Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: House Rules

The camera’s red light blinked off. Silence fell over the streaming room like a switch had been thrown. You exhaled, finally, letting your shoulders drop from the tense, bubbly posture you'd held for nearly four hours. Wilbur caught it immediately from where he lounged on the couch, grinning with that lazy sharpness that always made your stomach twist.

“You did great, darling,” he said, voice low and rich in that familiar, honey-dipped accent. “Tubbo definitely suspects something, though.”

You laughed—more tired than amused. “Yeah, well, he’s always nosy.”

Before Wilbur could answer, you felt it—the pressure in the air, the unmistakable shift when **he** entered the room.

Quackity.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching. You could practically feel his eyes move over you. Calculating. Possessive. His dark hoodie hung low over his brow, but nothing could hide the intensity behind his gaze.

Wilbur glanced between the two of you, smirking knowingly, but said nothing. He liked to watch you squirm.

“Did you forget something?” Quackity finally asked, his voice smooth but sharp.

Your stomach fluttered, and your pulse quickened. You had. Shit.

You stood too fast, your chair scraping the hardwood. “Sorry, sir.”

Wilbur stifled a laugh behind his hand.

Quackity strode into the room, slow and deliberate, until he stood just inches from you. “What’s the rule when I enter the room, cariño?”

“I’m supposed to greet you properly,” you whispered.

“Properly.”

You sank to your knees. “Welcome home, sir.”

Wilbur bit down hard on his bottom lip. You could see how turned on he was already. But he didn’t interfere. Not yet. He only tilted his head, watching the slow unfolding of the routine you and Quackity had been locked in since he'd laid down the house rules.

And there were *so* many rules.

You weren’t allowed to speak at dinner unless spoken to. You couldn’t sit at the streaming desk until Quackity offered the seat. He opened every door, chose your outfits on off-days, and punished you if you so much as rolled your eyes at him in public. Wilbur? He followed some of them. When he felt like it.

Which was exactly the point. He wasn't the kinda guy who followed rules. Or he wasn't mostly... He snapped out of his thoughts as Quackity looked at him

Quackity’s voice dropped. “Wilbur, take her to the wall. She'll be there for an hour, don't you think?”

Your breath caught.

Wilbur raised an eyebrow, playful but not defiant. “Did she break rule seven?”

“She addressed me as ‘you’ during the stream. And she didn’t stand when I walked in.”

Wilbur tutted gently, as if disappointed *on your behalf*. But there was a glint in his eye that said he loved it—loved this game as much as Quackity did. And he knew you loved it too. He wouldn't do it if you didn't.

He took your hand, warm and steady, and pulled you up gently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You know the spot.”

You followed, heart racing, every nerve lit up and tingling. You should've known this would happen. It always does happen. As soon as you let down your guard, he's there to catch you. And, honestly? That was one of the things you loved about him.

Wilbur led you to the wall. The wall that you probably knew better than the back of your hand. It was painted black, spectacularly boring to look at, with just one painting on the wall. Pretty letters that read 'Eyes up, good girl', framed in black. At least it reminded you of the only few things you could do when you were there: eyes up, mouth shut.

Behind you, you heard Quackity’s voice again—this time laced with dangerous amusement.

“You’re not allowed to speak for the next hour,” he said. “And if you so much as pout, I’ll bend you over the kitchen counter in front of Billzo next time he visits. Clear?"

You didn’t dare nod.

“Answer me.”

Oops, maybe you should have answered. It was always difficult to tell what Quackity wanted you to do at any given time. One minute it was 'Mouth shut, be silent,' and the next it was, 'Are you seriously ignoring me, cariño?'.

“Yes, sir.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Wilbur lean in to whisper in Quackity’s ear, too quiet for you to hear. Then both of them were laughing.

And you stood there, heat blooming between your legs, every inch of your body humming with anticipation for what came next—

What always came next.

When the stream ended. When the red light blinked off. When the three of you were finally, *blissfully*... offline.

---

Chapter Text

Your feet ache, the pain from standing still for almost an hour excruciatingly reminding you of your punishment. Your eyes flicker over the wall, searching for anything to occupy your mind with. But there was nothing. Nothing but the framed letters that hung in front of you, taunting you, mocking you, making it impossible to think about anything other than the pain in your feet and the boredom in your mind.

