For almost a year now since marrying Schlatt, Quackity had been completely sober. But this morning he woke up and was instantly hankering for a drink. He was struck by the kind of misery that starts at the bones and works its way up. These were the kinds of days he drowned in alcohol until he couldn’t feel anything through the haze.
He sat up with a groan and extended his wings to confirm what he already knew. He was molting, bare patches revealing new pin feathers poking through. Quackity considered the consequences or ripping the rest of his feathers off, just to speed up the process. But that would only hurt him.
At least he didn’t have to worry about his lousy excuse for a husband. Schlatt had deteriorated into a shell of a man, no longer finding his way home each night. He preferred to pass out in the street, presidential decorum be damned.
This molt felt doubly-worse than his last. The cycle of new feathers was usually uncomfortable, but it didn’t make his anxiety spike like he was being hunted. He almost wanted to crawl under the bed and burl up into a ball to protect his vulnerable belly.
Like everything else, he shoved the gnawing fear into a box and locked it tight. He had to make it through another day without falling apart at the seams.
The house was big, empty, and didn’t help at all with his mood. His wings curled over his shoulders, and he couldn’t help but hug his arms to his chest. He felt cold, which was normal for his molts. But he also felt like the ever-present loneliness that plagued him had turned into a massive yawning void.
But for once he didn’t yearn for Schlatt’s missing affection. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he wasn’t going to find it in his house. And as much as he wanted to crawl back into bed, the idea felt suffocating. He needed to appease some of these instincts so he could get on with his life.
So Quackity shook out his wings, watching loose feathers float down. Then he stepped out of the house and onto the empty streets of Manburg.
The open air outside was worse. The anxiety at the back of his mind screamed danger, urging him to hide as soon as possible. But the yearning tearing at his insides urged him onwards. Quackity meandered to the edge of the city and toward the soothing shelter of the untouched wilderness.
He walks, and keeps walking as the sun climbs higher in the sky. It feels like he’s finding a place to die, the further he goes the more it feels like his fear is going to stop his heart. Maybe the house wasn’t so bad after all.
Then something makes Quackity freeze in place. It cuts through his miasma of misery and takes over his higher reasoning. It’s a scent, something that hits the back of his throat and becomes the only thing he can smell.
His goal becomes clear now. He needs to find the source of this scent as soon as possible. The anxiety becomes a rush of energy, and he stumbles a moment before he starts sprinting. His wings lift, half unfurled above his back.
It strikes him what is at the core of his instincts. Quackity is desperately, insatiably horny. For a moment as he runs, he remembers his husband. Schlatt is the one he should be finding to fuck him senseless. But he rejects the thought.
