Chapter Text
Wilbur himself wasn’t even sure when this whole ordeal had started happening; when this became the way their dynamic had started working. The seemingly never ending push and shove, or the endless game of tit for tat they always played together, a constant battle of who could get the last word in; of who could manage to hit a raw nerve from inside of the other first. Wilbur would always start it first- he would always be the one to say the first dig at the younger, knowing it would get a reaction from Quackity in the way he always had gotten entertained by. The taller would make his way through the doors of the casino, or he would catch the raven haired man wandering about the area of Las Nevadas.
He would stalk his way over to where he stood, holding himself confidently as he strode towards Quackity, the air around him holding an aura of undoubtful charisma and a certain type of cockiness. The curly haired man would find amusement in the way Quackity’s eyes would narrow almost immediately when he would catch sight of Wilbur approaching him, the usual brown eyes that held mock warmth, becoming devoid from all emotion besides the burning of their usual hatred and anger, in the blink of an eye.
Wilbur would catch it happening, of course he would— he wasn’t one of the smartest and most observative people on the entire server for nothing. The taller one wouldn't really care at the action, though; instead he would just smirk menacingly in the direction of the other, finding satisfaction in the way it would make Quackity’s face flush lightly with irritation.
The brown haired man couldn’t count the amount of times that the shorter had shouted some profanity at him whenever Wilbur would try and make conversation with the other, keeping on his calm, careless facade throughout the entire ordeal, knowing how much it agitated the younger man.
“I’m not going to let you into Las Nevadas, Wilbur,” Quackity growls out at the other, eyes narrowed dangerously as he stares down the other. Wilbur lets out an uninterested snort.
“Oh believe me, Quackity, I am fully aware of your reluctance and refusal on that subject,” Wilbur says, raising a perfect eyebrow in questioning at the expression that fleets across Quackity’s face at his words, before returning to its carefully neutral expression he’s so good at keeping in place.
“Then why are you here? I highly doubt you want to make small talk with me,” He questions. Wilbur shrugs, keeping his mask of careless nonchalance on almost irritatingly well.
The taller one brings one of his bandaged hands down to the pocket of his trench coat, sliding one in easily, before taking a hold of the box of cigarettes he keeps stored there into the palm of his hands.
“And what if that’s exactly what I want to do?” He asks, pulling out his lighter along with the box quickly. He opens the lid, tugging one of the brown and white sticks out of its packaging, long and lithe fingers flickering the metal lighter on easily, before bringing the stick of nicotine to his lips and inhaling deeply.
Wilbur lets a smirk overtake his mouth when he notices the way Quackity’s eyes flit over to where his fingers lay against his lips, duly taking note of the way Quackity’s own fingers twitch with the need for his own cigarette, before he turns his head away from where Wilbur blows the smoke out of his lungs.
“Would you like one, Quackity?” Wilbur hums out, tilting his head to the side, dark red eyes gleaming ever so slightly with deduction. He lets out a small, quiet tsk when the only response he gets is an ineligible grumble to his question.
“Make it understandable, please. I don’t speak in tongues,” Wilbur responds with, always so quick witted to make fun of the other. This is usually how it begins, Wilbur thinks to himself, His smirk morphing into that of a menacing, small smile, just the bottoms of his top row of teeth showing as he does so.
He laughs a bit when Quackity fixes him with a glare.
“Oh, fuck you, Wilbur.” He growls out. Wilbur let’s out an actual laugh— god, even that was something he hadn’t done in awhile.
“I don’t think we’re ready for that yet— we still have to get over the whole old rivalries thing, don’t you think?” He hums out, his eyes gleaming with a false sense of innocence.
“I’m going to fucking kill you, one day,” the younger growls out, his fists clenching from where they lay on top of the oak wood table hard enough for the skin to turn white with agitation.
“I’ll pass on that offer; I’ve already been there, and done that. You know how the saying goes, and all,” Wilbur says, carelessly waving his free hand around in the air, before taking another drag from the cigarette.