Ideas begin to bloom in your mind; what if you sat down? Walked away? Spoke out loud? There was nothing Quackity could do other than spank you, and by this point even that sounded inviting. The cogs were turning in your mind, hatching a plan, before you remembered something important. This was *Quackity* we were talking about. The guy who makes you stand when he enters a room, who won't let you speak at dinner, and who decided to not let you cum 'for funsies'. He wouldn't let you off with a spanking, and you knew it. The brat part of you was mixing with the boredom, and that was never a good thing. Luckily, before you did something that you would definitely regret, Wilbur spoke up. He wasn't addressing you, but it would be a good distraction for now.

"She's being so good, isn't she?" Wilbur murmured to Quackity, lounging on the sofa, "She's just standing there like a good little girl."

Quackity looks up and stares at Wilbur, blankly. "She's following orders. She is doing what I told her to. That's not being a good girl; that's doing the bare minimum of what I expect from her."

Wilbur holds his hands up in surrender. "Sure, alright, I just thought she was being pretty good. "She's been standing up for close to an hour."

With that, you take a sigh of relief. Close to an hour. At least you know that you've not got much time to go. You shift slightly and roll your shoulders, your hands still clasped behind my back, just like Quackity expects of you. The pain seeps from your feet and ankles, up into the rest of your body. Your body aches; not exactly from pain, but from the tension of restraint. You hear someone on the sofa shuffle, and your thighs clench in anticipation. The shuffling settles down, and shame takes over your body. You shouldn’t want this. You should feel guilty—you do feel guilty—but it coils with something else just as strong. Need. Hunger. Humiliation that pulses low in your stomach, dark and dizzying. You can feel them behind you, and you don't need to see their faces to know what they were thinking. This was your punishment for forgetting the rules, and you were enjoying it. And they knew it. You hate how much you ache for them to correct you. You hate that standing here like this—small, wrong, owned—only makes you wetter. And you know they know that, too.

Quackity sighs, "And if she'd just remembered my rules, she wouldn't be in this situation, would she?"

Wilbur chuckles. "Oh, I think she's enjoying it. She is just being a filthy little slut, and taking pleasure in her punishment.

Quackity moves toward you slowly, his footsteps deliberate against the floor, and stops just behind you. You feel the heat of him before he even says a word.

“He’s right,” he says coldly. “You are enjoying it.”
His hand slides down your back—slow, firm, almost tender. But then it lands with a sharp slap against your ass. Once. Then again.

“You liked standing here while we talked about how pathetic you are?” His voice is harder now, like every word is a punishment. “You’re dripping just from being ignored?”
Another smack, harder this time.

“God, you should be ashamed of yourself,” he mutters. “I give you rules, and you break them. And then you stand here shaking, soaking wet, hoping I’ll touch you anyway.”
You gasp without meaning to, and that’s all it takes.

“Don’t you fucking moan,” he snaps, grabbing your jaw from behind and tilting your face toward the wall. “You don’t get to enjoy this.”
There’s a beat—quiet but charged. Then softer, like it hurts him to even have to say it:

“You’re lucky. I don’t make you beg in front of Wilbur just to earn your next punishment.”
And behind you, Wilbur chuckles—still amused—while you burn with shame, with heat, with the unbearable knowledge that he’s right.

He lets go of your chin, but you don't dare move your head from the position he put it in. He stands behind you, silently waiting. You can almost feel the dominance radiating off him, and you shiver slightly. You have no idea what he is waiting for, and the sudden silence is almost eerie in the fact that you don't know what is going to happen next. Your head is still facing the wall, tilted up to cause discomfort, and your breath trembles with the effort, your muscles silently screaming. For just a second you let your head drop an inch, relaxing your neck. The relief is immediate, and you take a breath, realising your mistake too late.

"Did I tell you you could move? Did I give you a specific command to relax?" Quackity's voice is low and dangerous, almost like the quiet before the storm; it's cliche, but true. You stay completely silent and still, not daring to move.

"Good. At least you're slowly learning. Now walk over to Wilbur and kneel." Quackity tugs at your arm and pushes you in Wilbur's direction, his voice cold and commanding.

You quickly move, walking over to Wilbur and dropping to your knees. Wilbur gives you a gentle pat on the head and chuckles at your compliance. "Good girl," he murmurs quietly, leaning forwards to whisper in your ear.

"Wilbur, make sure she's in the correct position, and keep her there. That is now your responsibility, and if she moves again, you get punished along with her," Quackity commands, slowly removing his belt.

Wilbur's eyes flick up to Quackity's. "Wait, what? Me? I thought I was, like, the 'optional rules' guy. "That was our thing, Q!"

