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still wanna jump your bones

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When Wilbur ‘wakes’ up — it’s more like snapping out of a meditative state, if he’s being honest — the first thing he sees is a gray-skinned man with curled ram horns staring down at him. He’s wearing a sweater the color of the sky, and it takes Wilbur about two seconds to realize that oh, he’s dead too.

A flash of elation runs through him. He’s not the only ghost anymore!

It quickly turns to confusion, though, when Wilbur realizes that he’s not getting off.

“Um, hi? Could you please get off of me?” Wilbur asks, a little bit flustered at having a... surprisingly good-looking ghost pretty much straddling him. There’s not a hint of blood or injury on him, interestingly enough. Either he died painlessly, or he figured out how to change his appearance. (It makes him a little bit jealous, if he’s being honest. He’d like to get rid of his stab wound, or at least clean up his own sweater — the yellow makes the gore stand out a bit too well for comfort.) “I’m sure we can talk somewhere more comfortable.”

“...are you fucking shitting me, Wilbur?” the ghost finally says, and oh, he realizes with a sinking heart, this ghost hates Alivebur too. Well, Wilbur will just have to prove that he’s nothing like him! “I was glad that someone was finally able to see me, but if you’re gonna act like this... just stop pretending.”

“I’m not pretending! I’m Ghostbur! You can call me Wilbur if you want, I guess, but I’m not the same person as Alivebur,” Wilbur shifts awkwardly under the other man’s silent stare. “I’m sorry for anything he did to you in life. I don’t really remember much, you see—“ a grayed-out hand shoves his jaw closed, quite literally shocking him into silence.

The other ghost’s touches are electrifying, both in the literal and metaphorical sense, filling the room with the faint scent of ozone. It doesn’t hurt — if anything, it’s actually very nice, being touched like this. He’d sort of resigned himself to never feel anything again due to his... less than corporal nature. Hopefully, whatever problems he and this other ghost had when they were alive can be resolved because Wilbur really doesn’t want to give up the feeling of the ghost’s skin on his.

“...a second.” With a jolt, he realizes the other is still speaking and tunes back in. “Do you know who I am?”

“No, but you look... familiar?” Looking at him, Wilbur is reminded of a friend he used to know, of teasing touches and warm nights, stolen kisses here and there. Even the sweater reminds him of the one his friend used to wear, just a little bit more worn, a little bit older.

Wait. Wait a minute.

“No way, Schlatt?” His old friend rolls his eyes, attitude the same as ever. It’s a bit of a relief, honestly. He can always count on him even when things start going wrong. “You’re dead?”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not alive, Virgo,” Schlatt is dead. His best friend is dead. Did he die in the explosion?

(The one that you caused, a little part of his mind whispers.

But that wasn’t him. Alivebur isn’t him.)

“Wil? Uh, fucking... Ghostbur or whatever? You there?” Schlatt waves a hand in his face. The question he so desperately wants to ask him stays lodged in his throat. The other notices and rolls his eyes. “Spit it out already.”

“...did I kill you?” Wilbur can’t look at him, instead focusing his eyes on the rat scurrying across the sewer floors. Huh, he didn’t know he had a rat problem— he’ll have to take care of that. He has guests over all the time after all; it’s just embarrassing.

The ram hybrid exhales, and then there are gentle fingers turning his head to look at the man above him. “No, you didn’t.”

“Oh.” Then why...? “But you’re mad at me.”

“ doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Schlatt sighs, shutting his eyes. “It’s not like you remember. Christ, I can’t believe we’re really...” He looks... tired, older and much more weary, a far cry from the smirking little goat that would commit crimes with him. His old flame traces his thumb from Wilbur’s face down to his chest, pausing at his stab wound. “Is this how you died?”

“Y-yeah...” Schlatt’s fleeting touches leave him desperately wanting more, and when his fingers press electrifying kisses to his stab wound, though he tries his best to hold it back, a loud moan slips through his lips. Throughly mortified, he shoves the man away, curling up and holding his chest tightly, trying to force the feeling down.

Schlatt stares at him, an unreadable glint in his eyes. “Hey, Wil?” Wilbur hums in acknowledgment. “Do you remember some of the other stuff we did together when we were alone?”

Wilbur frowns. That’s not really specific. They did a lot of things together when they were—



A flush starts to creep up his cheeks as he swallows and shakily nods, the heated memories at the forefront of his mind. As blurry as they are, he wouldn’t need to write these ones down — he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to completely forget them. “I don’t really remember too well— it was a good memory!” He says hurriedly at Schlatt’s frown. “Even good memories are fuzzy, I- I wouldn’t be opposed, but I’m not as... experienced as I was before.” Wilbur expects Schlatt to push him away, but instead he gets a mischievous, toothy grin, and before he can stop him, Schlatt is shoving his hands through the hole in his sweater.

