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saccharinesunsetretired · 9 months

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Yours, Anyway | Revivebur x Reader

Fun little piece I did for this event using one bed, forced proximity and a tiny bit of enemies to lovers as my trope prompts :) I don't know how good this is but I will cut myself some slack

Summary: Wilbur gets lost in a snowstorm after the destruction of the burger van. With frostbite, exhaustion, and desperation setting in, he ends up on your doorstep despite believing that you despise him. After all, what other choice does he have?

Warnings: Brief mentions of vomit, unhealthy eating habits and weight loss (Revivebur is not the healthiest guy)

Word Count: 4.6k

Minors DNI

The last thing Wilbur had wanted was to get caught in a snowstorm. After days of no sleep and hardly eating, it was the last thing he needed. Yet, there he was, knee-deep in the snow as wind whipped his face. His ears were nearly numb, (he cursed himself for not owning a hat) and his fingers were aching, the first sign of potential frostbite.

The plan had been to make it to Phil’s house. After the…incident at the burger van—now a pile of rubble—Wilbur needed a place to stay, to lick his wounds and relax while attempting to assuage his guilt. The weather had other plans.

He braced himself against the wind, pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders. He would have buttoned it, except all the buttons were slightly loose and would probably have popped off had he tried. Considering this was his only coat, he couldn't afford to ruin it. With the combination of the wind blowing his hair into his eyes and the snow hitting the side of his face, he could hardly see ten feet in front of him.

However, he could see a light in the snowstorm, the warm glow of a fireplace through a cabin window. “Finally,” he murmured under his breath, his words immediately carried away by the harsh winds. As he approached, however, he realized this wasn’t Phil’s cabin at all. It was yours.

Wilbur’s relationship with you was…tense, to say the least. You had struck up a friendship with Phil and Technoblade after Wilbur’s death, becoming a member of the Syndicate and training under their guidance. You’d heard about Wilbur, of course, the man who betrayed his friends and reduced his own country to rubble. The man who, in your eyes, repeatedly took advantage of his father’s kindness and resources, only to squander any opportunity at bettering himself. You had become protective of Phil, viewing Wilbur as a threat to his father’s well-being. While he couldn’t always disagree, Wilbur’s bitterness toward you hadn’t faded in the slightest. After all, what did you know about his relationship with his father? Who were you to judge him?

When he recognized that the cabin was yours, he nearly kept walking. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make heads or tails of where he was. He knew Phil and Techno’s cabin couldn’t be far, but he didn’t know which direction he was looking in. He had no compass and no map, and even if he did, it would be nearly impossible to use them in this weather.

Despite his reservations, he found himself knocking on your door. With any luck, you wouldn’t toss him out the second you saw him.

The door opened. Wilbur could feel the warmth radiating from inside, and it was tempting to shove his way in despite any protest you might have. However, he refrained, meeting your eyes instead.

“What are you doing here?” you asked. Despite the harshness of your tone, Wilbur couldn’t help but be mesmerized. You were far from being friends with him, but despite that, he found himself drawn to you. You were tough, principled, independent. Unlike him, you didn’t need to rely solely on the kindness and leniency of others to keep yourself afloat. He envied you for that. Ever since his revival, it seemed that all he did was survive off other’s pity.

But you didn’t pity him. You treated him as a person. And even though the two of you didn’t like each other, he was drawn to you. It wasn’t surprising to Wilbur. He’d always been attracted to things that were bad for him.

“Was trying to get to Phil’s,” Wilbur said. “Got lost.”

“I can see that.” Your eyes narrowed at him. “What do you want?”

“Shelter. Obviously.” Wilbur motioned to the flurry of wind and snow behind him. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a storm going on. A pretty significant one. And I don’t exactly have proper winter gear.”

“And whose fault is that?” you asked sarcastically. “Maybe, instead of mooching off your father, you should’ve gotten yourself a place. Somewhere that you won’t get caught in a snowstorm by yourself.”

“Yeah,” Wilbur replied tersely. “I get it. Look, can I please come inside? Just for a bit, to warm up until the storm is over, or at least has died down.” He shivered, a little more than he actually felt the need to, just to show you how cold he was. Wilbur had become good at evoking pity.

There was no pity in your expression, however. “Are you armed?” you asked. Wilbur shook his head. “Good.”

To his relief, you stepped aside, allowing him to enter the cabin. He was hit with a wave of warmth. He closed his eyes, standing just inside your cabin and soaking it in. He heard the soft click of the front door being closed, and he opened his eyes as you walked past him further into the cabin.

Once his eyes were open, he took a moment to absorb his surroundings. The cabin was simple, only two rooms. He could see the fireplace in the center of the room, made of stones cobbled neatly together. A small pile of firewood sat to the left of the fireplace, logs ready to be burned in order to keep the place blissfully warm. There was a window beside the front door, the one he’d seen while stuck out in the snow. You had a bookshelf as well, full of neatly placed books and some random objects that you’d found on your travels. A cushioned loveseat sat in front of the fireplace, and beside that sat a comfortable-looking chair. To his left was a small room—most likely a bathroom—and tucked against the wall was a bed. On the opposite end of the room was a kitchen, stocked with the bare necessities. A table sat in the corner, only big enough for three people, perhaps four if you tried hard enough.

It wasn’t a large, luxurious place, but it was comfortable. It reminded him of his childhood, spent in small homes and cabins similar to this one. “Nice place,” Wilbur said. “I’ve seen it from the outside, but I’ve never gone in.”

“You’re right,” you said. “And there’s a reason for that.” You turned your back to him, walking over to the kitchen. Wilbur watched as you filled a glass of water and handed it to him.

Wilbur took the glass, confused. “Then why let me in? Why help me?”

“As much as I dislike you,” you replied, “I think Phil would be pretty upset with me if I left his son to die in a snowstorm.”

“You dislike me? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Then you’re even dumber than I thought.” You looked Wilbur up and down. “You look like shit.”

It was true. He still had ash clinging to his coat from the burger van incident. The bags under his eyes had become more pronounced, and he hadn’t eaten in ages, which he figured must be evident based on the way you were looking at him. “Thanks,” he replied simply. He took a sip of the water you gave him. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he took a sip, and the glass was emptied in less than thirty seconds.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” you asked.

“A while. Why?”

“You’re just going to throw up all that water if you don’t eat,” you said. “Your body won’t absorb it.”

Wilbur didn’t mention that eating often went poorly for him since he came back from the dead. It was as if his body knew he wasn’t supposed to be alive, that his time was supposed to be up. If he ate too much or too quickly, he often felt nauseous. He’d thrown up more than once by not being careful and eating too fast. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “I don’t exactly carry a meal on me at all times,” he said.

“Sit down,” you said. “I’ll make you something.” He looked at you in disbelief. “Are you going to sit, or you going to stand there and stare at me?”

“I’ll sit.” Wilbur glanced around the room. “Do you want me to take my boots off?”

“Just set them by the door,” you said. Your back was already turned to him again, gathering ingredients to make him something to eat. “You can hang your coat up as well.”

“Thanks.” He did as you said, removing his worn, leather boots as well as his coat. He cringed at the sight of it, the coat that had carried him through Pogtopia, through the afterlife, and all the way to your front door. It had seen better days.

Actually, he supposed it hadn’t. He’d only started wearing it when he was cast into exile from his own nation. The only version of himself that wore that coat was the version that was broken, fractured into a million pieces. The coat had only ever belonged to a man who felt like the shell of his former self. The man who hurt everyone he loved.

