Star-crossed ||tntduo

Chapter 21. Catcalls

The shorter figure gasped. The taller figure grinned.

No, to be exact, he could only smile.

Vexed by such tyrannous innocence, the heat that sizzled through his head—like a burning wire, thin and bright with starry sparks, it was meant to snap sooner or later.

The shorter figure stared into Wilbur's eyes. Coated with honey, glassy with lust, Quackity didn't need any makeup to look more beautiful than he already was. One little pretty boy. His little whore.

Mad red with blushes from head to toe, he was perfectly ripe to be picked, eaten, bones left behind.

The abandoned shirt at the foot of the car seat, the jacket that hung dangerously low on the taller figure's waist, shoulders exposed, slowly peeling off. The two was at the tipping point of tension itself, waiting ever-so impatiently, ever-so hungrily for the other to make the move. To give in to his/his thirst trap.

Quackity shifted, his waist arching up either on purpose, or not—as it gently scraped past Wilbur's pants, the tent ever-so visible under the dim moonlight.

The taller figure bit down on his tongue, stiffing a groan.

"Wilbur," The shorter figure rasped, his hands above his head ever-so casually, hair scattered on the leather seat comfortably, his thighs shifting gently, suggesting the hard object in between.

Unsaid words, but the lustful intention was as clear as ever.

The taller figure gritted his teeth. He wanted Quackity to be the one begging, yearning, not the other way around. Never the other way around.

He would never forgive himself for walking around like a dog on a leash.

"Do you think you can handle me?" Wilbur replied, putting up an easy smile that he has used for years, and it has never failed him.

Yet.

With a cruel glee, he rubbed his hard-on against the other, the friction almost unbearable. The shorter figure let out a moan.

"What's wrong?" The taller figure questioned, one hand ever-so carefully pulling down the shorter figure's pants, the shorter figure oblivious. "Can't talk anymore? Am I that much for you?"

The shorter figure glared back, his face still reddened with a blush, his expression unreadable.

There was something else behind the lust that blurred over the surface—strong currents beneath.

Wilbur pressed back the deja vu that washed over him, goosebumps rising.

Glass could be a fragile thing, shattering and breakable with just one touch.

"You alright?" He asked, switching his attitude, his voice soft, tone gentle.

There was no response. But perhaps, it was good that Quackity wasn't saying anything to sink the tension that sat in the air even deeper.

Perhaps the unborn tears that sat in the corners of his raven eyes, twinkling lively, pathetically, has said enough about him.

He was clearly not alright. It was merely just a matter of the issue, though.

"Hey, duckling, talk to me," The taller figure tried again, disgusted by his own sugar-glazed words, but carried on nevertheless. He could tolerate this, for now.

Though he'd never admit this, it was scary how at times Quackity would just go nonverbal. It was scary how at times he was just too vivid to be interpreted, even by him.

Insecurities could be a hard thing to break down.

But perhaps, sometimes you just gotta fake it 'til you make it.