’t asked you to tend to the plants till now but it’s a new day and you’re not burying bodies, so you don’t mind at all. The dirt crunches under your boots, and you pass through all sorts of green and glowing plants, noting that most of them are under Techno’s care. You half-wonder if the vampire himself tends to them or if he has Roger to care for them, only to find the answer yourself. The man with pink hair, pulled off of his shoulder and a hat to top it off, the intense gaze from before, seems smaller in the loose shirt and plain pants, boots like yours.

“Wilbur has you out here?” He asks, his voice lilting as he turns from the plants to look between you and the house. You nod. “Then you know to only work on the ones with his name?” You nod again. “Okay. Get to work then.” Somehow, despite being one of the more impressive people you’ve ever met, the interaction seemed… awkward. As if he wasn’t expecting to talk to anyone then. Can’t be helped. You suppose if you ever became a vampire you’d probably be just as much, if not more, awkward.

Your steps halt when you find the shed and while you’re not proficient in gardening you can still find the watering can and gloves. Slipping them on, you reach for the can when you recognize a smell emitting from the open hole in the top. You stand still, wondering if your nose is finally broken or if your brain read the signals right. You don’t gag so much as you wonder about the mechanics of it, recognizing the metallic and iron smell of blood in the can. With it being so dark, had you not smelt it, it would’ve been hard to spot the liquid.

Wandering away from the shed with the blood-watering can, you make your rounds, letting the blood coat the leaves and the petals, getting the soil a bit. You remember the instructions from the tiny book he leant you, remember the ardent stare you held as his fingers only grazed the top of your knuckles. You feel the memory in the heat of your cheeks and you sigh, moving on and on to the next plant.

Techno doesn’t talk all that much, and you’re not sure what he does with his plants and if he uses the blood too, but he doesn’t bother you like Jared does and you’re grateful for that much.

If you’re being honest, the tranquility of the night, combined with the gentle walk through various plants you’re sure would kill plenty of other humans in a heartbeat, and Techno, as silent and unnerving he might be, aids the peace you have carefully built in the last hour. Though after watering the plants, you’re not sure what to do, the vampire doesn’t offer advice and you can tell the book would erupt in flames if you tried talking to Techno unprompted. With that in mind though, it was a lovely chore, you take your time with putting the can and the gloves away, and seeing how it was left unlocked when you found it, that’s how you left it. The dirt pads your footsteps and Techno nods as you pass by, with a thought that maybe the outdated book had any wisdom to it at all. (Ahem, it did and it pertained to you, your face burns at the memory of both the conversation with Roger and reading the damn thing.)

You open the door, surprised to find the youngest of vampires standing with a curious look on his face. “Since when did you know how to garden?” He asks, moving to the side when you mumble pleasantries.

You hold onto the door frame as you shake your feet from the boot and slip into the comfort of your worn sneakers, humming as you thought on your answer, “since he asked me to. Now if you’ll excuse me, Tommy.” You nod your head, making your way to the stairs. He follows, questions falling out of his mouth as fast as you run out of breath walking up and answering them.

There’s a pause in your step as you reach the landing, you assume had there been another creature, not one of the night, following you, they’d crash into your back. Tommy, not particularly known for his graceful air, nearly crashed into your back. He managed to stop behind you on the last step, looking at you with two judgemental eyes and a prominent, albeit confused, frown. You pointedly ignore him. Looking around, you could smell the usual smell of iron. Your master, however, hadn’t woken up hungry.

Tommy also avoided your stare. The few seconds of silence though were enough for him to fess up. He was about to ask you himself but then you kept running away, in his words. And also in his words, he doesn’t have a familiar. Doesn’t need one but gave you the eyes whenever he asked for help.

