TW/CW: Mentions of self-harm, blood
Song suggestions: Lazy Afternoon by Irene Kral for the line "I walk down the steps..." (Jazz until Wilbur steps out of the room.)
Wilbur's POV:
Sometimes when I'm losing a game, I want to set the table on fire. Should I be comforted I have a lighter in my pocket?
* * *
If I'm honest, it was disappointing waking up in an empty bed. No one likes opening their eyes to messy sheets and a ghost of the person who slept there. But he has things to do. He has places to be. Those places aren't always in bed with his arms wrapped around me.
For a few moments, I just sit at the edge of the mattress, rubbing a knot in my shoulder and thoughtlessly gazing out the window.
Waves of heat sway in the scorching Las Nevadas desert outside the casino.
It's times like these when I can hear the voices best. It's also times like these when the voices aren't very helpful.
He left because he's bored of you. He only likes you when you're drunk. He only likes you when your arms are around him. He only likes you when your lips are on his.
That's why we enjoyed seeing the blood on him. We want it dripping down your wrists too. We want it on the walls, on the floors, on the beds, on the sheets, on the sinks, on the tubs, on the tiles, on the hands, on the necks, on the glass, on the doors, on the face, on the tongue, on the teeth, on... and on they chant.
* * *
I walk down the steps with Quackity's messy, crumpled note clutched in my hand, the scent of lit cigarettes wafting down the hall.
I read it over again: "Poker at 12, room 107. I've already paid for you to play, so don't be late."
Too bad. I'm running late.
When I open the door, I can already hear arguing over the chatter of the crowd. I sigh, mentally preparing myself for endless hours of screaming fits and tormenting arguments before entering the room.
If I listen closely, I can just barely hear the jazzy melody of a woman's voice as she sings behind noisy background chatter.
As I weave my way through the crowd surrounding the poker table, I catch a glimpse of Quackity bitterly throwing his cards face up on the table before he is swallowed up in the sea of bodies.
The room is packed with guests still feeding off of their free vacation, and they clink glasses together cheerfully as if an explosion hadn't rocked the casino a few days before. I timidly wave to a couple of familiar faces as I swerve through the crowd over to Quackity.
Tommy is whipping his head around in bewilderment, hands behind his neck as he laughs despite his own confusion. "Wait-- DOES THAT MEAN I WON?" he hollers, standing up out of his seat.
"You finally won, Big Man!" Schlatt chuckles as he begins to scoop the mound of chips toward Tommy. I frown when he uses my nickname.
A look of relief washes over Ranboo, who seems to have folded before he lost the pot.
Quackity begins either swearing or praying in Spanish, hitting the table with his fist and drunkenly wailing over the loss.
It's barely after one and he's already wasted.
"FUCK!" he shouts, standing up out of his seat, turning on his heel, and slamming into my chest. We both stumble into the crowd, but I manage to catch myself and grab him before he falls flat on his face. Quackity instinctively shoves me away, only relaxing when he recognizes my white-streaked hair and tall frame.
YOU ARE READING
Silver Tongues and Golden Scars (WILBUR x QUACKITY / TNT DUO)
Fanfiction"Quackity?" I spin around, tackling him and tumbling roughly into the wall behind us. I pin his wrist down, tears dropping onto his soon-to-be crimson shirt. I can almost see the blood seeping out of the wounds I intend to slice into his skin. His p...
