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    Summary

    Leaning back in his chair with a fluid sigh, Wilbur smiles, wide and lethal. “You’re used to giving, aren’t you?” He cocks his head and his glasses flash, like lightning over a stormy sea.

    Tommy swallows, but before he can answer Wilbur’s leaning back over the table, close enough that Tommy can make out his eyelashes through his lenses.

    “Sometimes, Tommy,” He drawls, gaze so full of fire and violence and blue that it hurts to look at (but he can’t look away), “You’ve just gotta take.” He whispers, and the letters fall like bloody knives onto the table between him.

    There’s a stiff moment of silence as Tommy considers the weapons, as he tries to think past the terror gripping his veins. He blinks. So long for clean hands.

    --------

    Or, Tommy has one chance encounter at one of Sir Dream's parties, and slowly but surely his entire life goes to shit.

    Series
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