#revivedbur x reader

[laaaaaaaiiiiinnnn]

me reading wilbur's apology (i have read x reader fanfictions of him for 4 years straight and created multiple c ai bots bc i was obsessed w the idea of him being my bf only for him to turn out to be an abuser)

[calmthefuckdownalright]

Protectbur HC's

A/n: Protectbur is just something I call a very protective C!Wilbur. Maybe it'll catch on after this who knows 💅

Summary: Situationns where some of the -Bur variants get a little protective 🤍

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Vilbur

"Alright Wil, I'm going to Manberg to see Niki."

"Woah woah woah what? No you're not!"

"Wil it's just to see Niki. She's on our side, besides Schlatt isn't even around right now."

"I don't care! You're gonna stay right here where I can see you."

gets very worked up over little things like this

Going out to hunt, mining trips, etc. He doesn't want you accidentally finding one of his detonation sites or setting one off

Mostly his own paranoia rather than him actually trying to protect you

Revivebur

You'd be chatting with Quackity in Las Nevadas or just outside and Wilbur would spot you guys. Him being Quackity's nemesis and your lover would definitely create some immense tension

"Stay the fuck away from Y/N you two-bit capitalist."

"They came to see me!"

"They would never. They know you're a wanker, and a bloody liar. Stay away from them or you'll lose your other fucking eye got it?"

Very violent. Very unhinged

Phantombur

Fancy boi losing his shit? Don't mind if I do 💅

I don't really know the lore in Origins but I know that Fragrance Man is supposed to be sort of a creepy guy and I know there's something with Evilza so I'm looking into it. For now we're just using Fragrance bc we love Schlatt as a villain.

"Mind letting me go?"

"No no no, you smell strange. I need you to come with me so I can investigate."

Basically he'd try and kidnap you and guess what it's dusk so your boyfriend comes swooping from the shadows with a warning shot.

"Where the fuck did the arrow come from?!"

"Where do you think Arachnid?" Phantombur would reveal himself very dramatically and have an arrow notched already pointing over your shoulder into Fragrance Man's throat

"Hey now, no need to get violent there Wilbur."

"What the fuck were you doing with my darling huh Fragrance Man? Care to explain?"

Very menacing, especially with the green eyes glowing and the unfiltered rage

We love a spooky bitch

Simpbur

Obviously he's here. It wouldn't be a protection hc without our favorite yandere-ish variant

"I will blow your fuckin head off if you don't back the FUCK up right now."

Kind of a combination of Vilbur and Revivbur. Very violent and loud and commanding despite his usual background personality

Scares people off very easily with his height and anger. The first time he protected you you didn't know who he was

"Thanks and all but who are you?!"

"Wil Soot. Wilbur really, at your service."

Very formal despite his hammering heart. Kind of had been a stalker for a while so he knew very well how to make you smile

He landed a date with you after this so all's well that ends well...

It didn't end well for the guy that was harassing you to say the least

Ghostbur

Oh...you didn't think ol' Ghostbur could get protective did you? Never underestimate me my dears

"Y/N watch out!" Someone would try and warn you but be a little too late. Well they would anyways. Ghostbur's never late for his darling

"Didn't anyone tell you to stay away from things that aren't yours?"

Very smiley while he tends off whoever tried to harm you. This is the first time he's wielded a sword since he died so you'll have to pardon his disheveled appearance once he's done

"Are you alright?"

"Yea Ghostbur, I-I'm okay now. Thanks."

"Anytime darling."

Huffy puffy Ghosts Boy but he's smiling like a fool now that you're safe

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[listenheresweaty]

Dead as Disco (Revivebur x Reader)

no proofreading, we die like men

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“..Such as?” 

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

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

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

“It’s disgusting!” 

“It’s not!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wilbur?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wilbur choked. “He what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“We didn’t— we couldn’t—“

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

“..Yeah.” Phil said. “He’s outside.”

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

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

Schlatt, on the other hand…

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

Well. Almost everyone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wilbur stares, and you stare back. 

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

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

“I know there’s no music, but—“

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

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

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

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

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

“You deserve the world.” You say. 

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

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. That.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Picnic?” You whisper. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I bet he is.” 

[killmurderfuck]

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

[milqueandsugar]

Hello

could we have some short fluffy Drabble or headcanons about a sick revivebur? I mean, after escaping limbo, this man’s hypochondria must be ten times as bad. And after he gets sick, the reader (who he is in a relationship with, although it’s been cold and distant since his revival) starts acting very concerned and motherly— just starts pampering him. imagine cooling off one’s hands (with ice pack maybe) purely for the reason of holding it to a sick person’s overheating forehead. And etc.

just petting the whiny, skrunkly, sick rat of a man.