He gasps, legs instinctively parting as calloused fingers rub and poke at the wound. It’s— it feels like he can’t get enough air in his lungs, like he’s drowning in the blue of Schlatt’s sweater but he doesn’t want to come back up for air. “Please,” he keens, hooking his fingers into the soft fabric, and Schlatt snorts fondly, a slightly smug smile on his lips. “Schlatt, please, please don’t stop touching me—“ He thinks he’ll die again if he stops.

Schlatt looks a little bit surprised as Wilbur leans into his touch, though he quickly covers it up with a smirk. “Oh, Wil...” One cold finger traces a line down his jaw, and Wilbur doesn’t know why he ever looked away before. “Even like this, you’re still so fucking responsive. How far will you let me go? Can you even ask me to stop with the state you’re in?”

No. No, he would never ask Schlatt to stop touching him. He’d rather go back to that empty (cold, cold, cold, so very cold) nothingness than have the other take his hands off of him right now.

“Huh, looks like someone’s eager.” Wilbur realizes with some mortification that his pants and boxers have disappeared just as a cold hand wrap around the head of his erect dick, one thumb flicking over the top. He desperately bucks his hips, moans and pleas falling from his lip as he feels his corporal form starting to fall apart. “Hey, hey, hey, I didn’t mind your clothes disappearing, but you can’t disappear too, sweetheart. Relax, I haven’t even started teaching you yet.”


“Mhm.” Wilbur barely holds back a shriek as a tongue licks at the top of his dick, arching off the bed. He’s sure he’d float away if it weren’t for Schlatt’s weight, lost against the waves of pleasure. It feels so much more pronounced now that he’s dead. (Maybe because he can’t remember?) Still, he doesn’t want it to stop. “You said it yourself: you’re so inexperienced. I’m the only one who’ll be able to help.”

“I could go to Sally.” The minute the words slip out of his mouth Schlatt stiffens, staring at him.

“Who the fuck is Sally?”

“She— She’s a shapeshifter. A water spirit of some sort, I’m not really—“ Wilbur bites back a moan as Schlatt tightens his grip. “Not really sure. I think she’d probably be able to touch—“ Sharp pain blooms in his neck as Schlatt bites a line of bruising hickies, pumping his dick harshly in time with it and completely detailing Wilbur’s train of thought. He tries to thrust into the hand, to chase that electrifying feeling, but Schlatt holds him down with his weight. “W-Wait—”

“Listen up, you little minx,” he breathes against the side of his neck, making him shiver involuntarily, “Don’t think that I don’t see what you’re doing, Wil. You’re not going to anyone else to pop your death cherry or whatever. I’m here, and I’m taking it. Do you understand?”


Do you understand?” His tone leaves no room for argument, not that Wilbur has any to begin with. He nods, babbling his assent as he tries to rub against Schlatt, pleasure creeping up his spine. “Good boy, Wil.” Wilbur covers his face with his arms as Schlatt continues nibble and bite at his neck, hands roaming under his sweater. “You think you can do that clothes disappearing trick with your sweater too?”

“Someone might— I don’t have a lock, someone might come in,” Wilbur says, glancing towards the door. He doesn’t regret it; he wants to be more inviting to ease the tension and fear Alivebur has created.

...It is the middle of the night though, and Wilbur really doesn’t want this to end. Who knows where Schlatt will go when the night ends?

Schlatt lets out a pleased noise as the sweater disappears, and although his nudity and the bits of smeared blood make Wilbur flush with embarrassment, he seems unbothered by either, whistling appraisingly at the naked body underneath him. His fingers drift over the wound as they roam around Wilbur’s bare chest, forcing loud moans out of his mouth as he bucks up like a horny teenager. “For all the protests you put up, Wil, you really are just a slut, aren’t you?”

“N-No, I’m— ah!

“You said it yourself, anyone could come in. Yet here you are, completely naked, moaning like a whore and spreading your legs just because I asked.” Schlatt shifts, grinding his clothed bulge down on Wilbur’s. The friction plus the touching make his eyes prick with tears, the pleasure and pain mixing together to be nigh overwhelming. “Your son... the furry, right?”

Fundy,” Wilbur gasps out, grasping out for any thoughts he can amidst the waves of pleasure.

