wilbur soot/reader, they/them pronouns afab
the dream had been a feverish, sweat-soaked thing.
hips grinding into the sheets, groan, tug, repeat.
william gold didn’t dream of sex—or at least, he never remembered dreaming of it. his subconscious was usually occupied with quieter anxieties: a forgotten homework assignment, the echo of his father’s disapproval, the precise way light fell through the oak tree outside his childhood window. but last night… last night was different.
in the dream, he wasn’t himself. he was a creature of pure, hungry impulse. the sheets were a tangled prison, his hips grinding into the mattress with a slow, relentless rhythm. a low groan vibrated in his throat, swallowed by the pillow his face was mashed against. in the vivid theater behind his eyelids, it wasn’t a pillow. it was their neck. their skin was warm and smelled like vanilla and rain, a scent he’d catalogued without meaning to during study sessions that stretched too long in their living room. in the dream, his lips were on that spot just below their ear, his groan—raw and sexual—a hot puff of air against their skin as he snapped his hips forward, meeting an imagined resistance that felt devastatingly real. his hands, which in reality were fisted in his cotton sheets, tugging lightly with each strained thrust, were tangled in their hair. soft, messy, exactly as it looked when they’d run their fingers through it in frustration over calculus.
his body was a coiled spring winding tighter, tighter. the groans became less stifled, slipping into the quiet of his bedroom—short, punched-out sounds.
“god…” his hips stuttered, losing their rhythm, movements turning sloppy and desperate as the pressure built low in his gut, a taut wire about to snap. the fantasy was so potent, so physical, it bypassed all his usual filters. it was just sensation: the heat, the friction, the image of their face flushed and their lips parted.
his eyes flew open as the climax ripped through him. reality crashed back in—the grey dawn light seeping around his blinds, the familiar crack in his ceiling, the damp chill of sweat on his back—but it was too late. his hips jerked forward one last, grinding time as the orgasm pulsed, wringing a long, low groan from deep in his chest, a sound he muffled desperately into the feather-down of his pillow. for a few seconds, he just lay there, hips making minute, aftershock circles, riding out the fading waves of pleasure that were already curdling into immediate, profound shame.
he rolled onto his back with a heavy, exhausted sigh, throwing an arm over his eyes.
“fuck,” he whispered to the empty room. the word hung in the air, accusatory. he checked the time on his phone: 6:17 am. a strange, hollow gratitude washed over him. he lived alone in this small apartment, a fact he’d sometimes lament for its quiet loneliness. now, it was a sanctuary. no roommate to hear, no awkward morning-after questions. just him and the ghost of a dream that felt less like a fantasy and more like a betrayal.
the shower was punishingly cold. he scrubbed his skin roughly, as if he could scour the memory away. he dressed with mechanical precision: dark jeans, a simple grey sweater, the brown corduroy jacket they’d once said made him look like a brooding poet. each action was a brick in a wall he was trying to build between that version of himself—the one panting into a pillow, dreaming of his best friend’s body—and the one who had to face them today. they’re your best friend. he chanted internally, brushing his teeth with aggressive focus.
your best friend. don’t be a creep. don’t screw this up. it was just a dream. it means nothing.
but his body, still humming with a residual, traitorous energy, called him a liar.
the walk to campus did little to clear his head. the autumn air was crisp, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke. it was the kind of morning they loved, they’d always said it felt full of possibility. today, it felt like a taunt. he rounded the corner towards the social sciences building, his usual meeting spot with them, and his heart performed a clumsy, heavy somersault in his chest.
there they were. leaning against the red brick wall, scrolling through their phone, a steaming paper cup of tea in their other hand. they were wearing that oversized burgundy sweater, the one that slipped off one shoulder, and their hair was a bit windswept. they looked… they looked like they always did. beautiful. familiar. his.
the moment they spotted him, a smirk bloomed on their face, erasing the early morning softness. it was a smirk that promised gentle torment. his stomach clenched.
“well, look what the cat dragged in,” they called out, pushing off the wall. “you’re making that face, will. the one that says your brain is trying to solve a quadratic equation written in ancient greek. it’s going to give you permanent wrinkles, you know.” they reached up and poked the space between his furrowed brows. he managed a weak eye-roll, catching their wrist before they could retreat.