🏵 Your Tea Is Ready🏵

Warnings: mentions of sickness and death

Genre: hurt comfort (?)

| Honey makes the medicine go down Easy |

You press the back of your hand to feverish, sweaty skin, his dark curls tickling you as he attempts to turn away.

"You've got an awful fever." You fret, trying to turn his flushed face towards you.

"Yet I'm fucking freezing." He curses, finally relenting and letting you guise his face towards yours.

"How long have you been sick? Why didn't you call?" You push the hair that had begun to stick to his forehead back, he relaxes into your touch, fluid and maluable like wet clay. He smelled a bit like dirt too.

"I didn't want to bother. What good would it do anyway?" He blinks, his golden eyes reaching yours. It hurts, a sting, a cut to your already breaking heart by you swallow your pride. You swallow your anger.

"I'm here now, so let me help you, you look like you've got one foot in the grave-" He laughs, bitter but still a laugh. Maybe his fever was worse then you thought.

"That wasn't a joke, you look awful."

"What ever man wishes to hear from their partner."

Now it was your time to laugh. "Alright, settle down, I'll get you some water." You raise from the bed and leave the room, missing as just behind you he reaches for your arm, though never manages to get to you.

You return swiftly with a cup of warm sweetened tea and a cool wet cloth, by now he had abandoned all blankets from the bed, fanning himself.

"You don't have the fire going, do you?"

"No, not yet." You settle beside him, he turns his head lazily towards you, his hair looking particularly more wild then it did before you left.

"Here," you reach to place the wet cloth on his head, he flinches slightly, but eases as the cool water touches him. "Better?"

"A bit." He hummed, adjusting the rag further up his head. "It's going to soak the bed." He grumbled, a droplet of water already spilling down his cheek.

"You'll live." You tease, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Will I? you seem to be quite worried."

"It's my job to be worried."

"What a horrible job."

"It's not, not for you."

You smile, your hand coming to cup his cheek, you hesitate, but he does not. Pressing he face to your palm and kissing your wrist with all the affection his fever addled brain could manage.

"You spoil me." He sighs, his hand coming up to inter lock with yours.

"I treat you as you deserve. As anyone, deserves." You hum, squeezing his hand before bringing the tea cup to his lips.

"What is it?"

"Tea, it will help you sleep."

"Well isn't that ominous."

You roll your eyes, but after giving it a curious sniff, he takes a sip, then gulps the rest down.

"Can't be too ominous then?" You Muse, putting the tea cup aside. You can hear the smile in his voice as he replies.

"If ominimity tastes that good you must be pure horror."

You tilt your head. "I can't quite tell if that was a compliment." This time, he squeezes your hand.

"I can't either."

You press your fore head to his, before leaning away. "Get some sleep, poet, you're starting to sound like a mad man." He smiles, blinking slowly.

"Perhaps I am." His breathing slows.

"Perhaps you are." His eyes flutter closed.

"You'll stay?" His grip tightens, like a frightened child on their mothers skirt.

"Of course, I'll stay."

[scvrllet]

[12:38pm]

Rough fingertips danced along the length of your shoulder gracefully, hoping for you to abandon the dishes you were in the midst of cleaning to instead, give attention to him. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss his touch.

“Y’know, I’d be done much quicker if you stopped doing that for a moment.“ You said. Wilbur—though you couldn’t see him—smiled and moved his hands down to your waist before resting his chin on the top of your head.

“You wouldn’t even need to worry about it if you let me do it.” Was his reply and you scoffed at that.

“You need to rest, I said I’d be done here in ten minutes.” Those four words were all he’s been hearing since he showed up on your doorstep. You need to rest. You need to rest. You need to rest. It had become an exhausting phrase to hear and while the thought of you still caring for him like you used to made him smile, he just wanted to have you back in his arms—or him in yours.

“And it’s been longer than ten.” Wilbur replied, not missing a beat as he moved to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck.

You rolled your eyes at his behaviour. “I wonder why that is.”