He shook the thoughts away and hung up the coat next to one of yours before walking into the kitchen area, trying not to let the guilt consume him. He sat at the table, perching himself on one of the wooden chairs. “The chairs look handmade,” Wilbur pointed out. “Reminds me of the ones my dad made for the house I lived in as a kid.”

“He taught me how to build,” you replied. Your eyes were focused on your work. “Helped me assemble the chairs. And the table, for that matter.”

“So you’re my dear old dad’s new kid then, huh?” Wilbur asked. “His new project.”

You rolled your eyes. “Your jealousy is showing, Wilbur. It’s not a good look on you.”

“How would you know? You’re not even looking.”

You turned toward him. His breath caught in his throat. In the dim light of the kerosene lamps that lit your cozy cabin, you looked practically ethereal. At first, he thought you were going to say something, but you faltered and turned back to your work.

Moments passed in silence. Wilbur tapped his fingertips lightly on your kitchen table, a nervous habit. Before long, a bowl was placed in front of him.

It was oatmeal, sprinkled with some brown sugar. There were fresh berries in it as well, berries that he figured you’d likely picked yourself. “Thank you,” he said. He hadn’t had oatmeal since L’Manberg. The thought made his throat feel like it was closing up.

“You’re welcome.” To his surprise, you sat at the table with him. He felt unnerved by your proximity. If he scooted a few more inches to the left, his elbow would brush against yours.

He feared that one touch from you would be his undoing.

He ate a few bites of oatmeal, resisting the urge to devour it. Instead, he ate slowly and carefully, trying to appease his sensitive, post-revival stomach. He could feel your eyes on him even when he wasn’t looking at you, and he tried to ignore it. You, unfortunately, were very hard for him to ignore.

It didn’t take long for him to finish the oatmeal, despite him trying his best to eat slowly. The second he was finished, the bowl was lifted and carried to the sink by you. His eyes followed your movements, then looked away as you turned back toward him.

“Better?” you asked.

Wilbur nodded. “Much better. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome again.” To his surprise, you smiled at him. He’d seen you smile, but never due to something he’d said or done. The sight was a pleasant one. “I didn’t know if you were capable of being polite,” you said. Your tone was more teasing than malicious.

“What can I say? I’m a regular gentleman.” Wilbur returned your smile with one of his own. He felt an unexpected pang of guilt. Multiple times, you had scolded him for taking advantage of Phil’s resources and generosity, and here he was, proving you right by doing the same thing to you. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, attempting to assuage his guilt by asking if he could help you in some way to return the favor.

“Yeah, actually,” you said. “You can go take a shower. You’re stinking up my cabin.” Once again, the words were said in a way that were more indicative of banter rather than malice. Wilbur wasn’t sure what to make of your kindness.

“Can do,” Wilbur said. “A shower sounds…wonderful, actually.” He’d washed himself off recently, of course, but hadn’t had a proper shower. He didn’t have access to one. “Except I don’t have any other clothes with me.”

“Phil lent me some of your old ones once,” you said. “Mine got dirty.”

“How did you manage to get so dirty that Phil needed to lend you my clothes?” Wilbur asked, amused.

“Sparring practice,” you replied. “Technoblade kicked my ass, and I ended up in the mud.”

Wilbur snorted. “Sounds like Technoblade.”

“Don’t worry, I got him back for it later.” You walked over to your dresser and shuffled through the drawers before pulling out some clothes. Wilbur recognized them—an old, gray sweater, a pair of sweatpants. He hadn’t seen those clothes in ages. He wasn’t even aware that Phil had kept any of his old clothes. “Bring these with you into the bathroom,” you said. “There’s a blue towel hung up in there that hasn’t been used. The shower water takes a minute to warm up, and you can’t stay in there too long. Waste of water.”

“Got it.” Wilbur stood up and gently took the clothes from your hands. “Thanks.”

“Enjoy your shower,” you said.

“I will.” The notion of warm water on his skin sounded heavenly to Wilbur. He was still chilled from being outside in the storm. The second the bathroom door was closed behind him, he was stripping himself of his clothing and turning on the water. Just as you’d warned him, it took a moment for the water to warm up, but as soon as it did, he stepped into the shower.

The water felt so good that he could cry. He scrubbed every inch of his body, lathering himself in more soap than was probably necessary just because he could. He washed his hair, working his fingers through all the knots and tangles. By the time he was done, he felt brand-new. Plus, he smelled like you, now, like lavender and honey.

He got dressed and exited the bathroom. When he stepped out, you were sitting in bed, dressed in your pajamas, flipping through a book. You looked up from your book at Wilbur, still damp from the shower. “You look better when you’re clean,” you said.

“I feel better when I’m clean.” Truthfully, Wilbur dreaded having to leave, having to carry his dirty clothes, to put on his boots that were nearly worn through and his coat with loose seams. He dreaded the walk to Phil’s house, and he dreaded the moment he would have to tell Phil that he’d ruined everything. Again.

One day, you would hear about it, and once again, your scorn would be tossed in his direction. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind. Right now, things were peaceful. Surely, he deserved a bit of peace for a while longer.

“I bet you do.” You watched Wilbur, who looked unsure, not quite knowing where to sit or what to do. To his surprise, you scooted over. “Sit.”

He obeyed, sitting on the bed and crossing his legs. His eyes drifted toward the window. The snow was still coming down hard, flakes of it hitting the window. “Do you think this will let up before morning?” he asked. You were so close to him that the two of you were nearly touching. He could almost feel your warmth, so close and yet so very unattainable.

“It’s not likely. My guess is you won’t be able to leave until the sun comes up.” You sighed, leaning back against the pillows. “I would suggest that you take the couch, but it’s just a loveseat, and considering how freakishly tall you are I doubt you’d fit on it.”

Wilbur couldn't help but laugh a little. “I could take it anyway. It’s just one night.” At least he’d be warm, he figured.

“One more problem,” you said. “I don’t have extra blankets.”

Wilbur blinked a few times. “You live in the arctic. How do you not have extra blankets?”

You shrugged. “Never needed them. It’s not every day some guy shows up asking for a place to sleep.”

Wilbur, despite trying to shove his pride away, couldn’t help but say something. “‘Some guy’, huh?” Despite intending to joke, his tone came out sounding needlessly defensive. He cringed at his own words.

“Ah, right,” you replied. “You’re the infamous ex-president of L’Manberg turned burger van owner. That’s quite the name you’ve built for yourself.” Your tone wasn’t teasing anymore. It was back to reprimands.

“If you dislike me so much, why are you letting me stay here? I feel like one second, you don’t hate me, and the next, you want me gone again. Why?” Wilbur watched you intently, trying to read every shift in your expression.

“Because one second,” you retorted, “you’re pleasant to be around, and the next, I remember what a self-important dick you are.”

“I’m self-important?” Wilbur laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. He watched as you got off the bed, clearly not wanting to sit next to him any more. Even as he spoke, he could tell that he was about to take it too far. As usual, though, he just couldn’t stop himself. “Have you seen yourself? You show up out of nowhere, make friends with Technoblade and my father, and now you think you’re so special because they let you join their book club. It’s pathetic.”

“Oh, look who’s talking,” you snap. “Poor, poor Wilbur Soot, showing up on people’s doorsteps in the snow reeking of ash and body odor, relying on other people’s generosity. Do you not realize how pathetic you look to everyone else? Everyone is either scared because you’re a ticking time bomb or sad because you’re so pitiful.” You crossed your arms. “Like I said, I helped you because I can’t in good conscience turn you away after Phil has been so kind to me. That’s it. It’s not because I like you. It’s not because I care. It’s because of who you’re related to. So maybe, just maybe, you should grow the fuck up and realize that you only get so many second chances.”