“Yeah, yeah, he comes over a lot, doesn’t he?” Schlatt punctuates his question with another roll of his hips, and Wilbur buries his face into his arms to muffle another loud moan. “I wonder what he’d say, seeing his dear old dad all hot and bothered, or maybe even your own dad—“ The buzzing of a communicator cuts him off and startles them both. Wilbur’s quick to realize that it’s his communicator, Fundy’s user ID printed in small block letters across the screen. “Well, speak of the devil,” Schlatt murmurs, “Pick up. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.” No matter how much he wants to protest, wants to toss his communicator and beg Schlatt to keep going, he also can’t ignore his own son.

“...Alright,” Wilbur says, answering the call. “Hello?”

”Ghostbur,” Fundy greets. Accompanied by the sound of wind in the background are hisses and clicks, replacing his frustration with worry in an instant. Wilbur instinctively pulls out a bit of transparent blue to calm himself down, but Schlatt snatches it from his hand with a curious look. Alright, okay, His is fine. Shoving away all the anxious thoughts, Wilbur focuses on Fundy’s voice. “...potions?”


Fundy sighs. “Do you have any more regen or health pots, dad? We’re gonna need all that we can get.”

“Oh, yeah, I c-an!” Wilbur’s voice breaks as a cool, slicked up finger enters him, the foreign sensation making him arch his back, biting his lip in a desperate attempt to hold back a moan.

”Are you okay? I just got a fuck ton of feedback, but I’m pretty sure I heard a scream.”

“I-I’m—“ The finger crooks, pressing against him prostate, and Wilbur bites back another scream. Schlatt only looks smug, making a ‘go on’ gesture with his free hand. “—Fine! I’m fine! Completely okay!”

”...I can come over if you want—“

No!” Absolutely not, he cannot have his son here right now. “I mean, I’m doing some more... e-explosive stuff with the brewery right now. I- I don’t want you getting hurt.” The flimsy excuse sounds fake to his own ears, and it doesn’t help that Schlatt has added another finger, steadily thrusting in. It’s taking all of Wilbur’s willpower to keep the waver out of his voice.

”I mean, I need to come over and pick them up anyway.”

“No, that’s okay, I’ll bring them to you tomorrow, I need to brew them, pleasedon’tcomeover.”

”If you’re sure.” Fundy still doesn’t seem convinced, but thankfully his son seems willing to drop it. Now if they could just end the call—

A loud cry escapes Wilbur’s mouth as Schlatt takes a hold of his erection, pumping it in time with the fingers scissoring him open, and oh fuck, Fundy’s still on the call.

”What’s going on? Wilbur?” There’s a concern in his son’s voice that’s undeserved, and Wilbur barely manages to string together the bare minimum of an apology and another plea not to come over before he’s ending the call with shaking fingers and tossing the communicator at the wall.

“Pretty rude of you, Wilby, ending it so suddenly.” God, he is trying his best not to hurt or hate like Alivebur did, but Schlatt is making it really fucking hard. “Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. Unless you want me to stop?”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Wilbur babbles, rocking back as Schlatt slips another finger into him. “Please, please don’t stop.”

“I’m starting to wonder if you’re lying about your memory, Wil.” He shuts his eyes and tries not to cry out Schlatt lets go of his dick, but the hand suddenly cupping his chin makes him open them again. Horizontal black slits hold his gaze, and no matter how hard he tries to look away, he can’t. “You’re riding my fingers like a porn star, after all. No blushing virgin would be able to do that.” He wants to refute Schlatt’s statements, but thrust sends sparks up his spine that slam his jaw shut, only whines and gasps slipping out. “Fuck, even dead, you look so fucking pretty.”

Please,” he keens, barely managing to force the words out. Maybe if he were more lucid, he’d be embarrassed, but right now any and all of his dignity has gone straight out the window. “Please, please, please, Schlatt.”

“Please what? Please stop?” That prick—

Wilbur shakes his head furiously. “Please fuck me,” he begs, blinking away the tears starting to form at the end of his long lashes.

Schlatt laughs, clothes disappearing until he’s just as nude as Wilbur is. It’s then that he sees just what Schlatt has been using as lube. “Y-You’re using blue as lube?

“This thing? Yeah, it actually works pretty well,” he says, slicking up his cock. “Why?”

“It’s— I was supposed to give that one away later!”

“Really? Too bad, I suppose,” Schlatt hums, lining up his cock, and Wilbur tenses up. He knows he’s taken Schlatt before, but all those memories are fleeting feelings and muddy colors, and anxiety pools in the pit of his stomach. What if it hurts? What if it doesn’t fit? Schlatt notices his hesitance and pauses. “What’s going on?”


“You’ve gone quiet, and your face’s doing that thing where it scrunches up when you’re thinking too hard. What’s going on?”