Pressing a kiss to the side of your neck, he watched with an amused grin at the way your hands just barely caught the plate that almost slipped out of your grasp. The reaction caused for an idea to slip into his mind, one that ultimately led to water getting everywhere in the kitchen and screaming as the two of you chased each other with water dripping from your hands as you attempted to splash the other. It led to catching the other when you had accidentally slipped on the wet floor and being given the perfect opportunity to get him who was finally distracted. It led to laughter cut off by breathless kisses as he held your face and kissed you like it’d be the last time he’d be able to. And in that moment, there was nothing he wouldn’t have done to live in that moment forever.

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[toiletwipes]

DECODE

"How did we get here? When I used to know you so well?"

On my own (I'm screaming, I love you so)

On my own (but my thoughts you can't decode)

Summary: After being Wilbur's partner in arms and love, and after L'manburg's untimely end, by his doing no less, you leave the area and begin again. However, Fate has never been so cruel lately. Wilbur gets revived and you only find out after he shows up on your doorstep.

~3.7k words.

-----

You're just trying to live your life, building a home and working on your little garden, taking the time to read about potion making. Just taking the time to live. After the countless wars, the countries that fell just as tragically as it was built, you were done with the blood and the fighting and everything that came with it.

You missed your lover, having been in the resistance and trying to help him anyway you could. But it wasn't enough, it would never have been enough. He still blew the nation to kingdom come, the country he died for and was exiled from.

You didn't want to relive any of that, so, saying goodbye to your friends you left the area. And on the outskirts of the server, you built your life. You hoped it would be enough to stay away from the commotion, and for the most part it was. If anybody had wanted to visit, they usually sent a letter beforehand, and it would you reach quite earlier than they would so it wasn't too bad. You could prepare for guests.

They didn't stay for an afternoon for tea and cakes, no, you usually had guests for three days. It had to be worth it, the visit, it took so long for them to get here, you almost felt bad for them. But in the end, you didn't, you chose to be out here and live the rest of your lives alone.

And on a particular day, you find yourself coming in from watering your hanging potted plants and the various garden beds surrounding your house. And that's when you see him. A speckled sight of dark browns.

Whoever he was, you couldn't have known. He was too tall, and he was too fast, head ducked down as he looked like he was counting the steps. Until he reached a hill and looked up, and there you could see more of him. A spot of yellow and just the faintest hint of white on his hair.

Putting away your gardening belt and adjusted the long skirt on your waist, you waited on your porch with some tea and cakes. You'd definitely would love for them to leave as soon as possible, but sometimes it wasn't always the case. So tea and cakes. Fill them up and send them off. As best as you could.

Dropping your cup, you find it rolled down the porch steps and when you went to pick it up, it bumps into the boots of somebody… somebody who reeked. Your nose wrinkles as you look up and there you saw it. The face of your lover.

Your lover who died on the blade of his father's.

"Hello, darling, missed me?" His grin was too wide and his eyes opened too much.

He was too much for a dead person.

"Wil- you're alive?" Your voice came out in a whisper and he closes his grin, hiding the sharp canines and looking him over, you couldn't find any scars on his body. As if he was as new as the day he was born. And his hair- the white streak in it left you swallowing. The glasses he had on either wasn't helping your case at all.

"As if I could leave you for long, my sweet, don't you trust me?" He comes up the stairs, taking the teacup off the ground and placing it in your palms with a pat. "Now, what's for lunch, I'm starving."

Your lunch that afternoon, it was held in a relative silence, you busied with making fresh mushroom soup, and when you served him a bowl, you couldn't help but take out a bottle of wine and pour yourself a glass. Be that as it may, you grieved him. Mourned over his very dead body and had to be dragged away from him. Visiting the site he died made it painful when it smelled rotten.

And here he was, slurping on a spoonful of your soup.

"Why are you here?" You say, too soft for your liking but you didn't have the strength to be mean. Something about him showing up without a letter or even a smoke signal left you feeling sick. Surely, if he'd been revived, they would've told you or they would've told him. You were to be left alone, and it had to be important.

But he sits at your dining table and contemplates your question, taking it in as he finishes his bowl. "Well to be honest, I wanted to see you, I've been back and all they were telling me was that you had moved on," he enunciates his few words, breaking his sentence as he began it again, "left as soon as you finished a memoriam and were almost as much of a ghost as myself. Tommy, Tubbo, and Phil were pretty much the only ones who knew, for sure, where you lived. And well, I couldn't let you live here by yourself."

"And did you expect to be welcomed with open arms?"

"Hadn't you welcomed me?" He posed, looking you in the eye, the glasses falling down his nose is almost comical.

