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It starts here.
It doesn’t start at the edge of Las Nevadas. It doesn’t start with a lone figure leaning up against the sign Quackity changed because he called it ugly. Even though he could see the admiration in his eyes, shining almost as bright as the lights illuminating his own back.
It doesn’t start when Wilbur levels his gaze at him, smoke trailing from the corner of his mouth, the cigarette matching the glow of his rose-tinted eyes. When he grins, Quackity can feel the pull of him. He can feel desire curling in his guts, arching into his touch like a self-satisfied cat. When he smiles, Quackity can feel the shadows around him lengthen. Wilbur stands in the one pool of darkness that not even the lights of everything Quackity built to protect and preserve and stand can touch. Where everything else he touched fell like ash at his feet, only Las Nevadas stands. He’ll do everything in his power to keep it standing.
It doesn’t start when he blows smoke out into the night sky. Quackity watches it twist in the chilled air, lifting, rising, beckoning his attention up and up and up. He feels his chin tilt up as he watches and the cat purring into his hands turns to needle-sharp fangs.
His head snaps down, expecting to find Wilbur’s hands reaching down his throat to see if he feels just as cold on the inside as he does on the outside. He goes to bare his teeth and his words where cold steel would feel ten times better and
Wilbur grins at him from the sign.
And Quackity realizes as cold dread fills his stomach that he didn’t fucking move. He moves now, of course, like the bastard he is. Like millions of horror stories of weeping statues that only strike when you let your guard down and look away, but slightly to the left. Because Quackity can’t move his feet. He can’t feel his feet, his hands. He can only feel the rising beat of his heart in his chest as the restitched corpse of a man steps in close and grins at him.
It doesn’t start with his offer.
It doesn’t start as he leans in close and whispers a challenge. A real challenge. Not one that threatens the things he built up. Just a challenge of how much he can tear himself apart before he collapses inward. Until he implodes with his yearning, with his need. Until he goes supernova. Nuclear.
Until the desire spills out of his guts and levels the whole world.
It starts here.
It starts with Quackity on his back, Wilbur’s weight pinning him to the floor of the penthouse. His eyes are bright. Literally glowing like every villain in every storybook. It’s like the TNT embedded itself into his soul: the glowing spark of his eyes, the gunpowder of his lips, the sand and the smoke laid into his tongue as it makes itself a home in Quackity’s maw. They crash into each other, meteors raining down upon the earth from the heavens who turned their backs on them.
Wilbur is cold, Quackity notes. Like death, like glass ready to shatter and pierce and draw every bit of blood he’s willing to offer up like worship. And even though it was Wilbur to offer. Even though it was Wilbur to walk up and bring his challenge to the forefront of his brain, it’s not Wilbur who starts it.
It starts here.
And it starts with Quackity sinking his teeth into Wilbur’s throat.
The man shudders, a stuttering moan slipping from between the spaces in his clenched, stained teeth. Quackity tastes his blood on his tongue, tastes the way his flesh catches in his teeth, tastes the warming copper of the stitches just barely holding this echo of a man together. Blood drenches his front, pouring from the man who stares at him like his new god. Quackity barely has time to savor the look before those rose-tinted eyes brighten like imploding stars and pains sears its mark forever into his brain.
Wilbur bites down on his collarbone. Quackity can feel pain ricocheting across the vast network of nerves, but pleasure seeps in too. He can feel Wilbur’s teeth sink into his flesh, feel the hard thunk of enamel against bone that rings dissonance in his skull, and he feels tearing, ripping, painpainpainSEARINGPAIN–! Wilbur rips off the chunk of flesh from Quackity’s body, blood drenching his lips into a mockery of lipstick as he grins bright want back at him. His lips cover his prize, his jaw shifting as his tongue wraps around. Wilbur can taste him and delights in it, if the way his eyes roll back in his skull have anything to say about it. He watches transfixed as Wilbur’s throat works to swallow him. He can see the muscles squeezing, relaxing, spasming through the hole he made as the large bite makes its slow journey down the length of his throat. Finally, his mouth parts in a gasp, a grateful gulp of breath, and he looks back down at Quackity. Hunger lines the dripping blood from the corner of his mouth. Hunger lines the length of his tongue as it darts out to get one more taste of him.
