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When Wilbur finds Quackity, he's at the top of the needle, unsurprisingly, looking over the rest of Las Nevadas. He couldn't gamble a guess at the expression on Quackity's face right now; thoughtful, or proud, or angry, or blank. But Wilbur's not much of a gambling man anyway, he thinks.
"Quackity," he makes his presence known, the named man turning his head sharply at the sound, before his face lights up with a smile.
"Wilbur!" He greets, in the familiar way he does, and for a moment Wilbur doesn't feel as if a year has passed, let alone thirteen. But it's all there in the way he steps forward; his body still aches from years of abandon, and even Quackity has scars that weren't there when L'manberg fell the first time. "How are you doing, man?"
Wilbur stands by his side, leaning on the railing to look out over the country while the twilight sun catches it in an entirely new way. The giddy tone in his voice still runs a wave of nostalgia through Wilbur, despite himself.
"I'm good, you know, settling in," he receives a sidewards glance at this and he knows, really, he's not here to talk business. Quackity knows it too. "Been a while though, I thought, since the two of us caught up."
"Oh yeah?" The interest in Quackity's voice is badly hidden, and Wilbur can't help but smile to himself.
"You know, Q, I thought about you a lot when I was in limbo. My limbo," he snorts a bit, "Not much else down there to keep me company."
"But... thinking about me did?"
"At times, especially... especially times when I was feeling a little desperate," he turns to Quackity with an apologetic look, "I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all, Wilbur," he responds a little breathlessly, and Wilbur takes note of that and the pink of his cheeks. "Feels like a lifetime ago."
"Practically was, for me," he points out. It's unnecessary, he knows the age shows; in the lines of his face, hardened, with a jaw lined with stubble; in his hair, brown curling into white from stress, or trauma, or god knows what; his hands and shoulders, thicker as he no longer shows the shape of a young president but rather a man, filled in places he wasn't before. "How do I look?"
Eyes linger on his face, before drifting down, and oh, that's quite nice, really. He's not had this kind of attention for a long time.
"What do you mean?" It's sly; he's avoiding the question.
"I've aged, Quackity," he points out, but receives an indifferent shrug in response.
"Surely you noticed," He gives Wilbur another once over, finally meeting his eyes before glancing away again, "Schlatt wasn't exactly my age, Wil."
"Oh? I thought you were only engaged to him for the money."
"There were... other reasons."
"And, I thought he was a bad guy," Quackity does turn back his way now, bashful look lost, even just for the point of him rolling his eyes.
"He doesn't have to be a good man for me to want to fuck him."
And there it is.
"Does that go for me too?"
"You still see yourself as a bad guy, Wilbur?"
"Do you?" Quackity stays silent. Wilbur snorts, "Exactly."
"But that's what I mean, it doesn't matter," Their eyes finally meet, and there's a very different feel to the air now. This is more than just two old friends, old rivals, conversing, "You haven't exactly come up here to discuss morality and ethics with me, have you?"
Wilbur smiles, coy, "No, I haven't." He takes a step closer, not missing how Quackity glances down at Las Nevadas again, checking no one is watching them from below, "They've all gone home. Just us."
Within a second, he pushes forward, pinning Quackity to the railing with a hand gripping it, either side of him. He's short enough that he's not at risk of tipping over the side, but he inhales sharply at the thrill of being trapped between two very dangerous things.
"You used to like a struggle," Quackity breathes, but he doesn't sound too upset about it, "Liked to fight for control."
They're so close now, and they can feel the rumble of each others words in their own chests, "I still like the fight, but I'm in the mood for control. Is that a problem?"
"I don't think I have much of a choice."
That's a lie, he knows it is. Either one of them could say the word at anytime, they would stop and walk away. But this is a game, Wilbur's game, and Quackity knows exactly how to play, if the predatory grin he receives is any indication.
"No," Wilbur concedes, and his hands slip from the railings to Quackity's waist, squeezing gently as he leans in.
The kissing isn't bad, but it's a means to an end really. The words are what makes Quackity feel all too warm for the clothes he's wearing, the possessive undertones of Wilbur's hands, his tongue, promising what's yet to come.