"I'm still thinking about it," you mumble, turning away from him, choosing to look out the window, where you could see a flower field, a field you had tended to over the time you were alone. "You intend to stay?" You ask, not turning your head till his hand comes to suffocate your own, being dwarfed in comparison.

"I intend to remind you how much I loved you and still-" you stood from your seat, and he followed, standing in your way, hands held up as if you were set on pushing him out, "still do, I still love you, you know that, surely you do." His trench coat covered most of his body but after having slipped it off you could almost feel the heat radiating off of him.

"How could someone like you still possibly love me, love anybody but yourself," you bit your words, your heart still sore after L'manburg. "Besides, why should I believe you? You have a house to gain, a bed to sleep in, a warm body instead of a blistering hell? What do I get? A lover who nearly killed me while killing his nation?" You scoff at him, turning away as you try to blink back the tears as much as you could without wiping them away. They still slipped but you'd never admit to it. Not to him.

Arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into the chest of somebody warm, and your breath shudders as they hold on tight.

"You're wrong, it wasn't a blistering hell I was stuck in, a freezing limbo more like, and I could always see your passing face in a train station, but it never stopped so I could get on." He murmurs into your ear, his hands finding yours and entwining the fingers. "Not once. For years, the train kept running. Until it didn't. And now I'm here. Just let me keep you, if not for a little longer, and then I'll be gone." Whether he had actual intentions of leaving or not, it was still hard to deny him that. And if you're honest, what would you stand to lose if he stayed for a while longer?

"Three days," you whispered, "three days and if you haven't convinced me, you need to leave."

And he nods, and when you return to your chores, baking the dough into bread for the next day, folding laundry into piles for the chest at your bed, he's there, helping you when you needed the hand.

And the first night, he sleeps in the guest room, tuckered out after a filling meal and a day of journey. He told you that he didn't stop walking, not even when he saw the pit stops the others had made, markers to the path of your home. You hadn't quite believed it, closing the door and heading to your own room with a tightening of your shawl around you.

The next day arrives and you find a crow with a letter tied to its foot. Unravelling it and handing it some feed, you read over the words and then look over at the closed door.

"Wilbur has been revived, he found the compass to your house and is on his way. Wish I could be more help but I know you can handle him. Take care."

"Phil, come pick your son up, please," you mutter, taking the paper and crumbling it up, tossing it into the wastebasket as you move about. You had laundry to wash today and breakfast to eat, not to mention a zombie to feed.

He came around two hours after you had made your breakfast, he just stumbles into your back, leaning into the touch of your skin before being lead to the dining table, pancakes set before him with a bottle of honey and plate of butter before him. "Enjoy," you say as he nods, glancing over at your side of the table, a book in your hands as you flip the pages leisurely.

He doesn't say anything until after he finishes, taking his plate to the sink and you're packing the butter and honey away. He stands against the counter as you moved with a basket of clothes and headed towards the back door when you turned to him with a bored look, "well, come make yourself useful."

That afternoon is spent washing more clothes down by the river. You had a washing bin but washing them in the river made it an all day occasion, which you needed to occupy one of the three days he was supposed to stay.

After clipping the clothes to a line stretching across the empty hills, you find him standing in the breeze, his trench coat thrown over his arm and his sleeves rolled up, eyes closed and basking in the cool of the breeze and the thinly veiled warmth of the sun.

"It's nice during this time of year, doesn't get much better than this," you speak as you approach his side, unable to keep yourself away.

"Does it get worse?" He asks, staying still and you wonder if he does it for your sake, you're still wary of the truth, if he's truly here.

"Sometimes, sometimes it gets too hot where I can't work in my garden, sometimes it gets so cold it freezes the dirt over and leaves me scrambling to the nearest village. And sometimes, I'm just too tired to notice." You speak, recalling the worst of the worst. The worst days were when you were tired, unable to work, unable to care. Those days you often thought of your lover in the early days. When he wore a jumper much like this one but he looked nothing like he did now. Acted nothing like he did now.

The old him would've adored the life you had now, assuming it was in L'manburg.

The him standing next to you now, he doesn't wrap an arm like he used to, but leans closer, almost pressing against your side. He's tentative. As if scared you'll shove him aside.

You're almost to that point.

Instead, you turn away from the scene, putting down the basket you had on your waist, and laying down on the hill, finding the breeze blow over you and the grass tickling your cheeks and hands.