He wants that, Quackity finds. He wants the delight and the satisfaction and the hunger that graces Wilbur’s face. It illuminates him like a distorted halo, and he leans in to nip the shell of his ear.
“Taste me,” he groans, rocking his hips against Quackity’s. “Taste me, eat me, tear me apart,” he begs with a breathless moan. He’s hard and Quackity’s not long after him. He frowns, glares, his lip lifting in barely restrained disgust. He wants it, he wants to tear worship from Wilbur’s throat. He wants to split open every seam of him and see exactly what kind of darkness inhabits his soul. When Quackity hesitates, Wilbur’s hand grabs his jaw and forces him to look at him.
Insanity lines the crow’s feet around his eyes, his bright, glowing eyes piercing into him like the talons of a raven intent on picking him up and devouring him whole. “You eat every man you’ve ever bedded, little duck. Don’t you like me too?”
Hate boils hot in his guts at the bait Wilbur dangles in front of him. He snatches it out of the air, but only because it’s what he wants too. He throws his body up at him, throwing the other man down on his back. He straddles the writhing form of his–of Wilbur. He doesn’t know what they are, but he doesn’t care about that. He knows what he wants.
"You know I hate you, Wilbur," he sneers. "You know I despise every inch of you."
"And yet you're here," Wilbur laughs. It makes Quackity's blood boil. It makes his fingers turn into claws as Wilbur just keeps. Fucking. Talking. "You're here, my blood upon your lips, your ass crushing my corpse, why. I'd think you were really in love with me." His freakishly long fingers, cold as the night outside even though he tasted stolen warmth in his blood, settle on his cheeks. He cups him like a lover, one of his thumbs parting his lips. Quackity narrows his eyes, but he lets his jaw go slack.
It's worth it to see the disappointed surprise upon Wilbur's face. It's worth the salt on his tongue, the taste of sweat and rot and dusty damning death as he pushes his thumb into his waiting, wet mouth.
It's worth all the pain and misery Wilbur Fucking Soot has caused him when his jaws clamp shut on that freakishly long thumb. Wilbur's eyes snap open as Quackity's teeth snap clean through the soft flesh of his thumb. He can't break through the bone, not like this. Instead, he seals his lips around the appendage warming in his mouth, grits his teeth until dissonance rings in his skull, and he drags Wilbur's hand away from his face.
There's blood as flesh falls useless on his tongue. He slurps up tendons and ligaments lingering out of his mouth, and he swallows Wilbur into the core of him. He watches in growing delight as Wilbur pulls back his hand, the scraps of flesh still clinging desperately to his marrow as his thumb bone flails useless until it snaps apart.
"Fascinating," he says, enraptured. To Quackity, he grins and tries to shove another finger into him again. "Do it! Again! Devour me, eat your fill of my body, please my dearest damned! And let me open up your flesh so I too can taste your heart!"
It goes like this. Over and over and over again until Wilbur’s flesh is caught in his fingernails, his blood drying in the beds. Quackity tongues something caught in his teeth. It tastes like worship. It tastes like joy.
It tastes like the hate festering in Wilbur’s still moving corpse.
Copper burns his tongue as Wilbur’s lips crash into his. He’s on top again; Quackity can’t find it in himself to care. Anyways, he can feel the way Wilbur shifts on top of him this way. He’s hard. They both are, but Quackity doesn’t really care if he cums. He slips a finger into one of the holes in Wilbur’s side, rubbing against one of his organs (a kidney? maybe). The shuddering moan that slips from his mouth at the touch feels like praise. It ricochets into his lungs and he hears Wilbur begging. Begging for more, begging to be torn apart at the seams.
Wilbur’s left his own holes in Quackity’s body. The pain faded from his skull long ago. He either grew too desensitized to it, or one of the chunks sitting in Wilbur’s guts held nerves necessary to direct pain to his skull. Or he was dying, but that was the least of his concerns. The first was Wilbur’s forehead on his, his panting breath hot in his face as another round of begging came, his ruined fingers digging into Quackity’s chest.
“Please, darling, please lemme taste the beat of your heart and pretend it’s for me,” Wilbur gasps as Quackity’s hand digs further into the wound on his side. “Gods, your hate is sweeter than sugar, little duck.” His eyes catch Quackity’s gaze, dragging him deep into the chasm behind his gaze. His voice drops low enough that he can feel it rattle his teeth. “I’m gonna sink my teeth into you until they turn to rot.”