So here you are, stuck burying another body. You can already see the dark, inky blue of the night fading to something softer. You lug the body into the hole as you think of different blues that matched the sky. Stomping the dirt down, royal and navy, to the beautiful sapphire… after those, you were stumped. The whole time between putting the shovel away and walking the distance to the door, you know, deep in your subconscious the sun was rising but you were so caught up in the names you end up mumbling to yourself, scraping your boots off with the doormat and swinging it open, “chartreuse isn’t blue, it’s like purple, isn’t it?” And in your mumbling and thoughts, you were distracted. Distracted and had let the sunrise blast through the back of the living room. Exactly where Jared had been lurking for the past twenty minutes as he watched you throw the last bit of dirt in.

When you finally shut the door all the way and slipped your boots off, you turn to see ashes spread out in an uneven pile behind you, with the staircase holding three gobsmacked vampires and a slightly pleased familiar. You, without the better knowledge that the ashes could've been someone at some point, had outwardly groaned and loudly complained. “You guys, I just- I literally swept and mopped this area an hour ago!”

“That- that was Jared.” Tommy pointed a finger at the ashes.

Your brows furrow. “No it's not, come off it. He’s in his room, sulking ‘cause I wouldn’t talk to him.”

“He’s not going to be talking to you anymore, it seems.” Techno says and Tommy’s cheeks inflate as he tries to hold back puffs of laughter.

“Wilbur?” The vampire himself didn’t say anything, looking far too pleased with this outcome. “Wilbur, tell me I did not just kill Jared.”

“Technically speaking—” a smile grows on him, far too genuine and pretty for someone finding a rather morbid scene, “— he was already dead when he turned into a vampire.”

#WITH LOVEBOMBING #c: wlbr #c: wilbur soot #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x y/n #au: vampire #wilbur soot fanfiction

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listenheresweaty · 8 months

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Food for Thought: Wilbur Soot Chef!Au

this is unedited. This was also originally an ask I planned to send someone but I ended up posting it here. ——-

Thinking about Wilbur, chef au. like— ratatouille, without the rats. An inexperienced new chef (reader) comes to the 5 star family run restaurant called the Syndicate and is for some reason hired. Wilbur, the sauce chef (third highest ranking, after techno the sous chef and Philza the big man chef— master chef. Idk), is assigned to show them the ropes. He is already cranky for ranking in *third* among his family of four, even though he loves his brother and father very much. And now they dump the newbie into his hands??? Don’t they know he has better to do?

he was going to make your life hell. if only you weren’t so damn intriguing.

the first week, he’s cocky and arrogant, sweeping through the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance to you, giving the most vague instructions to purposefully tick you off. —-

“so the pan over there goes here when the heat is on that level, then that goes there, and there over there.. yknow.. get the bottles from the fridge, put ‘em here, turn the heat on like so—“ he turned the oven nozzle on and then back off again, too quickly for you to see the heat level. He turns to you, hands behind his back. “Any questions?”

he took your gaping silence as a yes. “Good. Follow me. You’ll wash pans for the day, then we’ll see each other tomorrow morning.”

____

Oh you hate the smug bastard. But as you watch him effortlessly dice a variety of vegetables and scrape them into the pot in a matter of seconds, you realize that hatred and admiration is an awful combination.

one late night— when you had received the infuriating assignment of “master high-speed julienne cuts on these onions before you get to go home”—- you tried to replicate his movements, growing increasingly frustrated as the onions stung your eyes, the clock ticked past midnight, and Wilbur snickered faintly in the background. You were so intently focused on getting that stupid onion into strips that you didn’t notice your finger getting in the way. With a yelp, you drop the knife, hissing and staring at your cut thumb. Wilbur looks up sharply, uncrossing his arms and moving away from the counter he had leaned against. “What the hell did you do now?”

“it’s nothing,” you grit out, “don’t—“ but you are cut off by Wilbur taking a hold of your hand, lifting it to his face and inspecting the cut.

“proper safety is important in the kitchen.” He states, not taking his eyes off the cut. “Not only for our sakes, but for the safety and hygiene of those who will eventually eat the food we prepare.”

you know that, but your words die in your throat as he rifled through a medicine cabinet and took out some antiseptic and gauze. the room is silent, silent except for the ticking of the clock and the occasional ripping of gauze and tape as he patches up your thumb. His face remains impassive, neutral, showing no real friendliness but none of the hostility from earlier.

