silly tnt duo oneshots (discontinued)

🌥️ For the rest of eternity [c!Quackbur]

I need to stop making these two be gay at the needle. 

My google docs says this one has 1935 words, but wattpad says it only has 1730 words? What the balls.

Um, a mini tiny headcanon of mine for Wilbur (literally any Wilbur besides cc!) is that he has a small upper front tooth gap with a small lisp, and I hold this headcanon to my heart deeply.

Also, I changed the arrangements of the chapters, and deleted/unpublished a few (the first ones, I'm in the process of rewriting them, they were awful. Also I completely lost the coffee shop au one, so, kms).

Anyways, I'm proud of this chapter, I really like it, I've actually been wanting to write something like this for A WHILE but the concept just icked me (it's not bad).

Wilbur has a panic attack or something (beat me up if I got the term wrong) and Quackity comforts him (no I don't know why Quackity is being nice and no I haven't written anything like this whaaaat???).

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His breath heaved, as his chest rose and dropped at a rapid pace.

The cold, thin air was definitely not helping his sudden outburst, one of which he didn't understand. Why was he freaking out? Wilbur seemed to get upset for little to no reason, he hated this, it made him feel like he was acting overdramatic. He was fine moments ago, stood atop of The Needle as he smoked, then he began freaking out.

But why?

Wilbur supposes that doesn't matter, he just needs to situate himself before he questions what's wrong with him, or maybe it's the other way around, his brain isn't braining and he can't bother to remember at such a time.

He dug his excuse of fingernails into his palms, trying to find a sense of comfort, or maybe a tinge of pain to get him to shut up. He was just being overdramatic, he assumed.

Maybe there was a reason for this, maybe it was too cold, or too dark, maybe too quiet, but Wilbur liked the quiet, so that wouldn't make any sense. He closed in on himself, trying to find any source of consolation, but none came, his distress wouldn't break.

Wilbur couldn't figure out what his main priorities were, what he wanted to pay attention to, or what his mind focused on, but it definitely wasn't the elevator dinging, or the clacking footsteps, or even the sound of silk ruffling as someone bent down right in front of him.

Not even his name being called.

"—bur?" the third time caught his attention.

He didn't bother looking up at the speaker, or responding. It was Quackity, the voice made it obvious, and if he were deaf he could immediately tell by the shoes Quackity always wore.

"Answer me." Quackity says, a mixture of stern and worry in his tone, like a confused parent trying to talk to their disabled, distressed child.

Wilbur was not a child.

"What?" Maybe if Wilbur tried sounding mean he could make Quackity go away, Quackity would give up and take a hint. Or maybe Quackity was just here to kick Wilbur out, and Wilbur was reading the situation completely wrong.

"What's wrong, bud?" Quackity asks, and god does Wilbur despise him at that moment.

The man in front of him, Wilbur's rival, using this fake tone to show fake sympathy. It pissed Wilbur off to his greatest content. Why was Quackity acting like this? Why was he acting as if Wilbur were a delicate flower petal, that were to decay at the touch of a shallow fingertip?

And why did Wilbur like it?

Why was it actually helping him?

Wilbur internally cringed at this.

"I don't.." he began, and god was he breaking. Maybe he was a delicate flower petal he swore himself not to be, and he was watching himself decay at the touch of a shallow fingertip — Quackity's shallow fingertip.