#starting my secret tag categorizations... keep an eye out for the ones that pop up without being in the directory...

[trickstersaint]

Poems about not wanting to kill yourself are a mood need more of ‘em 🔥🔥‼️‼️🗣️🗣️ /lh

shout out to not wanting to kill yourself for real it's so awesome. highly recommend! i'm having a great time writing poems about it haha

[crdteezv]

His #1 Fan - Haechan

Pairing:  !idol! Haechan x perv loser fangirl! gf! reader

Genre: idol! au, smut

Synopsis: You told him you were just a fan. But behind closed doors? You were obsessed—saving every fancam, moaning his name into your pillow, and running a secret fan account filled with god knows what. Haechan never suspected a thing… until he came home early and found it all. And now that he knows what you really are?

A pervert.

 Warnings: smut. !mean/hard dom! haechan, loser/perv sub!reader, reader has an unhealthy obsession with him and is lowkey creepy at times… mutual masturbation, phone sex?, size kink,  oral (giving), fingering (receiving), sex toy use, pillow humping, HEAVY humiliation and degradation, unprotected sex.

Word Count: 5.4k words

A/N: Fair warning—this fic is pretty disturbing, and if you’re not comfortable with any of the tags above, please refrain from reading. This one’s way more intense than most of what I’ve written before.

Also, sorry for disappearing for months… I had zero motivation to write until now!!

AND I did not forget about the NCT prompt requests!! A bunch of them are still in the works, so keep an eye out

You were a fan first. Always.

You’d been following Haechan for years. Not casually. Not like one of those girls who watches a few stages and thinks she’s obsessed because she knows his birthday and blood type. No. You were deep into it. Sick with it. You're the kind of fan people make callout threads about.

You studied him.

Every stage outfit—categorized by tour, color scheme, and accessory. Every fancam—even the shaky, blurry 360p ones where the mic check overshadowed his voice—downloaded, backed up, renamed, and stored in folders sorted by era, hair color, etc. You had tags for expressions like his smirks or lip bites. Livestreams were recorded the second they went up, even the ones that got deleted halfway through. You had them saved forever.

You had clips titled things like "his moan???" and “rude ass stare.mp4.” You watched them on loop. 

You came to them.

At first, you told yourself it wasn’t that bad. You weren’t trying to date him. You didn’t want to be his girlfriend. You wanted to be fucked. Used.

You wanted to be some stupid little fan he could bend over the edge of a hotel bed and ruin—nothing but a warm hole to fuck until your throat was raw from moaning and your legs were too weak to stand. 

Your private account—@haebrainrot606—was the place where you said all the shit you’d never admit aloud.

he laughs like he knows i’d let him use my throat if he asked

i just know he gives the craziest head i want his face shoved in between my legs

i want to make a mess on his thigh and ride it till i cry

The tweet that went viral wasn’t even your worst one.

i want him to ignore me while he jerks off. just use my mouth. don’t even look at me

15k likes.. People were going crazy in the replies. No one knew who you were. You never posted your face. But your followers? They knew. They understood. They were sick just like you. 

You weren’t a fan.

You were a pervert.

And you were fine with that.

Until it stopped being a fantasy.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You were working some nothing backstage job at a music show—wrangling cables, keeping your head down, trying not to get caught staring. You tried not to stare too hard when he walked by. 

But he saw you.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

He asked for your name, then asked if you were free that weekend—and you said yes, way too quickly. You went out that weekend, nervous as hell, trying not to shake through the whole thing. You lied—told him you liked his group, but that you weren’t really into K-pop like that. You tried to act cool, like you weren’t always imagining him bending you over in one of the backstage closets and fucking you raw.

He honestly thought you were cute.

You started dating not long after.

Nobody knew. Not the fans. Not your friends. Not your mutuals on Twitter who’d die if they found out the girl thirst-tweeting about getting face-fucked by Haechan was actually dating him.

He didn’t know either.

Not about the account. Not about the folder on your phone marked simply “H.” Not about the screenshots of his hands or the dozens of clips of his hips during choreography. Not about the draft in your Notes app describing him bending you over his kitchen table and muttering, “Don’t fucking speak unless it’s to beg.”

He didn’t know you got off to them. Regularly.

He had no idea you watched his fancams with a vibrator pressed to your cunt. That sometimes you got so high on him, you ignored his texts just to ride your own hand through another orgasm.

He thought you were shy.

He thought you were sweet. Innocent.

He thought you missed him when he went on tour because you loved him.

You did. That part was true.

But you also missed the weight of his cock on your tongue. The way he grunted when you gagged around him. The way he groaned—low and casual, like he didn’t even realize it.  You missed how sometimes—just sometimes—he’d look at you while you were on your knees like you’d pissed him off, like he was two seconds away from saying ‘shut the fuck up and take it.’

You missed that look.

You loved him so much it made you sick. Loved the way he touched you like you were breakable. Like he was holding back. Loved the weight of his body over yours, slow and deep, fucking the air from your lungs one thrust at a time.

You wanted him to know.

You wanted to show him the account. Scroll through every tweet. Every draft. Every voice note of his moaning that you looped until your thighs were slick and your sheets were ruined.

You wanted him to snap.

You were soaking, just thinking about it.

His hoodie clung to your skin, black and oversized, still heavy with his cologne. You had your vibrator in one hand, your phone in the other. Fancam loaded. Volume low.

You rolled onto your stomach, shoved a pillow under your hips, and tucked the vibe against your clit.

You were already wet. The second it pulsed, your breath stuttered. The buzz vibrated through your spine, soft and relentless. Your hips rolled down into it, desperate for pressure, for anything.

The screen showed him on stage—sweat-soaked, hair messy, jean jacket clinging to his shoulders. He was practically fucking the air, like the audience wasn’t even there—like the lights, the screams, none of it mattered. His eyes stayed locked straight ahead, jaw clenched, hips grinding with that same brutal rhythm, like he was already inside someone. Like he knew you were out there, watching him lose control—and wishing it was you he was doing it to.

And God, his face. That smirk. Those eyes.

You pressed the vibe harder.

Your moan slipped out soft and broken. Your thighs clenched. You moved against it, slow and messy, your slick coating the pillow underneath you. You didn’t care. Your body was already curling, every nerve drawn tight.

“Fuck…”

The moan echoed through your room, quiet but desperate.

Your mind filled with his voice—imaginary, yet it felt so real

“You’re really humping a pillow, baby?”

You gasped. Your hips bucked. Your hands twisted in the sheets.