He tilts his head back this time, though, the back of his skull resting onto the booth that lays behind him, Adam's apple bobbing from where it lays underneath his skin at the action.
Quackity’s eye twitches in irritation at the oldests words, letting out a huff. He curses himself mentally when he catches his eyes drifting down Wilbur’s pale neck, his sight being focused on the way his Adams apple is bulging from underneath his skin for a moment too long before he snaps out of it. He prays that Wilbur didn’t see the way that he was raking his eyes down his pale skin, and his ever so slightly revealed collarbone that lay out in the open from where the shoulder of his over-worn coat had fallen off to the side.
But, of course Wilbur had seen it, because when has there ever been a time where he didn’t notice something, even if it was something as minor as his eyes dragging across the deathly pale skin.
“I can see that you’re itching for it, Big Q,” Wilbur says, tilting his head to the side and fixing Quackity with one of his looks. The dark red of the other's eyes unsettles Quackity immensely— their gaze makes him feel small and enclosed, like the taller of the two is looking directly through him as if he was glass. It was something that Wilbur had always been able to do, even before he had died. It had felt the same way, even when instead of the deep crimson he had now, when there was seemingly a never ending abyss of dark, deep brown.
“I can’t,” Quackity finally breathes out after a pregnant pause, his hands coming to run through his hair, ignoring the urge to inhale the smoke that Wilbur blows out of his own lungs.
“And why is that, hm? Because you promised someone? Oh, how I truly wonder who that could be,” Wilbur says, his voice dripping in sharp sarcasm, the tone of his words making Quackity’s blood boil. It doesn’t get past him, the way Wilbur takes a quick glance at his now absent chain that had always laid around his neck, the one that had always held the weight of the two simple, metal bands. Quackity lets out a warning growl.
“You bring them into this, and I swear to the gods I will break your fucking face,” He threatens, anger building up inside of him when Wilbur just simply laughs coldly at his words.
“You try me, Quackity, and I can promise that your damage will be twice that of mine. Did you forget the fact that my father is the most powerful person on the server, and that my brother is, quite literally, a god?” Wilbur says, his tone almost mocking in the way that it sounds so childish— like an adult cooing at a child. His head was cocked to the side, his eyes now flickering with unspoken threats, and the promise to hurt. His crimson eyes flash briefly, the dark red glinting with a moment's worth of mania, before disappearing completely.
And Quackity hates the way that he feels a phantom of a shiver make its way down his spine, knowing all too well how easily Wilbur could take him out in a fight. Quackity feels a ball of irritation wring itself together inside of his stomach when he feels his right eye start to itch out of the blue, resisting the urge to bring his finger up to the scarred skin that Techno had given him.
He hates the way that Wilbur gets a cocky smirk on his face when he’s met with no response from the younger, the black haired male knowing that their conversation about that topic had now been dismissed.
“You know, Quackity,” Wilbur starts, leaning his head back down to look at the younger square in the eyes, dark brown clashing together with red.
“You don’t actually have to take a drag to get the smoke,” He says. “To fulfill that need that your past addiction demands so harshly.” Wilbur speaks, his tone casual as ever as the words tumble past his mouth. Quackity looks at him, a quizzical expression over clouding his features. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow.
“Of course you do, you moron— how the fuck else would you get it?” He asks, giving a Wilbur a look that calls him idiotic without even having to utter a word. Wilbur snickers.
“Are we sure I’m the one that’s been dead for thirteen years? Or were you just a very sheltered child?” Wilbur says sarcastically, and Quackity suddenly feels the overwhelming need to punch the curly haired man in his infuriatingly attractive face. The younger settles for just rolling his eyes instead, knowing that in doing that latter, it would only do him more bad than good.
“Get to the point, you dimwit,” Quackity scoffs out, crossing his hands over his chest, like he was getting prepared to laugh at whatever words were about to come from Wilbur’s mouth.
Wilbur lets out a small laugh before responding. “Have you ever heard of the term shotgunning?” Wilbur asks, eyes gleaming. He raises an eyebrow when the younger’s expression remains neutral, the taller of the two letting out a quick laugh in disbelief.
