slattlicker

[slattlicker]

could we get a fic with a trans femme/woman reader in mind ?? fluff or smut which ever ur more comfortable withh 😇

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * pretty when you’re honest ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: his hoodie on your back, your lipstick worn, and his voice low in your ear—telling you you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the sweet anon who asked for something with a transfemme reader ♡ this is your soft first time fic turned smutty, worship-heavy night in. she’s pre-op. he’s obsessed.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · transfemme reader (pre-op) · gender-affirming smut · size kink · soft dom!schlatt · riding · dirty talk · praise · creampie · bath aftercare · epsom salt supremacy

you deserve this love, baby ♡

✧✧✧

his apartment smells like cedar and citrus. something clean, something a little sharp. you catch it the second he opens the door for you, hand flat against the frame like he's holding it open just for you—like he wouldn’t mind standing there all night if it meant you’d keep smiling like that.

you toe off your heels the second you’re inside. your feet are killing you. he offers to carry you, teasing, but you just shoot him a look and mumble something about needing to stretch. his laugh is low. rumbling. god, you feel it in your chest.

“make yourself at home,” he says, already heading to the kitchen.

you do.

his couch dips just enough when you sink into it. soft, worn in. you tug his hoodie tighter around you—too big, sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem nearly covering your thighs—and let your eyes roam. you’ve only been here once before, and it was brief. now, it feels different. quieter. warmer.

his place is cleaner than you expected. cozy, but not in a staged way. there’s a record player in the corner, a few half-burned candles on the windowsill. a hat he must’ve forgotten on the bookshelf. little glimpses of who he is when no one’s looking.

he comes back with two glasses of water. hands you one. doesn’t sit right away.

you blink up at him. “you okay?”

“just…” he rubs the back of his neck. “you look real good in that.”

you glance down at yourself. his hoodie. your bare legs. you swallow. the compliment settles low in your stomach, warm and slow like honey.

“yeah?” you say, trying to sound playful. it comes out softer than you mean it to. “it’s yours.”

“exactly,” he murmurs.

and then he sits—close, but not too close. knee brushing yours. the silence stretches for a minute.

you speak first. “thanks for tonight.”

he looks over at you. his eyes are soft, unreadable. “you don’t have to thank me.”

“i know,” you say, fiddling with the rim of your glass. “but i want to.”

you feel him watching you. his gaze moves—eyes flicking to your mouth, your hands, your collarbone. your makeup is half worn off, lipstick faded, lashes a little smudged from the wind. and still, he looks at you like you’ve never been anything but beautiful.

he blinks, and then turns to the TV, clicking on the screen and flipping to the movie he was pitching to you on the ride here.

he settles in beside you, remote still in hand, but he’s not really paying attention to the screen. neither are you.

the movie opens with a slow, scenic shot of a city skyline, dimly lit and humming with life. but your heart’s louder.

you shift. his hoodie drapes over you like a second skin. you’ve never felt so small and warm and seen all at once, and it terrifies you. you sip your water. swallow once. twice.

he notices.

“you good?” he murmurs, voice low, thumb absentmindedly brushing the side of his glass.

you nod. then shake your head.

his brow furrows. “what’s wrong?”

you sit back against the couch. stare at the screen for a moment longer. then:

“there’s something i want to tell you,” you say, quietly. “but... i’m nervous.”

he sets his water down.

“okay,” he says. no pressure in his voice. no tension. just patience.

you glance at him. his eyes don’t leave yours.

you breathe.

“i’m... i’m trans,” you say. “transfemme.”

your voice is small. your pulse is loud. your fingers twist in the hem of the hoodie.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t flinch. his expression doesn’t shift into confusion or discomfort or forced politeness. he just... listens.

you go on, quietly, carefully. “i don’t know if you know what that means, but... i’m AMAB. assigned male at birth. and i haven’t had any surgeries. i—i don’t pass all the time. not the way some people expect. but this is me.”

you gesture lightly to yourself, every word feeling heavier than the last. “i just wanted you to know before anything ever... before anything went further.”

he blinks once. twice. then his hand reaches out. steady. slow. he places it over yours, warm and grounding.

“thank you,” he says.

you blink.

“for telling me. for trusting me.”

he squeezes your hand, gently.

“and?” you ask, voice tight, afraid of the next breath.

he stares at you for a second longer. then—

“…wait. is this the part where i’m supposed to like… say something smart?”

you blink again.

“because—fuck, i dunno.” he scratches the back of his neck, eyes wide now, mouth twitching like he’s not sure if he should apologize or shut up. “do i tell you it’s fine? is that dumb? it feels dumb. like—you know it’s fine, right? it's fine. to be trans. transfemme...that's what you said.”

you open your mouth, then close it.

he groans. “god, i’m botching this, aren’t i?”

“a little,” you murmur, lips twitching.

“fuck.” he shifts, turning more toward you. “look, i just—i didn’t know. and now i do, and it’s like… alright. you’re still you. you’re still…” his eyes drop to your mouth. your legs tucked under you. the hoodie riding up the slope of your thigh.

“…hot as fuck,” he mutters.

you snort. this isn't what you had expected at all. you hadn't expected him to know exactly everything, but now you're a little glad to realize that you passed so well he never thought to do any research.

“what?” he says, defensively. “you are! i’ve been sittin’ here tryin’ to keep my hands to myself and you’re over there looking like the blueprint. and now you’re tellin’ me this like it’s gonna scare me off?”

you tilt your head. “it doesn’t?”

he scoffs. “only thing scary is how bad i wanna kiss you right now.”

and then, quieter, with a stupid amount of sincerity:

“but not if you don’t want me to. not if this is weird now or something.”

you smile. soft. honest.

“it’s not weird.”

you say it without hesitation—and maybe that’s the hottest part. that you mean it. that you want him.

his eyes flick down to your lips. his tongue darts out to wet his own. and then he leans in, slow, giving you every chance to back out.

you don’t.

the first brush of his mouth is tentative, like a question. warm. testing. he tastes like the cinnamon gum he always chews and something faintly sweet—maybe the cider you drank earlier, passed between you in lazy sips from the same glass.

you sigh into it. that’s all it takes for him to deepen the kiss.

his hand finds your thigh, steady and firm. his thumb brushes up under the hem of his hoodie, skimming bare skin like it’s a secret. his other hand cups your jaw, tilting your face just right so he can kiss you deeper, fuller—like he’s starving. like he’s wanted this for weeks and can’t believe it’s happening.

you curl your fingers in the collar of his t-shirt, tugging him closer. he groans against your mouth, low and quiet, like it surprises even him.

when he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his nose bumps yours. you feel his breath, warm and shaky.

“jesus,” he murmurs. “you kiss like a fuckin’ dream.”

your lips are swollen. you feel it. you probably look wrecked already and he hasn’t even gotten his hands under your hoodie yet. not really.

you lick your lips. “you’re just saying that because i’m letting you touch me.”

he grins—crooked, boyish, stupidly fond.

“i’m saying that because you’re letting me touch you and i still feel like i’m gonna wake up in five seconds,” he says. “and if i do? i’m gonna need every second of this burned into memory.”

your stomach flips.

you lean forward again. kiss him slower this time, languid. he matches your pace—less urgency now, more exploration. his fingers flex against your skin. his lips part on a sigh when you nip at the corner of his mouth.

you shift, swing a leg across his lap, straddling him without breaking the kiss. he moans softly, tilts his head, and lets his hands trail up. his hands settle at your waist like they belong there. like they’ve been waiting.

“you got any idea,” he says, voice low, gravel-thick, “what you do to me, sittin’ here like that?”

you tilt your head. feign innocence. “like what?”

he laughs, dark and breathy. his grip tightens just enough to make your stomach flutter. “like you don’t fuckin’ know.”

his eyes drag over you, slow and hungry. “all night, sweetheart. all goddamn night, i’ve been holdin’ back. and now you’re here—lookin’ like this, soundin’ like that—jesus.”

his hands move—up your sides, over your thighs, warm and rough and careful.

“you in my hoodie, all cozy and soft, thinkin’ i wouldn’t wanna bend you over my fuckin’ couch?” he murmurs, mouth brushing your jaw. “you got no idea the things i’ve been imaginin’ since the first time you walked through my door.”

you whimper—quiet, but enough. he hears it. his grin sharpens.

“yeah?” he mutters. “you like hearin’ what you do to me?”

you nod, biting your lip.

“good. ‘cause i ain’t done.”

he leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips ghosting over your ear.

“been dreamin’ about gettin’ my mouth on you,” he whispers. “lickin’ you open slow, stretchin’ you out with my fingers ‘til you’re beggin’ for it. and even then, baby, i ain’t gonna stop.”

your breath hitches.

his palm slides down—hot, possessive—settling just under your ass.

“gonna take my time,” he adds. “kiss every inch of you. fuck you slow. fuck you deep. make sure you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you’re mine.”

“you talk a lot of game,” you murmur, feigning thoughtfulness. “but i haven’t actually seen you do anything yet.”

his eyes narrow. amused. turned on. dangerous.

“is that right?”

you nod, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. “mhm. all that dirty talk, and i’m still fully clothed.”

he groans—like it’s a physical ache. his hands tighten at your hips.

“don’t tempt me,” he warns, voice thick. “you don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

“i think i do.” you lean in, lips just brushing his jaw. “and i think you like being tempted.”

he growls. actually growls.

you grin.

his hands slip under the hem of the hoodie, palms dragging slow over your thighs. “jesus, baby. you tryna kill me?”

“depends,” you whisper. “would you die happy?”

his breath hitches. his head falls back against the couch cushion with a low, wrecked laugh.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters. “you’re evil.”

you hum. “you like it.”

“i love it.”

and that’s when he flips the script—hands at your waist, grip firm, lifting you just slightly, repositioning you until your chest presses flush against his and his mouth is on your neck.

“but if you’re gonna tease,” he says, voice low and warm against your skin, “you better be ready for the consequences.”

your breath stutters.

because you are.

and oh god, you want them.

his grip shifts again, dragging your hips flush against his. you feel him—hard and heavy beneath you, pressing through his sweats, through your shorts. not nearly enough friction, but enough to send heat pooling low in your belly. your thighs twitch.

“jesus christ,” he mutters again, rougher now. like it’s your fault. like he’s overwhelmed. “you’re not real.”

you lean in—slow, deliberate. your lips graze his jaw, then his cheekbone, then lower.

“i’m very real,” you murmur, mouth brushing his neck. “and very on top of you right now.”

he chuckles at that, his hands slide back under the hoodie—warm palms dragging over the soft give of your thighs, the curve of your hips. he moves with reverence, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch, even though you’ve made it very clear that he is.

his fingers hook into the hem of your tee. he tugs it up just a little, kisses your sternum through the fabric. “take this off for me?”

you do. slowly.

his hoodie slips from your shoulders, and you tug the tee over your head. the bra you chose tonight—delicate, black, a tiny bow in the center—makes his breath catch.

“fuck,” he mutters, sitting back slightly to get a better look. “you wore that for me?”

you nod, and his hands trace up your sides like he’s trying to memorize every inch. his thumbs brush under the band, fingertips skating along your ribs. not grabbing. not demanding. just touching.

he presses a kiss to the center of your chest. then another, lower. a third, just above the edge of your bra.

“you’re fuckin’ perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe I didn’t know sooner.”

you shift your hips, rocking forward, letting the heat build where you both need it. your cock strains beneath your panties, and you know he can feel it.

and he doesn’t flinch.

he groans. it starts out low, but ends high pitched—needy.

his hands slide down, firm and steady, and you swear you’ve never felt more wanted.

“you’re hard?” he mutters, almost in awe. “fuck, baby. that for me?”

you nod again—shaky, shy now. it’s vulnerable. he sees that.

his hand cups you over the fabric—just the lightest pressure, reverent and slow. “goddamn. i didn’t think i could get harder.”

you whimper.

“can i?” he asks, glancing up. “touch more?”

you nod—again, this time a little more confident.

he moves you gently, helping you out of your shorts but leaving the panties on. he palms you through the lace, presses an open-mouthed kiss to your thigh. your breath catches.

“look at you,” he breathes. “fuckin’ gorgeous. all of you.”

you blink at him—lips parted, flushed, aching—and he leans in again. kisses your lips, then down your throat, trailing fire with every movement.

“you gonna ride me tonight?” he asks, voice low. “show me how good it feels to have the prettiest girl in the world sittin’ on my cock?”

you let out a choked little breath—half moan, half laugh.

“say yes, sweetheart,” he coaxes, licking into your neck. “say you want it. that you want me.”

you press closer, thighs spread over his lap, grinding down slow. he hisses, hands flying to your hips to hold you there.

“i want it,” you whisper. “i want you.”

and with the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re everything he’s ever craved—you believe him when he whispers back:

“then i’m yours.”

you shift, just slightly, and he helps you—large hands steady on your hips, guiding your weight as you push your panties to the side. he doesn’t rush. doesn’t fumble. he waits. watches.

“you sure?” he asks, voice low, rough around the edges.

“you’re already living rent free inside my head,” you whisper. “might as well be inside my ass too.”

he groans like you knocked the air clean out of him.

you line him up—your hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding him to the place you want him most. he’s thick, hot, twitching in your grip. the look on his face when you start to sink down? like his brain chemistry just changed.

he grips your thighs like a lifeline. “fuck. fuck, sweetheart. slow down.”

“you said you wanted me to ride you.”

“i did,” he pants. “i do. jesus. just—” he swallows, jaw tight, “—gimme a second before i embarrass myself.”

you grin, cocky and sweet, and roll your hips once—slow and deep and mean.

his breath catches. “fuckin’ evil.”

you hum. “you love it.”

“i fuckin’ do...ah...fuck!”

he watches you move—his hoodie still half-on your frame, your bra barely covering you now, your body rolling with rhythm and heat and control. his hands never leave you. one slides up your spine, the other grips your hip tight.

he meets you halfway with every lift and fall. lets you set the pace but anchors you all the same—big palms, wide grip, a low growl under every breath like he’s just barely holding back from flipping you and fucking up into you until the couch breaks.

but he won’t.

not unless you ask.

because tonight?

this is yours.

and god, he lets you have it.

“you look so fuckin’ good like this,” he groans. “like you were made to ride me.”

you lean forward, hands braced on his chest. your tits bounce with every motion, and he’s quick to mouth at them—tongue flat and hot, dragging over your nipples, sucking gently, then harder when you whimper.

“pretty baby,” he mutters against your skin. “fuckin’ dream girl. makin’ me lose my goddamn mind.”

your moans are soft, needy, breathy in the back of your throat. the sounds of skin on skin echo in the space between kisses. you swear you’ve never felt more full, more wanted. he looks at you like he’s starving, and you’re everything on the menu.

“gonna cum, baby?” he asks, voice wrecked. “need me to touch you?”

"please, yes...oh my god, please touch me...fuck, you're so big..."

he groans, deep and wrecked, like your voice alone could make him finish. one hand grips your waist tighter while the other slides down between you, fingers dragging slow over your panties—damp, stretched, clinging to you in the most obscene way.

“you’re fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. “jesus, baby, you leaking for me? got your cock all messy just from riding mine?”

your face burns hot. you whimper, hips twitching into his hand.

he grins, crooked, hungry. “you like that, huh? pretty girl with a cock this fuckin’ responsive. fuckin’ perfect.”

he presses his palm against you, teasing slow pressure through the fabric.

“you gonna cum for me like this?” he rasps. “grind down and get yourself off while i’m deep inside you? that what you want?”

you nod, frantic. “please, schlatt, please—fuck—”

“god, look at you,” he pants. “gorgeous fuckin’ mess. tits bouncing, mouth open, makin’ the sweetest fuckin’ sounds. my girl. my filthy, perfect slut.”

his hand finally slips under the hem of your panties. he wraps around you—gently—and strokes you just right, right as your release starts to crest.

“c’mon, princess,” he murmurs. “cum for me. show me how good it feels to be wanted like this. how good it feels when i touch you like the fuckin’ goddess you are.”

you cry out—high and breathless—as the tension breaks. thighs trembling. pressure bursting like a dam. he holds you through it, cock still buried deep, murmuring praises against your skin as you shake in his lap.

and when you do?

he loses it right behind you.

with a growl and a hand fisted tight in your hoodie, he spills deep inside you, hips stuttering, mouth slack as he groans your name.

for a minute, everything is still.

the room smells like sex and cedar and skin-warm cotton. the only sound is your breathing—shallow, rapid—and his, ragged in your ear as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

his hands are all over you. soothing, not greedy. one splays over your thigh, gentle but grounding. the other cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“you okay?” he murmurs, voice low. “did i hurt you?”

you shake your head against his shoulder, still catching your breath. “no—no, it was… it was good.”

“too much?” he asks, and the concern in his voice is so real, so unguarded, that your throat tightens.

“no,” you whisper. “just… full. really full.”

he chuckles softly, a little breathless himself. “i'll take the compliment.”

he shifts, arms strong as he helps you ease off his lap with care, even as he hisses through his teeth at the overstimulation.

your legs wobble when you try to stand, so he tugs you gently back into his arms.

“uh-uh,” he says, kissing your temple. “not goin’ anywhere yet. let me take care of you first. you were so good for me. and now i gotta return the favor before you’re walkin’ funny for a week.”

he shifts, sits up, and gently tugs you with him. “c’mon. bath time.”

you blink. “bath?”

“you’re gonna be sore as hell tomorrow. epsom salts. hot water. and i’ll grab you some ibuprofen too.”

“you have epsom salts?”

he raises a brow. “sweetheart, you think this is my first time ruin—uh, loving someone right?”

you snort. “you were gonna say ruin.”

he’s already guiding you to the bathroom. “you did ask for consequences.”

you shake your head, smiling as he runs the water. he drops a generous scoop of eucalyptus salt under the faucet, grabs a fluffy towel, and sets out your water and painkillers like he’s worked at a spa for years.

“in you go,” he says, helping you step in with steady hands.

the heat hits your legs first. then your hips. then the ache in your spine you didn’t realize was there. you sink in with a groan, lids fluttering.

he kneels beside the tub. “hurts already?”

“not yet,” you admit. “but it will.”

“good thing you’ve got me.”

you crack one eye open. “gonna join me?”

he smirks. “tempting. but if i do, you won’t get the rest your body needs.”

“bold of you to assume i wouldn’t fall asleep on your chest either way.”

“fair.”

he leans over, brushes damp hair back from your forehead, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“'m really sorry, baby. i should’ve prepped you better. you just—” his voice cracks a little, smile sheepish. “you looked so good, i lost my fuckin’ mind.”

“you made up for it,” you mumble, drowsy, and he grins.

“i'm happy to put the tub to use for once.”

when you’re clean and redressed, he lays you back down, lets you curl against his chest.

his hand strokes your thigh, slow. “next time,” he says, lips brushing your ear, “we’ll take it slow. real slow. candles. music. a proper dinner before i fuck you.”

you giggle against his chest at his bluntness. “so this was you holding back?”

“baby,” he breathes, “you have no idea."

✧✧✧ ✎ extended a/n:

from the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading.

this was my first time writing a fic centered around a transfemme reader—specifically a pre-op reader—and while i approached this with a lot of love, care, and research, i know that intention doesn’t always precede success. if anything in this story felt inaccurate, uncomfortable, or inappropriate, please know that it was never my goal to misrepresent or harm. i'm still learning.

if you’re part of the community and feel open to it, i’d be deeply grateful for any feedback—especially when it comes to language, tone, or how i handled the physical and emotional aspects of this kind of intimacy. i want my writing to feel safe, validating, and hot as hell…never alienating.

comments, tags, and asks are always the easiest way for me to find your thoughts - anonymous or not. i want to do better, always.

with love, —slattlicker ♡

✧✧✧

[slattlicker]

hello my darling dove! a glimpse inside my brain, for you! i think you’d bring this to life so well!

schlatt who’s post-breakup, swearing off love for good because he’s convinced it just isn’t for him. he can’t afford to get his heart broken again.

then he meets reader and tries so very hard not to fall in love, but he just can’t help it. she’s just so perfect, and absolutely nothing like his ex.

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * good things come to those who wait ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: he swore off love after her. too sharp, too loud, too fake. then you moved in—quiet hands, soft voice, and a kind of honesty that made him ache. *╰﹒♡₊˚๑ ✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: to the dove who asked for post-breakup schlatt with a heart still cracked down the middle—you were so right to bring this to me. i really enjoyed the pacing in this one...i hope you enjoy!!

warnings: sfw, soft burn, post-heartbreak schlatt, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, care as seduction, confessions, domestic ache, healing that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

with love and butter chicken ♡

✧✧✧

he hears her before he sees her.

it starts at 9:03 a.m.—a sharp bang directly above his bed. like someone dropped a bowling ball. or a body.

he startles. grunts. rubs his eyes. doesn’t check the time.

probably a maintenance thing, he tells himself.

but then it happens again. and again. and again.

furniture scraping. boxes dragging. something glass rattling like it’s seconds away from shattering.

then—music.

loud, off-key, unabashed pop. something with synth and clapping and a high-pitched chorus that repeats every thirty goddamn seconds.

he stares at the ceiling.

the ceiling thumps.

he stares harder.

then someone sings along.

badly.

he swings his legs out of bed.

what the hell would maintenance be doing playing pop music and singing at this time of morning? ugh.

he realized after fifteen minutes that it was probably a new tenant who didn't understand how easily noise travels through the floors.

he's hoping that they realize it, and try to be more courteous, but it seems he's not that lucky.

for the next hour, it doesn't stop. it's like it's never going to end. loud hyperpop music, along with the quick footsteps that could only be someone trying to dance along with the impossibly fast beat.

he thinks about going up there.

thinks about knocking on the door, deadpan and towering, like the villain in a building-wide sitcom.

he stares at the ceiling for another full song.

no—half a song. because the speaker cuts out halfway through, stutters, and then blasts twice as loud when it reconnects.

that’s it.

he hauls himself off the bed, drags on a hoodie that still smells like last night, and stomps his way to the stairwell like he’s doing a community service.

the third floor is quiet. always is. but the second he climbs past it—

thump-thump-thump.

fourth floor. mystery pop goblin’s domain.

he doesn’t knock immediately. stands in front of 4C for a second, lips pressed into a line, listening.

there’s singing again. off-key, gleeful.

boxes shuffling. tape ripping. something heavy drops and bounces.

he raises his fist.

hesitates.

then knocks. three sharp raps.

the music doesn’t stop.

he knocks again—louder this time.

it cuts off.

for a moment, there’s only quiet. like the whole apartment is holding its breath.

then—bare feet slap against the hardwood. fast. the door opens with a gust of citrus and dryer-sheet warmth.

she’s flushed, slightly breathless, ponytail falling to one side.

t-shirt with a cartoon dog on it. pajama shorts. bare legs. one sock.

“oh! hi—shit, sorry!” she says immediately, hands flying to her face. “was the music too loud?”

he blinks at her. she blinks back.

she’s smiling. like she’s embarrassed. not defensive. just… caught.

“yeah,” he says, finally. “it’s a little loud.”

“crap. yeah. i—I just moved in last night, and i didn’t think anyone would be up yet, and then i started unboxing, and then i found my speaker and it was fully charged and—” she pauses. laughs awkwardly. “i’m making excuses.”

“you are.”

“i’m really sorry.”

he doesn’t say anything.

she shifts her weight. the floor creaks under her. “do you wanna come in?”

he frowns. “what?”

“not, like, to hang out,” she clarifies quickly. “just to show you i’m almost done? so you don’t think i’m, like, a weird neighbor who throws dumbbells at the floor for fun?”

he stares at her. she stares back, wide-eyed. hopeful.

and—god help him—he goes in.

just one step. two. enough to see the chaos behind her.

half-open boxes. art prints leaning against the wall. a plate of toast on the counter that hasn't even been eaten. a candle burning on the windowsill—lavender and lemon.

he inhales. immediately regrets it. very...strong.

she follows his gaze. “it was a gift. my sister thinks i stress too much.”

he doesn’t know how something that is that strong would bring any sense of peace, so he doesn't reply to that.

she rubs her arm. “i’ll keep it down. i promise.”

“floor’s thin,” he mutters.

“i didn’t realize they were that thin, but i have totally learned my lesson. i’ll wear thicker socks next time.”

he looks down at her feet.

she only has one sock on.

she notices.

“...i lost the other one,” she admits. "i was making sure all the shoes i brought with me still fit."

"you're supposed to do that before you take them with you," he snorts. barely. against his will.

she grins. and suddenly he feels exhausted.

not from her. from himself.

from the fact that he came up here ready to get into a shouting match and she's just...a girl with one sock on, uneaten toast, a very pungent candle and an apology like that would be enough to fix the world.

it isn't...but doesn't feel as angry as he had been feeling, and now he can't even muster up a frustrated face. he turns back toward the door.

“just… keep it under control, alright?”

“yes. sir.”

he glances at her.

she’s biting her lip. smiling like she’s not sure she should be.

he rolls his eyes. pulls the door shut behind him.

✧✧✧

the stairs creak under his feet as he heads back down.

her apartment door clicks shut behind him. the music doesn’t start up again.

he should feel better.

he doesn’t.

his place feels colder now. not because of the air conditioning—it’s not even on—but because her apartment smelled like something. felt like something.

lavender. citrus. clean laundry. cinnamon toast. something alive.

his smells like static and takeout grease and old coffee filters.

he tosses his keys onto the counter. pulls his hoodie off by the neck and tosses it onto a chair.

he rubs his face. digs the heel of his palm into one eye socket until stars bloom behind the lid.

god, she’s just like her.

too bright. too smiley. too quick to offer something sweet.

what kind of person invites a stranger into their chaos like that? opens the door barefoot, hair a mess, face glowing like she’s proud of it?

it’s just another type of performance. has to be.

that’s what they do. girls like that.

his ex used to do that, too—smile like she invented it. tell him he was handsome and funny and so lucky to have her—but only when other people were watching. only when the cameras were up. when there was something to prove.

she said “i love you” once in a video comment and forgot to reply to his texts for three days.

she kissed him in photos. never touched him in bed.

he remembers watching her scroll on the couch, eyes blank, nails clicking against the glass, while his food got cold and his chest got tight and he asked what’s wrong and she said don’t make it a thing and he said nothing after that because fuck it. fuck it.

she taught him how to be quiet.

she taught him how to pull away early. to bite down when something felt good. to stop asking. to stop needing. to never, ever let something soft be real again.

and now?

some girl upstairs with half her socks on and music too loud and too many fucking apologies smiled at him. a complete and utter stranger. smiled like she hadn’t rehearsed it. smiled like he hadn’t scared her at all.

and the worst part?

he didn’t hate it.

not her smile.

not the smell of that stupid apartment.

not the toast on the counter or the nonsensical abstract art she was attempting to hang up right, or the way her eyes crinkled when she said “sir” like she was afraid she might laugh.

he didn’t hate any of it.

and that makes him angry in a way he doesn’t know how to name.

✧✧✧

he doesn’t remember ordering until his stomach growls.

it’s deep. agitated. that kind of gnawing emptiness that hits after a day of doing nothing but sitting, hunched over his desk, muttering into Zoom calls and closing tabs he can’t remember opening.

he checks his phone. 8:42 p.m.

the delivery notification says: delivered at 7:11 p.m.

“fuck.”

he groans, kicks his chair back, and lumbers to the door with a headache building behind his eyes. he’d ordered butter chicken. naan. a mango lassi. comforting, predictable. his usual.

he opens the door expecting to find it gone—stolen, eaten by raccoons, melted into goo on the welcome mat.

but it’s there.

and so is something else.

a plate.

ceramic, with a foil tucked over the top like a makeshift lid. post-it stuck to the side in bubble handwriting:

you ordered indian, right? smelled like butter chicken (my fave). used it as an excuse to finally try out this spice kit my cousin gave me. if you already ate, no pressure. if not—hope this version’s better. consider this a more tasty apology for earlier !! — y/n :)

he blinks. crouches down.

the doordash bag is cold to the touch. grease blooming across the bottom.

the foil container inside is half-collapsed. sauce spilled into the plastic. the naan’s gone stiff.

next to it, her plate radiates heat.

he peels the aluminum back.

it’s… butter chicken. or her version of it. chicken in a thick tomato-cream sauce, slightly orange, chunks of onion visible where she clearly didn’t dice them fine enough. jasmine rice mounded beside it, steamed just a little uneven. fresh parsley sprinkled on top like an afterthought.

it smells insanely good.

his stomach makes a noise that could legally be classified as a threat.

he looks at the two meals.

store-bought sludge, forgotten on the floor for over an hour.

versus this.

this dumb, well-meaning, clearly homemade attempt to improve something that wasn’t even bad—just forgotten.

just like he was.

he carries both inside.

sets the bag on the counter, out of frame.

pulls the plate close.

and digs in.

he doesn’t mean to eat all of it so freaking quickly. but he does.

and then he sits there. staring at the empty plate like it betrayed him.

there’s still sauce in the corner. a smear of cream and tomato, cooling fast.

he runs a thumb through it. licks it off without thinking. grimaces at himself.

fuck. what is he? a dog that hasn't eaten in weeks?

he washes and rinses the plate, then dries it with the ratty towel that hasn’t been soft since college. stands in his drying rack for a full minute before muttering “nope” and grabbing the plate again.

better to return it now.

rip off the bandaid. avoid round two of dealing with the kindergarten teacher-coded lady upstairs.

he’s halfway across the hall when the door swings open before he even knocks.

she’s already there.

like she heard him coming. like she knew.

she’s holding a naan in one hand and a fork in the other. her hair’s a little frizzy. she’s barefoot. and when she sees him, her whole face lights up.

“ohmygod, perfect timing.”

he blinks. holds out the plate. “just came to give this back.”

“yeah, yeah, thanks,” she says—like she doesn’t even care—and steps aside, motioning him in with the fork. “but also—help me finish this. i seriously overestimated how hungry i was and i don't want to eat butter chicken for the rest of the week, as good as it is. you did like it, yeah?”

“i—”

“perfect! c’mon, butter chicken round two, then,” she teases, already turning back into the kitchen. “i even reheated the naan without burning it. look at me go.”

he stays in the doorway.

“…you always open the door for strangers like this?”

she looks over her shoulder, one brow raised. “you’re not a stranger. you’re my downstairs neighbor. who has good taste in takeout.”

“and terrible timing in returning things without getting caught.”