“You get off to me like this every night, huh?”

You did.

And you were so close.

“Fucking pathetic.”

You came fast and hard—legs twitching, hips jerking, body trembling.

But the shame didn’t stick.

Because you weren’t done.

You didn’t want to be done.

You turned the vibe higher. Pressed it back against your clit.

You were sobbing. Moaning through it. Guttural, aching sounds you couldn’t even bite back.

You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe.

And then—

Your phone rang.

Your whole body jerked. The vibrator still buzzed mercilessly against your clit.

Caller ID lit up the screen.

Haechan ♥️

Your heart dropped. Your brain fried.

You stared. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then you answered.

“Hi,” you gasped, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

Silence.

A pause.

Then his voice came through the line, low and smug, and knowing.

“You sound fucked out already.”

You choked on air.

“That for me?”

You whimpered. A sound so broken it wasn’t even a word.

He laughed.

And that was when you realized—he knew.

“Jesus, baby,” Haechan said, voice soaked in disbelief. “You miss me that bad?”

You nodded before you remembered he couldn’t see you. Tried to speak, but your throat clenched around the sound. The vibrator was still humming against your swollen clit—slow, cruel pulses dragging you up and down the edge like it had all the time in the world to make you suffer.

“What are you doing right now?” His voice dropped, smoother and a little darker now. “Tell me.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t even breathe, let alone form words. Shame burned through your face, your chest, all the way down to your trembling thighs.

He clicked his tongue—sharp, almost condescending.

“Oh my god. Are you actually touching yourself right now?”

The orgasm that had been teasing at your spine flared hotter.

“I didn’t think you were serious. You really can’t help yourself, huh?” he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Bet you’ve been humping that sad little pillow of yours like it’s my thigh.”

You choked on a moan.

He heard it.

“Aw, baby. You’re so fucking gross.”

He wasn’t mad. That was the worst part. He sounded fond and weirdly amused. Like the whole thing was endearing—your soaked sheets, your ruined underwear, your whimpers breaking apart in the back of your throat.

“You got the vibe still on?”

You nodded. “Yes,” you gasped. “Still—still on—”

“How long have you been like this?”

You had to think. Or maybe just lie.

“An h-hour?” It came out small. Shaky. Fragile.

He exhaled through a soft laugh—dark, amused, and just a little breathless.

“Jesus Christ.” A pause. “Did you cum already?”

You hesitated.

“…Twice.”

His groan bled into the speaker. It was quiet, low, and raw. It sounded like it had slipped past his teeth before he could hold it back.

“Fuck. You’re obsessed.”

You whimpered again, full-body tremble, everything clenched and aching and tight.

“Say it,” he said, voice cutting like a blade between your ribs. “Say what you want.”

You wanted to tell him you’d been jerking off to his fancams, but instead, you just said, “I want you to use me,” the words spilling out all at once, your voice cracking. “I want you to know how desperate I am. Please, Haechan, I want to be yours, I want—”

Your breath caught in your throat. The vibrator ground against your clit like it wanted to break you, and your whole body tensed with a cry.

“Keep going,” he breathed. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You didn’t know what you were saying anymore. It poured out of you—shameless and breathless.

“I think about your dick every night. I dream about your voice, your fingers, the way you fuck—rough, mean, fast—I want you to choke me—”

You screamed as it hit you.

Your orgasm exploded through your spine, brutal and unstoppable. You bit your own arm to keep from sobbing out loud. Your legs locked up, your hips twitched, and your cunt throbbed around nothing, dripping slick down your thighs and into the ruined pillow beneath you.

The vibrator kept buzzing.

Too much.

You clawed at it, yanked it away with shaky fingers, body twitching uncontrollably. You were soaked. The pillow beneath you was drenched. You couldn’t see straight and your vision blurred,

He was still on the line.

You heard him breathing slowly and steadily.

“…Are you okay?” he asked finally, voice wrecked. Like he’d been jerking off the whole time and was pretending not to.

You nodded, then laughed, the sound breaking apart halfway through.

“No,” you exclaimed. “I’m fucking exhausted now.”

He let out a breathy laugh at your response; he found it cute—how easily you fell apart, how quickly you turned into a desperate, needy mess just for him.

“I’m coming home in two days, by the way,” he said, tone soft but heavy, like a warning, like a promise.

You swallowed hard.

“You better be ready.”

You weren’t.

Not even close.

Two days later, he didn’t knock.

No warning. No text. No call.

He just walked in.

You were curled up in his bed, legs folded beneath you, phone glowing in your hand, face buried in his pillow like you were trying to smother yourself with the scent of him.

The same video played on your screen. The one you’d watched too many times. Him in the clear box. Sweating, smirking, thrusting so deep into the air it felt personal. The volume was too high. His voice filled the room—hot and arrogant and cocky—and you were too far gone to notice the door.

But you heard his voice in real time. 

“What the fuck is this?”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned slowly. Almost robotically. Like maybe if you didn’t move too fast, you could lie your way out of it.

He stood in the doorway. Still. Calm.

Too calm.

His eyes tracked everything— your flustered expression, your soaked panties half-pulled down your thighs, the spent vibrator glowing faintly at your side. And your phone. Playing him.

You moved too late.

He was already crossing the room, grabbing the phone out of your hand. You didn’t even have time to blink.

He saw everything.

The tweets. The clips. The saved voice notes. The smut drafts in your Notes app.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His thumb flicked across your screen.

Then he read one out loud.

“‘I want to be manhandled by Haechan so bad.’” His gaze snapped up. “Wow.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

He scrolled again.

“‘I want him to use me so bad I don’t give a fuck anymore.’” His head tilted slightly. He looked almost impressed. 

“Damn, baby.”

You scrambled. “It’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” he cut in, voice sharp now. “Didn’t think I’d find out?”

You fell silent.

He laughed. A single, low sound, cold and amused.

“All this time,” he said, stepping closer, eyes scanning your face like you were something he didn’t quite recognize. “You’ve been getting off to me in secret. Watching me over and over, like my fancams were made to feed your obsession. Lying to my face. Playing innocent.”

He stepped closer, phone still in his hand, and you instinctively backed up against the headboard.

“You’ve been jerking off to me like a fucking pervert. Fucking your pillow like a bitch in heat. Did you even want me, or did you just want to get off?”

You whimpered. Shook your head. But it was useless.

He was already reaching for you, already grabbing your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until your lips parted with a soft gasp.

“You’re fucking lucky I like you.”

Then he climbed onto the bed, knees pinning your thighs down, eyes flashing with something darker than desire.