“My god, you haven’t,” He says, his eyebrows raising quickly to his hairline, before falling back into their normal resting position. Quackity lets out an annoyed scuff.
“How about you explain it then, hot shot?” He says, tone heavily laced with irritation. Wilbur lets out a hum, twisting one of the cards that lay in the middle of the table between his thin fingers. Quackity feels the tips of his ears turn a light shade of red at the sight, before quickly deterring his eye line when the other places the card back in its place.
“I’d much rather just show you,” The curly haired man says, now instead twirling the burnt down cigarette between his fingers, the ash from the paper landing on the wooden tables. Quackity’s eye twitches in disdain at the action.
“Wilbur, I swear to the fucking gods, if you start a fire inside of my casino just because you’re trying to look cool, I’m gonna tear your goddamn throat out,” He deadpans, irritated eyes looking straight ahead towards the older man in front of him. Wilbur smirks at his words, the action surprising the black haired man ever so slightly.
“That sounds awfully kinky, Big Q, but I think I’ll pass,” He says, a few moments of silence passing, before he starts laughing at his own stupid joke. The younger hates that he feels the tip of his own lips tug upward ever so slightly against his will in reaction. He might hate every cell of the man’s body, but he had to admit that he was funny, no matter how much he resented him, or how much it affected his pride to admit, even if he was just saying it to himself.
Quackity needs to keep up his mask, though, so he merely just scoffs and rolls his eyes, before he responds. “You won’t be saying that when you’re bleeding out by the neck, and being sent back to hell.”
“Ooh, and he still has the kicks, everyone!” Wilbur exclaims, tone laced with sarcasm and faux excitement. Quackity narrows his eyes at him dangerously.
“Yeah, and if you keep going, the next one is gonna be to your dick,” He gruffs out, arms crossed across his chest like a child, his feet propped up on the dark oak wood of the table. Wilbur rolls his eyes once more at Quackity’s words, lowering the cigarette down onto the ashtray, and putting the flame out. The younger nods slightly at the action, only to raise a questioning eyebrow when the older proceeds to pull another one out of the box.
“Jesus Christ , Wilbur, you literally just had one,” He says, his tone holding the slightest ounce of bewilderment, taking a second to glance down at the now discarded, burnt down stick of nicotine that rests in the dark marble tray. Wilbur lets out a chuckle, his red eyes glinting with mischief as he stares down at Quackity from across the table.
The look in the older's eye makes a wave of unease pass through his body, shifting in his seat slightly in response to the feeling, though he keeps his eyes connected with the others, crimson clashing together with dark brown.
“Oh, no Q, this isn’t just for me,” He says, a dangerous smirk coming to play on his lips. And Quackity hates the fact that he finds the expression attractive, when instead he should find it mind numbingly irritating.
“Well then who the fuck is it for? Cause I’m not taking it,” Quackity starts, going to finish his quip back, but then before he can do so, Wilbur is pushing himself up off of the booth from where he resides, making his way over to Quackity’s own side. The younger man looks at him, his face holding an obvious look of confusion, which causes the brown haired male to let out a small laugh.
“Oh Q, you clueless little birdie,” Wilbur hums out, eyes fixated on where Quackity’s legs lay resting, criss-crossed at the ankles. He brings one of his bandaged fingers to lightly grace over the limb, eyes looking over to Quackity through speculated, rounded glasses. When the curly haired man only gets a response in the form of the younger’s breath hitching at the light touch, and a light blush settling it’s way onto his cheeks, he continues.
He brings his finger higher up on his leg, making the touch more firm as it takes the desired path. Up, up, up the other’s leg until it’s resting on his thigh. Wilbur keeps the finger there for a few moments to take in the way the younger’s spitefulness and witty comebacks in the form of insults, had suddenly vanished.
“How do you feel about this, Quackity?” He whispers out, voice lower than before as he fixates his eyes onto Quackity’s face. He raises an expectant eyebrow when a few moments go by in silence, pressing his finger down more forcefully from where it rests on top of the younger’s thigh. That seems to startle him out of his thoughts, then, because he looks up at Wilbur’s now towering form before he speaks.