“which is why i’m so impressed,” she says, mock sincerity coating her voice. “plate returned same day? schlatt, i didn’t know you had it in you...but i have pretty good intuition.”

he narrows his eyes. “i didn’t give you my name.”

“please. it’s taped on your mailbox.”

“…right.”

she pushes another plate across the counter.

“sit,” she says. “eat. or you’ll offend me and the chicken.”

he stares at her.

she stares back. almost unnervingly so. like she actually might get angry if he doesn't eat his fill.

he sighs, walking into the mostly moved into apartment, closing the door, sitting at the island.

she beams, like sunshine-incarnate.

✧✧✧

they eat on opposite stools.

the second helping’s not as pretty as the first—more rice than sauce, naan a little too crisp on the edges—but he doesn’t mind. his stomach’s too happy. his mouth too busy.

she hums between bites. not a song. just… contentment.

he glances at her, and she’s licking sauce from her thumb, swaying a little with no music at all.

“you always like this?” he asks.

she blinks. “like what?”

“...like this.”

her nose scrunches a bit. "humming? swaying? yeah.”

he stares at her through another bite of butter sauce soaked naan.

“why?” she grins. “you think i’m a freak?”

“i think you’re too nice,” he says before he can stop himself.

she laughs. a little wheezy.

he stares harder. his eyebrow twitching.

“no one’s too nice,” she says. “that’s just something people say when they don’t wanna trust anybody.”

he frowns. “you trust people?”

“not everyone.”

“but... me?”

“sure. you gave me my plate back.”

“...and that’s enough?”

she shrugs. “you looked sad when you left earlier. I didn't know if it was because it was me who ruined your morning. i didn’t think butter chicken would fix it, but food, in my experience, always helps.”

he doesn’t respond. not because he doesn’t want to. because he doesn’t know how.

so she just eats. hums again. kicks her heel against the stool.

he wants to ask. he doesn’t know what, but he wants to keep her talking.

so he throws something out. a question he used to ask as a test.

“what do you want?” he says.

she looks up. chews. swallows.

“like… in life?” she asks.

he nods. she answers immediately.

“someone to cook for. a cat. a sunroom. an apartment that smells like bread...which will happen soon enough, I guess. enough friends to take turns driving when we road trip. maybe...to go to japan at some point.”

he stares at her.

“that’s it?”

“why?” she grins. “you want me to say world peace?”

“no. it’s just—” he shakes his head. “you didn’t even hesitate.”

“why would i?”

“most people fake an answer just because...the question is a bit vague. or say something big to sound impressive. or say something small but mean the opposite.”

“yeah,” she says quietly. “my ex used to say he wanted someone ‘chill.’”

schlatt looks up.

“...he didn’t mean it?”

“oh, he did,” she says. “until he realized that ‘chill’ meant i didn’t want to text him twenty-four-seven. or follow him around parties. or stop making my own dinner when he got home.”

he frowns. “he got mad at you for eating?”

“he got mad at me for not waiting to eat. when i told him that if i'm hungry, i'm going to eat, he said it felt cold. like i didn’t care.”

“what the fuck.”

she shrugs. “he liked the idea of me. he used to say that i was like...made to be married, but i was a horrible girlfriend. he hated being faced with the argument that i’m not just a girlfriend, or a wife. i'm a real person with my own needs and boundaries.”

he doesn’t say anything. because that’s too close. too fucking close.

he swallows. looks down at his fork.

“what about you?” she asks softly. “what do you want?”

he starts to say nothing. it’s safer.

but then she looks at him with those eyes—soft, steady. like she’s expecting honesty...in the same way he always craved from his ex.

so he says, low, “someone honest.”

she nods.

“someone who doesn’t pretend to love me just so they can say they tried.”

her gaze doesn’t waver.

“someone who means what they say,” he adds. “who gets us movie tickets because they want to, not because they’re trying to prove something...or make up for something they did without a proper apology.”

her fingers pause over her glass. not dramatically—just enough to make room for the moment.

she doesn’t press. doesn’t try to fix it. doesn’t even say sorry.

instead, she reaches toward the center of the table and nudges the last piece of naan onto his plate.

“you should have this,” she says gently. “you liked it more than i did.”

he blinks at her. “you haven’t even finished yours.”

“i made too much,” she says with a shrug. “and i ate earlier while I was cooking. you’re playing catch-up.”

he stares at the bread. then at her. she’s already sipping her water, like it was nothing. like this was just how the evening was meant to go.

she clears her throat. “dessert’s in the fridge if you want something sweet later. i made a crumble. just peaches and oats and stuff.”

“you made dessert too?” his voice comes out quieter than he means it to.

“yeah.” she glances up, sheepish. “it’s how i unwind. baking, i mean.”

he doesn’t know what to say to that. not when the apartment smells like the fading scent of butter chicken, burnt naan, cardamom and brown sugar and something richer underneath. not when her kitchen looks like it’s still half unpacked, but she somehow made space for this—for him.

she stands, walks to the fridge, and pulls out a small container. slides it across the table to him without fanfare.

“you don’t have to eat it,” she says. “but it’s better than letting your dinner sit outside all night.”

he looks down at the container. then back at her. “oh yeah...you saw.”

“when i left for groceries, yeah. then again when i came back and you still hadn’t brought it in.”

“i was working.”

“i figured.” she tilts her head. “i figured if you were too busy to come and take the bag from your door, you were probably too busy to eat, or even cook. i did try and knock but...you must have been pretty tied up with whatever you were doing.”

he wants to say thank you. he means to. but the words get caught on the way up. she doesn’t seem to notice. or maybe she just doesn’t need him to say anything.

“i’ll take your plate,” she says instead, stacking hers on top of it before he can stop her. "thanks for bringing it back so quick."

he watches her move. quick, unthinking kindness in every motion. the soft scrape of ceramic. the warm water running in the sink. the way she hums to herself—quietly, no song in particular. just a comfort sound. something to fill the space.

it hits him then, in the middle of the silence:

this is just who she is.

not because she wants anything. not because she’s trying to impress him. not even because he deserves it.

just… because. it's so natural. everything about her.

when he leaves, he says her name once. soft.

she looks up from the dish towel.

“thank you,” he says.

she smiles. not bright. not showy. just warm. grounded.

“get some rest, neighbor.”

and he nods. because somehow—he thinks he finally might.

✧✧✧

weeks pass.

then months.

the noise from upstairs becomes familiar. not disruptive anymore. sometimes it even helps him sleep—her humming through the ceiling, footsteps pacing lightly like she’s dancing while brushing her teeth.

he still grumbles when she drags furniture at midnight. but he doesn’t really mean it.

he sees her everywhere.

in the laundry room, wrestling with an overflowing basket and a broken dryer door. she huffed, frowned, kicked it once—then blinked up at him like he might have the answer to the universe. he fixed it with a firm tug and a twist. she beamed. said he had “big strong plumber energy” and offered him half a dryer sheet in gratitude.

at the mailboxes, bouncing on her heels because she was “expecting something important,” which turned out to be a novelty stamp collection she forgot she ordered drunk.

in the hallway at 10 p.m., arms full of groceries, fumbling for her keys. he opened her door for her. she offered him a cookie. it was slightly burned. he ate it anyway.

he tells himself he’s not keeping track. not building a mental folder of everything she says and does.

but he is.

he notices the way she always smells like cinnamon and something citrusy. the way she talks with her hands even when no one’s looking. the way she asks people how their day is and actually waits to hear the answer.

he catches himself listening for her laugh through the floorboards. not on purpose. not really. but he knows it when he hears it, and it always makes his chest feel... less sharp.

she’s everything his ex wasn’t.

open. warm. real.

and it terrifies him.

because he wants to be near her in a way he hasn’t wanted anything in a long time. not just to look. not just to listen. to be known.

and he’s not sure he knows how to be that person anymore.

✧✧✧

he runs a hand over his jaw. smooth. freshly shaved. not because of her. probably not. maybe.

he shifts from one foot to the other in front of the mirror, eyeing the way his hoodie fits. casual. clean. approachable.

again—not because of her. just… it’s been a while since he’s cared about how he looks when he’s not on camera.

and tonight—tonight feels like it might matter.

he’s been sitting with it for weeks now. this thought. this ache. the way her laugh curls around the corners of his apartment, the way she greets the mailman by name, the way she makes everything so fucking easy and good and genuine.

and god—he’s been trying not to feel it.

he’s been so good about it.

because he swore off this kind of thing. swore off the unraveling, the wanting, the way love gets inside your chest and roots around until you can’t tell which part of it is you anymore.

but then she showed up. with her ugly-ass socks and burnt cookies and that impossible smile she gives everybody, even him, even when he’s grumbling or being quiet or just existing in that guarded way he’s grown too good at.

he was going to talk to her. tonight. not confess anything, not yet, but maybe ask if she wanted to split a pizza sometime. or go to that weird indie movie she mentioned offhand two weeks ago. he was gonna say something. for once.

because maybe—just maybe—this time it wouldn’t end like the last. maybe it wouldn’t be a show. or a tally. or a fucking performance dressed up as affection.

maybe she really is that kind. even when no one’s looking. maybe he deserves to try again.

maybe—

a shout.

sharp. muffled. just above him.

his whole body stills.

another voice. louder this time. closer to the door.

his stomach drops.

and then—her voice. small. defensive. not crying. but close.

his feet move before his brain does.

he’s already halfway up the stairs before he realizes he didn’t put shoes on.

the hallway light is dim. flickering, faintly yellow.

her door’s cracked open.

and there he is—he—standing too close, gesturing with one hand while the other grips the frame like he owns it. red hair, messy. freckles, sharp across his nose. smaller than schlatt. wirier. like if you shaved off all of schlatt’s rough edges and forgot to put the strength back in. even his voice is a higher pitch, shriller. insistent.

“i’m not yelling,” the guy says, too loud to be anything else. “i’m just saying, if you’d answered the first time—”

“you shouldn’t be here,” her voice cuts in. quiet, but firm. tired.

schlatt can hear it plain as day. that worn-down patience people only get when they’ve had this same argument a hundred times and still hope it’ll be different.

the guy scoffs. “c’mon, babe—”

“don’t call me that.”

her voice doesn’t shake.

but schlatt’s hands do. he steps forward, jaw tight.

“everything alright out here?” he says.

the redhead startles, turning around like he hadn’t even noticed someone else was there. “yeah, man, just a—uh—private conversation.”

schlatt’s eyes flick to her.

she looks at him.

and it’s all there.

a single glance. full of relief. of guilt. of not knowing if she should pull him in or protect him from this, too.

he answers for her.

“then maybe have it somewhere else.”

redhead guy squares his shoulders. “you live here or somethin’?”

“downstairs,” schlatt says. voice low. steady. final. “and i don’t really appreciate people shouting at my neighbors.”

a beat. then another.

her ex snorts. tries to roll his eyes, but it lands more like a wince. “jesus. this what you’re into now? big, brooding guys coming to your rescue?”

y/n is hiding behind her door. she doesn't respond.

schlatt doesn’t blink. doesn’t rise to it.

just says, again, “leave.”

and this time, he does.

slow as hell. non-apologetic. but he goes.

and schlatt doesn’t move until he’s disappeared down the stairs, the front door of the apartment slams locked shut, and the hallway settles back into that familiar hum.

only then does he glance toward her again.

she’s come out to stand in the doorway. arms crossed. lips pressed together like she can’t decide whether to cry or thank him.

“you okay?” he asks, softer now.

and that’s when she starts to shake.

not all at once. not visibly. just a subtle tremor in her shoulders, her fingers curling tight against her sides. like her body’s trying to hold itself together while the rest of her crumples in slow motion.

he steps closer. slow. cautious. like she’s a cornered animal, like sudden movement might send her folding in on herself.

“hey,” he says. barely a whisper. “hey, it’s alright.”

she doesn’t speak.

her eyes are wide. glassy. locked on the stairwell like she’s afraid he might come back. like she’s not sure the danger’s over.

“he’s gone,” schlatt adds. “i watched him leave. you’re safe now.”

that breaks something.

her mouth wobbles. her jaw clenches. she nods once—too fast—and starts to turn away, back toward her apartment.

but her knees don’t follow.

he catches her before she can stumble, one hand bracing her elbow, the other steady on her back.

“woah, woah. hey—c’mere.”

she resists for half a second. he doesn't think it's because she doesn't appreciate the help, but maybe because she’s overwhelmed.

so he makes space.

guides her inside with a hand on her back, closing the door behind them with a soft click. doesn’t take her past the living room. doesn’t make her talk. just walks her gently to the couch and sinks down first, patting the cushion beside him.

she sits.

slow. robotic. like her body weighs more than it should.

“you want a blanket?” he asks.

she shakes her head.

he nods, okay, but then shifts closer anyway. close enough that his shoulder brushes hers. close enough that if she leaned—just a little—he’d be there.

for a long moment, she just stares ahead.

and then, quietly: “i hate that i froze.”

he blinks. “what?”

“i always think—if it ever happened again, i’d be stronger. i’d say something better. but i just… stood there. i opened the door...and just...froze.”

her voice cracks on the word 'opened'.

his chest pulls tight.

he tilts his head. catches her gaze.

“freezing isn’t failure,” he says. “it’s protection. your body did what it had to.”

she sniffles.

he softens his voice even more. “you got him to leave, didn’t you?”

she nods. shrugs.

“then you did everything right.”

her eyes start to shine again. and this time, when she leans into him—slow, tentative—he’s already there, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, tucking her in against his side.

“you’re okay now,” he murmurs. “you did good, sweetheart. i’m proud of you.”

and just like that, the floodgates open.

quiet sobs. full-body shaking. the kind of cry that comes from somewhere old.

he lets her go through it. holds her through all of it. doesn’t say much—just keeps murmuring her name, little reassurances, soft sounds like i’ve got you and you’re not alone.

when it starts to fade, when her breathing evens and her grip on his sleeve loosens, she tilts her face up to look at him.

“thank you,” she whispers.

his brow furrows.

“you don’t have to thank me for that,” he says. voice hoarse. “but… you’re welcome.”

she nods. curls back into his side.

and neither of them moves for a long, long time.

✧✧✧

her breathing is slower now.

not steady, not quite—but calmer. her head’s still tucked under his chin, and her hands have stopped trembling. one of them stays loosely curled in the fabric of his hoodie.

“you should get some rest,” he murmurs into her hair. “you’ve had a hell of a night.”

she doesn’t respond at first. then, in a voice so soft he nearly misses it:

“can you stay?”

his heart cracks open like a fault line. he shifts slightly, just enough to look at her. “you want me to sleep here?”

she doesn’t answer. not directly.

just curls closer. one of her hands slipping from his hoodie to his wrist—holding it lightly, like proof he’s real. like if he gets up, she might come undone again.

“…or we could go to yours,” she adds, barely audible. “if you’re okay with that.”

her eyes don’t meet his. she’s trying not to sound scared, but she is. not of him. not really of her ex anymore either. just scared that the safety she feels right now might be temporary. he swallows hard.

“okay,” he says. “whatever you need, y/n.”

he shifts again, more fully this time, helping her upright. she wobbles, but he’s steady at her side.

“tea first,” he adds, gently. “you need somethin’ warm. give me a sec.”

she nods. her expression stays distant, raw—but she lets him go this time. just for a moment.

✧✧✧

he finds her favorite mug in her cabinet. it’s got cartoon ducks on it and a chip in the handle.

he’s careful with her things...but after multiple visits here, and watching her dance around the kitchen, he finds things easily. he fills the kettle. finds a nice chamomile. adds a squeeze of honey.

when he brings it back, she hasn’t moved. still sitting on the edge of the couch, shoulders curled like she’s trying to shrink.

he hands it to her. she takes it with both hands.

“thank you,” she says again, this time looking at him. really looking.

he nods.

“do you wanna grab a few things? come downstairs?”

she hesitates. just for a second.

then she nods again.

✧✧✧

they don’t talk much after that.

she changes into comfier clothes. he waits outside the bathroom door, pretending not to feel nervous about how easily this is happening. how natural it feels.

she pads downstairs in fuzzy socks. he holds himself back from lifting her and carrying her past the threshold.

as many times as he's run into her, she’s never been in his space before.

not like this. not past the threshold. not past the jokes in the hallway or the shared takeout containers left in the stairwell.

but now—now she’s standing in his entryway, barefoot and quiet, arms wrapped around herself like she’s not sure if she’s intruding.

and it satisfies something in him. something low and steady and aching that he hadn’t realized was even there.

his place is darker, cooler. simply decorated. smells faintly like cedar and new books. it’s quieter here. safer. even if that guy did try to get back in—or someone let him in—she’d be here.

safe. protected by his walls. and him.

he swallows. grabs a blanket from the arm of the couch, and slips it around her shoulders.

then gestures toward the bedroom. “you take the bed. i’ll crash on the couch.”

she hesitates. “you don’t have to.”

he raises a brow. “you want me to fight you for it?”

her mouth quirks, but it doesn’t last.

her arms stay wrapped tight around herself, blanket clutched like a shield.

“i just... don’t want to be alone right now.”

his chest tightens. “...then, you won’t be.”

she nods. but something’s still behind her eyes. something unfinished.

he clears his throat. “just sleep, though. i’ll stay. just sleep.”

“i know.”

he starts to turn, but she speaks again.

“you didn’t even ask what happened.”

he stops.

“didn’t think you’d want to talk about it,” he says, voice low.

“i don’t. not all of it.”

she looks up at him. soft. hurting. steady.

“but you didn’t ask,” she repeats. “you didn’t need to. you just... knew what to do.”

he exhales through his nose. “wasn’t a hard call.”

“you say that, but...” her voice cracks just a little. “you’d be surprised how many people get it wrong.”

he doesn’t say anything.

she presses on.

“you didn’t try to fix it with big speeches or ask me if i was overreacting or tell me what you would’ve done in my shoes. you just... stayed.”

she pauses. breathes.

“and the tea. and the way you shut the door for me. and how you noticed i was cold without me saying anything—”

“hey,” he interrupts gently. “you don’t have to—”

“i do.”

her voice shakes.

he turns to face her fully.

she swallows hard.

“i didn’t fall for you tonight.”

his eyes flicker. widen just slightly.

“i mean—i did, but not just tonight,” she amends quickly. “it wasn’t the yelling or the rescuing or even the safety, even though i’m grateful—i am. but it’s... been happening for a while.”

he’s still staring.

her hands wring in the hem of her sweatshirt.

“i tried not to say anything because i thought maybe i was just clinging to the only good thing after something bad, and that wouldn’t be fair to you, but—”

“sweetheart…”

“but it’s not just comfort,” she whispers. “it’s you.”

and there it is.

his heart thuds heavy. too loud in his chest.

he looks at her—really looks—and suddenly everything inside him pulls taut.

because she’s saying everything he ever wanted to hear, but he’s terrified she’s only saying it because she’s afraid.

“…are you sure this isn’t just because of what happened tonight?” he asks, barely able to get it out. “because you’re scared and i showed up?”

her gaze doesn’t flinch.

“i’m scared,” she admits. “but i’ve felt this way for a long time.”

he tries to breathe. “how long?”

“long enough to know it’s real,” she says. “and long enough to be really nervous you wouldn’t feel the same.”

he does feel the same.

god, he does.

but still—he’s frozen. stunned by the gentleness of it. the earnestness. how different it is from everything he thought love was supposed to be. how different it is from every sort of love he's been shown in the past.

when he doesn’t respond right away, she nods, like she understands.

like she’s ready to accept it, even if he can’t say it back.

she turns slightly. “sorry. i just—i had to say it. before it drove me crazy. it's fine, we don't have to talk about it, and i probably should have waited until morning—”

he reaches out.

his hand finds hers—tentative, warm.

she looks up at him. blinking away what he thinks are tears. well, that just won't do. tears because of him?

“c’mere,” he says softly.

she follows without a word.

he leads her toward the bed, still holding her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like they’ve done this a thousand times before. he doesn’t let go until she’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, blanket pulled up around her waist, legs curled slightly inward.

he stays standing for a second. just looking at her.

and then he sits too. not touching yet. just close enough that she feels it—his presence, solid and grounding.

“i wasn’t gonna tell you,” he says after a moment.

she looks at him. quiet. waiting.

“i was gonna keep pretending it was nothing,” he goes on. “that it didn’t matter. that you didn’t matter. because that’s easier.”

he doesn’t look at her when he says it. his gaze is distant—somewhere else entirely.

“the last time i fell for someone,” he says, voice rough, “they made it feel like i had to earn it. every fucking second. like i needed to perform it right, or they’d take it back.”

he exhales through his nose. shakes his head.

“they’d act sweet when other people were around. say the right things. make these big declarations like they were trying out for an audience. but it never felt real. not when it counted. not in the quiet.”

his jaw clenches.

“and when i finally caught on to it, when i tried to ask for more—just... honesty, something real—they made me feel like i was the problem. like i was too much. too sensitive. asking for too much.”

a long pause.

his voice softens.

“so i stopped asking.”

she doesn’t say anything. just lets him speak.

“i figured that’s what love was. pretending. looking happy. playing house.”

he glances at her now. meets her eyes.

“but then you.”

his throat tightens. he swallows around it.

“you smile at everyone like they’re worth something. like you mean it. even when nobody’s looking.”

his voice cracks a little. he keeps going anyway.

“you make things. little meals, little notes, little moments like they matter. not to impress anybody. just because you want to.”

his hand finds hers again. thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

“you’re not playing at anything,” he murmurs. “and it drives me crazy, because i keep waiting for the part where it turns out to be a trick. where you’re just another person wearing something nice on the outside. but it never comes.”

she blinks. once. twice. doesn’t interrupt.

“you just are,” he finishes, voice low. “and it’s been months, and you’re still just... you.”

a beat.

“and when i’m around you, i forget i ever thought love had to hurt.”

her breath stutters.

his eyes stay locked on hers. steady. clear.

“you make it easy,” he says. “and i didn’t know it could be.”

tears well in her eyes again—but this time, she doesn’t try to hide them.

she leans forward, pressing her forehead to his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around her without hesitation.

it’s quiet for a while. just breathing. just warmth. just being held in the kind of silence that means something.

eventually, he presses a kiss to her hair.

“you’re not a rebound,” he murmurs. “you’re not a mistake. and i don’t want to wait to feel like this anymore.”

she nods against his chest.

“then don’t,” she whispers. “stay.”

he doesn’t answer with words. just shifts with her in his arms, guiding her gently down onto the bed—settling under the blanket beside her, letting her curl against him like she’s always belonged there.

and maybe she has.

maybe this whole time, he’s just been waiting to feel safe enough to see it.

she shifts a little in his arms, burrows closer, voice barely a breath. “m’gonna be so mad if i wake up and you’re not here.”

“i won’t leave,” he murmurs. “swear.”

“not even for coffee?”

“maybe for coffee.”

“traitor.”

he chuckles, low in his chest.

they fall quiet again.

the kind of quiet that lives between people who trust each other. not awkward. not heavy. just full.

after a long pause, he hears her mumble, “you’re like... a really big blanket.”

he huffs out a laugh. “thanks?”

“no, like... warm and solid. and you smell good. and i feel safe.”

“so i’m... some sort of weighted blanket?”

“mmhm. an emotional support blanket that is also...a wall.”

“cool. sexy.”

“very,” she confirms. “best blanket i’ve ever had.”

he smiles into her hair.

“go to sleep, sweetheart.”

“’m tryin’. you talk a lot.”

he pretends to be offended. “you are the one who can't shut up.”

“and i’ll finish it. snore in your ear or something.”

“go ahead. i’ll just hold you tighter. maybe tight enough to stop your snoring.”

“mm. more like, stop my breathing...but fine. only ‘cause i like you.”

“lucky me.”

her breathing evens out not long after that—slow and deep, pressed fully into him.

and schlatt stays awake just a little while longer.

not because he’s worried.

but because he wants to remember this.

how she fits against him. how she feels when she finally lets herself rest. how quiet his mind is with her here. how nothing has ever felt this easy. or this right.

and for the first time in a long time—

he doesn’t feel alone when the world goes still.

[slattlicker]

"i like the idea of childbearing hips" schlatt PLEASE stop teasing us with this bs it's not funny anymore 💔💔

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * built for it ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you leave for the gym in leggings that cling too well and come home to find your boyfriend pacing like a feral dog in heat. *╰﹒♡₊˚๑ ✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: i’ve been gone a while, so here’s a treat for those built with hips made to carry babies and be held like handles as he...yeah.

warnings: established relationship, possessiveness, praise, oral (f receiving), soft dom / dom shift, reader goes from cocky to cock-drunk, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, filthy filth.

enjoy, champions of the glute bridge ♡

✧✧✧

you’re just trying to leave the house.

that’s it. nothing dramatic. just leggings, a fitted long sleeve, sneakers. hair pulled back. minimal makeup. water bottle in hand.

schlatt’s sitting on the couch, phone in one hand, half a protein bar in the other. he glances up when you walk by to check the coffee table.

and then he stops.

you don’t notice at first. you’re grabbing your keys, checking for your earbuds.

then—

“jesus christ.”

you turn. “what?”

he’s still staring. jaw slack. brows slightly raised like he just saw god and she had a fat ass.

“what the fuck are you wearin’?”

you look down at yourself. “literally athletic clothes?”

he drags a hand down his face. “no. don’t do that. don’t play dumb.”

you blink. “what are you talking about?”

you barely make it three steps past the couch before you feel it—

his arm hooks around your waist. pulls you back.

“hey—” you start, caught off guard.

but he’s already standing behind you now, one arm wrapped low around your hips, the other sliding up your side. his voice is right at your ear, rough and quiet.

“you’ve been hiding this from me?”

you blink. “hiding what—?”

his hand trails down your waist. grabs a handful of your hip through the leggings.

firm.

“this.”

your whole body stills.

he laughs once, quiet and dark. “nah. don’t play dumb. you been workin’ out in secret or somethin’? you think i wouldn’t notice this shit?”

he squeezes again. your breath stutters.

“wearing this tight little outfit,” he murmurs, hand dragging up, thumb dipping under the hem of your shirt just enough to brush bare skin. “plannin’ to walk out like this. to the gym. all the way out there where other guys can see you?”

you swallow. hard.

“schlatt…”

he leans in, nose brushing the curve of your jaw. “you showin’ off for someone else, baby?”

you whip around, face flushed. “what? no.”

he grins. but it’s sharp now. something in him thrums.

“you got me thinkin’ maybe i ain’t been paying enough attention. jesus, these leggings…”

you try to play it off. “they’re compression leggings—”

“they’re fuckin’ sorcery,” he cuts in. “they’re sculpting you like you’re one of those marble ladies.”

he backs you up against the wall.

hands at your waist again, gripping tighter this time. his eyes flick down your body, slow.

“i’ve been letting you walk outta here like this?” he mutters, mostly to himself. “unsupervised?”

you open your mouth to argue—but he kisses you first.

hard. slow. possessive.

he breaks it just long enough to whisper:

“you know what these hips say to me?” he asks, voice quieter now. “not genetics. not amazingly designed and patented leggings. they say effort. discipline. and danger.”

you snort. “danger?”

“mmhm.” he grins against your neck. “danger of gettin’ bent over the kitchen counter when you come home.”

you tilt your head, blinking up at him. “you’re assuming i’m coming back at all.”

he pauses. squints. “you’re not seriously going to the gym right now.”

“i was,” you say. “until i got accosted by a man having a full-body crisis over leggings.”

“you’re not wearing leggings,” he mutters, eyes trailing down again. “you’re wearing… fuckin’…sculptural deception. that’s—performance wear.”

you hum, pleased. “that sounds like praise.”

“i’m not praising it, i’m threatened by it.”

you laugh. his hand is still gripping your waist. the other has found your hip again, thumb brushing along the curve where fabric clings a little too well. his mouth is close now—close enough that you feel his breath when he talks.

he’s serious again. “you sure you wanna go?”

you tilt your head. let yourself smile.

“why?” you ask sweetly. “you gonna stop me?”

he nods, just once. slow. “i might.”

you press in closer—slow enough to feel the shift in his breathing. you run your hands up his chest, fingertips brushing the collar of his shirt, and rest your weight gently against him. hips first. just enough to make him notice.

you glance up through your lashes. “i mean… i could skip.”

his jaw clenches.

you let your hands drift lower, to his sides, then down to his waistband.

“i was just gonna do some glute work today,” you murmur. “couple sets of hip thrusts. maybe some deep squats.”

you roll your hips just enough to make him feel it.

he’s fully locked in now—eyes dark, breath hitched, entire body bracing.

you lean up to his ear, voice low. sultry.

“build up the curves a little more,” you whisper. “really strengthen my… childbearing hips.”

he visibly reacts—shoulders tense, mouth parted, one hand curling into your lower back like he’s about to break a vow.

“you—fuck. you can’t just say that.”

you kiss the corner of his jaw, slow and lingering.

“why not?” you ask, all innocence. “isn’t that what you said earlier?”

his voice cracks. “that was joking. you’re weaponizing it.”

you hum. “maybe i want to give you something to think about while i’m gone.”

he shakes his head. “you’re not going anywhere.”

you step back. just a little.

he follows.

you press your hands flat to his chest, smirking.

“c’mon, schlatt,” you purr. “don’t you wanna be the reason these hips were built?”

his knees buckle. slightly. just a little.

his hands tighten on your waist. not rough—just steady. needy. like he has to feel the curve of you, confirm that it’s real. that you’re real. that this is actually happening.

his mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. just a shallow breath.

you blink up at him, lashes low, body all warmth and suggestion.

“you okay, baby?” you murmur, soft and syrupy. “you look a little…”

you run a finger slowly down the center of his chest.

“…overstimulated.”

he laughs once, breathless. “you’re evil.”

you shrug, eyes twinkling. “you started it.”

“i said one thing.”

“you said childbearing hips,” you correct. “like you didn’t expect me to run with that.”

he groans, tilting his head back for a second, like he’s trying to find strength in the ceiling.

“i meant it as a compliment.”

“oh, i took it as one,” you say, stepping in again, just slightly—hips brushing his front with purpose now. “i’ve just been wondering…”

you lean up, lips near his ear. your hand drifts back down, across his stomach.

“…if you’re gonna do something about it.”

he shudders. full-body. grabs your waist again like instinct.

“don’t test me,” he mutters, low and hoarse.

you grin. “why not?”