Wilbur stared at you for a moment, your words slowly sinking in. He’d had the same revelation himself the moment the adrenaline from the burger van incident wore off. All he had done since he was revived was fuel a petty rivalry and get people hurt. And for what? For a desperate power grab that was doomed to fail. For a sense of control that he’d lost long before his death, a sense of control he may never have possessed in the first place.

“You’re right,” he said slowly. His eyes met yours. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.” He should have known that he wouldn’t be able to outrun the guilt forever. It always came back, like a dog on a lead that he wished he could just let go of. And there I am being selfish again he thought to himself. Wishing I didn’t feel guilty for the things I deserve to feel guilty for.

You shook your head. “It’s not me you need to apologize to. I’m not one of the people you’ve hurt.”

Wilbur nodded and looked away. He felt the bed shift as you sat back down, arms still folded, eyes fixed on him. “Yeah, I know.” He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. “I know that I’ve been selfish. Selfish and prideful and careless. And I know that…that you have good reason to not like me. I’ve hurt and taken advantage of people that you care about. I doubt I would like me much either if I were you.”

A moment of silence passed, and Wilbur’s eyes reopened to look at you and gauge your reaction. “How do I know you’re not saying this because you know it’s what I want to hear?” you asked.

Wilbur shook his head. “You don’t. I guess you have to trust me. And I know how stupid that sounds, but it’s the truth.”

“…So what are you going to do?” You asked.

“I’m going to apologize,” Wilbur replied. “I’m going to try and make things right, to make amends as best I can.” He hesitated before speaking again, unsure how much he should say to you. “I apologized to a few people when I first got revived, but it wasn’t…earnest. I wanted to be forgiven. I wanted people to forgive and forget and move on.”

“And what do you want now?” Your tone became softer, quieter. You looked at him with a look of curiosity, sympathy, even.

“Closure,” Wilbur replied. “For the people I hurt. And maybe, one day, for me.” He gazed at you, you, who was so much stronger than he had ever been or ever would be. “Are my answers to your satisfaction?”

“Are they to yours?” Your shoulder brushed against his, and Wilbur hadn’t realized how much he craved someone’s touch—anyone’s touch—until this very moment.

“I think so.” Wilbur went quiet, deep in thought. “For what it’s worth, I admire you. You came here, joined the Syndicate, made a name for yourself. I’ve seen you spar with Technoblade, and it’s impressive. And Phil speaks highly of you.” He paused. “You're doing well for yourself."

The silence that filled the room was long. Just as Wilbur was about to speak again, you spoke for him. “The storm stopped.” You tilted your head toward the window, motioning for Wilbur to look. Sure enough, the storm was over. Snow was no longer falling, and the world outside the cabin looked still and calm.

“Looks like it.” Wilbur made no move to get up, not wanting to move from his spot on your warm bed. He knew he had to at some point, that you were bound to kick him out, so he soaked up every second he could get.

“For what it’s worth,” you said suddenly, “I don’t think you’re a bad person.” He turned around to look at you. “And…and I don’t think Phil is blameless in all of this. You may have asked him to kill you, but he shouldn't have done it.”

“I deserved it,” Wilbur said. He tried to focus on the crackle of the logs in the fireplace rather than the soft sounds of your breathing beside him. “You may not have been there, but you know all about it. You know what I did. And now Ranboo got hurt because of me, and I…” He realized that his fists were clenched, and before he could un-clench them, he felt the soft weight of a hand over his own. He looked at you in surprise.

“What happened to Ranboo?” you asked softly, your hand gently holding his.

Wilbur swallowed. It was hard enough to talk about this, but confessing this to you while you were being gentle with him felt impossible. He never wanted that touch to go away. “He, uh, lost a life,” Wilbur says quietly. “We set up this—this stupid trap for Quackity, and everything went wrong, and Tubbo was going to get hurt, so Ranboo sacrificed himself.” Wilbur squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the reprimand.

You sighed. “Wilbur, I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“It’s a lot. I know.” To his surprise, your hand was still there, resting atop his.

“Whatever else happens, you need to apologize to him for dragging him into your shit,” you said. “And you should definitely apologize to Tommy. From what I’ve heard, the kid has gone through hell for you.”

Wilbur felt his heart squeeze in his chest, felt the guilt weighing him down. “I know.” He laughed, but the sound was empty and self-pitying. “Still think I’m a good person?”

“I never said you were a good person. I just said you’re not a bad one. And I stand by that.”

“You also said that I only get so many second chances.”

“I did.” You squeezed his hand gently, and he un-clenched it, properly taking your hand in his. He reopened his eyes, finally having the courage to look at you. “I don’t think you’re out of second chances yet. I think you have time.”

Wilbur faltered. “What if I don’t deserve that?”

You shrugged. “Whether you deserve it or not, you have it anyway.”

Wilbur felt his throat close up, tears threatening to build up in his eyes. He was so tired, so tired and so ashamed that it felt like it could kill him. And there you were, someone who didn’t even like him, showing him kindness anyway. He wanted to say thank you, but he feared that he’d sob the minute he opened his mouth.

“Stay,” you said softly. “You’re not dressed to go back outside in this. I’ll take you to Phil’s tomorrow.”

Wilbur didn’t have it in him to fight you, nor did he want to. He managed a nod and watched as you let go of his hand and slid under the covers. The second your hand left his, he felt the absence of it. “Not tired yet?” you asked, looking up at him.

“Very tired,” he replied.

“Under the covers, then.” Wilbur complied despite his nerves. The nerves disappeared, however, as soon as he was warm under the blankets. He sighed with relief, happy to be in a proper bed instead of a ratty mattress in the corner of the now-destroyed burger van.

Once he was comfortable, he became hyper aware of each of your movements, every small shift and breath. “You didn’t do all of this just because I’m Phil’s son, did you?” he asked quietly.

“Unfortunately for me, I have a bit of a soft spot for you,” you confessed. “Despite you being a careless idiot.”

“Thanks…I guess.” He stared at the ceiling for a few moments before turning on his side. You were on your side as well, facing away from him. “I’ll try to be less of a careless idiot in the future.”

“And I will believe it when I see it.” He couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh at your words.

“Fair enough.” Wilbur relaxed even more, unable to stop looking at you, even if all he could see was the back of your head. “Thank you, by the way. Genuinely. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” Slowly, you reached a hand back, tugging gently at the front of his shirt.

Wilbur laid there, confused. “Wait, do you want me to-“

“Yeah. Get over here.” Wilbur hesitantly scooted closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “See? Cozy.”

“Yeah.” Wilbur was grateful you couldn’t see his face. He was willing to bet that he looked just as flustered as he felt. He wanted to question you, ask why you wanted him like this, but he felt he already knew the answer.

He wasn’t sure that he deserved your affection, but he had it anyway. And that was enough.

#The Common Fanfiction Trope Writing Event #The CFT Writing Event #revivebur x reader #wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x reader #saccharine writes

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mysticalsoot · 6 months

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someone to live with

part 2 to someone to (not) die with

➸ note; i know i said id post this at 8- but I was watching heartland with my mom and like.. sobbed like a baby anyways, hope you enjoy!!

➸ pairing; revivebur x gn!reader // c!wilbur x gn!reader

➸ summary; after wilbur's death and a too long to think, you ask your sister to help you. she does but maybe her methods work a bit too well.