“Fine, this is fine,” He mumbles out, voice flustered as the words come past his lips.
“I’m gonna need a yes, or a no,” Wilbur says.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Quackity responds, the solid confirmation being enough for Wilbur to continue on with his plan. He lets out a small smirk, letting the rest of his hand come out and grasp at the younger’s thigh and pull it apart from the other, finding satisfaction in the loud breath Quackity punches out of his lungs at the action. Wilbur hums out, curiously.
The brown haired man pushes himself closer to the younger once the leg is down, letting his hand linger on the covered skin for a few brief seconds, enjoying how flustered the other had gotten at the small touch, before he had removed it. He has his knee nudged up against the chair so he can rest part of his weight on it, letting out a small laugh every time the younger squirms when it gets too close to the area in between his legs. He has one hand resting beside Quackity’s head, their faces closer than they should be comfortable with.
But, neither of them are complaining.
“W-Wilbur, aren’t you supposed to be showing me something?” Quackity says, cursing himself internally when he stumbles over his words. Wilbur tilts up his lips, humming once more.
“I suppose I was, yes,” He says, his voice still holding that irate tone of carelessness, self assurance, and overly cocky confidence. The curly haired man pulls away briefly, reaching behind him to grab at the previously pulled out cigarette and the lighter, before turning back over to him.
“I’m still confused as to where this is supposed to be going,” Quackity says, voice breathy as it tumbles out of his throat, fists clenching, before going lax from where they now lay still at his sides. Wilbur smirks dangerously, eyes gleaming.
“What’s going to happen, Q,” Wilbur starts out, bringing the white stick to rest between his index and middle finger of his right hand, the lighter resting in its palm. Quackity eyes the digits with ever so slightly hooded eyes. Wilbur brings his free hand out, two of his fingers coming to place themselves underneath Quackity’s chin, pushing the shorter’s face up in one hard press.
Wilbur’s own eyes clash with those of the black haired males, the others pupils starting to become blown. Wilbur lets out a menacing laugh.
“You’re going to light up this cigarette,” He begins.
“And then, I’m gonna lean over real close; and you know what you’re gonna do for me, hm?” He asks, voice lower now. Quackity lets out a questioning hum, eyes fixated on the older’s lips and they way they move as he speaks, his mind not caring to fully process what’s being said, until he feels Wilbur’s free hand squeeze hard at his jaw . The younger darts his eyes from where they resided moments ago, to look up at Wilbur, attention now fully on the words falling from his mouth.
“And then you’re gonna open up this pretty little mouth of yours for me, and then,” He explains further, his thumb coming to drag down the length of Quackity’s bottom lip from where it rests underneath it. “You’re gonna let me blow the smoke into your lungs.” He finishes, letting the soft skin slip out from underneath his finger pad.
“Is that understood, birdie?” Wilbur asks, eyes looking expectantly down at him from beneath his brown and white streaked hair. The younger nods, afraid to speak his agreement in fear that it might come out a noise instead. Wilbur hums.
“Good boy,” is all he says, before grabbing at one of Quackity’s hands, placing the lighter inside of his palm.
Wilbur brings the cigarette up to his mouth, placing it in between his lips, looking down at the younger man silently in wait. The black haired male gets his hand to cooperate with his brain, letting out a small gasp when Wilbur grasps at his wrist to help lead him on the correct path.
The tanned skinned male brings his thumb to the cog, easily bringing his thumb over the oddly shaped object and onto the trigger, fire immediately coming up from the small holed opening. Quackity takes note of the way Wilbur’s crimson eyes almost glow in the light of dancing flame, breath hitching softly when the older tilts his head to the side, eyes focused on where the stick is getting lit. Wilbur tugs his wrist down when it’s finally done, taking a long drag of the cigarette between his fingers, cheeks hollowing a bit at the action, before he pulls it away from his mouth.
