There’s a traitor in their ranks. Schlatt doesn’t know who it is. For the record, none of them know who it is, but that’s unimportant. Importantly; Schlatt doesn’t know who it is.
This is a problem for a number of reasons. It’s pretty obvious to everyone in this goddamn country that Schlatt has a thing about power. But there’s a number of things running through Schlatt’s veins that Quackity thinks the public doesn’t see. That, as well, is unimportant. What is important is that Schlatt thinks power is knowledge—when Schlatt doesn’t know something, it makes him powerless. And nothing makes Schlatt angrier than being powerless.
Schlatt has a number of angry habits. He gets aggressive; he gets instigative; he doubles down on just about everything. And lately, he drinks. This is sometimes better than when he gets aggressive, so Quackity lets it slide perhaps more than he should.
Tonight, unfortunately, Quackity has a pretty good feeling that Schlatt is drunk and aggressive.
Quackity is hesitant to enter the Presidential office when Schlatt’s in a bad mood. He has his own office, as the Vice, but he doesn’t spend a lot of time in it; when Schlatt’s in a good mood, he’ll be eager to try and sweeten a deal, and when he’s in a bad mood, Quackity is hesitant to enter, but hell if he doesn’t enter anyway.
He’s brought up from a daze and a dashed pile of paperwork by the confirmations of his assumption; a rapid series of bangs–flesh against wood, the slamming of Schlatt’s hand against the desk. It’s a warning sign and a call to action all at once, and Quackity pushes himself up from his desk, stretches his aching back (wings stuffed under that windbreaker are doing him no favors), and makes his way next door to the Presidential office, rapping on the door with 3 knuckles.
“Who's that?” The reply from inside comes, sharp and jagged, giving Quackity only a moment’s pause.
“It’s me.” He forces out, trying to make his voice light, unassuming, inoffensive, nonthreatening.
A sigh, heavy. A pause, then the firm sound of glass ( a glass) meeting wood. “Come in.”
“Everything okay in here?” Quackity shuts the door behind him. It’s a nicety, not a genuine inquiry, and they both know it.
“Sure, sure, whatever.” Schlatt’s got his own pile of paperwork on the desk, but unlike Quackity’s it’s kept relatively neat–untouched. Or at the very least, touched but then put back after hours of procrastination and whiskey. Quackity sinks into the chair across the desk, watching Schlatt cautiously as he does so. He remembers the last time they’d discussed paperwork like this, beginning with Quackity’s aged deck of cards and ending with Quackity’s head held over the toilet bowl. Schlatt’s reluctant enough to deal with Manberg’s never-ending stream of problems without Quackity there.
Quackity eyes the glass on the desk. It’s less full than he’d like it to be. He supposes he doesn’t know when Schlatt started drinking, but it’s still early –too late in the night for anyone else to be by but early in the sense of their clockwork, of their paperwork sessions that commonly go until four AM, separated only by the walls of their office before Schlatt falls into bed and Quackity, very commonly, does not.
He sinks into the seat on the other end of the desk. “This about the, uh, Greater SMP?”
Schlatt shakes his head, thumbing through a few pieces of paper but not giving up the goat.
“Taxes?”
“God, you’d think you know nothing.”
Quackity bristles, sitting rigid-straight in his chair. “Maybe if you didn’t keep me in the dark so often, I’m your f*cking Vice President, we’re supposed to be doing this sh*t togeth–”
Schlatt looks up from his glass suddenly, his eyes sharp and full of an emotion Quackity can’t place. He feels a bit like a fly under a microscope. Two sets of eyes go to the stack of papers on the desk. Schlatt sees Quackity looking and places his hand on the topmost piece of paper, quick enough you’d think he was trying to swat a mosquito. Quackity just stares back, trying to place where Schlatt’s defensiveness has come from, when–
“Oh.” The realization dawns on him. “This is about the traito–”
Schlatt gives him a glare harsh enough to make Quackity shrink down halfway into his chair. “Right.” He mumbles. “Sorry.”
Well, that’s why Schlatt’s gotten nothing done. Not like he gets much done in the first place, but–his paranoia strikes sharply and suddenly, and when it hits, life in the Whitehouse grinds to a halt. It’s a dangerous state for them all to be in, one that lends itself to more aggression. What Schlatt needs isn’t a redirection–it’s a distraction.
Without a further word, Quackity stands and makes his way to the back of the room. “Oh, c’mon, you don’t need to get–” Schlatt starts, but Quackity waves him off, beelining for the cabinet against the back wall. He knows he’d left what he’s looking for there, and only needs to dig through the drawer past highballs and Schlatt’s cigar case briefly before he finds it.
