#micro ghostbur

“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.