"Are you going to fuck me out here?" It's a genuine question, and Quackity wouldn't object. There's something about it, the idea of being bent over and taken while night falls and his city lights up in front of him.
"No," Wilbur eyes rake over his face for a moment, analysing, and smirking when he evidently finds what he's looking for, "Maybe next time."
Quackity shivers with the promise and lets Wilbur's mouth take over his again, this time with a little more purpose. He reaches his hands up, finally reciprocating instead of laying limp and waiting to be toyed with. One cups at Wilbur's jaw, the other sliding under his coat to curl round his shoulder.
"You should take this off," Quackity says, pulling at the hem of the coat.
"Yeah?" Wilbur smirks, pressing the curve of his mouth against Quackity's jaw.
"Yeah, it stinks."
Wilbur chuckles, and the breath tickles Quackity's cheek before he feels lips on his neck. No time is wasted, lips giving way to tongue and teeth. Wilbur shucks off his coat like he's not causing all kinds of feelings to rush to Quackity's cock when he bites bruises into his skin. That'll be a hard one to explain, to Sam, to the slime, and, oh God, to Fundy, but there is not an ounce of himself he can bring to care right now. He clings to Wilbur's shoulders like a life line, bringing them dangerously close to the edge.
"Shall we move this inside, lovely?" The words sound so smug, but muttered so low they make him shiver. He nods.
Quackity feels himself dragged, one hand on his waist and the other gripped on his tie, back inside. In retaliation he clenches his fists into the material on Wilbur's sweater, which only makes him laugh. He's shoved and falls, with little grace, backwards onto a plush sofa.
Wilbur is already tall, but it's different when he's stood over Quackity like this, pushing himself into the gap between his legs, grinning like a predator. The thought of Wilbur biting into him, licking blood away from pierced skin, plagues Quackity's mind and he has to reach up to loosen his own tie from the heat that flushes through him.
"Are you gonna touch me or what?" His voice doesn't crack, albeit a bit shaky, but he's proud of himself regardless.
Still looking like the cat who got the cream, Wilbur shakes his head. "No. Take your shirt off."
There's no room for debate in the tone of his voice, and while he could be a brat about it, Quackity isn't quite prepared for the repercussions that would bring. Not breaking eye contact, he begins undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing his tie out the way before discarding the whole thing on the floor.
Wilbur's eyes rake over him, taking in the sight he's sorely missed for 13 years. The flush of arousal that that slips down from Quackity's cheeks reaches his chest, encircling sweet, pert nipples that Wilbur wants to torture with his tongue and teeth. And lower, to a soft abdomen that pushes over the top of his waistband, hair trailing down to what's hidden below in a way that has Wilbur wanting to drop to his knees. Seeing the bulge in Quackity's slacks he nearly does, nearly pushes his face right into it.
Feeling well and truly examined, Quackity shuffles where he's propped up on his elbows. "Please, Wil." Now his voice does crack. Wilbur, as though he got exactly what he needed, kicks into action, grabbing the hem of his own sweater to pull up, up over his head and abandon in the room somewhere.
Wilbur leans down, covers Quackity's whole body and then some. However, before he can get his lips anywhere near that untouched skin, a hand on his chest stops him. He pauses, but the hand isn't pushing him away. It's not groping, either, sexual or searching. It's- feeling. Feeling for Wilbur's heartbeat. Pressing one of his own hands over Quackity's, he leans closer, nudges into his space so his temple is pressed against his jaw, breath fanning over his neck.
"You see? I'm alive."
Quackity's breath hitches, partly from the words, and partly from the way Wilbur follows it by tracing his tongue over his collarbone.
He lays there, complacent but feeling, as Wilbur's tongue traces over his skin. The two of them let their hands explore each other, moving, smoothing, over each others backs, chests, shoulders, to the point where he can't even remember whether that's where he's touching or where he's being touched.
