ʀᴀᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ (Schlatt x Reader x Quackity)

ʀᴀᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

This is a spin off of Ro Dahl's, "Lamb to the Slaughter" Every time I read that story I just think of c!Schlatt :p

tw: murderrrrr

WC: 6660

[spooky number OoOo]

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𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦?

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦?

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The rhythmic tap of nails on the kitchen table was all that could be heard in the deafening silence of the Manburg White House. It was a repetitive sound you found calming during stressful situations, though it was more calming to do rather than to listen.

A skill you acquired and enforced within these walls was staying alert in even the most monotonous situations; and finally, your prayers were answered as a noise besides the echo of your tapping was picked up by your ears.

You jolted up in your seat, the one sound you had been begging to hear any moment now was jingling by the entrance— the long-awaited sign of a tired husband finally arriving home from various press meetings.

You were at the door before he even stepped in. He didn't acknowledge your presence as you gave him a pleasant smile upon entry.

"Hey Honey." You spoke softly as your hands made their way to his shoulders to take off his black blazer. "How was the meeting?"

A shallow grunt was heard from behind as you hung his coat on the hook by the door.

Your hands fell to your sides with a frown, struck with disappointment. Just one response was all you craved, a voice besides your own.

Truth be told, you couldn't care less about the outcome of whatever that meeting entailed. You never did, yet you asked about it every time.

It was one of the only times you could be active in his life— it was also really the only conversation starter you could think of.

He didn't bother telling you about anything and he practically kept you from the public eye for months.

Though no one really batted an eye, because he'd tell the citizens of his messed-up country that you were the one who chose to be reserved, and in the rare moments Schlatt walked with you hand in hand across the stage at public addresses, you looked just a bright and happy as any other supportive wife.

Because a part of you still loved him or loved what he used to be; what he could've been.

You did everything possible to stay on his good side, with the hopes you could redeem and repair the relationship.

That included waiting four hours for him to come back. All you ever did was wait for him. Wait to talk to, cook for, or assist him whenever he needed you.

You can't remember what it was like to be your own person, the only thing you identified with was a working housewife.

Though in actuality, your role was no more than a servant, calling yourself a housewife was too flattering.