#cyltlanp

---

"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 look sad."

"I think I'm meant to grow out of seeing you."

Silence.

"Now?"

"Maybe. Probably one day."

"I think I'm meant to too."

"I don't want you to."

"Me neither."

He takes your hand.

---

It's not a recurring dream as much as he's simply an occasionally recurring character in your dreams. However the occasional dreams don't stop, even though it's been years. Having an imaginary friend is less cute the older you get, so you stop telling people about him so much.

But more and more you find yourself looking forward to those dream, to seeing your friend -

"You should have a name," he tells you a few weeks out from your eleventh birthday. The two of you are traversing through crystal-filled caverns, pitch black if not for the faint glow that emanates from the two of you, naturally, since you'd drunk a potion of fireflies, and this was a dream.

"What do you mean I should have a name?" You laughed, "I have a name, you should know it," still not fully aware that this was a dream, part of you believes he knows it. He's part of you, you will understand when you wake up, of course he should know it, "if anyone should have a name it's you-"

When you finally dream of him again, he's eager to pick up where the two of you left off, needling you for your name, and though you're confused, you realise that your name turns cottony and mushy and forgettable in your mind and on your tongue. He tells you that that's foolish.

You wished the boys in your class smiled like him, or laughed like he did. His stories were more interesting, more engaging, and you're fascinated with how your mind has chosen to weave information you'd somehow caught, overheard, delivered back through him.

Of course you could only dream up the perfect boy.

---

Sometimes he's the one to let you know it's a dream.

You swear he's changed, gotten a bit taller, it's like he's grown up, you swear he used to look like a kid. Then again, so did you; you didn't realise dreams could grow up with you.

"Dreaming again," on top of an anime-looking school building, sitting on the edge with your legs dangling off the edge, he's looking at his watch.

"Dreaming again?" You ask, right as you realise the horizon is just an impressionist landscape painting of pastels. Showing you his watch, you see the way the digits move like liquid, unable to be read.

"Can't read digital clocks in a dream," he tells you matter-of-factly, "or fine print."

The print part of that you knew, but not the clocks... Surely you must have heard it somewhere, internalised it, and your dream was deciding to throw it at you. Surely.

---

When you're fourteen you dream of the airport lounge, and of him. This is one of those dreams that you fully believe, that you're unaware that it's a dream. Your plane is delayed and the two of you are sitting in beanbag chairs with clean, cool light streaming in through the large, glass windows several yards away. Somehow you both fit in the one beanbag chair, he's got his arm around you and is telling your about some videogame he's been playing with his brother.

This you already were aware of; somehow you were very good at keeping this figment's lore in order in your mind, even if the dream contexts always change.

"Toon Town?" You hear yourself ask, angling your face to look at him properly; his hand stills where he'd been tracing patterns on your arm. There's a look in his eyes that you'd seen in movies and TV shows and on some of your friend's faces now that they were starting to date. Oh, right, in this dream he's your gamer boyfriend, obviously.

"Like of course you remembered," he sounded a little flustered, a little giddy, "but I still love that you remember that kind of thing." It feels natural to lean in to kiss him, it all feels so real, so warm, his arm still around -

Your alarm goes off.

---

The Boy you dream of is fascinating and detailed and more alive than any character you've ever tried to come up with on purpose. Growing up with you, the lore your subconsciousness has given him has grown too, expanded to a family, friends you never see but know by name, and strangest of all, a fledgling attempt at being a YouTuber, not to mention a hundred amazing stories he insists he's taken part in.

He's not random like the rest of the dream; a million different universes and concepts get explored in your dreams, but who he is as a person never changes. He is who he is in space, under water, at the beach, in class, while flying, while fighting dragons and dinosaurs, while on a date at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.

On the nights you dream of him, you resent your interrupting alarm.

You're assured that strange dreams are part of being a teenager, but you know you can never admit that your hormone-addled teenage brain has gotten further with your imaginary friend than anyone in real life. Teen magazines and health class say that's perfectly normal, but you're pretty sure they're talking about one-off dreams, not about recurring scenarios involving your imaginary friend from childhood whose now very much a teenager too in your mind.

No, that you'd be taking to your grave.

---

"Stop being watercolours for a second," you mumble with a soft smile, taking his face in your hands. He was still shifting and blurring at the edges in this dream, still looking like a painting. The watercolours shift to become rich, textured oil paints; you can't help but laugh. His smile lights up his face, and the paint shifts so he looks the closest to what you'd imagine him to look like as a real person.

"What are you doing?" He chuckled, pulling you into his lap. The world around you is a dark, rich blue. You're on The Simpson's couch at night, the TV playing behind you.

"Trying to memorise you," you tell him, running your thumbs along his cheeks, mapping his face with your fingers, gentle down the bridge of his nose, across his brow, along his cupid's bow, "I feel like I can never draw you like I see you here."

"You draw me?" There's something indescribably fond in his voice.

"In the margins of my notes," you admit, "in class... I wish..." you were real, but you trail off. His expression is warm and soft; you're holding his face again.

"Can't use watercolours in your class notes?" He teases, "I totally bet you could." It takes your mind off of your yearning, however, and you regard him with amusement.

"What am I?"

"What?"

"Right now, I'm not trying to be anything; am I watercolours?"

"A really hot Etch-A-Sketch," to which you both break down in laughter.

---

"What's it like being a character in someone's dream?"

"Why are you asking me that?

----

How strange it is to hear him talk about wanting to be a lawyer. You can't remember having a strong urge to become a lawyer; you wonder what part of your subconscious this was pulled from. Still, you encourage him, tell him you're excited for him.

There's something in the shaky breath he lets out when you hug him that surprises you. Why would he be worried about your reaction? The dreams you share are ones where you're in love more often than not now, he knows you love him, you support him, right?

"I love you, you'll be great!" You tell him earnestly, but as he pulls back his expression is drawn.

"I'm too old for this; it's not real."

The tears that burn your eyes feel all too real too.

"Isn't that part of it, that it's okay, that it's escapism, because it's not real?" You tried reasoning with this part of your mind that's grown cool to you without warning. Is this what you truly fear deep down, is this what you're too afraid to acknowledge consciously in any other way?

"There's something wrong with me! Being in love with a part of me that isn't even real," he says through clenched teeth, voicing every fear you dare not speak, even to yourself, "I feel... wrong thinking that my real experiences don't live up to my fucking dreams!" It looks like it hurts him to say, but god it hurts to hear. You crumple, crying softly as this quickly became a nightmare, "this isn't real! This isn't fucking real!" Like he was trying to convince himself. The alarm couldn't come soon enough.

---

It starts in the middle of domestic bliss, his head in your lap without any set up. For a long moment he gazes up at you as you stroke his hair, before your last interaction came crashing down on you both.

He closed his eyes, you looked away, to the endless blue sea stretching out around you. But he doesn't get up, and you don't stop running your fingers through his hair.

"You'll find someone who isn't me," you tell him softly, assuringly, "someone as good as, someone better."

"Someone real."

I know, you silently resign to yourself, I need to find someone real.

---

"Fuck I wish this was real."

"I thought we agreed that it's better that it's not."

"But you look so good."

"I was stressing about this outfit... so thanks."

"Can you wear it more often?"

"That sounds like a slippery slope for us both."

"It is."

But you're both grinning as he pulls you in for a kiss. For tonight, you decide it doesn't matter.

---

One of your friends seems really eager to invite you to VidCon, and you suppose you liked YouTubers well enough to go. Some little voice in the back of your mind reminds you that you invented your favourite YouTuber back when you were a kid. Something like wishful thinking, you've always told yourself -

You'd dreamt about a plane the other night, he'd said the seats in the dream were far more comfortable than the actual plane seats. Said he was on his way to VidCon himself, maybe that's why you're so quick to say yes to your friend's offer. It had been a sign; part of you wanted you to be there, the part that spoke through him.

When you dream of him next it's the night before the convention, and you're aware that it's a dream. He says he's stressed as the two of you float over the convention centre; his outfit keeps changing and shifting, and you know you're stressing over what to wear tomorrow in your own way. When you tell him that it's going to be okay, that you'll be there, he gives a strange little smile, as if to say obviously.

You both think you know what the other means.

You are both wrong.

---

It's loud and overwhelming and you realise you may have made a mistake when you're half an hour into a line for a guy you've never heard of. The YouTuber you dream about isn't fucking real, you shouldn't be here -

"I thought you'd be more excited to meet Q," your friend seems confused at your quickly souring mood as the line progresses at a snail's pace, "I only got us in this cue for you to meet him."

"Who?"

"Q?" Your friend frowns, "Quackity; the guy you've been obsessed with for as long as I've known you," she half laughed, "you've been drawing him all over your shit since high school."

There's a nausea building slowly in your gut as you hear her speak.

"I don't... I don't know who you're talking about."

"Are you being serious right now?" She frowned, "like you draw his beanies and caps and hoodies and everything, I only found out about him like a year ago but I recognised him from your math notes... You really don't know him?"

Perhaps this is why your imaginary friend pushed you to come here. This was the reason, even if you weren't consciously aware of it.

Except your friend in the line beside you opens up Instagram and shows you a photo that makes your blood turn to ice. The resemblance went beyond uncanny. You think you might be sick.

How? Why? Had you met him as a child and just kept dreaming of him? What the hell was happening? The line was moving and you let it carry you forward.

Your imaginary friend. You imaginary boyfriend. The boy you've dreamt of your entire life. Your first... everything, and absolutely nothing at the same time. YouTuber. Aspiring Lawyer. The person you felt hopeless for falling in love with.

You feel faint. Your friend looks worried, she keeps asking if you're okay. Telling her you are, you try and tell yourself it's just the scariest coincidence in the world. Still, you have to meet him.

When you get to the front of the line, you watch him chatter and laugh with the excited teenagers at his table, and oh god, you know his voice, his smile, his laugh -

"Seriously, are you okay?" Your friend in your ear.

"I'm good," you tell her, swallowing hard as you raised your voice enough to make sure he'd hear, while still acting as though you were talking to her, "I said I'd be here."

Turning to him, you see he's half standing, eyes wide, dark as you've always known them to be. He looks incredulous. He looks like he's going through the same kind of overwhelming realisation you'd gone through five minutes ago.

"You're Quackity," you say with a fond smile.

He takes a startled breath, coming back to the moment, beginning to beam.

"This is going to sound batshit insane," he began hesitantly, though your smile is already widening in anticipation, "but has anyone ever told you that you'd make, like, a really hot Etch-A-Sketch?"

Ignoring your friends utter bewilderment, you burst out laughing, relief flooding through you as you nodded emphatically twice.

"Twice, actually," you snorted.

"Was it twice?" He tipped his head to the side, and you gave a wide smile.

"Second time was in that really bright toy shop, the one with the -"

"Giant Buzz Lightyears?" He filled in sagely, suddenly remembering, and you both quickly shuddered, recalling the nightmare.

"What the fuck is happening right now?" Your friend asked, deeply confused by the whole interaction, "I thought you didn't know him."

"It's... unbelievably complicated," you told her with an air of apology, which only left her seeming miffed. As you turned your attention away for the moment, however, Quackity was ushering over one of the convention volunteers who had been hovering around, witnessing the bizarre event.

For a moment, out of the corner of your eye, you catch him checking his watch; your smile widens at the action, the way he's making sure it's real like you'd seen him do countless times in dreams. This time is different. This time is better.

"I'm sorry," you finally hear him say, addressing you with a breathless kind of laugh, "I never caught your name."

You'd always assumed he'd known it. You'd assumed he wasn't real. You assumed you'd made up his smile, his laughter, his warmth, his joy.

You could stop wishing for someone real to love the way you loved him.

----

(There is nothing about Wilbur Soot's next stream that would differentiate it from any other in any significant way.

It doesn't matter, you don't know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

Music flows from the flat above yours, and you find out in the best possibly way. It's not that it's loud at all hours, soaking through the floor to wake you up, there's nothing to complain about, instead, with the window open for the sweet, Spring breeze, the faintest guitar notes carry on the wind, as if from an adjacent open window. It's not enough to pick out a proper melody, it's not even enough that you can still hear it if you move away from your window.

It doesn't even sound particularly rehearsed, it almost sounds like it's being rehearsed. Alone; an in-progress melody.

Encore, you want to cheer when the music grows quiet and the window slides shut, but the musician wouldn't hear you. Every part of this building begs for the attention it's occupants don't seem to want. Closing doors, closing windows, louder always than a hello in the hall.

Still, you keep your window open.

And sometimes the music comes back.