Eventually, the peace is broken when he lets out a choked moan, shocking himself and Wilbur in the progress. Wilbur pulls back from where he'd been suckling on Quackity's nipple, looking up to the hand he now has loosely curved over his throat.
"That's new."
"It's not new, not really," Quackity sounds out of breath, but Wilbur hasn't even applied any pressure with his fingers yet, "I've always liked it a bit rough. Just, made a new discovery is all. You've seen death."
"So have you."
"Exactly. So you should know the thrill Wilbur. The high that being on the edge brings. Whatever edge that may be."
"I see," And in the next moment he really does see, squeezing at the sides of Quackity's throat experimentally. The moan he's met with is gratuitously loud, eyes scrunching shut in pleasure, and the sight sends all kinds of signals to Wilbur's neglected cock.
"Keep doing that and I'll cum in my pants," Quackity breathes when he's released, "Stop doing that and I'll slap you."
"Both would be equally hot."
But Wilbur keeps his hand in place, even as he leans in to press his lips to Quackity's. It can't really be called a kiss anymore, more tongue and teeth and hunger, made more difficult by the fact that Wilbur tries to unbuckle Quackity's belt one-handedly throughout. Quackity helps him, both hands reaching down and working hurriedly.
(Thoughts drift when fingers clasp around leather, for both parties, but they're saved for another occasion.)
Trousers are kicked off so fast, it can't really be said how it happened, until the two of them are grinding up against each other, hard cocks only separated by thin walls of fabric after so long. Quackity nearly sobs when Wilbur pulls his hand from his throat, but silences it halfway up from his chest when the man drops to his knees instead. The same hands grip at the plush of Quackity's thighs, and he cries out when a mouth meets the skin there, Wilbur's teeth digging into the flesh.
"I'm sorry," His breath tickles his thighs, which are already sensitive enough without Wilbur trying to take a bite out of them, "You're just so delicious."
"It's okay," Quackity would be lying if he said he didn't want Wilbur to continue, didn't want to leave him sore and marked to remind him of their time together. However, his cock is now straining against his boxers, and thoughts of anything else are struggling to compute. "Just don't fucking tease me."
"Dirty mouth. I should fill it up, really, shut you up properly," and oh God, does Quackity want it, deserve it. He wants to be face fucked into the cushions until Wilbur's forcing his cum down his throat, or suckle on his long fingers until he gags and tears up.
Despite his words, Wilbur concedes in pulling off Quackity's briefs. He wastes no time in licking a long stripe from base to tip before ducking back down to take his balls into his mouth. Quackity hits the back of the couch a couple of times in his haste to grab onto something; it's so dirty but it feels so damn good, those knowing eyes piercing into his own once again as Wilbur rolls his tongue around them.
After moments of this, Wilbur teasing his hand up his shaft slowly at the same time, he finally pulls back to take Quackity's dick in his mouth. It's hot, and wet, and it's been too damn long since he's felt another person around him like this. He can't help but buck his hips up, relishing in the sound of gags and the sensation of drool sliding down to his balls, his thighs.
Wilbur lets it happen, encourages it, even. Quackity's so lost in the haze of feeling that he only just realises his hands have landed in soft curls. He tightens his grip, feeling grease on his fingers and distantly hearing Wilbur moan as he starts to use it as leverage to push and pull his cock from his mouth.
He's so close, can feel the tightness in his stomach, is ready for it, when Wilbur taps out. He groans, could almost scream with frustration, but reluctantly releases his grip - almost doesn't, almost holds him down and cums anyway. When he looks down at Wilbur, panting heavily and eyes narrowed, it's the most filthy sight. He's wiping drool and precum from his chin with the back of his hand, revealing that never-ending smirk for just a split second before his tongue darts out, lapping up the remnants from his skin.
"Fuck," Quackity croaks, "Why'd you stop?"
"Because I want you to cum when I fuck you. Not before, not after."
His breath hitches, yet when he opens his mouth to respond, Wilbur's fingers take the opportunity to slip into his mouth. Quite embarrassingly, the words still come out, but muffled, and Quackity flushes, wondering what a sight he must be right now. Nonetheless, he licks over Wilbur's fingers eagerly, intent on giving him a show, before they're promptly pulled away again.