➸ warning; slight hurt/big comfort, suicide mentions, kissing, easily forgiving reader, ghostbur goes to a happy limbo, probably swearing

➸ age-rating; 15+

➸ wordcount; 3.1k

main masterlist // part 1

wilbur's funeral was quicker than most, and not many people showed up. if anything, it was mostly you and his father and brothers. Niki came by, your sister Grace did too. but in all honesty, not many people bothered to pay their respects.

you also kept it quiet, taking a few days before the funeral to really let everything sink in, to let the fact he left the bouquet you gave him on the spot he wanted to be buried. it was just by the hill he used to sit on, the one he took you to and told you all about his dreams for the future. for lmanburg and for the future you both hoped to share.

you wouldn't be sharing that future now.

despite that; the time since wilbur's death went by slowly, and was utterly agonizing. your home felt colder, although it could've been winter slowly creeping up, you chalked it up to the lack of your partner. or maybe it was his ghost that wandered your halls that emanated that cold. or maybe he just contributed to it. whatever it was, you found yourself spending more time out in the snow sitting by his grave than sitting by the fire in your living room.

you'd talk to him, or rather the corpse of his that was buried a few feet down in a hand built coffin that his older brother forged through anger. Techno wasn't known for tears.

but you were. you wouldn't be surprised if your tears eventually froze over whenever you spoke to his grave, as the days were getting colder and the chill of the wind started to burn your cheeks.

ghostbur was nice, you thought. a nice distraction. he was kind and sweet and he was all the good of Wilbur and more. he wasn't Wilbur, he made that clear, but you knew that the moment you met him. he caught you on a less than good day, wandering around your house, mindlessly walking the halls and dissociating to the point you weren't sure what was going on or where you were.

but he came knocking on your doorstep, friend behind him. you took him in, since he had nowhere else to go. you helped him stable up friend, put him in the pen and set him up in the fields while you brought ghost in and helped him warm up. you kept him away from the snow and cold, helping him become afloat again. he stayed back with you, keeping an eye on you and giving you blue any time he could. he loved spending time with you, caring for you.

he was a good friend, and he hoped that's what he always would be.

no matter how many times you'd tell him how wonderful of a friend he was, he wouldn't believe it. even when you brought up the time he saved you a week after he walked into your life. you were so close to ending it all, jumping off the edge and joining your wilbur. but he stopped you, he managed to talk you down and he held you and promised to protect you, and that he did. he protected you, he cared for you and even if your relationship was platonic at best, he was a wonderful partner.

meanwhile, wilbur was pent up in limbo. pacing the platform, listening to the sounds of the train passing by not once stopping for him. he was going crazy, mind you he already was, but this was a whole new level.

there wasn't much to do up there, time passed so much more slowly. there weren't any books to busy him with, all he could do was sit and listen to the screeching and taunting of the train. the sounds drove him mad, a constant reminder of what he can never reach, what he can't get back. what he destroyed with his selfish ways.

he nearly ripped his hair out, with the way regret and stress was eating at his dead form. he was tired, lost and he couldn't get it out of his mind what mistakes he'd made. the long list of things he'd ruined with his own presence.

sometimes he'd wonder if it's better that he's dead. maybe he shouldn't bother with troubling thoughts of how to get back. you must be thriving, he hopes you're thriving.

you weren't. it's crawling up to the two month anniversary, and to say the least, you were losing it. you were good at pretending, pretending that you were okay and healing but in reality; you weren't. you were staying up at night, clinging to his old trench coat and shutting your eyes in hopes you could pretend he was there and would materialize into his coat at any moment. it felt stupid to do this, but it kept you from being pushed onto the ledge.

"Grace?" you whisper, holding your cup of tea close to your chest, sitting behind her counter at her flower shop. your sister was always a safe place for you, especially when you couldn't sift through your thoughts on your own. she helped.

"mm?" she hums, turning to face you with a smile before returning to the flowers she was working on. a small winter themed display for the Christmas festival she was preparing for. as for every other shop owner in L'manburg.

"have you.. have you learnt anything about revival?" you managed to mumble out, eyes casted down on the floor as you set aside your tea.

"I've done some research," you didn't catch the way she froze for a moment, as if she was buffering. and you especially didn't know that her research pertained to reviving the same person you wished to.

"how much?"

"enough." she sighs out, tying a ribbon around the bunch of stems, placing the bouquet on display before cleaning up her workstation.

"how hard is it? to revive someone, I mean." you bit your lip, nearly drawing blood before you quit, looking away again but this time outside the front windows.

"is this about wilbur?"

she didn't need to ask, she already knew. it's always about wilbur. you fidget with your fingers, wringing your hands together as you shrug, "maybe."

"if.. and I mean, if. if you revive him, he may not be the same," Grace frowns, walking over to you and bringing you into a hug. for a younger sister, she acted like an older, doting sister occasionally.

"at least I'll have him back, y'know?" you shrug again, raising your shoulders before dropping them in defeat, leaning deeper into her hug.

"I'll help," she draws in a breath, calculating her next words as she steps back to look at you, "if you promise to not blame anyone but him if he comes back an ass, okay?" she cracks a smile, chuckling softly at her own words as your own lips curl up and you roll your eyes.

"fine-" you pause, mind reeling as you remember ghostbur. how could you hurt him?

"what will happen to ghostbur?"

Grace shrugs, pulling away and turning to grab some more flowers to put together, "he'll be sent to limbo."

"so he'll die?" regret bubbles up in your throat like bile, and your eyes widen at the thought.

"no, no," she starts before stopping, biting her bottom lip, "he'll go to his own limbo."

"is that good?"

her shoulders lift, mouth curled in a frown and uncertainty paints on her face, "in theory, yes. I'm sure he'll be fine. it's- he'll be okay."

"if.. if getting back wil hurts ghost- i- I can't do that to him, Grace," your lips curl downwards and you step into the main area of the shop, grabbing some baby's breath and setting it on the counter by your sister.

"it won't hurt him. i promise," she rests her hand on yours, shooting you a soft and sympathetic gaze.

you take in a breath and nod, "okay, when can we start?"

you were sure that the rivival process was long and tedious, and maybe it was but-- grace liked to work alone. she'd update you when you showed up at her shop every morning, reassuring you that everything was fine.

it was a few days before ghostbur disappeared, which grace warned you about. you just hoped he was okay. despite the lack of the beloved ghost, you still hadn't found wilbur, and Grace was becoming more suspicious.

she avoided your questions, choosing short answers and it seemed like she was pulling herself at both ends, spreading herself thin. you were worried but Tom didn't know anything, and Grace wasn't letting you in on it anytime soon.

"why can't I see them, grace?" wilbur pried, sitting on the bench in the back of Grace's shop.

"I don't trust you yet. you haven't proved to me that you won't hurt them," she toyed with the ribbon she held, melting the ends to keep it from freying.

"you've threatened me enough, I think that's plenty of reason-"

"no, wilbur, you killed yourself and left them off on their own. threatening isn't enough for you to get it through your head that your fucking existence could hurt them! sometimes that's all you do," she scoffs, placing down the ribbon and picking up the next one, sealing the ends again. she takes a moment, listening to the silence of the room, the silence that's fallen on wilbur. she rolls her eyes, huffing before she continues, "I'm sorry, okay? but I've had to watch my sibling suffer because of your decisions, and they suffered longer than you've been dead," she pauses, shutting her eyes and taking a breath before continuing, "I'm not trying to be hard on you, I promise but- just, please understand, wil."

"I know, I know I've hurt them but I promise, I can make it better. weren't they the one that asked to revive me?" he counters, standing up and making his way to stand beside grace, towering over her and resting his hand on her shoulder.

"yes, they were but- I warned them and I just don't want them hurt."