You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed down, body trembling like it knew what was coming.

“I—I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely a thread.

“Oh, baby,” he muttered, dark amusement curling through every syllable. “You’re gonna be.”

He dropped your phone onto the bed with a loud, deliberate thud—screen still lit, still open to your account—and you flinched like it’d struck you.

Then his hand was on you.

Fingers curled under your chin, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you couldn’t look anywhere but him. His grip was firm, his eyes burning with something far beyond anger.

“You ever think about telling me?”

All you could do was swallow hard; your throat tightened, and you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him.

“You were gonna take that little account to the grave, huh?”

Still nothing.

He scoffed, like he already knew. Like he’d already read every tweet, every caption, every sick little reply.

And then—without warning—he yanked his hoodie off your body. The fabric dragged across your skin as you gasped, arms instinctively crossing over your chest like you could shield yourself from his gaze.

Pointless.

You were bare underneath. Exposed.

He looked at you slowly as if he was analyzing you.

And everything in his face changed.

His anger didn’t even go away. It just shifted into something colder, hungrier. His eyes darkened, dragging slowly and deliberately down the length of your body, lingering at the subtle twitch of your thighs. His gaze caught where your slick had already started to spill, glistening at your swollen cunt—leaking like you were begging without words.

 He looked at you like it was the first time—like he was finally seeing you the way you’ve always seen yourself.

“You were jerking off to me just now, weren’t you?” he asked, voice low, deadly calm.

Your face burned. “Y-Yes.��

He didn’t even blink. “You’re sick.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He stepped closer, closing the space between you in one stride. One hand reached for the back of your neck, gripping tight, fingers splayed wide, ownership in his touch.

“You’ve been jerking off to me every night like some pathetic loser,” he growled, pulling you close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. “You moan into your pillows while touching yourself to the thought of me. You even write your dirty little fanfics and tweet things you’d never dare say to my face—still acting like you’re not already mine.”

“But I-”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “I’m not done.”

You shut it.

His eyes dropped again, scanning your trembling thighs, the way your fingers twitched at your sides. The way your body was begging without saying a word.

“You couldn’t wait two days?” he muttered. “Two fucking days without touching yourself like a slut?”

You shook your head, barely breathing.

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“No self-control,” he whispered.

His hand drifted from your throat, down over your chest, between the curve of your tits, across your stomach, slow enough to make you tremble.

“You like this,” he said. “Being caught? Being humiliated?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“…Yes,” you whispered, throat tight. “I do.”

His fingers skimmed your thighs, teasing the inside, not touching where you needed him—just grazing, just letting you squirm.

“Now you’re gonna sit here,” he said, voice rough. “And you’re gonna watch me go through that little fan account of yours. Every tweet. Every thread. Every disgusting thought you’ve had about my dick.”

You nodded quickly, breath hitching.

The second he told you to drop—you did. Your knees hit the floor like it was second nature to you.

He didn’t waste time.

Didn’t even look at you for long. Just unzipped his pants, pulled his cock out—hard, angry-looking, flushed to the tip like it took every tweet personally.

“Open,” he ordered.

You opened your mouth, and he shoved his cock past your lips without hesitation. No warm-up, no mercy. Just thick, heavy weight pushing into your throat like you were nothing but a hole to fuck. You choked immediately, lips stretching wide, spit spilling down your chin.

Both hands tangled in your hair as he held your head in place. Then he started to move.

“Let’s see if you suck dick as good as you tweet about it.”

You gagged, eyes watering. You tried to keep up—to breathe through your nose, relax your throat—but he didn’t give you the chance. He used you. Fucked into your mouth like he owned it.

When your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, he chuckled darkly.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” he muttered, pulling you back just far enough to watch the spit stretch from your lips to his cock. “You like this. You like being used.”

You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks, spit dripping down to your chest. You were shaking.

“It’s pathetic.”

He shoved your head down again, and you took it. Gagged, swallowed around it. And he still didn’t stop.

He grabbed your phone with one hand and started scrolling again—Like your sobbing throat and strangled gags were nothing more than background noise to him, just his new favorite sound.

Your head already bobbing, spit-slick and twitching from every shove, every taunting roll of his hips like he was trying to bruise your esophagus on purpose. He had one hand tangled in your hair, the other casually lifting your phone, thumb swiping upward as if your tears pooling down his thighs weren’t even worth acknowledgment.

"Oh, what’s this one say?" he mused, even as you spluttered, spit bubbling around his shaft. He tilted the phone slightly, screen lighting his cheek with that faint glow. 

"'If he looked at me like that we’re fucking in that box in front of everyone I don't give af.'"

He barked a laugh and shoved his hips forward—not hard, just deep, intentional, burying himself until your throat was full of him and nothing else. Until your nose was pressed up against his happy trail and your eyes blurred with tears.

"Did you actually tweet this? " he taunted, holding the phone up, showing you the exact fancam—the fancam that you came to so many times.—paused right on that moment. His own eyes staring into the camera, pupils dark, jaw tight, every muscle in his body glistening in that glass box during that impossible performance. He hadn’t broken eye contact once with the lens, and you knew it. You’d watched it a hundred times. You tweeted about it.

He thrust again and your whole body jolted, a garbled whimper dragging out of your chest as he tapped the screen, watching himself lock eyes with the camera. With you. Over and over. That same unrelenting stare.

"Fucking in that box in front of everyone, huh?" he repeated, half-laughing now, breathless from how tight your throat clamped down when he quoted you. “God, you’re such a slut… wanting me to fuck you in front of all those people.”

You tried to breathe, tried to speak, but he just rocked into your mouth again, harder this time, making your shoulders hitch and your lungs beg. The phone was still in his hand, still glowing, still showing the loop of him staring into your soul.

“Bet you only said that so everyone would know I belong to you.”

God, he was so right.

You liked the idea of every single one of his fans, your mutuals, your followers, the whole damn world—watching that fancam and reading your tweets and knowing none of them could ever have him. Because he belonged to you. And more than that, you belonged to him.

You were his favorite fangirl.

Your whole body jerked, trembling. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as your throat fought to accommodate all of him and failed, again and again.

You were choking. He was scrolling. Perfect harmony.

His expression twisted, something between disgusted and turned on.

Then he pulled out with a wet pop, shoving your head aside like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

“On the bed.”

You scrambled up, legs barely working, knees weak as you crawled onto the mattress—still damp from earlier, still smelling like your last orgasm. You lay back, legs spread wide, open like muscle memory.

He stared.