At least this new building sounds better than your old one.

----

(It's been a few months since Wilbur's played Soft Boy for anyone online, whether that be his own stream or for his friends. It's March now, well into Spring, and Tommy's stream is as good a place as any. Wilbur himself isn't live, he's just on a headset at home, desk by his open window where the street below is for once mercifully quiet. Still, it's not ready for proper release, he has other priorities, maybe he wants to workshop it a little more before getting it properly produced. But the fans and his friends enjoy it.

You, of course, are ignorant to all this context; still you don't know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

The stranger visits the roof at night as often as you do. Rugged up at night despite the days growing ever warmer, you grant yourself a reprieve from job hunting if only to take peace in the stars. At night the horizon sometimes becomes difficult to discern, stars dancing dangerously close to the night light of the city.

It's different again at night, a new kind of night that you're still getting used to. But the creak of the door is familiar. The stranger's apology is familiar. The way he sits a bit closer to you each time, or you to him if he's there first, that's all becoming familiar too.

"I'm Will," he offers the second time the two of you meet. He's still a fair distance away; it will be weeks before the two of you are side by side. You introduce yourself and he nods, "you moved in not long ago, right?" Something about the lights of the city make him glow.

You nod. He smiles.

"It's a good view," he looks back out to the city, and you take a long moment before you look away from him. You like the way he smiles; you like these moments on the roof, the ones that have passed and the ones yet to come. You're not quite sure why you prefer the moments with him in them rather than the moments alone on the roof without.

"'spose it is," and though you're looking out to the city, you don't really see it.

----

(Recently, Wilbur has been streaming earlier in the day, at least for him. Not every stream, of course, maybe once a week. He seems disappointed when it gets too late after he loses track of time.

"Alright, Cinderella," Quackity scoffs after Wilbur comments that he has to go, that it's later than he realised, "abandoned me," he plays up being hurt, "what is it? What's more important than me, Wilbur?"

"Don't be like that, Q," Wilbur responds dotingly, "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"How?"

"I'll DM you how," Wilbur's voice goes low and exaggeratedly flirty, giving an over the top wink to his camera, "you can't see it but I'm winking suggestively at the camera," he adds for Quackity's sake, who at seems placated by the exchange. Then, Wilbur finally explains; "I've got a friend who keeps a strange schedule, I'm- I'm just trying to work around them right now." And Quackity finally gives his blessing, which makes Wilbur laugh.

You don't see the quiet sigh of relief he breathes when he gets to the roof and sees you there. Even if you did, you wouldn't even begin to know why. Well known internet celebrity Wilbur Soot has started scheduling his work is in the hopes that he'll see you more often... Not that you know who Wilbur Soot is.)

----

The stranger Will has an office and you don't even have a job. Still. All this you learn while going for a job in the same building as his office, apparently. Except that it's late in the afternoon and you're just leaving your interview and he's just arriving and he seems just as confused as you.

"Do you work here?"

"Hopefully," you answer, and something about his look of genuine interest has something stirring in your chest, "I just had an interview," you elaborated, not wanting to admit to yourself that this single moment, in which Will tells you he's also hoping for the best for you, has you more flustered than the interview itself.

When you ask if he works here too, he candidly admits he does, but is cagey about the details. He's not part of company you'd just interviewed with, his office is his own.

"Will I see you on the roof tonight?" He asks, catching you completely off guard.

"What time?" Thankfully at least your mouth works faster than your brain, "I'm headed home now." Then, as he's checking the time on his phone you blurt out - "have you- will you have eaten before then?" And he looks at you with confusion, "I could make some food, if you're working. I could make dinner for when we hang out on the roof."

Will absolutely beams.

Something about his smile has your heartbeat stuttering in your chest. It hits you in this moment that Will genuinely enjoys your company on the roof just as much as you do his.

He asks you how late is too late, and when you let him know, he nods and suggests and hour before then. How does his smile seem to get wider? There's a look in his eyes that's all warm and fond; did that always happen when he smiled? How had you not noticed it before?

"That's very kind of you, I can see about getting some kind of dessert for us on my way back," he offers, and you try to waive off the suggestion but he laughs softly, "I never said it'd be gourmet, I was thinking more along the lines of something from a petrol station, I'm not sure what else would be open; any preferences?"

"For petrol station sweets?" And even though you're grinning, you're clearly endeared.

"For petrol station sweets," Will confirms with a nod. It takes you a moment to think it over before giving a few suggestions as options, and he takes a long moment to focus on remembering them, repeating them back to you to confirm.

Then he tells you he's looking forward to it, and he sounds so sincere, and the feeling in your chest is frighteningly hopeful. This is a new feeling in your not so new town that you weren't anticipating.

You grin back.

"Me too."

----

(Close to the end of April, there is a day in which several members of the DreamSMP go live together for a lighthearted, mostly lore-free stream. These creators included, among a few others, Wilbur Soot who happened to be in notably high spirits.

"Am I not allowed to be in a good mood, Tommy?" Wilbur jokingly demanded when Tommy pointed it out.

"No, it's freaking me out," Tommy didn't even hesitate to play along with the bit, "do I have to bully you? Do we have to bully you?"

"I think... we should," Ranboo agrees after a moment of deliberation, holding back his laughter.

"Tommy, I love you man but you need to come up with new go-to solutions," Wilbur responds blithely, "and I'm pretty sure you couldn't actually bully me in any way that mattered," he turns his nose up, wearing a wide grin, "I've got dinner on the roof to look forward to, nothing can ruin today."

"Can I try?" Tommy deadpans without missing a beat, and Wilbur breaks into surprised laughter almost immediately.

"Tommy," Philza just sounds faintly exasperated, and Wilbur can't stop laughing.

His friends and his content are his entire life, and he's acutely aware of how lucky he is to be a content creator, the opportunities he's been afforded, so he keeps it to himself that the best part of that night wasn't the filming, it was coming back to seeing you smiling on the roof of the flat.

Because it didn't take him long to figure out that you had no idea who Wilbur Soot was; every time he remembers this, he lets himself enjoy it quietly, letting himself get close to someone who, for the first time in a long time, has no preconceived notions of him. You like him for him, and one day he hopes he can tell you how much that means to him.)

----

You're surprised at how long it's taken you to ask what floor he lives on, and even more surprised to learn that he's on the floor above you.

It's been a very long day, instinctively looking forward to heading to the roof at sunset after finishing a trial shift that you're not completely confident went well.

"Are you the one with the tiny, little pot plants on your windowsill?" He asks, which surprises you.

"Uh, yeah I am, they were gifts from when I moved into my last place," part of you wants to ask how he knew, but somehow it makes sense. Of course he's seen the pot plants, of course he knew they'd be yours.

There's a pleasant lull in the conversation before you think to ask -

"Are the walls thin?"

You don't even for a second consider that there may be some suggestive implications until Will squints at you in confusion. There's a parcel of fish and chips open between you both, and he had been picking through the chips trying to find the most crisp.

"Not as far as I've noticed," he pauses, before adding pointedly, "floor seems pretty soundproof too." He's too invested in figuring out what you're implying to go back to food, at least not immediately.

"No, no!" Realising your mistake your smacked your hand to your mouth out of embarrassment. Wide eyed, you find yourself waving with one hand trying to chew and swallow your own food faster to clarify, "no, sorry, nothing weird, I swear," you laugh awkwardly, finally finding your voice, "I just wondered if you knew who lived in the flat directly above mine, they play guitar, I thought that you might have heard- that it might help identify -" but Will's expression has turned unreadable, and again find yourself realising your misstep only after the fact yet again. Immediately you begin apologising.

"Sorry, I- I must seem so creepy I'm so sorry, I should just go up and knock on their door instead of eavesdropping and asking you, I'm sorry Will -"

"Is it good?"

Your mouth snaps closed, and when you look to Will you're surprised to see him looking genuinely curious. He picks up a chip and gestures like he's prompting you to answer.

"What?"

"Do you think they play good music?" He asks again, tone free of any kind of judgement. It takes you a moment to process the shift in the mood.

"I don't recognise any of it," you murmur, trying to properly order your thoughts, "I don't hear it a lot, only very occasionally, when I'm sitting next to my window if it's open, which is why I think it's the person above me..."

Will blinks at you, eyebrows raised, still waiting for a proper answer.

"I like it," you nod, ducking your face to hide your embarrassed smile, "I keep wanting to call out 'encore'," you chuckle a little self consciously at the admission, "but that feels like crossing a line."

"You are very sweet," you hear Will mumble, his tone endeared, "and you have no idea who it is?"

"Every time I think about going up and knocking on their door I feel like a creep," you sighed, "which, I mean, given the situation I definitely am, and it gets worse literally every day. It's not like telling them at this point would do any good."

"It might," he offers.

"I admire your optimism but I'll keep my dignity while I still can."

"I think it'll go better than you'd think," he muses, doing a bad job of fighting back a smile.

"Oh yeah," you roll your eyes, "just knock and admit," perhaps your patience is wearing thin after a long day as you put on a mockingly saccharine voice, "you play such lovely music! How do I know this? Well I've been listening in for months like a stalker, just downstairs, sometimes I'll even make a cup of tea and pretend like it's my own private concert!" You let go of the act as you pitch yourself back to lay on the roof, scowling at the sky, "I'd rather die," you huffed.

"Months," he murmurs, almost awed and barely audible, before asking, "your own private concert? That's kind of adorable, honestly," he tells you, sounding frankly delighted.

"Oh shut it, Will," you sulked, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You're very sweet," he reiterates in that same soft tone as before.

"You're biased," you roll your eyes.

"Of course, that goes without saying," Will answers blithely, and you can hear his shit eating grin in his voice, "considering I'm the musician who lives above you."

You know he's watching you, he's waiting for your reaction.

"Will you know if this is true that I'm never going to recover from the embarrassment, right?" You manage, as level as you're able, your body stiff as an absolute board with tension.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about," he assured you, though in this moment it wasn't exactly effective.

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

"Would you like me to prove it to you?" He offers easily. When you finally sit back up, clearly apprehensive, there's nothing but that familiar, warm kind of fondness you find in his smile. He gives you time to process, he doesn't push you, doesn't grow impatient or irate as you scrutinise him. Finally, you sit back, as if done with your analysis of him and were still unsure of what to make of all this information.

"Come on," he says gently, getting to his feet and offering you his hand, "let me play you something I've been working on, I need a second opinion." Warily, quietly, you take his hand.

The shock wears off. He makes you tea. You peer out his window to see your little row of pot plants just below. Then, just as he promised, he plays you something that you're already familiar with despite it never having been released.

Front row seats to your own private concert.

He turns faintly pink when you do in fact ask for an encore, but he can't stop smiling.

----

(Lovejoy, the band which Wilbur Soot fronts, releases their first EP 'Are You Alright?' on May 8, and it almost immediately begins to trend across various charts, including internationally. It's unequivocally a success, and is being plugged online by fans and friends alike.

Wilbur, however, is blindsided by the text he receives from you in the week that follows the release. If you were ever going to find out what he did for a living, it would have been this week, instead:

[interview went well, I've got my fingers crossed, thank u for the luck xx and omg literally in such a good mood I mistook a song on the radio as one of yours THAT WOULD BE SO COOL TOO HEAR THO!!]

[hey actually if you're up for it do you wanna call? I'm all high on adrenaline and there's some stuff I wanna talk about when I feel like I'm on top of the world 😅💖]

And Wilbur, who was due to start streaming in only a few minutes, pushed back from his desk and pressed Call. On the other end of the line you're bright, brimming with excitement and enthusiasm and confidence and -

"I've been wanting to ask you for ages, actually even before I found out you were the talented musician living above me, that was just a bonus, and might be the reason I'm calling, because that song I heard was so familiar -" you're rambling, something Wilbur rarely heard you do. When he asks if you're okay, you grow quiet, "I'm nervous."

"About what?"

"Misreading things. Fucking with our friendship."

Oh.

"I have it on pretty good authority that you have nothing to be nervous about," Wilbur assures, a warmth flourishing in his chest as he hears your breathy, relieved chuckle.

"I'd like to get a drink with you some time," you tell him with a newfound confidence, "or see a movie, or a band, or anything. A date. Away from our building." There's so much excitement in your voice it's infectious, Wilbur finds himself grinning.

"I'd like that very much," then, after a long moment, he clears his throat, "do you remember what the band was called?"

"What do you mean?"

"On the radio, you said you thought you heard my song; what band was it?"

"Oh," you pause, considering, "not quite sure. Love-something?"

"Ah."

"Ah, what? Wilbur I don't like that tone, ah what?"