"I won't hurt them," he starts, resting his hands on both her shoulders, "I promise."

she pulls back, "fine, but remember the second I catch wind that you've hurt them, say goodbye to living. and your reproductive organs."

"I think killing me is good enough," he laughs softly, pulling grace into a hug and mumbling, "thank you, so much,"

"yeah, sure."

"I'll see you later, yeah?" wilbur's lips curl into a smile as he practically bounces towards the door. he hurries out of the flower shop, determination taking over and hope filling his veins.

all the while you're out by his grave, again. maybe you should build something in honor of ghostbur, you think. he's not here anymore, hopefully in a better place so surely you should do something to honor his memory. just like you did with wilbur. like you always did.

you sifted your fingers through the grass, tugging at it gently, trying not to fully rip it but just mess with it. your mind runs miles an hour, wandering through thoughts and feelings that haven't quite healed yet.

moss has begun to grow on his headstone, flowers grace planted around it now blooming up around the stone. it's heavily weathered, the words.

'wilbur soot. beloved son, friend, partner, brother and president. 1996-2020.'

they're painted on and the snow and sleet has worn it down, its barely visible. the words ghost on the stone. but you have it memorized, by reading it over before you had it made, and then reading it over and over again for hours every day since his death. like a mantra, even if it has no purpose other than to hurt you.

you'd been sitting there for who knows how long, your fingers felt like icicles but you barely noticed the pricking cold. you weren't sure what you were hoping for, praying for by sitting alone but it was something.

the sound of fabric waving in the wind, and footsteps crunching on the grass, and then the scent hits you; cigarettes and cologne. mixed together and hitting your nose sharply. you bite your lip, letting your breath catch in your throat, not bothering to look behind you.

"wilbur?" you mumble, and then you hear his smile form, a little puff of air let out with it.

"hello, my love," he stands beside you, waiting for you to invite him to sit with you. you glance up at him, mouth slightly agape.

"you're alive."

"yeah, I am. thank god grace let me go. finally-" he chuckles, and for the first time in a while, you smile. a genuine smile.

"what? she kept you cooped up?" you pat the spot beside you, keeping your eyes up on you.

"yes, she did. and she threatened my livelihood," he follows your guide, sitting beside you and letting his legs stretch out before him. you finally catch a glance at the discoloration on his face, the bruises and patches of skin too pale or too tan.

"oh? so she threatened to neuter you?" you meet his eyes finally, smile soft but clear on your face.

"that's her favorite threat," he chuckles softly, fingers twitching as if he was going to reach for you. he takes a sharp breath, looking forward and out on the horizon over the hill. he takes a moment before pulling something out of his trench coat pocket, but you stop him short.

"you grabbed the coat?" you frown, fingers reaching out to play with the fabric, rubbing it between your fingertips. you glance up at him and he finally reaches forward, hand on your cheek and thumb rubbing your skin.

"it wasn't the only thing I grabbed," he sucks in a breath, pulling his hand away and taking out two rings, the rings he left for you, "i found them, on the mantle and i- I wanted to do what I didn't before."

"so you've been in our house?"

"is that what you take from this?" he chuckles, leaning forward and kissing your forehead. to his surprise, you don't flinch away but rather lean into it and sigh.

"maybe, but- are you.."

"proposing? if you're okay with it," he starts, pulling the rings off the string and putting his hand out for yours. you nod and give him your hand. he slips the ring on and begins again, "will you marry me?"

"mmm.. I don't know- will I?" you crack a smile before chuckling softly, "yes, yes I will. idiot."

he pulls you into a hug, your right leg tossed over his lap as you both pull one another closer. and then you pull back and reach your hand out, palm up.

"what?"

"the ring, it's only fair."

"oh?" wilbur smiles, handing you the wedding band he intended on wearing. you slip it on his ring finger before kissing each of his finger tips.

"I missed you,"

"I missed you too," he leans closer, resting his hand on your cheek again and stroking the skin.

"mm, I'm sure you've had plenty of time to miss me," the corner of your mouth twitches upwards into a smirk. you stand up, reaching your hand down for him to take as you help him up to stand. he rests his hands on your hips, squeezing gently before leaving a kiss on your cheek.

"too much time," he mumbles, holding you close and hugging you, "I'm sorry, for all I've done. I know that no words can account for all that I've put you through but I- I hope you can find a way to put up with me."

"don't worry, I forgave you a while ago. you were stupid but, dream is dead and it's because of what you pulled. we have you to thank for that."

"I'm still sorry," he winces, and you grab his hand, leading him back to the cabin as you shrug.

"I know, and you're going to have to do a lot more than say sorry for other people. but for me, you're lucky I missed you so much. otherwise, I probably wouldn't have asked to have you revived."

"I know but-" you shoot him a warning look, silently telling him to shut his trap before he starts whining again, "okay, okay, I get it."

"good, now- let's go enjoy ourselves yeah? get you a shower and go to bed. because, love you, darling but you reek." you chuckle, tugging him by his hand up the stairs of your porch, hurrying in and shutting the door behind you.

he pulls you to him by your hips, swaying you gently before he leans down to pull you into a kiss, lips licking together in a way they haven't in over six months, you think. much longer than he's been dead.

you reach your arms up, wrapping them around his neck as you both tug one another together, your bodies now pressed up. the warmth he spreads wraps around you and you've never felt more at home.

the kiss doesn't end until you both have to gasp for air, and you drop your head to press against his chest. he rubs your back with his hands, gentle circles spun over your shirt.

"do I really reek?" he croons, looking up at the ceiling as your fingers grasp at his shirt.

"yes you do,"

he attempts to get out of it, poking out a gentle pout and you pull back. folding your arms over your chest as you shake your head, smirking at the way he tries to beg like a puppy.

"wilbur- you do realize I was going to make brownies while you showered, right?" you knew the moment you mentioned baked goods, he'd do whatever you asked. he'd do whatever you asked anyway, but a little bribe never hurt anyone.

"wait really?" his eyes light up and his pout falls off and is replaced with an excited grin. you nod and he lunges down to press thankful kisses all over your face, giggling happily as he holds you by your sides, fingers curling over your waist.

"yes- god, you only love me for my baking?"

"no, but it is a plus," he pulls back, placing a quick peck to your lips before sprinting up the stairs for him to shower. you shake your head, smile clear as day on your lips as you venture into the kitchen to begin baking.

despite everything, the pain and turmoil and living without him, you're glad you asked to have him revived, even if it meant some sacrifice. yet the more you think of it, you're gonna have to thank grace for holding your fiance hostage tomorrow.

taglist; @lcvejoy @lillylvjy @ella-fella-bo-bella @lotusanonymouse @willgoldszn @whos-nicooo @zebonos

honorable tags (asked for part 2); @babybabygrogu @tacomumun3r

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ghostiexe · 3 months

Note

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

(p.s., can i be ⚰ anon?)

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

worcount: 970

"Can We Go Back Inside Now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#wilbur soot x reader #wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot fanfic #wilbur x you #revivebur x reader #revivebur fluff #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur fluff

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kingsleywrites · 9 months

Text

If I'm Taking Care Of Your Ass Then I Sure As Hell Ain't Doing It Sober.

Revivebur x Las Navadas!Male Reader (Romantic)

Fluff, slight suggestive stuff, no smut

Prompt: Reveivebur comes to Las Navadas hurt, he's already here so why not take pity on the poor man and help him out, not without a couple of drinks first though.