”Right.” He finishes taping down the gauze and steps back, turning to take some fresh onions out of the fridge, and a new knife and cutting board.

“do I have to do the exercise all over again?” You ask in dismay.

He pauses. “No. No, you don’t.”

you let Wilbur maneuver you to stand in front of the new cutting board— and freeze up when he stands close behind you, grabbing your hands from behind and guiding them to the knife. “put your thumb there— no— like that, yes. There. That’s the correct way to hold a chopping knife. Now, since you’ve mangled your hands, follow my lead.”

He gently guides your hands to the onion, positions them, and cuts it smoothly.

“there. You see?” He says, his voice quiet and close to your ear. It’s a lot more gentle too, or maybe that’s just the late hour getting to him as well.

“Y-yeah.” You manage, clearing your throat. “Seems simple enough.”

”hm.” He hums, amused, and lets go of your hands. “I think that’s all for the day. It’s quite late.”

you sigh in relief, dropping the knife on the counter. Instead of walking to the front door and getting your coat, however, you pick up the boards and cutlery and make your way across the room.

“what are you doing?” Wilbur asks.

“Washing the dishes. “ you blink. That was the first rule you learned in the kitchen. A chef always cleans up after cooking, and never procrastinates or postpones the work, no matter how many plates need to be cleaned.

“…I’ll wash up.” Wilbur sighed. “You go on home.”

Who the hell was this guy, and what did he do to Wilbur? “are— are you sure? What about you?”

Wilbur cracked a smile. “I’m sure. Don’t you worry about me. I can manage.”

“alright.” You acquiesced, getting your coat from the hanger and sweeping it over your shoulders. You pause before leaving through the door, and look back. “Good night, Wilbur.”

“good night, love.” Wilbur paused. “And remember to be here at 5:00 AM Tomorrow, at the latest.”

you groaned and shut the door, listening to his chuckles fade into the distance as you trudge your way home.

#c wilbur #dsmp #c: wlbr #dsmp wilbur #revived wilbur #revivebur #revivedbur x reader #c!wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x reader #will gold x reader #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur x reader #wilbur soot fanfiction

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luvbns · 2 years

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With the sight of the ashen grey potion being swallowed with haste, Quackity lets a pleased smile grace his blood splattered mouth; pulling the vial from xyr hands once it was empty, and dropping it near his foot. He moves his stained hand from his side to cup xyr jaw firmly, deft fingers pressing against the sides of xyr teeth until xyr mouth opened from the force. At the sight of emptiness, he releases a low, satisfied, coo, red tinted fingernails moving up to scratch lightly at monochrome colored hair. He was pleased at xyr willingness. Though he knew why xe listened, he tried his best to ignore how their fear made him feel.

"See? That wasn't so hard now, was it? We can't have anybody hearing you now, hm?"

He stands, crushing the vial underneath his shoe and kicking the glass to the side; A rare, apprehensive, look threatening his eye.

"Can't let anyone run their mouths. Can't let them see you. Prime knows what Wilbur would do if his little soldiers saw you."

An obsessive expression overcomes his face at his thoughts of discovery, more than wary at the thought of the dead man's reaction to his little toy being broken, of an explosive reaction, but it is quickly overruled by a confident, wicked smile.

"Though, I guess it doesn't matter, hm? I'd find out anyway."

He glances sharply at Bones.

"I always do."

With a hum, he breaks sight of the fox and reaches for his axe, pulling it from the dirt and wiping the viscera on the grass the best he could. He straps it back onto his shoulder, and turns back to the figure on the ground, getting his first emotion unbridled glimpse at the carnage he made. His working eye stares unblinkingly, only for a moment, an older, softer, part of him taken aback at how much blood there was on the dirt, taking his breath and making his hand twitch in disbelief. Then a huff escapes his mouth, and he shakes his head, breaking eye contact and bottling up the emotion to deal with later.

He had to take care of xem first.

He was the one that did this, after all.

Though, he tries desperately to convince himself otherwise.

