"Yes I know that, I believe we've been over this already. Look, I understand that this isn't a hostel, but it's the only place for miles. I don't have a tent, I don't have water, and I am going to die if you don't help me," Quackity counts off on his fingers, "If your patron truly is a legal god, I'm sure they'd be rather upset to have an innocent man's blood on the hands of their worshipers."

"'Innocent'? Oh fuck off!" spits the priest "I can smell spilt ichor on your hands, spirit hunter. Sweet smell but never washes off, does it? I'm not letting you anywhere near my lord, so-" her eyes widen, she stares up at a glowing sigil above Quackity's head with a gulp. "...right this way, sir," Quackity doesn't notice it. If he had, maybe he would have thought twice about stepping into the temple.

Ultimately, he doesn't have much time to wonder about her sudden change in attitude. She yanks him by the wrist into the chaotic, messy and yet lavish temple. Blood strains on the floor and spray painted ceilings catch his eye. The worshipper knocks some items over as she walks, not bothering to pick them up.

She shoves him into one of the many small rooms, this one with a broken stained glass roof. It's noticeably dusty and unused, unlike the rest, which had all been clearly well lived in. The nun doesn't step in.

"You're on your own from here, said he wants to speak to you," she mutters. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he says sarcastically. She slams the door.

At first, Quackity wonders if he's been taken to some kind of human sacrifice. The bloodstains on the persian carpet certainly don't seem like a good omen. The rug itself is intricately designed, featuring runes and swirling patterns that he could get lost in forever. As if somewhere in these ancient threads lies the answer to every question ever asked.

It's enough to distract him from the sound of several locks being hurriedly shut on the other side.

He crouches down onto the rug and examines it further. The only thing he's ever seen like it were the tapestries in the mausoleum his mother had brought him to on a pilgrimage. The gods had always been an interest of his, but never the harvest gods and creation myths his town worshipped. No, his passion lies in older gods. Unstable gods, who most mortals pray they never catch the attention of.

Of course, as much as he can study from afar, he's only ever slain spirits and minor deities. Bastards don't stay gone forever, but a few centuries is better than letting them gather power.

His hand draws back at the sound of a cuckoo bird singing, a sense of rotting shame falling over him for no discernable reason. It happens so fast he doesn't have time to think about the mythological explanations.

One second the shadow of a bird passes over the rug, the next there's a heavy thump quickly followed by a quiet crack , and the birdsong stops.

A drop lands on Quackity's nose.

As he brings a hand up to wipe it away, another falls onto his fingertip. Vibrant red trickles down, pooling in the palm of his hand. He looks up.

Above him hangs the carcass of a cuckoo bird, impaled on the sharp talon of a statue. A sharp, cheshire smile is the only clear feature on its crudely carved face.

His hand flies to the gun in his breast pocket. Only a few bullets left, if he remembers correctly. He'd been meaning to stock up on ammo but after having misread the map, he'd been more focused on finding a place to stay.

He wipes the blood off on the rug, its warmth creeping him out. This has all the warning signs of a paranormal summoning, blood, sacrifices, statues…

Hes about to try to break the leg off of a stool when the rug starts to undulate.

Stretching and morphing around where the blood stained, quackity has the horrible thought that it almost looks like its swallowing the liquid. And the more it eats, the more drops down from the bird's cadaver. The sound of drips in the growing puddle of red disappear, making way to a small stream, unleashing far to much blood for such a small thing.

Worse, the writhing puddle starts to twitch as if testing out its new tendons. Muscle forms, and a horrible heart starts to beat.

Enraptured by the sight, quackity sits there, obediently watching the priceless carpet stain red, and blood vessels thread themselves through the half formed monstrosity. Some catch on the fibres of the rug, spreading out like roots, but they quickly snap from the form and shrivel away. Aside from the few which wind their way between Quacktiy's fingers and try to burrow their way into his own blood vessels.

As he rips them off, he gets the horrible feeling that he would look like the bird carcass now does, shrivelled and withering, crumpled like a capri sun if he hadn't cut them off.

It, this… thing stretches and morphs. Its bones snap crackle and pop into place and the sounds echo around the room so loudly it almost sounds like fireworks.