CW/TW: Drinking, mentions of blood, mentions of stitching, smoking, cursing

M/N is also a bartender for Quackity

M/N is used (meaning male name)

S/C is used (meaning skin color)

M/N was sitting in his living room, bored out of his goddamn mind. Normally when he was this bored, he'd break into his liquor cabinet, open a bottle of some kind of liquor or cheap wine, and drink till he was shit faced. And he would, unless he wanted to go to work with the worst hangover known to man. You see, Quackity was oh so kind enough to stick M/N on one of the earlier shifts (early being 12) which didn't sit well with the man who stays up till 3 am and sleeps till 3 pm to go to his more normal shifts at 5 pm.

So he was stuck, he could go for a walk, but that would mean he had to leave his house. He could read a book except that it wasn't good enough. Living in Las Navadas was great, he had a great boss and a nice house and a good paying job but that doesn't mean that the slowly growing city had more to do than gamble and drink, which was fun until it got repetitive.

M/N was on the verge of entering the existential crisis talk until a knock came from his door. Which was definitely new. It probably wouldn't be Quackity, that man just spams your communicator with calls and messages till you reply, and Slime had no reason to be at your house at this hour. So who the hell was bothering your mental turmoil? M/N reluctantly got up to answer the door.

"Okay who are you and why the hell- " M/N looked up at the man standing at his doorstep.

"Wilbur fucking Soot." M/N said through his teeth, he crossed his arms and leaned against his door frame.

"In the flesh, literally considering I'm revived, courtesy of Dream may I add." Wilbur had an shit eating grin on his face as he stared at the male in front of him.

M/N did a small face laugh, "Why the hell are you here?" his demeanor quickly changed back to serious.

"What? Can I not come back and see an old friend?"

"You have to be friends in the first place to do that Wilbur, now tell me what you want or I'll just leave you here."

Wilbur straightened his posture and M/N finally noticed that he was holding his arm. His eye traveled down to his hand, where he saw blood start to drip.

M/N quickly grabbed Wilbur's hand, his eyes widening at the sight of the dripping blood. "Asshole, you're gonna get blood on my front porch!" M/N pulled Wilbur inside, closing the door.

"My, my, M/N if you wanted to hold my hand you should've just asked I would've said yes." Wilbur smirked while M/N rolled his eyes.

"Go sit on the couch and don't get blood anywhere, if you do I'll behead you." M/N let go of his hand and walked into his bathroom to find a first aid kit.

After he grabbed one he set it on the coffee table before walking over to his liquor cabinet.

Wilbur laughed lightly as he watched the male rummage through the various bottles, who turned around with an annoyed glare on his face.

"What are laughing about smart ass?"

"Does Quackity not pay you enough to afford proper rubbing alcohol?"

"No, he pays me plenty." The male grabbed a glass and filled it with a couple cubes of ice. "This is for me."

M/N slowly sipped the liquor as he walked back to the couch, sitting next to Wilbur.

"Take off your jacket so I can see what you did." M/N set the cup down and opened the first aid kid while Wilbur took off his jack and folded it neatly behind him.

M/N looked at his arm, slowly pulling the torn fabric away from the wound. "It doesn't look terrible, maybe a few stitches, but you'll live. Now take off your shirt."

"Don't you think you should ask me out first? It's a little rude to ask me to undress seeing as we haven't spoken in so long." That same smirk dawned Wilbur's face.

"Not like that idiot! I meant it as in, let me see the wound better."

Wilbur chuckled to himself, seemingly pleased with getting a rise out of him and removed his shirt placing it on top of his jacket.

M/N grabbed a few rubbing alcohol pads and started slowly cleaning the wound on Wilbur's arm, taking a "small sip" from the glass on the coffee table. After a few times of getting up to throw away blooded gaze pads and rubbing alcohol pads and filling up his glass on the way, he decided to grab the whole bottle of liquor, as well as a bottle of wine and two glasses. M/N filled up the two glasses handing one to Wilbur.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of being granted the pleasure of drinking with you?"

"Stop speaking so poshly, I get it you're fancy, now shut up while I finish wrapping your arm."

Wilbur backed off the male but kept a smile on his face as he watched him wrap his arm in bandages.

When he was done, M/N snipped off the extra and put it back in the first aid kit. He quickly downed the rest of his wine and went to put the first aid kit away.

When he got back, his body was facing forward and his head was tilted upwards toward the ceiling. "I hate you." M/N mumbled.

"How come? All I did was ask for your help, which you could've denied, might I add." Wilbur's tone was somewhat mocking and he put an arm around M/N, playing with the hair on his head.

"I told myself I wasn't going to drink tonight and look where I'm at."

"Well, it's not like I told you to drink."

"If I'm taking care of your ass I'm sure as hell not doing it sober." M/N turned his head to look at the male beside him, he brought a hand up to his face and began to trace down his jawline, stopping at the corner of his lips. M/N slowly climbed over to Wilbur's lap, neither of them breaking eye contact. Wilbur's arms rested at M/N's waist while M/N's other hand rested in Wilbur's crest feeling the soft skin on his fingertips.

M/N leaned in closer to Wilbur, lips slightly parted as they each waited for the other to make a move.

"You do realize the consequences that this can have if you go through with this." Wilbur's voice was barely above a whisper.

"And what's 'this'" M/N giggled as one of his hands slowly moved to the base of Wilbur's hair, lightly playing with the strands.

"I don't think Quackity will like it very much if you kiss his enemy."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

The two got even closer, lips brushing against each other.

"You willing to make that bet?" Wilbur's lips curled into a small smile.

"I'll bet everything I got, pretty boy."

Wilbur laughed lightly before pulling M/N in by his waist, kissing his lips. M/N's hands further tangled themselves in Wilbur's hair while Wilbur's hands were untucking M/N's neat dress shirt, almost desperate to feel his S/C skin.

The two broke apart for air, breathing heavily for a moment before Wilbur began kissing down his jaw and neck.

"God I hate you so much." M/N said, half out of breath

Wilbur hummed on his skin, lightly nipping at it before answering the male.

"If you hate me so much then tell me to stop and I will." Wil looked at M/N, still leaving a trail of kisses on his neck, none of them deep enough to create a hickey though, Wilbur was smarter than that.

M/N let out an airy chuckle, pulling at Wilbur's hair. "No, you're too hot to stop."

Wilbur kissed his cheek, looking M/N in the eyes. "And You're too drunk for me to continue."

M/N groaned, tilting head back. "Why must you do this to me?"

Wilbur chuckled, "Maybe another time darling."

M/N got off his lap, stumbling before regaining his balance, but he was still swaying back and forth.

Wilbur went to grab his jumper before M/N put a hand on Wilbur's cheek making him look back at him.

"Please don't leave." He looked at him with pleading eyes that not even Wilbur could say no to.

"Alright, I'll stay." He stood up and gave M/N a quick kiss before picking him up bridal style and then walked down the hall, M/N's arm was stretched out to one of the doors and Wilbur assumed it was his room.

Once Wilbur sat him down on the bed, M/N quickly began to take off the uncomfortable suspenders and dress shirt before laying down and making grabby hands at Wilbur, who laid next to him.

After a few minutes of cuddling, M/N spoke up.

"I hate you so much." He said holding on tighter to Wilbur and burying his face in his chest.

"I love you too darling."

********

Another one in the bags. I got this idea from reading another story on Wattpad, it's called MidNight Walks by mannequins_inafeild, despite only having two chapters I really liked it so I would consider checking it out!

Also who knew writing kissing scenes was so hard? I literally took a break to work on another story (the one that came out before this one actually) because I didn't know where to go or how to do it. I hope it wasn't too awkward. I don't know how many more scenes I'm gonna do like that in the future but give me some feedback, I'd like to hear your thoughts!