“Cards?” He offers with a shaky smile.
“Nah, nah, we do that sh*t all the time.” Huffs Schlatt. One time, Quackity thinks bitterly, and he’s not sure what has Schlatt all up in arms about it. Schlatt had won, one of Quackity’s most scathingly embarrassing moments. He tries to forget about it when he’s not up to his neck in the throes of desperation. He could tell, though, that Schlatt was interested in the idea, that if it weren’t for the pride and the haze of the whiskey, that he almost–
“Strip poker.” Quackity announces suddenly, his one stroke of genius for the night. He places his hand flat against Schlatt’s desk; it makes an audible noise. “We’ll–let’s play strip. Hold’em. I win, we retire for the night,” he acquiesces, because keeping Schlatt down here is going to do more harm than it is good. “And no more drinking until tomorrow. Night! Tomorrow night.”
“And what if I win?”
“I–I don’t know, you think of your own terms!” Quackity sputters. “You wanna stay down here and get drunk and not get anything done, be my f*cking guest. ” Quackity truly has no idea why Schlatt would say yes to an offer like that, but Quackity doesn’t know why Schlatt does half the things he does.
“Fine.” Schlatt says nonchalantly. Quackity suppresses the corner of his mouth that wants to turn up. Poker face. He sits back down, splits the deck, and deals the cards. He starts small with his opening bet, doubled by Schlatt. The chips are sort of irrelevant here, but it’s the principle of the thing.
Quackity looks at his cards. He doesn’t have terrible odds; he raises. “You’re wearing more clothes than me, objectively.” He notes. Schlatt’s got on a tie and a blazer and a watch, and knowing him he’s probably going to count his ring.
“Your fault for not wearing your suit today, pumpkin,” and isn’t that a bullsh*t argument when Quackity’s had so much paperwork he hasn’t even left the office today, but he knows arguing won’t get them anywhere. He stays silent as Schlatt looks down at his cards and grumbles. Probably a surprise to no-one, his poker face is always pretty sh*t when he’s drunk. He bets despite this. Quackity calls, then calls again.
Despite this, Schlatt has a pair of Jacks, worse than the straight Quackity unfortunately didn’t come up with–better than his 9s. Quackity looks at Schlatt’s blazer and the vest under it and grumbles as he unzips his windbreaker, throwing it over the chair next to him. He doesn’t feel exposed in just his shirt per se but his stunted wings flap irritatedly as he releases them, stretching his shoulders and feeling the joints pop. There’s a silence as Quackity stretches one way then the other, broken only by Schlatt’s complacency.
“You should–”
“Don’t.” Quackity glares, and Schlatt holds his hands up defensively.
“Alright. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Schlatt gestures. in Quackity’s direction. Quackity deals another hand. He folds, perhaps before his time, but he doesn’t like his odds, and Schlatt’s got a lot of clothes to get off before they go to bed. Luckily, Schlatt is still drinking–drinking during the game wasn’t something Quackity outlawed, he supposes, and it makes his luck better besides.
“You should have a drink.” Schlatt gestures towards the bar cart in the corner. Quackity has objected to its existence many times, what kind of idiot keeps a bar cart in a Presidential Office but really because he doesn’t like Schlatt’s proximity to the whiskey. “Could make you a margarita, you like that foo foo stuff, right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Quackity huffs, but takes a risk regardless. “If you win, I’ll drink with you.” His vision quickly flashes to the hangover he nursed, alone, the last time he did this. Schlatt had offered him a bloody mary, but he had denied. Still, he thinks of falling into bed with Schlatt, and his lips purse. He backs down his cards, ending up with his undershirt (Schlatt most certainly stares, Quackity can most certainly feel it) and pants on the ground, leaving him just in his beanie and his boxers, but he doesn’t back down his resolve.
Still clothed for now, he deals again, ending up with a ten on the table. Quackity slides seven chips into the middle, a lot even by his standards; Schlatt slides eight.
“What do you think about Fundy?” he adds, practically out of nowhere.
“He’s fine?” Quackity says. He flips over the next card–a Jack of Hearts. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“I mean, he’s Wilbur’s kid and all.” Schlatt says as if it’s obvious, but Quackity spots the waver in his voice and very generously does not comment on it. He pushes another chip into the center. “That can’t bode well, surely.”
“They’ve never been that close. Far from it.” Quackity’s eyebrows furrow as Schlatt doubles the bet. “And besides,” He adds though he doesn’t entirely believe it, “I don’t think he’s quite slick enough to be a traitor.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.” Schlatt flips over a Queen of Hearts. Quackity’s heart stutters momentarily in his chest. “You think you know what this is about.”
