𝘽𝙀𝙀 𝙃𝙐𝙈𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙂𝘽𝙄𝙍𝘿 | quacknap

Day One

this chapter dabbles with explicit mentions self-hatred and sexual endeavours, read with caution <3

long chapter tho!

Sometimes, between the paperwork, the city lights, and the cigarettes: Quackity hates himself.

He hates his curves and his ass, and his silver-tongued mouth that's good for nothing but dick. He hates the hip dips he starved himself for so long for, because he starved himself for so long. He hates his eye bags, how everyone can see how burnt out he is, and how no one even cares. He hates his mind, and how he was the smartest man in the office but couldn't find a way out from under the desk. He hates his fingers, how they can curl and reach all the right spots, but he was never that good at piano. He hates his legs and thighs, and how they bruise so easily, how they prove his hobbies. He hates his eyes, and how you could get lost in them and never come back to reality, forever wandering in the intriguing puppy-eyed-sparkle. He hates his feminine hips and long nails. His fat lips and ambrosia pails.

Schlatt, Eret and Wilbur had loved him.

Karl had loved his curves to hold on to while play-fighting and Sapnap his silver-tongued mouth for banter. Karl had spent hours researching his disorders, trying to ease him back into a normal weight as easily as possible. Sapnap had liked his eye bags, because they were always matching. Karl adored his mind, how Quackity could ramble for hours about whether man is born evil, or what the fuck adjournment means. Sapnap loved his fingers and hands, to remark how small they were compared to him, and kiss them individually late into the night. Karl loved his legs and thighs, loved to lie between them while reading so he barely had to move to place loving kisses anywhere he wanted. Sapnap could stare into his eyes for hours, always cheering when he won another game of first-to-look-away.

They loved his wings. Loved nestling into the ivory and spending hours watching as the sun ricocheted from the gold. Loved preening and collecting the feathers to use as decorations in flower pots or hair. They had loved his crest. The few stray feathers that curled around his ears, usually hidden from the world. They loved breathing hot air against them and watching as they fluttered, or scratching behind them and smiling as Quackity melted into their hold.

His fiance's had loved.. Him.

Quackity thinks that maybe he hates that Him too. Because if He was so perfect and smart and beautiful; why wasn't He enough?

He wonders who Sapnap is seeing before him now.

He wonders who Sapnap is seeing as he runs soapy fingers through Quackity's hair, as he murmurs quiet references and jokes as a way to fill the lull. He wonders who's wings and rings Sapnap stares at sadly but not with a burden of a question, stroking calluses against the skin around them, but never touching. He wonders who's eyes Sapnap burns as he stares into them a moment too long, breath catching and expression showing how he dares not look away.

He wonders who Sapnap laughs with—because they do laugh. He wonders who remarked how the air smelt of lemons due to the bathbomb, and then tried to eat a floating bubble to see if it's sour. He wonders who laughed their arse off when Sapnap jumped as the jets turned on, head darting around in search for the cause for the extreme pressure at his sides. He wonders who had gasped frantically for air between his giggles when Sapnap had repeatedly sent a flurry of waves his way, splashing incessantly, but then complaining when Quackity rightfully got his own back (and won).

He wonders who Sapnap dries with Quackity's softest towels, who he slips a robe onto. He wonders who Sapnap lets collapse into him, who lets someone else take the control for a while. He wonders who he holds to his warm chest as he carries him to the bedroom, as gentle as if he were holding the delicacy of Quackity's feelings instead of the body of a man who threw his middle finger up to the gates of hell.