“you know me so well,” he mumbled, the words coming out gruffer than intended. he released their wrist to fake a yawn, stretching his arms over his head to buy a second, to try and steady the sudden, dizzying rush of the dream-memory—his hands, their hair.
they fell into step beside him, sipping their tea. “rough night? you seem… off.”
“just didn’t sleep great,” he deflected, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.
they nudged him with their elbow, tone light, teasing. “i bet. probably stayed up all night thinking about how tragically, madly in love with me you are. it’s a common ailment, i hear.”
he stiffened. for one terrifying, heart-stopping second, he thought they knew. that his subconscious had somehow broadcasted the sordid details directly to them. then he saw the glint in their eye, the playful curve of their lip, and the panic receded, leaving him shaky. he forced a laugh, hoping it didn’t sound as hysterical as it felt.
“totally,” he played along, the script comforting in its familiarity. “couldn’t sleep for imagining our epic romance. me, sweeping you off your feet. us, riding two sorry-looking campus rental bikes into the sunset while a terrible pop love song plays. the whole cliché.” he nudged them back, offering a fond smile that felt like a fragile mask.
they gasped dramatically, clutching their chest. “william gold! you’ve dreamed of our soundtrack? i’m touched!”
the saving grace of the first-period bell shattered the moment. their eyes went wide. “shit, i’ve got poli-sci across campus! we’ll talk later!” they were off in a flash, a blur of burgundy and flying hair, leaving him standing alone in the suddenly-too-quiet hallway.
the day passed in a miserable, distracted haze. lectures were a drone of white noise. notes he took were nonsensical scribbles. his mind was a broken record stuck between two tracks:
tell them. just tell them. you kissed them in the dream, and it felt more real than anything. tell them before you lose your nerve.
and the counterpoint, cold and pragmatic:
are you insane? they were joking this morning. joking. that’s what you do. you tease. you’re friends. tell them about that dream? they’ll look at you with horror. they’ll take a step back. you’ll watch the ease between you curdle into awkwardness, and then distance, and then nothing. you’ll have killed the best thing in your life for a fantasy.
by the time final bell rang, the internal war had left him ragged. he found them at their locker, and the words left his mouth before he could second-guess them.
“come to my place. now. i have to tell you something.” his voice was low, urgent, stripped of all its usual lazy humor.
they blinked, surprise wiping their expression clean for a second. but they just nodded, slinging their backpack over one shoulder. “okay. lead the way.”
the silence in his apartment was oppressive. he tossed his keys on the counter with a loud clatter, the sound absurdly loud. they leaned against the kitchen island, watching him as he paced the short length of the living room rug, wearing a path in the pile.
“don’t,” he interrupted, raising a hand. he stopped pacing, finally forcing himself to meet their gaze. their eyes were wide, concerned, utterly trusting. it almost broke him. “don’t say anything. not one thing. i need to get this out right now, or i’m going to chicken out and live with this… this thing eating me alive.”
he took a shuddering breath, the air feeling thin. “i’m in love with you. and— and i have to tell you because you’re my best friend, and i had this dream. a really intense, completely inappropriate dream that you should not have about your best friend.” the words were tumbling out now, a chaotic avalanche. “and you definitely, absolutely do not have to return these feelings, but please, just don’t… don’t look at me like i’m a monster, just don’t leave, i can’t—”
their kiss cut off the ramble, not with softness, but with a decisive, rough certainty. his brain short-circuited. for a split second, the dream and reality superimposed—the warmth of their neck, the feel of them—and then his body reacted on pure, primal instinct.
a low, punched-out groan vibrated from his throat into their mouth as his hands flew to their hips, gripping them hard enough to feel the bone beneath their sweater. the satisfaction was instantaneous and overwhelming, a key sliding into a lock he hadn’t known was empty. their response was just as fierce; their hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tilting his head, deepening the kiss from something surprising into something hungry and deep.
