It's You || Dream x Reader [1]

Broken Trust

CW // DEATH

"Stop following her, Clay. You're being a stalker."

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It'd been a few weeks since your parents, older brothers, and well, now fiancé had left. You were stuck with your little brothers, Ranboo, Sam, and George.

George hummed to himself as he stalked the castle hallways, a sharpened blade on his hip, gazing at the paintings and portraits of the royal family. Tommy, Tubbo, and the other two were in the dining room for dinner, having sent George to fetch you. He'd pass by a couple of other guards, no one sending him a questioning glance as to why he wasn't with you. Sometimes, though, he'd pass by a maid who would throw a suspicious look at him, but he'd just ignore it and continued with his mission at hand.

The mission he'd been given eleven months ago.

He'd finally made it to your room, slipping his fingers around the smooth handle of his hunting knife before letting it go. Raising his hand, he rapped the door five times to signify it was him. He heard you say "come in" and he entered your room, glancing at the pile of Christmas decorations on the floor, he looked around the room to find you standing on the balcony.

"Afternoon," George says, walking out to the balcony, standing behind you. "How are you feeling?"

You sighed, not sparing the man a glance, your focus was on the snowy terrain that laid out in front of you. "Tired in all honesty. It's been odd without Dream here."

George nodded, humming in acknowledgment as his gaze went to your hand where the engagement ring lay. "He'll be back, I'm sure of it."

"Yes, I know he will be," You smiled sadly, messing with your earring for a moment. "Do my brothers need me?"

Yes, but telling you would only ruin the plan. George shook his head, "No, they don't. Just wanted to check on you, make sure you were still alive of course."

"Well I am," you replied. "Have any letters from my father come yet?"

"Not yet."

George had only received a letter from Fundy telling him that Wilbur was killed.

But George couldn't mention that.

"Would you like me to run you a bath?" He asked and you finally turned your attention towards him. Making eye contact, well sort of, George had his goggles on. You nodded and brushed the snow out of your hair before turning to leave the balcony.

George leaves right after you, closing the balcony doors behind them. Your back is turned towards him.

Perfect, he thinks to himself, a grim look spreading across his face as he slips the hunting knife out of its sheath. Coming up behind you, he wraps an arm around your arms and waist, he feels you tense up in his hold—visibly shaking.

"George...?" You questioned, voice just as tense and weak.

"Sorry about this princess," he replied, bringing the knife to your neck. You gulped, tears filling your eyes, not even bothering to struggle in his tight hold. "It was almost too easy. You allowed yourself to be in such a vulnerable position." George's voice comes out barely above a whisper and in a dark tone. You don't know what to think. You're scared, that's for sure. There's no point in trying to fight back either. George is stronger than you in more ways than one, not to mention the fact that he has a knife to your neck.

The tears slowly spill down your cheeks as he presses the blade against your neck. You can feel it start breaking through the tender flesh, causing you to inhale sharply. "King's orders," he mumbles, finally sliding the blade across your neck. He hears you choke out a cough. He feels the warmth of fresh blood spilling out of your mouth and neck and onto his hand. George carefully laid you onto the floor, blood pooling underneath you. He watches the light leave your eyes, your face blanching and he grins sadistically, slipping the bloody knife back in its sheath.

Kneeling beside you, he dips his hand in the blood, covering it completely before walking to one of her blank walls. "What to do, what to do," he hummed to himself, a soft cheerful tune. Finally, he makes his decision on the Manberg emblem, that of a ram over a shield, and right above it, he puts the initials; "J.S."

Wiping his hands on his clothes, he gives you one last glance, the scent of thick iron filling the room. No remorse or guilt is clouding him, just the satisfaction of a mission finally being completed. He went to where you kept your music discs and jukebox, filing through them before he pulled one out with a purple and white middle.

Mellohi.

George slid the disc in and waited for it to start playing before he slipped out of the room from the balcony.