Dirted wingtips step languidly towards the weakened figure of his querido on the ground, who wept in quiet anguish into the sky, and him, once again pushing his old emotions in a deeper part of himself. He fell into a careful crouch beside them, ducking his arms under their exhausted form and pulling them into a bridal carry with ease, resting his chin between their soft ears for just a moment.

Contentment. A breath passed his mouth.

He couldn't help a new feeling then. A wicked one.

An awful, horrifying, tearful grin wracked his face, and his old self shrivelled in fear of what he had done. The weaker part of him terrified of himself, and what he had now ruined for his love, what could no longer be given.

And the new, stronger part of him grinned in glee. Sadistic, greeding, possession.

No dead man could take what was his.

Not anymore.

Never again.

And with these new feelings in his heart, and a grin on his face, he began to walk into the night, led only by the lights of his empire in the distance.

Blood on his skin.

His querido in his arms.

And the trail of carnage he had made in his wake.

- C! Quackity anon

Xyr face aches once Quackity lets go, lingering blood— xyr blood— left on their cheeks. No doubt in xyr hair now too. But xe doesn't mind that, not when it's the only sense of comfort xe's been given all night. Xe leans into the affection, but it's gone as quick as it came. Xyr ears lower with sower, missing his gentle touches (missing him).

Xe tries xyr best to listen to xyr words, not wanting to miss something important and face the consequences, but the sound of xyr heart pounding in xyr ears has him struggling to hear. Not to mention the dizziness he was facing, eyes unfocused and dazed. However, though xyr blood-loss haze, for a second, xe almost thinks xe sees regret on Quackity's face. Good, they think hatefully. I hope it eats you from the inside out.

They tense up as he comes towards them, able to see his axe strapped to his shoulder, but still so afraid. Yet, they can't do anything. They're absolutely powerless (they've always hated being powerless). All he does is pick them up, but it still breeds fear in their heart, one that throbs deep in their bones.

They're terrified of Quackity.

As Quackity picks them up, they're able to get a first, clear glance of their leg— or, lack thereof. Tears well up in their eyes all over again, jaw dropping in disbelief. Their leg was gone. Actually, genuinely gone.

With what little strength they had left, they placed a hand over their mouth to stop themselves from vomiting. "Oh, God," They whispered underneath their breath, muffled by their hand. "Oh my God. It's... It's gone. My leg. Oh my God." Their voice is quiet, not having the strength to project it, but they can't help how disheartened they are.

Logically, they knew their leg was gone, but now, they had seen it.

Now, they couldn't deny it. Despite the pain, and the carnage, and the blood that stained Quackity's axe and his hands, they didn't want to believe it. But now, they can't deny it.

Their leg was gone.

No more walking. No more running. No more hunting.

No more anything. They couldn't even escape from Quackity this way. Without his help, they couldn't do anything.

Bones was completely, utterly dependent on Quackity.

#chats #( sneaking out )#letter from: c!qckty/c!wlbr anon #AHHHHHHHHHHHH #THIS IS SO GOOD #HLY SHITTT

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enneamage · 1 year

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Speaking as another 3w4, I’d say love and achievement are never fully separate since achievement is the means by which this type feel they become deserving of others’ love, so “presidency” (guidance, competence, control, responsibility, protection, authority, role model, moral compass) could be how Wilbur perceives he earns his place in Tommy’s life, in and out of character. Sure is curious that the finale has him leave because others DO expect him to fulfil that role and vilify him for not reaching its high standard, even for “not being there to protect them” aka killing himself. You’d expect a story like his to end with a realization that others don’t actually value him for shallow conditional reasons and see him for the human beneath, but he really *is* living in a world that detests him for suffering and only cares about him to the extent it can expect the impossible of him, so he has to leave that reality and get far away from all its inhabitants to stop beating himself up for not reaching their expectations and for all the times he crumbled under them. Is Wilbur is crumbling under the pressure of being Quirky White Boy or does he really think people view their friends like this

The DSMP really was a callous place, I won’t deny that. Lot of gamers trampling over each other, it was the fandom who rose-tinted those glasses and made a CN show out of a Rick and Morty episode /pos. If you had to learn that love exists, I wouldn’t have chosen there as the destination spot to do so.

