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Summary
“I can feel your pulse right here,” Quackity says. “Give me your hand.” It’s a direct order, the most dominant he’s been all night, and Wilbur doesn’t have any choice but to obey. “Right there, you feel it?”
“I feel you,” Wilbur says, because he does. The gentle pulse is coming from Quackity’s hand on top of his, not from Wilbur’s own veins. His heart isn’t beating because it can’t, and if he dares entertain the possibility, he’ll start crying again.
“That’s you, not me,” Quackity insists. Wilbur sighs.
“It can’t be me,” he says, speaking very slowly so as not to be misunderstood, “because I’m dead. My heart stopped when I died, Quackity, you were there for it.”
“Wil, please.” Quackity thrusts halfheartedly into him, as if it’s just occurred to him that he’s supposed to be fucking Wilbur. “Okay, look, I don't know if this'll make things better or worse, but…”
“If it involves fucking me, it’s better.”
“Oh, it does.”
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Wilbur Soot is dead, and nothing can change that. Not even being revived and released from limbo into the world.
Quackity is determined to prove him wrong, and fuck him back to life while he's at it.