Quackbur Oneshots- [TNT DUO] (requests open)

The Pile Is Growing, My Heart Is Drowning

Request from Itz_Ashienz

Also thinking about whether to change my username or not. Still want to keep "simple" in it somehow

Anyway enjoy :] (sorry for any mistakes lol) the next one shot should be the request from Billiethe_writer

The casino lights are almost blinding in his eyes at this point. Normally, he can zone them out and focus on his work. But not today.

Today, the lights flash in his face, repeatedly reminding him of his growing pile of things to get done. The lights switch from red to blue saying "Hey! Hey! You're at the ridiculous place you work, right? So work!" It might just be slowly killing him, maybe, his eyes will bleed, who knows.

Either way, Quackity's alive right now. Meaning he has work to get back to. Right now.

His legs feel unfairly, stupidly slow when he starts to walk over towards a bar in the casino, the never-ending chatter of gamblers, drunken folks, and just really anybody sinking into his eardrums, promising to give him a headache. Honestly it's a mystery why his brain hasn't just somehow figured out how to make him deaf, not yet. Or maybe it's a curse, both work.

Quackity is a thin twig at this point, lacking any leaves because each flashing light, every noise in the background, and all items on his task list have taken those from him, leaving him leafless, feeling near fruitless. Well, somewhat wishing he was fruitless, because then maybe, somebody with more of an important existence could go do all this for him. But there isn't anybody to help him, so Quackity remains a thin stick of weak wood, about to snap under any bit of pressure or get knocked over by the smallest breeze.

So it's a miracle when he doesn't drop to the floor in defeat when he sees a familiar man in a trench coat seated on a bar stool, his unmistakable white streak of hair curling over and in with his brown hair as if it is no different.

Even with the smell of new, cheap plastic and various alcoholic drinks, approaching Wilbur brings a whiff of bitter coffee grounds up his nose, along with some dark chocolate that's even more bitter.

It makes Quackity want to recoil like a rebellious kid with a plate of vegetables. He's grossed out, beyond repelled as he slumps over, his shiny black dress shoes clicking against the tiles underneath him, the ground he walks above, sort of wishing to be dragged down by an unforgiving hand.

He inhales the stale air, expression dimmer than the lights as he stiffens, tongue too dry to speak for a moment. Then, as if it'll kill him in the future, Quackity gives in, accepting that fate as he steps right up to the man's seat, a tight and unapologetically fake smile. "Wilbur Soot?"

And because Wilbur isn't working day in and day out, full of rage and regret, he chuckles as he turns to look over his shoulder, seemingly being able to recognize the shorter's voice as easy- if not more- as a grown being counting to fucking one. Quackity absolutely hates it.

"Yeah, that's me," Wilbur says lightly, merrily, even. With a smile too. So blissfully unaware of the imaginary guillotine Quackity thinks of when he sees that white, flashy smile. Or, another thing, how Wilbur's voice makes Quackity's hands want to ball up into fists, preferably with something in his grasp that's rather nice, ruining it with the anger Wilbur fuelled inside of him, perhaps the silky material of sheets. "Hello, Quackity."

Quackity also hates the way he finds himself comparing things to this man. Because yes, it's true Wilbur is easily comparable to all the many negative things around him, but that means he's also thinking of Wilbur and he doesn't really need to be wasting the space in his brain or the energy of his mind to do that, he'd much rather utilize what he has on much more useful things.