"Don't worry," Quackity says, rolling his eyes, "It's only temporary." You can go back to being a little unpunished brat after, okay? But for now..." Quackity folds his belt in half, "Don't mess up."

"Ooooh, scary belt man handing out chores now? What’s next, do I get a sticker chart if she behaves?" Wilbur grins lazily, ruffling your hair like he’s not taking a word of it seriously. But even as he protests, he nudges your knees a bit wider apart with his foot and taps your back to straighten. He sits in front of you, continuing to correct different parts of your posture; lowering your head, and making sure your hands were on your thighs. Quackity turns round to sit on the sofa, and Wilbur uses this chance to slowly push his hand between your legs, just to tease, his hand just resting there. You let a soft gasp escape your lips, and your hips instinctively roll forwards, grinding against his hand. Quackity looks back at us and sighs.

"I turn around for one second, and you're already misbehaving." He states, his tone cold and unforgiving.

Fear takes over your body, and you feel a slight hint of irritation. It wasn't your fault! Wilbur started teasing you, and it surprised you! You didn't dare let it show, though, and instead just looked at the floor, letting him see the shame in your body and apologising. "I-I'm sorry, sir. I d-didn't mea-,"

But Quackity interrupts you, shutting you down. "Shush, darling, not you. Wilbur. I gave him one command, only one, and yet he finds a way to disobey me."

The room stills. You stay frozen, every muscle held tight with shame and obedience, your eyes on the floor where they belong. But the energy shifts—not toward you. Quackity’s voice isn’t sharp with you. It’s sharper with him.

Wilbur slowly lifts his hands in mock surrender, like he’s been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar rather than between your thighs.

“Oh, come on,” he says, smiling wide, but there’s a slight edge of unease underneath. “I was keeping her in position. Just… playfully.”

Quackity’s eyes narrow.

“I told you to keep her still. Not make her gasp. Not make her move. Still.” He folds his arms slowly, belt still dangling loosely from one hand. “So tell me—what exactly about rubbing your hand between her legs was part of the instruction?”

Wilbur frowns. "Well, I didn't tell her to grind against me. She just humped my hand all by herself, like a little sl-"

"You finish that sentence and you'll be taking her punishments for the next week, you understand?"

Wilbur takes a breath, swallowing a retort. "I... sorry. I just liked teasing her."

“You like teasing her? "Fine," he says, tone cold and calm. “Then you can make it up to me by doing it properly.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt.

“On your knees. Behind her.”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence. Even you look up slightly now, startled.

Wilbur looks at him, confused. "You want me... on my knees? Behind her?" Wilbur huffs a laugh, but it’s a quiet, uneasy sound. “You’re serious?”

Quackity doesn’t even blink. “Very.”

Wilbur sighs through his nose, a crooked smile tugging at his lips like this is still some kind of game. But he obeys, shifting behind you and settling on his knees. His legs bracket yours, his chest brushing lightly against your back. Close. Close enough to make you hyper-aware of him, of the way he exhales slow and steady, like this is all a joke he’s just letting play out.

Quackity watches him with that same unreadable expression. Then he speaks—calm, but edged.

“If you’re going to touch her,” he says, “you’ll do it properly. Not half-hearted. Not for your amusement. You’ll do what I say.”

Wilbur raises both hands with mock innocence. “I’m not even moving.”

“Good. Don’t,” Quackity snaps. “Put your hand where it matters. Just leave it there. Make her feel it.”

Wilbur doesn’t argue this time. One of his hands slides down, slow, almost casual, until it rests heavy and still between your legs. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t tease. He just stays there—his palm against you, the weight of it a presence you can’t ignore. You suck in a breath and freeze, fighting the urge to shift, to grind down, to do anything to chase friction. But his hand stays exactly where it is. Unmoving. A threat. A temptation.

Quackity crouches down in front of you, eyes dark. “Look at me.”

You do, instantly. Your eyes snap to his.

“That’s better,” he murmurs. “You feel him there? Good. You’re not allowed to do anything with it. Not unless I say.”

His fingers graze your chin, tilting your head just slightly, like he’s inspecting something delicate. “You squirm, you get punished. You breathe too heavy, you get punished. And if you make me speak to you twice about it—” he smiles thinly, “—I think you know what will happen.”

Wilbur chuckles low behind you, like he doesn’t quite believe Quackity would go through with it. But he still doesn’t move his hand.

