#pred wilbur

[vorestuffiguess]

Keep the World Away (Hide Me for Just a Day)

WARNING! Soft Vore! SFW! DSMP! Platonic! NOT RPF!

AO3 Link:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Fic Below the cut!

Tommy could feel the ground beneath his feet through the worn down soles of his shoes.  Sweat dripped down his face, Tommy had never been so scared in his life.

He careened through the forest until the trees stopped looking familiar, the footfalls sounding not far behind him shooting terror through his veins.

Tommy was still unhealthily skinny, his strength hadn’t yet fully recovered from exile, and his resurrection hadn’t helped anything.  He wished in an echoey sort of way that he’d stayed dead, or that he’d let himself die in exile or that—

No, because then Dream would have just brought him back.

Over and over and over and over and over—

Tommy sobbed as he ran, he didn’t want to die if he wasn’t going to stay dead.

He wanted Tubbo and Techno and Philza and Wilbur—!

He raced across the clearing, knowing in that moment that he was dead, Dream had a clean shot now, no trees in the way, he would shoot Tommy and Tommy would never be free again.

And then Tommy saw salvation.

“WILBUR!” he screamed with his hoarse throat as he threw himself into Wilbur’s startled arms.

As soon as Wilbur registered that it was Tommy he smirked at him.

“Come running back have you?” Wilbur asked condescendingly.

Tommy let out a hiccuping sob, “He’s going to kill me and bring me back and kill me and bring me back he said— OVER AND OVER AND—”

Wilbur frowned, “Who?  Dream wouldn’t do that—”

He was cut off by Dream stepping into the clearing.

“I see you’ve got something of mine.” the masked man said casually, “It ran away, I’d appreciate it if you could return him.”

Unconsciously Wilbur’s arms tightened around Tommy.

“Yours?” he asked in a tone of voice that Tommy recognized as dangerous, possessive and cruel, it made Tommy feel safe, even if he was just an object in a pissing contest between Wilbur and Dream, at least it meant Wilbur would fight for him.

Dream clearly didn’t get the message.

“Mine.” Dream affirmed.

“That’s funny,” Wilbur said coldly, “Because Tommy is my little brother.”

“But you abandoned him, left him alone and free for the taking.” Dream argued with false cheer.

“If you think anyone other than me owns Tommy you’d be very wrong.  I could tell him to do anything and he’d do it, he’d fight you in little ways, but he loves me.” Wilbur countered.

Dream growled, “If you won’t return him then I’ll just have to take him back by force.”

“He’s mine!” Wilbur hissed and then Tommy was shrinking, the world around him growing to impossible heights.

…

Tommy remembered Wilbur’s power, he could shrink things so long as he was touching them, they reverted to normal size once he stopped touching them or turned his power off.

Tommy remembered daring Wilbur to shrink and eat things as a child.

He remembered Wilbur entertaining them around the campfire in L’Manburg by shrinking various animals and swallowing them whole.

Tommy remembered asking Wilbur once in Pogtopia if Wilbur had ever done that to a person.  Wilbur’s response was a quick ‘no’, but the look of longing and remembrance on his face spoke a different story.

Tommy never asked again.

…

And now Wilbur held Tommy in his hands and was lifting Tommy up to his mouth, tense and clearly expecting Tommy to fight.

Tommy didn’t.

He didn’t want to die, he hated that Wilbur saw him as nothing more than a possession, that Wilbur said ‘if I can’t have it no one can’, but he’d said that about L’Manburg too.

Wilbur had loved L’Manburg…

Maybe this meant that in some way he loved Tommy.

If Wilbur killed him like this at least Dream wouldn’t be able to revive him, he wouldn’t leave behind a body for the ritual.

He’d stay dead.

Tommy closed his eyes as he was dropped into Wilbur’s mouth and let out a tiny sob.

He’d be free.

Tommy shuddered as Wilbur licked at him, and once Tommy was soaked Wilbur tilted his head back and swallowed.

Tommy tumbled into Wilbur’s throat, squished and compressed as he was dragged down, Tommy bit back a sob as the air was crushed from his lungs.

And then finally his legs hit open space, and in what felt like meer moments Tommy was sitting in Wilbur’s stomach.

Tommy opened his eyes, whimpering in the faint light, the blue-ish glow that came from Wilbur’s flesh ever since his resurrection.  Tommy didn’t have any room, he was cradled on all sides by warm flesh, he curled up into a tight ball, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

Tommy flinched when he felt one of the walls press against him, like a hand from the outside.

Right, Wilbur was probably gloating at Dream.

Tommy let go, sobbing quietly.

He pressed his own hand into the flesh of the wall where he’d felt Wilbur’s hand, he wanted to feel less alone, just for a moment.

The hand returned, brushing the wall against him.

Tommy hiccuped out a few more sobs before stopping, Wilbur hadn’t forgotten him, Wilbur was right there.

Tommy was as close to his brother as was physically possible, no one could hurt him here.  They’d have to get past Wilbur first, and Wilbur would never lose.

And so Tommy closed his eyes and forced himself to relax into the damp warmth around him, Dream couldn’t hurt him anymore.  Tommy was safe.

…

Wilbur grinned viciously at Dream, whose expression was easy to guess even if it was hidden behind his mask, shock.

Wilbur pressed a hand into the small swell of his belly, Tommy safely hidden inside.