Quackity whines, pathetically; he just can't catch a break today.
The self-pity is quickly forgotten when wet fingers prod his hole. A thumb rubs over his taint while a finger starts to breach his rim and Quackity has to remind himself how to breathe.
Wilbur's fingers feel so different to his own. Longer, thicker, pushing in without that same sense of familiarity that Quackity's own fingers have, but burning so much sweeter. He laid himself like this, fucked himself open, the first night after he'd seen Wilbur again, alive. He'd not been able to take his eyes off the man (because that's what he was now, well and truly), all gleaming smirks and rougher edges. He'd been hot before, of course, sure, but then he was young and clean, smelled fresh and crisp. Now, though. Now he had that ragged look, the one that had him bent over for a president before, smelling like smoke and earth and life and death.
He's so lost in his thoughts about Wilbur, he ironically enough doesn't realise the very same man has pushed a second finger into him until they're both pressing into his prostate, and hard.
"Holy shit!"
"You back with me now, baby?" Wilbur stares up at him, absentmindedly licking a stripe over the mark he'd left on his thigh earlier. Possessive.
Receiving a nod, Wilbur inches a third finger in too, and savours the responding whine he gets. It's almost too much, but with soothing kisses and murmurs against his thigh he relaxes, and before long he's aching for much more inside of him.
"Fuck me, now, fuck, please," It sounds too much like begging to Quackity's own ears but he pushes down the shame in favour of clenching around Wilbur's fingers.
"Aw, are you sure I won't hurt you?" Wilbur is entirely mocking him; he doesn't give a shit really, would fuck into him without prep or care. Has done so, before, with Quackity's face pressed into the hard stone walls of Pogtopia and his pants shoved down just enough that his hole was exposed. It's merely a courtesy thing.
"You know I don't give a fuck if you do."
The soft sound of a last bit of clothing dropping to the floor makes Quackity's head perk up, taking in Wilbur's form in it's full, naked glory. His cock stands hard, proud, and he swears it's bigger than he remembers. It may just be the trick of the lighting, or the unruly hair that was once trimmed, now left to do it's own thing. Regardless, Quackity wants it inside of him. Now.
Wilbur shadows him again, one arm pressed into the couch by Quackity's head while the other guides his cock. Immediately, he entangles himself with Wilbur, arms looped round to grip his back and legs hiked up around his waist to allow easier access.
"That's it, spread your legs for me, baby," Wilbur's voice is so low, Quackity doesn't quite know if it's meant for him, and before he can respond, the blunt head of a cock is stretching him open.
The two of them curse in tandem as Wilbur slides in. It feels like an eternity until his hips are flush against Quackity's - and he would know. Even the initial thrust has them both panting, and they have to take a moment to catch their breaths before Wilbur can start to move again. When he starts to draw back, pulling almost entirely out before fucking back in, he continues the pace with these slow, hard thrusts. The air is knocked out of Quackity's lungs all over again; a heat in his gut that builds and builds and spreads right through his body, hot and needy.
Quackity barely notices how badly he's clinging on to Wilbur until the man hisses above him at the feel of nails digging into his skin. He doesn't relent though, instead gets what he deserves right back when Wilbur leans down to catch one of Quackity's nipples between his teeth.
"Fuck," he whines, and clenches around Wilbur's cock at the feeling. Giving a retaliating thrust, Wilbur releases his hold on Quackity's nipple and licks a line down the centre of his chest before looking up to his face.
"I don't think I've ever felt you this tight, when was the last time you were fucked?"
"I don't- hah- wanna talk about it."
"No?"
"Like you can talk anyway, surprised you haven't cum already," He takes a break between words to fully appreciate the sliding stretch of each pound into him, "When you're dead that long, do you become a virgin all over again?"
If it wouldn't ruin the mood, Wilbur would roll his eyes. Then, a devious thought comes to his head, and he decides on his comeback.
"I bet they never fucked you like this."
"What did you say?"
