Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Come on now, Pumpkin,” Schlatt murmurs, low and dangerous and antifreeze sweet. “Don’t be like that.”

“Schlatt I’m tired ,” Quackity rasps. He shouldn't be trying to speak with this little air to work with, but the angle of his neck won’t allow for more than a whistle of breath, and Schlatt’s grip is unrelenting. “You fucking said…” He coughs, then struggles to swallow. “You promised me-” 

He’d've laid it all out then, if he'd had the chance; run them through the usual litany of letdowns. He doesn’t fucking care if it’s pathetic anymore, doesn’t care if it’s pointless, he just wants to spit Schlatt’s too-go-to-be-true declarations right back in his face. He wants to call out broken vows one by one, brittle and furious, sharp enough to cut. 

He’d have gladly gone down the whole damn list of every way that Schlatt’s a lying sack of shit, if it weren’t for the fist in his hair, strangling him slowly; if it weren’t for the fingers shoved deep into his coverts, nails grazing the delicate skin underneath the down, sensation buzzing in his brain.

“You’re really gonna call me a liar?” Schlatt rumbles, hot and close. “That’s pretty fuckin’ rich, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t-”

“You promised me plenty, yeah? With those fuckin’ hips of yours.”

“Schlatt-”

“That tight little pussy…” Schlatt sighs against the straining curve of his neck. “You said you wanted me. You said-”

“I wanted you,” Quackity bites off, “not-”

“You begged me to fuck you,” Schlatt presses, relentless. “Look at it from my perspective, yeah? Be reasonable. You’re an omega. You’re my fuckin’ husband . We’re married . It’s just math, sweetheart. Just common sense.”

Quackity’s hand moves to his belly, reflexive. Protective, despite everything.. 

“Can you just…can you wait one fucking day? Just give me one day to let my shit calm down, I’m still fucked up from last night you fucking-”

“You were such a cute little twink at the altar," Schlatt goes on, as if Quackity hadn’t spoken at all. He’s pulling too hard, now, sharp pain prickling along the sensitive membrane underneath the feathers. “You had me going for a while, baby,” Schlatt says, calm and conversational. Deceptively affectionate. “I’d been thinking, damn! All that money on bullshit for the wedding, and I married a goddamn dud. You never came around, did you? Never had that good old-fashioned ‘knock me up’ stank.” He pulls harder on Quackity’s hair, startling a strangled gasp. “Lucky you, I figured out your little scam, yeah? About time I got your motor running again, sweetheart. Only natural.”

Fingernails dig into the tender skin of Quackity’s wing, pushing hard and insistent. He rolls onto his back, wincing away from the pain.

Schlatt lets go of Quackity’s hair, then, chuckling at the cry of relief. 

He forces his fingers under Quackity’s hand; cups the swell of Quackity’s stomach in his palm.

He forces a knee between Quackity’s thighs, pushing them apart.

“I’m tired,” Quackity whispers, all the fight gone out of him. 

“That’s fine,” Schlatt murmurs. “All you gotta do is lie there and let me drive.”

Quackity doesn’t like to cry in front of Schlatt. He doesn’t want to let the other man see him weak, but that ship sailed hours ago; years ago, if he’s honest. He’s too exhausted to keep his shit together anymore. Tears stream back into his hair as Schlatt’s weight settles between his legs, heavy and huge and…

Familiar.

Known.

His nose is full of Schlatt’s scent – thick enough to taste, immediately overwhelming. A syrupy warmth that soothes away thought, flooding into the places where pain would be, leaving no room for it to linger.

“Schlatt,” he murmurs. “I don’t-”

The rest of the thought is kissed away, forgotten before their lips part.

“You’re tired,” Schlatt murmurs. “Just relax, sweetheart.”

His wings fall against the mattress, spread out to either side of him. 

His legs fall further apart, loose and easy. 

"That's right, baby." Schlatt kisses his neck. "There you go."

Quackity hums in the shape Schlatt's name.

His body rocks against the bed as his thoughts drift out to sea.

”You’re gonna be so fuckin’ gorgeous,” Schlatt rumbles, his voice gone rough with raw desire. He’s got a hand in Quackity’s feathers again, but now the touch is gentle. “Put some curves on you, yeah? Little meat on those bones.”

Rocking faster on the bed, pain and worry draining away. Schlatt’s scent and his words and the feel of his cock are all that Quackity can take in; all that his exhausted brain can hold. He was angry, he knows, but he can’t remember why.

Schlatt’s full weight flattens him onto the mattress, enormous and undeniable.

Schlatt says, “I’m gonna keep you gorgeous, sweetheart,” and kisses the dried tracks of tears.