"Ah, I might have to tell you something."

"Christ, what now?"

"I'm at work; if you want I can pick up take out after and we can have dinner together."

"Are you going to tell me what you do for a living yet?"

"Do you trust me?" He asks softly, and there's a long pause, in which you sigh.

"Of course I do, Will," you answer honestly, "always, you know that."

"I know," he agrees fondly, "and that means a lot to me. I promise I'll explain it all tonight, I promise." Softer now, he smiles, "I hope you know how glad I am to have you in my life," he hesitates for the barest moment before quickly adding, "and I'm very proud of you for getting the job."

"Thanks, Will," he can hear you smiling, "I can't wait to see you tonight."

Five minutes later, Wilbur Soot begins his geoguesser stream. There's something different, the vibe has changed, but no-one can put their finger on why.

There's no outward difference, but there's electricity in the air. When you finally find out the truth about Wilbur Soot, when you see the VOD for the stream, see how big he smiles right as he signs off, you will call him a sap.

----

Your tiny, little pot plants sit nicely on Wilbur's windowsill. It takes a while, but slowly your things begin to migrate from your apartment upstairs to his. Before coming to Brighton, you'd paired down your things, and so it's nice to find space for yourself in his apartment, in his life. It doesn't feel empty here, it doesn't feel sparse and new.

And Wilbur? It seemed like things with him just kept getting better. You took every chance you got to hype him up, endlessly proud of him and all he was doing with his online and musical careers.

When you meet his band, they all greet you with a warm familiarity, and Wilbur spends the first half hour bright red as they jump at the chance to tell you that they feel like they already know you. However this makes you turn all sappy and endeared, and it takes all of your energy to stay even semi professional and not act as enamoured with your boyfriend as you felt.

While you end up meeting and getting along with his family, the thing that gets you properly nervous is when he asks if you want to get lunch with his friends Phil and Kristen. You know the family-dynamic bit by now, so of course you say yes; you need them to like you so much.

Both Phil and Kristen hug you when they first meet you. It's like they can tell you're nervous, their words, their tone, everything about them is gentle. At one point, Wilbur and Phil get caught up talking about some upcoming streams they're planning, and while you're excited to watch, their discussion goes over your head for the time being. Almost as if by instinct, you look to Kristen, as if to gauge how you should be reacting, but she's looking back at you, expression endeared.

"This is still new to me," you admit, shuffling your chair a bit closer to her as to not interrupt the other two. She laughs softly, but the sound is kind and understanding.

"It gets more coherent in time," she assured, to which you ducked your head to hide your faintly embarrassed expression.

"I understand all of the words individually, but this streaming stuff is so far out of my usual realm," carefully, you look up to watch how animated Wilbur is getting as he talks over his plans for the DSMP stream for the following night, running it past Phil, "tell me I'm not weird for watching old VODs in my spare time to try and figure out how it all works, and what's happening in that Minecraft thing. I know he's doing cool shit, I'm just trying to figure out how to properly appreciate it."

"You're not weird, that's adorable," Kristen is grinning from ear to ear, which served to brighten your own smile, "you'll get it in no time."

Wilbur looks over for a moment, practically glowing with enthusiasm, hands raised mid-expressive gesture, and catches your eye. His expression softens as he seems to briefly forget what he was saying; Kristen looks between the two of you and fondly shakes her head.

It's easier to hug them goodbye than it was to say hello, no nerves as you tell them honestly it was good to meet them, that you look forward to seeing them again soon. Something eases in your chest when they both return the sentiment in kind, genuine in their affection.

"Home?" Wilbur asks as he unlocks the car, and you pause as you turn the word over in your mind. He's said it before a million times, but somehow this time is different, this time feels real. Home.

"Yeah," you say softly, sounding a little dazed as you climb into the passenger seat.

"You okay there?" Tone light, he's smiling as he asks, and you turn, unable to stop the grin as it makes its way across your face.

"I love you," you tell him like you can't quite believe it yourself, though maybe it's more the fact that- "I can't believe I've never said that before."

"What do you mean you can't believe you've never said it before?" He's grinning now, endeared.

"I love you, Will, I've loved you for ages, we practically live together," you laugh, "but I've never actually said it, I hate that! I hate that I've never said it! I love you, Will!"

"I love you too," he tells you sincerely, leaning across the centre console to kiss you, which you enthusiastically meet him in the middle for. You've kissed him more times than you can rightly remember, but it never feels to give you butterflies.

At home, he's quiet, smiling to himself while lost in thought throughout the afternoon. When you ask about it, he hesitates.

"You never had to say it," he admits with a shrug, "I knew." When your brow furrows with confusion, his expression turns vaguely guilty and self deprecating, "you have to admit, I was acting pretty sketchy about a lot of my life -"

"- with good reason," you countered, but all he could do was smile fondly, shaking his head.

"In hindsight," he points out, "now you know why I was being evasive about a lot of things it makes sense, but at the time I didn't really know, or, well that's not true," he flushed, "I didn't exactly believe why you would still trust me after all that," he looks to you once more, "but you did."

"Of course," you answer automatically, before it hits you what he's saying, "because I had a crush on you; because I love you." Then, as he's nodding in agreement, your eyes go wide with realisation, crowing with glee; "because you had a thing for me too!"

He doesn't disagree. He wraps you up in his arms and kisses you, and this moment feels like home.

----

(Wilbur's stream entitled 'SPECIAL SPOOKY GUEST CHATTING AND LOWKEY Q&A BE ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOUR!!' happens on Halloween. Its the first video to ever even explicitly name Y/N, let alone feature them.

"I'm so nervous I'm going to be sick," is the first thing the internet hears of you, while Wilbur's sitting in frame, watching you off frame.

"You don't have to do this," he assured. He's wearing something shimmery on his skin, and plastic vampire teeth that are giving him a faint lisp. He's wearing eyeliner.

"No, I know we're live, I want to do this, I do, I do!" You insisted, before making a noise of anxiety, "but I might pass out. I need to study more." At that, Wilbur gives you a fond look, before looking to his camera.

"They call watching my VODs 'studying'," he explains. You make another anxious noise, before taking a deep breath and quickly sitting yourself into the chair beside him, looking at him and not the camera.

"I'm going to get a good grade in streaming, which is both normal to want, and possible to achieve," you mumbled; you too sparkle with some sort of shimmer, but are holding your plastic fangs in your hand, fidgeting with it.

Even without explaining who you are, everything about the way Wilbur looks at you says that he's in love with you. After a moment, your anxious expression softens as you find yourself fascinated by how he's sparkling, and you reach out to faintly touch his cheek. While you may have forgotten the audience, Wilbur has not, yet he still allows the moment to go on as you grow more comfortable in front of the camera, beside him.

"Love?"

"Yeah, I know," you mumbled, finally coming back to reality. Looking away from him and to the screen in front of you both, "Q and A," you murmur, reading the stream title. Thankfully you don't seem as daunted as moments before, "the first question seems to be 'who am I'." You take a deep breath and look to Wilbur, who grins back.

"Welcome to your first stream, you wanna say hi?"

"What if I just didn't? We go the whole stream without explaining who I am," you couldn't help yourself, snorting a laugh, which makes Wilbur cackle at the idea.

"You do whatever you want, I'll support you, that's hilarious."

"But cruel," you conceeded, despite how amused you were by the idea. Looking back to chat, you could see half having a meltdown at the idea. But you are not cruel; you'd both talked about it for far too long to chicken out now.

It's time for the world will know who you are.

"I'm Y/N, nice to meet you all!"

"It's the objectively correct answer," you don't even hesitate before answering, mouth moving faster than your brain, and face still presumably in your hands, "look at that creature and tell me he doesn't; one, sling phenomenal dick, and two, both know and practice aftercare." As you're speaking, if only to provide context for your audience, you tab away from Minecraft to Google image search the Spy Kids 2 Spider-Monkey.

"Yeah, I read your messages, I agree on all fronts; the Spider-Monkey is a service top and would treat us right," Dream added sagely, "but what I'm saying is the fact that we had in depth discussions about our reasoning behind whether we would smash or pass these CGI creatures has forged a friendship that I refuse to back out of."

"That's why you agreed to be my friend?" Your tone was strangely fond at that revelation.

"No, I agreed to be your friend because I posted a Thumb-Thumb from the first movie in our team's chat and you answered 'smash' in all capitals three seconds after I posted it, followed by 'what that thumb do', again, all capitals -"

"I hadn't had a lot of sleep!" You cut in to defend yourself, still sounding vaguely embarrassed.

"I was impressed by your fucking conviction!" He shouts, but the bright affection in his voice keeps him from sounding too aggressive. A few seconds of silence followed, and you tabbed back to Minecraft.

"To those in chat wondering," Dream sounds more than a little amused as he broke the silence, "I hadn't asked Smash or Pass, I literally just posted a picture of the Thumb-Thumb in the group chat; they responded before I had a chance to follow up."

"I don't know what I was thinking," you mumbled, sounding all kinds of bashful.

"I want to study you," you could hear him smirking. It was easy to play up your embarrassment when your chat couldn't see you grinning, "for the record you were really quiet when we first all met in the VC, so it surprised me - in a good way, of course."

"A good way?" You asked dubiously.

"Hey, if it wasn't, I wouldn't have DMed you to follow up, I wouldn't have bothered to watch your stream to try and get to know you better, and I wouldn't have called when you asked," he points out with a strangely kind bluntness to his words. You're once again quietly, ruminating on his words as a warmth blooms in your chest.

"Okay now I am kind of starstruck," you mumble, flustered and fond, "you need me to fight someone for you I definitely will," which gets him to laugh, and begins your long, public history of being a Dream Stan on main.

After your group places 4th in MCC, you anticipate your fast-formed friendship with Dream to fade considerably. You tell yourself you don't mind, that that's what happens; you're friends now, sure, but you shouldn't expect to be especially close.

But he's still just as quick to answer you. He starts conversations. He calls you just because he's had a strange thought he wants to talk through with someone, and you're one of his first choices, so of course you start calling him in similar situations. It doesn't take long for a script to form, even if it's just between the two of you, neither live, even sometimes bleeding into your DMs; Bestie, I've had a thought. / Terrifying, continue.

While you don't interact live often anymore, you speak in private almost daily, and neither of you forgets the joke even when the other isn't around to hear it. Jokes about stanning turn to jokes about simping, made all the more amusing by neither of you knowing what the other even looks like.

While you begin to develop a solid friendship with George and Sapnap along the way, so too does Dream get to know your own housemate, an ASMR YouTuber who is kind but bemused by your burgeoning friendship with one of the biggest names on the platform. Still, she gets along well just as you do with the rest of the Dream Team.

And when your housemate moves out and you're by yourself in the little two-bedroom apartment, they make sure you never feel lonely.

While live interactions were limited, you never hesitated to defend one another, no matter the platform. Mods in your streams quickly learned that if vitriolic Dream-Antis weren't banned before they properly got your attention, you would put them on blast without a shred of mercy.

[the bit is dead. you and dream don't give a shit about each other we know this is for clout. let it go] pops up as a donation that slipped through the cracks, and you, who had been ranking notable Cyberpunk NPCs on a tier list, and had mentioned in an offhand way that you and Dream got into an argument about some of the A-Tier choices, go dead silent.

The mood drops.

"Can you please explain how?" Voice absolutely poisonous and calm, you let your mouse rest idle in the middle of the screen, "mods let them speak; can you bring up this proof that everyone knows about that insinuates that my friendship with Dream is a spiteful bit on my behalf?" And you wait.

[everyone knows. obviously. you guys aren't friends you don't ever talk]

"Obviously," you give a thin-lipped smile that no-one sees as you read a message from Dream himself, asking if you want him to call. You hit call and continue to address the troll, "not that I have anything to prove to you, or anyone," you drawled, feeling rather smug seeing that Dream had picked up, "hey bestie, sorry to interrupt your hot boy shit, but get a load of this clown," you snorted.

"You want me to ban them?" Dream asks with the kind of lazy, smug confidence that was rarely warranted in your shared discussions, but made a pleasant little shiver run down your spine every time you heard it. Chat was screaming.

"That's right, you have mod privileges on my streams, don't you?" Your tone is frankly catty, so full of smug confidence that even without a visual your audience is practically able to picture your smile.

"Yeah, you gave them to me months before we even talked about you joining the SMP -" Dream's own tone shifts as he stops matching your energy to menace you on your own stream. As anticipated, it broke you into disbelieving laughter as you shrieked for a moment.

