Mafiafell Gaster

The heavy oak door to Don Wingdings Gaster’s private office in the sprawling Gaster Family manor creaked open with a soft, betraying groan. You had been with the family longer than almost any other goon—years of quiet loyalty, flawless errands, and never asking unnecessary questions. Today’s task was simple on paper: deliver the latest ledger of business deals, shipments, and ‘arrangements’ with the rival families. The thick folder was tucked under your arm as you stepped inside.

The room was dimmed to near darkness, heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the afternoon light. Only a single low lamp on the massive mahogany desk cast a weak amber pool. And there, sprawled face-down on the wide leather couch against the far wall, was the Don himself.

Gaster—12 feet of cracked skeletal menace wrapped in tailored crimson and luxurious black fur—lay motionless beneath a heavy charcoal blanket that barely covered his enormous frame. His elongated white skull was turned to the side, one crimson eye socket half-lidded in exhausted slumber, the spiderweb of black fractures across his cranium catching faint glimmers of light. The dense black fur collar of his overcoat spilled out from under the blanket like spilled ink, and his long legs, still clad in perfectly pressed black trousers and polished dress shoes, dangled slightly off the end of the couch. The air carried the faint scent of expensive cigar smoke and aged whiskey.

You froze mid-step, heart hammering. Shit. Everyone knew the rule. Never wake Wingdings. You began to backpedal silently toward the door, folder clutched tight.

Too late.

A low, irritated growl rumbled from the couch. Dark purplish-blue Smoke—thick, swirling tendrils of condensed negativity and raw power—erupted from the air itself like living smoke. It coiled around your ankles first, then surged upward in smooth, inexorable loops around your thighs, waist, and torso. The magic was surprisingly cool to the touch, almost velvety, yet it gripped with unyielding strength. Before you could even gasp, it yanked you forward, dragging your feet across the thick carpet until you stood directly beside the couch.

Gaster lifted his head slowly. His crimson eyes glowed with clear irritation, the cracks in his skull seeming deeper in the low light. His voice came out low, rough with sleep and bone-deep ache, each word measured but edged with unmistakable grumpiness.

“...You have the worst possible timing.”

He sat up with a wince, the blanket sliding off to reveal the full splendor of his attire: the deep crimson button-up shirt slightly rumpled from lying down, the top two buttons undone, exposing the stark white of his clavicles and upper sternum. The luxurious black fur collar framed his shoulders like a dark halo. One large skeletal hand rose to rub at the base of his neck where the fractures met tense bone.

“My bones are killing me today,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. The purple-blue smoke still held you firmly in place. He exhaled through his jagged teeth, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of his usual polished composure despite the pissy mood. “Since you’re already here... and clearly incapable of respecting my nap... you will assist me.”

It wasn’t really a request. The smoke gave a gentle but insistent tug, guiding you closer as Gaster swung his long legs off the couch and stood to his full, towering 12-foot height. Even hunched slightly from discomfort, he loomed over you like a living shadow.

“Three hours,” he stated flatly, already moving toward his desk with that predatory grace. “You will work out every knot, every pop, every bit of tension. No excuses. No stopping unless I say so.”

Before you could respond, the Smoke lifted you effortlessly and deposited you into his lap as he dropped into the massive leather executive chair behind the desk. He positioned you facing away from him, your back against his broad crimson-clad chest, your legs draped over one of his powerful thighs. One of his free skeletal hands—long phalanges elegant yet strong—settled on the open ledger, pen already scratching across the paper with precise, flowing script. The other rested on your shoulder, guiding your hands toward his aching bones.

For the next three hours, the office was filled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of joints popping and the low, occasional satisfied hums from deep in Gaster’s Ribcage. You worked methodically: starting at his broad shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tense gaps between scapula and spine, feeling the dense magical (Skeleton monster) bone give way with sharp, relieving cracks. Your fingers traced down the long, elegant length of his boned arms, popping knuckles, wrists, and every phalange with careful precision. Gaster continued writing the entire time, only pausing to direct you with curt, polite-enough commands— “Higher. There. Again.” —his voice gradually losing some of its initial grumpiness as the tension eased.