“You look like you’re already halfway there,” Quackity snarks back. “Even before I started ripping holes into you.” He crooks his finger, his nail scraping against the organ he could touch, and Wilbur jerks in his grasp. More begging spills from him, like blood dripping out of arrow holes. Fireworks flash before his eyes, an echo of the things he lost because of Wilbur Fucking Soot. Quackity knows what Wilbur wants. He wants his heart, in the same way Schlatt ripped his out of his chest with every insult that bastard flung his way. Quackity took what he was owed for his trouble.
Quackity would take what he was owed from Wilbur too.
He smiles at Wilbur and digs his fingers into the man’s side. Piercing through his flesh, piercing through the veil of madness Wilbur hides behind. Wilbur moans, rocking his hips against him. More and more begging pours from his lips. Quackity finds that he can’t fucking stand the way Wilbur sounds as his begging continues unending.
Their lips crash together as Quackity buries his hand in the mess of Wilbur’s hair. He feels earth bury into his fingernails, dusty clumps of dirt clinging to his hair as if his corpse was drug out from the ground he damned himself into. Wilbur gasps against his lips, his begging stuttering into nothingness as Quackity forced his nails in deeper and deeper and deeper.
“You want my heart, Wilbur?” he asks, barely far enough away that he can taste Wilbur’s desire. His fingers brush along the outer lining of his intestines and Wilbur jerks forward with another moan. “God, look at you. I wonder if you’d cum just from feeling me disembowel you.” Wilbur shakes on top of him as Quackity strokes his hand over the twitching organs. He knows what will happen when he removes his hand from the hole in Wilbur’s guts. He knows what will happen when he makes the hole bigger.
“If I do, ha, do I get to feel your heart between my teeth?” Wilbur asks, breathless. His cock is already leaking. Quackity wonders if he can stroke him to completion with his own intestines.
“Sure.” He flashes him an easy smile. “Why not?”
And then his hand grabs one length of intestine and he drags his arm back. The moan that rips out of Wilbur is heavenly. Quackity feels his own cock twitch as Wilbur spills his arousal all over his bloodstained shirt. Quackity tsks in disappointment at him, but he wraps the organ around Wilbur’s cock. The rest of his guts spill out of the gaping wound in Wilbur’s stomach, like crazed wriggling worms. It feels like the warmest, wettest blanket he could ever imagine. Wilbur arches beautifully, his moan caught in his throat as Quackity strokes him with a fleshlight made of his own organs.
"Come for me again, Wilbur," Quackity jeers. "You want my heart that bad? Then fucking show me!" His hand suddenly tightens like a vice, his hate for the man before him crashing over him as Wilbur flails and moans, his second orgasm crashing over him in return. Quackity's still got his hand buried in Wilbur's hair, and he resists at first when the man moves. Wilbur groans when his hair snags in Quackity's grip, but he keeps moving. He navigates the still wriggling pile of his organs like he's done this before. Quackity almost has time to wonder who else had Wilbur ensnared, but his thoughts cut short as Wilbur's bloody mouth wraps around his cock.
It's warm, fresh corpse hot, and Quackity wonders how a man so cold on the outside can feel like a furnace on the inside. His breath hitches as Wilbur works him to his own release fast. He didn’t think he was so worked up, but as he arches in the mess of blood and slippery godforsaken things, he can feel his orgasm shudder through him. As he comes down, he realizes just what’s going on around him.
Gods, this is gross.
He wants a bath. He wants to scald Wilbur’s touch off his skin, like how he rid himself of Schlatt’s touch back then. Quackity starts to sit up, but Wilbur’s bony, ruined hand plants down on his chest and shoves down.
“Not yet, little duck,” Wilbur says, his voice an echo bouncing around the confines of his skull. “Not until I feel you pulse inside me.”
“Fuck you if you think I’m fucking–hrk!”
Wilbur’s hand, the one not ruined, not a mess of bones and missing flesh, forces itself through his chest. Somehow, this corpse of a man is strong enough to break through to the core of him. He feels Wilbur’s hand close around his still-beating heart. He feels himself pulse inside Wilbur’s palm. His vision is already starting to fade, but the last thing he sees is Wilbur’s delight as he bends down and licks a stripe up the length of his heart.