"You're such a dick!" You laughed brightly, "I've been building up that will-they-wont-they-invite-me bit since MCC!"

"Okay, bye bestie, love you!" Dream announced cheerfully over the top of your dismay before immediately hanging up the call. While you're half-groaning, half-laughing at his sheer audacity, one of your other mods was quick to post that this is how people knew you were actually good friends, and for once your chat was in absolute agreement. At least when they weren't begging you for details on your SMP character and when you might finally join.

"I never said I accepted the invite," you tried to play coy, but it was futile, "he's so lucky he's cute."

Thankfully the overall reception to Dream's brief cameo was positive, and at least for a few days the people claiming you were a clout chaser quietened down. It's a brief reprieve but you're still glad for it.

In some ways you found it easier being faceless online; it's easier to disconnect yourself from a lot of the baseless hate. That being said, you found yourself, like many of your faceless fellow creators, to be a lightning rod for speculation and cruel potential comparisons. And more than anything, people went to horrifying lengths to try and discover your true identity behind the screen.

"Would you ever do a proper face reveal?" You hear yourself asking Dream at an hour that's arguably both too late and too early.

"I mean I want to," he admits, "I want to meet my friends and fans and make IRL content, you know?" Serious conversations were happening more and more often between you two. Maybe it's a sign of closeness, "but still the idea kind of freaks me out, like I'm losing a safety net. I love Sap and George but now that they're out there it's like they've kind of forgotten what it's like, and now my numbers are fucking astronomical, it's..." The way he signs betrays just how exhausted he was by certain aspects of his success.

"I know..." While your numbers may not be even close to Dream's, you've still got a few million subscribers of your own, and know all too well how the pressure aches. Still, you try to lighten the mood, "I'll make you my lock screen."

"What, now?" He laughs with confusion

"After your face reveal I'll make you my lock screen," you tell him with complete sincerity. You're not completely sure what reaction you're hoping for, but silence isn't it.

"Dream?"

"I've had an idea," he muses, sounding suddenly energetic, and you don't even have time to make an intrigued noise before he's continuing, "we should meet up."

"In person?"

"Yeah, you come to me or I'll come to you," enthusiasm is spilling from him, and you hear him begin to frantically type. You, however, are far more hesitant.

"Why? What would be the point?" And at your question, the tapping of the keys goes silent.

"I wanna hang out with you?" He says a little awkwardly, almost like it's a question, "I want to see you in person? You're one of my best friends? I think it'd be funny for two of the biggest faceless streamers to do a meet-up before either of us face reveal? Take your pick," he sounds a little defensive.

"I-" you find yourself touched by the sentiment, overwhelmed at his words, "I know we are friends, and I know it's kind of something we joke about, but I always figured, you know, you had George and Sap and..." you feel your chest swell with pride, "do you really think of me as one of your best friends?"

A long silence follows.

"Do you not?" He asks, sounding a little disappointed, which has you backpedaling almost immediately.

"Of course I do, but I don't -" you hesitate before admitting, "I don't really have any other best friends. I like my housemate but ours is a convenience thing more than anything else."

"You're a different kind of best friend to Sap or George, or you know, even different to Karl or Q," he tells you after a few moments of deliberation, but at least he seems to be in better spirits, "but yeah, I still consider you one of my best friends." The typing on his end of the call has tentatively resumed.

"What kind of different?" You ask gently, and are again met with hesitation.

"There's parts of how I..." He trails off and hums thoughtfully, trying to organise his thoughts, "the way we exist online- no... I mean yes but it's not quite..." Then, carefully, "you know me," and he lets it hang in the silence between you both, and you give him the time to elaborate, heart in your throat, "you know me in a way that's very hard to describe and so much harder to find, because I feel like you know me in the nichest way, you know? Since that random-ass call the day of MCC, I was like, sure about you in a way that I'd never been about another person. Like safe - I mean," and he splutters half sentences again for a few moments, like he hadn't quite meant to admit that last part, but you're glad he did. You knew exactly what feeling he was talking about, the one that burned deep in your chest, that you knew you could never dream to find the words for.

You tell him your address.

He goes quiet.

The typing continues.

"So this is it, I'm coming to visit," suddenly he sounds nervous, and despite feeling that too, you can't help but grin.

"How soon?"

"Two days?"

"Two days!" The way you cheer in confirmation is cathartic for you both; you hear him definitely hit enter to purchase the plane ticket, and he laughs like he can't believe it's really happening. Then, as the laughter dies down, your voice turns quiet and fond, "you make me feel safe too, Dream."

"Stop," he sounds plaintive but still somehow bright, "I already kind of feel like I'm about to cry, I can't believe I get to see you so soon."

"So soon," you echo the affirmation with a smile.

To celebrate you watch and movie together, ending up falling asleep on the call. All you feel when you wake is how giddy you are knowing how soon it would be until you saw your best friend in person, finally!

He insists on taking an Uber from the airport, wants your first time seeing each other to be somewhere your voices have no chance of getting recognised, so by the time you buzz him into your building your practically sick with anticipation. Pacing with your earbuds in, something about hearing the echo of his real voice at your front door just ahead of hearing him in the call, it makes it all feel so real.

"I'm gonna hang up and knock now," his tone is so gentle, like he can tell you're freaking out more than he is right now.

"Okay, love you," you blurt out on tense instinct. He hangs up but you can hear his fond laughter the moment before he starts to knock. He doesn't even get a third knock in before you've wrenched the door open, heartbeat in your ears, absolutely clueless on what to expect -

He's real. He's a real person and he's standing in front of you and your best friend Dream has kind eyes. Around the time you register that this isn't a trick, that he's got wavy hair and he's tall and pale as all fuck, you realise that you're definitely checking him out, which somehow feels weirder when it hits you that he's actually very handsome. He had a place in your heart pretty much since you met him, but this is a welcome surprise.

"Do you wanna come in?" You asked with a little laugh, stepping to the side and gesturing him in. His expression was unreadable as he stepped past you, "it's good to see you," you tried, but once you closed the door and turned around, you couldn't help but feel self conscious.

"Come on man, this is really me, I'd rather you not do a bit, I've been cleaning but I tried to -" you dip your gaze to avoid looking at him, scouring your outfit for any stains you made have noticed, hoping his reaction was to something you could fix -

"This isn't a bit, sorry, I promise," he says in a rush, stepping forward. When you finally look back up, he's smiling at you, hand hovering like he went to touch your cheek but he's not sure he's allowed, "I cannot believe you've been this pretty behind the screen this entire time, this is so unfair, I could have bought a plane ticket months ago."

Slowly, as his words sink in, you feel yourself beginning to grin and grow flustered.

"Okay, this bit I approve of -"

"Who says it's a bit?" He crowed, stepping closer to you, cupping your face with his hand, "look at your face, this isn't a bit, you're hot! Who let you be hot?" And you know that tone, have heard that smile in his words before; the fact that this smile was behind it every time?

"No, shut up, you're not allowed to simp over me, I'm meant to be simping over you; you just finished a plane and uber ride, how are you not a hot mess? Who let you be hot?" And immediately he's turning red, basking in your compliments with a wide grin.

"We're gonna be insufferable on stream, aren't we?"

"Without a doubt," you beam, and finally you pull each other into a tight hug.

After dinner you drag a second chair into what is now your office, making sure the space was set up for you both to be comfortable. Once your computer is booting up, he pulls out his phone and instructs you to make half a heart with your hand in front of the computer. He completes the heart with his own and snaps a photo, your aesthetic set up in the background.

[am I really in @Y/N's apartment IRL for the most convoluted meet up ever or am i very good at photoshop? idk you decide] is how he captions the photo, which you immediately retweet onto your main account with a link to your Twitch.

"I ain't ever seen two pretty best friends!" You quote loudly at your chat to start your stream, immediately causing Dream to laugh, leaning over to press his forehead against your shoulder while you continued on strong, "and neither will you! Welcome to the most confusing and least provable meet up! Special guest Dream, do you wanna say hello?"

"I do," he wheezed, "I'm special guest Dream, coming to you live from Y/N's office, believe it or not!"

"I'm seeing a lot of non believers here," you mumbled with faux disappointment.

----

The most popular fandoms in the character tag of Y/N Y/L/N are Actor RPF, HELIX (2020) RPF, Star Wars RPF, X-Men RPF, and American Horror Story (TV) RPF. The most common pairing is tied between Y/N Y/L/N/Amandla Stenberg and Y/N Y/LN/Evan Peters, followed closely by Y/N/Reader. However, since the beginning of January, there has been a steady increase in fan works rated Mature or Explicit featuring polyamorous pairings.

Reposted from Tumblr and quickly growing in popularity is the fanfiction '(in the absence of everything) i promise to keep you warm'. The first chapter was posted on November 24, 2020, one week after HELIX's public premiere, and has updated consistently in the following months. It is ongoing, at 13 chapters and approximately 45,000 words. It has the following tags; Explicit, Actor RPF, Y/N Y/L/N/Chris Evans/Pedro Pascal, Y/N Y/L/N & Amandla Stenberg, Y/N Y/L/N & Oscar Isaac, AU, Assistant!Y/N, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Movie Sets, Secret Relationships, Power Dynamics, Protective Chris Evans, Protective Pedro Pascal, Daddy Kink, Fluff and Smut, D/S Undertones, Service Top, Domestic Fluff, Social Anxiety, press publicity and paparazzi, Red Carpets.

---

Sapnap posts a photo of himself and Patches in order to announce that he's moved in with Dream and Dream's housemate. Not long after the official post goes up, two posts are added to his Instagram story.

The first is an piece of fanart of Y/N's character Woolfe standing back to back with who appears to be Technoblade from the DreamSMP as he's often depicted in fanart. Technoblade is wearing what appears to be the top half of a boar's skull as a mask covering his eyes, while Woolfe is wearing the angular, aesthetically cyberpunk mask that covers their mouth and looks like a wolf's nose and snarling mouth. The background is black while both characters are lit in sharp relief from either side, with Woolfe being lit in neon green, and Technoblade being lit in neon pink. Stretching across the whole middle of the piece in bold, white lettering is the quote 'If you want to be a hero then die like one.' The art piece is in landscape, A3, and framed and hung against a dark wall. The artist of the piece has been tagged, and across the top Sapnap has added 'proof of housemate's 'not a shrine' to technoblade' in pink letters.

The second is of a polaroid stuck to a dark wall, and an unlit but partially used candle at the very bottom of the image. The polaroid is partially obscured as Sapnap appears to have purposefully edited the photo to scribble in black over one of the figures in the photo to hide their identity. What can be seen in the photo is Sapnap, a little blurry, clearly laughing, half turned from the camera and positioned like he's leaning into someone with his arm around them. There is am arm around his shoulder that is unobscured, but their hand is cut out of the image and they are wearing long sleeves, so there is no identifiable features visible. Over the black scribble, in white text; 'a little bit of a shrine ❤️'.

----

"They travel a lot, the housemate travels a lot for work usually," one of the earliest streams Sapnap does after he moves is a somewhat indulgent Q&A while playing Valorant, "in like, chunks of time, a few weeks I guess? But when they're home they're still working, but usually in a way that's, I guess more similar to me and Dream? Like it'd feel weird and, I don't know, like arrogant, I guess? To compare our work? Usually at least. But because of how everything is, you know, a lot of their work is online, and like we have a schedule for who needs the house quiet at what times. That's- that's all I can really say. I know it's vague," he laughs apologetically, "but it has to be." Then, after a few moments of reading through chat he frowns, "can you tell us where housemate is now? I don't know if I'm allowed, hang on," he pulls out his phone and types away, "I'll ask." It doesn't take more than a minute for him to receive a response; "they're on the West Coast, that's all I'm allowed to tell you."

He does not address any of the numerous questions asking him to clarify the Housemate's relationship with Dream or himself.

· FEBRUARY ·

@.dreams-housemate-updates changes their twitter handle to @.dreamnaps-housemate-updates. Their header also changes to the meme image of Bugs Bunny, pointing with both hands to the right, overlaid with the communist flag, with the words "Our Housemate" in the centre.

----

@.YourTwitter: me and the boys at 2am looking for BEANS [Image ID: Y/N, Amandla, and the director of HELIX all posing on the red carpet for the Golden Globes.] | @.YourTwitter: BEANS acquired [Image ID: Two stills from the live broadcast of the Golden Globes, the first one being of Y/N and Amandla in the audience, leaning against one another and clutching each other, beaming and on the verge of tears as they are looking up, presumably at the stage. Y/N has their free hand up and partially covering their mouth. The second is of HELIX's director Robert Eggers on stage having just received the Golden Globe for Best Director of a Motion Picture. He has a hand to his heart and is using the Golden Globe itself in his other hand to point out into the crowd, presumably to Y/N and Amandla.]