Quackity's stomach lurches and in that moment, something in the animal part of his mind screams at him to run. He waits for a break in It's ceaseless gaze, which comes when It stops to pay attention to snapping It's hand into the right shape. Quackity lunges for the door.

It's locked. Of course It's locked. Shit, fuck, what the hell was he thinking? He grabs a vase from one of the high stacked piles of clutter and tosses the presumably priceless artefact at the door. It shatters, useless against the runes carved intricately into the old, rotting wood.

A hand, gentle and light, touches his shoulder. Quackity freezes.

"You're Quackity, are you not?"

For a moment, he forgets that the only thing that voice could possibly be coming from is the monster- god, eldritch horror, whatever that thing was, that he's trapped in the room with. He catches himself relaxing into the touch, honey'd words easing themselves into his aching mind with tender precision.

Then the fingers touch him properly, and he jolts out of the haze.

"Get away from me, you creepy motherfucker," he grunts , still trying to work the door open by rattling the handle. To Quackity's surprise, it only laughs at the plain disrespect. Giddy, and amused.

"Well now, that's no way to speak to your host,"

Is that a British accent? What the hell is this thing doing out in Utah with a British accent?

"What are you?"

"I believe you're already well aware," it says through what he can only presume is a smile. "You fancy yourself a hunter of my kind, don't you? Lesser spirits."

Quackity's hand tightens on the doorknob. "How the hell do you know that?"

It giggles, light, eerie, and far too loud for such a quiet sound. Like the rustling of paper in an empty flat late at night. "I know many things, wanderer," it leans in, breath hot like an open wound against Quackity's neck. "I know your name… your age, the date of your mothers- well, you call it a death. Easier that way, I suppose. Your mortal minds are not made for all those feelings…" Its sharp fingers trail down Quackitiy's neck, opening papercut-like slices. "So… pitifully easy to break."

In a flash of movement, the gods vessel is knocked to the ground, and a gun is levied at it. The creature smiles wide and unsettling, tilting Its head as if to get a better look at Its once-prey.

"My, my… you are quite the feisty one," it chuckles, laughter headache inducing, "I like you."

"What god am I speaking to?" Quackity asks, flicking the safety off with a cold look in his eyes.

"Hah! What a funny question to-"

"Dont play games with me, creature. What are you."

It huffs out in annoyance, flicking blood-drenched hair out of Its face.

"And here I was thinking you'd be more fun. Here's a hint-"

A shot is fired directly into the rug beside the gods head and it yelps.

"Fine! Ok, ok, prime, no need to get snippy. Chaos, firefly, the Soot, La sirena, weird hand guy, Nixe, nøkken, The Piper. Whatever your people call me."

Shit. It's hard to get farther from a lesser spirit.

Quackity can still hear his grandmother whispering stories of the beast that killed his grandfather, La Sirena. If he closes his eyes hard enough, he can hear her gravelly voice. She always used to whisper, speaking so quietly that he'd have to lean in to hear it. As if every word she spoke were a carefully guarded secret.

Of course, in reality his grandfather died from lung cancer. But it had always been more fun to imagine his brave, sailor grandfather going out fighting an ancient beast.

Wherever he went, tales of la Sirena had left riveting stories webbed together in his mind.

In his years sailing through the Caribbean on a dinghy fishing boat hunting a rogue water spirit, he started speaking to the beast. Well, speaking to the empty water, but he'd pretend it was listening.

He'd developed a few fantasies about it.

What? It gets lonely out at sea, and he spends more time around spiriIt's, gods and monsters than humans these days. A guy needs something he can get off to, and something in the idea of kaleidoscope eyes and sharp, pale hands pulling him under to be Its servant stuck to him like glue.

Most nights, however, it was more along the lines of finding this primordial monster and capturing it. In a twist of fate, making it his servant.

He tries not to think too hard about how odd a coincidence it is that as he thinks, the god morphs to be slightly more siren-like. Something in its mischievously glimmering eyes tells him it knows exactly what It's doing.
"Since apparently you're too…" it smirks "distracted, to ask questions, I'll just go ahead and give you answers. My name is Wilbur. At least, that's what I allow a select few mortals to call me. Only the interesting ones, of course," it looks him up and down with a slight hunger in Its gaze, lingering on Quackity's crotch. He could swear he sees the thing lick Its lips with a weirdly long and red stained tongue.