Word Count: 1557

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calmthefuckdownalright · 1 year

Note

I learned that swans can die from a broken heart. I have idea for a fiction with this information. What about a revivedbur x swan hybrid!reader fic where he comes back to her, expecting to pick up where the relationship left off, only to find her dead. Like she died of a broken heart because she got attached to ghostbur. I also have an idea for a line you could implement "A heart guarded for so long is so very delicate."

Title: The Swan Song

Tw: Death, grief

><><><><><><><><><><><>

It was beautiful, what Ghostbur had cultivated with you. Every brush of your lame wings against icy skin was heaven and every stolen kiss a fragment of the love that blossomed from the dead and living.

"I'll be right back, it's just a small favor. Tommy promises it'll be fine.” Ghostbur swore and pressed his head to yours with a smile.

“Please be careful ‘Bur.” You muttered and pulled him close. The black that masked over your eyes shone in the setting sun and soon the party would set out to kill Dream. The man who had taken everything from your loved one and condemned him to a hellish afterlife.

“Always my love.” Ghostbur said cheerfully and tucked a cornflower behind your ear as a parting gift. A promise to return to your arms.

| Afterwards |

“Y/N?” Tommy’s voice was sullen and water dripped from his hair, no doubt from swimming in the lagoon that surrounded the awful prison.

“Tommy?” You looked up at his sorrowful eyes. They were red from tears that still ran down his cheeks. It worried you and the downy feathers that clung to your flightless wings drooped.

“I-I’m sorry.” Tommy broke down and avoided your eyes.

“Why?” You asked and your brow furrowed. “Why, Tommy?! Where’s Ghostbur?”

Silence followed your question.

“Where is he Tommy?!” You shouted and a bleating sound of a sheep answered you from outside.

“Dream...he killed him.” Tommy sobbed and pulled Friend close. Even the sheep looked pitiful with it’s wool soaked and eyes saddened without it’s owner to pet and hug him.

“He’s dead, Y/N. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” Tommy cried and your heart broke. Physically in your chest something shattered open and your breath caught in your throat as tears sprang up.

Darkness closed in quickly and nothing came to stop you from sobbing and screaming of your lost love. Someone you’d lost twice now. It was too much. Wilbur wasn’t coming back...

| Later On |

The sunrise was glorious. It painted everything as beautifully as he remembered and now it was just a matter of time before he saw you. He ran every step to your house. Ever leap of his feet drew him closer to the love of his life, his death, and now his resurrection.

He would never be alone again. It was time he kept you at his side. Long after it even.

“Y/N! I’m back!” He burst through your door with overjoyed excitement to only be met with darkness. No candles lit your bookshelves and the smell of dust had already accumulated in your home.

“Y/N?” Wilbur called out and found a decaying cornflower laying in the middle of your entry way. It was surrounded by the downy feathers he had always loved and as he picked up each one, along with the flower, something pricked in his chest. A worrisome emotion.

So he ran again. He searched and searched and searched again until he found the bravest man he knew, and the only one he thought that might know where you had ran off to.

“Wil, mate...” Phil’s eyes clouded with sorrow and Wilbur’s heart dropped. He clutched the feathers desperately in hope that was sure to plummet.

“She died...” His father finally spoke out and Wilbur’s world crashed down. “She loved you so much Wil, but a heart guarded for so long is so very delicate.”

Philza lowered his son into a chair and took the limp cornflower from his loosened grip.

“She couldn’t take losing you a second time with Ghostbur.” Phil said slowly and crouched before him. The dark broken wings on his back stretched towards his son and Wilbur fell into his father’s chest with heaving breaths and sobbing eyes.

“I loved her, Phil. I never got to tell her I was back. She could’ve been fine, if I’d just been faster.” Wilbur sobbed and Phil wrapped dark feathers around him.

“It’s not your fault Wil,” Philza promised and shushed his son gently. “There was nothing you could’ve done. She’s gone, and I’m so sorry.”

Legend paints the story that Wilbur cried for two days straight in his father’s arms and dedicated his life to eradicating Dream’s plans and his life was pulled apart little by little. Stories say that the once mighty general, turned ghost, turned man alive again, mourned the loss of his love long after her death.

He traveled all of The Greater Dream SMP with feathers tucked behind his ears and made into a necklace with a single blue petal preserved against his chest. He fought alongside his brother and protected his home. He played music and amended his wrong doings all in her memory. Wilbur inhabited the former house of Y/N L/N and even tended to the sheep that formerly belonged to his spirited form.

Wilbur mourned and loved. He left for Utah with those feathers and necklace of down and a single petal. Legend says he will be buried in them and rejoice only when he is reunited in the afterlife with his love where he will protect her heart from ever breaking again.

<><><><><><><><><><>

#c!wilbur x reader #ghostbur x reader #revivebur x reader #dream smp au #x reader #dsmp #c!philza #c!tommy #c!friend #swan!reader #tw death #tw heartache #tw grief

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simp-king-noshi · 7 months

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FLUFFTOBER MASTER LIST ✨💖💞

FLUFFTOBER MASTERLIST

day one first kiss/Wilbur soot

day two love confession/Jack Met

day three sick/injury/Tommyinnit

day four rainy day/Ghostbur

day five dancing together/Dabi

day six playing with hair/Karl Jacobs

day seven sharing clothe/Jschlatt

day eight kid fic/pet fic/Ghostbur

day nine showering/bathing/2-D

day ten gift giving/Dream

day twelve meet cute/Simpbur

day thirteen learning a craft/Ghostbur

day fourteen locked in/trapped in/Simpbur

day fifteen early morning/Russel Hobbs

day sixteen stargazing/Georgenotfounf

day seventeen massage/dream

day eighteen protecting/Revivebur

day nineteen road trip/motel/ Dream Team

day twenty reading together/ Noodle

day twenty one picnic/2-D

day twenty two apologies/Murdoc niccals

day twenty three coffee shop/book store/bbh

twenty four game night/ tommyinnit

twenty five love letters/simpbur

twenty six drunken confessions/sapnap

twenty seven nightmares/pogbur (pogtopia Wilbur)

twenty eight pumpkin patch/Jack Met

twenty nine corn maze/ Argbur

thirty scary movies/2-D

day thirty one Halloween costumes/Murdoc niccals

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hatchetislostpog · 2 years

Text

Y/n: I can't tell if I want to kick the shit out of you for being so reckless or kiss you for being alive

Revivebur: *small chuckle* I'd take that kiss

#revivebur #revivebur x reader #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur x reader #wilbur x you #wilbur x y/n #dsmp x y/n #dsmp imagine #dsmp x reader #mcyt x reader #dream smp x reader #dream smp imagine #Wilbur Soot #dsmp

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ordinary-spencer · 6 months

Note

Hiii !!! ^^ can you do a wilbur x gn!reader headcannons l<33 totally cool if not

Ofcc!!! I didn’t know which ones you wanted so I did both ghostbur and revivebur!

Wilbur soot x gn reader headcannons

Ghostbur・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Ghostbur definitely likes to hold your hand, he lives for touch, especially if you show you don’t mind it.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He would knit you little sweaters and hats of your favorite color. Then he’d make one for himself so you could both match.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Whatever hobby you have, he likes to listen to you rant about/or watch you do. He just feels so safe around you and loves to see you happy!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Most of your dates would probably include going to flower fields or having a picnic outside

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ His favorite thing about you would have to be your smile, he loves seeing you happy and your smile is just oh so stunning.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He’s not sure why, but he feels like you had a deep connection with him when he was alive. He’s grateful though, since now he has to look forward to seeing you everyday!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He’s kind of touchy, always wanting to touch some part of you, especially if he’s nervous. Wether it be messing with your hands, holding onto your arm, or rubbing your face, he’s all over you.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Overall very sweet and loves everything about you. Loves the thought of you and you make his day brighter everytime he sees you!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ sometimes he will get sad that he can’t remember something or someone important so he’ll go to you and cry on your shoulder.