He couldn't help himself in laying next to you, his head knocking against yours just slightly. You wonder if you could excuse yourself for indulging in him, letting him be close. Knowing you would kick him out in two days time. You allow yourself his company, you decided, allow whatever he touches he'd try and then whenever the sand runs out, and the clock stops ticking, he'll be gone. You'll send him back to Phil.

He was once your lover but now he's a ghost of that man, haunting you of what could've been.

Hours later when the sun threatens to dip low and take you hostage, you lead him back to your house, taking out some meat and roasting it over in the fireplace, feeling his eyes burn into your skin as you finish supper.

Dusting your hands off on your apron, you serve the two of you, slicing the meat into portions and cut slices of buttered, toasted bread for a side, and the task isn't as bad as you thought it would be, Wilbur making himself useful in making tea, stirring sugar cubes and dribbles of honey into the drink. And when you take a sip, you almost cry into the cup.

Exactly as he made it that first night…

The first night you said those blasted three words, the first night you lead him to your bed, and the night that haunts you as the beginning of your end.

(He didn't make it again after that night, having met Tommy and his friend Tubbo, planning on a whim, a nation.)

But it was the very same as that night you were lead to believed he loved you maybe just as deep as you had loved him.

Was this a seduction? Bed you so you wouldn't kick him out?

Thinking about it made you want to throw up, but you push it down, shoving the food in your mouth to avoid conversation and when both plates were clear, he takes the plates away from you both, washing it himself along with the cups of empty tea.

That night you set yourself by the fire, wearing your pajamas and a blanket thrown over your shoulders, you tried to not to cry even as he retreated to the bedroom. Just two more days and you could go back to pretending he meant nothing more to you than a memory. Falling asleep to dried tears on your cheeks was anything but new.

Somewhere between the late evening and early morning, you feel arms curling around you, pulling you into a warm chest, your nose buried into the crook of their neck as they shivered, picking you up and carrying you somewhere for a moment. And when that moment ended, when you recognized your bedsheets, you stirred awake completely. Catching his hand, you hold it close to your face, mouth pressing a kiss to the relatively soft skin,and then letting go. Turning away from him to press newly forming tears in your eyes into your pillow.

Your door closes after a minute.

In the minutes before the sun comes, you start making coffee, you weren't strong enough to deal with your guest just yet but there he sat on your couch, reading the same book as you had the morning before. Breakfast is eggs and bacon, served with a cup of coffee, and you find yourself nibbling on the bacon, feeling not as hungry as you thought, seeing the way your guest is dressed in a white shirt, yellow jumper be damned. More casual than you remembered him ever being.

And when you asked of him to go into your basement to grab some books, he came back covered in cob webs, and you snort, dusting him off and watching as he sneezed.

"You weren't allergic to spider webs, what gives?" You say offhandedly, moving to take the books from his hand as he sits back down, shoulders slumped.

"Being revived does that to you, I suppose," he supplies but his mouth is pressed in a fine line, eyes skirting away.

You turn your eyes away, but you continue to talk, "and you were just, what, wiped clean of everything? No immune system, no scars, like a baby?"

"All except for this," he tugs on the white in his hair before pushing it back over his head, watching as it fell back in his eyes.

"So you come back from the dead and the only thing that's changed, apart from being reset in every aspect, is the white part of your hair? Not even a scar where your father killed you?" You tried to keep your voice light, curious but bringing up the memory doesn't leave the hurting out of it.

"Well, I could show you if you want." And without waiting for your word, he begins to undo the buttons, and on instinct, you turn to him, eyes bulging as you watch him take his shirt. His lanky build had truly been scraped of any mark of existence, not even a birthmark.

Except for the golden scar in the middle of his chest. A hand reaches out, fingers dragging the tips down his chest, feeling the slight bump in the skin, and feeling the shiver that came with it.

The shiver brought you to your senses and moved to take your hand off him, when his own came and covered it, pressing your palm into his skin and his eyes fluttered shut.

"Thirteen years, I was alone. No one to talk to and no one to touch. Not even a bug to step on. Completely, and utterly, alone." And he sighs, moving your hand to cover the scar, the way your hand cools his overheating skin.

"Sounds like you deserved it," you whisper back to him, but you step closer and lifted a shaky hand to his cheek and almost fainted when he leaned into it. But like he said, he was alone for so long. He probably would've done anything to be near someone.

And for a moment, you doubted the man in front of you.

Why you? Why did it have to be you, for him to crave physical affections, he wasn't bad to look at, far from it actually. He was handsome to an unfair standing point. He was elegant with his mouth, in many ways. He could have anyone he wanted. And he wanted to bother you in your home far from anybody else.