He doesn’t have to. You’re already aching. Waiting. And still. Because you have to be. You’re trying. You really are.

But Wilbur’s hand is right there—warm, steady, and unmoving. He doesn’t stroke, doesn’t tease, doesn’t do anything. And somehow that’s worse. The stillness of it, the deliberate restraint, makes every nerve in your body burn.

You’re holding your posture, hands pressed to your thighs, eyes locked on Quackity just like he told you to. But your hips—your hips betray you. Just the slightest shift. Barely a roll forward. But it’s enough. Your body grinds down against Wilbur’s palm—once, hard—and freezes the second you realize what you’ve done. It’s instinctual. A single moment of weakness. But you already know it’s one too many.

Wilbur goes completely still behind you, his breath catching against your shoulder. His hand doesn’t move. Not away. Not forward. He just stays exactly where he was told—because you were the one who slipped.

And Quackity’s smile fades instantly. He saw.

His eyes narrow, cold and disappointed. “Oh?” His voice cuts through the air like a blade. “Did you just move?”

You shake your head without thinking—then correct yourself with a panicked, “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“No.” His tone is sharper now, rising just enough to shut you down. “Don’t explain. Don’t make excuses. You moved. After everything I just said.”

You fall silent, trembling. Wilbur shifts behind you slightly, like he wants to say something in your defense—but he thinks better of it.

Quackity stands. “You don’t get to lose control just because it feels good. You had one job. Stay still.”

The belt uncoils from his hand again, smooth and slow. “And now we start from the top.”

You bite down hard on your lower lip. You can feel Wilbur’s hand still resting against you—steady and present. It makes it worse. It makes it harder not to move. But now? You wouldn’t dare.

Quackity steps forward, gaze locked on you with unsettling calm.

“You’re going to count. Every time. Out loud. No mistakes. No slipping. No mercy.”

He pauses in front of you, voice dropping to a warning growl.

“And Wilbur?” He doesn’t turn, just speaks over your shoulder. “You feel her even twitch? You say something.”

Wilbur’s voice is quiet now. Flat. “Got it.”

“Good,” Quackity says, lifting the belt in one hand. “Because I’m done being generous.”

You nod quickly, breath caught in your throat.

Quackity smiles again, cold and sweet.

“Now. Let’s begin.”

You brace yourself. The room is silent—oppressive in its stillness. Even Wilbur’s breathing behind you has gone quiet, his hand still heavy against you but unmoving, like he’s afraid to so much as flinch. The warmth of his palm is maddening now, more taunt than comfort.

Then:
Crack.

The belt lands across the top of your thigh. Sharp. Not hard enough to bruise—but it stings. Heat spreads beneath your skin like fire in a line.

“One,” you gasp, your voice trembling already.

“Louder,” Quackity snaps, stepping to your other side. “Like you mean it.”

You force yourself to raise your voice, shoulders locked tight. “One, sir.”

“Better.”

He doesn’t give you time to recover. The next strike lands almost immediately—clean across your other thigh.

Crack.

You bite down on a cry, your body jolting forward just slightly—right against Wilbur’s hand. You freeze the moment you realize.

Wilbur tenses, his voice soft and low. “She moved.”

Quackity’s eyes are on you in an instant. Cold. Patient.

“Did I say to grind on him again?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head fast, panic returning, shame flooding your chest. “N-no, sir.”

“Then what do you think I should do about that?”

“I… I’ll try harder, I promise—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You swallow hard. “You should punish me.”

Quackity smiles—not kindly.

“That’s right.”

The third strike lands fast, angled just slightly across the curve where your thigh meets your rear. It makes your legs shake, and you nearly topple forward—until Wilbur’s other hand finds your waist and holds you upright, steadying you.

“Three, sir,” you whisper, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Not from pain—not entirely. From frustration. From being watched this closely. From knowing you failed again, and worse: that it felt good.

Quackity watches you for a long moment. Then he leans in, brushing his fingers beneath your chin and tilting your head up so your eyes meet his.

“You’re going to get through this,” he murmurs. “You’re going to learn. Because I’m not giving up on you.”

His thumb presses lightly into your cheek, smearing away a tear.

“But if I have to break you apart to build you the way you’re meant to be? I will.”

You nod quickly, still trembling, still pressed against Wilbur’s still hand, and Quackity finally pulls back.

“Good girl,” he says softly.

Then he lifts the belt again.

“Let’s continue.”

The belt falls again. A sharp snap against the soft inside of your thigh.