Quackity's brows furrow and he instinctively covers himself. That's… weird. Probably looking at the centre of his body or something. Of course, this is madness he's talking about, so it could also just be messing with him. Nonetheless, it brings a slight flush to his face.

"You're interesting. You can call me Wilbur," it smiles with Its yellowed teeth like Quackity just agreed to be Its best friend forever. "I'm presenting more masculinely in this area, so he/him, if you don't mind,"

"Right. You just walk around covered in blood all the time too? What's your feminine form? A swarm of locusts?"

He laughs, still just as weird and staticy.

"No, my locust days are far behind me. Was awfully fun though…" he sighs nostalgically. "The Egyptians were so simple to torment," he brings a hand up to scratch at his chin, then pauses. "Ah! Right, blood. How silly of me" he snaps his sharp fingers and all the blood gushes back into the carpet like the tide lowering in a time lapse. As his form is revealed, a whole new issue is presented. Quackity's face heats up exponentially at the now nude god.

A long scar cuts through Wilburs torso. It glows in a way that suggests there is a bright light behind it, the same glow as a flashlight pressed into one's mouth creates. On him, it looks like the scar is a sign of a glowing, godly essence trying to escape. Barely contained in this human form.

His…brown? Maroon? Yellow? Eyes shift like a kaleidoscope, and the moment Quackity decides what colour they are, they change. Aside from that, and the way his body stretches and morphs in his peripheral vision, he could almost look human.

Almost.

There's a certain… uncanny feeling to him. His messy brown hair is a little bit too floaty, moving as if underwater, and the white streak is a bit too bright for the otherwise dark room.

Wilbur smiles, and now that the rest of it is gone, the blood stuck in his gums is all the more unsettling. He licks his teeth, and the look he gives Quackity is that of a hunting dog spotting a rabbit, a lustful hunger. He moves to sit up, and Quackity doesn't hesitate in pushing him back down with his boot, planted firmly on his chest.

All of this is ignoring the… lower parts of his body, which he's purposefully been looking anywhere but. He purses his lips, trying not to think about how he's somehow taken on a familiar body type. He recognises it from the last wet dream he had, supplies his mind. Quackity shuts his eyes and tries very, very hard not to think about it.

"Why are you upset, Quackity?" the god queries, an amused lilt to Its voice.

"Nothing. Just your…" he gestures to Wilbur's general area and sighs. "You know."

"My what?" he tilts his head and re-adjusts, spreading his legs. Quackity spares a glance down and quickly looks back up at the wall, kicking Wilburs legs back together. Wilburs eyebrows knit together in frustration.

"Don't play dumb, god,"

Wilbur rolls his eyes. "Oh come on, is my genitalia really enough to get you hot and bothered? You humans and your clothes. Honestly, you were all fine until you started-" he tilts his head, grinning with pinprick sharp teeth.

his eyes fash silver.

"I wouldn't do that if i were you."

Quackity's grip on his gun tightens, his eyes narrowing.

"You and I both know that thing won't kill me. Just slow me down. Sure, that might work for some of the lesser spirit's you're familiar with, but me?" he chuckles, that same echoey, headache inducing laugh. "Darling, I won't be gone for more than an hour," his eyes swirl, images of the gods wrath flash through his mind and he gets the sickening feeling that they aren't threats so much as memories.

"An hour would still buy me enough time to figure out how to snuff you out properly," Quackity says, trying not to show how his mind is racing through plans, each one less plausible than the last.

"Would it, though?" he makes a so-so motion with his hand. "Sweetheart, people have been trying to kill me since the last ice age," he giggles. "I like the spunk though, it's cute."

"Well maybe I'll get lucky ," he presses the gun to Wilburs chin. He swears he sees arousal flash in his eyes.

"Maybe. But there are better ways to settle this than violence," he sighs, "That's my brother's domain, always been so stubborn. It just isn't fun. Don't you agree?" he pauses. "Ah, that's right, I forgot you live for the adrenaline rush. He'd like you…" he giggles mischievously. "Shame you're already spoken for."

"Spoken for?"

"Claimed. Whatever you want to call it," Quackity bristles.

"I'm not 'claimed'. I'm not some marionette doll high priest you gods love to use, the only thing I'm loyal too is-"

"-the freedom of humanity from the hidden beasts that hunt them. Yeah yeah, save me the speech, It's boring. You know what's not boring? The fact that your dick is starting to get hard just from pinning me down. That's something I don't see every day," he winks up at him.