HELIX was nominated for 5 Golden Globes in total, and won two; Best Director - Motion Picture, and Best Original Score - Motion Picture.

----

On Valentine's Day, you post one picture to your Instagram story. It's of a nondescript hotel bed covered in red rose petals. The duvet is black and neat, and the only caption you've added is white text highlighted with red in the top right corner; no shitposts today im actually in love.

----

It had been somewhat disheartening to be on set on Valentine's Day knowing you were so far from the two people you loved the most. It's been weeks since you were home, which only made it all the harder. The shoot went well, and you were glad to be messaging Dream and Sapnap through the day, even if you couldn't be near them.

Around lunch they tell you that they're sending flowers to your hotel, that it was meant to be a surprise but they'll need your room number, and that the hotel might call to confirm with you. As much as you love the gesture, it makes you miss them both even more, and you start browsing flights back to Florida on your phone in between takes, fantasizing about having the time to take off and see them.

The hotel calls in the afternoon, and you confirm that anything from your boyfriends has full permission to be placed in your room while you were gone. Sun will be setting in a few hours, there's no time left for your fantasy to come true, not if you wanted to remain professional.

There'd always be next year, you tell yourself.

You message to say that you miss them, and they respond in kind, both quick to assure you that there's always going to be more time, that one day wouldn't matter. Perhaps not in the long run, but today it felt like it did.

So when you get back to your hotel and see the rose petals on your bed, it feels too good to be true.

And when you catch sight of both Dream and Sapnap waiting patiently in the larger living space of the room, you feel yourself begin to tear up. They're both with you immediately, wrapping you up in their arms, endeared as they try and soothe you, murmur for you not to cry.

It's been a long day of heartache, thinking that you'd be without them, so it's all you can do to hold them tightly, a mess of laughter and cathartic tears as you tell them how much you love them both. You hadn't realised just how much you'd missed them until this moment, until you're peppering them with kisses and babbling about how this has gone from the worst day to maybe one of the best of your life.

"So far," Sapnap grins teasingly, kissing your temple. Dream echoes his words, echoes his tone, and you feel yourself growing flustered as your initial wave of shock and awe had died down.

Best day of your life, so far.

· MARCH ·

In early March 2021, the nominations for the 93rd Academy Awards are announced, and HELIX receives 6 nominations; Best Picture, Best Director, Best Original Score, Best Visual Effects, and Chris Evans is nominated for Best Supporting Actor. Controversy arises, however, as Y/N is also announced as a nominee for Best Actor.

A statement is released by the Academy the day after the nominees were announced, stating the decision as to which category they were nominated in was due to the technical broadness of the category, and that Y/N's team had been contacted prior to the nomination being confirmed.

A day after The Academy releases their statement, Y/N posts two updates to their Instagram story;

1. A blurry selfie taken in bed, sheet pulled up to their neck, giving the camera peace sign. Across their forehead reads 'its an honour to be nominated, im looking forward to the day that there's a category specifically for nonbinary actors and actresses so people like me don't have to be torn to shreds online when people try to acknowledge and appreciate us'.

2. A photo of a mostly empty plate sitting on their bedside table, covered in crumbs, with a knife and fork sitting in the middle. Their hand can be seen giving a thumbs up closer to the camera, and is captioned '"why didn't you respond before now its been two days????" sorry buddy i was getting my shit rocked and eating pancakes in bed. i knew it'd be a hot button issue online so i decided to celebrate the nom first. im allowed to celebrate my achievements ✌️'.

----

@gnflmnop: you remember that one time @.YourTwitter tweeted about the dsmp right before their movie premiered and then Never Again? Did I hallucinate that? | @YourTwitter: my boyfriends bully me whenever I go to tweet about it :( | @YourTwitter: they're mad about who my favourite is (it goes back and forth but they're never happy with who I say 😔) | @.YourTwitter: if y'all knew my boys this would be so much funnier, I promise this is all v lighthearted. | @.gnflmnop: Who's your current fav?? | @.YourTwitter: @.Quackity 🥰 | @.Quackity: HOLY SHIT

· APRIL ·

HELIX ends up winning four of the six Oscars it's nominated for; Best Director, Best Visual Effects, Best Original Score, and Y/N wins Best Actor.

Transcript of Y/N's winning speech from the 93rd Academy Awards for their performance in HELIX:

Before I start, I need to say something to the people like me - non-binary and trans people like me - beyond this room, watching this live or in the future; hi! Look! We can see it now, you can see me; the world is changing and our future is bright! [Brief pause.] Now, on January 4th this year, my ex-manager told me I was an unhireable PR nightmare, and tonight he decides to text me; congrats on the nom, for your own sake don't start a twitter tirade when you lose, Anthony Hopkins is eighty seven, he can't fight back. [They are becoming audibly choked up.] To that I say; don't you wish you put your energy into something useful? [Pause as they compose themselves.] Which is why I'm up here, thanking my amazing manager who actually believes in me, our whole incredible team behind HELIX, especially Rob and Amandla - you should both be up here with me, because I wouldn't be here without either of you. [They take a moment to clutch the Oscar to their chest, looking overwhelmingly grateful.] And the only thing better than this is knowing I get to see my wonderful, supportive, damn amazing partners after. My favourite place in the world is at home with you both, I love you. [Sniffling, they give a watery laugh.] This is a moment, isn't it? This is our moment. Thank you.

Given the immense exposure of The Oscars, Y/N's speech quickly goes viral. The backlash from the conservative side of the internet is immense, however the outpouring of support still manages to dwarf it. It's seen as a cultural reset, with 'the world is changing and our future is bright' being painted across every LGBT+ corner of the internet. Also, both the polyamorous and nonbinary communities specifically appear to adopt the phrase 'this is our moment'.

----

The following interaction occurred during a Just Chatting stream on Wilbur Soot's Twitch channel on the 30th of April, and can be found in the stream's VOD beginning at 53:46.

"Can I share something surreal with you all?" Wilbur asks, tone vaguely bemused as he was streaming with Tommy, Ranboo, and Philza, "lads, chat, can I share the most, I think unexpected reaction I've received after yesterday?"

"Unexpected how?" Ranboo snorts a laugh.

"Like, I think it was the emotion I was going for, but I never expected this person to contact me?"

"Oh interesting, who was it?" Tommy asked excitedly.

"Well, I mean, there's weird ways the SMP kind of breaches containment that makes me think 'ah, people lying for attention on the internet again'," Wilbur begins, and is met with stifled giggles from the others, who seem to know exactly what he means by that sentiment, "which I don't necessarily know why I think that, since most times it's kind of innocuous or makes a roundabout kind of sense, like a politicians kid getting them to tweet at us, but there was something a few months back that I heard about and I was like 'that's absolute bullshit'."

"You do especially seem to get a few weird ones," Phil agrees.

"And I don't usually get star struck; I'm not trying to brag here, but I've had - well, we've all had - some pretty high profile encounters here and there," Wilbur's voice was rising in intensity, as the others voiced their agreement, "but there was an interaction a few months ago, and I kind of shot my shot since I don't use Twitter and had my Discord passed on to this person, and nothing really came of it."

"Who was it, man?!" Tommy groaned, frustrated by Wilbur building up the encounter, much to everyone else's amusement. Wilbur pauses for a moment.

"Yesterday I received my first message from Y/N since we'd connected on Discord, after months mind you, and it's a selfie of them giving me the thumbs up, whilst clearly crying -"

"What?!" Several of the others in the chat exclaimed, Wilbur clearly matching their confused, startled energy.

"Right?! And you wanna know what the caption was? Here, I'll read it to you guys, it says; Wilbur, why am I crying about minecraft ghost."

Silence.

Then;

"Three days ago they won an actual fucking Oscar; what reality am I in right now?" He crows, still clearly baffled.

"That can't be real," Ranboo announced, sounding a little dazed.

"Why is Y/N Y/L/N crying about minecraft ghost, Wilbur?" Tommy practically yelled, "we saw HELIX together with Tubbo the last time I was in Brighton, I refuse to believe fucking Woolfe shed real tears over Ghostbur!" Then, after a beat, "oh God, and it was my fault too! I need to start writing an apology," he's clearly half joking, and the others play along.

"The character Woolfe?"

"No, to Y/N themselves," Tommy says, adding, "maybe if I ask Dream nice enough he'll take it back."

Not long after this conversation occurred live, the following was posted to Twitter;

@.YourTwitter: ooh lads, me and my parasocial relationship might not survive this one omg @.WilburSoot @.philza @.tommyinnit @.ranboo | @.ranboo: [GIF from Y/N's award speech at The Oscars; Y/N is holding their award to their chest, standing behind a podium. The caption at the bottom reads 'This is a moment, isn't it?'.]

And;

@.Dream: despite wishful thinking, no celebrity tears based twitter campaign will make me take back certain SMP based events. in fact if you tried i think id just double down and say certain minecraft ghosts got what was coming to them | @.YourTwitter: @.YourTwitter | @.YourTwitter: see its that easy to @ me. &lt;3 | @.Dream: didn't you win an oscar? please get a hobby | @.YourTwitter: dont vague me just because ur mad ur not my favourite | @.Dream: @.YourTwitter You make me want to smack you sometimes. | @.YourTwitter: hot. dm me. | @.Dream: Why are you like this? | @.YourTwitter: for the bit. <3

· MAY ·

@.enbyhawke: @.DreamWasTaken @.YourTwitter the people have spoken. Link to the Change.org petition 'Let Y/N Join The DreamSMP'] | @.YourTwitter: @.Dream the people have spoken 😌 | @.Dream: @.YourTwitter the people need to be quiet, I already told you no in our DMs. | @.YourTwitter: [GIF from Mean Girls of Regina George, phone to her ear, caption at the bottom reading 'Boo, you whore.']

----

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: Other Fandom: HELX (2020), Dream SMP Relationships: Woolfe (HELIX)/Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF) Characters: Woolfe (HELIX), Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF) Additional Tags: PWP, what is this lol, crack, based on a twitter post, Eric Andre Voice LET ME IN but its woolfe and the dsmp, Power Imbalance, hate fucking, choking, spit, reluctant bottoming, degradation, so close to just writing RPF but im pretending to have dignity, ch 1 is afab!Y/N, ch 2 is amab!Y/N, otherwise the chapters are identical, just like every other smut oneshot with Y/N or their nb characters lol, the Y/N fandom etiquette is beautiful tbh we all know what we're doing here, WAIT c!Dream IS LITERALLY JUST A YOUNG VERSION OF CHRIS EVAN'S CHARACTER OH MY GOD, DOWN TO THE EXPERIMENTING ON PEOPLE AND KILLING THEM AND BRINGING THEM BACK Language: English Series: Part 1 of isn't bite also touch (HELIXsmp) · Next Work -> Stats: Published: 05-15-2021 Words: 4863 Chapters: 2/2

i'll tell you my sins (and you can sharpen your knife) FullContakt

Summary: There's a price to pay for clear intentions. Woolfe understands the roles and rules of this place and is happy to call themselves a villain, however the one who originally chose that title isn't exactly willing to give it up, so Dream decides to find out exactly how far Woolfe is willing to go for it.

Notes: Y/N and Dream's one online interaction makes me laugh so fucking hard, they're both so chaotic, I don't know who is the one with the audacity here. I think they both have far too much. But anyways, since im lowkey obsessed with the few HELIX/DSMP crossovers we already have here (literally never cried as hard as i did finishing starslikerhinestones's Woolfe/Wilbur MASTERPIECE 'a hero's job is to die'. seriously if nothing else please read it for Hawke being THE BEST OLDER SIBLING to tommy, as long as you don't mind tragedy and heartbreak) ANYWAYS seeing that interaction between Y/N and dream just made me think that Woolfe and c!Dream would HATE each other so here, they beat the shit out of each other... and yeh fuck a bit. Enemies-to-enemies-who-hatefuck.

----

Sapnap makes an offhand comment during a stream about how he's missing their housemate since they went to the UK. Dream seems to share this sentiment, joking 'and we didn't even get to swap them for George while they're gone, it's so unfair'. Both seem genuinely disheartened by the housemate's absence, but make a note of how proud they both are of everything the housemate has been doing.

----

From May 20th to May 23rd, the 'PenisSMP' or 'PSMP' trends on Tumblr as a shitpost directed at the Minecraft YouTube community, that flourished on the oft overlooked blogging platform, was quickly co-opted and expounded upon by said community.