“because i’m one more comment away from putting a fuckin’ baby in you.”

you blink. that one makes your stomach flip.

but you recover fast.

you lean back just enough to see his face. voice lower.

“thought you’d wanna put something else in me first.”

he makes a sound. not a full word. just something primal.

his hand slips to the small of your back. the other brushes your lower stomach like his body’s trying to follow the fantasy without permission.

your mouths are so close now.

and then—

you pull back.

like you planned all along.

he follows you for half a step—completely unaware of how far gone he is until your hand lands on his chest again.

stopping him.

you look up at him, all faux innocence.

“later,” you say sweetly. “you can show me how committed you really are.”

and before he can process that:

“i’ll be thinking of you every time i thrust…the weights.”

you kiss his cheek.

and walk out the door.

✧✧✧

you open the door slowly.

the apartment is dark. no lights, no tv. just the low hum of the fridge and your own breath as you step inside, gym bag slung over your shoulder, earbuds still in.

you slide them out, glancing around.

“schlatt?”

no answer.

the light from the hallway cuts a soft glow into the carpet, but it barely reaches the kitchen. the whole place feels still. too still.

you drop your keys. toes nudge off your shoes. the leggings cling tighter now—sweat-dampened and sticking just enough to your skin that the fabric bunches slightly behind your knees. you stretch your back, arms overhead, breathing deep.

still nothing.

you walk toward the stairs.

there’s a faint creak from upstairs.

then silence again.

you make it halfway up before you hear it: the low, ragged sound of breath.

you hit the top step.

and then you see him.

back pressed to the far side of the bedroom doorframe. shirtless. hair tousled. arms braced against the wall behind him like he’s been pacing in circles trying not to claw through the drywall.

the second your eyes meet—he moves.

deliberate. slow. controlled, but only just.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, voice rough, cracked from disuse. “finally.”

you raise an eyebrow, tossing your bag near the door. “what, you couldn’t handle being left alone for an hour and a half?”

an hour and a half of hell,” he grits out. “you don’t know what you did to me.”

“oh?” you ask, stepping forward like prey that knows it’s being hunted. “what did i do?”

he laughs once. bitter. “you walked out like a fuckin’ fertility goddess and left me with nothing but the sound of my own regrets.”

your grin spreads. “did you touch yourself?”

he looks at you like he wants to lie.

then looks down at his own hands like they betrayed him.

his voice is quiet. strained.

“i tried.”

you blink.

he lifts his head again—eyes dark. frustrated. “i fucking tried.”

you take a slow step toward him. “but?”

he exhales, jaw tight. “but what’s the point of jerking off to the thought of breeding you if you’re not actually here to be bred?”

your stomach drops. heat pools low.

“i was already halfway there,” he mutters. “thought about that smug little look on your face. thought about those hips bouncing under me. thought about filling you up and watching you try to walk straight after.”

you swallow hard. he takes a step toward you now.

“i had my hand around my cock, baby. begging my body to just take the edge off. but it knew.”

he’s closer. voice dropping lower, almost like he’s mad about it.

“it knew it wasn’t real. that you weren’t here. that i wasn’t fucking you.”

your breath catches.

“and now you’re back,” he says, standing in front of you again. “sweaty. probably sore. walking around with those hips like you weren’t just out there building a better seat for our baby.”

you choke on a laugh. “that’s—”

“you gonna keep teasing me,” he says, voice low, “or you gonna let me use what you built?”

you don’t answer.

you just smile. smug. then give a little nod.

that’s all it takes.

he crowds into your space again. doesn’t touch yet—just looms. arms braced on either side of you, breath hot against your neck. he’s not kissing you. not touching you. just there.

“you wore that outfit to the gym,” he murmurs. “let everyone see you looking like that. bent over, stretching, squatting—”

he cuts himself off with a sharp exhale. you feel it in your stomach.

“and i wasn’t there.”

his voice is tight now. strained.

“i didn’t get to see you doing all that. didn’t get to spot you. didn’t get to stand behind you while you showed everyone what a fertile woman’s body really looks like.”

your breath catches. “you’re really…into this…”

he leans in.

“did anyone stare?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “did anyone watch you and think they had a chance?”

you blink. “schlatt—”

“be honest.”

you pause.

then you smile, just a little. “one guy asked if i needed help adjusting the seat on the hip abduction machine.”

he goes still. very still.

“and what did you say?” he asks, slow and sharp.

“i told him i was good,” you whisper, eyes flicking to his. “said my boyfriend would take care of it later.”

a beat.

then his hand slides down to your thigh. slowly. possessive. claiming.

“damn right he will.”

he guides you backward, one slow step at a time, until the backs of your knees hit the bed. you sit, and he follows, kneeling in front of you. large hands smooth up the sides of your legs, dragging over the curve of your hips—his obsession, now confirmed.

“these,” he mutters, fingers spreading wide across your hips. “you know what you’re doing to me with these.”

you breathe in. shaky.

he presses a kiss to your stomach. then another. lower now.

he presses a kiss to your stomach. then another. lower now.

his breath is warm. reverent. he mouths at the waistband of your leggings like he’s trying to talk himself out of tearing them off with his teeth. but he doesn’t move too fast. not yet.

"take ‘em off, baby," he mutters, voice strained. "c’mon. show me what i missed."

you shift up on your elbows, pulse fluttering, and slide the fabric down your hips—slow. deliberately slow. you don’t break eye contact as they peel away, sticky with sweat, thighs trembling slightly with afterburn.

he groans. full-bodied. hands gripping your calves, then your knees, then up, up, dragging wide palms along your thighs like he’s mapping out sacred territory.

"jesus christ," he mutters, thumb brushing the inside of your knee. "look at you. look at these legs. worked so fuckin’ hard just to drive me insane."

he leans in. kisses the inside of your thigh. then again. mouth trailing higher. his voice is a rasp now, somewhere between a plea and a prayer.

"you know what you’re askin’ for, struttin’ around like that? makin’ me think about fillin’ you up?"

"that’s the point," you breathe, eyes lidded. "isn’t it?"

he growls—actually growls—and dips his head between your thighs.

his mouth is hot. desperate. tongue greedy, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing on earth he’s allowed to taste. he eats you out like he’s making up for every second you were gone. every thrust of his tongue matched to the rhythm of a thought he can’t say aloud—mine, mine, mine.

you whine. fingers curling in the sheets. you’d had control. you did. but it’s slipping now—

he pulls back just enough to speak. lips slick. eyes wild.

"you ready to get bred, sweetheart?"

that word alone makes your hips jerk. you nod, breathless.

he stands. pushes his sweats down. he’s already hard—thick and flushed and aching. you reach for him, but he catches your wrist, kisses your knuckles.

"lemme do it," he murmurs. "lemme handle it."

you nod again. pliant now. eyes wide and hungry.

he hooks your legs over his forearms. lines himself up. the stretch is slow, steady, perfect. your head falls back. mouth open. a moan you didn’t mean to let out spills from your lips.

"that’s it," he grits out, rocking in deeper. "take it. take all of it. fuck—so tight—"

your hands scramble to hold onto something—his shoulders, his waist, the sheets—anything.

he finds a rhythm, hard and unrelenting. each thrust a claim. a promise. his voice rough in your ear:

"gonna put it in you, baby. gonna fuckin’ keep it there. gonna make sure these hips get used the way they were designed to..."

you choke out a sob. it’s too much. not enough. overwhelming in every direction.

he leans in. kisses your temple. "you okay?"

you nod. barely. eyes glassy. voice ragged. "please—please, don’t stop—"

he doesn’t. he won’t. his thrusts get rougher, more desperate. his hands on your waist, thumbs pressing into muscle he swears he built.

"gonna cum," he grits out. "gonna cum so deep you feel it when you sit down. when you walk. when you fuckin’ think."

you moan. loud. broken. you’re so close—

"that’s it," he growls. "cum with me. c’mon, sweetheart. give it to me."

and you do. you crash hard—back arching, thighs trembling, cunt squeezing around him until he curses and fucks into you one last time—deep, deep, deeper—

and stills.

his mouth drops open. one last moan, long and low, as he empties into you. heat blooming inside. thick. endless.

you’re shaking. fucked out. breathless. all your earlier smugness dissolved into soft, pliant pleasure.

he eases out. helps you lay back. kisses your stomach, your chest, your jaw.

"my girl," he whispers. "my fuckin’ girl."

and you smile. dazed. wrecked. satisfied.

“you gonna let me go to the gym tomorrow?” you whisper.

he huffs a laugh against your shoulder. "not without supervision."

you hum. "figured."

he pulls you close.

“we’ll do our own reps here.”

[slattlicker]

could you write something where the reader cant sleep and they have a ddlg dynamic with schlatt? Also preferably sfw buttttt if not it’s okay!!!! whatever you wanna do 😋😋

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * my favorite voice ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’re overtired, overstimulated, and one more thought away from regressing into full baby mode...good thing you've got a daddy who's prepped for this very situation! *╰﹒♡₊˚๑ ✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: anon, you are SO real for this. here’s your late-night, soft ddlg, sfw comfort fic. for the girls who get cranky, weepy, and small when they can’t sleep—you deserve everything <3

warnings: sfw ddlg dynamic, established relationship, little space (reader trying not to fall into it), comfort care, sleepy praise, baby girl being baby girl.

sweet dreams, sleepyheads ♡

✧✧✧

you try not to slam the door. not that it would matter. he sleeps like a log. heavy, deep, and soft-breathing. you’d watched him for a full minute before you got up—just to be sure.

you need to get out. not far. just out of bed. just somewhere you can stew without ruining the silence.

the inside of your chest is all itch. your brain won’t stop biting itself. you’re overtired and too hot and nothing feels right—especially not your body. too big. too stiff. like it’s not yours. like you’re borrowing someone else’s skin for the night.

you pace once around the living room, arms crossed, jaw tight. you consider getting water. then don’t. you consider laying on the floor. then don’t. you rub your eyes too hard and blink back the sting. the sniffle.

you are not going to cry like a fucking toddler because you can’t sleep.

you are not—

“...baby?”

you freeze.

his voice is thick with sleep. but clear. alert. that specific tone he only gets when he knows something’s wrong.

you don’t answer.

“what’re you doin’ out here?” you hear him walk. slow, heavy-footed. “it’s three a.m.”

you grip the back of the couch. white-knuckled.

“couldn’t sleep.”

he yawns behind you. “you could’ve woke me up, y’know.”

“didn’t want to,” you mumble.

there’s a beat. then another step closer.

“you okay?”

you try to nod.

but your mouth is already pulling into a frown. that awful, involuntary wobble that means tears are coming whether you like it or not.

you press your forearm to your eyes. “m’fine.”

“you sure?” his voice is closer now. low. warm. still groggy. “you sound…”

you sniff.

“…baby,” he says. soft. not mocking. just knowing. “you sound like you’re about to cry.”

your shoulders shake once. just once. your throat closes.

“i’m not,” you say. lying.

you are. and worse—you're cranky. achy. skin-hot and miserable in that way that only ever happens when you’re too tired to act your age. you want to throw something. or cry. or crawl into his lap and hide, but you can’t—because that would be stupid and—

his arms circle around your waist.

“hey. no more of that.”

you stiffen. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” he murmurs. “don’t take care of you?”

you try to twist away. he holds firm.

“baby girl,” he says, just a little lower now. “look at me.”

you don’t. can’t. but your body leans back into his anyway.

he rocks you gently, with you just leaning against him like a weak noodle supporting itself against a wall. he rocks, side to side. barely moving. like he already knows you need it.

“why didn’t you wake me?” he asks again.

you sniff. “’cause i was bein’ good.”

he kisses your shoulder. “you were bein’ miserable.”

“shut up…”

“cranky,” he sings softly, teasing your temple with his nose. “grumbly little thing out here pouting in the dark.”

you don’t answer. you’re too busy biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying.

he turns you in his arms. you blink up at him, glassy-eyed.

“you want daddy to fix it?” he asks.

you hate how fast you nod.

“thought so.”

he kisses your forehead. you don’t even try to hide the way you lean into it now.

“okay. sit on the couch, baby. i’m gonna get your blanket. and a glass. and your dumb sleep podcast.”

you mumble something through your sleeve.

“what was that?”

“it’s not dumb.”

he grins. “i know it’s not. that’s why i’m puttin’ it on.”

he starts to pull away. you grab the hem of his shirt, frowning.

“don’t go.”

“just for a second,” he promises. “i’m gonna take care of you, remember?”

you let go. barely, though.

✧✧✧

you settle onto the couch. slowly. like your bones ache.

your hands tuck between your thighs. your legs swing a little, heel tapping against the bottom cushion. you don’t mean to fidget—you’re just too full of something. too tight. too small. too much.

he comes back a minute later, arms full—your softest blanket, the tall pink cup you always use, his phone already unlocked.

he kneels in front of you.

“arms up.”

you obey without thinking. he drapes the blanket around your shoulders like a cloak and tucks it in snug at the sides. then he presses the water into your hands.

you sip.

“good girl.”

it’s whispered. automatic. praise in its gentlest form.

your throat tightens around it.

he sinks down onto the couch and opens his arms again.

you hesitate.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, already coaxing you closer.

you blink fast. “m’too big.”

his eyebrows pinch. “what?”

you shake your head, voice small. “i just feel… weird. like i shouldn’t be like this. all needy. it’s dumb.”

he cups your cheek. not hard. just enough to make you look at him.

“you feel like this ‘cause you need somethin’,” he says. “and it’s my job to give it to you. that’s not dumb.”

you don’t answer. but your body moves. slides closer. climbs into his lap with a tiny sigh.

he wraps you up without hesitation.

blanket and arms and the smell of him. cedar and detergent and sleepy warmth.

you tuck your head under his chin.

he opens his phone. scrolls for a second. the familiar little podcast icon pops up for a moment—but then he swipes past it.

you blink. “wait. aren’t you gonna put on the…”

he smirks.

“nah. got somethin’ better.”

he taps on a different app, opening up a playlist of sorts.

your breath catches.

the title reads: for my girl – bedtime edition 💤

you blink at him. “what’s—?”

“i'm just pressin’ play,” he mutters, suddenly busy adjusting your blanket. “shush, baby.”

and then—

“hey, sweetheart.” his voice. recorded. soft and gravelly. “if you’re hearin�� this, that means you couldn’t sleep. so i’m gonna talk for a bit. you don’t have to listen. just rest.”

your heart cracks open like warm bread.

he shifts a little underneath you, clearing his throat like he’s pretending it’s no big deal. like he didn’t record probably an entire collection of sleepy rambles just for you.

“today i’m gonna tell you about every kind of soup i can think of. in no particular order.”

you giggle. sniffle. curl in closer.

he kisses your temple. doesn’t say anything.

just lets you melt into him while his own voice, softer and slower than ever, starts listing soups like lullabies.

“clam chowder. chicken tortilla. tomato bisque. i don’t like broccoli cheddar, but you do, so i’ll allow it…”

you giggle. sniffle. curl in closer.

he kisses your temple. doesn’t say anything. just lets you melt into him while his own voice plays quietly through the speaker—slower and warmer than you’ve ever heard it.

“…how long have you had this?” you murmur, voice slurred with sleep.

he shrugs. “been makin’ ‘em for a while. just in case.”

you hum. “why didn’t you tell me?”

he presses his lips to your hair. “figured you’d find it when you needed it.”

you’re quiet for a long moment.

“it’s nice,” you whisper. “you’re my favorite voice.”

he chuckles softly. “you’re just sayin’ that ‘cause i’m talkin’ about soup.”

“nooo…” your words start to tangle, vowels stretching. “you could read me… tax stuff. and i’d still go all melty.”

“you are pretty melty right now,” he says, adjusting the blanket to cover your toes. “you’re puddling all over me right now.”

“mmmhm...”

“can’t even keep your eyes open, huh?”

“don’t need to. you’re right here. ‘n also right there. double schlatt.”

he huffs a laugh through his nose. “go to sleep, sweetheart.”

“noo...i'm gonna dream about soup...”

“good. maybe you’ll finally eat somethin’ green...but i don't think you'll last until i get to celery soup...”

“no...only broccoli chedda…”

“jesus christ.”

but his voice is warm. smiling. arms solid around you. and when your breathing evens out completely, when your full weight settles against his chest, he shuts his eyes too. happy to have you in his arms.

the recording keeps playing.

“french onion. minestrone. potato leek…”

[slattlicker]

hi my love! just wanted to quickly say that i absolutely love and adore your page! it’s like your page is a museum and your posts are the works of art that us readers are so lucky to read! your page so so SO beautiful and so is your writing, i wish i had your creativity and skill <\3. anyways, much love to you and your work!!

my proposal: reader is a bridesmaid/maid of honor at a friends/family members wedding and schlatt is her plus one but he can’t be around her until she’s allowed to separate from the bridal party. like when they have dinner he keeps looking at the bridesmaids table and practically begging for her to come over or for him to say hi even though he can’t (she told him about this “separation” many times since she accepted becoming a bridesmaid/moh). once she’s FINALLY able to go see him and the rest of her friends/family, he can’t keep his hands off her and is basically attached to her hip for the rest of the night!

did i yap too much or is this okay..

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * no plus one needed ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’re standing up for your best friend on the biggest day of her life. the ceremony’s beautiful. the photos take forever. your feet hurt. and somewhere in the crowd, your unofficial date is losing his mind waiting to hold your hand.

*╰﹒♡₊˚๑ ✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: to the angel who called my page a museum—i actually wanna sob. thank you. your request made my heart do a little waltz, so yap all you want to lolol. i hope it’s everything you pictured.

warnings: fluff, longing, bridal party chaos, clingy!schlatt, not-quite-dating-but-so-close, dancing, dress drama, and one very persistent boy who’s been staring at you since the ceremony started.

save a dance for him. ♡

✧✧✧

the breeze shifts right as the music does.

light but steady—cool enough to lift the ends of your dress, to carry the scent of hydrangea and hairspray and whatever perfume the maid of honor is wearing beside you. something floral. familiar. it stings your nose a little.

you adjust your grip on the bouquet, thumb brushing over the silk ribbon as the first chords of the processional begin to swell through the garden. all at once, the hundred or so folding chairs filled with family and friends quiet down. heels stop shifting on flagstone. babies are bounced into silence. someone sniffles in the front row.

you don’t dare look at the groom—he’s already tearing up, you know it—but it doesn’t matter. all eyes are turning now, slowly, toward the back of the aisle.

and then she steps out.

your best friend. radiant. veil tucked just enough behind her ear to show the way her jaw trembles, just a little. bouquet clutched tight in her hands. the kind of expression on her face that only happens when someone’s sure—not just about who they’re marrying, but about themselves.

you feel it hit your chest before you even realize it’s coming. a twist. a bloom. something tight and warm and achey in the best way.

your throat tightens.

you glance down, pretend to adjust the flowers in your grip. blink once. twice.

and it’s not envy, not really. just longing. something soft and distant and close all at once. like a part of you—quiet and tucked away—wants this too. not the dress. not the photos. not the slow-walk-down-the-aisle bit.

just... the being chosen. the look on her face. the way her soon-to-be husband can’t stop staring, like he’s never seen the sun before.

you feel yourself shift slightly in your heels, grounding.

and then—without thinking—you glance out toward the chairs.

second row from the back, near the end of the aisle. schlatt.

he’s not crying. he’s not staring at the bride. he’s looking at you.

seated half-cocked in his chair, tie loosened just a little, hands in his lap. that stupid faint grin he gets when he’s about to say something smart. the breeze ruffles his curls, and for once, he doesn’t fix them.

you blink.

and for a second—just a second—you forget where you are.

because it’s him. your big guy. even if you haven’t said it like that yet. even if it’s still new and weird and sweet in the way ripe fruit is sweet, right before it bruises. you’re not together-together. not officially. not yet. but—

but he showed up.

he got on a plane. wore the tie. charmed your cousins. kept asking if you were drinking water. helped the mother of the bride carry in the flower baskets when the venue forgot them. and now he’s sitting there, watching you like he’d rather be nowhere else in the world.

your throat tightens again. a different kind of ache.

because maybe it’s not just the dress or the vows or the veil catching in the breeze. maybe it’s the idea that this—that—could be real. for you. with someone who makes you laugh when you’re trying not to cry. who calls you sweetheart like it’s the easiest word in his mouth. who watches you, even during the part where everyone’s supposed to be looking at the bride.

you want it.

someone to hold your hand in the quiet moments. someone to mean it when they say, “i’m here.” someone to build a whole future with, from the ground up. mismatched dishes, sunday mornings, shared toothpaste. shared everything.

you glance back down the aisle.

the bride’s at the front now, veil settling as her father kisses her cheek. the groom is already sniffling. the officiant clears his throat.

you blink once more—just to clear the edges of your vision—and shift your bouquet higher in your grip.

focus.

this is her moment.

and god, she looks happy.

the ceremony unfolds around you in soft sound: the rustle of dresses, the shift of feet on stone, and you settle into the silence watching your best friend marry the love of her life…secretly hoping you’ll reach the same point that she has.

✧✧✧

the ceremony ends in a blur of clapping, petals, and one of the groomsmen whispering “nailed it” under his breath as the newlyweds kiss. someone cheers. the officiant smiles. the bride practically floats back down the aisle, and the rest of you fall into step behind her—bouquets up, shoulders back, heart somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

you catch a glimpse of schlatt as you pass.

he’s still in the second-to-last row, standing now, clapping. big, warm smile. loose tie. flushed cheeks. he mouths something at you as you walk past.

you can’t fully make it out, but it looks suspiciously like:

i’d marry you.

you roll your eyes. bite back a grin. 

focus. photos. timeline. champagne later.

you don’t even get a chance to look back.

the second the newlyweds disappear down the aisle, the photographer is on you. coordinating. corralling. posing. a gentle, smiling general directing a very pastel-colored army.

“bride and bridesmaids, this way. groomsmen, don’t wander. can someone get the veil fluffed again?”

you glance over your shoulder. no time. schlatt’s somewhere in the crowd, maybe standing, maybe already trailing toward the cocktail tent. but you’re being herded—wrangled—into position.

first come the bridal party shots: the whole crew in front of the arbor, bouquets tucked and elbows tight, smiling like it doesn’t hurt to hold that expression for fifteen full seconds at a time. then the bride wants one with all her girls—serious pose, then a laughing one, then one where you all hold her train like she’s floating.

the sun is in your eyes. your heels are sinking into the gravel. someone’s boutonniere fell off and you’re the one who catches it before it hits the ground.

you don’t even realize how long it’s been until your phone buzzes again.

🐐: still alive 🐐: currently fighting off two ants and a drunk groomsman 🐐: u look so pretty it’s making me insane

you can’t answer. you’re already being called back into frame.

you help the bride pin her curls where they’re falling. help her dab her eyes without ruining her lashes. help the flower girl hold still for just one more picture by crouching beside her and offering a piece of butterscotch you found in your purse.

the photographer snaps, snaps again.

then someone asks for a candid. then a goofy one. then the mother of the bride steps in and asks for just one more with the whole family.

you glance toward the reception tent.

schlatt’s there now.

leaning against one of the poles, arms crossed, drink in hand. he’s talking to someone, nodding along, but you know him—you know him—and the way his eyes keep darting toward you? that’s not polite interest. that’s quiet desperation.

you shift your weight. press your lips together.

you’re still smiling in every photo.

but your shoulders ache.

and your fingers twitch like they’re remembering how it felt when he brushed them earlier in the dressing room, when you handed him his tie and he held your wrist for just a second too long.

✧✧✧

it’s supposed to be the easy part.

you’re officially off photo duty. the bridal party was just dismissed with a warm “go enjoy yourselves, mingle a little, we’ll call you back for the entrances.” and for a second—a brief, sparkling, hopeful second—you feel your spine start to unknot. you can see the drinks. you can see the tent. you can see him.

he’s still by the pole.

looser now, one hand tucked in his pocket, curls drying in the heat of the late afternoon. he’s changed into the backup shirt you packed him—light blue, slightly wrinkled from the car, sleeves rolled to the forearm in that way that makes your stomach flip like a bouquet.

he sees you.

he lifts his glass, subtle. gives you that look.

like now?

like can i have you yet?

like is it finally time?

you don’t even realize you’re already moving until you’re halfway across the grass, bouquet swapped for a glass of sparkling cider someone passed you on instinct. the tent is humming—clinking glasses, light music, relatives trying to be charmingly chaotic. you dodge a toddler with cake on his face. smile at a cousin you forgot was invited.

almost there.

almost there.

here.

“hey,” you say, breathless, walking up like you haven’t imagined this moment all day.

“hey yourself.” his eyes drag over you. slow. warm. “you know, they told me there’d be a beautiful maid of honor, but i didn’t think she’d be the one making announcements and carrying cake samples and fixing mic feedback—”

“shut up,” you say, but you’re already grinning.

he sits up straighter. loosens his tie the rest of the way. “how much longer are they gonna keep you hostage, huh? i’ve been making friends with the old people at my table. i think i accidentally got invited to a cruise.”

you snort. “i think we’re about to be released.”

you take a step closer. you’re about to sit in the empty seat beside him—about to lean in, finally touch his hand, maybe finally whisper something you’ve been thinking since the ceremony, something dumb and hopeful like that could be us someday—

but then you hear it.

a voice from across the tent, sharp and shrill:

“the dress—oh my god—the dress.”

everything stops.

you turn.

and there she is—your best friend, the bride, standing just outside the tent flap in her after-party dress.

or what was her after-party dress.

now? it’s folded weirdly under her arms, bunched at one hip, the side zipper caught halfway down, and—oh god—there’s a wine stain crawling down the front in a shameful blotch of red and orange.

her eyes are wide. her face is flushed.

you barely hear schlatt say, “wait, was that supposed to be her outfit-change?” before you’re moving.

“sorry,” you toss over your shoulder.

he blinks. “wait—now? again?”

“she’s gonna cry—hold on—just five minutes—”

“you said that an hour ago!”

but you’re already across the lawn.

already tugging your friend toward the side entrance of the venue.

already gathering tulle in your arms and saying things like “it’s fine, it’s just fermented grapes, you’re stunning, they won’t even notice,” as her lipstick smears and someone screams for a tide stick.

your phone buzzes in your palm.

🐐: babe. 🐐: babe pls 🐐: this has to be some sort of bad karma

you send back a single emoji: 😭

🐐: i’ll wait. but if the cruise people offer me free drinks i might be blackout drunk by the time you’re back.

you shove your phone into your dress pocket and sigh.

back on duty.

✧✧✧

the door to the suite clicks shut with a breathless thud—muting the buzz of cocktail hour, the flutter of hands and heels and champagne flutes. in here, it’s just you. and isla. and the dress.

it’s crumpled around her knees now—half-zipped, lipstick smudged near the strap, the blush-toned satin bunched like a collapsed souffle. she's pacing in nothing but shapewear and panic, whisper-chanting a loop of “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god” as she tries—and fails—not to cry.

the zipper has separated completely down one side. there’s a dark splash of red wine just beneath the waist, seeping into the folds like a cruel little joke. and above it all, isla—your isla—is standing there, tearful and furious and glowing anyway. her curls are pinned half-up with baby’s breath, a few strands falling loose from the humidity. her cheeks are flushed. her nails are shaking.

you drop your shoes first. then your clutch. you kneel down, fingers already moving, and say, “okay. breathe. i’m fixing it.”

isla freezes. “what?”

“you heard me. take it off. i’ve got thread. i’ve got tide pens. i’ve got nerves of steel. come on.”

she blinks. you lift a brow. she lifts the dress over her head.

there’s a small vanity in the corner of the room—warm lights casting a golden hue over everything. you drape the dress across the arm of a velvet chair and flip it inside out like a surgeon prepping an incision. your fingers glide along the seam, eyes scanning the stitch line.

“the zipper didn’t break, just pulled loose. i’ll let the seam out a half inch, maybe less. give it breathing room, then tack it back down. the stain’s gonna need a little chemistry, but i’ve got just enough of the good stuff.”

you fish out your clutch. dump it unceremoniously.

scissors. needle. thread pre-wound on a cardboard square. mini stain remover. a folded cloth. a spare safety pin. two bobby pins. one rogue breath mint.

“jesus,” isla whispers. “you are mary poppins.”

“i’m your maid of honor,” you say, “which is basically the same thing, but hotter.”

that earns you a soggy laugh.

you work quickly—knees pressed into the carpet, fingers steady even as the world ticks louder on the other side of the door. the zipper goes first: seam pulled open, thread looped and tightened with invisible care. then the lining, tacked back by hand, one nearly-invisible stitch at a time. you work in silence, teeth clenched slightly, heart racing like it’s your dress on the line.

the stain is next.

warm water. the tiniest dab of detergent.

you press, not rub. blot with the cloth. angle the dress toward the vanity light. repeat. slowly, the deep red fades into something nearly imperceptible—just a memory now, clinging to a shadow fold that no one will notice. you hit it with cool air from the travel hairdryer—low, slow. then a sweep of fabric spray. then steam.

twenty-three minutes from disaster to rebirth. like a phoenix.

isla’s eyes are glassy as you hold the dress back out to her. she slips it over her head, and you guide the zipper up slowly, palm flat to her back as you smooth it shut.

you both face the mirror.

the dress is perfect. she’s perfect.

her eyes meet yours in the reflection. “y/n...you've just saved my life.”

you grin, breathless. “pff, i'm no doctor, and you didn't need saving. just a little stitching.”

she turns to you. throws her arms around your shoulders with a champagne-scented oof, careful not to smudge her new lipstick. you hold her tight. you can feel her vibrating from nerves and relief and love.

“you ready?” you ask.

she nods. “with you next to me? always.”

you tuck one last bobby pin into her curls. re-apply her gloss in a quick sweep. smooth the hem. tug your own dress back into place, now slightly wrinkled from kneeling, but that’s not the story anyone will care about.

you both hold hands, putting your heads together and just breathe in.

this is always how you've handled things together. holding tightly onto everything that brings you happiness and peace, including each other.

one, two, three.

you separate from each other, blink back tears. she offers you a warm smile before pulling you back towards the party and music.

you head toward the exit.