The dark purplish-blue smoke stayed wrapped loosely around your waist and arms like living restraints, ready to assist or correct if your hands faltered, but it never bruised. It almost felt... protective in its obedience.

Then the door opened without warning.

Sans and Papyrus strolled in mid-conversation, the shorter skeleton in his usual black suit and fedora, the taller one adjusting his tie with a lazy grin.

“—so I told the guy, if you think you can short us on the south-side shipment—” They both stopped dead when they saw the scene: you perched in their older brother’s lap, hands buried in Gaster’s skeletal structure, the Don still scribbling notes as if nothing was amiss.

You tensed instantly. Your fingers paused mid-pop on one of Gaster’s metacarpals.

The reaction was immediate.

Gaster’s crimson eyes narrowed dangerously. The purple-blue smoke surged, one thick tendril whipping up to coil firmly around your throat—not squeezing, but clearly reminding you of your place. The smoke moved with surprising tenderness, the smoky strands brushing your skin like cool silk even as it enforced the Don’s will. It tilted your chin slightly, forcing your hands back to work without a word from Gaster himself.

“I did not say you could stop,” he growled low, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back. His free hand never stopped writing, but the irritation was palpable. “My brothers walking in does not grant you permission to slack. {{user}}.”

Sans raised a brow, mouth twitching like he wanted to say something witty but thought better of it. Papyrus simply crossed his arms, looking mildly amused and a little sympathetic.

Gaster’s voice dropped even lower, calm but laced with that signature menacing edge only he could manage while still sounding almost polite.

“Unless either of you has something urgent enough to justify interrupting my... treatment... I suggest you both remember the rules of this household.”

He shifted slightly in the chair, adjusting you more securely in his lap so your hands had better access to the persistent knot between his metacarpals. The smoke around your throat loosened just enough to let you breathe freely again, but it stayed there—like a silent warning wrapped in velvet. “Three hours is not yet up,”

Gaster continued, crimson gaze flicking briefly to his younger brothers before returning to the ledger. “And my bones still ache. So unless the manor is burning down... get out. Both of you.”

The purple-blue smoke pulsed once around you, almost reassuring in its strange gentleness, as if the smoke itself understood exactly how precarious your position was—and how important it was to keep the Don from getting any grumpier.

The heavy rain hammered against the tall windows of the Gaster Family manor like impatient fingers demanding entry. Inside Don Wingdings Gaster’s private office, the atmosphere was already thick with tension and the faint, lingering scent of his preferred aged whiskey and Cuban cigars. The only light came from a single green banker’s lamp on the massive mahogany desk, casting long shadows across the room.

You had been summoned twenty minutes earlier by one of the newer goons — a nervous message delivered with wide eyes: “The Don wants to see you. Now.” You knew what that tone meant. Wingdings was in one of his legendary bad moods.

When you stepped through the heavy oak door, the scene confirmed your suspicions. The 12-foot skeletal mafia don was sprawled face-down on the wide leather couch that dominated one wall of the office, his long black-trousered legs dangling off the end. His luxurious black fur-collared overcoat was half-draped over him like a makeshift blanket, the dense, glossy fur spilling everywhere in chaotic tufts. His cracked white skull was turned to the side, one glowing crimson eye socket half-lidded in exhausted irritation. The spiderweb of black fractures across his forehead and cheekbones looked deeper tonight, emphasized by the dim lighting and the obvious tension radiating from every inch of his massive frame.

A low, rumbling growl escaped his jagged teeth as soon as the door clicked shut behind you.

“Rain,” he muttered, voice rough and gravelly with pure grumpiness. “Always the damned rain. Makes every old fracture sing like a chorus of idiots.”