I do know what this is about. Quackity could say as much, but he lets his chips speak for him; doubles the bet again.
“What about George?” Schlatt drums his fingers on the table.
“ Now who’s jumping to conclusions?” Quackity can’t help but stifle a laugh. “When’s the last time you’ve seen him around?”
“Well, maybe he’s off in–”
“Make your f*cking bet, Schlatt.”
Schlatt goes all in.
Quackity really does laugh this time, turning his cards around. Straight flush. He pictures Schlatt’s bravado and his blazer both crumbled to the ground, finally having something in his corner.
What he doesn’t have in his corner, though, is a royal flush, and he practically crumbles himself under Schlatt’s grin when he sees who does.
Quackity pulls off his boxers and swallows thickly, the way Schlatt’s eyes hungrily trail over the curve of his body not lost on him. He fights the urge to clamp his legs closed–nothing Schlatt hasn’t seen before, after all, but he feels oddly exposed nonetheless, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his shoulders. “Fine.” He grumbles, throwing his hands in the air. “You got me.”
“You’ve still got your beanie.” Schlatt grins wickedly, leaning back in his chair. At least the bastard didn’t get to take off his ring.
“You got me.” Quackity emphasizes, looking at his clothes scattered around onto the ground. “Done ogling me up?”
“Sure.” Schlatt mumbles, gesturing towards the door and closing his hand around his glass. “You’re dismissed.” He adds, and something spikes in Quackity, his breath and his panic both catching in his throat.
“No, c’mon.” Quackity tries weakly. “There’s more we can–Let’s keep playing.”
He’s ready for Schlatt to raise the stakes, somehow, in some way. It’s not like he’s not ready for it, though. It’s not like he’s never let Schlatt f*ck him–god, it’s not like he’s never let Schlatt f*ck him in this office. So like, it’s fine. They’ll keep playing.
“Whatever you say, sugartit*.” Schlatt responds. Quackity’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t say anything. “But you’re not putting your clothes back on. You’re already naked. Let’s try not to lose any hands, ey?”
Quackity, unfortunately, loses his very first hand. He stares at his pair–he lost, but barely–and swallows harshly. “Alright. So what do I get?”
Schlatt thinks, but only for a moment. Quackity can’t help but wonder if the thinking is for show.
“Sit.” Schlatt gestures back to the chair. Quackity does, crossing his legs. “We’ll play another round.” He speaks, more cool and calculated than Quackity has seen him all night. He leans forward against the table, smiles devilishly. When he speaks, one inch from Quackity’s lips, he can smell the whiskey on his breath. “But this time, you’re gonna touch yourself.”
Quackity huffs in a breath through his teeth. sh*t. That’s alarming. And, unfortunately for both of them, hot.
“‘O-okay.” He tries his best to keep the waver out of his voice and uncrosses his legs. His hand dips below a small patch of pubic hair as he leans back in his chair and spreads his legs further, making sure everything is on display. Gingerly, he runs a few fingers through his folds, wincing only slightly at the feeling of wetness that’s gathered there. This is something they play at sometimes; Schlatt’s a sh*tty voyeur but that doesn’t make him any less of a voyeur. All that to say, it’s not new to Q, and something about it is no less enticing.
Maybe it’s the taboo of it all. Right here, the Presidential Office , where anyone could walk in even though Quackity knows perfectly well it’s too late at night for anyone to want to be bothered. Not the first time they’ve done something like this, sure, but the repeated instance doesn’t lessen the pressure.
Removing his hand, Quackity brings it to his lips. He refuses to break eye contact with Schlatt as he runs his tongue along the digits, eyeing the way Schlatt’s eyes glaze over just that little bit as he does it. Got him. He thinks vicariously.
He thumbs through the cards with his free hand. A seven and an ace, better than he’s had tonight all things considered. He places the cards face down on the table and with the same hand pushes a few chips into the center of the table. The other hand raises to his mouth again, making sure his fingers are thoroughly slick before lowering them. The wetness present there certainly makes his work easier, as he runs his hand from his entrance up to the base of his dick, bumping against it.
And just for the show, he leans back a little more, spreading his mouth and choking out a little Ah-ah as Schlatt pushes three chips of his own into the pot, almost blindly. The shocks of pleasure running through him simplify things. It’s almost too easy.
“f*ck, that’s hot.” Schlatt leans closer across the table, nudging the pot with his elbows slightly.
Quackity looks down at him through dark batted lashes, slipping two fingers into himself and scissoring them slowly. “Like what you see?”
“You know I do.” Schlatt chuckles dryly.