Then smacked your clit.

Hard.

You screamed, body arching, hands fisting the sheets.

“You’re soaking just from me being mean to you?” he scoffed. “God, you’re such a fucking loser.”

Then he sank two fingers inside you—deep, rough, fast.

No warning.

They curled immediately, stroking the spot that made you jerk with a cry, your whole body thrumming with need.

You tried to breathe. Tried to stay still. But he was relentless—crooked fingers, wet sounds, his thumb grazing your clit just enough to drive you mad.

He leaned in close, voice pouring into your ear.

“All those dirty little posts?” he whispered. “All those disgusting tweets? You really thought I wouldn’t find out?”

You whimpered.

“You’re a fucking perv.”

He grabbed your phone again, still open on the mattress, still glowing.

“Let’s see what else my number-one fan’s been up to…”

He read aloud, slow and mocking.

“‘God, his hands are so pretty I just wish he could shove them deep inside and not stop no matter how many times I tell him to.’”

He looked at you, smirking. “My hands, baby? Out of everything? That’s what gets you off?”

You couldn’t speak. You were too far gone. Too humiliated. 

“You’re such a pervert for me.”

His fingers moved faster. Wet. Unforgiving. Fucking into you with no rhythm, no care—just force and pleasure. Until your legs started shaking and your walls clenched tight and you felt yourself teetering again.

And then—

He stopped.

Pulled out.

You sobbed. A broken, desperate sound.

He clicked his tongue. “Oh, princess. You really thought I’d let you cum after all that gross things you wrote about me?”

You shook your head, begged silently, grinding against nothing.

“You don’t deserve shit from me.”

He unzipped his pants again, pulled his cock out, slapped it against your clit once—twice—just to watch your hips jerk. Your back arched. You needed him. Needed it.

“Mmm, baby,” he said, voice honey-thick and mocking. “Look at it. The cock you’ve been tweeting about. The one you came to.”

Then he flipped you onto your stomach, shoved your face into the mattress, and fucked into you in one vicious, brutal thrust.

You screamed.

“You don’t even deserve to be fucked like this,” he snarled, hips already slamming into yours. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You cried out again. Again. Every thrust shoved you further into the bed, stretched you wider, fucked you raw. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned. “You’re dripping down my cock, baby. Fucking soaked. All for me.”

The sheets smelled like him. Like cologne, sweat, and sex. It was overwhelming. It was perfect.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

Your orgasm was building again.

“Aww, don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already,” he said, voice low. “We barely fucking started.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even form a sound. You didn’t even hear him anymore—his constant taunts and teasing were a blur. All you could feel was his cock pounding into you and your orgasm building like a scream in your throat. All that registered now was the relentless rhythm of his cock slamming into you, slick and punishing, hitting that spot again and again with no mercy, no slowing, no breath between thrusts. Your body wasn't keeping up, and your brain had left hours ago.

And then it hit.

The orgasm came without warning—sudden, blinding, violent. Muscles clamped tight around his cock, walls spasming uncontrollably, thighs shaking as the wave surged through your core and stole every breath. Stars bloom into your vision, and you feel yourself getting dizzy. A scream tore from your throat, raw and broken, muffled into the sheets as your entire body trembled and shook. The convulsions came hard, hips jolting, knees knocking into his without rhythm, and still—he didn’t stop.

He grunted. Slowed just enough to mock you.

“God,” he hissed, breathless, looking down at the mess you’d become. “You’re so fucking gross. You really came that fast?”

Just grabbed your aching body and flipped you over like a ragdoll, letting you bounce onto your back, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“Now it’s my turn.”

And you didn’t get to breathe. Not even once.

He shoved into you in a single, brutal thrust, hips slamming against yours with obscene wet heat. You squealed—sharp and involuntary, a high-pitched gasp that twisted into a choked sob. Your legs instinctively locked around him, thighs clenching at his waist, your arms snapping up around his neck as your whole body reacted with desperate need. He filled you, absolutely filled you, cock stretching your sore pussy wide open again with zero warning, and it was too much.

“Fuck—” he groaned, pressing his chest flush to yours, his entire weight pinning you down into the bed. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift your head. His cock ground inside you, thick and brutal and unrelenting, while he buried his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of your sweat.

“You’re so fucking small under me,” he muttered, voice hoarse with lust, dragging his hips slow now, long, deliberate thrusts that made your back arch off the mattress. His cock slid in deep, too deep, forcing your body to take every inch like it had no choice.

You could barely breathe. He was suffocating you, swallowing your air, pinning your wrists back down with his hands wrapped tight around them like shackles. His broad shoulders caged you in like he wanted to drown you in him. His cock bullied your pussy with every thrust, splitting you open, dragging slick out of you with wet, squelching sounds that made your ears burn.

And you loved it.

You loved being held down. Loved the crushing weight of him on your body, the way his arms flexed over yours, how every part of you was forced to mold to him.

He started fucking harder. Hips snapping forward, slamming into you without rhythm, without restraint—just force. You cried out with each impact, your arms tightening around his neck, trying to anchor yourself to anything as he railed you into the mattress.

Then his mouth found your ear.

“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice soft and dangerous, like a knife against skin. “You were running a fan account the whole time.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed cheeks, hips slamming forward as he spoke. Each word landed with a violent thrust.

“All those pathetic little things you posted about me—every night—while I was already fucking you like this in my bed.”

You gasped, trying to stammer something, anything, but the air was gone, and so were your thoughts. His fingers gripped your jaw tightly, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes were wild. 

Possessive.

He than whispered in your ear “Don’t you think that’s a little fucking selfish?”

“I—I'm sorry—I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did," he cut you off, cock drilling into you harder, his voice thick with betrayal—and something darker. “You wanted both. You wanted to be my girlfriend and my #1 fan all at the same time. You wanted to write all that crazy shit about me and still look me in the eyes like nothing was wrong.”

Your body jolted as his cock slammed deeper, harder, shoving you up the bed until your head smacked into the headboard, breath ripped from your lungs.

“You’re mine,” he exclaimed. “You’ve always been mine. And no one gets to know that my biggest fan is a gross, pervy little slut I call my girlfriend.”

And that did it. Again.

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and unstoppable. Your legs shook around him, your voice cracked in a hoarse, broken scream that you buried in his shoulder, teeth scraping skin. You clung to him like a lifeline as he fucked you through it—faster now, chasing his own release with those brutal, punishing thrusts that sent the bedframe banging against the wall.

Then you felt it.