“Four, sir,” you choke out, your voice tight, your posture trembling.

Quackity doesn’t speak this time. He just watches you closely, his gaze sharp and focused, reading everything—your breath, your tension, the slightest flicker of your eyes when Wilbur’s hand shifts slightly at your waist, steadying you again.

Behind you, Wilbur’s touch is still light, almost clinical now. He’s not teasing anymore. He’s keeping you steady because you’re swaying.

You don’t dare lean into him again. You force yourself to stay still—truly still. Not from obedience, but necessity. If you move again, you don’t know if Quackity will stop. Another strike. This one lower. Measured. Precise.

“Five, sir,” you gasp, teeth clenched.

“Mm.” Quackity exhales slowly through his nose. “Better.”

He steps closer. You feel the belt in his hand, now resting idly against your knee. But he doesn’t lift it again. Instead, he crouches in front of you, one hand coming to rest gently on your face.

“You’re shaking.”

You nod, barely.

“Colour?”

“Green, sir.”

“Good,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Because we’re almost done. You’ve nearly earned the right to rest.”

The gentleness in his voice doesn’t soften the moment—it deepens it. Makes your chest tight.

“I want to be good,” you whisper, the words leaving you before you can filter them. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” he says. Not smiling. Just serious. “That’s why I’m not angry. Just disappointed. And that’s why we finish this properly.”

He stands again. One more time. The final strike lands across your thighs—sharper than the last, but not cruel. A line drawn, a lesson sealed.

“Six, sir,” you breathe, and you don’t move.

Quackity pauses.

Then: “Good girl.”

The belt drops to the floor with a soft thud.

You nearly sag forward, but Wilbur holds you up with quiet steadiness. His other hand finally lifts from between your legs, respectful, careful.

“Alright,” Quackity says. “You’re done.”

He kneels beside you now, and the shift is immediate. His hands are warm and grounding, rubbing slow circles into your arms, your thighs. Reassuring.

“You did well, baby,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s over now.”

Behind you, Wilbur rests his chin lightly against your shoulder, offering quiet support but not speaking.

You let yourself exhale fully, body sinking gently into their shared presence—your breath hitching, your skin still buzzing, but your heart calm now. Safe.

Held.

Chapter Text

Okay, I'm sorry y'all, my dumb ass wrote a whole aftercare scene, but forgot to save it, and lost all 2 thousand words, literally the piece of writing that took me 4 hours, and I wrote instead of my maths homework. I will rewrite it, and so it will be out sometime in the next few days, but it may be rushed and won't be as good. I apologise, blame me. *Actually pls dont, it will make me sad :(*

See you soon, and remember to eat and drink something, and please go to sleep before 3am, because I sure won't :D

Chapter Text

The room is still, but not silent now. Not oppressive. The air hums with the quiet sounds of care: soft breathing, the rustle of a blanket being pulled from the bed, the slow creak of the floorboards beneath Wilbur’s feet. Somewhere behind you, the belt lies forgotten on the ground, irrelevant now.

You’re not sure when the tears really started—just that now they’re falling freely. Warm streaks against your cheeks, no sobs, just… tears. From somewhere too deep to name.

Quackity kneels in front of you again, but this time it’s different. There’s no intensity in his eyes now—only warmth. Patience. He reaches out, brushing a knuckle gently along your jaw.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Still with me, cariño?”

You nod, barely, your throat too tight to speak. It’s overwhelming. The heat, the pain, the sweetness of hearing ‘good girl’—the release that came with it. You feel adrift in it all, like you’re floating just slightly out of sync with your body.

Wilbur is behind you still, his hand never having fully left your waist. It’s anchoring, somehow. The pressure is light, noninvasive, but it reminds you: you’re not alone. Not now. Not after.

“Let’s get you somewhere soft, yeah?” Quackity murmurs.

You nod again, and this time, you let them move you.

It’s gentle—so gentle. Wilbur’s hands come under your arms to help you stand while Quackity steadies your knees. They don’t rush, don’t speak too loudly. No commands. Just soft encouragement and warmth. The bed is only a few feet away, but even that feels like a journey, and you’re grateful for their presence on either side.

Once you’re seated, Quackity pulls a fuzzy throw blanket from the edge and wraps it around your shoulders, careful not to let it press too tightly against your legs. Wilbur tucks a pillow behind your back and crouches beside you, one hand resting lightly over yours. His thumb moves in slow, repeating circles across your knuckles.