Quackity turns one of the cards over. Another ace. Good. “Raise.” He says, making sure to pitch his voice up just a little bit at the end just to see the way Schlatt’s eyes widen all that minutely. For a moment, Quackity’s sure he has him exactly where he wants him, especially when Schlatt calls on his turn. One of his hands snakes down to his pants, and he palms himself nonchalantly.
And then, with his f*cking hand on his dick– “Quackity, can I trust you?”
Quackity blinks, feeling something that’s definitely not arousal pool in his gut. Instead of answering, he flips over another card; a seven of diamonds. He pushes three chips into the center. “I’m your Vice President.” He says, and Schlatt huffs something that’s almost a laugh.
“Mmhm.” He says, calling again. Schlatt adjusts his legs, stares at his cards. Quackity needs an ace. There’s two more in play, somewhere. Slim odds, yeah, but he can’t help but hope. He slips a third finger inside himself and starts to rub small circles at the base of his dick. Schlatt fumbles for his belt, and hey, there’s a free article.
“We’ve done enough– ah, f*ck –together, I think–” He inhales sharply, watches Schlatt unzip his pants– “It’s pretty sh*tty if I haven’t earned your trust by now.” His free hand, fumbling, goes to the card deck, fingers shaking. He flips over the last card as he rubs against the perfect spot inside himself, unable to see the card at first as he tips his head back with a proper moan. Leaves out the need for a poker face, he supposes, lowering his eyes through fluttering eyelashes. It’s a seven.
When he looks up, Schlatt is half-hard and stroking himself the rest of the way there, slitted eyes glazed through alcohol and arousal as he stares Quackity down. Quackity swallows thickly, barely able to choke it out. “R–raise.”
That seems to be the last straw. Schlatt practically knocks the whole game over as he clambers past the table, mashing his mouth with Quackity’s. Their lips clash, and Schlatt lifts one of Quackity’s legs onto his hip, and okay, they’re doing this. Quackity half expects Schlatt to f*ck him right then and there–yeah, all for the show, but he’s certainly wet enough–but instead he spins them around, sitting down and pulling Quackity onto his lap. Their teeth clack together, Quackity barely able to kiss straight as Schlatt continues to stroke himself in earnest. “I’m– sh*t.” Quackity gasps. He pulls his fingers out of himself, grinding onto Schlatt’s co*ck instead and planting his hands roughly on his shoulders.
“What’d you have?” Schlatt laughs, and Quackity looks up blearily, barely able to focus through the haze of f*ck, good before he realizes what Schlatt meant.
He fumbles for the cards, showing Schlatt his hand with a dry chuckle. “If only we found those other two aces.”
With one hand, Schlatt fills in for Quackity, rubbing at his dick in a way that causes Quackity’s head to fall back again, dropping the cards as his hand flies over his mouth. The other holds two cards in front of Quackity’s face, the grin on Schlatt’s face sharp enough to cut glass. “You mean these two aces, sugar?”
“f*ck me.” Quackity groans.
“Ah-ah, I don’t think so.” Schlatt snickers, grinding his dick against Quackity in a way that makes him practically whimper. “That’s winner’s talk. You stay right there.” He commands, depositing Quackity into the chair. Quackity pretends he doesn’t reach for Schlatt like some horny bitch as Schlatt strides to the drawer, confident as he retrieves that dusty camera Quackity’s aunt had left him along with the cards and pointing it in his direction. “Finish.” He commands.
It’s not that hard. Quackity’s close enough, and the white flashing in his eyes is enough to spur him on as he curls three-fingers against that perfect spot again, again, again, picturing Schlatt folding him over the card table as he c*ms violently. For good measure, he licks the slick off his fingers, not breaking eye contact with the camera as he does so.
A session of hot panting later, eyeing Schlatt and his rock-hard self down; “You didn’t finish.”
Schlatt presses a few buttons on the camera, looking at the photos instead of Quackity. “This is more than enough for days, babe.”
“You’re f*cking insufferable.” Quackity sighs. Now is normally the time he’d shuck his pants back on in time for the neck meeting, but he feels like that would destroy the point. He’s no sore loser.
“And I beat you.” Schlatt chuckles, striding his way to the bar cart and unscrewing the tequila bottle, pouring high and sliding it across the table towards Quackity.
Quackity considers saying no. Schlatt got enough from his win, this just feels unfair. He’s certainly not falling into bed with the President tonight, he’s not sure what more he could want. Quackity thinks of the way Schlatt has everything, from a bar cart to a stack of untouched paperwork.
He thinks of the stone walls of Pogtopia, the nights spent nestled among the fuse-hot buttons.
“Bottoms up.” Quackity sighs. The tequila burns on the way down.
