Cliché

+

---

"Fear Me, Dammit"

Revivebur

Tw: None

Notes: Made this for a friend lmao. Not my best work

Song: "Blood" By My Chemical Romance

---

When Wilbur had been revived, he had expected a different welcome.

He had wanted them to cower. For everyone to stare at him with uncontrollable fear as he watched the sun rise for the first time in thirteen years. For all of them to squirm underneath his pointed gaze as he greeted them once more.

But instead he was celebrated. Warmly glanced at, high fived, smiled at, baked a cake and given hugs.

It infuriated the zombie to no end. Didn't they know what he'd done? What he could do? Any exactly how he could do it? Didn't they know that behind that carefully crafted facade of thin glasses and a warm accent was a mad man with a lust for blood? Haven't they figured out he would do it all over again at the snap of a finger?

Yet Tommy had welcomed him with a smile. Albeit a wobbly one, but still a smile. Eret had patted him on the back and "welcomed him home". Phil, the man who had stabbed a diamond sword straight through a maze of Wilburs intestines, had wept tears of joy at the sight of his late son.

Technos was perhaps the most insulting of them all. He had barely glanced at Wilbur before shutting the door in his face. It was like he had interrupted him.

Needless to say; Wilbur was pissed.

His wrinkled lip sneered with the ferocity of a forest fire anytime he dared to look in the direction of Tommy. He pushed down the urge to curse at Tubbo with an unmatched gusto every time he visited the boy.

Loath, loath, loath, l̸͙̑̐̏͊͂̃̓̎̍̃ȍ̵̙̯̻̰̱̠̩͇͇͕ą̷̺̳̘̱͙͚̫̎̃́̈́̄̚t̵̨͉̪͔̫̦͈͓̱̒̒̓̆͒͘̚ͅh̵͎͊̐͑̀

Anger, anger, anger, a̸̝͓̦̗̙̩̻̳̻͋̇ͅṅ̸̢̡̢̼̙̪̭͕̌̏̌̏̒̈̋ͅğ̵̖̩̳̙͖͕̒̽̽ę̸̢͕́̏̄r̴̫̝̜̍̓̓͗̆̃̔̕̕

Hate, hate, hate, h̶͇͙̥͎͙͖͎̉̀̓̾̈́̃̓̊͒̚ͅà̵̞͚̊̓̔͐̈́̔̓͒ţ̷̗̳̉́͘̚͜͝ê̷̇̅̍̇̇͒͜

He loathed them. His anger only rivaled the zombie man's hate.

When will he finally get the reaction his reputation deserves?

When will he make someone break before him with a mere flick of his wrist?

When will he finally have his puppets back.

---

The brown haired man found himself walking the trail back to the crater of his former nation. Kicking up dust and dirt along the way in a petty attempt to tame his anger. It wired around him like a dust storm, some of the grains clinging to his trench coat that dragged along the floor.

Wilburs brow was set in a permanent crease of frustration. It started to form the moment he had gotten back and had only increased in size as the days went on. As did the pent up tension in his chest.

It was as if his feet were doing the walking for him. Muscle memory took over Wilburs lower body as his brain was swamped with thoughts.

He knew why he was heading back to the off-skirts of his crumbled and detonated country. Wilbur knew exactly why.