I do generally get the sense that C!Wilbur felt the need to do something in order to earn a place in his environment. He seemed anxious about being underwhelming or irrelevant, that did turn out to be the seed of a lot of grief down the road. The question of how rational or irrational the concern was is up in the air, but it was definitely magnified by his nature; soon only positions of power seemed tolerable to him to overcome his shame and anxiety. He wouldn’t (couldn’t?) experience what was in front of him as good enough because everything was already wrapped up in the pretense of his impulses, so he felt he had to keep them up in order to hold onto what he had. He never really gave himself the chance to explore another option, and maybe that was the feeling of needing to be ‘worthy’ before he could be satisfied with what was around him.

If you put Wilbur (and his neurosis) at the center of the narrative of the world, he can be sympathetic, he even makes sense. The issue is that putting one single person at the center of the world can never be the source of a sustainable, or just, plan. Everyone is part of a natural exchange, the world is give-and-take on the micro and the macro level, and in a big network of people that matters. Most of the characters wound up afraid of the destructive road that C!Wilbur went down with his mental spiral, because he turned to mass public violence and then suicide. The latter could have been a delicate and private matter, but the former made it real personal to everyone involved, and they reserved the right to feel that the TNT was at least unnecessary.

In this scenario, is the high standard being Tommy’s or everyone’s ‘President’? And are the characters in-universe holding him to that standard, or the audience? If I remember correctly the thing that made C!Wilbur afraid was that people didn’t give him the defference of a leader and things weren’t happening on his terms, not that the people around him were calling him to be something greater than he could be. Maybe those two things blended into being one and the same, but that connection would have been made in his head. I’m trying to figure out what the impossible standard that he can’t meet is, why he wouldn’t be able to meet it on more modest terms, and if it comes from inside or outside. It’s probably both (Input ->interpretation->narrative->output->input again) which is why it feels so inescapable.

I feel like you've discovered a thread here that I hadn't thought of before—Few people are consciously holding him to a standard of greatness, but if that's what it takes to get attention and results, they may as well be, because he finds the apathy intolerable.

There’s probably a depression reading here (the fear of sadness making one unwanted) and that’s something that Main is more willing to go into with their metas. Feeling like you have a larger need for attention and respect and love than there seems to be in the world is probably terrifying, especially if you feel like who you really are is the thing that’s keeping you from getting any.

You know that question that gets passed around by internet dwelling couples, “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” For the most part it’s a meme to throw at someone to see their reaction, but it’s known to create some strangely intense conversations. The premise is goofy, because nobody is at serious risk of being hit with the wormification ray, but it has something strangely vulnerable underneath it; If I suddenly lacked all human output and was basically helpless, would you still love me? It’s a hard situation to size up, both in yourself and other people—would you still love me if I was a worm? Would I still love you if you were a worm? The caretaker instinct says ‘yes’ but how long would that last? Much to think about.

I feel like the seed of neurosis, deep down, is that he feels he is that worm. He wants to be everything except that worm, but the vulnerability is always close behind, and his instincts are wrapped around protecting it. We’ve had the Age Regressor talk here a couple of times, so sometimes he even acts like that worm, or at least tests people to see if they could handle it. In the end you’ve got to zoom out again and look at the bigger picture, harsh as it can be to the one perspective.

#I feel like this got pseudo-personal so whatever you’ve got going on I hope you get a good resolution anon #This got philosophical #loreposting #gen wlbr tag #other people seemed to tolerate c!Wilbur as a peer but c!wilbur couldn't tolerate himself as a peer #get this man some DBT

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god1ngs · 2 years

Note

Quackity's new Instagram post :]

-C! Quackity/Wilbur anon

I JUST SAW AND HOLY SHIT JOSLYNNSJKTL !!!!!! HE LOOKS SO GOOD OH MY GODD SOES THIS MEAN QE GET LOVE ACTUON C!Q !?!??! IS IT JOW CANON THAT C!Q SMOKES !?!?!?@?@?+?@?@