"What," Quackity shifts his legs. To his dismay, now that wilburs pointed it out It's a lot harder (ha) to ignore.

"You heard me," he grins that horrible smile and shrugs, "Nothing to be ashamed of, it's just another fascinating feature of your biology."

"Shut up. Please shut up." he decidedly does not shut up.

"Really, I'm rather fond of you humans and your little reactions," he smirks. "I bet I can make it worse."

Quackity is about to find the closest object to throw at him, when Wilbur licks the tip of the gun. He gathers spit in his mouth and properly wraps his mouth around the barrel, sucking it deeper into his mouth, then his throat. It's a ballsy move. Quackity scoffs, finger on the trigger.

"I could kill you," he whispers, a light flush dusting his cheeks and the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his scarred lip.

Wilbur moans around it, giving Quackity a look so desperate it could be found in one of the beaded tapestries found in chaos temples. The more erotic kind, at least. He bobs his head around it one last time before pulling off of it. He swipes the slightly bloody spit from his mouth.

"How about you deal with me in a more fitting way?" he spreads his legs again, and this time, Quackity doesn't stop him. He poses himself like a marble statue. His lips part ever so slightly as his hand trails up his inner thigh.

The hand reaches his hole, and traces around the rim, an invitation clear as day.

Quackity is fucked. Or rather, he will be soon if he doesn't find a way to snap himself out of the trap. La sirena has a fondness for luring it's prey in with lewd displays. Quackity had always thought it would be stupid to be lured by sex alone, but now he understands.

Wilburs hair floats out behind him like a halo, and as one of his fingers dips in he moans so prettily.

"Please,"

With his thighs splayed out, pale against the patterned rug and looking so unnaturally plush, it's impossible not to imagine pressing his mouth against them and marking him up until everyone knows that nobody could worship the god the way he could.

Worship? Quackity's hands shake. That voice in his head, it isn't quite his own.

"Stop that. Stop- stop messing with my mind. I'm not going to worship you," he says with a sneer, "I'm not one of your little cultists."

The words are spat out like hot coals, but they bounce right back off of Wilbur, who bats his eyes coquettishly.

"Me? Messing with your mind? I'd never," he giggles, grinning a cheshire smile. "Oh come on, you don't need to worship me through prayer. There's many ways to show devotion, you know."

"And why should I show you devotion?"

"Because you're a guest in my temple. It's the polite thing to do, darling. Besides, why not stay a while? You could use a break, some nice wine and food… the hot springs in the courtyard do wonders for weary travellers. Usually, I'd suggest you join one of the orgies, but I don't know if I'd let my people have their way with you without the risk of some vessels being stolen. Seeing someone else get to have you… well, a little possession never hurt anyone," he rubs spirals into the rug, and licks his lips. "Of course, if you're interested in sex, I could use a concubine," his nose twitches as he pushes another long finger into himself.

Quackity snorts.

"A concubine? Oh come on, don't tell me this is some weird sex cult.'' Wilbur rolls his eyes.

Quackity moves forward, not noticing his legs moving until he's knelt down between Wilburs legs, absentmindedly massaging the man's thighs.

"Tomato tomahto, this one in particular is a cult that happens to worship me through sex sometimes," Quackity raises an eyebrow. "What? You've seen plenty of human sacrifices, surely polyamory isn't where you draw the line. It's all very consensual, if that's why you have that look on your face."

"Fine, I suppose you're right. There's nothing wrong with your freaky little sex cult," he licks his chapped lips and lets a hand, just out of Wilburs sight, fall between his own legs. Just so he can think a little clearer, he tells himself. How can he fight him while too horny to think, after all? And gods, is it a relief to give some attention to his much neglected cock.

"If you're so set on not fucking me, you can worship through other means. Blood, screams of genuine terror, songs, stories, offerings, really, I'm not picky. I just assumed you'd be interested considering your little… issue," he smirks, and continues.

"I mean honestly, do you think I'm blind? I have eyes here, I have eyes in the walls, I have eyes watching you from the sky itself, love," Wilbur chuckles. "And I can see clear as day that you're practically throbbing already,'' He hums low and dirty. "I bet it's hurting from neglect. And I'm right here, ripe for the picking."