✧✧✧

the cheers swell as isla enters—late, glowing, triumphant.

her husband-to-be is already crying. not discreetly. he’s straight-up dabbing at his eyes with a folded cocktail napkin like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

you laugh softly from just inside the tent, heart thudding from the last-minute rush. your palms still smell faintly like hairspray and wine.

but isla’s smile—lit-up and feral and overwhelmed in the best way—makes all of it worth it.

you hang back just enough to watch them reach the center of the tent, the crowd parting as they go. the music kicks in—some retro pop track reworked into orchestral strings—and suddenly they’re spinning, coordinated and silly, like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this three-minute burst of joy.

the bridal party hollers. phones come out. the dj fades them into a full remix and isla points at you.

you blink.

oh.

oh, it’s that kind of routine.

she jerks her head. you barely hear her over the music: “you promised!”

and yeah—you did promise, didn’t you? back when she was just tipsy enough to choreograph a wedding dance and just persuasive enough to make you agree to join in.

and then it happens fast:

you and the groom enter from opposite sides, dramatically snatching isla’s hands like a tug-of-war. she gasps like she’s in a soap opera, lets her body flop between you as you each mime fighting for her love.

you: mock-wounded. clutching your heart. but isla… we were supposed to run away together!

the groom: hands to his chest, staggering backward like you shot him. she’s mine! i’ve got the paperwork now!

the crowd is loving it.

isla breaks free of you both, spinning with over-the-top flair before grinning wildly and beckoning you closer.

“come on!” she shouts over the beat, and grabs your hands.

together, you sway into a side-to-side move—something she taught you in her kitchen during the rehearsal dinner prep, when you both had wine and no shame. then she shoves you toward the groom. you two do a clumsy little “fight” dance, each flinging a hand over isla’s shoulder like two friends in a sitcom brawling over who gets custody of the golden retriever.

and then—on the beat drop—she spins you away from both of them.

you stumble back, laughing, heart racing.

right into someone’s arms.

two big, warm hands catch your waist.

“hey,” schlatt murmurs—grinning like an idiot. “need a partner?”

he spins you, your dress twirling like a flower blooming, he dips you down, before pulling you away from the spotlight of the newlyweds. the crowd cheers, understanding the story of how you've found yourself someone new to run away with.

you glance behind you—isla throws a wink and shoots finger guns.

“she planned that?” you say breathlessly.

“she might’ve warned me,” he says.

you don’t think. you just let him pull you in—his hand firm at your waist, the other still holding yours from the spin. the music slows, something warm and low and easy to follow, and he shifts just enough to give you space to settle.

his hoodie’s gone now—left at the table, probably—but he’s still in his dress shirt. the collar's a little rumpled, and his sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms, just like always. his palm is warm against the curve of your back. the pad of his thumb brushes your hip through the fabric of your dress. his chest rises and falls in time with yours.

you don’t mean to look at his mouth. you do it anyway.

“i don’t usually dance,” you murmur, just to fill the space.

his smile tugs higher on one side. “you say that right after being featured in a choreographed wedding dance, and people…AKA me…will not believe you.”

you breathe out a laugh—quiet, almost like a sigh—and tuck your hand just behind his shoulder. you feel the muscle there move beneath your palm, steady and strong.

around you, people start moving. couples grouping up. a few of the groomsmen still trying to impress each other with exaggerated flourishes. isla and her husband melt into the crowd, his hand cradling the small of her back, her head tilted to whisper something in his ear.

it smells like grass and champagne and sweat and hairspray. someone must’ve cracked open one of the fire pits just outside the tent—there’s the faintest curl of smoke on the breeze.

schlatt sways you in slow, easy motions. no big moves. no jokes. just… dancing.

“how’s isla? and her dress?” he asks after a while. his voice is quieter now, closer.

you nod. “safe. clean. crisis averted.”

“didn’t doubt you for a second.”

his fingers shift slightly, a little higher on your back. you’re very aware of them. you tilt your head up and catch him watching you—not staring, just looking, like he’s making sure you’re really here.

“i missed you today,” he says softly.

“i…i missed you too.”

it’s not dramatic, not whispered into a kiss. just spoken, small and honest, between the spaces where your hands fit and your hearts settle.

he exhales, slow. you feel it more than hear it—how his chest shifts, how his grip adjusts slightly like he wants to hold you closer without rushing you.

then he murmurs, “can i ask you something?”

you glance up. “yeah?”

he hesitates. not out of fear, just… careful with it. like he’s holding the words the same way he’s holding you—tight enough to be sure, gentle enough to still give you room.

“are we doing this for real?” he asks. “like… you and me?”

your heart flips a little. maybe a lot.

you look at him—really look at him. the way his curls are a little flat on one side from where he probably leaned on his hand while waiting for you earlier. the line of his jaw. the quiet crease between his brows, like he’s bracing for something.

“yeah,” you say. it’s easy. “yeah, i want to.”

he breathes in like he didn’t know how much he needed to hear that.

“okay,” he says, voice a little lighter now. a little steadier. “okay, good.”

you don’t get another word out before he pulls you in tighter—his arm fully wrapping around your back, his hand curling around your side. your chest is against his now, your head tucked neatly beneath his chin. he presses a kiss to your temple, then another just behind your ear.

“i’m not letting go of you,” he says into your hair. “not for the rest of the night. not even if the carpool crowd starts leaving without us.”

you laugh, breath caught somewhere between flustered and full.

“bold of you to assume i’d go without you,” you mumble.

he leans back just enough to look at you again—and he’s smiling, all teeth and dimples and that crooked thing he does when he’s too happy to hide it.

“you look good,” he says. “i mean, you always look good. but tonight? you look like someone i don’t ever wanna stop showing off.”

you duck your head, blushing, but he just tips your chin back up with two fingers.

“don’t hide from me now,” he says. “you’re mine, aren’t you? officially?”

you nod.

“then lemme act like it.”

he kisses you—nothing over-the-top, just a warm, certain press of his mouth to yours, like he means it. like he’s making good on a promise.

when he pulls back, his hand stays at your waist. his thumb traces a little path along your ribs. his other arm stays locked around your lower back, keeping you anchored to him as the song fades and another begins—this one a little faster, more upbeat.

people around you start to shift and laugh, splitting off into smaller groups. you try to move, to head toward isla or the champagne table or literally anywhere else, but his grip doesn’t budge.

“where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

you raise an eyebrow. “you said you wanted to dance, didn’t you?”

“i do,” he says. “with you. only if it’s with you.”

and then—god help you—he picks you up. just enough to make you squeak from the brief spin he does, your feet leaving the floor for barely a second before he sets you back down.

“schlatt!”

“what? i said i couldn’t let you go.” his grin is shameless.

you press your face to his shoulder, laughing against the soft linen of his shirt. he holds you tighter.

for the rest of the night—through every slow song, every blurry group photo, every toast and cake slice and farewell hug—he’s right there.

his hand on your back.

his lips at your temple.

his thumb tracing circles where no one else can see.

he doesn’t look away from you once.

✧✧✧

you’re tucked into schlatt’s side, shoes off, legs folded beneath you on one of the lounge chairs near the back of the tent. a crumpled napkin rests beside a paper plate of half-eaten cake, and his hand has barely left your back all night.

then—through the haze of fairy lights and leftover music—isla spots you.

she breaks away from the last of the photo swarm with a shout of your name and a clumsy flail of her arm, her heels dangling from two fingers like a prize. her curls are starting to fall in soft spirals, cheeks flushed and glowing. her afterparty dress still has the faintest shadow where the wine hit earlier, but she looks so happy you doubt anyone even remembers.

trailing behind her—still unbuttoned, still love-struck—is her new husband.

nathan.

 he’s got a lazy sort of charm about him, tie loose in his pocket, champagne flute in one hand, and the other naturally finding the small of isla’s back like it’s second nature. he’s been quietly orbiting her all night—doting without hovering. it’s disgustingly sweet.

“there she is!” isla beams, stumbling slightly as she drops to her knees beside you, immediately wrapping you in a frosting-scented hug. “my hero. my maid of honor. my fixer of broken zippers and defender of dance floors!”

you laugh, hugging her back. “hi. you’re married now.”

she makes a delighted squeal and shakes your shoulders. “i am! isn’t that so gross?”

nathan settles down beside her, looping an arm around her waist with a fond sigh. “it’s disgusting how happy i am.”

“you’re disgusting in general,” isla says sweetly, then kisses him mid-laugh before turning back to you. “and you—you didn’t tell me your guy was this hot.”

your eyebrows lift. “you literally met him in a hotel lobby. we were in anime girl t-shirts.”

“yeah, but i didn’t know he’d look like that in a suit.” she gestures wildly at schlatt.

schlatt lifts his hand in a lazy half-wave, smirking. “thank you. i’ve been informed i clean up okay.”

“you clean up nice for a nerd,” isla says, grinning at him. “but you made her smile today, so i'll forgive you for your anime-girl first impression.”

“you planned half the ways i made her smile,” he points out.

nathan chuckles, raising his glass. “it’s true. she’s been in puppet master mode for weeks.”

“months.” isla corrects, tossing a piece of her hair over her shoulder. “and don’t act like you weren’t part of it, mr. ‘should i ask him to sit near the aisle for better eye contact?’”

“that was strategy,” nathan says proudly.

you groan. schlatt snorts. “wait—you two were in on this together?”

“of course,” isla says, reaching over to pat your leg. “you’re both disasters. someone had to make sure you got at least one decent dance in, and we both wanted in on something not as stressful as planning our wedding.”

schlatt shifts, his fingers brushing your knee beneath the blanket. “our part of the choreo, and having you back in my arms finally, was the best part of my night.”

you glance up at him—he means it. you can tell. you feel it in the way his thumb presses lightly into the soft part of your thigh, anchoring. you lean into him just a little more.

isla, sensing a moment, softens.

she rests her head on nathan’s shoulder and says, “you looked happy up there.”

you nod. “i was. i am.”

then she grins again, chaotic once more. “good. because now you have absolutely no excuse not to come on our honeymoon cruise.”

schlatt chokes on air. “i’m sorry—what?”

nathan’s nodding. “already booked the cabin.”

“she’s not kidding,” you whisper.

“oh my god.” schlatt drops his head back against the lounge cushion. “were those drunk cruise people also a part of your scheming? am i being hazed into marriage?”

“yes to both,” isla says, already rising and dusting off her knees. “and also, it's about time.”

nathan helps her up, then reaches out to shake schlatt’s hand with surprising sincerity. “you’re a good guy,” he says. “thanks for looking out for her today.”

schlatt grips his hand. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you catch isla’s smile at that. she tugs you up too—kisses your cheek, whispers i love you, best girl, and lets her husband steal her away again.

when you sit back down, schlatt immediately tugs you close again.

“okay,” he mutters, “but real talk.”

“hmm?”

“you think there’s still cake left?”

you grin. “only if you carry me to it.”

he grins wider. “deal.”

and with that—his hand in yours, the hum of music curling into night air, and the warmth of everyone you love swirling around you—you get up. you get cake. you get one more dance.

 and he never lets go of your hand.

[slattlicker]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * K I S S   I T   B E T T E R ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ a jschlatt x female!reader NSFW multi-chapter fic - MDNI !! (18+) ↳ 4.0k words · age gap · bf's dad au ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✦ written with a female!reader in mind ✦ (but everyone is welcome ♡)

⟡ C H A P T E R · F I V E

⇠ B A C K

⇢ C O N T I N U E ?

you take care of him. he takes care of you. and then—just when it feels safe—he reminds you: safety isn’t the same as being ready.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╮ ✧ oral (m!receiving), praise kink, D/s undertones ✧ emotional conflict, brat-taming, angst ✧ vulnerability + hard truths about love, control, identity ╰˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃   𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╯

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

૮₍ ´• ˕ •` ₎ა what does it mean to be wanted?

your fingers trace down his arm—slow, lazy. not asking for more. just… offering.

he breathes deep. exhales slow. his eyes are closed like he’s still grounding himself, like being in this bed with you, like this, is more dangerous than anything else he’s done all year.

and maybe it is.

you scoot forward—quietly, carefully—until your body’s flush against his. your lips graze the hinge of his jaw, then his cheekbone, then the corner of his mouth.

“you didn’t finish,” you murmur.

he huffs a breath through his nose. “don’t need to.”

“but you want to.”

he doesn’t answer—but the tension in his shoulders says enough.

your hand trails lower, brushing over the front of his boxers, feeling the weight of him still there. still aching.

you lean in, voice low. reverent. grateful. “let me be here for you. like you were for me.”

he groans—low, pained. like even the idea of being taken care of is too much.

but you guide his hand, slow and steady, fingers curling over his.

“show me how you like it, daddy…please?”

his breath shudders. “fuck…”

“don’t hold back,” you whisper. “i want to see you come apart.”

your lips brush his ear as he starts to stroke—slow at first, testing the rhythm. you stay pressed close, your hand laid gently over his. your mouth moves at his temple, then his jaw, then lower. words soft. quiet. meant for no one else.

“you were so good to me,” you breathe. “no one’s ever touched me like that. no one’s ever made me feel the way you just did.”

his pace falters. you squeeze his hand. guide him back.

“you’re so steady,” you whisper. “so strong. but gentle, too. like you knew exactly what you were doing to me, and you loved to do it.”

his hips stutter. his abs flex. he’s falling apart under you—and you just keep going.

“i didn’t know it could feel like that,” you say. “i didn’t know i could feel like that. you taught me. you gave me all of that. and now i wanna see you let go.”

his jaw clenches. you feel it where your mouth is, right against the corner of his throat.

“baby girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “fuck, you’re gonna—”

and then you move.

slow, sure, deliberate.

you slide down his body, hand replacing his, mouth hovering just over him—flushed and leaking, twitching with the need he’s been holding back for too long.

you glance up at him once—eyes soft, lips parted—and then you take him into your mouth.

his entire body bucks. the noise he makes—half groan, half plea—shoots straight through you.

“fuck—fuck, sweetheart—”

you hum around him, tongue stroking slow, just the way you know he needs it. one hand on his thigh. the other gripping his hip to keep him grounded. your cheeks hollow, your head bobbing once, twice—

and then he breaks.

he comes hot and hard into your mouth, thighs trembling, abs flexing, one hand flying to your shoulder like he needs to touch you while it hits.

“oh—jesus, baby—shit—”

you swallow. all of it. you were almost expecting it to be salty, but it was borderline sweet.

and then you pull back, licking your lips, blinking up at him all innocent, like you didn’t just undo him completely.

“i just didn’t want to give you another mess to clean up,” you say.

he stares at you. open-mouthed. wrecked.

and then—then—he laughs. low. breathless. fond. the kind of laugh that sounds like it hurts in the best way.

“you’re gonna fucking kill me,” he mutters, dragging you back up into his chest.

“mm,” you hum, settling in. “at least you’ll die happy.”

he kisses your forehead, still catching his breath.

and the two of you lie there—bare, warm, tangled up in each other—while late morning light spills across the bed in slow, golden stripes. the room smells like sleep and sweat and skin. outside, you can hear birdsong. a dog barking. someone’s lawn mower coughing to life down the street.

it’s almost eleven.

your stomach growls quietly.

schlatt chuckles, breath brushing your temple. “guess i’d better feed you again, huh?”

you hum, too happy to be embarrassed. “can’t argue with a man who cooks.”

he pulls you closer, lips pressed just behind your ear.

“then stay right here, baby girl,” he murmurs. “brunch is on me.”

✧✧✧

you wake up warm. really warm. like your body hasn't quite figured out how to cool off yet. the sheets are half-kicked off, your leg's flung over a pillow, and the bed smells like sleep and sweat and him.

your stomach growls. loudly.

you blink up at the ceiling for a second like: okay. real life again. you’re here. in his house. in his bed. and he—oh god, yeah—he made you coffee last night. and dinner. and then he—

you sit up fast. your thighs ache. it hits you all at once.

holy shit.

you smile. you’re sore. everywhere. and still kind of dizzy. in a good way. in a smug way. you roll onto your side and hug the pillow that still smells like him, grinning into the fabric.

then you realize you’re still in your underwear and a shirt that probably has jace’s smell on it.

nope. that won’t do.

you hop out of bed—legs wobble, whatever, you’re committed now—and bee-line it for the closet. you dig through it like you live here. which you don’t. obviously. but... he said he was gonna make brunch. and he kissed your forehead. and told you to stay. so. maybe you do. just a little.

you find a t-shirt that’s too big and a pair of drawstring shorts you have to tie three times to stay up. they’re soft. warm. they smell like detergent and cologne and nothing like jace.

you feel better already.

you don’t really fix your hair. you rinse your face, brush your teeth, swipe on chapstick. keep it simple. don’t wanna look like you tried too hard. even though... you kind of did.

whatever.

you head downstairs barefoot. you’re practically bouncing.

there’s music playing—quiet. the kind of old rock stuff you never paid much attention to but he probably has on vinyl. something steady. a little gritty. it matches him.

you peek into the kitchen.

he’s there. at the stove. barefoot. sweatpants. white tee. tattoos peeking out from one sleeve. spatula in one hand. fork in the other. there’s a mug near the sink and two plates already half-filled. eggs. sausage. toast. he’s even got orange juice on the counter.

your stomach does a little flip.

he glances over his shoulder when he hears your footsteps. eyes flick down once, then back to the pan.

“morning,” he says.

you feel weirdly shy. “hey.”

“you eat sausage?”

“uh—yeah. love it.”

“cool. almost done.”

you hover for a second, then slide into one of the barstools like you belong there. because, for right now, you kind of do.

he slides you a mug. black coffee. no sugar. splash of cream. exactly how you like it.

you stare at it. “...did i tell you that?”

“no,” he says, flipping something. “just guessed.”

you take a sip.

it’s perfect.

you blink. “okay. that’s scary.”

he smirks. “lucky guess.”

you grin into the mug. you feel like your whole body is buzzing. like if you talk too fast you’ll ruin it, but if you don’t talk at all you might explode.

he sets a plate in front of you. doesn’t say anything. just hands you a fork.

you dig in without thinking. the first bite burns your mouth. you blow on the second one. it’s amazing.

you look up at him with wide eyes. “dude. what the fuck.”

he raises an eyebrow. “good?”

“this is, like, actually insane. you cook like this every day?”

he shrugs. “when i’m home.”

you almost ask what he means by that. home feels like a big word. but you keep chewing instead. toast. sausage. eggs. all of it’s hot and salty and just what your body needed.

you sip the coffee again and swing your feet a little under the stool. you can’t help it. you’re happy.

you’re still chewing when you blurt, “you make this for girls a lot?”

he pauses.

you want to die.

“i mean—not like girls,” you add quickly. “just. people. friends. guests. i don’t know. never mind.”

he raises an eyebrow again. “you jealous already, baby girl?”

you bury your face in your mug. “no.”

he doesn’t say anything. just smirks to himself and cracks another egg.

✧✧✧

his plate’s mostly cleared. fork resting on the edge, knife set down clean. he’s chewing slower now. not really tasting it. just finishing.

you’re still smiling. soft. dreamy. head resting on your hand. legs curled up on the stool. his shirt hangs loose on your frame, sleeves pushed to your elbows. you’ve barely touched your toast. too busy talking. laughing. sipping your drink between long pauses where he let you go on about stupid little things. movies you like. your favorite snacks. how you used to sneak into this house even when jace wasn’t around.

you don’t notice how quiet he’s gotten.

not at first.

but then he sets his fork down for real. leans back in the chair. exhales.

and that’s when your stomach dips.

“what?” you ask. gentle. cautious.

he rubs the back of his neck. doesn’t look at you right away.

you sit up a little straighter. your fingers tap the rim of your mug. “did i say something dumb?”

“no,” he says, and it’s fast. too fast. “you didn’t. you’ve been…” he pauses. presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. looks at the table. “…you’ve been really sweet.”

your heart stutters. oh no.

“but?” you say.

he finally looks at you.

and there’s that thing again—serious. tired. not cold. not cruel. just real.

“this can’t happen again.”

you blink.

he goes on, voice steady. “last night. this morning. it was... nice. better than nice. you were incredible. and i’m not gonna pretend i didn’t enjoy every fucking second of it.”

you’re frozen. coffee in your hand. fingers tightening a little.

“but it’s not gonna happen again.”

you try to laugh it off. “is this the part where you say it was a mistake?”

he doesn’t smile. “no. it wasn’t a mistake.”

you nod, slow. “okay. so then... what?”

he shifts in his seat. glances toward the window, then back at you. he’s trying to be gentle. you can tell. but it doesn’t make it easier.

“you’re young.”

“i’m twenty-one,” you shoot back.

“yeah,” he says. “and i’m closer to forty.”

you look away. your throat feels tight, but your eyes aren’t burning. not yet. just a slow, creeping ache in your chest.

“so what?” you mutter. “it’s not like i didn’t know that going in.”

he leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. “you’re also my son’s ex.”

you flinch.

he sees it.

“you think i don’t feel weird about that?” he asks. “about the fact that he might walk through that door any minute and see you in my shirt?”

you set the mug down. not gentle.

“you think this wasn’t weird for me?” you snap. “you think this didn’t feel dangerous or wrong or a little fucked up the whole time?”

he’s quiet.

“but i still wanted it,” you say. “i still want it. and you did too, or else it wouldn’t’ve happened.”

“i know,” he says, voice low. “i’m not saying i didn’t. but wanting something doesn’t make it smart.”

you shake your head. scoff, almost. not mean—just frustrated.

“why does it have to be smart?” you ask. “why can’t it just be honest?”

he looks at you. like he wants to answer. like he wants to agree.

but he doesn’t.

“i’m not like jace, where i’m going to start asking for materialistic things. i want you,” you say. “And you’re not like him, where you’d just neglect me and make it seem like it’s all my fault. this doesn’t have to be some repeat disaster.”

“it’s not about him,” he says quickly. “it’s about you. you’re twenty-one. you’ve got school in the fall. you’ve got a career to figure out. a life to build.”

you frown. “so?”

“so you don’t need someone like me hanging around while you do it.”

you cross your arms. “you’re not some old man with a cane, schlatt.”

he huffs—half a laugh, half a sigh. “no. i’m a man who’s already done all that. college. career. marriage. the divorce. the kids. the house. the mortgage. the years of fucking it all up and trying to fix it again.”

you go quiet.

he rubs a hand over his face. exhales deep through his nose.

“i’m not trying to be cruel,” he says. “i’m trying to be fair. to you. because i like you, and i don’t want to fuck this up.”

your throat tightens.

“then don’t,” you say. “don’t fuck it up. we don’t have to label anything. we don’t have to rush. i just…” you shake your head. your voice drops. “i like you. and it’s been a really long time since i liked someone who made me feel safe. and seen. and actually wanted.”

he flinches. not visibly. but you see it in his jaw.

“that night,” you go on, “when i was crying in your kitchen? you didn’t try to fix me. you didn’t run. you just stayed. and you didn’t have to.”

you lean forward, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around your mug.

“so maybe it’s not smart. maybe it doesn’t make sense. but if you like me—even a little—why shouldn’t we figure it out?”

he doesn’t speak for a long time.

just stares at the empty plate in front of him. eyes a little glassy. mouth tight.

then, finally:

“because i’m scared,” he says. “that’s why.”

you blink.

“i’ve been trying to keep this line in my head, y/n,” he says. “this… distance. because once i let go of it, there’s no going back. and it’s not just casual. not to me. not with you.”

your breath hitches.

“you deserve to be with someone who can give you all the things you still want to find,” he says. “and i don’t know if i have any of that left to offer.”

you sit back. chest aching. but your voice stays steady.

you try to smile. it’s small. wobbly at the edges.

“you don’t have to give me everything,” you say. “just give me you.”

his eyes flick up. tired. unreadable.

you reach across the counter—just a little. fingers brushing the edge of his hand.

“i’ll be good,” you murmur. soft. quiet. “i’ll make it easy.”

his jaw tightens.

you lean in. tip your head just a bit. playful. coaxing.

“if you really want me to back off,” you say, “you probably shouldn’t let me call you daddy in your kitchen.”

he goes still.

his hand curls on the table. slow. deliberate.

“…y/n.”

“what?” you say, tilting your head. you bat your lashes a little. “you don’t like that?”

“that’s not fair.”

you smile again. small. too sweet. “but it works.”

“jesus christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

“only if you let me.”

you stand up—slow, careful, mug in hand—and walk around the island toward him. your bare feet make soft sounds on the tile. you stop beside his chair and rest a hand on the back of it. not asking permission. not demanding anything. just being close.

his eyes lift. meet yours.

you can tell he’s trying not to touch you.

but he’s aching to.

“i meant what i said,” you whisper. “i know this isn’t simple. i know we’re not.”

his throat bobs.

“but i’m not scared of you,” you say. “so don’t be scared of me.”

you lean in. lips at his ear. voice barely a breath:

“’cause i’ll still say please. and sir. and daddy. if that’s what it takes to keep you.”

you feel the way he shudders.

his hand lifts, slow. not to pull you in. not to touch your waist or your face. he presses his palm flat to your hip—steady pressure. holding you there. keeping you from getting any closer.

he tilts his head just enough to look up at you.

and when he speaks, his voice is low. serious. no bite. but no softness, either.

“don’t do that.”

you blink. “do what?”

“try to fuck the fear out of me.”

you freeze.

his thumb taps once against your side. just once.

“you’re scared, too,” he says. “i can see it. and this—this—is your way of trying to take control. if you make it sexy, if you make it playful, maybe it won’t feel so heavy. maybe i won’t say no.”

you open your mouth. close it. your chest is tight.

“and maybe you think if you give me a little more of you,” he adds, voice quiet, “you won’t have to hear me say that it’s still not enough.”

you flinch. just barely. but he notices.

he sighs. drops his hand. rubs the back of his neck.

“you don’t have to be perfect for me to want you,” he mutters. “but you don’t have to perform for me, either.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. you look away. the air between you’s gone stiff—too warm. too sharp.

but you don’t back down.

“i’m not trying to fix anything with sex,” you say. “i’m trying to remind you that we had something. something real. something that mattered.”

he exhales through his nose. doesn’t say anything.

you step forward—just once. not close enough to crowd him, but enough that he has to feel you.

“so yeah,” you add. “i called you daddy. because i wanted to see if you’d feel something again. because i want you to remember that this didn’t just happen. you let it happen. we did.”

he’s staring at the floor.

“and if you think you’re the only one scared of getting hurt,” you say, voice soft but sure, “you’re wrong.”

you wait.

he doesn’t look at you.

but he doesn’t move away either.

his hand lifts—fast—and grabs your wrist.

your breath stutters.

he tugs you in. rough. not cruel, but enough to make your heart jump.

his other hand grips your hip, twisting his chair just enough to drag you between his legs. he looks up at you, eyes dark, mouth tight.

“you wanna remind me?” he says, voice low and sharp. “you wanna make a fucking point?”

your lips part. he cuts you off.

“kneel.”

you hesitate.

his grip tightens. “now.”

your knees hit the tile before you can think. palms on your thighs. head spinning.

his hand curls in your hair. pulls. not enough to hurt—but enough to keep your eyes on his.

“you’re so goddamn desperate to belong to someone,” he growls. “you’ll throw yourself at whoever gives you a second glance, won’t you?”

your cheeks flush hot. your breathing goes shallow.

“you don’t care if it’s a boy who doesn’t know what to do with you,” he spits, “or a man who does. you just want to belong. to obey. to be told who the fuck you are because you don’t wanna figure it out yourself.”

your stomach turns. your thighs clench. he’s not wrong. and it burns.

his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. slow. mocking.

“is that why you called me daddy?” he asks. “so i’d give you something to cling to?”

you swallow hard.

“answer me.”

“…yes, daddy.”

he hums low in his throat. amused. furious. barely holding himself back.

“pathetic,” he murmurs. “sweet little thing, just aching to be filled up and put in place. you don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

his hand moves down your throat. doesn’t squeeze. just holds.

“you wanna be mine?” he asks. “then act like it.”

you nod—fast. eager. hopeful.

his voice snaps like a whip.

“wrong.”

you freeze.

he leans in. close enough that his breath ghosts your cheek.

“you think being mine means kneeling and saying yes, daddy like it’s a spell that’ll keep you safe?”

he scoffs.

“you want examples? fine.”

his hand at your throat presses—barely. just a nudge. just enough to keep your eyes on him.

“you let me tell you to strip, you do it. you let me tell you to bend over, you don’t ask why. you’d let me ruin you in the backseat of my car, on your knees in some fucking parking lot, just because i said you were a good girl.”

your cheeks burn.

he doesn’t stop.

“you’d let me tie you up and leave you there, shaking and soaked and stupid with need, and you’d thank me for it.”

your thighs press together, instinctive.

his hand moves from your throat to your chin, tilts your face up.

“and what scares me, sweetheart, is that you’d love it. every second. even if it wrecked you. even if you didn’t know who you were without it.”

your lip trembles. you hate that he sees it.

“you think that’s devotion?” he growls. “you think that’s love?”

his grip tightens—just for a second.

“it’s addiction.”

you blink. your vision blurs for half a breath.

“you want someone to take control?” he spits. “then you better fucking know what happens when they do.”

he lets go.

steps back.

leaves you shaking in the space between.

“and right now,” he says, calmer now—worse, somehow—“you’re asking to be owned because it’s easier than being alone.”

you stare at him. silent. small. stripped raw.

and for once, there’s no bratty comeback. no soft smile. no reaching hand.

just silence.

you don’t even know where to look. the tile. his socks. your hands. everything feels heavy. like the air’s too full to breathe.

then you hear the chair move again.

he sits down slow.

leans forward.

not to grab you. not to scold you. just to see you.

and when he speaks next—god—it’s so soft you almost don’t recognize it.

“what do you want to do with your life?”

you blink. your mouth opens. no sound comes out.

he waits.

you shake your head. swallow hard. “i don’t… i don’t know.”

he nods. once.

“what are you majoring in?”

“general studies.”

“what do you like?”

you pause.

“music, i guess,” you whisper. “writing sometimes. i used to draw a lot, but… i haven’t in a while.”

he nods again. like he’s storing that away.

“what kind of person do you want to be with?”

you bite the inside of your cheek.

your voice is small. “i don’t know that either.”

he leans back in the chair. runs a hand down his face.

“you should.”

you look at him. eyes wide. raw.

“not because you need to decide everything right now,” he says. “but because if you don’t start asking, then someone else will answer for you. and it’ll feel like love. and you’ll believe it’s love. even when it’s not.”

your chest aches. it’s too much. too true.