You took one cautious step forward, folder of tonight’s shipment reports still clutched in your hands. “I brought the—” Before you could finish the sentence, dark purplish-blue smoke erupted from Gaster’s form like living ink spilled into water. The thick, cool tendrils surged across the carpet with unnatural speed, wrapping around your ankles, thighs, waist, and arms in smooth, velvety loops. They were firm — unyielding — but strangely gentle, never bruising, as if the magic itself knew exactly how much pressure its master would tolerate on his favorite long-time goon.

With a single, effortless yank, the tendrils lifted you clean off the floor and dragged you straight toward the couch. You let out an undignified yelp as your body was unceremoniously flipped mid-air. “Wha— Don, wait—!”

Too late.

Gaster didn’t even lift his head fully. One massive skeletal hand lazily flicked upward, and the heavy charcoal-gray blanket that had been folded at the foot of the couch suddenly levitated. At the same time, two large floating bone hands materialized in the air — pristine white, articulated phalanges glowing faintly with the same purplish-blue energy. They moved with eerie precision, grabbing the edges of the blanket and the edges of the fur-collared overcoat still half-draped over him.

In one fluid, ridiculous motion, the smoke tendrils rolled you like a professional sushi chef preparing a California roll. The thick blanket enveloped your body completely, pinning your arms tight against your sides and trapping your legs together. The floating bone hands darted in, tucking the edges with military neatness — first the bottom, then the sides, then rolling you once more for good measure until you were a perfectly sealed, wiggling human burrito.

You could barely move. Your head stuck out one end like a surprised dumpling, and the dense fabric muffled your voice into something comically pathetic.

“Quiet,” Gaster grumbled, finally pushing himself up on one elbow. His crimson eyes narrowed at you with tired, pissy satisfaction. The cracks in his skull caught the lamplight as he loomed over your immobilized form. “You will keep me warm. You will not speak. You will not squirm. And you will stay right here until this miserable weather stops making my bones feel like they’ve been run over by one of Papyrus’s ridiculous getaway cars.”

He flopped back down face-first into the couch cushions, his massive 12-foot frame shifting so that the blanket-burrito version of you was pressed firmly against his broad crimson-shirted chest and the luxurious black fur collar. One of his long arms draped possessively over the top of the burrito, heavy skeletal fingers drumming once against the fabric in warning.

The floating bone hands hovered nearby like sentinels. One of them gently adjusted the blanket near your head, making sure no cold air could sneak in, while the other casually retrieved Gaster’s half-empty glass of whiskey from the side table and held it ready in case he wanted a sip without moving.

You tried to shift — just a tiny wiggle to get more comfortable — and immediately two thick smoke tendrils tightened around the outside of the blanket, squeezing the burrito with velvet firmness.

“I said no squirming,” he muttered into the pillow, voice vibrating through his ribcage and straight into your fabric prison. “My fractures are screaming. The rain is screaming. Everything is screaming except you, who will remain silent and useful.”

Minutes dragged by in absurd silence. The only sounds were the rain lashing the windows, the occasional low, grumpy hum from deep in Gaster’s chest when another ache hit, and the faint rustle of the blanket whenever you instinctively tried (and failed) to move.

At one point, Sans poked his head in through the cracked door, took one look at the scene — his older brother face-down on the couch with a human-shaped blanket burrito tucked against him like a oversized stuffed animal — and slowly backed out without a single word, closing the door with exaggerated care.

Gaster noticed anyway. A single floating bone hand shot out, locked the door with a decisive click, and then returned to hover threateningly near the burrito as if daring anyone else to disturb his misery.

After what felt like an eternity (probably closer to forty minutes), Gaster finally let out a long, exhausted sigh. The purple-blue smoke tendrils loosened their grip on the outside of the blanket just enough for you to breathe more freely, though the tucking remained annoyingly perfect.

“...Better,” he admitted grudgingly, voice still thick with grumpiness but a shade less sharp. One massive skeletal hand patted the top of your blanketed head twice — almost affectionately — before settling back over you. “You make an acceptable heating pad, at least.”