“[Name]! [Name]! Oh I’m so happy to see you my love! Come on! Let’s go see friend, they sure have been missing you….because I know I have…”

Revivebur ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

☠︎︎༒︎ His favorite thing about you are your eyes. He likes how bright they shine compared to his.

☠︎︎༒︎ He likes to try to make up for the fact that he wasn’t there for you when he died. He does little things like gets you something you’ve mentioned you wanted/needed, makes you something, gives you letters telling you how you make his life brighter and better. Things like that.

☠︎︎༒︎ He likes to play on his guitar for you, playing love songs or random rock songs he remembers

☠︎︎༒︎ Sometimes when he has his little insane moments, he’ll try to stay far away from you. He doesn’t want you to see him like that.

☠︎︎༒︎ He likes to caress your scars, he likes hearing the stories behind them. He’ll tell you about his too if you want to hear.

☠︎︎༒︎ When he’s really upset, he’ll just walk up to you and hug you. He likes how warm you are and how comforting you feel

☠︎︎༒︎ Every time he has to leave, he places his forehead to yours and stands there for awhile. He makes sure to tell you how much he loves you. Just in case he won’t see you again.

☠︎︎༒︎ You go on little dates at either some random restaurant he found or you guys just walk around in the forest, pointing out little things you see around you while holding hands.

☠︎︎༒︎ He’s trying his best, he knows he may not be the best person for you, but like hell is he going to let anyone take you away from him.

“I love you…I’m sorry I have to leave again but I’ll miss you so so much….I know I’m just going to get groceries but I just want you to know how much I love you, darling.”

#x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #gender neutral #Dsmp #dsmp wilbur #wilbur soot #wilbur dsmp #Dream smp #x reader #x gn reader #gn reader #revivebur #ghostbur #revivebur x reader #ghostbur x reader #dsmp headcanon #headcanon

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listenheresweaty · 10 months

Text

Revivebur x magma cube reader while I procrastinate on part three

so I swear part three of the other revivebur thing is in the works

but here’s some food

(A slightly suggestive hc at the end)

Most people, including myself, headcanon that revivebur is permanently cold after his time in limbo. Just a naturally lower body temperature, and he feels it.

So he often seeks out warmth. Maybe that’s why he likes sunrises: the night finally ends and soon he’ll be able to sun on a rock like a lizard— idk.

Anyway, as a magma cube, you would have a naturally warmer body temperature. But because you’re half human, you aren’t completely accustomed to your own temperature (especially the temperature of the nether, where you live) and often seek out colder areas.

Wilbur stumbles upon your cottage at the edge of the crimson forest after being attacked by literally every creature out there because the bitch doesn’t wear armor.

He breaks into your house

You threaten to kill him first, but this scrawny, scruffy man looks so wholly un-intimidating that you let him hang around.

you have a friend now!

You show him around your tiny cabin, the mushroom and nether wart garden, the Hoglin farms.

he’s a little impressed— this tiny (you’re a tiny magma cube), scarily buff (you gotta be to hunt hoglins) person has built a cottage core lifestyle in literal hell.

Maybe you miss having people around, just a little, so you set up a guest room and let him chill there a while.

fun fact: no bacteria can live in the nether or it’s inhabitants (except piglins, they have a lower temperature). This is good for Wilbur’s hypochondria :)

when you get particularly close, you finally get some platonic cuddling. — mostly initiated by Wilbur because he’s the touch starved rat of the friendship.

As soon as he’s clinging on to you he isn’t going to let you go. /j

you’re a walking space heater, and his only regret is that you’re so small that you can’t reach and cover every part of him, so when cuddling his long ass legs remain in the cold.

you tell him that’s what blankets are for but he refuses to listen.

fun fact: you already feel oddly warm to him through layers of clothes, but your skin practically burns without them (not painfully)— a sensation he’s quite partial too, being a known pyromaniac.

#revivebur #dsmp #c: wlbr #dsmp wilbur #dsmp x platonic reader #dsmp x reader #mcytblr #revivebur x reader #revived wilbur #revivedbur x reader #c wilbur #c!wilbur x reader #c!wilbur #friends to friends with benefits to lovers #sweaty “writes”

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sardonic-the-writer · 2 years

Note

Guitar lessons with the Burs?

Ooooooohhhh

Simpbur has one of those electric guitars you can plug in. It has a stains from spilled drinks, stray pieces of pizza, and years of wear and tear. But when he find out his darling wants some guitar lessons? This man tries his best to make it look as spiffy as the day he was born

Lmanbur runs a hand through his hair, laughing breathily. Sure love, he would say, just come join me tonight on top of the burger van for a lesson under the stars :)

Vilbur simply laughs in your face. Cackles, is more like it actually. You think that he [*wheeze*] is going to teach you how to play the guitar?

...he did it anyways

Pogtopiabur doesn't even look up from the stack of papers he's staring at when you ask him. Instead he waves you off with a generic response along the lines of "I think techno has that" or "whatever you say" :(

Ghostbur claps his hands together, cooing with excitement. He's so excited to teach you! Now he's just gotta ask around to see if anyone's seen his glimmering mahogany instrument!

If only anyone knew

Revivebur blanches for a bit. He had forgotten he had even played the damn thing. After revival, music had been the last thing on his mind, much less making it himself. But hey, if that's what you want he'll gladly dig around for the old thing

#bursona #bursona x reader #wilbur soot #wilbur x reader #wilbur #wilbur soot x reader #lmanbur x reader #lmanbur #revivedbur x reader #revivebur x reader #revivedbur #simpbur #simpbur x reader #vilbur #vilbur x reader #ghostbur #ghostbur x reader #pogtopiabur x reader #pogtopiabur

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saccharinesunsetretired · 4 months

Note

Okay disregard my last revivebur blurb i have a better one

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

there is an incident, but it is relatively more peaceful

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

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

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

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

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

”our poet”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#I LOVED THIS ASK #if anyone else sends me asks you get a free kiss (platonically)#asks <3 #listenheresweaty #revivebur x reader #wilbur soot x reader

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cloverhasnobrain · 1 year

Text

Revivebur stinks. Literally so badly.

Like, whenever you get too close to him you can feel his crusty ass stench, he reeks of cheap alchohol, ciggarettes, weed, gunpowder, dried blood and cum.

He has not taken a bath since he came out of the limbo and we know it.

Mans spent 13 years without a bath, he absolutely despises water and HE DID NOT CHANGE HIS FUCKING CLOTHES SINCE POGTOPIA MAN!!

Yet somehow. SOMEHOW, I manage to look at this greasy, scrawny, drunk ass, horny 40 year old man and think: "Damn, he is so fine. What a babygirl."

Like, what absurd level of rizz do you need to have to be so attractive being this disgusting?!?!?

Thanks for listening to my ted talk, follow for more.

#dsmp wilbur #revivebur x reader smut #revivebur #revivedbur #revived wilbur #revivebur x reader #wilbur soot reader #crusty

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peterrefur · 9 days

Text

The days we knew ⅏ Wilbur Soot x GN!Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr President..." whispers Reader.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's good to have you back."

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