The heat. The flood. His cock twitched hard inside you, buried to the hilt, as thick, his warm cum spilling deep into your cunt. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you like he wanted to drown in you, hips still twitching, grinding in lazy aftershocks as your body milked him for every drop.

You were full. Overstuffed. Sore, soaked, still trembling. His cum leaked out of you in hot, messy spurts, mixing with your slick on the sheets. You could feel the mess under you, the wet sound your bodies made every time he shifted slightly, still inside you, cock still hard.

He didn’t move. Just collapsed on top of you, chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he didn’t care if you suffocated under him.

He stayed there.

You stayed under.

His cock twitched inside your pulsing cunt. Your heartbeat pounded against his ribs. You were nothing but a mess under him, and he loved it.

After a long silence, he reached over, his arm dragging lazily across the mattress, and grabbed your phone from where it had fallen off the bed earlier. He unlocked it without asking.

Scrolled.

Paused.

“I thought about it,” he said suddenly, voice low, husky. “But I don’t want you to delete your account.”

You blinked. Tried to process through the fog.

“…W-wait. What?”

“I said,” he repeated, eyes flicking to yours with that same glint of cruel amusement, “you should keep it.”

Your stomach dropped through the bed. You stared, eyes wide and raw. “No. No, wait—”

He leaned in close, mouth brushing yours with a smirk.

“Don’t get all shy now, baby,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes glinting. “Not after you posted that 43 tweet thread about how you’d let me facefuck you while I played League.”

You wanted to vanish, to die, to claw your way under the bed and disappear forever.

But he just kissed you again. Slow this time. Warm. Sickeningly sweet. Sinister.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips. “Don’t worry.”

He pulled back and winked.

“Post whatever you want. Just know I’ll be watching…”

[dr-gloom]

You’re Scared

Summary: Based off this AMAZING prompt from @britbrodcast​! 

Fandom: Sanders’ Sides

Pairings: Platonic LAMP? what’s it called when Dee’s in it??? Who knows

Words: 4,774

Tags/Warnings: Virgil is spoopy but also a dork so it balances out, Patton is Concerned(tm), I guess this could be considered Sympathetic Deceit?, Idk, But he isn’t a bad snek so, mild swearing, angst, panic attack

Read it on AO3

fic masterlist

like what I do? buy me a coffee or GoFundMe

((i listened to all of Folie A Deux on repeat while writing this cause that’s like my default Virgil playlist honestly))

It was no secret to Thomas and the other sides that Virgil didn’t exactly get around like them. It’d been proven that he was capable of sinking out, but he always just, as Logan put it, “appeared”. Roman was convinced it was because he was really a Dark Side, but Patton wasn’t having any of that. Virgil was his sweet and sour son and there wasn’t a dark or sinister bone in his body. So no one knew how Virgil did it, or even why, because it wasn’t really asked. Maybe they didn’t mind, or maybe they were scared of the answer. Maybe Virgil really was a Dark Side; if that were true, well, ignorance is bliss. 

Patton was cooking lunch as he hummed along to some song on the small kitchen radio, chopping up some veggies when he turned to grab something and the knife slipped out of his hands and clattered to the floor, making him jump with a yelp. He held a hand to his heart, trying to calm himself as he glanced down at the knife now on the kitchen floor. A voice coming from above him startles him even more.

“Jeez Pat, be more careful. You could’ve seriously hurt yourself.” Patton looks around, confused when he doesn’t see anything. “Up here.” Patton looks up, eyes widening a bit as he spots Virgil on top of the fridge. How had he gotten up there? And how long had he been sitting there? “Oh, hey kiddo! You doin’ okay?” Patton remembered Virgil saying something about sitting in strange places on more... stressful days. Virgil shrugs, seeming to not have considered that. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?” Patton makes a small ‘o’ expression and nods. 

“Yep! No knife can hurt this cleaver dad!” He bends over and picks up the vegetable cleaver. Virgil rolls his eyes, swinging his legs to dangle over the side of the fridge. “That pun wasn’t cleaver.” He mutters. Patton giggles, just glad that Virgil is joking along with him. He knows the other is usually a little jumpy, cautious, reluctant to join the other five (the four other sides and Thomas, of course) in any kind of banter or fun-making. “Why don’t you come down from there and help your old man with lunch? Cheese?” 

“That one was just bad.”

“So it wasn’t Gouda.” Patton smiles brightly as Virgil snrks and hops down from the fridge straight to the floor. Patton almost protests - that can’t be good on his knees! - but Virgil seems unaffected. “How long were you sitting up there anyways? You too cool to say hi to your old man?” Patton thinks he hears a mutter of same age before Virgil replies, “I’ve been there the whole time. I just didn’t want to bother you.” Virgil isn’t looking at Patton, but Patton just figures it’s because he’s shy and ‘doesn’t like to be a bother to anyone’. He could never bother Patton! Patton loves his dark strange son. 

“Well gosh kiddo you know you can talk to me whenever! I love our talks.” He grins at the other as he gets a new, clean knife and Virgil moves the cut up veggies to the waiting pan. “I guess... You’re good, though?” Virgil glances over at Patton through his bangs, and Patton’s smile softens. “I’m okay. Thanks kiddo.”

Logan sits in his usual spot at the end of the couch, reading a book while the TV plays on in the background. Roman had started some sci-fi horror film, leaving part-way through when he was stricken with a sudden idea. Of course, this often happened, so Logan didn’t mind the background noise that was more like a quiet static underneath his focus. Judging by the music and increased screaming, Logan would venture a guess that the movie was nearing the climax. He turned the page, further tuning out the movie as he became immersed in the world of Mr. Heathcliff at Wuthering Heights. 

He made it through nearly half of the book before his focus waned again, the sounds of someone - most likely Roman - coming down the hall caught his attention. His suspicions were proven correct when the princely figure plopped down on the opposite end of the couch and picked up the remote, seamlessly putting on another movie without a second’s thought. It goes through the ads, and the dreaded THX sound blares out of the speakers. Logan jumps, dropping his book, looking around. Roman looks just as startled, despite being the one who put the movie on, and mutters an apology. Virgil sits on the back of the couch (when did he get here???) and leans down, snatching the remote from Roman and quickly turning it down. 

“Seriously Princey, you’re going to make us all deaf.”