#chats #letter from: c!qckty/c!wlbr anon #HE LOOKS SO GOOD #THE HAIR......#THE GLASSES #AGHHHHHHH #ONE CHANCE PLEASE #PICK ME #CHOOOSE ME #9N MY KNESS

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iamshoweranon · 3 years

Text

sugarplum eyes;

yan!god!wilbur x mortal!reader

inspired by the 100 player challenges.

fluff

warning: yandere behaviour, manipulation, paranoia towards others

prns: they/them

masterlist

wilbur looked down at the world. so vast and large, the mortals underneath him all working like ants. the way he fixated on them could almost send him into a trance, barely looking at the goals and standards he set for them.

then there was you, he hadn’t upheld any goals for you. being yourself was enough for him, every time he’d descended before you he could’ve sworn there was an aura of joy and light around you. as much as he proclaimed himself the sun god, you definitely beat him at being the embodiment of light and all things happy.

everyone could see just how much he liked you, gifting you extra food, armour or useless, but pretty, trinkets. you had him wrapped around your finger, but you had asked for nothing in return. instead, opting to make his godly life a little sweeter. you had often given him little flowers you found, and every time wilbur felt your hands brush, he could’ve sworn angels had sung a chorus just written for him.

walking in the forest side by side, you would catch a few glares from people who were angry you had got, well, god’s admiration.

“pay no mind to them, my dear, they only feel the need to critique perfection.” he told you, you gave a nod in response.

“i’ve understood that since i caught your eye.” you replied, turning your head to look at him, giving a small, dimmed smile.

it angered him that there were people like that. he saw you as grace and beauty embodied, and every time his name lingered on your breath, he wished he could make a paradise with you.

he longed to waltz on the clouds, the feathery feeling of them underneath you feeling like tickles, he would pluck each star from the sky one by one, as a gift for you to show his devotion to you as it was nothing compared to the safe haven he felt when in your presence, as though his godly duties disappeared.

he did, however, have some unsavoury feelings brewing from deep within him, even if he didn’t recognize how very unsavoury they were. they blossomed from understandable thoughts, it was truly a dangerous world out there, and with the hatred you got from many people, you would be quite the target. it was within his limits to say to himself that he was the only person who could keep you safe. which soon evolved into “everyone around you was a danger, including the people who put on a “façade” of a friend.”

he vehemently told you how much he disliked each mortal person you befriended. he told himself that they were going to, inevitably, betray you. and you would listen, due to the fact he told you so sweetly, his honeyed voice dripping from his pink lips that could make pure anger sound like a serenade, and sugar plum eyes that lovingly glared at each bit of you like you were of him, his goddess, his dear companion, his soulmate; and you had no reason not to trust him, you’d take his hand and promise him you would stay as safe as you could.

that wasn’t enough for the god, he needed something impenetrable, his wall to you, his asgard. so, for now, the clouds and stars were, instead, a fairly-sized bedrock room.

“im sorry, my love, i have to take you away from your home for me, and for your safety.” he grabbed your hand, you bowed your head, “i understand, wilbur.” you moved in closer to him, wrapping your arms around him and resting your forehead in the middle of his chest, he moved his arms to your back and let out a loving sigh.

after breaking off the embrace, he brought you up to your new home. it wasn’t the most beautiful, but it was safe, and that was beautiful enough for both of you.

as soon as your feet landed on the cold stone, you turned to look at wilbur, he held your hand, pressing your knuckles to his lips and landing a kiss.

“i have to go now, get comfortable, my love.” he told you, in his gentle voice that could stun feral animals.

“i love you.” you said to him.

“i love you with all my heart and soul, dear.” he replied.

#wlbr #c: wlbr #yandere #yandere behavior #dream smp x reader #mcyt x reader #dsmpblr #wilbur soot x reader

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bxct-it · 3 years

Text

welcome to ren’s crackhouse

[-]

ren. he/him. 18+.