In amongst its colourful cast and rapidly developing lore, several real figures were included and adopted into the kayfabe, including current members of the DreamSMP such as Tommyinnit (given the alias 'Wife_Haver' in the PSMP), and ConnorEatsPants, with no significant alterations to his already established character whatsoever, just that he existed in this SMP too. Alongside them, Y/N was quickly adopted into the lore and cast of characters with the in-game alias of '4rs0n_R1sk', as first mentioned in user @.localtubboenthusiast's post;

localtubboenthusiast literally why is anyone surprised that fvckass blew up half the server?? why is ANYONE surprised they keep setting fires??? they were literally hand raised by 4rs0n_R1sk!!! #who is literally being played by one of the most chaotic actors of our generation #this is why dream didn't let Y/N join the dream SMP #hes a coward #psmp #penissmp #penismp #y/n y/l/n #4rs0n_r1sk #fvckass the sheep #fuckass the sheep

And the follow-up question they received;

Anonymous asked: WAIT HOLD UP THATS WHERE I KNOW 4RS0N'S VOICE??? ITS Y/N????

localtubboenthusiast answered: yeah apparently they're friends with penis irl and asked if they could join out of spite after the whole dream refusing to let them into the dsmp thing 😂 can't believe they literally don't even stream they're just there lol

#also in case it wasn't clear i AM a PenisUnavailable And ShittyFartBaby69 Are Actually Y/N's Boyfriends truther #4rs0n_R1sk #Y/N Y/L/N #PSMP #penismp #penissmp

Fanart of '4rs0n_R1sk' usually depicts Y/N as either their character Woolfe from HELIX, or Contakt from The New Mutants with a warm colour pallet and fire powers. They are usually drawn with 'Fvckass the Sheep', 'PenisUnavailable', or 'TurboThruster'.

----

@.YourTwitter: went to dublin and all I got was spit on. they give you exactly what you ask for here, amazing customer service 🥰 | @.Ic3_Squared: Hey bestie some thoughts should stay in your head ❤️

· JUNE ·

I Spent A Day With DREAM was posted to YouTube by Anthony Padilla on the 9th of June, and the following exchange begins around minute 5;

Dream: God it's so weird, actually, because there's been these huge changes in my personal life that have happened, like, parallel to the whole YouTube thing, but are still significantly effected by it, if that makes sense? Anthony: What kind of changes to do you mean? Dream: Like, uh, I'm not fully sure if I'm able to talk about this, though I guess if this bit makes it into the video I've confirmed that I am allowed to actually talk about it, [Dream laughs] but I feel very lucky to currently be in the best relationship of my life, but like, I feel like that would have happened, like me- me and my- you know, [Dream stumbles over his words a little, as if to purposefully dance around the precise wording of the relationship] that would still be happened even if I never blew up.

----

📌 Pinned Tweet @.dreamnaps-housemate-updates: If Dream is dating his housemate that would be news to us too. We don't have any more information than anyone else on this matter. Please stop asking us, thank you.

----

On June 26th Twitter user @.goldenghostgirl asks you if you'd be watching Minecraft Championship (Pride), and who you'd be watching. You respond less than half an hour later with three consecutive tweets; 'me and my parasocial relationship will be watching pink parrots 😌🦜💓', then 'only because @.smajor didnt invite me to play which isn't his fault since he doesn't know I'm secretly very good at minecraft.... but just so you know... for next pride... 👀 👉👈' and finally 'im actually being legit here, minecraft as a game is far bigger in our house than I really let on, I'd love to prove my boyfriends' mentoring has paid off 💖'.

For MCC Pride, the team Pink Parrots is made up of SolidarityGaming, Grian, Wilbur Soot, and Technoblade. Highlights from their team during the event include;

Wilbur makes a point to say hello to Y/N at the beginning of the event as he figures they're probably watching. When providing clarification for the situation to the rest of his team in the VC he refers to it as 'mutually parasocial'. Wilbur also jokes about becoming an honourary member of Y/N's polycule. Y/N does not publically comment on any of this; it is not made clear if they saw it.

Technoblade mentions that Dream has been DMing him during the event, and that both he, and his housemate who isn't Sapnap, but is just happy to be here, are cheering them on.

Wilbur's fire alarm chirping aggressively, much to his growing frustration, until he has to disconnect as there is apparently an actual fire emergency in his building. He had to talk to the firefighters who arrived on scene in order to confirm that he was safe to re-enter the building. He is able to rejoin MCC.

In Wilbur's absence, there are several suggestions for a temporary replacement; Technoblade suggests Dream, Grian mentions that Y/N has put their hand up on Twitter, while Wilbur himself suggests Philza Minecraft. Philza ultimately becomes Wilbur's temporary replacement.

Philza breaking down with laughter when he reads your follow up tweet; "Don't look at me, I retract my statement. Coach, I was wrong I'm not ready for the big leagues, you shouldn't put me on. If you have the choice of Philza Minecraft of course you choose Philza Minecraft." He then adds, as his laughter dies down, that he understands now why Wilbur had called his interactions with you 'surreal'.

After the event concluded, you post one final tweet; "if any interviewer ever brings up today I WILL lie."

· JULY ·

On July 14, the final episode of Loki is released on Disney+. During one of the final scenes, after the timelines have all split and Loki is making his way to try and warn Mobius about what had happened, we see Y/N being dragged through the facility, clearly reprising their role as the mutant Contakt (Itta Marie) from 2020's New Mutants.

An hour after the premiere of the episode, Y/N tweeted twice;

1. 'oh yeah lol should update my IMDB about that'.

2. 'nd yeah dad acquired, for those keeping score at home' [Image ID: Y/N and Tom Hiddleston in costume as their respective characters Contakt and Loki on the set of the Loki series. They appear to be in an animated discussion between takes.

----

@.YourTwitter: there's no irl sdcc so no-one can stop me from cosplaying and doing some sort of Q&a.. need suggestions. And questions.

@.YourTwitter: imagine if I became a twitch streamer lol. anyways q&a here [Link to user PR Nightmare on Twitch.]

"Tommyinnit in my chat? Is this real?" You found yourself beaming with delight, "do you wanna join? DM me your Discord on Twitter, you're awesome, dude!"

"Are you cosplaying Ghostbur?" Is the first thing Tommy asks the minute you voice call him.

"I am!" You tell him with delight.

"Why?"

"I miss him," you admit freely. Tommy snorts a laugh, but the conversation trails off until, "it's so cool to talk to you finally, both my boyfriends speak so very highly of you."

"You're... a fan of mine?"

"I like your videos, yeah," you agree without hesitation, "and your arc is super compelling to watch on the SMP."

Tommy goes very quiet for several long moments before you hear faintly 'ow... ow... ow...'.

"Are you okay?" You ask, concerned, and Tommy hums for a moment.

"Sorry, just had to pinch myself a few times," then even as your laughing fondly, he continues, "still not convinced this is a real conversation I'm having."

----

@.dreamnaps-housemate-updates posted a clip from Sapnap's then-latest Minecraft stream on July 28th with the caption 'i love the way they love';

"What's been your favourite part of living with me so far?" Dream's voice is saccharine and teasing as he asks Sapnap live on stream.

"God, you're so needy," Sapnap laughs, though his tone is fond. While his focus remains primarily on his screen where he's playing Minecraft, occasionally his gaze will flick to something to his left, off camera.

"Thank you," Dream sounds quite smug, "but is that really your favourite?" In the silence that follows, Dream's tone takes on that saccharine tone as he prompts again.

"I mean if you twist it the right way, like with the right words," Sapnap sounds uncharacteristically soft, almost embarrassed, and seems to be intently focusing on his game with a faint flush to his cheeks.

"Twist what? Me being needy?" Dream half laughs, but Sapnap continues, sincere.

"I mean, I obviously wouldn't actually word it like that, but you're obviously the best part of living with you," he admits, a warm silence follows, and finally Sapnap looks directly at whatever is to his left, though he still appears to be addressing Dream when he speaks; "I'm not mentioning our housemate because they already look like they're a half second away from saying something emotional despite the fact that I'm live," he warns pointedly with a grin, as if to stave off the housemate in question. Then, after a moment, he softens his tone and expression considerably, practically radiating affection, "but you're the other best part about living here."

----

@.StardewwSoot: how long have @.YouTwitter and @.Callahan been mutuals? 👀👀

· AUGUST ·

@.YourTwitter: in Switzerland, finally able to add another Hot Hollywood Dad to my collection of father figures @.VancityReynolds

@.YourTwitter: ALSO PREMIERE OF FREE GUY AT THE LOCARNO FILM FESTIVAL!! DEFINITELY SHOULD HAVE LEAD WITH THAT!!

----

During an interview as part of Free Guy's press junket, an interviewer asks Joe Keery and Ryan Reynolds if either of them had met Y/N's partners.

"No, but I'm sure they're having a great time in Canada with my high school girlfriend," Ryan says without missing a beat as his younger costars break out in laughter. All three of them are grinning, a clearly easy comradery between them all, even as Y/N gives him a shove and insists their boyfriends are real. "Oh yeah, then what are their names?"

"I wish I could tell you, but I literally can't," you admit, a little sheepish, even as Ryan loudly proclaims that you're not making a strong case for yourself, "I wish- dude, I promise I wish I could tell you, but you wouldn't even begin to believe why I can't!" You insist once more.

----

@.yourtwitter: my toxic trait is every time I miss my boyfriends I read fanfiction about them and send them links to my favourites | @.yourtwitter: the reviews are in folks

[screenshot of a group chat titled '🎉 No Noise Complaints Since 8/23 🎉'. cat daddy: [screenshot of above tweet] cat daddy: your toxic trait is being funny when we're not able to publicly respond H0TB0I: your toxic trait is never specifying when you're missing us or being a menace Ryan Reynolds Lover: ????? cat daddy: @H0TB0I cranky because you skipped the tags and read mpreg aren't you Ryan Reynolds Lover: oh lol yeah no I was just being a menace when I sent that sorry 😅❤]

| @.asheeberree: WAIT PEOPLE WRITE FANFICTION ABOUT YOUR BOYFRIENDS??? WHO ARE YOU DATING??

Less than an hour later, Sapnap tweets out "our housemate just said 'pass me your phone I want to cause problems on purpose' so that's the only context I can give for whatever the next tweet is ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯" less than three minutes later, the following tweet is posted to Sapnap's alt account:

@.sapnapalt: dreamnap housemate here hello sap's twitter, I have a question. why are y'all sleeping on omega!dream and alpha!sap as concepts? I'm absconding with his phone so you have time to answer and I can see your responses before he deletes this 😘

· SEPTEMBER ·

A selection of articles and quizzes from Buzzfeed.com tagged Y/N Y/L/N in the month of September, 2021;

If Ever We Have To Elect A Representative For All Millennials, Here's My Pitch For It To Be Y/N

(Quiz) Plan Your Mission And I'll Tell You Who In The Mandolorian's Crew Would Be Your Bestie

10 Most Plausible Potential Secret Beaus For Y/N (And The Hottest Fanfiction For Each To Prove It)

(Quiz) Plan Your Ideal Date To Find Out Which Of Y/N's Hot Hollywood Father Figures Is Your Daddy

This Talented Artist Does Everything Right In Their Artwork Showcasing Their Fancast for The Breakfast Club In 2021

· OCTOBER ·

On October 3rd, you tweeted in rapid succession 'Callahan's my best friend now', 'hacker voice: im in', '@.Quackity heyyyy what are u doing rn? u free buddy?' and then a link to your Twitch account, where you were live on the Dream SMP.

The following is one of many short clips that you liked on Twitter after your Stream ended;

"Hey look at you go," Quackity laughs "you know your way around here better than I do; you weren't lying about watching us it seems."

"Yeah, well I play quite a bit with my boyfriends, since it's something they're really into, and they really got me into the SMP in the first place; they've been invested in this since day one," you said, smiling warmly before you leaned close to your camera and mic, "and now chat, you're gonna go ahead and clip that for me, and post it to twitter, so they can see it."

----

Dream and Sapnap both post photos to Instagram of several Halloween costumes they wear together. Most of the photos are just of the two of them, always with Dream entirely covered to continue obscuring his identity, but the final photo of both photosets is one of the housemate, for the first time in record.

They appear to be wearing a black hoodie, black gloves, black jeans, and appear to have borrowed the mask Dream has worn previously.

In Dream's Instagram post, the housemate is looking directly down into the digital camera they have around their neck, clearly having been taking the photos for Dream and Sapnap. The mask is lifted off of their face and sits on top of their head, however with the angle they are looking, the mask completely obscures their face and smiles directly at the camera.