His voice drops an octave, his back arches and Quackity could swear that lust so heavy it must be primordial can be smelled hung heavy in the air, alongside the scent of musk, sweat and sex. "So, Quackity, we both know what you want, why not take it?"

Barely half a second passes before their lips come crashing together in a ludic ridicule of romance. There is no love, and why should there be when there is lust? Not sweet, not warm, but raging hot like a summer storm. A June breeze surges in through the cracked stained glass roof curls around the pair, nipping at their skin and bringing in the scent of desert willow trees. Legs wrap around Quackity's hips, dragging him down to the floor and giving him something besides the palm of his hand to grind against. Wilbur ducks down to his neck, sucking the tender skin into his mouth, and leaving splotches of colour behind.

"I want you inside me," he murmurs into the skin.

"Yes. Please,"

Wilbur pulls out his fingers with a whine and wipes them off on his hip. Quackity's eyes widen in horror, horny-mind quickly taking the backseat.

"I-Is that blood?"

"Yes? …Oh! Right. Sorry, I always forget about your internal bit's, so much easier to just make a shell," he sighs wistfully. "I miss being a crab."

Quackity stares at him blankly. A part of him wonders what it would feel like to fuck something entirely made of flesh and blood. Probably not great.

"You might wanna shield your eyes, this can get a little disturbing,"

Quackity turns around and squeezes his eyes shut moments before a horrible squelching sound starts. Wilbur hums a cheerful tune as if he's going fishing, not rearranging his guts in the very literal sense.

"You want any special features?"

He really doesn't want to know what 'special features' is referring to.

"No, thanks," he rasps horsley. Wilbur sighs.

"Right, just plain old plain old. Really, there's so many fun ways you can-"

"Please shut up,"

Wilbur mimics him in a mocking voice. He pats his stomach and grins. "Right, we should be good now,"

He hesitantly turns around and sighs in relief at the lack of gore. "Oh thank the gods," Wilbur snorts.

"I'm right here, you know. It's rude not to make eye contact when speaking to someone,"

Quackity presses a thumb against the opening, steeling himself in case spiders crawl out of him or something.

"Im serious, you know, no special- ahH oh fuck me mphg!-" his hips buck back onto the fingers curled against his prostate.

"So you really did get the anatomy right,"

Wilburs flushed face drops back, panting for air as more fingers push their way into him.

"Usually it's a lot drier than this," he mentions casually with a barely hidden smirk.

"Yeah well I'm not looking to get- AH! Fucking torn open, am I- ohfuckfuck-"

"Never said I was complaining," he pulls his fingers out, ignoring the whine. "Face down ass up,"

He does as instructed, getting onto his knees for the mortal.

"You know, usually you'd be the one getting down on your knees for me,"

"I'm not the one who practically begged you to fuck me, am I?"

"Speaking of which, cut the crap, and stick it in already," he blows a stray strand of hair out of his face. Noticing: quackity brushes the rest of it back.

One of many silk pillows strewn around the room is placed under Wilburs elbows, and another beneath his knees. He leans back, hooking two hands around Wilburs thighs and admiring them with a heated gaze. Muscle lying just beneath the surface covered by soft skin. Perfect .

"How do you want it, 'my lord'?" Quackity remarks sarcastically.

"Surprise me. Anything you want to do to me, do it. If I don't like it, I'll just smite you. Easy peasy."

"Please don't smite me,"

"Then get moving, beautiful."

"You said anything I want?" he hums, lazily stroking Wilburs cock.

"Anything. So long as it ends with your dick in me," the god mutters between heavy breaths.

"Degradation? humiliation? Praise?"

"Yes, yes and yes,"

"Worship?"

Wilbur snorts. "Duh."

"Dehumanisation?"

"Not like I'm really human to begin with, but sure."

"What DON'T you want?"

"Eh, don't mention my parents? That'd be kinda weird,"

"What, don't start praying to the angel of death mid-fuck? Sounds easy enough,." he snorts.

"You'd be surprised. Aside from that, anything,."

"Then I think I'll take my time. Really savour you, you know?"

Wwilbur sweats nervously.