Anybody else would probably have been stronger than you, you think, as you leaned closer to hug him, holding him close. He nudges his head into the crook of your neck, hands coming up behind you to press into the small of your back, inhaling the soap that's embedded in your skin.

"Let me make it up to you," he whimpers, fingers curling against your skin, begging to feel more than what he's been given.

And if it had been anyone else, they would've been stronger, but god, you were so weak. So weak when it came to him.

When you whimper out a yes, he takes you into his arms completely, leading you to your room and laying you down, undressing you and made sure you wouldn't ever forget the feel of his tongue sliding from your collarbone, down the middle of your chest, all the way down to your pubic bone, lips against your most sensitive, sucking you in and making you see stars. When was the last time you'd felt like this?

Who could make you feel like the way you do when you're with Wilbur?

He makes your back arch, hands reaching up to grope at your chest, finding purchase at rubbing your nubs, pinching and rolling between his fingers, and a gasp is torn out of your chest, whines coming from your throat, a hand reaching up to cover your mouth but as soon as he hears something muffled, he stops completely, leaving you to hang over the edge almost sobbing.

"Now, now, you know not to hide your sounds, do that again and you'll find yourself punished," he says but you whined against that.

"You abandoned me, Will, you'd be cruel to leave me again." Tears leak out of your eyes when he hums a kiss into your stomach, making his way back to your mouth as he wipes the tears from your eyes.

"I have been cruel, haven't I?" He says into the corner of your mouth, drinking up the sound of your whines as he's reaching down to rub circles into you. "Let me make it up to you, let me make it better," and it's needless to say that when he slipped a finger inside, you took him without strain, so wet and pliant, he almost couldn't wait nearly long enough to stretch you properly.

After you took three fingers and nearly came, he pushes himself inside of you, fingers holding your waist in a bruising grip as he leans down to kiss your chest, relishing in the way your chest heaved up and down with every heavy breath.

He made it up to you properly when you could hardly stand the next day, legs shaking and hands gripping the wall to move about the house, before he took you into his arms and laid you down. "I'll take care of the chores, love, just rest," and so you did, thankful to have that day of rest, watching as lover boy went in and out of the house, taking care of this and that. Folding the laundry next to you as you told him about the time you spent alone.

It might as well have been thirteen years for you, the time in between visitors was long. Before him, it'd been Tubbo after he exiled Tommy. You've received letters though, saying he was returned home. Saying the country had been blown worse than that of Wilbur's doing. Nothing to be recovered. That Dream had been sent to prison for his crimes.

And apparently he was only kept alive for his necromancy talents, and that's where Wilbur came along.

Revived and alive, he left the blasted hole of a country and sought after a life worth living. It'd been a week before anyone told him anything about your whereabouts.

Not even if you were alive, he thought it to be cruel.

Then again, he'd been cruel himself.

But the days pass, and he finds himself a home beside you. In your bed, in your house. And it stays that way even when the others came and tried to persuade him to leave, for your sake, they said.

But you were content. And you told them and him as well, if he left you heartbroken again, you'd kill him yourself.

And that was well okay with him.

[smol-cherry]

◇"You look so pretty like this."

◇A/N: We love me posting two hours late!! <33

◇Character(s): Revivebur.

◇Type: Drabble/Small oneshot.

◇Genre: Small angst to much fluff.

◇TW/CW: Murder/death, blood, dagger, cussing, reader being in extreme denial.

You pushed Wilbur onto the ground, the grass laying ever so softly against his skin. You grabbed your dagger from it's handle and put it up to his neck, making eye contact with him.

His expression was still so relaxed and soft, smiling sweetly towards you. You hated it, you hated him.

"You look so pretty like this, darling."

You blinked rapidly, eyes widening at his comment. You subconsciously pulled the dagger back to his collarbone.

Your heart started to race and your face became hot, it must've been because of how much you hated him, you hated him so much that your entire body reacted with anger.

He was still staring at you so softly, so sweetly. You didn't understand, you had a literal killing object in your hands ready to stab him.

"You do realize I could kill you at any moment, right?" He just hummed, smile growing even more. "I'm aware."

You watched him closely as his hand traveled from the grass to the side of your face, his hands were rough but still somehow so soft.

You grabbed his wrist firmly and tried to move his arm away, but he had no plans of leaving your touch anytime soon.

Your eyes moved to anywhere but him, not wanting to give the horrible man in front of you anymore attention, at least that's what you told yourself.