In Sapnap's post, the setting is different to any of the other photos, as it appears to have been taken in a living room. Dream is still wearing the black hoodie and Squid Game mask, while the housemate appears to have fallen asleep with their head in his lap. Dream's mask is on the arm of the sofa, as is what appears to be a bright green hoodie. The housemate's hood is up while they're laying with their back to the camera so their face isn't visible. Dream is resting a hand on their hip and has his phone in the other, seemingly still using it despite his mask.

On Halloween itself, Y/N posts an image of themselves against a black wall dressed the same way as Dream appears in a few of the earlier photos he'd posted of himself, with a green hoodie, completed with a large, white, smiling mask. Both on Instagram and Twitter the photos is captioned 'this is my official apology to @.DreamWasTaken for breaking into his server'. Dream responds on Twitter telling you 'you're on thin ice....... lucky you're almost as cute as i am in that fit'.

· NOVEMBER ·

On November 11th, the trailer for the 15th season of sitcom 'It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia' is uploaded across the series' various social media platforms. The clip, that lasts just over one minute, appears to take place in Dublin, and includes indications that Y/N will play a reoccurring character throughout the season.

The two most notable clips are;

'Sweet Dee' seems gleeful as she informs Y/N that they are a great assistant, before immediately spitting upon them.

And;

"So we need you to clarify which of us is gay -" Dennis posed the question to Y/N standing close beside his sister.

"Mac, right? He's the gay, isn't he?"

"Yes," Dennis frowns, "but he likes men, and you are -" he gestures to their body, "not. However, if we," he gestures between himself and Dee, "both are trying to sleep with you, then one of us is gay," he paused, visibly deliberating, "or, well, not gay, but also not straight, since that would make this much easier for me, but for me to be straight you'd have to be a woman and you are -" again, he gestures to their body, "not..." Dennis clasped his hands together, tone growing almost furiously frustrated, as if at Y/N themselves, "so now, you beguiling little minx, have made us both potentially neither gay nor straight, you have turned us into Schrodinger's Fruits!" Waiting, breathing hard at the end of his outburst, it cuts to Y/N, visibly confused by the situation, brow furrowed.

Not long after the clips are posted, you retweet it with the caption 'show with the most BDE (big dad energy)' and a photo of yourself on set in Dublin in the middle of a cheesy group hug between the five lead actors of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Not long after, the show's official twitter responds with;

@.AlwaysSunny: Welcome to the family! [ID: Four stills from the upcoming season of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia; 1. Dennis clearly having taken Y/N by surprise, grabbing them by the shoulders and kissing them. Neither appears to be enjoying themselves; Dennis's entire expression is scrunched up like he's smelled something awful, while Y/N is so tense their arms are throw out to the side. 2. Dee and Y/N nose to nose, both staring intensely into each others eyes, the tips of their tongues awkwardly touching where they're poking out of their otherwise closed mouthes. 3. Charlie and Y/N both covered in mud, fully clothes in a bog up to their waists, passionately making out. 4. Mac leaning against a bar counter from behind it, beaming brightly at Y/N who is slouched at the back. Mac is gesturing proudly to four different coloured liquor bottles lined up in the order yellow, white, purple, black, thus making a side-on nonbinary flag. Y/N is giving the display a tired smile.]

----

@.YourTwitter: I honestly can't believe that on Halloween I celebrated a year with my dream boi, and like a week later I got to celebrate again with hot boi, just before the anniversary of HELIX. | @.YourTwitter: everything has happened so much this year, Im so proud of all the wonderful people in my life and all the projects we've worked so hard on!! | @.YourTwitter: omg this might have been the best year of my life..... | @.Dream: so far. | @.Sapnap: So far. | @.YourTwitter: @.Sapnap @.Dream ur both so right,, best year of my life So Far 😌

· DECEMBER ·

December 2021 is surprisingly quiet.

At the beginning of the month you announce that since you've actually got some time off, you're going to be stepping back from social media to focus on spending time on your partners and yourself. Many voice their support for you, including both Dream and Sapnap.

Sapnap streams far more frequently than Dream, and it's notable that he seems incredibly bright in all December streams, even moreso than usual.

Dream does two Twitter Spaces during the month, and in both he sounds practically giddy, explaining that both he and Sapnap are glad to have their housemate home for the holidays.

----

The Archive Of Our Own tag 'Clay | Dream/Sapnap/HousemateWasTaken' has 98 works by the end of 2021. The fanfiction with the highest kudos in this tag is 'Tommy's Guide to Imports and Exports', which is part 3 of user alliumc4t's series 'The Kids Aren't Alright'. This series revolves around the romantic relationship between Dream, Sapnap, and their housemate, whilst also becoming legal guardians of Tommyinnit, Tubbo_, and Ranboo. The series is still labelled as ongoing, and contains the following fics;

'Ohana' Isn't A Real Word

Blessed Be The Boys Time Can't Capture

Tommy's Guide to Import and Exports

Time's Arrow (The Achilles Heel)

The Only Normal Person In This Whole Damn Building

Flags and Other Decorations

----

And finally, to book end the year, Y/N posted the following Tweet just after midnight on New Year's Eve:

Because you basked in reminders of his power, finesse, how easily he could wreak devastation, and there was something thrilling about when he turned those skills upon you, knowing he loved you too much to break you beyond repair. But there was also something intoxicating when he almost would, when he'd spend days lavishing praise upon you as he cared for you, tended to the wounds he'd inflicted, nursed you back to health.

In the split second after he'd land a hit while sparring, and he's breathing heavy, eyes wild, and the pain hasn't hit you yet, you see the way his eyes light up. This time it had been a deep gash in your cheek, which had genuinely startled you, and he turns immediately, apologising, saying he lost himself in the moment.

"Don't worry about me," you tell him as he takes your face in his hands, the contact stinging as blood begins to seep from the wounds, "you wouldn't kill me," you assured him, and it's as if he needed to hear the words out loud to believe them, his gaze softening, your hands resting on his hips, "and if you did, we both know you would have your reasons."

"You're so..." but he can't even finish the compliment, syrupy affection in his eyes as he looks at you, still holds your face. He can't find the words in this moment, cant say what you know he's thinking, 'you bleed for me' but you can still hear it. His gaze is endearing as he looks at his own hand on your cheek, before holding it up in the sunlight, your blood shiny and slick on his fingers.

You take his hand in yours, love unspoken but well heard as you softly kiss his knuckles. Carefully, you bring his hand back to your cheek, the stinging wound and the warm, red proof that you were alive. When you pull him in for a kiss, he's holding your face tighter this time, the pressure searing beneath his touch as you kiss him; the tense set of his shoulders had eased, however, and to you, that's all that mattered.

The moment, he tells you later, soothed the voices, at least for the time being. You, stretched out next to him in bed, carefully applying bandaids and ice packs to your more recent training wounds, make a noise of interest.

"I don't like hurting you like that," he admits, voice low, sounding almost remorseful. Instinctively you turn your attention from your bandage application, to him, curling an arm over his chest, resting your chin on his shoulder.

"Like what?" Because he's not one for admitting remorse, especially not about something like this; you've got well cared for scars to the contrary.

"Like in a way we haven't discussed," it takes him a long moment to find the words, but you know its still not entirely the truth; as if your awareness of the altercation was crucial to his enjoyment of it. He got caught up like this a lot, when injuries were accidents. The problem was that it wasn't his intention, it wasn't premeditated; you never minded the lack of warning, he'd had your complete trust for as long as he'd had your heart. You knew what he was capable of, but that he loved you, that's why you trusted him. He, however, knew what he was capable of, and loved you, which is why accidents scared him half to death.

"But it felt good, didn't it? Better than usual," as you say that, he looks to you, sharp and calculating, gaze focused on the patching job he'd done on your cheek earlier, "do you want that? The blood?"

"I don't need it," he says softly, kissing your nose, "I like what we have, I like training with you, you don't-"

"But do you want it?" You ask, reaching up to touch his cheek, your fingertips feather light as you trace where the scar would be on him, and his eyes close for a moment. He leans into your touch.

"The things I crave," he begins, before amending with the faintest smile, "the things other than you, don't matter out here; I'm keeping us safe. The violence for the sake of blood, it's exhausting to keep searching for," he groaned faintly, before adding, "and dangerous," his gaze slides to you, and you know he's not concerned about himself. You, however, held his face for a long moment.

"And what of blood without violence?" You ask softly; he goes very still, breath caught alongside the thought, "Blood for the Blood God," When you lower your hand to his chest, his eyes open. Dark and thoughtful, there's hesitation there, confusion almost.

"You don't know what you're offering," his tone is like ice water, a shock to your system with how cold it is. There's no warning when he sits up, out of your embrace, leaving you cold and confused, "I'm trying to keep you safe." Accusatory, as if you're in the wrong, as if you should know better.

He leaves before you've even formulated a response, tense and seemingly furious and you have no idea how or why the situation changed so dramatically. It's always hard to try and sleep alone nowadays, but you don't have much of a choice.

Techno comes home still wreathed in the heat and horrible sufler smell of the Nether, sweet words on his lips as he curls into bed beside you. None of them are an actual apology, but he's got a talented hand between your thighs as he tells you he loves you, and it's enough to ease your fretting, half asleep mind for the time being.

It seems safer to leave that topic well enough alone for the time being, but it doesn't leave your mind. The thoughts that begin to haunt you encroach on every part of your life. Intrusive, idle chatter starts up when you're training and the sun glances off his blade and catches your gaze, and won't shut up as you're preparing dinner together, and the chatter roars with approval whenever you so much as get a paper cut. Perhaps this is what it's like to experience the voices that clamour for blood and violence in your love's head, though more and more you're sure it's your mind's way of encouraging you, because there are moments where Techno looks at you, eyes dark with a barely concealed desperation, and all thoughts in your mind go silent.

"Don't look at me like that if you're not going to do anything about it," you teased, catching him in one of those dark, thoughtful moments he was becoming increasingly prone to. Techno, however, is pointedly quiet, averting his gaze, light from the fire making him seem somehow even more dramatic, "you've been trapped in there a lot lately," settling yourself on the sofa beside him, you curl up by him, cheek against his shoulder.

Still, he remains quiet.

The crackle of the fire fills the otherwise silent room, though Techno shifts to wrap his arm around you, pulling you a little closer. You feel when he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"Wish I could be trapped in here," he mumbles against you, drawing circles on your shoulder with his finger, "figure out how you live like you don't feel fear."

"I have you," you respond with absolute, blunt sincerity.

"What?" It sounds as if he genuinely didn't expect your response.

"I have you," it comes out a murmur, angling your face to his, nose to nose as your gaze locks with his, "why would I ever feel afraid." His pupils are blown so wide with want that you're half afraid you'll get lost in them. He must feel the erratic beating of your heart, must know the thrill you feel in this moment -

"You should fear what I want to do to you when you say things like that," his voice is low and you feel like you could melt at the implications, which was probably not his intention, but you didn't care.

"And yet you don't even do anything," you sighed languidly, eyelashes fluttering as you find your gaze dropping to his lips, "what a tease -" but then there's two fingers in your mouth, effectively shutting you up.

"And if I tore you apart, would that make you happy?" He practically snarls, but you angle your head to make sure he can see the dreamy look in your eyes. After a few moments of intensity, he moves his hand from your jaw, your mouth, to grip your thigh, to pull you closer.

"Is it what you want?" You feel elated, all kinds of heady and fire-warm. This is the precipice, the moment where he yet again understands you truly mean you'd do anything for him, and his hesitation will evaporate -

"More than anything," he admits, as if his honesty had left him breathless, and he kisses you hard before you have time to think. Pulling you into his lap, he takes the opportunity to fist his hand in your hair. When he pulls hard, it's the first of many wonderfully aching, stinging, bruising moments of the night.

And you learn that there is no blood without violence, not for the Blood God...

There's a sharp pain the moment the blade first breaches your skin, metal along your sternum cool before the pain brings with it heat. You try to bite back your yelp, but can't quite manage it. You've been cut before but never so deliberately, not by someone who looks at you like Techno does now. Techno, sitting carefully on your thighs, doesn't seem to acknowledge it; he drags the blade down the centre of your chest with an almost agonising unwaivability, tears springing to your eyes, trying not to squirm, to make the pain worse.

"Techno," you whimper, his name escaping you almost involuntarily, nervously tugging at your wrist bindings above your head. There's something dark and strangely detached in Techno's gaze as he meets yours.