"Baby, is that really necessary?" he arches his back even further, looking back at Quackity with lidded, swirling eyes and teeth caught on his lip. "Why wait when you could have me now? I- ah- promise I'll be good for you," he licks his slightly too sharp teeth, tongue shiny with drool.

"You will be, I won't take too long," he starts to doubt the words the moment they leave his throat. His hand clenches down on the bugle in his pants at the perfect sight in front of him.

He decides to start with his thighs, saving the best for last. Sucking the soft skin into his mouth again and again until his figure is littered with pink and purple bruises. Wilburs whines and whimpers for 'more' fall on deaf ears, only making the hand trailing down his calf turn to a finger, turn to featherlight pressure from his nails and barely there kisses til the barest touch of skin is enough to make his mouth water.

Then, once Wilbur is moaning at nothing, he licks a line up from his balls, to his premium to his hole, and thrusts his tongue in like a piston.

The air leaves Wilburs lungs, or rather, it's shoved out of his lungs with the force of an anvil dropping onto his chest. In seconds, he's a whimpering mess on the floor, held up by a hand splayed across his chest and shoulders holding up his legs.

'This ones here to stay' sings the greedy choir in Wilburs mind. And moaning like he was literally being fucked to death, he couldn't help but agree.

His tongue moves from whiting deep inside him, to dipping down to suck his balls into his mouth, eagerly swallowing around them. Wilbur needs to know what his dick would feel like stuffed down Quackity's warm, wet throat.

He humps the pillow beneath him at the idea, desperate for more.

Finally, Wilbur hears the sound of a zipper being pulled down, and boxers landing somewhere in the room. He perks his ass up invitingly with a deep breath in. Quackity, with a smug smile, just rubs his cock against Wilburs ass.

"...Quackity Nevadas, I will smite you down if you dont fuck me right this instant," he sputters.

"But that would be such a waste, now wouldn't it?" he languidly strokes himself before finally, finally pressing the tip of his cock to Wilburs ass.

And then he waits.

And waits.

"Quackity. Stop teasing me this fucking instant or I swear to myself-"

"Beg."

"FUCK. You. You are so lucky I like bastards, Q, or I would fucking skin you. I-" he groans. "You really do want me to beg, don't you?"

At the silence, he takes a deep breath and says:

"Please?"

Quackity grabs his cock and strokes it roughly.

"AH! Oh fuck- fuck please, please Q, Quackity, I need it, need you in me, please! I want you to fuck me so hard I'll taste it on my tounge , please!"

Finally, he pulls back the foreskin pushes in the tip, relishing the way it almost tickles when going this slowly.

"Cmon, you won't break me, Q, hurry up." he mewls, trying to buck back till he at least gets the head in. Quackity pulls back, leaving Wilbur so desperate he could cry.

"You will take what I give you, god. Nothing more, and nothing less. The moment this is over, you can go back to being worshipped by millions day and night, but in this room you are mine only mine. " his grip in Wilburs curls tightens. "Am I understood?" he growls.

Somehow, the risk of trying to brat tame the bratty-ness out of the god who practically invented it — well, let's be honest: almost certainly didinvent it — was a gamble, but by some miracle, it paid off.

"Yes sir,"

"Good boy," he ruffles Wilburs hair and thrusts in with no preamble.

With his cock firmly buried inside of him, he lets himself breathe. "You," he grins. "Feel like heaven."

"Very funny. "

The sound of skin slapping and wet moans echo through the chamber as he sets a brutal pace, overstimulating himself, but gods was it worth it to see Wilbur writhe. Something about fucking a god so hard they cant help but moan your name can do wonders for the ego.

"You mind if I pull your hair, pretty boy?"

Wilbur moans something that sounds roughly like a yes. Quackity's hand is quick to find his hair and dig his nails into the fluffy brown curls, and Wilbur gets significantly louder.

"You like that, do you? Aww, too distracted to do anything but moan and squirm? You're damn handsome when you shut up and take it, you know."

The man in question seems too sex-addled to do much besides keep drooling against the silk cushion set beneath his mouth and grind back against him. Quackity continues.

"I wonder if this is the reason people worship you. You like letting your followers take turns fucking you? Do they fight over who gets to keep you in their bed like you're just their well loved pet? I bet you love it."

Wilburs talons dig into the rug, tearing rifts into it and by the sounds of it, leaving deep etches in the stone floor beneath.