“you don’t have to be figured out,” he says. “but you have to at least be trying. for you. not for jace. not for me. not for anyone who tells you they’ll take care of you if you just behave.”

you don’t say anything. you just nod. barely.

he sighs. softer now. tired.

your throat is thick. you look down at your hands. they’re trembling. you make fists in your shirt–his shirt–just to stop them.

his voice drops again.

“you want someone to tell you who you are?”

a pause.

“start with you. what do you want right now?”

you look at him.

you want to say that you want him.

but you don’t.

because that’s not what he asked.

and for the first time… maybe that’s not what you need.

your lips press together. your shoulders shake—just once. you take a breath that barely fits in your chest.

“i want…” your voice falters. “i want to go home.”

he nods.

not like it hurts. not like he’s proud. just… accepting.

“all right,” he says. “we’ll get you packed.”

you don’t move.

he stands.

and for a second, you brace—expecting distance, rejection, silence.

but instead…

he cups your jaw with one hand. tilts your face up. kisses your forehead.

not like a lover. not like a dad. not like anything that simple.

just a man saying i see you.

and maybe, i want to see you succeed.

[slattlicker]

Okay before I start....I love you so much and your writing is magnificent and I could only hope to be like you one day.

Okay in this house we love a one bed tropes, enemies to lovers, and slow burn.

Maybe you're forced to be together for a mutual friends wedding or something, and because you're both terrible at rsvp-ing, there's only one hotel room left - a queen sized bed. Or a high school reunion or something.

Maybe a whispered: "what are we doing?"

A hurt : "I never hated you. I couldn't. I tried. I wanted to. But I never did.

I envision looking up into his dark brown eyes, mysterious and mischievous and hard, pupils blown wide, chapped lips puffy with use.

Okay I have so many thoughts and ill probably make it more complicated. Do as you will because its going to be good no matter what. 🖤🖤🖤🖤

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * tied for second place ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you lost the senior class election to a guy with pizza. now you’re stuck in one bed with your former rival, ten years later, still arguing—just a little softer this time. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: this was supposed to be banter-heavy but then these two started unpacking emotional damage at midnight and now i wanna hold hands with them and make them smooch forever. thank you to this anon who gave such a compelling idea and who is probably hiding amazing writing of their own somewhere...xx

warnings: one queen bed · ten years of weird tension · bad reunion planning · emotional damage, lightly toasted · soft hands, soft hearts

enjoyyyy ♡

✧✧✧

the hotel lobby smells like chlorine and reheated meatballs.

you’re already sweating—partly from the humidity, partly from dragging your carry-on and duffel across three parking lots because the class president didn't reserve enough spots for anyone not arriving before 3 p.m.

you step up to the desk, smoothing the front of your black tank top, trying to look at least semi put-together despite the heat. jean shorts. platform sandals. makeup’s mostly still intact, thanks to the ac in your car. you’re not dressed to impress—just enough to avoid the “wow, what happened to her?” comments.

“checking in,” you say. “last name [last name]. i’m here for the reunion block.”

the girl at the desk pecks at the keyboard like it’s personally offended her.

“room 218,” she says. “you’re the second guest.”

you blink. “sorry—the second?”

she tilts the monitor so you can see. two names. yours and one that makes your stomach drop.

j. schlatt.

you barely have time to process before a voice pipes up behind you:

“yeah. i tried to switch it. she said no.”

you turn, and there he is.

schlatt stands just behind the velvet rope divider, wearing a plain black t-shirt, joggers, and a backwards hat. tattoos peek out from under his sleeves. his duffel bag’s slung over one shoulder. he looks… older, obviously. broader, sharper in the jaw, a little taller than you remember. still that same look on his face—like everything around him is dumber than it needs to be.

“of course it’s you,” you say, dry.

“trust me, i’m thrilled.”

the front desk girl slides your key across the counter. “they sorted everyone by yearbook photo order. isn’t that cute?”

your head snaps toward her. “that wasn’t alphabetized.”

“i know,” she says, smiling like it’s funny. “you’re right next to each other in the senior spread.”

you stare at her. then at schlatt. he’s already walking toward the elevator.

“unbelievable,” you mutter, yanking your bag off the floor and following him.

you hate the way your heart’s beating. too fast. too shallow. like you’re about to go onstage or get in a fight.

schlatt doesn’t look back, just hits the button for the elevator and runs a hand down his face. his other hand still holds the key card.

you stand next to him in silence. the air between you’s tight. stupid. familiar.

you break it first. “i didn’t even rsvp. ethan just assumed i’d come.”

“he begged me,” schlatt mutters. “said i was the only one from our class who could keep the energy up.”

you scoff. “oh yeah. you’re a ray of fucking sunshine.”

he doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

the elevator dings.

you both step in.

✧✧✧

the room is small. beige walls, beige carpet, beige comforter. one sad lamp. one queen bed.

you stand in the doorway, bag still in hand. it takes you exactly one second to realize the situation.

“…no.”

schlatt, already a few steps in, lets out a humorless laugh. “yeah. that was my reaction, too.”

you drop your duffel. “there’s one bed.”

he turns toward you, hands on his hips. “that’s what it looks like.”

“ethan seriously didn’t think to ask people’s genders before assigning shared rooms?”

“apparently,” he says, flatly, “he sorted us based on yearbook placement. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

your mouth falls open. “we weren’t even friends.”

“we were barely civil.”

“and now we’re—” you gesture toward the bed like it personally betrayed you. “—sleeping in the same fucking room?”

“same bed, actually,” he adds. “unless you wanna sleep in the bathtub.”

you close your eyes for a second. inhale through your nose.

this is fine.

this is completely, totally fine.

you toe your sandals off and step inside. the carpet feels damp. of course it does.

schlatt moves toward the desk, unzipping his duffel, and starts pulling things out. he's apparently a minimalist packer. toothbrush. one normal shirt. a single sad pair of basketball shorts. and what you think is a very wrinkly suit jacket and pants. he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he didn’t plan to stay long.

you set your bag on the luggage stand. try not to look at the bed. fail.

“so,” you say. “how do you want to do this?”

he glances up. “do what?”

“the bed,” you snap. “are we drawing a line down the middle? alternating sides? building a pillow fort?”

he raises an eyebrow. “you think we’re gonna touch in our sleep?”

“i don’t know. you look like a sprawler.”

he laughs again. “and you look like you steal blankets.”

you cross your arms. “you don’t know that.”

“i know everything,” he says, flipping open a water bottle. “remember that. you used to hate it.”

your jaw tightens. that tone—it’s familiar. sharp. testing. like he wants you to bite back.

you don’t. not yet.

“i’m not here to fight,” you say, turning toward the bathroom. “i just want to survive the weekend.”

he hums. noncommittal.

you close the door behind you, press your hands to the sink, and breathe.

ten years. ten years since you’ve seen him. since you both lost that stupid election and swore you’d never speak again. and now?

one bed.

you knew this weekend would be bad. but this? this is next-level inconvenient.

✧✧✧

you open the bathroom door and step out, still towel-drying your hair.

the air in the room hits cooler than you expect. damp skin prickles. you’re in a soft tee and sleep shorts, fresh-faced, lotion still tacky on your arms. for a second, you feel weirdly exposed. not naked, but… not guarded either. it's a vulnerability you weren’t planning on sharing with him, of all people.

schlatt is already on the bed.

sprawled. arms behind his head, long legs kicked out, one sock hanging half-off. he’s taken both pillows and stacked them under his neck like a king in exile. the tv’s on, muted, stuck on some late-night commercial for a law firm that handles tractor accidents.

you blink. “seriously?”

he looks over without moving. “what?”

“you’re taking up the whole bed.”

“i’m breaking it in.”

“move.”

“no.”

you toss your towel on the desk chair and walk to the side of the bed—your side, the side farthest from the window—and peel back the comforter, eyes darting at the mattress and really hoping it's clean.

schlatt watches you, barely holding back a grin. “you always get this cranky after a shower?”

you ignore him. slide under the sheets, still warm from the shower, and adjust your shirt. he doesn’t move over. not even a little. you’re both way too close. you, now under the blanket. him and his impossibly big form laying on top of it, making it a struggle to move at all.

“this is absurd,” you mutter.

“you could’ve stayed home,” he says. “nobody made you come.”

you shoot him a look. “please. you live for this kind of stuff. you probably packed a sharpie just in case someone asks for your autograph.”

“you think people ask for my autograph?”

“i think you think they do.”

"…well, maybe they will. i am famous."

"i guarantee you…no one watches your stupid little react videos."

he raises an eyebrow, glancing at you. "apparently, you do."

a beat passes.

you both glance at the tv. some poor guy just got awarded six hundred thousand dollars for a grain silo accident.

then—

a soft paper sound.

you both freeze.

there’s a thin white sheet being slid under the door.

schlatt sits up, slides off the bed and picks it up off the carpet. “well. here comes the circus.”

you watch him read it. his brows furrow. then raise. then he slowly hands it to you like it’s a cursed object.

you scan it.

welcome class of 2015! let’s make this weekend unforgettable!

✦ friday night: pizza mixer @ casa de ethan (byob, bring a lawn chair) ✦ saturday: – 9:30 am “casual kickback coffee circle” (location tbd) – 10:00 am mandatory group photo (wear class colors??) – 2:00 pm open gym (basketball tournament?) – 6:30 pm banquet (el rancho, semi-formal, pasta bar) ✦ sunday: reflections in the legacy room (brunch attire suggested)

you lower the paper slowly. “…he literally wrote ‘location tbd.’ for an event happening in the morning.”

schlatt leans back again, laughing under his breath. “you cannot make this shit up.”

you shake your head. “what the hell is a ‘casual kickback coffee circle?’”

“sounds like a cult's favorite morning sex position.”

you glance down the list again, ignore that comment. “‘brunch attire suggested?’ what even is brunch attire?”

“fancy but hungover.”

you groan and let the paper drop to your stomach. “this is gonna be a disaster.”

“wanna bail?”

you blink. “what, now?”

“i’m just saying,” he shrugs, arms still behind his head, “we go to the pizza thing, show face, and then spend the rest of the weekend getting drinks at a better hotel bar and people-watching.”

you look at him.

he’s serious.

and—for just a second—you kind of consider it. you look back and stare up at the ceiling for a long moment, paper still resting on your stomach. the room is dim except for the soft glow of the tv and the hallway light seeping in through the gap under the door.

“i do want to see a few people,” you say finally.

schlatt doesn’t move. “yeah?”

“yeah. i mean… i haven’t seen jess since college. and meera texted that she’s bringing her kid.” you shrug. “it’s been a long time.”

he’s quiet for a second. then: “they all hated me.”

you glance over. “they didn’t hate you.”

“they voted for ethan.”

“they voted for pizza.”

a short laugh leaves him. it’s tired. a little bitter. “he did bribe them with papa john’s during lunch rush. god. remember how personal that got?”

“which part?” you ask. “when you said i was a ‘pick-me, main character wannabe bitch’ or when i called you ‘a closeted megalomaniac narcissistic asshole’ in the middle of the quad?”

he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “jesus. i forgot about that.”

“you made me cry,” you say, not accusatory—just stating it. “not, like… a lot. but i went home and cried in the car.”

that makes him pause. his tone shifts. “i didn’t know that.”

you shrug. “no one did.”

schlatt sits up a little straighter, looking over at you now. “i took that whole thing way too seriously.”

you nod. “me too.”

there’s a beat of silence.

then he says, quieter: “i think it fucked me up more than i wanted to admit.”

your eyes find his. he doesn’t look away.

“i lost something that year,” he adds. “not just the vote. like—i don’t know. some kind of momentum. i thought it was supposed to mean something. that winning would fix… everything.”

you nod, because you understand exactly what he’s saying. “i felt like i had something to prove.”

“yeah. so did i.”

you both go quiet again.

outside, a car passes. somewhere down the hall, someone laughs too loudly. then nothing.

“you think ethan’s still proud of himself?” you ask, voice dry.

schlatt snorts. “he made a whole facebook post about the reunion, called himself the ‘architect of memories.’”

you groan, covering your face with both hands. “shut up. there's no way that's true.”

“it unfortunately is.”

there’s a flicker of something between you now. not forgiveness exactly—but recognition. a shared disappointment in how much you cared. how much it shaped you. how it still kind of lives in your bones.

“i don’t hate you,” you say suddenly.

he looks at you. like that caught him off guard.

you add, softer: “i wanted to. i really, really did. but i never did.”

he’s quiet.

then:

“…me neither.”

you don’t mean to look at him, but you do.

his jaw’s tight. he’s staring at the ceiling now, like there’s something up there he needs to focus on instead of this.

you shift, propping yourself up on one elbow. the sheets rustle.

“you know,” you say, carefully, “i used to think the only reason you went so hard in that election was because you hated me.”

schlatt doesn’t answer right away.

then: “that’s not why.”

you wait. he doesn’t elaborate.

so you push. “then what was it?”

he sighs. runs a hand through his hair, dragging it down his face. “you were good. like—annoyingly good. smart. organized. charismatic. people actually listened to you.”

you blink.

“you made me nervous,” he says, voice low. “like, if i didn’t push harder, i’d lose by a landslide.”

you let that settle. it shifts something in your chest.

“i thought you were a dick because you liked getting under my skin,” you admit. “like it was a game to you.”

schlatt lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “it was. kind of.”

you tilt your head. “what, like… playground teasing?”

“not exactly.”

you stare at him. he stares back.

the room’s too quiet. the air feels too warm.

“…i liked you,” he says, suddenly. “back then. after we both lost, i mean.”

you blink. you weren’t expecting that. not in those words.

he keeps going, slow but steady. “we still had to work together, remember? planning prom. setting up those stupid spirit weeks. every time i thought i was done with you, we got roped into something else.”

you do remember. endless afternoons spent arguing over themes, budget spreadsheets, teacher sign-offs. neither of you wanted ethan anywhere near the logistics, so you just… handled it yourselves.

“you didn’t act like you liked me,” you say, voice quieter now.

“i didn’t know how to,” he says. “everything about you made me feel like i had to prove something.”

you don’t say anything.

he shifts, one arm folding behind his head, the other resting over his chest. his voice drops a little.

“i’d go home and replay arguments in my head like an idiot. figure out the perfect comeback after the fact.”

you laugh once. “same.”

“really?”

“yeah,” you admit. “you made me feel small. and i hated that it mattered to me.”

he looks at you again. listening intently, his chocolate brown eyes studying you.

“i thought maybe if i kept pushing,” you add, “if i stayed ahead of you, i wouldn’t have to think about why i actually wanted your attention in the first place.”

schlatt’s quiet for a beat.

then: “so we were just two dumbass teenagers too proud to admit we wanted to kiss each other behind the bleachers.”

"ew, not there. like, the library or something," you say smiling, a little sad. “but, yes, basically.”

the room hums with the weight of that. with everything that didn’t happen.

and now?

you’re both older. a little softer. still messed up in some of the same ways—but the noise has faded. all that’s left is what’s real.

schlatt shifts closer—just barely. his thigh brushes yours through the sheets. he doesn’t pull away.

“can i ask you something?” he says, voice low.

you nod.

“did you want it to be me?”

you look at him. “what?”

“back then. did you want me to win?”

you blink. because yeah—yeah. somewhere under all that drive and resentment, you think part of you did.

“i definitely wanted to win,” you say honestly. “but… if it wasn’t gonna be me?”

you meet his eyes.

“it should’ve been you.”

something flickers there—something big. his fingers curl against the blanket. but he doesn’t push it. neither do you.

for a minute, the only sound is the dull hum of the ac and the soft creak of the bed frame whenever either of you shift slightly.

then he exhales.

“so…” he starts, “what’s your deal now?”

you raise an eyebrow. “my deal?”

he shrugs a shoulder against the pillow. “yeah. you’re here. alone. sleeping next to me in a hotel room that smells like feet and cheap lemons. what happened to the polished, high-functioning future congresswoman version of you?”

you huff out a laugh. “burned out, probably. somewhere between my third unpaid internship and the panic attacks.”

he doesn’t joke back. just nods. quiet.

you add, “i work in publishing now. not glamorous, but it pays the bills. and i get to tell other people when their writing sucks, so that’s something.”

he smiles. “still bossy.”

you nudge his leg with your knee, but you don’t deny it.

“what about you?” you ask. “you actually do youtube?”

“yeah,” he says, almost sheepish. “started as a joke. then it stuck. people liked it. i got a couple breaks. started doing more commentary stuff.”

“react videos,” you say, teasing.

“insightful react videos,” he corrects. “and vlogs, video essays, giving advice...but yeah. that. i got lucky.”

you’re both quiet again.

then, without really planning it, you ask: “you seeing anyone?”

he doesn’t answer right away. you can feel him shift next to you.

“no,” he says finally. “not for a while.”

you nod. “yeah. same.”

you don’t say more, but it’s there—between the lines. the weight of time. the difficulty of letting people close. of being understood. maybe even the fear that you already missed something important. maybe even this.

“been hard?” he asks softly.

you nod. “yeah.”

he turns his head to look at you. “why?”

you breathe in. “because i want to be known. but not… simplified. and that scares people, i think. or they lose interest when it gets complicated.”

he doesn’t tease you for it. doesn’t laugh.

instead, he says, “same.”

you both lay there. facing each other now. the bed too small, the space between you even smaller.

it doesn’t feel like high school anymore.

you're both adults, but this feeling…is nostalgic. familiar. nice.

the feeling of being seen. of feeling on the same level with someone.

schlatt shifts slightly, his voice low but a little brighter now. “so… ten years.”

you nod. “ten years.”

he hums like that number is still catching up to him. then he glances down, toward the edge of the blanket that’s draped over you. one corner tucked under your arm. one hand barely visible at your side.

his fingers reach out. tap lightly at the edge.

“permission to examine the hand of my former opponent?” he asks, mock-formal.

you roll your eyes but lift it anyway, letting your arm slide out from under the blanket. “you’re ridiculous.”

he cradles your hand gently in his palm, turning it slightly like he’s actually inspecting it. his fingers are big—warm and rough around the edges. yours fit in his easily.

“callouses,” he says, mock serious. “tense in the joints. likely from years of holding grudges and overachieving.”

you laugh, quiet and surprised.

he doesn’t let go.

his thumb brushes across your knuckles, slow. thoughtful.

then he shifts again, tightening his grip—not too hard. just enough to shake once, firm.

“truce?” he says, voice softer now.

you look at him.

and you nod.

“truce.”

the shake lingers. turns into holding again.

neither of you say anything for a while. the room hums with quiet—tv still muted, hallway noise distant, the soft buzz of the ac keeping everything wrapped in a low static.

eventually, schlatt shifts, eyes flicking toward the bathroom door. “i should shower.”

you nod, still curled under the blanket. “yeah.”

he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. just squeezes once, gently, before sliding out of bed. he grabs the gym shorts and wrinkled shirt from his duffel, then glances back at you. “try not to steal the whole bed while i’m gone.”

you smirk, already curling deeper into the sheets. “no promises.”

he disappears into the bathroom. the door clicks shut.

you stay still for a moment, letting the rhythm of the hotel room settle again. then you shift onto your side, facing the bathroom door. eyes closed, body warm, heartbeat weirdly steady.

you hear the water start. the dull pressure of the pipes groaning. a fan kicking on.

you don’t mean to drift, but you do—just hovering at the edge of sleep. the kind of tired that feels more like surrender than exhaustion.

you hear the bathroom door open again.

the soft steps as he comes back in. the room gets a little cooler. the light dims again.

then—

a pause.

sheets rustle. mattress creaks. you feel the bed dip beside you. but he doesn’t lay down all the way.

instead, there’s the weight of his elbow settling next to you. the sound of a breath—measured. careful.

and his voice, low and barely audible:

“i think i would’ve liked the last ten years a lot more if they’d had you in ’em.”

you don’t move.

your heart does, though. loudly.

you feel him shift again, starting to settle under the covers.

before he gets too far, you roll over, eyes still mostly closed, and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

he freezes.

you pull back just enough to whisper:

“good news,” you say, voice quiet but smiling. “our next ten years both have vacant positions. would you be willing to meet with me, perhaps an interview to see if i'm a good fit for what you're seeking.”

he turns his head slowly, eyes meeting yours in the dark. there’s a look there you haven’t seen from him before—not angry, not smug. just curious and intrigued.

“an interview, huh?” he murmurs, voice quiet, hoarse at the edges.

you nod, cheek still close to his. “thorough one. might take a few weeks. maybe months.”

his smile is soft now. “sounds like something i’d be willing to commit to.”

you hum, pleased. “you always were weirdly good at long-term projects.”

“i was just waiting for the right partner.”

that makes your stomach flip.

neither of you say anything after that.

you shift a little closer under the covers, your knees brushing his. he meets you there, settling in more fully beside you. the mattress dips. the blankets warm. it’s still that same creaky, questionably clean hotel bed—but suddenly it feels a little less awful.

he wraps an arm gently around your waist. not pulling. just there.

you tuck your hand against his chest, feel the steady rhythm of his heart. his nose brushes your hair. he exhales slow and even, like it’s the first time all night he’s really relaxed.

“night, rival,” he mumbles into your hair.

you smile. “night, landslide loser.”

he snorts. "we both are. we were never going to beat freshly delivered pizza."

"yeah…i guess so."

and that’s how the night ends:

tangled together. tired. not really looking forward to the mess that is ethan's "plans" tomorrow.

but at least you two idiots are finally figuring it out.

[slattlicker]

HI!!! I've been waiting eagerly for your requests to open back up

I absolutely adore your writing!!

I was wondering if you could do a soft, comfy/comfort type fic of Schlatty and Reader dancing in the kitchen. Maybe My Way is playing, up to you (thats just been my comfort song recently)

thank you so much!! your writing is lovely ♡

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * finally come home ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: a storm, a surprise day off, a kitchen full of half-ruined recipes and full-hearted apologies. he comes home early. you hold each other like it’s the first time. and for once—nothing is pulling you apart. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ ✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the darling who asked for dancing in the kitchen to My Way. thank you for the compliments and i am glad to start this round of requests with this one first !!

warnings: established relationship, comfort fluff, emotional reconnection, missed-you kisses, slow dancing, hand pies, old family recipes, forehead touches, and being so in love it physically hurts.

highly recommend reading this while not hungry or thirsty lolol ♡

✧✧✧

the alert comes through around 10:06 am.

just one soft ding from your phone, where it’s face-down on the kitchen counter, forgotten next to a half-eaten banana and the unopened weather app. you glance at it only because the wind’s been whining through the trees since dawn, low and long like it’s warning something.

when you flip the phone over, the screen lights up:

⚠️ severe weather advisory all local travel discouraged after 11:30 am. shelter indoors.

you blink. then blink again, slower.

work was already feeling optional today—your boss had been eyeing the forecast for a week, and you'd noticed how quickly everyone cleared out yesterday, muttering things like “just in case” and “see you monday.” you hadn’t thought it would actually hit. but outside, the sky’s already gone that strange silver-gray, and the air has that heavy, electric smell—like wet pavement and ozone and far-off thunder. like a storm that means business.

your hands wrap around the ceramic mug you poured yourself over an hour ago. the tea’s gone lukewarm, but you sip it anyway. it tastes like something grounding—clove and orange peel, maybe—and it warms your throat just enough to make you exhale, slow and audible.

you glance toward the window.

raindrops are beginning to gather in stripes along the glass, tracing their way down in trembling beads. the house creaks once, almost thoughtfully, like it knows what’s coming too.

you should text him.

your thumbs hover over the keyboard, halfway through the thought:

hey, are you still at the—

the front door slams open.

you flinch, eyes darting up just as the wind howls into the hallway—followed by him.

he fills the doorway in one heaving, rain-slicked breath. drenched. dark slacks soaked through and clinging to his legs, a dress shirt—light gray, maybe white originally—gone nearly translucent across his chest and arms. the buttons are strained from the way the fabric's sticking to him, plastered over broad shoulders and the hint of a white undershirt that’s not doing its job anymore. his tie’s long gone. the sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows, and water drips steadily from his cuffs, down the backs of his hands, onto the floor.

and his hair.

curling in wet tufts over his forehead, frizzing at the temples, flattened down at the crown like it lost a fight with the sky.

you just stand there, frozen halfway between texting and forgetting how to breathe.

he looks up. eyes catching yours.

“it’s bad out there,” he says, voice roughened from the cold air. “gonna get worse.”

you blink at him. “you—what are you—?”

“boss let us go early,” he says, tugging the door shut behind him with a solid thunk. “didn’t want anyone getting stuck on the freeway. told me to get home safe. so…”

he looks around the room, then back at you.

“i came home.”

there’s a beat of silence. you can hear the rain pelting the roof now, harder than before. the lights flicker once. then settle.

you’re still looking at him.

he notices.

“what?” he asks, head tilting, already reaching up to undo the top button of his soaked shirt. “you’re staring.”

you are.

god, you are. because he looks like a man pulled from a cologne commercial—or an emergency fireman calendar. only real, and in your living room, and peeling soaked fabric off his chest like it’s nothing. his fingers work through the buttons slowly, half-numb with cold. the wet shirt clings to his back as he shrugs it off, revealing the soft stretch of his undershirt beneath—equally drenched, equally see-through.

you make a noise. it escapes before you can stop it.

his eyebrows lift.

“i wasn’t expecting you,” you mutter, which isn't even an answer. you turn toward the hallway, pretending to be very busy with nothing. “i’ll get you a dry towel—maybe something to change into—”

but his voice stops you in the doorway.

“hey.”

you turn back.

and there he is. bare arms crossed loosely, undershirt hugging him like a second skin, dark hair dripping water onto the hollow of his collarbone. his expression is soft now, warmer than the room deserves, even with the heater running.

“i missed you,” he says simply.

you swallow.

“yeah,” you whisper. “me too.”

you mean it in ways you haven’t said out loud. in every quiet morning you woke up alone. in every night you reached out for him out of habit and found only your own hand on the sheets. in the half-drunk mugs of coffee gone cold while you waited for a call, for a message, for a second of his voice in your day.

he doesn’t say anything back—not right away. but you can feel the words pressed tight behind his ribs. the ones he’s always so bad at shaping with his mouth and so good at spelling out with the curve of his palms, the press of his chest, the steady weight of his presence.

he uncrosses his arms. and suddenly, he's moving.

you don’t expect how quickly he crosses the space between you—how his hands rise, not rough or urgent, but with the kind of intention that comes from weeks of holding back. his fingers skim your arms, pausing as if to ask, and when you don’t move, he closes them around your waist. pulls you in.

the heat of him hits you all at once. damp skin, chilled breath, the faint smell of clean rain and laundry soap and him. your hands hover, suspended, then land gently on his chest. you feel his heart beating beneath his undershirt—steady and real and here.

“i hate it when we do this,” you murmur, voice nearly lost in the space between your lips and his throat. “when everything pulls us in different directions.”

“i know,” he says, quiet and rough. “it’s been killing me.”

you tilt your head up. he’s already looking down at you. his eyes are darker than usual, but soft. focused. his gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, then returns to your eyes like it never left.

you don’t mean to lean in.

you just do.

so does he.

and when your mouths meet, it’s nothing like the rushed hellos you’ve exchanged at airports, the distracted goodnights between late meetings and early alarms. this one is slow. intentional. it tastes like missing someone. like relief. like every touch he wanted to give you but had to store up instead.

his hands slide up your back, warm against the curve of your spine. yours rise to his neck, fingers slipping into rain-damp hair.

when he breaks the kiss, it’s only to rest his forehead against yours again. you both breathe like the air just got easier to take in.

“i missed this,” he says.

you nod. press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“go get warm...dry yourself off, i mean,” you whisper. “and then we can do whatever we want.”

he doesn’t argue. presses a kiss to your forehead before turning towards the stairs.

✧✧✧

the rain is louder now.

a low, steady percussion against the roof and windows, like the storm’s trying to rock the whole house into sleep. but in the kitchen, it’s warm. lived-in. the air smells faintly like the spiced tea you forgot to finish and the hint of lemon dish soap clinging to your fingertips.

you’ve got two pans out on the stove already. olive oil. garlic. a bundle of thyme you’re not even sure you’ll use. your hands move on instinct—grabbing the usual: pasta, a jar of red sauce, the same vegetables you always roast when it’s late and comfort’s more important than creativity.

you just haven’t had the space to think about cooking something new. not when every day felt like a countdown. not when dinners were leftovers and messages exchanged mid-meeting.

you reach up to grab the cutting board when you hear footsteps behind you. slow. barefoot. a little heavier than usual—like he’s taking his time with each one, grounding himself in the sound of home.

and then his arms are around you.

not rushed. not teasing. just there.

warm hands slide beneath your arms and rest on your waist, his hoodie soft against your back. you can feel the curve of his chin settle gently against your shoulder, the damp tips of his curls brushing your temple. he smells like clean cotton and your detergent.

you go still.

“thought i told you to get warm,” you murmur.

“i am warm,” he says, voice low and sleep-soft in your ear. “now that i'm next to you.”

your eyes flutter shut.

for a moment, neither of you moves.

then he hums, glancing at the counter. “you makin’ the same thing again?”

you peek back at him. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“it’s not,” he says. “but it’s not a usual day, is it?”

you raise a brow. “no?”

“it’s storming.” he sways you gently in his hold. “we’re both off work. power’s still on. you kissed me and it was more than 2 seconds...”

you blush.

he leans in a little closer. “so let’s do something new.”

you glance at the open pantry. the half-chopped onion. the already-oiled pan.

he squeezes your waist.

“c’mon,” he murmurs. “let’s wing it. pick something we’ve never made before. we’ve got all night.”

he kisses your temple before stepping away.

you miss his warmth the second he’s gone, but you can still hear him padding across the kitchen, opening drawers like he’s looking for treasure.

you turn just as he pulls out a small, battered tin from the bottom drawer—the one you always forget is there. it clinks as he opens it, revealing a tangle of old measuring spoons, a couple rubber bands, and a stack of faded index cards, curled slightly with age.

“oh my god,” you breathe. “where did you even find those?”

“back corner. buried under five years of takeout menus.” he props the tin on the counter and rifles through the cards, squinting at the labels. “ooh,” he says, tugging one free, “this one’s got grease stains. that’s how you know it’s good.”

you glance over as he holds it up between two fingers like a playing card.

savory pockets <3 — freezer-friendly! me and g-ma's favorite “always good for storms and sundays — love, mom”

your chest warms a little at the handwriting—familiar and looping, smudged in places from age or spills. the bottom corner is warped, and the middle’s hard to read. a few ingredients are legible, though:

dough (easy)

??? (cheese???)