"I'm okay," you murmur unconvincingly, "I- it hurts more than I thought it would is all, I'm sorry I'm-" though for all your babbling you don't even consider asking him to stop. He presses the flat side of the blade to your ribs and reaches out with his free hand to carefully wipe away your tears.

"You're so good," there's something hungry in his eyes, "so good to me... beautiful like this." And something clicks in your brain; you'd do anything to keep him talking to you like that, looking at you like that.

"More- please, again," you choke out, a desperate gasp as pain and pleasure weave together in your mind. Something about the way you've already begun to beg has his breath catching in his throat, an animalistic noise escaping him. Already his self restraint is all but shredded; before you knew he'd hesitate, or check in with you, but now -

"More what?" A demand for an answer. The blade is ice cold and feather light against your skin.

"Blood, please," stutters from your lips as you try to lean up to kiss him. Instead, he keeps one hand firm on your shoulder against the table, wearing a pleased smile as he instead dips to keys you, "my love, make me bleed."

He seems to derive pleasure from the way you whimper against his lips, your faint noises of pain as he carefully carves into the skin of your sternum while kissing you. It's starting small, he tells you, at least for now, having left a simple geometric pattern on your sternum that he admires as he fucks you. He lavishes you with praise, works hard to get you off but leaves you a bloody mess until well after the afterglow has faded.

When he tells you it will leave a beautiful scar, something inside you lights up with joy, with love.

"I can take more, I -" already you're babbling, offering. He hasn't untied you; the ache of your bound wrists is comfortingly familiar as you allow yourself to be taken care of.

"Don't," Technoblade warns you firmly, looking up from where he's cleaning and dressing the wounds. Even so, he seems calmer and steadier than he's been in a long while, as if granted a brief moment of mental peace after what had just occurred.

"You keep offering something very dangerous, but maybe your naivete is part of why I find you so precious," he pauses for a long moment before leaning in to press a kiss to the edge of the bloody pattern he was responsible for. A thin line of your blood shines by the corner of his mouth as he pulls back and smirks up at you. You're desperate to kiss him, but you knew it would interrupt his care, and you'd probably remain restrained past the point of it being enjoyable.

"Did it help?"

He is quiet for a long moment after your question. Finally, he spoke.

"How much did it hurt?"

"What?"

"Tell me how much it hurt," there was an unexpected dark edge to his voice now, something pleased and almost smug. He's holding bandages but his hands have stilled, "when you begged me to carve into you like that," it's that hunger again, the same you'd seen the moment you'd winced and gasped and squirmed once he'd finally put the blade down in favour of admiring his work, now free hand between your thighs.

Now he's just... admiring you, bound, marked, still comfortable at his mercy. Looking at the angry red lines in your skin, he can see the blood slowly seeping from them, his personal form of art. Carefully, you wet your lips, shifting the barest amount against the still bloodstained linens.

"It was awful," you murmur honestly, "it still is kind of unbearable, more than I expected." He blinks slowly, hands still hovering inches away from your torso. He hears it, you know he hears it, the way you speak so carefully about the pain without a hint of negativity. He's a sudden rush of movement, kissing you with newfound intensity, one hand coming to cup your face while the other he presses flat against the still fresh wound.

"I could kill you, you silly, porcelain thing," he groans, as if turned on by the very idea he's warning you about.

"Could you?" A breathless, wanton gasp escapes you, and it turns to a pained whimper as he presses against the wounds more insistently, which he echoes with a pleased noise of his own, "please, I need you to -"

For the first time in a long time the voices seem sated. They've had their fill of violence, of blood, of you, they're practically sick with how they've gorged themselves on all you've offered for them. But Techno himself? He loves to know just how much it hurts, and loves to make you beg for it nonetheless. He loves knowing how far you'll let him go, how much you'll endure and still ask for more. He loves the proof of your devotion. He will never get enough.

And you?

You want to wear the scars like the proof of your love for him, with pride. You now understand and appreciate the pain he's inflicted on others in your honour. You relish in knowing you can satisfy all he craves in a way that no-one else ever would.

You assure Wilbur you've told them not to be weird, which does little to alleviate his concern, but thankfully you're climbing the stairs to your dorm and are only moments away. Your RA gives you a look which you shrug helplessly at, but thank her nonetheless as you abscond to your room to put Wilbur out of his misery.

"It's different to how I imagined it," is the first thing Wilbur says to you. The door isn't even properly closed, and you're setting your bag down by your desk before you give him a wry smile.

"Better or worse?" The door closes with a click and you cock your head to the side, watching him while he gazes around at the way you've decorated the little dorm room from where he's perched on the edge of your bed.

"That's entrapment," his face lights up with an amused grin, still looking around, "I'm used to your old room," and when you sit beside him and flop back to look at the ceiling, he follows suit, "it's nice here, well decorated." And there's something about his strangely reserved tone that has you sighing.

"They're not gonna be weird about it," you assure him softly; unfortunately you were able to intuit what was worrying him fairly well. This isn't the first time you've had a conversation like this.

"You know I don't think it's your fault," he tells you matter-of-factly, turning to look at you, "but people -"

"- are weird," you finished with the faintest disappointment, knowing all too well that he was right. Still, you're glad he's here, and you tell him as much. He smiles at that, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"We could go," you suggested, "I could plan better for next time and give you the full tour in the middle of the day when everyone's in class," the earnest offer makes his smile widen to something fond, "come on, we can get dinner and eat at your place, get on the piss at a pub across town; barely anyone goes past walking distance here." His whole face scrunches up with something all kinds of bashful and fond as he hides the expression against your shoulder, smacking you with his forehead hard as you speak, "I'm only here for a year, dude, you've seen it, that's all I require, I'm content, you never have to come back, which does mean there's a good chance I'll be living at your place on weekends but -"

"- and you'll spend your weekdays wasting away here in your well decorated Fortress of Solitude -" he snorts, shifting back to lay beside you properly, but at least now he's grinning.

"- I have friends outside of you," you remark flatly, smirking.

"I never agreed to that," Wilbur plays at being offended, and you sit up if only to shove him in the side.

"If you're really so jealous I can move in with you -"

"Into what? My linen cupboard?" He sits up too, giving you a right shove back, which has you skittering to your feet, crossing the small space to lean against your desk once more, looking at him with a sharp grin.

"You already having a housemate is not my problem," you stick your nose in the air and try not to laugh at the whole charade. As the bit slowly dies but the good mood remains, you ask if he wants to leave now, or later.

"I quite like it here," he says instead of answering properly, looking around again with a newfound fondness, "I might live here; gonna give up my place and move in. You're okay to sleep on the floor and be the only one paying rent, right?" After a moment, you school your expression into something neutral as he plays up his innocence.

"Wil, did you ever hear that Flight of the Conchords song Petrov, Yelyena, and Me?" You ask with a blithe smile. You can see the moment he remembers the song and it's premise, the way amusement lights up in his eyes as he keeps his expression otherwise controlled.

"The one where they eat their unwitting roommate in his sleep?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Never heard of it," he refuses to break eye contact, "haven't the foggiest," he sits back a little, "on an unrelated note, how about snacks, and something on Netflix, and I don't move into your dorm?" Giving a toothy grin, you finally break and laugh, agreeing easily.

You pass him your laptop from your bag and tell him where the charger is while you head out to the shared kitchen to get snacks for you both.

"You guys joining us tonight?" There's more than just your RA in the common room now; a few of your dormmates are sitting around the kitchen island preparing for predrinks. They'd already invited you earlier in the week, but you'd declined in favour of hanging out with Wilbur.

"What?" Now in the presence of other people who definitely knew who your best friend actually was, you could feel yourself growing tenser.

"You and Wilbur, you know you're always welcome to pregame with us, he is too," your RA smiled so kindly, as if trying to reassure you.

"We won't be weird about it," one of your dormmates assured earnestly, "it's cool that he's your friend." The girl next to her elbows her pointedly and averts her gaze, trying to hide her smile.

"He is," you blurt out, "my friend that is. He's my best friend, and he has been for ages, so just... don't be weird -"

"Come on, we're not being weird!" The first girl tries again, before giving a long sigh, "we'll try not to be weird," she concedes.

"You can't blame us for being a little curious about him," your RA says carefully, "he's a pseudo-celebrity on the internet, he -"

"Yeah but he's not a spectacle," you countered sharply, brow furrowing. You open the fridge into silence, "he's my best mate, he was before any of the internet stuff, and he's a person before any any of it; can you guys just treat him like that?" And you grab a bottle of soft drink from the fridge, closing it again, leaning your forehead against the cool metal with your eyes closed, "sorry, I shouldn't have snapped."

"No, we get it," one of the girls says sincerely.

"Do you and your friend Will wanna do pres with us?" The other offered kindly, and you take a deep breath, grateful for their understanding.

"I'll ask," you tell them, and all three give a little cheer at that, "no promises," you warned with a half-smile, and they all nodded quickly, thankfully all wearing grins.

The minute you step back into your room, however, you're startled by Wilbur standing only a foot from the door. His arms are crossed awkwardly over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits, cheeks puffed out and eyes wide as he rocks back on his heels with the movement of the door. He looks... kind of guilty. Also like he's trying desperately not to look guilty.

"I wanted to ask about the bathroom," all came out in a rush, and you, door still open, sighed, "you took longer than expected," he added; you hung your head. He'd heard your outburst at the very least, that much was clear. Stepping aside you tell him the bathroom is across the hall, hoping to use the brief moment to come up with some sort of an apology.

Instead, as he leaves, he heads to the common room first, and you can see from your door as he raps his knuckles on the empty doorframe, garnering the attention from the three girls in the room.

"Hello, hi, I'm Wilbur, Y/N's friend Will," its an akward if amicable start, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to your bedroom door where you stood still watching.

"Y/N's friend Will!" All three in the kitchen practically chorus, like they were somehow aware that he knew about the conversation that had just occurred and it was all an inside joke. Well, it does get Will to chuckle.

"I was told there was an invite to drinks, is that still on the table?"

"Uh, yeah of course," you can hear your RA answer, though she manages to regain her composure, "it'll be us and the guys from over there," you don't see her gesture but knew she'd be pointing to the block across your joined balcony, "we start drinking pretty much any time after sundown, but will be heading to the club around ten."

"It's a theme night - neon," one of the girls added, "not that you have to dress up or anything, but I'm about to make a run to the costume shop for any face paint if either of your guys want some, that's pretty much all I plan to do for pres," she laughs brightly as the others groan about how it's going to end up a mess, and Wilbur looks over his shoulder; he knew you'd be there, but gives a grin nonetheless.

He raises his eyebrows in silent question, and you, so endeared having watch him mend bridges that weren't even his problem, smile and shrug; sure, why not.

"We'll be there," he tells them, which elicits another round of cheering from the three prepping in the kitchen, "lovely to meet you ladies," a sentiment which is echoed back at him, and from there he finally actually heads to the bathroom.

The interaction you'd witnessed has you feeling all sentimental, and as you close your door and head back to your bed where Netflix is waiting, you can't wipe the goofy grin from your face.

"I guess you can move in here if you want," you tell him with this silly, saccharine tone, and Wilbur laughs before he even closes the door, "I'll sleep on the floor, you win."

"Nah," he shrugs, kicking off his shoes finally.

"Lost interest?" You raised your eyebrows at him and he gives a dubious glance over your bed. Then, almost as if he feels guilty about admitting as much, he sits beside you, back against the wall that served as your headboard.

"I literally don't fit, Y/N," he pointed out, kicking at your wall to draw attention to how dangerously close his feet are to the end of the bed already. You allow your tone to get teasingly sappy as you tell him he fits in your heart, and all he can do is rolls his eyes with a half smile, the sacchrine silence lasting right up until you pull your laptop onto your lap an a notification from your dorm's group chat flashes up in the bottom corner of the screen.

[🕸️SOME PIG🕸️ confirmed for pres!!]

It was one of the girls who had been in the kitchen, but Wilbur's expression seemed to flash through all five stages of grief upon seeing it, despite the growing number of heart emojis for the message.

"Oh god, is that really what they're calling me?"

Pulling out your phone you text the group to remind him that his name is Wilbur. Immediately, however, you get the response that 'that's too obvious'. Beside you, Wilbur snorts a laugh.

"What? Like I'm a secret agent?" Which you then send word for word in the group chat, attributing it to Wilbur himself as he buries his face in his hands and you quietly cackle. They were trying, in their own way, to accommodate your request to 'not be weird about it', which you were grateful for, so at least this you were happy to laugh about.