THIS IS A NSFW BLOG, MINORS PLEASE DONT READ ANY OF MY WORKS AS IT IS NOT SAFE FOR YOU

[-]

rules>

↳ I WILL NOT WRITE ANYTHING NSFW FOR MINORS

↳ I will not write non-con, scat play, anything involving with feet, no ddlg/ddlb, pedophilia or necrophilia.

↳ Please do not repost any of my works.

[-]

masterlist>

prompt event

[-]

who i write for

↳ cc!dream + c!dream

↳ cc!georgenotfound + c!georgenotfound

↳ cc!sapnap + c!sapnap

↳ cc!karl + c!karl

↳ c!technoblade

↳ cc!punz + c!punz

↳ c!badboyhalo

↳ cc!awesamdude + c!awesamdude

↳ cc!foolish + c!foolish

[-]

requests : open

[-]

anon list: ✨🚬🐀🐰🐝🌙🐮📌🦇🦀🐏🐊🕯🍉⚡️🪓🐶🌈🍊🐡🌻💫🌸🦊🍀🃏🦋🍏🦎🪜🔪🍒

sam thigh, frog, bee, prison, kneecaps, A, thea, venus, bunny, swag, alastair, slime, mommy milkers

#ren’s house #ren speaks #mcyt smut #dream smp smut #c: DRM #c: GNF #c: SPNP #c: KRL #c: TNBLD #c: WLBR #c: PNZ #c: BBH #c: AWSMD #c: FLSH

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sprouty-anon · 2 years

Text

if ur a minor: go away 🔫

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dandelionpixels · 3 years

Text

“ghostbur is still in the train station :((” “ghostbur’s stuck there forever :((” WRONG he forged a train ticket, got on the first train, and is halfway to the limbo equivalent of paris by now

#/lh #wlbr st can argue with the wall #ghostbur is happy and healthy #ghostbur #c!ghostbur #wilbur soot #c!dsmp #dsmp #c!wilbur #c!wilbur soot #ghostbur hc #c!ghostbur hc #dsmp hc #c!dsmp hc

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speedrunnercrafting · 2 years

Note

the fact that im a boober, tubbling, dteam enthusiast, sbi enjoyer AND a bbh stan... yet i do not care for lore... God made me perfect i think

how does it feel being immune to so many problems

tubbling+dteamer+sbier+way too invested in lore+I watch fortnite and Valorant for fun <- mental illnesses

how do you just not get into lore though please share your secrets free me from the middle of the massive fight between c!dream enthusiasts and c!wilbur enthusiasts (I am both)

#kcaskers #when actual drama goes down I usually keep to my tubbo and sparklez positions because hot damn sometimes things get nasty #c!wlbr fans are usually mostly c!crimeboyers and they don’t like dream so :/#I follow a lot of dreblr because they’re all smart and incredible even though I am afraid to contribute #but anyone on the sbi side of that is always like #rabidly anti dream so.#although if anyone has any blog suggestions to get my sbi fix without taking immense psychic damage feel free

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strawberry-fields-things · 2 years

Text

i just want either a c!lmanbur anon or a c!revivedbur anon to flirt with me where can i buy one

#c!wlbr anon #dani rambles #c!wilbur anon

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listenheresweaty · 5 months

Text

Dead as Disco (Revivebur x Reader)

no proofreading, we die like men

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“..Such as?”

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

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

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

“It’s disgusting!”

“It’s not!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wilbur?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wilbur choked. “He what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“We didn’t— we couldn’t—“

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

“..Yeah.” Phil said. “He’s outside.”

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

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

Schlatt, on the other hand…

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

Well. Almost everyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wilbur stares, and you stare back.

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

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

“I know there’s no music, but—“

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

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

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

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

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

“You deserve the world.” You say.

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

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. That.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Picnic?” You whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

“I bet he is.”

#dsmp wilbur #revived wilbur #c wilbur #c: wlbr #revivebur #wilbur soot x reader #dsmp x reader #revivedbur x reader #c!wilbur #wilbur soot angst #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x y/n #eilbir slot x redetvr #sweaty “writes”#i abuse the em-dash two: electric boogaloo

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