Roman and Virgil launch into a fit of banter as Logan watches them silently, now feeling calmer and thinking to himself. How odd; he was certain Virgil was in his room just a moment ago. He obviously knew of Virgil’s penchant for Appearing(tm) places, but he almost always walks around like the rest of them when in the Mind Palace. So why Appear(tm) now? They weren’t in any imminent danger. Logan thought of asking, but with how cryptic and vague Virgil tended to be, he doubted he’d get a real answer. Virgil turns to look at Logan, eyebrow raised. “What?” Logan blinks. “Ah, it’s nothing. You just startled me with your appearance, that’s all.”

“Yeah, Edgar Allen Woe, quit popping up like that! It’s so rude.” 

Virgil tenses slightly, and if Logan hadn’t been studying him so closely he knows he would have missed it. “Maybe the valiant prince should learn to keep his guard up if he wants to be good at protecting people.” Roman opens his mouth to quip back when Logan cuts him off. “Now Virgil, you know that’s absurd; you’re the protector of the five of us. Well, I suppose Deceit is as well to some degree, but your role presents in a more physical aspect.” Virgil blows a puff of air and shrugs, slinking off the couch and heading back to the hallway.

“Hold on, Wizard of Odd, watch a movie with us. You’ve been in your room all day.” 

Virgil pauses and looks between the two sides before shrugging just slightly and sitting between Roman and Logan, with a comfortable distance between each. Roman and Logan share a look before they both move to sit so there’s only a few inches of space between each side, Roman grinning satisfactorily and grabbing the remote to put on Big Hero 6 - something all three of them enjoy. Logan isn’t one for physical contact, but he knows that Virgil can be when he’s in the right mood and yet will never ask for it, so he’s more than happy to nudge the boundaries of his comfort zone to help him out. As the movie starts though, Logan’s mind wanders over the information he’d gathered while observing the anxious side. Now to figure out what it all meant...

Dee rarely had the commons to himself. Since his appearance in Can Lying Be Good? the others have... sort of accepted him into the fold. They’re still a bit on edge around him, for obvious reasons, but he can tell they’re trying. And it’s appreciated, really, but it can be... tense, and exhausting. So he tends to stay away unless it’s famILY meal time, as Patton puts it, or if only one sides is in the room. He can deal with any of them on their own, but two or more of them and the atmosphere became too muddled. Too conflicted. 

So Dee preferred these times on his own, knowing that Roman had taken Patton into his strange fantasy realm and that Logan was off somewhere, categorizing memories or... something. He can’t remember. He knew Virgil tended to keep to his room as well, and honestly he wouldn’t mind if the other came to join him either way, so he settled onto the couch and turned the TV on. After a while, he decided to settle on some children’s show Thomas ha been getting into, Duck Tales. Honestly (ha, honestly), Dee didn’t see the appeal, but since he was part of Thomas an this strange famILY, he figured he might as well try. 

He thinks back to the day he revealed himself to Thomas, his mouth quirking to the side. That.... could have gone worse. But it could have gone better, too. He had been trying to help Thomas, that’s always his intention, but even he could see that there was a better way to do so. How was Thomas supposed to trust anything he said if he went around pretending to be someone else, both physically when he looked like Patton and characteristically when he acted the part of the bad guy. 

But it had gone so well for Virgil.

“Half-truth.” Even Dee got caught in his lies sometimes; he had to remind himself of when he was actually lying, and what the truth meant. Sure, Virgil had essentially done the same as Dee, but the other had eventually started to act more like himself around the other sides and began building relationships. The others actually started trusting Virgil and liking him. But Dee? They didn’t know much about him, they had few interactions with him, so how could they possibly feel the same for him as they do about Virgil, who’s been around for years? 

I need them to like me.

“Lie.” He didn’t need their approval to do his job, or even exist. His existence up to this point was proof of that. 

I want them to like me.

“Why?” He was aware he was talking to himself in the middle of the living room, but he honestly didn’t care; it’s not like anyone could hear him.

Because I’m lonely.

Dee’s brow furrowed. “Truth...” And it was. It scared him, but it was true. He’d never admit out loud how he felt, but the feeling was as old and familiar to him as lying itself. Before, he hadn’t paid any mind to it; he’d contented himself on performing to his best, keeping Thomas’ relationships afloat and keeping everyone happy. He lived vicariously through Thomas’ interactions with his friends, found happiness and peace in their laughter and their smiles and their shared jokes. That’s why he fought so hard to keep it that way.

But now? Now he had something to draw his focus, something he could lose. As fragile as it was, he had some sort of relationship with the other sides now and he couldn’t mess it up. If he had to go back to Thomas’ subconscious, alone...

I’m scared. 

“Hi scared, I’m Virgil.” Dee jumped, falling off the couch. He laid on his back in shock, staring up at Virgil who was hanging upside down from the spinning ceiling fan, legs spread as they were each hooked over separate wings. His hair dangled in the air, giving a rare sight of his whole face. Virgil sighed as the fan spun him until his back was facing Dee. “Of all the places...” He comes back around. “You okay, Dee?” Dee stares up at him, sitting up slowly and watching him spin around lazily. 

“How did you-?” 

Virgil smirks slightly, but it doesn’t look snarky or menacing. “I’m anxiety, I know fear. If you’re so scared of being alone, try being yourself.” Dee scoffs lightly. “It’s very easy.” Virgil frowns slightly, brushing a hand through his hair (which does nothing, he’s upside down). “Try taking them to your room.” Dee’s room was one of the very few places he could actually speak the truth without his words being twisted without his consent. He rubs his face with a sigh. “They’ll believe me. I never lie.” Virgil hums as he’s spun away again, answering as he’s brought back to face Dee. “I could come with you. They know that I know you, and they trust me, I could convince them if they don’t believe you.” 

Dee watches Virgil spin around one more time before speaking up. “Why are you up there?” He found out long ago that questions are something he can speak without them being twisted. Virgil shrugs, which looks a bit strange upside down. “You know how this works just as well as I do, Dee. When someone-” 

“Yes, yes. I don’t mean... Why are you still up there? Don’t come down.” Virgil looks at Dee’s face for a moment before curling up to grip the fan, then maneuvering his legs so he was danging upright. He lets go of the fan and lands on his feet in front of Dee, offering him a hand. “Come on, Princey and Patton should be back soon, we can do this together.” 

Dee nods, taking Virgil’s hand and standing up. 

Roman panted loudly as he ran, feet pounding on the solid Earth beneath him, causing small puffs of dust to rise and trail behind him. He was sweating; it was hot out and he’d been running for a good ten minutes, with the monster never showing a sign of faltering or tiring. He curses under his breath as his empty scabbard hits the back of his thigh with every other step. If he hadn’t lost his sword... 