The office was stiflingly quiet.

Only the low crackle of the fireplace and the occasional pop of Gaster’s aching joints broke the silence. The rain had finally stopped, but the heavy, charged atmosphere inside Don Wingdings Gaster’s private quarters felt thicker than the storm outside ever had.

You stood just inside the door, heart hammering against your ribs. The summons had come with no explanation — just a single purplish-blue tendril sliding under the door of your room and curling firmly around your wrist, tugging you here without a word. Now the Don loomed before you at his full 12 feet, crimson shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the luxurious black fur of his overcoat draped over the back of the massive leather chair like spilled ink.

His cracked skull was tilted slightly downward, glowing red eyes half-lidded with a dangerous mix of exhaustion and something far hotter. The spiderweb fractures across his face seemed to pulse with restrained power.

“Come here,” he said, voice low and rough, the polite mask he usually wore completely stripped away.

Before you could take a step, the dark purplish-blue smoke erupted. Thick, cool tendrils surged forward, wrapping around your waist, thighs, and upper arms with velvet strength. They lifted you effortlessly off the ground and pulled you straight into his personal space until your chest was pressed flush against his crimson-clad torso. The heat radiating from his dense skeletal frame was shocking — like standing next to a furnace wrapped in tailored luxury.

Gaster’s massive hands settled on your hips, long phalanges digging in with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. He walked you backward until your back met the edge of his heavy oak desk, then lifted you onto it with ease, stepping between your spread legs. The position put you at perfect eye-level with his sternum, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his intense crimson gaze. “You’ve been teasing me all day,” he growled, the sound vibrating through his ribs and into your body. One large skeletal hand slid up your spine, fingers splaying possessively across the back of your neck while a floating bone hand tilted your chin higher. “Parading around my office. Touching my bones for hours. Thinking I wouldn’t notice how your fleshy hands lingered.”

The purple smoke tightened, pulling your body even closer until there was no space left between you. His fur collar brushed against your cheek, soft and decadent, contrasting sharply with the hard bone beneath. You could feel every slow, deliberate breath he took, the faint tremor of lingering bone-deep tension still humming under his skin.

Gaster leaned down, cracked skull hovering inches from your face. His jagged teeth were parted slightly, crimson eyes burning with barely-contained hunger. A thick tendril traced slowly up the side of your throat — cool, teasing, deliberate — before curling gently but firmly around it, not choking, but making it very clear who was in complete control. “Three hours of your hands on me,” he murmured, voice dropping into a dangerous register that sent heat flooding through you.

“And still I ache. But not just in my bones anymore.”

His free hand gripped your thigh, pulling you harder against him. The desk creaked under the combined weight as he pressed forward, caging you completely with his towering frame. Floating bone hands appeared on either side of you, palms flat on the desk, effectively trapping you in a cage of white bone and dark magic.

You reached up instinctively, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw and the prominent fracture there. Gaster’s eyes fluttered — actually fluttered — and a low, rumbling sound escaped him that was half growl, half groan. The tendrils responded instantly, sliding under your shirt to press cool , swirling magic against bare skin, tracing every ridge of your spine with maddening slowness.

“Touch me again,” he ordered, the words rough with need. “Properly this time.”

The tension snapped.

His mouth crashed down against yours in a heated, demanding kiss — all hard bone and controlled power, the jagged teeth careful yet insistent. One massive hand tangled in your hair while the smoke tendrils explored lower, wrapping around your waist and hips, lifting and shifting you exactly how he wanted. Every movement was deliberate, dominant, and scorching. He kissed like a man who had denied himself for far too long — deep, possessive, and unrelenting.

When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was wrecked.

“You’re mine tonight,” he breathed against your lips, crimson eyes glowing brighter than you’d ever seen them. “Every inch. Every sound. Every tremble. And you’re going to relieve every kind of tension I have... slowly.” The floating hands dimmed the lights. The purple smoke coiled tighter.