You’re trembling now, the adrenaline ebbing, leaving exhaustion and vulnerability in its place.

“Breathe with me,” Quackity says quietly, his voice like velvet. He sits on the edge of the bed beside you, one hand brushing back your damp hair from your forehead. “In through your nose… there you go. And out.”

You try. It’s shaky at first, but he matches your pace, drawing each breath with you until the pattern feels real. Grounding. Safe.

“I feel stupid,” you whisper suddenly, voice hoarse. It slips out unfiltered, raw.

Wilbur’s fingers tighten slightly on yours. “No.”

“Not even close,” Quackity adds, his voice steady but tender. “This is just drop. It’s your body coming down, cariño. Nothing about that is stupid.”

You look down, ashamed anyway, cheeks hot. “It’s just—everything’s too much. I feel like I’m falling apart and I liked it and I shouldn’t, and—”

“Shhh,” Wilbur murmurs, scooting up to sit beside you, letting your head fall against his chest without pressure. “You’re allowed to like things. You’re allowed to feel things. None of this is wrong.”

Quackity brushes his thumb under your eyes, catching another stray tear. “You were so brave. So responsive. We saw every time you tried. You didn’t fail. You gave yourself over, and we held you. That’s all this is.”

You try to take it in, but your chest is tight again. Not with fear this time—just with too many emotions, each stacked on top of the other, threatening to tip.

“I just want to be good,” you whisper again, barely audible.

“You are good,” Quackity says firmly, leaning in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “You are so good, mi amor. Even when you’re scared. Even when you slip. Especially then. Good doesn’t mean perfect.”

Wilbur hums in agreement beside you. “If it did, neither of us would be here.”

That earns the smallest flicker of something in your chest. A breath—maybe not laughter, but not sobbing either.

Quackity smiles at the change. “There she is.”

You blink, slow. He holds your gaze.

“Can I touch you more?” he asks gently. “Or do you need space?”

The question wraps around you like another blanket. Your heart aches at the care in it.

You nod, voice soft. “Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His arms slide around you with exquisite care, mindful of every sore muscle. Wilbur shifts too, adjusting so you’re between them both, wrapped up, surrounded by warmth and quiet protection. Quackity strokes slow circles over your back, murmuring Spanish under his breath—not even full sentences, just soothing phrases and endearments you don’t need to understand to feel.

Wilbur presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re safe now.”

Your breath shudders again, but this time it steadies on the exhale. The shaking starts to slow.

“Do you want water?” Wilbur asks.

You nod mutely. He slips away just long enough to grab a bottle from the nearby dresser and returns, uncapping it and holding it for you. You drink in slow sips, the coolness helping to bring you further back into yourself.

Quackity’s still watching you, his hand now gently massaging your calf where the blanket’s slipped. His fingers trace the edge of a red mark that’s already fading.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

You hesitate… then shake your head.

“It was intense,” you admit. “But it was what I needed. I just… feel weird now.”

He nods like he understands completely. “That’s okay. Your body just ran a marathon. Your brain did too. Everything’s catching up now.”

“And we’re here,” Wilbur adds, brushing some hair from your face. “As long as you need. Hours. Days. Doesn’t matter.”

That gets a soft laugh from you—wet, but real. “You’ll just stay here for days?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Quackity says, grinning a little now. “You’re stuck with us.”

You sniff and lean back into the pillows, letting your body truly rest for the first time since it started.

“Can we just… lie down?” you ask, voice barely more than a breath. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Of course,” Wilbur murmurs.

They move seamlessly around you. The lights are dimmed, the edges of the room growing hazy and gentle. Quackity climbs into bed beside you, tugging the blanket around your shoulders tighter, and Wilbur stretches out behind you, his arms forming a warm wall of comfort at your back.

You let your head rest on Quackity’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding you. Wilbur’s hand finds yours again and squeezes, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

No one speaks for a while.

Time doesn’t move in a straight line anymore. Minutes pass in quiet waves, broken only by the occasional adjustment of the blankets or the soft exhale of someone’s breath.

Eventually, you speak again. Quietly.

“Thank you.”

Quackity kisses your forehead. “No need to thank us, cariño. We’re lucky you trust us.”

Wilbur hums low in his chest. “And proud of you.”

Your body is finally still. The ache in your muscles is fading into a soft hum, the sting dulled by the blanket and the warmth. You can feel their presence on every side of you—hands, voices, the press of their chests. You are not alone.

And for the first time since the first crack of the belt, you let yourself fully relax.