Wilbur taunted Dream until the man left in a huff.

Wilbur sighed, smiling as he felt Tommy move inside of him, Wilbur had always been a Child of Death, an Eater of Souls, but for Tommy he’d make his body a haven.

Wilbur was perhaps not the most mentally stable, liked seeing Tommy afraid a bit too much, saw Tommy as more of a possession than a person, but Wilbur knew he was fucked up.  Just like he knew Tommy was fucked up as well.

Wilbur frowned, he was pretty sure Techno and Phil had been involved in Dream’s escape, he’d have to go talk to them about what Dream had tried to do.  They’d probably make him spit Tommy back up unfortunately.

Wilbur sighed as he started walking towards Phil and Techno’s cabins.

At least now that he’d done it once he could probably trick or convince Tommy into doing it again.

Wilbur poked at the weight of Tommy in his middle, grinning as he heard faint swearing and felt movement as Tommy tried to get away from his hand.  He openly laughed when Tommy settled back down and poked him back.

[valveposts]

Well, I finally did it, I wrote my first vore fic, with some slight sexual implications so it goes on this blog rather than the other one: 

“Ghostbur, how do you feel about tight spaces?”

“Hmm? I don’t like them very much…”

Wilbur is watching him like a hawk—eyes following the tiny ghost like a butterfly pinned to a board, a tiny smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. The house is quiet around them. Phil’s gone out somewhere, and it's just the two of them. Somewhere in another room, a clock ticks away, clicking a steady beat through the still air.

“Why… why do you ask?” Ghostbur’s voice wavers a bit. 

Wilbur doesn’t answer, just stares intently at him for another moment before scooping him up in the palm of his hand. His ghost is tiny and weightless, but solid nonetheless. It’s a strange feeling—a sweater pressed to his palm, tiny fingers splayed, but no weight. It’s like lifting a feather. 

“Oh,” Ghostbur gasps, and isn’t that cute? He doesn’t fight back or leave his hand, just scrambles to regain his balance, scared but not running. Adorable.

Wilbur pinches him between his fingers, thumb pressed over his chest and forefinger digging into his back, and lifts him up like that. Even with this pressure applied, the ghost doesn’t seem any less solid and real.

“Alive—er—Revivedbur, what are you doing?” He sounds just a tiny bit panicked. His arms are pushing uselessly against Wil’s fingers, slipping and straining. Wilbur makes up his mind like lightning.

“Why,” he practically purrs, “I’m going to eat you.”

Ghostbur goes still in his hand, like a deer in headlights, a prey animal sighted by a predator, before squeaking and scrabbling desperately against his captor’s fingers. Wilbur just laughs lightly, feeling the tiny presses of hands and fingers and nails against his own, the futile kicking of miniscule legs, before opening his mouth and putting Ghostbur inside. 

He can feel him moving, seemingly disoriented and definitely scared, and he presses him to the roof of his mouth with his tongue. He gasps again—that cute sound—as Wilbur practically drools around him. A rumbling purr spreads from his chest and resonates around the tiny boy, deep and strong.

This is more exciting than he’d hoped—much more, in fact. He’d really only intended to fuck with the ghost—he knows he can survive it, he’s dead already—but the way he squirms in Wilbur’s mouth brings on another kind of excitement, the thrill of a successful hunt, perhaps... as well as… something else. 

Ghostbur is flavorless, unless “blue” counts as a flavor—though Wilbur actually thinks it might—so he sees little point in keeping him in his mouth. He swallows, ignoring the terrified movements.

Almost instinctively, his hand comes up to his throat, feeling the slight bulge where he knows his prey is—he can feel it moving—and follows it down, all the way to his clavicle, where he loses touch. He can still feel him there, though, and then the weight is in his stomach. 

He’s never felt anything like it. 

He’s still purring when his hand begins to rub at his belly, slight movements just barely discernible under his fingers. 

“Wow,” he says, and he’s prepared to taunt but there’s a certain breathless quality to his voice that leaves him feeling odd. “You’re… you feel too good in there, ha.” His face feels hot and grows more flushed the longer his fingers circle over his stomach.

How long could Ghostbur stay in there? He can’t die, so surely Wilbur has all the time in the world with him like this? Maybe he could even keep him there until Phil returns—he would never know, never guess what or who is inside him. 

Wilbur sighs through the purrs resonating through his chest and leans back in his chair, relaxed. One hand continues to lazily rub at the tiny boy in his stomach, and the other drops to his side. 

“You know, I think I’m gonna keep you in here for a while. Maybe take a nap. Feels nice, on a full stomach. Think you can handle being in there for that long?” It’s not a question; he’ll do whatever he wants. More squirming, though this time it feels weaker, more subdued. The tiny boy’s learning his place.

Wilbur gets up and stretches, marveling at the feeling of Ghostbur’s weight inside his stomach, at the little involuntary twitches and terrified kicks he lets out when Wilbur moves… he makes his way to his makeshift cot, slowly, savoring it, before flopping down dramatically into the blankets. He pulls one over him, brushing over his stomach as he does so, and burrows into his pillow with a yawn. His hand goes back to lazily rubbing, feeling every small movement, and, content, he drifts off to sleep.

aaaand, that’s about it! I’m not sure if its good and I’m still not sure how I feel abt vore itself but... here it is *jazz hands*