“I’m— I’m a bit scared,” Wilbur admits, “It’s... I remember, but I don’t really...”

“We can stop,” Schlatt offers, “I don’t mind. Whatever’s comfortable with you.”

“No, I- I want to do this,” he reaches up and cups the man’s face, rubbing circles with his thumb into his stubble, “Just take it slow?”

“Of course.” Two cold lips press against his, swallowing the gasps that escape him as Schlatt slowly enters. His tongue distracts him from the light burn, exploring his mouth like it’s his own personal treasure trove, and he more than happily lets him. Wilbur can barely remember what his first time was like, but he’s sure this one moment trumps it and every other time a thousand fold.

He doesn’t need to breathe, but his head still spins as the kiss seems to last for hours, and he can barely register the heavy pressure on his spine as Schlatt slots, fully inside him. “Fuck, Schlatt,” he breathes as the other man pulls away.

“Believe me, you haven’t seen anything yet,” the other man says, “Are you good?”

It’s a little bit uncomfortable — Schlatt’s dick may not have taken that long to bottom out, but what it lacks in length, it certainly makes up for in girth. It stuffs him to the brim, filling him up and stretching him out. Still, he likes to think that he can handle a bit of pain, so he nods and tightens around him slightly.

Schlatt fucks into him slowly but deeply, drinking in every little noise and expression he makes like a man dying of thirst. “Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and Wilbur’s vision blurs. It’s been such a long time since someone’s said something so nicely, so openly without pity, since someone’s touched him and held him and—

The taste of sea salt fills his mouth, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying.

Schlatt doesn’t even bat an eye, simply leaning down and kissing away the wet trails as he continues to thrust, and that only makes Wilbur sob harder, clinging to Schlatt as if he’s his life raft in a stormy ocean. “You doing alright, sweetheart?”

“Yeah—“ he hiccups, a wet and quiet little noise, “S’not you, sorry, I’m sorry—“

“You’re not the one who needs to apologize between the two of us,” Schlatt says, and before Wilbur can try and decipher what that means, the pace increases. Every rock sends lightening flashing through him, electricity shooting up his spine and throughout his body. The smell of ozone is heavier now, and static crackles between them. His home has never been colder, and yet Wilbur takes comfort in it.

“Schlatt, Schlatt, go faster, please.”

With one look at Wilbur’s flushed, pale face, all messy hair and spit swollen lips, Schlatt obliges. It’s a bruising clip now, harsh sharp movements that have him arching off the bed as every thrust goes deep enough to the point that Schlatt’s all but hitting his prostate. Wilbur’s own leaking erection brushes roughly against Schlatt’s stomach with every thrust, sending him further and further across the edge. In this dingy little sewer he calls home, he swears he’s reached nirvana.

There isn’t a heaven, but Wilbur thinks that with Schlatt here, on top of him and inside him and all over him, it comes close enough.

The tightly wound knot that he’s been trying to stave off is slowly starting to come undone, ready to burst at any second. Wilbur blindly starts grasping at Schlatt’s arms, trying to bring him as close as he can. “Schlatt—” he gasps out, “Schlatt please, I’m gonna—“

Schlatt bites down, and Wilbur explodes.

All he can do is dig his nails in and hold on as tight as he can while his orgasm crashes through him, static roaring in his ears. He‘s a television flipping through every channel at once, bright lights and loud noises and music — he’s everything and nothing, all at once. Vaguely, he thinks he can hear Schlatt’s breath hitch, can feel his hips stutter, but he can barely focus on it amidst everything else.

Blurry lenses seem to slide over his eyes, making the world take on a hazy glow. Schlatt is the only one in focus, collapsed besides him on his bed, body just as translucent and fuzzy. He would say something, if he could just get his mouth to work.

“...Wow,” he finally manages out, still a bit dazed, “Wow.

“Glad to know that I still got it,” Schlatt huffs our with a laugh. Fingers run through Wilbur’s hair, and he presses a kiss to his temple. “Hope you don’t mind me staying the night.”

“Of course,” he says, shifting to move closer to the other. It’s not gross — there’s no sweat or dried cum, one of the few perks of being a ghost. “I want you to stay.”

“Well, If you’re insisting, lover boy...” Schlatt says. It feels right to be pressed up against him, to feel the tickle of stubble against his skin and the cool skin underneath his fingertips. Their labored breathing mixes in with the soft splashes of dripping water, and Wilbur commits it all to memory.

He won’t ever let himself forget this night, even if everything else slips away.

“Good night, Schlatt,” he murmurs, lacing his fingers through Schlatt’s.

“Goodnight, Wil.”