The monster roars, the sound loud and cacophonous, making birds in the surrounding field take off in flight. Roman feels his heart leap as he pushes on past his growing fatigue, trying to remember where he put the door. He runs until he sees the local village, and makes a beeline for it. The door wasn’t far from the other side of the village, he was almost there. Roman stumbles, almost falling and regaining his footing and just barely escaping the monster’s claws. It roars in anger again, gnashing it’s teeth. Roman spares a glance over his shoulder as he nears the edge of the village, paling at the sight of the monster gaining on him. He runs through the streets, calling at the villagers to turn and run as the monster comes thundering after him, carelessly crushing stalls underfoot and ramming into buildings as it passed. Roman swallows around the lump in his throat, his heartbeat deafening his ears, his legs complaining from being pushed so far for so long. 

Roman looks over his shoulder at the monster once again, not seeing the cart in front of him and crashing into it with the right side of his body, sending him sprawling to the ground. He halts himself with his hands, getting to his hands and knees just as a shadow blocks out the sun overhead. 

Roman rolls to sit, resting back on his hands, eyes wide, hair and clothes disheveled, staring up at the monster looming over him, snarling. It’s breath is hot, and reeks of decaying flesh. Roman gags, his heart thundering in his chest and his arms shaking. He feels along the ground for something, anything, as he refuses to look away from the beast. Oh god, he’s going to die. This thing is going to kill him and Thomas will never have an idea ever again and Patton will cry and Virgil will never leave his room and Logan will- 

There’s a familiar scream as the monster goes in for the attack, and Roman looks over to see... Virgil? No, not just that..

Virgil.

Stuck in a stone wall.

Looking absolutely terrified as he watches Roman just lay there as this monster-

Roman tears his gaze away long enough to roll to the side, just missing the jaw of the beast and jumping to his feet, running to Virgil. 

“Virge! What are you-? How did you even-?” Virgil looks like he’d been falling through the wall when it decided to solidify around him; his left arm is encased in stone almost up to the elbow as well as half of his right hand. His left leg is almost completely in stone, the upper half of his thigh the only denim showing. His right leg is free though, dangling at an odd angle due to Virgil being several inches above the ground. Even some of his hair seems to be caught in the stone, keeping him from moving his head too much. 

Virgil isn’t looking at Roman though; his terrified gaze is locked on the monster behind him, clawing at the ground and getting ready to charge. Virgil’s breathing is shallow and uneven, and what Roman can see of him is trembling like a leaf. “R-Roman-!” Virgil screams again as the monster charges, and Roman spins around, summoning his sword just in time to bring it up and block the monster’s claws, pushing it back a step. It roars and Virgil’s breathing does something funny. Shit, Roman needs to end this soon and help him out.

Roman goes on the offensive now, attacking the monster with a vengeance. He can’t let this thing defeat him or hurt Virgil! He cuts the monster’s arm, blood gushing from the deep wound as it screams and rears back on it’s hind legs, then comes down on Roman. Roman runs toward it, sliding down to his knees as the front paws near the ground, and brings his sword up to stab into the monster’s stomach, cutting it open as he slides to a halt. Blood covers both him and the Earth around him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, clamping his jaw. Monster blood, eugh. 

Roman takes a moment to just sit there, catching his breath and letting the tremors leave his body before he stands and tries to wipe some of the blood from his face. He turns to look at Virgil, large grin dying on his face as soon as he takes in the other’s appearance. 

Virgil is an absolute mess. He’s shaking uncontrollably, sobbing loudly as tears race down his cheeks, his breathing quick and panicked, eyes wide, staring right at Roman. Roman frowns with concern and raises a hand, taking a couple steps closer, but when Virgil’s breathing gets worse he stops. Shit, what is he supposed to do now? His friend is literally stuck in a wall and having a panic attack and Roman is covered in-

He wants to slap himself for being so stupid. He snaps his fingers instead, and instantly all the blood is gone, along with the monster’s corpse. Roman holds both hands up placatingly as he slowly, so slowly, moves closer to Virgil. Virgil tries to speak, but with how hard he’s crying and how much he’s panicking he can’t form a coherent sound, much less a sentence. Roman gently shushes him and rests a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “It’s alright, Virge. It’s okay. The monster’s gone, it can’t hurt you or me. You’re safe. Everyone’s safe. We’re okay. Just breathe.” Roman stumbles through Virgil’s breathing exercise a few times until Virgil is mostly calmed down, now just crying softly with the occasional soft whimper. “there you go, you’re doing great, Virge. Everything’s okay. We’re safe. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Roman feels the stone wall, frowning slightly. It certainly feels like solid stone, so then how did Virgil..? “Virge? How did you get here?” 

Virgil sniffs and looks at his arm poking out from the stone. “I-” No use in hiding it now, “When people- sides- experience fear, if I’m too distracted to filter it out, it summons me. You... You were scared...” Realization dawns on Roman���s face and he sighs softly. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Virge. I’m sorry I scared you.” Virgil shakes his head. “You didn’t know. Besides, you can’t help how you feel.” Roman hums and raps his knuckles on the stone. “How are we supposed to get you out of this?” 

Virgil actually looks embarrassed. “I... I can’t sink out like this.” Roman just looks at him. “You mean...”

“Yeah.”

“Poseidon’s trident. Alright, I’ll go... recruit some help.”

It took nearly three hours for Roman and the village men to chip away at the wall enough to free Virgil, and the entire time the anxious side had been tense, flinching any time a pick came too close for comfort. Roman had been there to reassure him, and once they freed his leg, Roman helped him to the ground. As they were walking toward the other end of the village, to the door leading back to the Mind Palace, Roman spoke. “This is going to make such an epic tale!” Virgil just snrks and shakes his head, earning a quizzical look from Roman. “What?”

“No one will ever believe you.”

((lol did you think we were done?))

On one of Thomas’ rare days off - no videos to make, no plans with friends, no need to visit the store, not even a phone call to be made - all five of the sides were relaxing with Thomas in his apartment. Roman and Patton were playing some old video game on the TV, Logan was reading at the table, and Dee was laying across the other end of the couch, his head in Thomas’ lap and Thomas’ hand carding though his hair. Thomas sighs happily as he closes his eyes, listening to Roman and Patton shout and jeer and make a general ruckus, the occasional page flipping from Logan, and Dee’s soft relaxed breathing. Virgil was around here somewhere... Thomas was honestly bummed that the anxious side hadn’t wanted to hang out with them; even Dee was  trying to get past his discomfort to spend some time with all of them! But he supposed it couldn’t be helped. Virgil was anxiety, Thomas was sure some social settings just weren’t his thing. 