"Of course, after all that, you still beg me to fuck you." he smirks, "Maybe I should join your little cult if it means I get to fuck you every time I pray. Certainly a lot more fun than some other gods."

Wilbur looks back at Quackity and pants like a bitch in heat.

"Please, ah- please, Q, I need more, aH- motherFUCKER-" he cusses as Quackity hits his prostate.

"Was that a good groan, or a bad groan?"

"Good! Very, very good!"

Quackity adjusts so he can hit it again and Wilbur swears he sees heaven. And he can say that, since he was there just last week for afternoon tea. Lovely place, a bit boring though. Scratch that, Wilbur can swear he sees colours colliding and cells multiplying and the Indus River Valley Civilisation and the rise and fall of the Aztec empire and you get the point.

The last few minutes are a blur, Wilbur thinks he feels a tight fist wrap around his cock, and a warm sensation in his gut, but its all hard to focus on when white hot waves of fire lash through him like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

When he opens his eyes, he's been turned around, and Quackity is staring at him with what looks like the worst case of post nut clarity since Marylin Monroe fucked JFK. Maybe even Paris and Helen of troy. When Quackity finally notices Wilbur looking at him, he yelps and jolts back, causing an uncomfortable squelching feeling down yonder.

"...Are you going to kill me?" Qquackity says in a squeaky voice.

"Not planning on it. No offence. You smell very tasty, I just prefer not to eat my lovers outside of tarantula form." he shrugs. "And besides, why kill something that can fuck me so well?"

"Ah. that's… good? You're quite the lover too, you know. S'pose that comes with being a primordial being and what not."

Quackity subtly pushes away the gun on the floor, quickly deciding that killing the god he just fucked would be too far even for him. He's about to pull out when Wilbur wraps his lanky legs around his torso and plants a row of kisses onto his neck.

"The hot springs are enchanting at night, you know…" he trails a hand down his chest and toys with Quackity's nipple. "Great place to relax."

"No eldritch sea monsters in there?" he chuckles. Wilbur smiles knowingly.

"Besides me? No. And i'll take good care of you."

epiloue:

"Um. My lord."

The cultist looks from Wilbur's sleeping face to Quackity's pleading eyes, and the long, heavy tail that's wrapped itself around his mate. She purses her lips at the sight, trying to figure out what to do.

"HELP. ME." Quackity mouths at her from the hot spring.

She tilts her head back and mutters some curses in what sounds like Latin, before edging her way along the edge of the pool towards quackity.

"Oh thank fuck." he sighs in relief, trying to ease the thick coils off of him.

She smiles as if this isn't the first time she's found her passed out in the pools in the form of some sea monster with whatever unfortunate mortal has caught his eye that day.

"How long has he been curled up like that?"

"When he moved me to the hot springs the moon was still in the middle of the sky. Now the suns rising, you do the maths."

"Oh shit. That's some bad luck, he's nocturnal in that form,"

He groans and pokes Wilbur's tail, who snores on peacefully.

Quackity would probably have been more self-conscious over his nudity if half the people he'd seen passing hadn't also been at least partially nude. He struggles to get a particularly heavy part of the tail off of himself.

"A little help?"

"Nu uh. He's sensitive to movement in the water coming from outside his little zone of control. Watch," she drops a flower from one of the hanging vines into the water, and sure enough, his nose twitches and the coils tighten protectively around Quackity. The flower floats back up to the surface looking like something tried to strangle it. Quackity shutters.

"Eugh. Creepy" mentally, he thinks it's almost sweet.

Extra, cut scene:

He goes to start thrusting when something that can only be described as a rippling sensation moves it's way down his cock, dragging him in deeper.

"Wilbur. What the fuck was that."

"Hm?"

"The thing you just did."

"I didn't- oh!" he blushes. "Sorry, must have carried over from one of my other forms. I can try to fix it if you like.'' Wilbur reaches down to his stomach, though his hand is batted away quickly.

"Nope! No, just… curious, is all. What, is it like the male version of a kegel?"

"Does it feel good? Just out of curiosity."

"Well… I might need more examples." He goes to pull back again, and sure enough, he's sucked back in, this time, the rippling feeling doesn't go away, only getting stronger with each delicious convulsing around his cock. He moans, bracing himself on Wilburs back as waves of pleasure wash over him.