Star-crossed ||tntduo

1k special oneshot-Like feathers to wings, flea to dog.

Prompt: Wilbur and Quackity have broken up for almost one year now, and the two have moved on from each other already...on the outside, at least. Or, in other words, Wilbur couldn't stop remembering Quackity everywhere he goes, and when he received a call from his ex, he was determined to act hard-faced, as if he was perfectly fine without his ex.

Meanwhile, Quackity? Not so much.

Tw: Smut, slight violence, swearing;

(The contents are not related to the actual book; It is a different AU)

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It was all teeth.

The female that gave the blowjob was all teeth. Opposite of Quackity, the girl that sucked his member was all teeth. No whatsoever gentleness, no teasing, no challenges over dominance, the girl was all over her own desires and not enough considerable of his.

But who was he to complain, anyway.

The memories that haunted him said otherwise, though.

As clear as yesterday, he still remember the tight, pouting lips of Quackity's that tasted of alcohol, he still remember how he got to fuck that mouth right open, lips stretched, eyes unfocused and yet purely focused on the lust of each other. And fuck, why does he still remember the teeth of the other that bit down on his body, eyes taunting and tongues licking as gasps echoed through the room, its sound nectar-scented, as sweet as morning dew.

He hated the fact that he got hard again at the thought of the memories.

"Look how easily hard you get around me, pretty boy, am I that tempting?" The female teased, the lipstick-covered lips up with a smirk, as red as blood.

What was ironic though, was that he could never bear hearing, or seeing other people acting like Quackity despite him knowing full well that he was into this kind of type. It felt like bugs crawling onto his skin, and he would feel guilty despite the fact that he broke up with Quackity a year ago, and today was their anniversary.

Oh, how the irony dripped down his bones, melting his insides with acid.

One hand on the long, silky hair of the female's, it clutched with hatred, of rage, of sadness.

The sound of strands snapping and the girl's begging was as audible as the day, as blurry as ocean waves.

And before he could snap out of the haze, the female was long gone before he knew it.

Strands of raven-colored hair sat in his fist. His nose scrunched in disgust at the sight of the dyed hair, as twinkles of its original color, golden blond, shone in front of his eyes disappointedly.

He stared down at it. No thoughts, no regrets.

I guess I fucked up this one too. Wilbur smiled, laughing at his own stupidity and stubbornness.

Melancholy. Such a big word for something so small.

He ended up jerking himself off, the shame clear in the form of liquid in his palm.

Head empty as he walked out of the bar, a gentle night breeze passed by his nose. An indication of summer's arrival.

Like blurs, the people that surrounded him were all body and no faces. Like a fog, one figure walked mindlessly past the chatters, his shadow lonesome.

He was unfitting in comparison to his surroundings. The people that laughed with joy, their smiles and grins up carefree, the street restaurants that shone brightly, people chattering, enjoying their time in this limited, pointless hell of a life, the blushes that tinted their faces, the indescribable, star-like joy that sparked in their eyes, hopeful, his heart ached at every sight as he silently begged for his eyes go blind.