Patton and Roman finished their game and suggested a movie, to which everyone agreed happily. Thomas stood as Dee sat up, making his way over to the TV and looking through his DVDs, grabbing Toy Story and popping it int he DVD player and sitting next to Dee again. The five of them got comfortable as the movie started, Thomas wishing for the dozenth time that day that Virgil felt comfortable enough to be here with them. 

Twenty minutes into the movie, Thomas starts feeling a fluttering of nervousness in his chest. This confuses him, because he doesn’t have any reason to be anxious or scared right now. No one’s arguing, he doesn’t have any deadlines approaching, the movie isn’t even scary. And yet... 

Thirty minutes into the movie and Thomas is feeling anxious. He fidgets, unable to focus on one thing, eyes darting around a bit as his heart starts to speed up. He does the breathing exercise Virgil taught him, and keeps doing it because it doesn’t seem to be working. He hopes his sides don’t notice; he doesn’t want to worry them unnecessarily. 

Forty-five minutes in and Thomas is verging on a panic attack. His heart is beating too fast, and his mind is racing too much for him to even figure out what he’s panicking about. His chest feels tight, and he feels light-headed. He slowly and gently slips his hand into Dee’s and squeezes lightly. Dee glances at him, frowns, and squeezes back. Thomas doesn’t answer his questioning look. He doesn’t know what’s wrong either. 

Fifty minutes in and Thomas is openly having a panic attack. Patton pauses the movie, face etched in concern, and crouches in front of Thomas. Roman sits on his other side, taking his free hand and rubbing his thumb over the back of Thomas’ hand. Logan puts a hand on his shoulder, reassuring him that everything’s okay, he’s safe. But Thomas knows he’s safe, he knows everything’s fine, he just doesn’t know why he’s panicking and that’s freaking him out even more and that panic leads to more panic and- 

“V-Virgil-” Thomas gets out, and Patton nods, standing and heading for the stairs. He’s not even on the third step when Virgil appears. 

Except he doesn’t just appear. He falls into the room. Through the ceiling. As soon as his head pops out he’s screaming, black eye shadow streaked down his face - just like Thomas thought, he’d been panicking too. Virgil is screaming, terrified out of his mind. He stops falling, which confuses Thomas and seems to scare Virgil even more, because now he’s hanging from the ceiling by one ankle, his other limbs akimbo. His face is covered in running makeup, his clothes are rumpled, and he’s crying uncontrollably, screaming every time he moves and it causes him to sway a bit. 

In an instant, Patton is moving to stand right below him, trying to calm him down while stretching to reach him. Logan rushes to the dining area, grabbing a chair and bringing it over. Patton doesn’t hesitate to climb on top of it, cupping Virgil’s cheeks and petting his hair, trying to support his head and keep him from moving too much. Dee fidgets beside a stunned Thomas; he wants to help, but he doesn’t know how he can. He can’t reassure Virgil because he can only speak in lies. He’s honestly a little freaked out because he’s never seen this happen before. That is, he’s never seen Virgil come plummeting through the ceiling. Logan goes and grabs two more chairs, both soon occupied by himself and Roman, who are both trying to help Patton calm Virgil down and support his weight so he doesn’t feel like he’s dangling by a foot. 

Logan turns to the two remaining Sanders on the couch. “Please do try to calm down, he can’t calm down if you’re panicking.” Dee bites his tongue and nods, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to calm down. Thomas does the same and the two of them watch as the other three slowly calm Virgil. It feels like hours before he stops screaming and crying, but he never stops shaking. Patton and Roman stay on the chairs, petting Virgil’s hair and keeping his head propped up, gently stroking his cheeks, shoulders, chest, anything to ground him. 

“We need to devise a way to free Virgil’s foot from the ah... Ceiling.” Thomas looks from Virgil to Logan, now standing in front of him. “How? Do we need to... Break it?” Virgil makes a panicked sound and Thomas clarifies. “The ceiling! Not your foot, oh god Virgil, not your foot.” Patton shushes Virgil gently and Roman speaks up. 

“Yeah, we’ll have to free his foot manually. He can’t sink out when he’s like this.” Thomas hums with concern, trying to think if he has anything that can help. 

“Oh!” He runs off, shooting up the stairs and coming back a moment later with a toolbox. Logan’s face lights up in recognition. “We will have to be very careful-” He lowers his voice, “or we may injure Virgil.” Thomas nods and sets the toolbox on the couch, taking out the two hammers sitting within and handing them to Logan. Logan takes them and holds one out to Dee. “I require your assistance.” 

Dee’s eyes widen. “Me?” Logan nods. “The other two will be preoccupied with keeping Virgil calm. It will only take longer if I do it by myself.” Dee nods nervously and grabs another chair, getting on it along with Logan on his chair and he glances at Virgil. “We... We will get you out soon.” He makes eye contact with Virgil, who nods shakily. Dee can tell the truth, if he tries hard enough, but it takes a lot of effort, so he saves it for important moments. Dee and Logan slowly start hammering at the plaster, and when Virgil whimpers Patton and Roman talk to him to distract him. As the ceiling around Virgil’s foot is broken away, Patton and Roman slowly start supporting more and more of Virgil’s weight. Once his foot is finally free, Logan and Dee slowly and gently lower his legs. Once he’s upright, he clings tightly to Patton, trembling uncontrollably. Patton holds onto Virgil protectively, one hand on the back of Virgil’s head. The others get down and put the chairs back, and Logan starts vacuuming up the mess as Patton and Virgil finally get down. Virgil refuses to let go of Patton as they sit on the couch, and Thomas immediately moves to Virgil’s free side and hugs him as well. 

Once everything’s cleaned and put away, the other sides join them on the couch, Logan next to Patton and Roman next to Thomas, with Dee spread out across everyone’s laps. Virgil intertwines his fingers with Dee’s as Roman puts on the Black Cauldron. Virgil falls asleep soon after. 

A/N: The Dee part is my favorite. I haven’t had a chance to write him (aside from one fic where he’s an abusive ass) and I’ve had all these ideas buzzing in my head so I just had to do it. Plus, when I thought “what would scare Dee?” I instantly thought “the truth”. But it’d have to be a truth Dee was at least semi-unaware of; something that he didn’t recognize or dwell on, because he’d be admitting to something he’d rather not acknowledge. So it was part me-wanting-to-analyze and part can’t-rush-the-fear-factor. This was SOOOOO much fun to write!