1 small onion

leftover meat, shredded or ???

??? spice blend (you know the one)

brush w/ ??? before baking!!

you snort. “very specific.”

“she said ‘you know the one’ like it was a password,” schlatt says, already moving toward the fridge. “bet we can figure it out.”

“i don’t think i’ve ever made a hand pie in my life.”

“neither have i. but listen—worst case, it’s still flaky bread stuffed with hot stuff. i don’t see a downside.”

without another word, he pulls open the fridge.

you join him, shoulder to shoulder, eyes combing through the shelves. a half-used rotisserie chicken. one sad zucchini. shredded cheddar. cream cheese. a leftover container of roasted potatoes. half an onion. leftover marinated mushrooms. dijon mustard. a bag of frozen spinach. garlic. olives. a mystery jar labeled just ‘darren’s salsa (hot)’ in black sharpie.

you both stare at it.

“no,” you say.

“but what if—”

“no.”

"who's darren?"

"i thought you knew."

schlatt squints at the label. “no idea. maybe some weirdo who's been squatting in our house without us knowing?”

“great. i’ll let the authorities know.”

he chuckles and sets the salsa way off to the side. your unofficial absolutely not pile. beside it goes the olives (“too salty”), the dijon (“you’re not allowed to put that in things anymore”), and the mystery yogurt container neither of you saw at a first glance, labeled in a faded sharpie scrawl: “science project—do not eat.”

eventually, you cobble together a few combinations that could work:

chicken, spinach, garlic, cream cheese

mushroom, potato, cheddar

zucchini, onion, and a weird spice blend you hadn't yet thrown away, but nicknamed "ranch-esque".

and of course—one sweet one with half an overripe apple, cinnamon, sugar, oreo (??) and a spoonful of peach jam that schlatt insists “counts as dessert” if you bake it and eat it with vanilla ice cream.

you’ve both got flour on your forearms. on your shirts. on the side of your nose, apparently, if the way he keeps glancing at you and smiling means anything.

“okay,” you say, pressing the rim of a drinking glass into the dough to make circles. “we’ve got ten rounds. that’s five each.”

"i don't think numbers matter here when i know you're only going to eat three if these turn out delicious."

"nuh-uh, if these are delicious, i'm having all five of mine." you roll your eyes, but your smile’s already too wide. you pass him a small bowl of water to seal the edges, and he dips his finger in, tracing it slowly around the edge of one of the dough circles before plopping a too-large spoonful of filling in the center.

“that’s gonna explode,” you warn.

“nah. i’m the king of careful folding.”

“that’s what you said before the stuffed pepper incident.”

“low blow.”

you work in quiet rhythm for a few minutes—folding, pressing, crimping. his fingers are sure but clumsy, the way they always are when he’s pretending he knows what he’s doing. at some point, he leans over to steal a bite of the potato mix off your spoon, but misjudges the distance and ends up with a smear of cheddar across his cheek.

you try not to laugh. you fail miserably.

“what?” he asks, deadpan.

“you’ve got something—” you gesture vaguely toward his face.

“where?”

you wipe it off with your thumb. he catches your wrist.

you freeze.

he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move—just holds your wrist gently, his fingers curling just barely over your pulse. your breath stutters.

he leans in, slow.

“this is stupid,” he murmurs. “we’re making tiny pies.”

“you’re the one who wanted to.”

“i just wanted to do something with you.”

your lips part.

“everything’s been so fast,” he says, voice low now, close enough you can feel it. “and i—i missed this. us. doing nothing. messy counters. bad measurements. you laughing at me.”

“i’m not laughing,” you whisper.

“you are. but i like it.”

and then he kisses you again.

it’s softer than the one in the hallway. slower. covered in flour and something sweet. his hand still holds your wrist like it’s something precious, and your other finds the hem of his hoodie, curling there. you lean into him. breathe him in.

he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“we’re probably gonna end up burning the pies,” you murmur.

“mm. if i steal your attention away from them long enough...we can count on it.”

✧✧✧

the cleanup starts easy. quiet.

he’s rinsing the cutting board, you’re scraping flour into the sink, the two of you moving around each other like you’ve done it a hundred times. your sleeves are pushed up, the hem of his hoodie’s dusted white, and your hands are just barely pink from the heat of the water.

you glance at him once—just once—and catch him watching you.

“what?” you ask, reaching for the sponge.

he doesn’t answer. just shifts a little closer, towel draped over his shoulder, hands casually braced on the edge of the counter.

you keep wiping the surface, ignoring the way he’s clearly up to something. “don’t even think about throwing that towel at me.”

“i wasn’t gonna.”

“you were.”

“i wasn’t.” he grins. “promise.”

you narrow your eyes. turn back to the counter.

and that’s when the music starts.

faint at first, filtering through the bluetooth speaker like a ghost in the walls. a soft swell of brass. familiar. slow. steady.

and now... the end is near...

you freeze.

“…you put on "my way"?”

“hey. you said it was your comfort song.”

you turn, sponge still in hand. “we’re in the middle of cleaning.”

“are we?” he says, stepping closer.

“yes. we are.”

he reaches for the sponge. you hold it out of reach.

“i will wipe this on you,” you warn.

“do it,” he dares, and his grin is downright smug. “won’t change the fact that i’m asking you to dance.”

you blink.

“you’re not serious.”

he takes a step forward. not touching yet, just inviting.

“c’mon,” he says, voice low. “just one dance. you can finish the counter after.”

you hesitate. your hand is still full of sponge. there’s still flour on the stove.

but then he offers his hand. a little dramatic, a little crooked. his eyes are soft and steady and just waiting.

you sigh.

“…you’re lucky i like you.”

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

you drop the sponge into the sink. wipe your hands on the dish towel.

and take his hand.

he pulls you in gently—hands finding your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt. you settle your arms around his neck, and your cheek finds his shoulder like it’s been waiting for it.

i planned each charted course... each careful step, along the byway...

the kitchen sways around you. the world shrinks down to this: the slow drag of his fingers up your spine, the way he hums along without realizing it, the warmth of his breath against your temple.

the storm taps gently at the windows.

and somewhere behind you, the oven ticks quietly on.

his hands settle more firmly at your back. one drifts up—fingertips brushing the curve of your shoulder like he’s memorizing it again.

you close your eyes. let him lead you in the slowest, simplest sway. there’s no beat to hit. no steps to follow. just the sound of his breath syncing with yours, the familiar creak of the floor beneath your feet.

yes, there were times, i’m sure you knew when i bit off more than i could chew...

you feel the rumble of his voice before you realize he’s singing along.

not loudly. not like he’s trying to perform. just soft. casual. almost absentminded, like the words have always lived somewhere in his chest, and being here—with you—is the only thing that lets them out.

your throat tightens.

he gives you a little spin—nothing fancy. just enough to make your hair drift, your heart flip. you land back in his arms a beat later, laughing quietly, forehead against his chest.

and then his voice is right near your ear again.

“i hate it,” he says, barely above a whisper.

you blink. “what?”

“this,” he murmurs. “us being apart all the time. work. flights. scheduling dinner like it’s a business meeting.” he breathes in. lets it out slow. “i feel like i blink and you’re gone again.”

your fingers tighten slightly at his back.

“i know,” you whisper. “it’s been... hard.”

“i miss things. stupid things. you in the kitchen. you singing while you fold laundry. that little noise you make when your tea’s too hot.”

“i don’t make a noise.”

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “you do. it’s like a little ‘huhhh’ noise. like a surprised cat.”

you laugh, even though your eyes are misting.

“i don’t want to keep missing it,” he says, quieter now. “i don’t want us to get used to missing each other.”

you reach up. press your hand against his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you say.

“i know,” he murmurs. “me neither. i just... i want you to know that i don’t take any of this for granted. you for granted. even if i’m tired. or distracted. or not always home when i should be.”

you feel it settle between you. the heaviness of honesty, yes—but also something warm. something whole.

the music slows.

...and did it my way...

he shifts his grip.

and dips you.

it’s slow. gentle. dramatic only in how careful he is with it. his hand cradles your back like you’re made of something precious. his other steadies yours. and his eyes never leave yours.

when he pulls you upright again, he doesn’t let go.

he just leans in.

and kisses you—slow, steady, like he means to hold you there until the next storm passes.

when you break apart, his forehead rests against yours again.

you whisper:

“next time you miss me like that…”

“yeah?”

“call me. come home. put on music and ruin the kitchen. let's use some of those sick days i know you never use.”

he smiles.

“i guess i have been sick. homesick. lovesick.”

"me too."

“so…” he murmurs.

but he doesn’t get to finish.

because the oven dings.

sharp and sudden, slicing through the warmth like a hotel wake-up call. the two of you freeze for a beat—still in each other’s arms, still wrapped in sinatra’s final hum, still blinking through the haze of what that moment just was.

then—

apple bottom jeans... boots with the furrrr...

you snort.

“no,” you whisper, already laughing.

“i didn’t—i didn’t pick this!” he protests as t-pain and flo rida proceed to violently ruin the vibe.

“i think your playlist just gave up.”

“or it’s trying to humble us.”

you’re still grinning as you turn back to the oven, swiping at your eyes.

“they’re probably burnt,” you say, grabbing the oven mitts.

“they’re probably perfect.”

“perfectly burnt.”

you squat down, open the door, and immediately get hit with a wave of buttery, golden heat. the smell is unbelievable—cheese, garlic, herbs, and whatever strange magic you both summoned earlier.

but as you reach for the tray—arms shaking slightly from laughter, heart still buzzing—you realize something very important:

“oh my god,” you wheeze. “i’m too weak. i’m literally too giggly to lift this.”

you try. you fail. the tray wobbles.

“schlatt,” you gasp, panic-laughing. “i’m gonna drop them—please—”

he’s already behind you. one hand covers yours on the mitt, steadying it. the other slides beneath the tray, guiding it out with a little hiss as the heat blasts his face.

“i got you, i got you,” he mutters, voice low and smiling.

“you almost let the dessert pie die.”

“i would never let that oreo and peach monstrosity be destroyed on my watch.”

together, you lift it out and set it safely on the stove. the crusts are a little uneven, some fillings have burst at the seams, and the sweet one is aggressively caramelized—but none of it matters. they’re yours. and they smell like comfort.

you peel off the mitts and lean back into him, your arms wrapping around his middle.

“i love you,” you murmur into his chest.

he rests his chin on your head. breathes you in.

“i love you more,” he says.

✧✧✧

you eat curled into the couch. blanket over both your legs, knees bumping, storm still rattling softly at the windows like it wants to be let in. you each balance a small plate—two pies apiece, cut open and steaming, flaky and golden and perfect in their own lopsided way.

“okay,” you say around a bite of the mushroom-potato one, “this is stupid good.”

“i told you,” he says, already three bites deep into the chicken-spinach one. “we’re culinary geniuses. we should open a restaurant. call it leftovers by liars. and then just order a bunch of takeout from other places and sell it to people full price.”

you grin, elbowing him gently.

he holds up the dessert one next, sliced messily in half—the jam has oozed out in dramatic fashion, bubbling along the bottom. “you wanna split the disaster pie?”

“only if you let me have the oreo half.”

he frowns. “i made the oreo half.”

“and i let you put that in there.”

“fine,” he grumbles, handing it over. “but next time...”

you lean into him, shoulder against his. “okay, okay, grumpy...who knew you were such a sucker for artificial food?”

"you. you do. and yet..."

you eat it, blinking at him. it’s horrible. it’s delicious. like if oreo attempted to make an apple and peach cream, but kept their flavor of cookie. almost good.

you sit in silence for a little while after that—not awkward, not even tired. just full. full of food, of warmth, of each other.

“…i wasn’t kidding earlier,” he says. “about being lovesick.”

you glance up.

he’s looking down at the crust in his hand like he doesn’t know how to explain it, how to be anything other than joking or loud or trying to make you laugh. but now? now he just looks… earnest.

“i think i got used to being tired,” he says. “to filling the space with noise. but it’s not just tired. it’s—” he swallows. “—it’s missing you. even when i’m in the middle of something. even when i’ve got a thousand tabs open in my head. i still want to be here. with you.”

you set your pie down.

“i feel it too,” you say. “sometimes it hits out of nowhere. i’ll be brushing my teeth or sitting in a meeting and it’s just—god, i wish you were home. i wish i didn’t have to miss you this much to realize how much i need this.”

he nods, once. like that hurt a little to hear, but only because it’s true.

then his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into him like it’s instinct. like his body knows how to keep you close, even when his words falter.

“we’re not built for long distance,” he murmurs into your hair.

“we’re not even long distance.”

“exactly.”

you let out a soft laugh, breath catching a little at the edges. the blanket slips as you shift, tucking into his side, your legs over his lap now, plates forgotten on the coffee table.

his hand drifts along your back, steady. like he’s tracing the outline of this moment, memorizing it. not wanting it to disappear the second the real world starts calling again.

“let’s make this the thing we protect,” you say quietly. “not just each other—but this.”

he hums in agreement. kisses the crown of your head.

“deal,” he says. “every sick day. every long weekend. every excuse to come home and smell butter and thyme and whatever monstrosity we create next.”

“and if it’s awful?”

“we eat it anyway. like the dessert pie. in quiet, stubborn denial.”

you smile.

outside, the storm begins to lose steam—wind softening to a whisper, rain ticking lightly at the windows like a polite goodbye.

you feel it then. not just safety. not just love.

return.

the sense that something has come full circle, and landed right where it was meant to. in his arms. on this couch. in a house that now smells like melted cheese, burnt sugar, and a little bit of rain.

you close your eyes.

and let the day end slow.

[slattlicker]

alrightyyy requests are closed once more omg

i was seeing these as they were coming in and im literally drooling at some of these ideas...thank you all for your submissions !! <3

- vue

[slattlicker]

can you write schlatt as a girl dad? i read the fic with pregnant reader and IT WAS SO FREAKING CUTE 🥲🥲🫶

hello my darling!! I made you a co-owner to "don't wake the baby"!! enjoy schlatt as the cutest girl dad everrr

[slattlicker]

requests are open! <33

[slattlicker]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * K I S S   I T   B E T T E R ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ a jschlatt x female!reader NSFW multi-chapter fic - MDNI !! (18+) ↳ 2.2k words · age gap · bf's dad au ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✦ written with a female!reader in mind ✦ (but everyone is welcome ♡)

⟡ C H A P T E R · F O U R

⇠ B A C K

⇢ C O N T I N U E ?

you lay your head in his lap. call him daddy. press your mouth to his cock. he was going to let you rest. but you wanted to play. now? he’s going to teach you what happens when brats don’t listen.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╮ ✧ age gap (reader is 21, schlatt is 40s) ✧ spanking (otk), lap-to-bed transition, power exchange ✧ dom/sub dynamics, ddlg language (“daddy” / “baby girl”) ✧ unprotected sex, creampie, praise + degradation, possessiveness ✧ reader begs + counts, aftercare + post-scene holding ╰˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃   𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╯

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

૮₍ ´• ˕ •` ₎ა enjoy!

he sits back against the headboard. long legs stretched out in front of him. boxers still on. shirt rumpled. jaw tight.

“c’mere,” he murmurs.

you move automatically, crawling into his space until you’re curled along his side. but he taps his thigh.

“no, baby girl. up here.”

you blink. “you want me to—?”

“head in my lap,” he says. “let me look at you.”

your stomach flips.

but you obey.

you ease down slow, resting your cheek against the soft cotton stretched over his thigh. your legs curl up beneath you, arms tucked in, the heat of his body radiating into your skin like a blanket.

he brushes the hair back from your face.

his fingers trace along your cheek, your jaw. he smooths his thumb under your eye, across the curve of your lips. just watching.

you let your eyes flutter closed.

you could fall asleep like this.

but you don’t.

you’re still thinking.

still feeling him. the scent of him. the weight of him, just inches away.

his fingers drift lower, trailing down your neck.

you breathe in. and you say it.

“thank you, daddy.”

his hand stills. his thighs shift just slightly beneath your cheek.

you open your eyes. he’s looking down at you now, eyes hooded. jaw set.

“you can’t say that,” he says.

“why not?”

“’cause i’m trying to be good. i’m trying to let you rest.”

“i’m rested.”

“baby girl,” he says—strained. warning.

but you just breathe him in.

“you're still dressed, daddy,” you murmur.

“don’t start.”

“you’re the one hard in my face, daddy.”

“fuck.”

you smile. then tilt your head.

press a kiss, soft and open-mouthed, right over the bulge in his boxers.

his hand threads into your hair, and for a second you think he’s going to pull you in—press your face into him, groan, let you keep going.

but he exhales. sharp.

and shifts.

he swings his legs out from under you—careful, controlled—and slides to the edge of the mattress, sitting upright now, boxers still low on his hips.

you blink up at him, confused.

and then he pulls you with him.

big hands at your waist.

he tugs you across his lap, slow but firm, until your body drapes over his thighs—chest down, hips up, hands braced on the sheets.

you suck in a breath. your bare stomach is pressed to his legs. your ass is perfectly exposed. and his arm wraps around your waist like a belt. solid. secure.

“and here i thought you were gonna be good for me,” he murmurs, voice low at your ear.

you shift—nervous. your thighs clench. you feel tiny across his lap. small. bare. held.

“i was being good,” you mumble into the sheets.

his hand comes down hard across your ass.

you yelp.

not pain—shock.

“try again.”

you squirm. “i thought i was.”

“mm,” he hums. “see, that’s the problem.”

his hand rubs over the same spot—slow and grounding.

“you’re sweet for two minutes. say all the right things. make me wanna take care of you.”

another spank. firmer.

“and then you go soft, say thank you, daddy, and press your mouth to my cock like it’s a game.”

you let out a breathy sound. somewhere between shame and pride.

“you knew what you were doing,” he says. “don’t lie.”

you don’t.

you can’t.

“so now?” he sighs. “now you’re gonna count.”

his hand slides from the small of your back to your ass again. rests there. warm and solid.

“you wanna act like a brat, baby girl? then i’m gonna teach you what happens when you push a real man too far.”

you shiver.

he shifts slightly—letting you feel how hard he is underneath you. how tense his thighs have gone. how close to snapping he really is.

“and if you take it well,” he murmurs, “if you’re good—really good—then maybe i’ll fuck you full and let you come again.”

your hips twitch.

he smiles against your shoulder blade.

“you ready?”

you nod. breath shaky.

his hand flexes.

“then count.”

crack.

you jolt. the sting flares instantly across your skin—hot, sharp, sudden.

“one,” you gasp.

his hand rubs over the spot he just struck, warm and slow. soothing.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “you’re doing good.”

you squirm. his thigh shifts beneath your stomach, hard muscle pressing against your hips.

crack.

“two—fuck.”

“language.”

“sorry—sorry, daddy.”

he chuckles. not unkind.

crack.

“three!”

his palm lingers this time. squeezes.

“you feel that?” he murmurs. “the heat? that’s mine. i put that there.”

you bite your lip.

crack.

“four—ah!”

his arm tightens across your waist, holding you steady as you twitch.

“don’t move,” he says. “take it.”

you nod, face pressed to the sheets.

crack.

your toes curl. your legs twitch.

“five,” you whimper.

he leans in. his voice dark, rich, filthy.

“getting wet again, aren’t you?”

you don’t answer.

he drags two fingers down between your thighs, just enough to prove his point.

you gasp.

“fuck.”

he groans.

“six,” you say quickly.

he laughs—low and wrecked.

crack.

“seven—oh my god.”

“you can take more than that, baby girl. i’ve barely even started.”

his palm rubs soft circles again, grounding you.

“you’re doing so good. so obedient now.”

you arch into him. barely restrained.

“what happened to that brat who thought she could get away with anything?”

“she’s sorry,” you breathe.

“mm. not yet, she’s not.”

crack.

“eight!”

he strokes your back. then trails his hand down again.

“you’re trembling.”

“i’m fine.”

“you wanna stop?”

“…no.”

“you sure?”

you nod. his voice drops lower.

“then be still.”

crack.

“n-nine.”

his hand rests flat on your ass for a moment.

you breathe.

you wait.

and then—

crack.

“ten!”

he exhales behind you.

you’re shaking. eyes glassy. thighs soaked.

his palm slides gently down your spine. his lips brush your shoulder.

“you wanna know what the best part is, baby girl?”

you hum. barely a sound.

he presses a kiss just behind your ear.

“i’m still hard.”

his voice is soft. almost amused.

but you feel it.

he shifts behind you, and there’s no hiding it anymore—how thick he is against your thigh, straining against the soft fabric of his boxers.

you breathe in—shaky. raw.

“can i…” you swallow. “can i have it now?”

he groans. one hand slides up your spine again—slow, steady.

“you want it, baby girl?”

you nod. “please.”

he kisses your shoulder.

“good.”

then he moves.

shifts you gently off his lap and onto your back—slow, careful, like you’ll break if he does it too fast. your legs are jelly. thighs still trembling. your ass throbs from the spanking, heat blooming beneath the skin.

he kneels between your legs.

his boxers are the only thing still separating you. you reach up—weakly—to help.

he catches your wrist.

“not yet,” he says. “let me.”

you nod. watch as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate. he’s not teasing. he’s showing you.

you watch him, eyes wide, breath shallow.

and when he pulls them off, when he settles between your thighs again, bare, you gasp.

he’s thick. flushed. leaking.

you feel yourself clench around nothing.

his hand finds your cheek.

“you okay?”

“yes.”

“still want it?”

“yes, daddy.”

he groans—wrecked. schlatt looks down at you, chest rising fast, shirt clinging to him damp with heat and restraint.

you reach up—fingers brushing his stomach, then the hem of that damned grey shirt.

“off,” you whisper.

he swallows. hard.

and then he pulls it over his head.

the fabric clings for a second—wrinkled and soft—before it’s gone, tossed to the floor, forgotten.

and there he is.

broad. flushed. real.

his skin’s hot. his chest dusted with hair. you can see every inch of him now—no more layers. no more barriers. just him.

he leans down—bare chest pressing to yours—and you moan.

then reaches down between you, guiding himself with one hand while the other holds your hip.

“deep breath,” he murmurs.

you do.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow.

the stretch is immediate. full. overwhelming. you gasp—hands clutching the sheets, thighs shaking.

he stops halfway.

“you okay?”

“keep going,” you whisper.

he leans over you, one arm bracing beside your head, the other still guiding his cock into you—inch by inch, until his hips meet yours.

you cry out. soft. desperate.

he holds you there. chest to chest. breathing hard.

“fuck,” he pants. “so tight.”

you cling to him.

“feels so good, daddy…”

he kisses your cheek. your temple.

“you’re taking me so well,” he breathes. “so fucking well.”

you can’t speak. can barely breathe.

but you nod. whimper. blink up at him with complete surrender.

and when he starts to move—slow, deep—

you swear you’ve never felt anything like it in your life.

your nails dig into his biceps. your eyes flutter closed.

“oh my god,” you whisper.

he grunts. jaw clenched. “you feel that?”

you nod, breath stuttering. “so full…”

he presses deeper. rolls his hips with devastating control.

“you take me so fucking well,” he growls. “look at you.”

you try to. your eyes blink open, dazed. he’s above you—bare, strong, flushed all the way down his chest.

“you’re so deep,” you whimper.

“mm,” he breathes. “you were made to take it, huh?”

you choke on a sound—somewhere between yes and please.

his hand finds your cheek. holds it. strokes your jaw with his thumb.

“never let anyone fuck you like this, did you?”

you shake your head. “never.”

“say it.”

“no one’s ever—” you gasp as his hips grind slow, deep, “—ever fucked me like this.”

“that’s right.”

his mouth brushes your temple. your cheek. the corner of your lips.

“that little piece of shit never deserved to be inside you.”

you shudder. “he wasn’t like this. he never—he never looked at me like this.”

“yeah?” he breathes. “how am i looking at you now, baby girl?”

you look up at him—eyes wide, lips trembling.

“like i’m yours.”

he groans. deep.

“you are,” he mutters. “fuck—you’re mine now. you understand?”

you nod—frantic. clinging to him.

“say it.”

“i’m yours.”

his thrusts get heavier. still slow, but with weight now.

you feel every drag, every push. the way he grinds in at the end—just to keep you right on the edge.

“you wanna come again?” he whispers.

“yes,” you breathe.

“you gonna ask for it this time?”

“…please, daddy. please let me come.”

his hand curls around your throat—not squeezing, just holding.

his pace picks up. just a little.

“good fucking girl.”

his grip stays steady around your throat—warm, anchoring.

his other hand spreads across your hip, holding you still while his cock drags so perfectly inside you.

you sob into the pillow.

“tell me who you belong to.”

“you.”

he thrusts deeper.

“say it.”

“i belong to you, daddy.”

“louder.”

“i belong to you.”

“this body?” he presses a hand flat to your stomach. “mine.”

“yours.”

“this pussy?” he thrusts once, sharp.

you cry out. “yours.”

“this perfect fucking moan?”

you’re trembling. “yours. all yours.”

he groans—wrecked. his hand trails up your throat, thumb brushing your chin, coaxing you to turn your head back toward him.

“good fucking girl.”

you whimper. eyes glassy. mouth parted.

“you ready to come for me?”

“yes—yes, please, i’m ready, i wanna come, i really wanna—”

his hand curls tighter around your throat—still not squeezing. just holding. just claiming.

“then come,” he growls, voice wrecked. “come on daddy’s cock.”

and you do.

you break.

your body clenches. your cry rips out raw. your legs kick. your hips jerk. your hands twist in the sheets like you’re drowning—and he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

he doesn’t stop.

he fucks you through it. slow. deep. sweet and brutal all at once.

“that’s it,” he whispers, over and over. “that’s it, baby girl. let it go. give it to me.”

you sob. your whole body convulses. it’s so much. too much. not enough. you’ve never felt this full. this wanted.

“that’s my good girl,” he breathes, kissing your shoulder. “mine. just like this. always.”

your body’s still twitching.

his chest is warm against your back. one hand still holding your throat—not tight, just there. a reminder. the other draped low around your waist, palm flat and wide over your belly, like he’s claiming the aftershocks too.

you breathe, and it stutters. shaky. he feels it. presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw.

“deep breaths, baby girl,” he murmurs. “that’s it. you’re alright.”

your eyes flutter. everything’s heavy. your legs, your arms, your pulse. it all feels far away—except for him.

“you still with me?”

you nod.

“words, sweetheart.”

“y-yeah.” your voice cracks. “with you.”

he exhales like he’s been holding his own breath this whole time. nuzzles into your hair.

“good girl. so fucking good. took me so well.”

his cock’s still inside you, but he’s not moving now. just holding. grounding. letting you feel the fullness. the stretch. the safe.

your fingers twitch. you reach back for him, blindly.

he catches your hand. interlaces your fingers.

you squeeze. barely.

he squeezes back.

“wanna move you,” he says, voice low. “get you comfy. that okay?”

you nod again. “mhmm.”

he shifts slowly, pulling out with a soft, wet sound that makes you whimper. he hushes you—gentle, coaxing. helps guide you down onto your side. drapes a blanket over you, tucks it around your shoulders. settles in behind you, chest to your spine, arm sliding under your neck.

he wraps around you like he’s meant to be there.

like he’s not going anywhere.

his voice is warm at your ear. “you okay, baby girl?”

“more than okay,” you whisper. “thank you.”

he smiles into your hair.

“always.”

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * E N D   O F   C H A P T E R   F O U R ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ this fantastic morning is coming to a close, and soon, you both will have to face the reality of your choices. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

[slattlicker]

Building off the baby drabbles, though I've had this one cooking for a while, Schlatt's trying to balance streaming with watching the new baby (ideally he'd take a hiatus from content creation entirely, but we're aiming for shenanigans here so...contractual obligations I guess?) and chat has started a game all on their own they aptly named "Don't Wake the Baby." Alternatively they'll play "Don't Piss Off Mama." It involves a lot of attempting to set Schlatt off with silly submissions and dono comments that tempt him to yell at them. Reader is unsure how to feel about this. 

(I have a notes app of these built up from the last three weeks of hyper fixation since I ran out of AO3 fics. I'm so sorry, but also not, for inflicting them on you.)

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * don’t wake the baby ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: one stream, one sleeping newborn, and a father doing everything in his power not to scream about the queen of england. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: based on two very thought provoking asks—one about girl dad!schlatt, and one about the dangers of streaming with a baby strapped to your chest. this is for the girlies who want chaos, comfort, and a man who baby-talks in between cuomo jokes. you are so valid. also: jellybean is canonically the baby’s nickname. i don’t make the rules (except i do.)

warnings: domesticity, post-partum tenderness, forbidden streamer rage, one (1) extremely smug father, and a mama who's a lil jelly.

enjoy! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)੭⁾⁾♡

“just five minutes,” you mumble, forehead pressed to schlatt’s chest, hands twisted in the hem of his hoodie. “i just need five minutes of not being mama.”

he doesn’t say anything right away.

just curls one arm around your back, the other supporting the small, sleepy bundle on his shoulder. baby girl’s got her fist curled near her mouth, making the occasional hiccupy sigh. schlatt adjusts her gently—rhythmic, practiced—like he’s done it a thousand times.

“you sure you don’t wanna lie down?” he asks, voice soft. “or take a bath? i can run one real quick.”

you shake your head against him. “no. i don’t wanna move. i just… wanna not be touched. not be needed. not be mama. just for five minutes.”

he nods.

his hoodie smells like clean laundry and the faintest whiff of baby lotion.

“yeah,” he says, chin resting atop your head. “i get that.”

you hear the faint ding of his stream notification. he’s supposed to be live in two minutes. the scene’s already loaded. the lights are already on. the chat’s probably already popping off with pre-roll hype.

and yet—he doesn’t move.

he just holds you both. swaying, slow. like you’re the one who needs rocking this time.

“i can reschedule,” he offers quietly. “say you’re tired. say the baby’s fussy. nobody’s gonna riot.”

you exhale. pull back slightly. “no. you’ve already pushed it once this week.”

he gives you a look. “yeah, and? i’d push it again.”

you reach up. smooth your thumb over his collarbone. “just… promise you’ll be okay with her while i take my five minutes.”

“sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping back just enough to press a kiss to your temple, “we’re gonna be great.”

you sniff. nod. and, reluctantly, let go.

he grins as he shifts the baby into his arms properly, already doing his goofy streamer voice in a quiet murmur just for her benefit. “all right, jellybean. time to cohost daddy’s stream.”

you snort. “don’t call her that on camera.”

“too late. branding’s already locked in.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

he winks at you over his shoulder as he heads for the desk. “and you’re off-duty. go lay down. your girls got this.”

✧✧✧

it starts off chill.

schlatt's seated at his desk, mic adjusted low, wearing a slightly oversized black hoodie with the top of a soft gray baby wrap peeking out. nestled against him, barely visible to stream, is his daughter—only a few weeks old, already stealing the show without trying.

"okay," he says, voice quiet but amused, one hand resting gently against the bundle on his chest. "i'm live. she's asleep. i'm gonna be very normal and not wake her. everyone be cool."

chat explodes.

OMGGGG THE WRAP DAD MODE ACTIVATED look at the little bean 🥺🥺 HE'S BEING GENTLE WTF "I'm gonna be normal" -- famous last words

"shut up," he grumbles, keeping his voice soft, even as he grins at the screen. "don't start. i'm a changed man. soft as hell. got a baby on me like i'm a damn marsupial."

he clicks through some game settings. starts to explain what he's doing.

and then the first dono rolls in.

$5 — “schlatt how does it feel to know you personally ended the reign of pope francis”

his jaw twitches.

“not gonna say it,” he mutters. “not gonna say pope franklin. not gonna say i gave him the old vatican vanishing act. not gonna say it.”

chat is howling.

another dono.

$3.33 — “hey did andrew cuomo ever apologize for killing your grandma”

his nostrils flare. his jaw ticks. he almost responds.

almost.

instead, he takes a slow breath, glances down at the sleeping bundle on his chest, and leans back slightly.

“yeah, no,” he says, perfectly flat. “i don't think he did. i was always just a little too slow to catch up to him in his stupid muscle cars.”

chat catches on fast.

HE WANTED TO YELL SO BAD LMAO LORE DROP DON’T WAKE THE BABY oh we’re PLAYING now 😈 can we make this a minigame? every time he almost loses it, +1 point for chat

another dono rolls in, this one $1.11.

"hey can you make the baby do the 'i miss the rage' scream"

he glares at the camera.

"get help," he says, gently adjusting the wrap as she shifts slightly.

+1 +1 +1 scoreboard: chat 3, schlatt 0 who made this a game??? wait no this is genius

it spirals from there.

every ten seconds it’s something else—someone referencing his rage comps, someone sending in an old meme he swore off, someone asking his opinion on the irs.

he catches himself mid-sentence about to spiral.

"you guys are—" he stops. breathes in. breathes out. "you guys are so funny. wow. i'm literally laughing. can you hear it? no? good."

she shifts in her wrap. he immediately softens, all hands and hushes and murmured little sounds like “shhh, you’re okay, daddy’s got you.”

chat loses their minds.

“Daddy’s got you” I’M ACTUALLY CRYING DON’T PISS OFF MAMA™ pending wait do we get -1 point if he makes her smile???? not the sudden switch 😭😭 he went from threatening chat to cooing in 0.2 seconds

he rubs her back in slow, steady circles, his voice low and sweet—barely audible to anyone but her.

“you’re doin’ so good, jellybean,” he murmurs, swaying just a little. “you sleep right through their bullshit, yeah? none of that chat noise is for you.”

chat's absolutely losing it.

“HELP HE’S SO SOFT” “NOT HIM CALLING US NOISE 💔” “he’s lying to the baby to protect her from our sins”

then another dono rolls in—

$2.12 — “hey king what’s your take on 9/11? y’know. since you were there.”

his eye twitches.

chat explodes.

“OH THIS ONE’S GONNA GET HIM” “NO WAY THEY BROUGHT OUT 9/11” “IT’S HAPPENINGGGG”

he inhales.

sits back in the chair.

stares directly into the lens.

“i was two,” he says flatly. “and in long island.”

a pause.

“but yeah, i caused it. i planned it all on a leapfrog tablet. it was either that or the queen of england. picked wrong.”

chat is screaming.

“THIS MAN’S UNHINGED” “HE FINALLY SNAPPED” “NEW HIGH SCORE???” “he said WHAT about the queen???”

his daughter makes a soft noise—something between a hiccup and a sleepy mewl—and he instantly cuts himself off mid-bit, arms shifting to cradle her tighter.

“shh, shhh, no baby, i didn’t mean it,” he coos. “daddy didn’t really kill the queen. that was a metaphor. for british decline. go back to sleep, jellybean.”

but it’s too late.

the damage is done.

one more dono flashes across the screen—$6.66, naturally.

“yo did the FBI ever call you back?”

and that’s all it takes.

the little bundle on his chest twitches. whimpers.

and then she lets out a wail.

high-pitched. betrayed. pure baby despair.

schlatt freezes. every muscle in his body tenses like a man who just stepped on a landmine. he stares into the camera, eyes wide with horror.

chat explodes.

“NOOOOOOOOO” “YOU WOKE HER” “CHAT FUMBLED” “+100000 PENALTY POINTS” “YOU GUYS ARE THE VILLAINS” “MAMA’S GONNA KILL US”

“nonononononono—hey, hey, hey,” he mutters, bouncing instinctively as he shifts her up higher against his shoulder. “you’re okay. you’re okay. daddy’s here. daddy didn’t mean to talk shit about the vatican, that was a joke, baby, i swear—”

she’s inconsolable. red-faced. wriggling.

he rocks. he hums—badly. off-key.

“hush little bean, don’t you cry, chat’s gonna pay with their actual lives—”

the crying softens. slows.

he’s winning her back.

with violent lullabies about chat's doom.

chat is begging.

“PLEASE WE’RE SORRY” “WE DIDN’T MEAN TO WAKE HER” “SHE’S TOO PRECIOUS FOR THIS WORLD”

and right on cue—

a door creaks open down the hall.

bare feet shuffle across the hardwood.

a voice, low and suspicious, calls out:

“schlatt…?”

his soul leaves his body.

he whips toward the mic, hissing: “do not clip this. i mean it. i will find you.” then forces a grin, like this is totally fine.

“hey, honey,” he calls sweetly. “someone just—uh. needs a little break.”

“was she crying?”

“define crying.”

you appear in the doorway, hair mussed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blinking slow and unimpressed.

you narrow your eyes. squint at chat.

“did you wake up my daughter?”

chat is sobbing.

“SHE SAID MY DAUGHTER LIKE BELLA IN TWILIGHT” “SHE’S GOT THE MOM VOICE” “HE’S GONNA LOSE CUSTODY ON CAMERA”

schlatt stands up immediately, baby still sniffling softly against his chest, and starts walking toward you like he’s presenting a peace offering.

“technically they woke her,” he says. “i’m just the guy who tried to keep her asleep and happy.”

you fold your arms. raise an eyebrow.

she hiccups once more—and then sighs. tiny fingers curling into his hoodie.

you sigh, too.

“…give her here.”

“nooo, baby, wait—I got her,” he says, stepping back half a pace like you might snatch her anyway. “she just settled down. i’m good. i can take care of her.”

you narrow your eyes. “it seems like you just spent the last hour getting bullied by twitch chat and almost started an international incident.”

“but did i yell?” he counters, pointing to his chest with one hand—the chest, where your daughter currently resides, tucked under his hoodie in the soft wrap, blinking blearily like she’s just now taking in the world. “no. because i’m calm. i’m zen. i’m fucking namaste, babe.”

you reach for her anyway. “she needs to be changed.”

“i can—”

but the baby lets out a tiny, groggy whine and immediately burrows deeper into his hoodie, one soft hand gripping his t-shirt like a vice. her pout’s already forming again.

you freeze.

he smirks. “see?”

you shoot him a look and try again—carefully this time, gentle arms held out. “come on, sweetheart. mama’s got you.”

but the second she feels distance between her cheek and his chest, she lets out a high-pitched sound of betrayal—half squeal, half whimper—and then starts gasping like she’s working up for a full-blown wail.

you both freeze.

“oh my god,” you whisper. “she’s mad at me.”

“no, no—she’s just tired. and a little dramatic. like her mom,” he says cheerfully, pulling her right back against him and patting her back. she quiets almost instantly.

your jaw drops.

“are you kidding me?”

he grins like a bastard. “girl’s got taste.”

you scowl. “give her here.”

he kisses the top of her head. “no.”

you huff, arms crossed, but there’s no real heat behind it. it hits you then, deep in your chest: the way she clings to him, so naturally. how his hand cradles her head without even thinking. how his entire voice softens when he says, “hey, jellybean, say hi to mama. tell her we’re gonna handle this like big girls, yeah?”

you blink fast. try to pretend you didn’t just get misty-eyed over your own kid ignoring you in favor of her father.

his voice drops, teasing and a little smug: “that look means i win, right? she gets to stay with me just a little bit longer?”

you roll your eyes. sigh. “…since we’ve got the rest of our lives, i guess.”

he smiles—really smiles—and you know he heard the softness under the sarcasm.

“i’ll get her changed,” he says, already heading for the nursery. she’s peeking up at him now, gummy and dazed and safe in his arms. “don’t get all jealous while i'm gone.”

you flip him off.

he blows you a kiss.

✧✧✧

the chair’s still warm when you sit.

the stream is still live.

and chat—

chat is feral.

MAMA’S HERE EVERYONE SIT UP STRAIGHT she’s gonna yell at us i can feel it WE WOKE THE BABY AND NOW WE WILL PAY

you raise a brow. adjust the mic. lean forward slightly like you’re about to deliver grave news.

“...what the hell is wrong with you guys?”

chat EXPLODES.

YEP THERE IT IS I’M SORRY MOMMY WE WILL DO BETTER I SWEAR YOU LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN YOU’RE DISAPPOINTED

you click your tongue. cross your arms. “don’t flirt with me. i’m mad at you.”

someone immediately donates $2.22:

“ur so hot when ur mad can u yell at me again please”

you inhale sharply. “you WOKE. THE. BABY.”

a sea of crying emotes floods the screen.

“you knew he couldn’t resist a pope joke,” you continue, like a prosecutor in court. “you knew exactly what you were doing, you gremlins.”

“and do you have any idea,” you add, pointing at the screen, “how hard it is to get her to nap after a stimmy cuddle sesh with her father? do you know how long i had to wait for that half an hour break???”

chat, predictably, is NOT taking this seriously.

MAMA’S FUMING 🫡 WE WERE PLAYING “DON’T WAKE THE BABY” NOT “DON’T PISS OFF MAMA” 😭😭😭 okay new game unlocked?? 😳 IS IT OPPOSITE DAY BECAUSE I’M INTO THIS???

you cover your face with your hands. “god. you’re worse than him.”

and just as you say it—like timing was scripted—he reappears in the doorway. baby freshly diapered and swaddled like a burrito, paci bobbing slightly between her lips.

“hey,” he says casually. “someone tell chat their score reset. baby smiled at me and farted, so i win.”

you sigh deeply. “this is my life.”

he strolls over. adjusts your headset a little. kisses your forehead like it’s nothing. like you’re not melting in front of thousands of viewers.

“hey, jellybean,” he murmurs, voice low near the mic again. “say night-night to the internet gremlins.”

she yawns on cue.

chat collapses.

NIGHT NIGHT JELLYBEAN 🥺🥺🥺 MAMA I’M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING this family is too powerful I WANT THIS DOMESTICITY

you gently tap the mic.

“stream’s ending,” you say, calm and firm.

groans. cries. begging.

“and if any of you even try to start round two of whatever this stupid fucking game is,” you add, narrowing your eyes at the camera, “i will personally ban you.”

schlatt hums behind you, amused. “she will. don’t test her. mama’s got a mean right-click.”

your daughter shifts slightly in his arms. her eyes are fluttering closed again, little fist curled up against her cheek.

and then—soft. breathy. barely a whisper—

“da...”

you both freeze.

“...da-da,” she babbles, gummy smile curling around the pacifier still loosely in her mouth.

you spin around in your chair. schlatt’s already grinning so wide it looks like it hurts.

“did she—?”

“yep,” he says proudly, bouncing her a little. “that’s right, jellybean. daddy’s got you.”

you cover your mouth. laugh into your palm. “god, she really is a girl dad’s girl.”

he shrugs, smug. “can’t help it. i'm just that amazing.”

she babbles again, something incoherent and happy and full of spit.

“a poet,” he says. “just like her mama.”

“shut up.”

you lean in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then one to his jaw. you can feel his smile against your lips.

“stream’s off now, by the way,” you murmur.

he hums. “so i can kiss you properly?”

“mmhm.”

he leans in. kisses you slow.

she squeals between you, delighted.

and you figure—maybe they did wake the baby.

but in the end, it just gave her another chance to say da-da.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s worth a thousand bans.

[slattlicker]

alright lickers, here's your little update:

1. one more fic is on the queue (it's very cute i think you'll like it)

2. another chapter of kiss it better will follow that (for the freaks who need smut to get through the day)

and for everyone who's like:

3. VUE ARE REQUESTS OPEN YET?!?! 👹

i'll be on a flight while these two fics release, but as soon as i land, i'm going to be opening up requests + my askbox again. that'll be in about 5 hours from now!!

[slattlicker]

entirely self-indulgent request but i’m in pain so i’m allowing myself:

schlatt comfort after wisdom teeth surgery :( maybe he’s the driver for reader and reader’s really anxious before the surgery and then when she wakes up she doesn’t realize who he is? and she like re-discovers that he loves her and starts crying

(so sorry if this makes no sense my pain medication is making me feel a little loopy pls forgive i love you)

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * something about your smile ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: a kiss you don’t remember, a ring you can’t place, and the man who swears he loves you anyway. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the sweet anon who wanted love, gauze, and a little post-anesthesia crisis. you’re so valid. this schlatt is husband-coded, through and through. i hope this helps soothe whatever pain you’re in—physical or otherwise. and if you just like domestic!schlatt...hi. welcome. you're home now. please note: this leans more into the amnesia vibes/brain fog than real post-surgery loopiness. not fully accurate, but whatevssss

warnings: anesthesia aftermath, confusion/temporary memory loss, extreme tenderness, crying (like…a lot), and the overwhelming relief of love remembered.

enjoy! (｡•́‿•̀｡)♡

the world comes back in pieces.

first, the smell—clean linens, faint antiseptic, that sterile chill of over-air-conditioned spaces. then, the weight of the blanket over your legs. a soft beep somewhere nearby. your head’s foggy. lips dry.

you blink, slow.

a shape’s leaning toward you. tall. blurry at first. then it sharpens—a hoodie. brown curls. worried eyes.

“hey,” the man says, voice low. warm. “you’re awake.”

you squint. the corners of your mouth tug down, uncertain.

“who…?”

he pauses. then smiles. not the big, cocky grin of someone trying to be charming. no, this is small. soft. barely there.

“it’s me,” he says gently. “i’m right here.”

you just blink again. frown deepening.

“you don’t… remember me?”

you shake your head. immediately regret it. your eyes water. your face aches.

his expression doesn’t falter. doesn’t even flinch.

“that’s okay,” he says. “the meds are still working through you. it’s normal. just breathe for me, yeah?”

you stare at him. because he’s calm. too calm. like he expected this. like he planned to be the first thing you saw—even if you didn’t know him yet.

“you’re being really nice,” you mumble, eyes glassy. “are you… my uber?”

he huffs a laugh through his nose. “no, sweetheart. not your uber.”

“then why are you being so…?” you sniffle. your lip wobbles. “so kind?”

his brows lift. just a little. and then he leans forward, hand curling around yours.

“because i love you,” he says.

your breath catches.

“you do?”

“mhm.” he squeezes your hand. “you don’t remember right now. but you love me too.”

that does it.

tears well. spill. hot and fast.

“oh no,” you whisper, panic bubbling up. “oh no, that’s so sad. you love me and i forgot—i forgot you and you’re so nice and—and you’re holding my hand—”

“hey, hey,” he soothes, moving to sit beside you now, arms wrapping around your shoulders. “shhh. it’s okay. i’m not going anywhere.”

you sob into his hoodie.

“what’s your name?” you hiccup. “i wanna love you again i promise i do i just don’t know your name—”

“schlatt,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back gently. “it’s schlatt, baby.”

you cling tighter.

“you’re really handsome, schlatt,” you whisper.

he laughs, quiet and wrecked. “thanks, sweetheart.”

you hiccup. “can i still kiss you if i don’t remember you?”

“maybe let’s wait ‘til you stop crying and your mouth isn’t full of gauze.”

“...you’re so smart. i think i really do love you.”

he smiles again, nose buried in your hair.

“i really do love you too."

✧✧✧

“are you okay, baby?” your mom asks gently from the FaceTime screen. “you still look a little out of it.”

you blink slow. tug at your sleeve. your eyes feel weird—like they’re not seeing things right. you squint at the camera, then glance off-screen again, voice barely a whisper:

“…mom?”

“yeah, honey?”

“there’s a man in my house. i think he might be the mailman. or maybe my boyfriend? a roommate for sure...”

your mom snorts. “oh lord.”

“no, i’m serious!” you hiss, trying to sound alarmed, but it just comes out wobbly. you flip the camera shakily, aiming it at schlatt, who’s crouched on the floor with your medicine bottle in one hand and a little glass of water in the other.

he glances up, caught in the act, and offers a patient little wave. “hi, ma’am.”

your mom goes feral.

“Y/N,” she laughs, “sweetheart—that’s your husband.”

you pause.

mouth open slightly.

“…he’s what?”

“you married him, baby.”

you swing the camera back to your face. your eyes are wide. glassy. lips trembling just a little.

“no,” you whisper. “no, you’re lying.”

“you picked him,” your mom says, way too amused. “you love him to death. you call him your big strong trash man and once cried because he made you tea without asking.”

you blink. turn to look at him directly this time. he’s still holding the water and pain meds, but now there’s a crease between his brows.

“…you’re my husband?” you whisper.

schlatt nods slowly. “yeah, baby. i’m yours.”

your bottom lip wobbles.

you sniff. a tiny noise escapes your throat. then—

ugly sobbing noises.

“i don’t remember himmmm,” you wail, curling in on yourself. “he’s so nice and he’s helping and i don’t remember—i don’t remember my husbandddddd—”

your mom is laughing now. “oh honey, you’ll remember everything once the meds wear off.”

“but he’s so nice,” you cry harder. “he’s not even mad. i forgot his whole face and he brought me water.”

“sweetheart,” schlatt mutters, finally setting the glass down and scooping you into his arms. “jesus christ, c’mere. you’re gonna short-circuit your stitches.”

“i’m a terrible wifeeeeeeee—”

“no, you’re just all drugged up, honey.”

you cling to him instantly, burying your face in his neck.

“don’t let me forget you again,” you whimper.

“never,” he murmurs, tucking the blanket tighter around you, pressing a kiss to your temple as he makes eye contact with your mom in the phone. “you can forget everything else. just not me, yeah?”

you nod miserably.

your mom sighs, rolling her eyes through her smile. “okay, i’m gonna let you go, baby. he’s got you.”

“okayyyy,” you sniff.

“love you.”

“love you too,” you mumble.

the call ends.

and you’re already halfway into his lap again, limp and puffy-cheeked and absolutely wrecked.

he brushes your hair off your face with gentle fingers. “you really thought you forgot your husband?”

you nod, eyes still glossy. “…you’re really mine?”

his face softens completely. “all yours, sweetheart. always.”

“…okay.” you curl in closer. “i don’t remember marrying you, but i think i did good.”

he chuckles, low and warm. “yeah, you did.”

you fall asleep again like that—tears drying on your cheeks, arms wrapped around the one man you forgot and trusted anyway.

your heart still knew. somehow.

✧✧✧

you wake up warm.

your face is pressed against something solid. a hoodie, maybe. it smells like flowers and smoke. your cheek’s kind of sticky. there’s a muted hum from the tv—gunshots and tires squealing and someone yelling about backup. some old action movie you don’t recognize, but the rhythm of it is oddly familiar.

you blink blearily. your lashes stick.

“hey,” a voice rumbles near your ear. “you alive in there, sunshine?”

you flinch slightly, lifting your head.

the guy beside you chuckles, slow and lazy. “easy. it’s just me.”

he’s big. like—big. broad chest, scruffy jaw, hair a little messy like he’s been running his fingers through it. he’s got his arm around your waist like that’s normal. like you didn’t just wake up on top of a stranger.

you blink again. “...who are you?”

his smile flickers. not fully gone—just softer. more careful. “uh…we talked about this earlier, remember? right after the surgery?”

your brows pinch. you think maybe you remember a car. someone giving you a milkshake. someone holding your hand so you wouldn’t cry.

“you said i could call my mom,” you mumble.

“you did.” he nods. “you introduced me to her. like, formally. i’m pretty sure you called me your boyfriend, your roommate, and your mailman. all in the same sentence.”

your lips twitch. “...that sounds fake.”

“you also told her you were scared of me ‘cause i looked like a tall real estate agent.” he grins now, wider. “so no offense taken.”

you look down at his chest. your hand’s resting there—fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. you didn’t even realize. you make a small sound, start to pull back—

—but his hand tightens at your waist.

“s’okay,” he says quietly. “you always hold me like this when you nap.”

you look at him again. his eyes are warm.

your heart stutters.

“you’re…not my mailman?”

“god, no,” he says with a snort. “i’m your husband.”

you freeze.

then blink rapidly. “my what?”

he grins wider, voice low. “yep. signed papers. shiny rings. swore eternal devotion in front of your aunt who cried the whole time and my uncle who was too drunk to stand.”

you stare at him.

then slowly, cautiously, lift your hand.

there’s a ring.

simple. gold. familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

your hand trembles. “oh…”

“hey, hey,” he says, sitting up slightly, guiding your hand back down. “breathe, sweetheart. it’s okay. you don’t have to remember everything right now.”

you look up at him. there’s something about the slope of his nose. the shape of his mouth. the way he says sweetheart like he’s used to it—like it’s muscle memory.

“...do we like action movies?”

he chuckles, surprised. “we love them.”

you nod slowly. “and…do we like each other?”

his hand lifts—gently brushing a knuckle against your cheek, soft as a prayer.

“you told me yesterday you’d marry me all over again just to make out at the altar.”

your face heats. “oh my god.”

“exact quote,” he says, eyes crinkling. “i wrote it down for blackmail purposes.”

you laugh, shaky. “you’re such a jerk.”

“and you’re a married woman with a crush,” he teases, then gentles again. “but yeah. we like each other. a lot.”

you stare at him a moment longer.

and then it happens—like flipping a light switch in your chest. the recognition hits. not a full wave, but something soft. real.

the way he watches you like the whole world’s stopped turning.

the way your body fits next to his like you were carved to belong there.

“…hi,” you whisper.

he smiles, wide and easy.

“there she is.”

you start to cry.

“hey, hey—don’t do that,” he murmurs, pulling you back into his chest. “you did a whole lot of that before having surgery, now it's time for smiling and cuddling. but not eating, not just yet."

you laugh, muffled. “i’m sorry. i just… i didn’t remember, and now i do, and it hurt.”

“i know,” he says, kissing your temple. “you were really scared. i’m so proud of you.”

you sniff. “you didn’t leave.”

“‘course not,” he murmurs, rocking you gently. “you’re my girl.”

your hand fists in his hoodie. you don’t want to let go.

“...can we watch the rest of the movie?”

“baby, we can watch it five times. we can quote every line. i’ll do the stunts in the living room if you want.”

you giggle into his chest.

and just like that—you’re home again.

[slattlicker]

could you write about a reader who gets super clingy when they are feeling anxious? maybe they like being picked up?

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * hold me harder ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’ve got one meeting, one deliverable, and one brain cell left—and the only thing holding you together is a six-foot-something menace with strong arms and a soft voice who knows exactly when to lift you off your feet. *╰﹒♡₊˚๑ ✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: based on an ask that made me melt into the carpet. for the babes who get clingy when overwhelmed—you deserve to be held like a weighted blanket. especially if he calls you sweetheart while doing it.

warnings: established relationship, anxious!reader, comfort fluff, praise, light ddlg undertones (reader likes being picked up and he knows it), some teasing, big arms, swaying, lap-sitting, soft schlatt.

enjoy, crybabies ♡

the apartment smells like cinnamon toast and roasted coffee.

it’s barely 7 a.m., the soft gray of early morning still spilling through the kitchen windows, and you’re curled on the couch like a weighted blanket has grown limbs. schlatt’s hoodie hangs off your frame—black, oversized, sleeves past your wrists—and your socked feet tuck into the cushions as if you can fold yourself out of responsibility.

from the table, the clatter of ceramic. then a warm voice:

“toast’s ready, sweetheart.”

you mumble something into your knees.

“what was that?” he calls gently, amused.

you peek your face up over your arms. he’s already looking at you—still in the white tee and plaid pajama pants he threw on after rolling out of bed, hair pushed back, jawline lined with soft stubble. his gold chain catches the morning light.

you blink. then:

“i don’t wanna go.”

schlatt huffs a laugh under his breath and walks over, mug in one hand, toast in the other. he sets the plate down on the coffee table, crouching in front of you so you can’t avoid his gaze.

“i know, baby,” he says. “but you worked your ass off for this. it’s just a meeting.”

“an international panel.”

“over zoom.”

you groan and bury your face again.

he smiles—warm, unshakable—and places a hand on your ankle, rubbing small circles through the cotton.

“i already set up your webcam. made sure the mic’s working. got all your notes on the doc next to the screen, plus that notebook you always use when your hands need something to do.”

“i’ll mess it up.”

he hums. “you won't. you've been stressing about it all week. you've talked to all of them before.”

you peek at him. “i can’t wear your hoodie to the meeting…”

“you’re wearing a dress shirt underneath.”

you blink. “…am i?”

he just grins. “i guess you were so sleepy this morning you forgot.”

you snort. schlatt presses a kiss to your knee, soft.

“eat,” he murmurs, brushing your calf with his thumb. “meeting’s in twenty. you’ve got time.”

✧✧✧

ten minutes later, you’re pacing.

not for anything in particular—your notes are in place, your tea is warm, your tech is flawless. schlatt’s fixed all the variables, handled everything that could’ve caused stress, as if controlling the environment could ease the tremor in your spine.

but you’re still nervous. and that shows in your hands.

“c’mere,” he says from the couch.

you shake your head, arms crossed. “too twitchy.”

“you get twitchy when you’re not near me.”

“do not.”

he raises an eyebrow.

“…maybe.”

he pats his lap. “c’mere.”

you hesitate. then walk over, dropping yourself ungracefully across him.

he catches you easily.

one arm wraps around your lower back, hand splayed over your hip. the other curves beneath your thighs, tugging you further into his chest until you’re fully cradled, half-splayed in his lap like you belong there. because you do.

his voice is close to your ear.

“atta girl,” he murmurs. “look at you.”

you exhale into his shoulder.

“you just needed a reset,” he adds, rocking you slowly, like a sway at sea. “nothin’ wrong with that. i got you.”

his scent is warm and familiar—clean laundry, cedar soap, the faint ghost of his cologne. you tuck your face into his hoodie and breathe in, like you can anchor yourself there.

he shifts. you don’t think anything of it.

not until he’s crouching.

“wait—what are you—”

but he’s already lifting you. arms under your knees and back, your body tucked against his chest like you weigh nothing at all. you let out a startled noise—half protest, half clinging closer—but he doesn’t falter.

“shhh,” he soothes, nuzzling his nose briefly against your temple. “just hold on. that’s it.”

your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulder.

you should argue. should tell him to put you down. but his grip is so steady, his chest solid under your cheek, and you feel your nerves short-circuiting—not vanishing, just… rerouting. not spiraling anymore.

he walks.

soft footfalls down the hallway. every step a slow rhythm against your spine. you don’t even register where he’s going, too caught in the calm he’s building around you.

“you know,” he says after a beat, voice low and teasing, “this is the exact opposite of what your little planner says to do when you’re panicking.”

you grunt.

“no, really,” he continues, like it’s a casual conversation and not a carefully orchestrated distraction. “you wrote, and i quote, ‘engage in grounding exercises, breathe deeply, hydrate.’ no mention of getting carried around like royalty.”

you press your face harder into his hoodie. “you read that?”

"wasn't locked like a diary or anything…"

“you’re insufferable.”

“mm,” he hums. “but you’re breathing normally again.”

you pause.

realize he’s right.

and also realize you’re no longer in the living room.

he nudges a door open with his foot. the familiar click of your office chair wheels against the floor, the soft chime of your headset powering on, the screen glowing with your meeting link already loaded.

you lift your head.

“…how did we get here?”

“i walked,” he says, setting you down carefully in your chair, adjusting the armrest like he’s done it a hundred times. “you were carried. you were here for that whole 'me carrying you' deal, yeah?”

you blink down at the mouse, at the glowing link on the screen.

your hands start to shake again—just a little. the nerves sneak in through the seams, familiar and cold.

but then his palm settles warm on your shoulder.

“hey,” he says, squeezing gently. “you’ve got this.”

you exhale, shaky.

he leans down. presses a kiss to your temple.

“i’ll be right outside,” he murmurs. “you need me, you just need to holler…and don't forget to take the hoodie off before joining the meeting.”

and god. somehow, that’s enough.

you nod, slow.

your fingers fumble for the zipper. it takes a second—your hands are still a little shaky—but you get it halfway down, and schlatt gently helps ease it off your shoulders. folds it once, sets it on the couch beside the desk like he knows you’ll want it the second you’re done.

he squeezes your shoulder one last time. “deep breaths,” he murmurs. “they’re just people. they’re not even real.”

you let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “you’re such a dick.”

“and you’re brave as hell.” he taps your headset. “go knock ’em dead.”

the door clicks shut behind him.

and somehow, with your notes in front of you, your slides pulled up, and the scent of his cologne still clinging to your skin—you make it through the meeting.

✧✧✧

it goes better than expected.

you’re still breathless by the end—shoulders tight, stomach fluttery—but you did it. no stuttering, no tech issues, no full shutdown. your laptop fans power down as the call ends, and you sit there in stunned silence for a second, blinking at the post-meeting screen.

and then—

the door creaks open.

“was that a little ‘thank you schlatt for singlehandedly carrying me to greatness’ i heard?”

you spin around in your chair.

he’s already grinning. smug. arms open.