The older wordlessly leans in, his large hand coming to rest on the side of Quackity’s face, tugging the other closer by grasping the side of his jaw hard with his fingers. Quackity lets out a breathy noise, eyes flickering between the want to focus on the curly haired man’s lips, and the rest of his face. Wilbur nods his head to sign Quackity to do as he was instructed, the younger following the command without hesitance. He was so close now— so close to getting that itch scratched that had been bothering him for more than half a year, to finally feel the almost instant relief that spreads throughout his body when he inhales the gray cloud of toxicity.
His lips part, and then Wilbur is just an inch or two away from his face, close enough for their noses to almost be touching. The older man focuses his eyes onto the lips of the other man, before he exhales into the shorter’s man's lungs. Quackity feels the familiar burn of the smoke travelling down his throat, letting out a small cough as his body's way of retaliation after it being so long. Quackity lets out an appreciative groan once it’s finally done, the itch finally being scratched— at least for now. It’s only then that he realizes how close he and Wilbur really are; the way he’s close enough to see the barely visible scars that scatter along his face, accompanied by the soft freckles dotted across his face.
He’s never realized how attractive the man truly was, not until this moment. And god, does he hate it, because not even thirty-five minutes ago, he had wanted to skin the other man alive from his very place, to shove him out of the casino and yell at him all over again, even if he knew the older man would never truly listen to him, nor the words that he would yell out.
“Is it bad that right now, I really want to just absolutely fucking ravish you?” Comes Wilbur’s voice, the younger only now taking note of the way Wilbur’s red eyes are focused so intensely on his lips, the grip the older has on his jaw tighter than previously before. Quackity lets out a punched, strangled breath, the sound forcing itself from inside of his throat at the words.
And Quackity also hates the fact that he shudders at Wilbur’s words, flashes of their time spent together back in the Pogtopia days running past his mind at light speed, causing his hand to tighten around the lighter he still holds in his palm.
He doesn’t really respond, only gives his thoughts a few moments to run through everything, before he’s bringing his free hand up to tug hard at Wilbur’s head, pulling the older’s face to close the rest of the distance, and pressing their mouths together in a harsh kiss. He laces his fingers into Wilbur’s hair, pulling the beanie off of the back of the taller’s head to give him better access to the rest of his locks. He tugs harshly, a sense of pride pinging through his chest when he hears Wilbur let out a small moan in the back of his throat.
Their teeth are clacking together, and it’s messy and uncoordinated— hard, complicated. Just the way things should be between them. Quackity lets out a soft groan at the feeling of the older’s tongue finding its way to the seams of his lips. The younger decides to be petty, just this once, and deny him the access. Quackity smirks coldly against Wilbur’s mouth when he hears the other let out a frustrated, quiet growl. He expected that— Wilbur didn’t like being denied anything— he never had.
What he doesn’t expect, though, is the sudden hard grasp at his clothed thigh, bandaged fingers pressing down hard into the sensitive skin. Quackity gasps at the sudden touch, irritation buzzing back to life inside of his chest once more when the sly motherfucker on top of him takes it as an opportunity to snake his tongue into his mouth. The shorter tugs even harder at the curly brown hair in retaliation to the dirty playing, nipping at the older’s bottom lip just to add on. The hand on his thigh tightens.
“I fucking hate you,” Quackity growls out when they pull away for air, fingers still laced in the now tangled locks, a thin string of saliva connecting their mouths following the action, that soon disappears. Wilbur snickers.
“Yeah, the way your tongue was shoved down my throat really gave off that message crystal fucking clear,” Wilbur responds back cockily, earning himself a hair tug. He lets out a moan at the harsh pull against his scalp, before letting out a breathy laugh that sounds far more attractive than it should.
“Keep going, and I’m gonna knock your fucking teeth down it instead,” He growls, before leaning down and connecting their mouths together again.
“If you wanna show me you hate me, little birdie, then I think you’re gonna have to take a different approach than this,” Wilbur pants out against Quackity’s saliva covered lips. The younger lets out a noise of irritation, leaning upwards to shut the cocky bastard’s mouth once more, before he could rile him up even further.