rational thought dissolved. there was only the feel of their lips moving against his, the soft sound they made in the back of their throat, the way their body arched into his. in what felt like both an eternity and a single heartbeat, his arms were around them, lifting them. their legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and he carried them the few stumbling steps to the nearest wall—the closet door in the hallway—pinning them against it with a soft thud. the friction was exquisite, maddening. he ground his hips forward, seeking relief for an ache that had been building since dawn, and a ragged moan escaped him, swallowed by their mouth.
the kiss turned sloppy, wet, desperate. their hands yanked at the hem of his sweater, breaking apart just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it blindly behind him. his hands followed suit, groping greedily over the soft curves of their chest through their sweater before finding the hem and pulling it off. the garment joined his on the floor, a trail of discarded normalcy.
their palms slid over his chest, his shoulders, mapping the tense, eager muscles.
“wil,” they breathed against his lips, their voice husky, “bed. now.”
he didn’t need telling twice. he carried them the rest of the way to his bedroom, laying them down in the center of his rumpled sheets—the same sheets from his dream, a fact that sent a fresh, hot jolt through him. he crawled over them, his body slotting between their thighs, and immediately ground down again, the denim of his jeans a rough barrier against their bare skin. a deep, guttural groan rumbled from his chest.
“fuck,” he muttered, his mouth finding theirs again as his hands fumbled with the button of their jeans. they helped him, kicking them off along with their underwear. his own pants and boxers followed in a hurried, clumsy push, and then there was nothing between them but heat and want.
he kissed them, hard, as he positioned himself at their entrance. he teased, just the barest, slick tip of him pressing in, then retreating. a sexually frustrated, beautiful groan tumbled from their lips, their hips canting up, trying to chase him, to take him in.
his control, so tightly wound all day, snapped. patience was for another lifetime. with a sharp, driving roll of his hips, he sheathed himself fully inside them in one smooth, deep stroke.
the dual moans that filled the room were raw, unfiltered. his was a stunned, reverent “oh, god…” as the tight, wet heat of them enveloped him, a feeling a thousand times more profound than any dream. theirs was a higher, breathy cry of his name, their head falling back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut.
for a moment, he was still, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to theirs, panting, drowning in the sensation. then instinct took over. he drew back and snapped his hips forward again, setting a fast, urgent rhythm from the start. one of their hands fisted in his hair, the other clawing at the back of his neck, holding him to them. he braced one hand by their head, the other finding their hip, his thumb digging into the soft flesh as he drove into them.
“wil— right there, fuck—“ they groaned, the words breaking as their own hips bucked up to meet his thrusts, forcing a deeper, lower moan from him. he bit his own lip, the sharp pain a grounding counterpoint to the pleasure coiling tight in his gut. he buried his face in the curve of their neck, exactly as he had in the dream, but this was real—the salt-sweet taste of their skin, the frantic pulse under his lips, the way they gasped when he sucked a mark there.
the pace was brutal, perfect. the room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, ragged breathing, and the creak of the bed frame. their legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, angling him deeper. and then they cried out, a sharp, shattered sound, as he hit a spot inside them that made their entire body tense.
“don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” they pleaded, their voice a wrecked whisper in his ear.
he was close, so close, the edge a bright, blinding line. seeing them come undone, feeling the subtle, fluttering clench of their inner muscles around him, tipped him over. “i’m gonna…” he warned, his voice strangled.
they gave a slight nod, head burying in the pillow beneath them as their second climax hit them. their back arching off the bed, a string of obscene, beautiful moans pouring from their lips as they clenched around him rhythmically.
it was too much. with three final, deep, grinding thrusts, he followed them, his own release tearing through him with a force that stole his vision and his breath. a long, ragged groan was torn from his throat, muffled against their shoulder as he spilled himself inside them, hips stuttering through the pulses until he was spent, collapsed atop them, trembling and slick with sweat.
for long minutes, the only sounds were the frantic hammering of two hearts slowing into syncopation, and the harsh, shared struggle for air. the ghost of the dream was gone, exorcised by a reality that was messier, louder, and infinitely more real. he’d screwed it up, or he’d started something new. lying there, with their fingers slowly carding through his damp hair, he found, for the first time that day, that he didn’t care which it was.
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