“you did so good, baby,” he says. “c’mere.”

you don’t even hesitate—you launch yourself into his arms.

he catches you like it’s nothing. like he wants to carry you. arms firm around your back, cheek pressed to your temple.

“you were amazing,” he murmurs, swaying you gently. “seriously. proud of you.”

you don’t say anything—just nod against his shoulder, your fingers clutching his hoodie like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor.

he hums, lips brushing your ear.

“now,” he says, warm and low, “d’you want your tea reheated, or should i just pick you up again and carry you back to bed?”

your smile is small. relieved. a little sleepy.

“…bed,” you whisper.

“good girl,” he says, already lifting you. “you earned it.”

[slattlicker]

hii i love your work!! Literally am like obsessed with this man omg. Sorry i just eat up pinning and yearning every time 😭 imagine schlatt meeting or streaming with alternative reader. Maybe they’re both into each other and there’s light flirting but reader is very black cat energy so they’re just side eyeing tf outta him while he tries to win them over but maybe he straps in helping them with something simple like fixing their door or helping with computer problems and readers just looking at him with heart eyes cause they always have to do everything themselves. Sorry if this is so long idk how to do these!!! Please get rest and eat a yummy snack and hydrate!! 🫶

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * maid to misbehave ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: a raid, a ruffle, and a favor for an old friend—until the bit goes too far and you’re the one getting played. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: this is what happens when you encourage parasocial men. this is what happens when you make flirty donos a personality trait. this is what happens when you wear cat ears for HIM. thank you and also you’re welcome.

warnings: heavy flirting, mutual down-badness, subtext as text, stream-performance personas unraveling in real time, one (1) gothic streamer folding like laundry, and a man who’s too good at pushing buttons.

enjoy! ₍՞◌′ᵕ‵ू◌₎♡ ‧₊˚✧

your room smells like clove cigarettes and micellar water.

there’s a velvet curtain drawn across your window, blocking out what little sun dared to show up. a desk fan hums low from the floor, barely loud enough to compete with the whir of your pc.

the stream’s been live for an hour.

you’re halfway through your makeup—camera on, mic hot, brush tapping rhythmically against a compact. soft chatter hums in your ear from chat, broken only by the occasional text-to-speech dono.

you press the contour in with short, practiced strokes—cool-toned and sculpting without going ashy. it fades just right against your cheek, jaw, nose. the kind of placement that’s subtle at a glance but looks sharp on camera. you sweep a puff of setting powder across your forehead, then lean in closer to check the edges.

the ring light above your monitor is dimmed with a sheer stocking—castoff from a party costume—and the only other light in the room is your desk lamp, its base hot to the touch. everything’s soft shadows and grayscale glow.

your eyes are smoked out in gray, deep plum, and matte black. clean wing, half-lashes, corner glitter. there’s a slick of highlight down your nose—silvery in the center, more champagne at the tips, depending on how you turn.

“this is sooo not a soft look,” you say, mostly to yourself. "exactly what we're going for."

chat:

"it's giving vampire wife" "someone clip this pls i need it for later" "GOD YOU'RE SO PRETTYYY" "omg that color on your eyessss what is it"

you lean forward, elbows braced against the desk, nose nearly brushing the camera. “it’s the smokeshow palette,” you say, reaching off screen. “and before you ask, yes—shade names are stupid. ‘funeral crush’? ‘afterparty ash’? like. okay.”

you hold up the compact, flashing it at the lens before tossing it carelessly into the pile of palettes near your keyboard. one of them clatters to the floor. you don’t even flinch.

“anyway,” you continue, lining your lips with slow, steady strokes. “today’s theme is ‘bite me.’ not metaphorically. like literally. i want to look like i just got dragged into a crypt and kissed for too long. maybe find out that he was like...a vampire, who wanted to suck all my blood, but my make-out skills were just too good.”

chat:

“THE VISION IS SO CLEAR” “BITE ME IN A DOLLAR TREE PARKING LOT” “id let u ruin my life for content queen 🛐”

you snort, twisting the lip liner shut. “it's a dumb theme but i'm glad to have all of you as my enablers."

you sit back again, reaching for a gloss. it’s black in the tube, but sheer on application—just enough to deepen the lip color without taking away the definition. paired with the liner and eye makeup, it’s exactly the look you were going for: dramatic. sharpened.

you glance at yourself in the camera preview.

“okay. i kinda ate.”

more chat spam.

“ATE?? YOU DEVOURRRRED” “NO CRUMBS. BARELY BONES” “we love a confident queen 😌”

somewhere, under the noise, you hear it:

hello? your own voice—warped, echoing through the speakers. the sarcastic dono sound you had set up.

you glance at the corner of the screen, expecting a familiar username.

but you freeze.

because the one that just came through is unfamiliar. not the name. the timing.

and the message just says:

put on the maid outfit.

you blink. the gloss tube wobbles between your fingers.

“...excuse me?” you lean toward the mic. “you wanna run that back?”

chat:

“WAIT WHO SAID THAT” “WHO DONO’D THAT OMG” “maid arc maid arc maid arc 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️”

you stare down the chat. eyes narrowed. mouth twitching like you’re trying not to laugh.

“…you’re so lucky that dono was over $20.”

another hello? echoes through the speakers. same distorted voice. same user.

this time:

$21.69 — “i’m just saying. if the look fits.”

you groan.

“i swear to god…”

you’re already moving toward your closet.

you pause with your hand on the closet handle.

“okay, just to be clear,” you say, straightening up and turning to face the camera, “i’m not putting it on.”

chat:

“YOU PROMISED???” “DONT BACK OUT BABYGIRL” “MAID OUTFIT OR WE RIOT”

you roll your eyes, already fishing through the hangers.

“first of all, i didn’t promise jack shit. second of all, he doesn’t get to win. he’s not even watching.”

you say it with your chest, but you know it’s a lie.

he’s always watching.

he’s the only reason you even own the damn thing—black lace, white apron, ruffled and smug and shoved in the very back behind all your chunky jackets and mesh tops. you didn’t buy it. he mailed it to your PO box after a months-long bit about “stream uniforms.”

you told chat it was a joke. you told yourself that too.

you pull out a different outfit—equally dramatic. vinyl corset top, long gloves, sleeves that tie with little ribbons. it’s goth. it’s flashy. it’s not a maid outfit.

“this is what we’re doing,” you say, draping it over your chair. “no aprons. no dusters. no yassified servitude.”

you look dead into the camera.

“he doesn’t get that satisfaction.”

and then—

your raid alert triggers.

thunder. a creaking door. then, clear and slow: “welcome, honored guests.”

your heart sinks.

chat explodes.

“WAIT. RAID???” “WHO’S RAIDINGGGGG” “ITS HIM. ITS HIM. IT’S HIM!!!”

you whip around toward the monitor.

sure enough, in the corner of your screen, just above your chat feed, the notification pops up:

jschlatt is raiding with 20,786 viewers.

you drop your head into your hands.

“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”

your fingers lace behind your head, pulling your hair back in sheer disbelief.

“you guys. you guys. be serious right now.”

chat is already out for blood.

“MAID. OUTFIT. MAID. OUTFIT.” “this is democracy at work” “schlatt raided—you owe him” “if you don’t put it on i’m unfollowing 💔”

you glare at the camera.

“first of all, that’s emotional manipulation. second—do you know how weird it is that you’re all suddenly on his side?”

another hello? cuts in. your own voice. echoey. smug. another dono.

$10.00 — “they just want what i want. be a good girl, sweetheart.”

you physically recoil. “NOPE. nope nope nope—too far. i’m banning him. mods, take him out.”

chat is losing it.

“TOO LATE. HE’S IN THE WALLS.” “not her foldingggg” “omg wait weren't there shoes too”

you blink. “wait. what shoes.”

another dono.

$5.00 — “you know the ones. chunky buckle mary janes. the pair i asked about when you showed them on stream. i told you they’d look perfect.”

you throw your brush. just right off the desk.

“OH MY GOD.”

the chat:

“HE KNOWS. HE REMEMBERS. WE’RE DEAD.” “just admit he’s got the vision” “put on the SOCKS TOO!! the ones w the lil lace tops HE'LL LOVE THOSE ONESSSS”

you shove back from your desk, chair squeaking.

“fine. fine. but if i do this, no one is allowed to speak when i come back. dead silent. y’all better act like i’m showing up to a funeral.”

another dono:

$6.66 — “yours.”

you stare at the camera for a long, long second.

then disappear off screen.

✧✧✧

you walk back on screen like you’re storming a runway.

black-and-white ruffles, lace-topped thigh highs, glossy mary janes that click against the floor with every step. the corset bodice hugs just right. the skirt’s short. obnoxiously short. there’s a bell choker around your neck now—because you have no self-control. or dignity.

you take your seat slowly. deliberately. legs crossed, chin tilted. and you say nothing.

neither does chat.

just wall-to-wall:

“...” “chat fell silent” “i fear for my life” “do i say slay or do i say sorry” “she’s gonna kill him and i support her”

your overlay blinks. another dono pops up.

hello?

$12.00 — “told you.”

you inhale. you exhale. and then you reach for your phone.

“nope,” you mutter. “you don’t get to hide behind donos like some anonymous menace. if i’m showing lace, you’re showing face.”

chat:

“OH????” “CALLING HIM OUT IRL??? LET’S GOOOOO” “someone record this pls”

you turn your camera slightly, thumb already tapping at the screen.

it rings twice.

he picks up.

"hey, sweetheart," schlatt says, smug as hell. "you look amazing."

"shut up."

his camera turns on. he’s in bed. hoodie half-zipped. hair a little messy. watching you from his phone like it’s his favorite movie.

"you were in the middle of a long-awaited minecraft stream,” you accuse, eyes narrowing. “you ended just to do this.”

“well, yeah,” he shrugs. “couldn’t focus. you were on. and i knew the fit would hit.”

you groan. “i hate you.”

"nah," he grins, lazy. "you hate how much you like when i'm right."

chat’s in hell.

“THIS IS ACTUALLY INSANE” “SOMEONE CHECK ON HER MIC SHE’S BREATHING SO LOUD” “did he just CALL HER SWEETHEART???” “he ended stream just to watch her... oh it’s over for me”

you don’t say anything for a second.

just stare.

“schlatt.”

“…yeah?”

you shift in your chair—just slightly. just enough to adjust the frilly apron at your waist. the black ribbon at your collar. the thigh-high sock that’s slipped a little lower than the other.

“you do realize,” you say, slow and dangerous, “that this is your fault.”

his brows furrow. “what is?”

you blink once. deliberately.

“this.” you gesture lazily at yourself. “the outfit. the chat. the raid. i didn’t want to wear this.”

“you could’ve said no—”

“but you knew i wouldn’t.”

he stares. you lean forward, resting your chin in your hand. the mic picks up your every exhale, low and syrupy.

“so,” you say, voice like sin, “if you're gonna make me play house, schlatt... you better be ready to come home.”

his face twitches. like he just took psychic damage.

chat detonates.

“HELLO???” “SHE’S EVIL. I’M OBSESSED.” “WHATTT IS GOING ONNNN” “he’s literally malfunctioning on cam i’m crying”

you tilt your head.

“what?” you ask sweetly. “cat got your tongue?”

he exhales sharply. grips his phone tighter. eyes locked on you like you just stepped off the forbidden altar of every goth dream he’s ever had.

“…send your address.”

“i already did.”

“you what—”

“ten minutes ago. you were too busy being cocky to check.”

there’s a beat.

then he’s off-screen, muttering curses, hoodie whipping over his shoulder as he vanishes like a man possessed.

you click to your BRB screen. mic still on.

“chat,” you purr, “i need to tidy up before company arrives.”

the last thing they hear is the soft clink of your lip gloss tube snapping shut.

✧✧✧

your phone buzzes with the entry notification.

you glance down.

front door: unknown guest requesting access: comment: “meow.”

you snort. dramatic little bastard.

with a roll of your eyes, you tap accept, then lean back in your chair, slipping the ears on like a crown. glossy black. metal-clip base. they catch the light as you turn your head, all soft angles and sharper smirks.

the maid outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. cropped bodice, laced back, puff sleeves. the stockings are perfectly uneven on purpose now. one tugged up high. the other a little lower, just enough to flash a garter clip when you move. your lips are a fresh coat of gloss. your nails are black. your patience is thin.

three knocks.

you don’t rush. you saunter.

when you open the door, he’s standing there—hood tugged halfway on, out of breath, like he jogged the last block.

his eyes sweep over you. from the ears to the socks. he blinks. once. slow.

“…you’re kidding.”

you tilt your head.

“you sent the outfit. you started the bit. now you live with the consequences.”

“i thought you’d fold and put it on for five seconds,” he says, stepping inside, brushing past you with his usual wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing gait. “not… greet me at the fucking door with little ears on...with the bell collar?”

“you assumed wrong.” you close the door behind him. flick the lock. “i always commit.”

his gaze flickers to the kitchen. the small table’s set—two teacups, a black-and-white porcelain pot, steam curling from the spout. you’ve got milk and sugar in matching skull-shaped dishes, and there’s even a little snack plate with matcha shortbread you didn’t make but definitely took credit for.

“you’re terrifying,” he says under his breath, not even trying to hide the smile. "your stream is gonna explode when people see those ears."

“if you’re drooling this much over them, they definitely will.” you transfer the teaset and cookies onto a silver tray, carefully lifting it as you glance down the hallway. “c’mon. stream’s set up in the next room.”

he follows you past the kitchen, through a narrow doorway lit with faint purple LEDs. the walls are plastered with band posters and little polaroids. half your makeup desk bleeds into your gaming setup—brushes still scattered across a hand mirror, lip liner rolling dangerously close to your mousepad. the velvet curtain’s drawn tight. your chair creaks as you sit.

he doesn’t.

he lingers near your tower, eyes narrowing. you click around in OBS, loading up your overlays, until you notice how quiet he’s gone.

“…what?”

he nods toward the floor. “your fan’s doing the thing again.”

you pause. “what thing?”

you set the tray down on the shelf beside your monitor, just out of frame. ring light on. mic already hot. you pluck the maid headband from the hook by your chair and slip it back on like muscle memory, adjusting the little ears until they sit just right.

schlatt’s still standing. not admiring the aesthetic—though you catch the glance he gives your legs as you pass—but squinting down at your tower like it murdered his grandma.

you lower yourself into your chair. "are you gonna sit or just loom there like an npc?"

"your pc’s loud as fuck," he says, crouching beside it. "how do you stream with this running in your ear all day?"

"uh, by turning my headset volume up and pretending not to hear it?"

he shoots you a look. unamused.

you pour yourself a cup, and sip, unapologetic. "i thought that was normal."

"that’s not normal. that’s a cry for help." he taps the side panel. listens again. "you got dust caked in the fan vents and you’re running with the back too close to the wall—no wonder this thing sounds like it’s trying to take off."

you raise a brow. "...you always diagnose women’s computers this quickly?"

"only when they’re cute and one hardware failure away from streaming in 144p."

you try not to smile. fail spectacularly. “nerd.”

"flirt," he fires back. then, casually—"move."

you blink. "what?"

"your chair. slide."

you scoot over just enough for him to kneel and tug the tower toward the open floor. he flicks the switch off with practiced ease and starts unplugging things like he’s been here before.

"...you came over to see me in a maid outfit and now you’re doing tech support?”

"gotta be a master worth serving, right?"

"gotta be a master worth serving, right?" he says without missing a beat, tugging a cable free with a smirk you can feel even from the side of his face.

you freeze. blink. then bury your face in your sleeves with a noise that's somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

"you’re so fucking annoying," you mumble into the fabric.

“nah,” he mutters, tilting your tower to unscrew the panel. “you like when i say that shit.”

"do you like when i say shit like that?"

“shit like what, y/n?” he smiles, looking back at you, eyebrows wiggling.

you give him a look. “don’t play dumb.”

“not playing.” he shrugs, settling down in front of the open tower like he’s doing god's work. “you’re the one in ears and a collar.”

you narrow your eyes. “you sent the ears. and the collar.”

“exactly. you wore them for me.”

“i wore them for chat.”

he snorts. “not my fault that they're always on my side. not my fault that i'm always right.”

you fold your arms, nose wrinkling. “god, you’re smug.”

“only ‘cause you’re blushing.”

“it's the makeup, actually.”

"i think i've watched you for long enough to tell between your blush and your blush. you wanna know how?"

"how?"

he looks back at you again, eyes drifting from your eyes, to your lips, back to your eyes. "your nose gets all scrunched up. you bite your lip. you get all huffy and cross your arms..."

you immediately uncross your arms.

“see?” he grins. “told you.”

“you’re unbearable.”

“you’re adorable.”

“i’m going to put arsenic in your tea.”

“you could,” he says, tilting his head at the thought. “and i would still drink all of it. that’s how down bad i am.”

you blink at him. hard.

then grab a makeup sponge and launch it.

he catches it.

with no effort.

you groan. “god, you’re so annoying.”

“yeah,” he says, tilting his head as he clicks your panel back into place. “but you’re letting me into your setup and your stream room and your kitchen. and you’re letting me fix shit. and you’ve got cookies out.”

“they’re from a box.”

“doesn’t matter.” he sits back and brushes off his hands. “you don’t let people do things for you.”

you go still.

he glances over.

“…right?”

you don’t answer. just stare.

his voice drops. just a little. more real.

“you always do everything on your own. but you let me in.”

a beat.

“...why?”

you hesitate. feel a fluttering feeling inside yourself, but you push it down.

"because you give me so many new subscribers, master."

his mouth drops open. like, actually drops.

you don’t even give him time to recover—you’re already reaching for your headset, turning back toward the monitors like you didn’t just drop a nuclear-level bit in his lap.

“my tower’s fine now?” you ask sweetly, voice back in streamer mode.

“…you’re such a freak.”

“mmhm,” you hum, adjusting your mic. “but a grateful one.”

he makes a strangled sound behind you. “you can’t just—i was trying to be genuine—”

“chat’ll be thrilled you got me working again.” you give your best innocent smile. “maybe they’ll send a thank you dono. you know. for master’s hard work.”

he groans, full-body, hand dragging down his face as he paces toward the only other chair in the room.

“you’re literally gonna end me.”

“maybe,” you murmur, clicking the “go live” button again. “but not before i get those numbers up.”

✧✧✧

your stream flickers back to life.

the screen fades from your starting soon overlay to the camera feed—your usual setup, slightly adjusted. two chairs now. two cups. one familiar black-and-white porcelain teapot resting between you and the man who just threw your emotional equilibrium off a cliff.

chat’s already flooding back in.

“CAT EARS ARE ON NOW???” “OH MY GOD WAIT IS THAT SCHLATT???” “SHE BROUGHT HIM ON STREAM HELP” “THE COLLAR. THE BELL—I’M ON MY KNEES.”

you clear your throat.

“hey, everyone. sorry for the delay, my PC was…having a moment. this is—uh—”

“hi, chat,” schlatt says, leaning into his mic with way too much smug energy. “you can call me master.”

your jaw drops.

he grins wider, looping one finger under the little ribbon at your collar and tugging gently—just enough to make the bell jingle.

you freeze.

chat explodes.

“DID HE JUST—???” “THE BELL—IM SICK” “NO WAY HE DID THAT WITH A STRAIGHT FACE” “YOU GUYS. I’M SWEATING.”

“kitten forgot her manners,” schlatt says smoothly, as you blink at the camera like your soul just left your body. “isn’t she supposed to pour my tea first?”

you smack his arm, face burning. “schlatt!”

he shrugs. “what? we’re committing to the bit, right?”

“i—i hate you.”

“nah.” he winks at chat. “she’s just mad ‘cause i know how to get her numbers up.”

you almost knock the teapot off the tray trying to get a good grip on the handle, pouring his tea.

you hand over the teacup like it weighs five pounds.

your fingers are trembling, your mic’s too hot, and you’re so aware of the bell at your neck—but somehow, somehow, you manage to slip right back into it.

chin tilted.

eyes sharp.

voice silky: “your tea, sir.”

chat detonates.

“OH MY GOD THE WAY SHE SAID THAT” “DOES THIS COUNT AS ROLEPLAY???” “STOP STOP STOP IM WATCHING THIS AT WORK” “PUT A TWITCH MATURE WARNING ON THIS STREAM RIGHT NOW”

schlatt takes the cup with a smirk that borders on evil.

“thank you, kitten,” he says, deliberately dragging it out. he sips—pinkie up, dramatically. “hmm. could use more sugar.”

you smile, saccharine. “your whole personality’s sugar, isn’t it?”

“nah,” he says, licking his bottom lip. “that’s all you, baby.”

you stare at him.

he stares back.

chat:

“HELLO????????” “THE LIP LICK??????? BRO????????” “baby. he called her baby.” “i need this clipped, archived, framed, and buried with me”

you snap your gaze back to the camera.

“right. uh. stream questions.”

“nah,” schlatt cuts in again. “don’t you have chores?”

“schlatt.”

“kitten’s slacking,” he mutters, reaching over to tap your mic stand. “might have to add that to your performance review.”

your hands slap to your face.

“YOU ARE NOT PUTTING ME ON A PIP.”

“probation. effective immediately.”

chat is crying. sobbing. screaming.

“THEY’RE GONNA GET BANNED” “IM WHEEZING I CAN’T BREATHE” “THEY ARE TOO GOOD AT THIS” “i don’t even want the bit to stop someone start playing romantic jazz”

✧✧✧

you eventually get schlatt to cool it with the roleplay enough to get to your favorite part...the tarot reading. your halfway into your master's reading, about to reveal the last card, his future.

he’s been lounging in your second chair like he owns the place—tea in hand, smug little smile, watching you shuffle your deck like you’re about to summon something.

“this one’s for you,” you say, fanning the cards. “your future.”

“oh boy,” schlatt mutters. “can’t wait to find out what haunted victorian orphan energy i’m carrying this week.”

you shoot him a look. “if you’re gonna talk shit, at least respect the process.”

“respectfully, i think your deck is cursed.”

“you literally just drank tea i made while wearing cat ears and a bell collar. your soul’s already tainted.”

chat is loving every second.

“HE LOOKS SCARED LMAO” “Y/N DRAG HIMMMM” “not the ‘respect the process’ 💀💀💀” “someone PLEASE screenshot his face rn he looks like he’s watching a horror movie”

you flip the first two cards. the chariot. the tower.

you hum. “interesting…”

“interesting bad?” he asks, immediately tense.

“depends. you’ve got forward motion, but with upheaval. you’re either in for a breakthrough or a breakdown.”

“so, like, tuesday,” he deadpans.

you fight a grin. “and finally…”

you draw the third card.

the lovers.

you blink.

he squints. “what?”

you turn the card toward the camera.

chat implodes.

“HELLOOOOOO???” “HE GOT THE LOVERS CARD. HE GOT THE LOVERS CARD.” “IT'S LITERALLLLYYYY FATEEEE” “Y/N’S HANDS ARE SHAKING. I SEE IT.”

you look at him. he looks at you. something flickers behind his usual grin.

“…so?” he asks, voice softer now. “what’s it mean?”

you hesitate. then—still half playing it off, but half not—you say:

“it means… a connection that’s inevitable. a choice that changes everything. one that doesn’t go away.”

he raises an eyebrow. “a choice, huh?”

you nod once.

he leans in.

"i think i know...what it's talking about."

you blink. slow. measured. your fingers glide across the table to flip the card back over—like it’s not still burning a hole through your chest.

you click your tongue. smile. too sharp, too polished.

“oh, do you?” you say sweetly, tilting your head. “you already have an idea for that special someone in your life?”

he laughs—low, warm. “yeah. i think you'd like her...”

you lift your cup. take a sip.

“oh?” you lift your cup slowly, voice cool. “she into weird guys with outdated humor and questionable facial hair?”

“well,” he says, grinning as he leans in just enough for the mic to catch it, “she does like charity cases.”

you scoff, nearly choking on your tea. “i do not! and you are not—”

"and who said that i was talking about you, kitten?" he shoots back.

your lips part. the bell on your collar jingles slightly from how fast your head turns.

you stare at him—eyes narrowed, mouth poised around a sharp retort—but nothing comes out.

he just smirks, sitting pretty in your gaming chair, arms behind his head like he didn’t just nuke your entire frontal cortex.

chat is in shambles.

“NAH. NAH. HE’S COOKING TOO HARD.” “WHY DID SHE FREEZE LIKE THAT 😭” “Y/N FOLDED. CLIPPED.”

you exhale slowly. smooth your skirt. square your shoulders.

"you’re right," you murmur, stepping around to stand behind his chair. “you weren’t talking about me.”

his eyes flick up toward you.

“because the girl you're talking about?” you lean down, voice lowering just enough to hit the mic again, “she wouldn't let you call her kitten without consequences.”

the chat collectively screams.

“WAIT A MINUTE.” “SHE’S BATTLING BACK OH MY GODDDDD” “MAID ARC JUST WENT DOMMY 😳😳😳”

schlatt laughs—but it’s breathier this time. his hands twitch slightly against the arms of the chair.

you don’t let up.

“i think it’s about time my master…” you trail off, tilting your head just enough for the bell at your throat to jingle. then you smile—sweet, wicked. “…earned his tea the hard way.”

and before chat can fully process what the hell that means, you reach forward—

—click.

the stream ends.

black screen.

no outro.

no goodbye.

just chaos in the aftermath.

“HELLO???” “EXCUSE ME?????” “WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN” “I NEED A WELLNESS CHECK” “THIS IS A CRIME SCENE” “MODS, I’M SHAKING” “THE VOD BETTER BE UP ASAP I SWEAR TO GOD”

meanwhile, on your end, your monitor’s off. your mic’s muted. and schlatt’s still staring at you from the chair, lips parted slightly, like he’s the one who just got left hanging.

he huffs a little in his chair, shoulders slumping like the wind's gone out of him. none of that smug energy now—no smirk, no teasing comeback. just him. quiet. real.

“you’re exhausting, you know that?” he says softly.

you tilt your head.

he glances at you, then down at his hands, thumbs brushing against the rings he’s still fidgeting with.

“you flirt like you don’t mean it. like it’s just a bit. and i can��t tell if you’re doing it to keep control or if you’re scared of what happens if it’s not a joke anymore.”

a beat.

“but i’m not playing.”

you freeze.

“not with you,” he adds. “not ever again.”

he finally looks at you again, and it knocks something loose in your chest—because this isn’t the guy who calls you kitten on stream or sends you dumb donos just to hear your voice.

this is the guy who watches every vod. who knows your alert sounds by heart. who saw your PC was overheating and opened it up like it was second nature. the one who brought you the maid outfit because he thought it’d make you laugh—and then raided your stream just to see it on you.

“i didn’t come over to win a bit,” he says, quieter now. “i came ‘cause i wanted to see you. just… you. even if you roasted me the whole time.”

you don’t say anything for a moment.

just breathe.

and when you do speak, your voice comes out smaller than you expect.

“…why?”

“because you let me in,” he says again, and this time it’s not a question. “and no one gets that far with you.”

your chest tightens. your fingers curl slightly against your arms.

and then—

“…shut up,” you murmur, blinking fast. “you’re gonna make me cry again and i just did my eyeliner.”

he smiles. not cocky this time—just soft. hopeful.

“you cry pretty,” he says. “but i like you better when you're smiling.”

you snort. rub your eyes with the heel of your hand.

“you’re so stupid.”

“you know what’s stupid?” he says, pushing up from the chair just enough to close the gap between you. “if you really care about your makeup getting ruined…”

he tilts his head, eyes flicking down to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“…you’re about to hate this.”

your breath catches.

and then he kisses you.

slow, sure, and stupidly gentle. like he’s savoring the moment—not rushing it. one hand finds your waist, the other still braced on the arm of the chair, like he needs to hold on to something to ground himself.

your hands—caught somewhere between wanting to shove him and wanting to pull him closer—end up curled into the fabric of his hoodie.

his mouth is warm. careful. almost reverent.

when he finally pulls back, barely an inch, his voice drops again. “yep. makeup’s done for.”

you blink up at him, dazed.

"...i think that...was worth it,” you whisper.

he grins. full, wolfish, damn near pleased with himself.

“good,” he says. “’cause if your lip combo wasn’t kiss-proof, i wouldn’t’ve had the fucking restraint.”

your breath catches again. your lashes lower.

“so what i’m hearing,” you murmur, brushing your thumb against the edge of his jaw, “is that you’ve been thinking about kissing me all night? and getting this black gloss all over you?”

his fingers flex at your waist. “you’re joking, right? i’ve been thinking about it since the moment you opened the door in that fucking collar.”

“hm.” your nails ghost along his hoodie. “should’ve known you were weak for the bit.”

“not weak,” he says, low, “just starving for you.”

your eyes flutter at that.

he notices. grins even wider—smug, wrecked, hungry.

“eyes like that,” he mutters, fingers sliding from your waist to your hip, “and you wanna pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”

you hum—noncommittal, teasing. “i thought i was just playing the part.”

“baby,” he says, “if you were playing the part, let me give my congratulations to the actress.”

his hand slips beneath the hem of your the short maid outfit you're wearing, fingertips brushing bare skin. not rushed. not demanding. just... possessive. like he’s been holding back this whole time and now he's realizing that doesn’t have to.

you lean in, lips nearly at his ear. “if you’re gonna ruin my makeup, at least do it right.”

you gasp, barely catching your breath as your back hits the door with a thud. your thighs tighten around his waist out of instinct. his mouth is already back on yours—hotter now, hungrier, like he’s got a point to prove.

“fuck,” he mutters against your lips, “you’re gonna kill me in this thing.”

“you sent it,” you manage, even as your nails dig into his shoulders. “this is your fault.”

“yeah?” he smirks, biting gently at your lower lip before kissing the sting away. “then i better take responsibility.”

his hands slide down, under the edge of your skirt. he groans—low, ragged—like he’s just confirmed a suspicion. “fuck me. did you seriously wear a garter belt?”

you breathe out a laugh, half-strangled. “i've gotta match the aesthetic down to my panties, schlatt.”

“you really do commit.” he presses you harder into the door, voice thick. “are you really this committed to driving me insane?”

you tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw. “absolutely, master...”

his breath hitches. his hips shift. and you feel him—every inch of him, pressed up between your thighs, right where you wanted him.

you smile. slow. dangerous.

“mission accomplished then, kitten.”