He bites harshly at the tender skin of Wilbur’s bottom lip, his sharpened golden tooth causing it to break skin and bleed, eyes locked up with Wilbur’s own as he does so.
The coppery taste of blood floods his senses, causing the two to pull away briefly.
“How’s that for another approach, you cocky fucking prick?” He huffs out, the tips of his fingers pressing hard into the back of Wilbur’s skull. Quackity pulls the others head back by his hair, bringing his mouth down low enough to start to kiss hotly at the miles of pale, white skin that lays along the columns of Wilbur’s neck. The taller man lets out quiet groans, bringing his own hands to drag over Quackity’s clothed skin, hands running up and down the man’s sides.
Quackity continues to kiss across the planes of Wilbur’s neck, letting his eyes wander up to watch the older’s face as it dances with the beginnings of pleasure. He brings his teeth out to join in along with his lips and tongue, pressing hot kisses to the unblemished skin before he bites down and sucks, letting his tongue wipe over the quickly forming bruises, before moving to a different, unmarked part. Wilbur is basically straddling him, now, at some point having moved his legs to rest on the sides of Quackity’s hips. One of his hands rested on top of Quackity’s shoulder, the other tangled together in the younger raven locks, pressing the other's mouth closer to his neck.
“Mmm, good birdie,” Wilbur pants out, his voice breathy, red eyes peering down at the smaller male from beneath his eyelashes. He lets out a moan when Quackity nips at his sweet spot, his eyes falling shut, fingers tightening briefly in his hair, before unclenching. The younger nips more forcefully at the spot, causing the older’s hips to buck unintentionally at the sensation, making Quackity let out a hiss of his own when the action causes their groins to brush together.
“Fuck, Wilbur,” He groans out against the curly haired males neck, breath coming out in quick, hot puffs of air.
“Well yes, that’s the general idea here,” He says, still managing to find a way to joke, even with a raging hard on pressing up against the fly of his black, dirt covered skinny jeans, the fabric scattered with random burn marks from the explosion. Quackity fixes him with a glare through hooded eyes, and Wilbur only smirks.
“Now, are you going to be a gentleman and take me up to a room, or are we just gonna fuck on the booth like animals?” Wilbur hums out, bringing his hand that rested once before in Quackity’s hair to trace down the jawline of the shorter male, before pressing his fingers underneath his chin like before. Quackity lets out a slight shudder at the words.
Wilbur leans down, lining his lips up to the dark skinned male’s ear, before he speaks.
“I’m down for either, birdie, but just think what someone would think if they walked in here, and saw you, fucking up into me, of all people? The one person you’re supposed to hate more than anyone?” He whispers hotly.
“What would people think, if they walked through those front doors,” He looks over to the side of his peripheral vision at the aforementioned doors. They were made up of pure glass, perfectly see through for anyone to look into.
“And they saw you, a whining, begging mess underneath me?” He purrs out, bringing his tongue out to lick at the man’s lobe. Wilbur smirks dangerously at the small whimper that falls past Quackity's swollen lips, the skin now a dark shade of red from their heated kisses earlier, followed shortly along by the younger marking up his neck. They’re kissed red raw, and Wilbur doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look at that specific shade of red the same way ever again.
“I want you, every time you come in here, when you see this booth, to remember everything. I want you, every time you crawl into your bed at night, to remember how I had you begging for me, I want you to remember the night that I fucking owned you, is that clear, little ducky?” He hissed out into Quackity’s ear, his pointer finger and thumb going to each of his cheeks and squeezing, hard. When he doesn’t get a response quick enough, he speaks once more.
“I asked you a question, now answer it,”
“Y-yes, you insufferable fucking dick, it’s clear ,”
“Good, now take me upstairs, I wanna see if I still know your body as well as I did back then,” He hums, removing himself from Quackity’s lap, pointedly ignoring the noise that falls past the younger’s lips at the husked out words. He stands, waiting for the other to follow his lead, letting the shorter male get in front of him so he could lead the way.