Strawberries and cigarettes //Quackbur

💀seven💀

Ok, so don't come at me for messing up my publishing schedule, shit happens. Anyways, I had a really horny and heavy chapter written, but it didn't really fit, and this isn't supposed to be a smut book, so I decided to do an actual plot line. Next couple chapters gonna be quackitys back story.

Wilbur's pov:

Even after the four or five rounds each last night, there was still some tension in the air, as we hung out together the next day. We were both aware of how vulnerable it had gotten last night, and I didn't wanna make him close up. I wasn't looking for just another two week thing, I wanted this to last, forever and ever.

I was trying to read his mood, trying to look into his eyes, but every time it was about to happen, he would look away, playing it off as accidental, but given away by his heated cheeks. I finally couldn't bare it anymore, and decided to bring it up, as he sat at my desk, reading a book that he had found on the shelf closest to my bed. That's where I kept my favourite ones, the most battered but the most loved.

I was sat on my bed, sketching him as he read. I loved to sketch things, it made me notice the tiny details that a passing glimpse would miss. Like the faint scar that ran from his temple to the edge of his mouth, that looked so delicate next to the horrific scar that ran down his left eye, or that he had one freckle under his right eye, which was shaped like a tiny little duck.

I loved the way his eyes looked on the paper, deep and inviting. The eyelashes that framed them were long and dark, and tiny specks of gold glimmered in the odd colours that his eyes were, one a pale blue, that made me think of a coral reef, and the other reminding me of warm thick blood, and a sweet, coppery smell.

I noticed the way his fringe poked out from under his beanie, so carelessly perfect, and wanted to run my hands through his hair. We had barely touched each other all day, staying a close distance, other than when he had to carry my to the closet, which was hot cause he was only in his boxers, but irritating cause he had been the bottom for three rounds, and I was the one who couldn't walk. It was like he was some kind of super human.

He looked up at me, my heart skipping a beat, at his ever mesmerising face. He smiled, little dimples appearing.

"Whatcha drawing?" He asked, his voice still deep from the morning. He put the book mark in, walking over to me. He set the book down on the pile next to my bed, before setting me down, pulling me into his lap. I groaned in pain, and he kissed the top of my head in apology.
He looked down at my sketch book, one Phil had given to me as a gift for my birthday. His eyes widened, and his cheeks stained with red. He pulled me closer, leaning on the wall. He kept looking at the sketch like a kid in a Lego store. It was adorable.

"It's not finished..." I said, embarrassed for no reason. I was pretty sure he liked it. He shoved his head into the crook of my neck, and I felt something wet on my shoulder. I turned myself around so I was facing him, one leg on each side of his body. He was crying, fat happy tears.

I cupped his face in my hands, making him look at me. I wiped away the streaks that ran down his face, smiling at him. He offered me a watery one in return, and I pressed a gentle kiss into his lips. I never could quite get over the taste of those lips, it was something I remembered for the rest of my life.

"Do you really like it that much?" I asked, as he pulled me close, putting his face back into my shoulders, but with a lack of tears this time. He just nodded, and I chuckled. We sat like that for a minute, our roles switched for a bit, he clung to me this time. I continued to sketch, doing it mainly from memory, but occasionally getting him to look up. When it was finally done, I ripped it out carefully, pinning it to my wall, right above my bed.

"I love you..." he whispered, watching me pin it up on the wall. My heart did a little dance at those three simple words. That was the first time he had said that to me. Fuck now I wad crying. In answer, I lifted his face again, wrapping my arms around his neck, my lips meeting his in a moment of achingly beautiful passion.

"I love you too..." I knew it was a weak answer, but it was all I could imagine without balling, and I'm an ugly cryer.

We stayed like that for a while, contented to just kiss and cuddle, neither of us trying anything. It was a sweet moment, that I had no desire to ruin, but I knew that if I didn't hype myself up, and ask him about all the things running through my mind, I knew I never would.

"We need to talk though..." I said into his shoulder, not wanting to look him in the eyes.  I felt him tense slightly, but nothing else, which I took as a good sign. I took a deep breath, raising my head from the crook of his neck.

"I knew this was coming..." so I wasn't the only one thinking about everything then. I braced myself, moving off his lap, but staying close, taking his hands in my own. "What do you want to talk about then?"

"All of it, I guess." I said, "or as much as your willing to share. I want to know how you ended up on the run from cops, the real story too, I don't believe that you got your face on the news for stealing a cop gun. I want to know why you grew up in a prison. That part of you doesn't fit with the image of my sweet loving ducky." 
I hoped that my questions would be answered, because I wanted to know everything about my beautiful boyfriend, but I also wanted him to know that he could trust me, that he didn't have to hide...

1106 words
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