꧁sbi family oneshots꧂

✨Flesh✨

Short description- Wilbur forgets to lock the door and Tommy walks in. (TRIGGER WARNING: cannibalism). THIS IS A COMPLETE DIFFERENT STYLE OF WRITTING THEN I USUALLY DO 

STARS MEAN HORROR

——-

Wilbur didn't know when the dreams had started.

Maybe they had always been there—soft, slithering shadows at the edge of his thoughts, whispering in a voice that didn't belong to anyone he knew, but still somehow sounded like home.

They weren't nightmares, not really. They were... appetites. Visions of warmth and blood and marrow splitting open like ripe fruit. Of hands, his hands, breaking flesh like bread. It always ended with him waking up with a taste in his mouth. Metallic. Wet.

He'd sit up in bed, chest tight, palms sweating. Technoblade would be snoring softly in the bed across from him, oblivious. Tommy, two rooms down, would let out an occasional whimper in his sleep, still prone to bad dreams and the need to be cuddled back into calm.

Wilbur didn't wake them. He didn't tell anyone.

Because deep down, something inside him whispered: Don't share this. They won't understand.

⸻

It started with the fridge.

The meat had a smell. Not the usual raw funk of uncooked beef or chicken. It was sweeter, coppery. Almost... appealing. Wilbur caught himself sniffing it once. Just standing there in the kitchen, breathing it in like it was a flower. Then he realized what he was doing and slammed the fridge shut hard enough to rattle the magnets.

Phil looked up from the table. "You good, mate?"

"Yeah," Wilbur said quickly, too quickly. "Just—got lightheaded for a second."

Phil didn't press. He never did.

⸻

Kristin cooked dinner that night. Pork shoulder, slow-roasted. It fell apart under the fork, soft and tender, steaming with rosemary and garlic. Everyone dug in.

Wilbur didn't. He stared at his plate, stomach twisting. Not from disgust. From something else. Something worse.

It smelled like the dreams.

"You not hungry?" Kristin asked gently.

Wilbur forced a smile and picked up his fork. "Just tired."

He chewed. Slowly.

And he felt something light up behind his eyes like a fuse.

⸻

The voice grew louder after that.

It lived in the silence. In the corners of rooms. In reflections that lingered a moment too long in the mirror.

You've tasted it now. You know what you are.

⸻

He started skipping meals. The food at school made him nauseous. The thought of vegetables made his skin crawl. He tried biting into an apple and gagged. His throat only seemed to open when meat was on the plate—and even then, only certain meat. Richer. Stranger.

He stopped asking where it came from.

Kristin always had an answer, cheerful and vague. "Found a new butcher." "Phil's friend dropped something off." "A neighbor had leftovers."

Wilbur nodded. Smiled.

Lied.

⸻

Technoblade noticed first.