"Karl and Sapnap. They seem so mellow, so sweet. Bet their cocks combined couldn't fill you as well as I do. Bet they can't even rough you up the way you like it-"
He's cut off by a resounding smack. Wilbur doesn't even look shocked, only groans at the stinging on his cheek and thrusts harder into Quackity than he has done yet. A hand on Quackity's throat stops him from any kind of apology or rebuttal, and his cock twitches, leaks precum over his stomach when Wilbur squeezes.
"Do that again and I won't be able to stop myself from cumming as I am," He practically growls the words, sounding strained but not letting up his never ending thrusts. "And then you'll be left with a hard cock and an ass load of my cum. Pretty sad, if I'm honest."
Quackity whimpers at that and clenches around Wilbur's dick again, brain going so cloudy he can't even feel smug when it makes the thrusts into him stutter. "Close," he chokes out, gasping when the grip on his throat loosens.
"Of course you are," Wilbur returns, but sounding strained himself. "See? All it took was me roughing you up to get you to cum for me. And now I get to mark you with my own cum."
The words echo through Quackity, throbbing in his thighs, neck, chest, and when Wilbur reaches his hand down, it's all over. That's how he cums; one hand round his throat, the other round his cock, letting his rival pound into him like there's no tomorrow.
Which, in the world they live in, is not unlikely.
Coming down from his high, all Quackity can register is the oversensitivity as Wilbur continues fucking him. He whines, thrashes about weakly, but knows that Wilbur won't stop, doesn't mind really. Even his dick shows a moment of renewed interest, another weak spurt of cum joining the puddle on his stomach when he brushes over his prostate.
Before long, Wilbur joins him at climax, groaning into his neck and pressing all the way into him. He doesn't stop until his cock is milked dry by Quackity's oversensitive hole, clenching twitchily.
Finally, he pulls out, half collapsing onto Quackity as there's not enough room on the couch to fully lay beside him. Instead, he kind of hovers, pushing up on one arm to lean over Quackity again. Their legs are still all tangled up, and Wilbur is watching him with a kind of dazed, fond look that's too pretty for his own good.
"This doesn't mean I'll stop fighting," Wilbur says, but even though it sounds determined it's got a soft edge, as he runs his fingers through Quackity's hair.
"You'd better not. Makes for better sex."
Wilbur laughs and slaps Quackity on his chest playfully. He's still got that look in his eyes. Upset at the responding tightness in his chest, he reaches out, pushing Wilbur so he falls off the couch entirely, and what sounds like painfully, too.
And so, the serious moment is laughed off, Wilbur glaring up at him while Quackity practically folds in half with laughter. Wilbur joins in after a moment of pouting, and when the two quiet down, it's almost like they didn't just fuck. If that's a good thing.
"I get the message," Wilbur sighs faux-longingly, but still turns to grab for his clothes. He stands, beginning to dress, and in a quite surreal moment, Quackity just watches him. Wilbur Soot, alive. With his back to Quackity now, he can see all the scratches he'd left there. They look red and sore, and yet they suit Wilbur. They're in place amongst the scars and roughness that this new, revived version of him has. More than anything, however, Quackity is just pleased he got to leave his own mark.
In no time at all Wilbur's dressed, horrid trenchcoat back over his shoulders and he turns, throwing a pile of clothes into Quackity's face.
"Clean up, get some rest," When Quackity's shoves the clothes from over his face, Wilbur is walking backwards away from him, smirking once more and tucking a cigarette behind his ear. "Can't have my rival looking like such a mess."
Quackity grumbles to himself as he reaches for his trousers. By the time he sits up, the room is empty once more. It doesn't hurt, he swears.
"Alone again..." A mutter, a roll of the eyes, but no matter. Once he's decent again, he can leave this behind him, both literally and metaphorically. Pretend he doesn't feel cum dripping from him in the most vulgar way. Pretend the ghost of fingers can't still be felt around his throat. Pretend that this didn't change anything.
Stepping onto the tarmac of Las Nevadas, fully dressed, an hour later with the sun long gone, he feels like a new man.
That's what he tells himself anyway.