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sleepdepr1v3d · 2 months ago

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HEHEHEEHHEHE THANK YEW

i love your fics so much!!! would you write about some period comfort? My period is KICKING me in the ass right now and i need some lovey schlatt

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * kiss the pain away ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: your cramps are unbearable. schlatt offers tongue… and teeth. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the tired, the crampy, and the emotionally deranged. you are so valid. I hope all your pain is sent to your worst enemies instead!!

warnings: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT (MDNI!!), oral sex (f. receiving), period sex / blood mention, discussion of cramps and menstruation, established relationship, soft dom!schlatt energy / caretaking dynamic

enjoy! (🩸´ ∀ `🩸)

✧✧✧

you’re curled up on the couch, the tv flickering dully across the room. a heating pad rests against your lower belly, its warmth doing little to fight off the deep, dragging ache of your cramps. you feel heavy, drained, like everything’s just a little too loud and far away all at once.

your tea sits cold on the table, untouched. a bottle of ibuprofen stares you down from the edge, but even reaching for it feels like too much. the movie you picked—some moody, slow-burn drama—isn’t helping. it only makes the fog in your chest feel thicker.

you pull the blanket tighter around you and sigh, eyes stinging. it’s one of those days—the kind where you don’t want to talk, move, or exist. just hide.

you barely register the sound of the office door creaking open.

soft footsteps cross the floor. “you okay?” comes schlatt’s voice—quiet, careful, but carrying that rare thread of concern you only hear when he’s serious.

you don’t look up. “just… hurts,” you murmur.

he doesn’t push. doesn’t joke. he sinks down next to you on the couch, not too close, but enough that you feel his warmth.

“why don’t you let me take over tonight?” he says gently, already reaching for the remote to kill the sad background noise. “you sit here, relax. i’ll handle everything.”

you glance at him, caught off guard. “everything?”

“everything,” he repeats. “and we’re starting with cookies.”

you blink. “you’re gonna bake?”

“hell yeah, i am.” he grins, brushing your arm lightly. “trust me. i’ve got this. you just sit here and look cute.”

you let out a small huff of a laugh—more air than sound—but it’s something. “this better not end with a fire alarm.”

“not unless i burn the cookies on purpose to get your attention.” he winks, already rising from the couch with a stretch and a content little grunt. “but i won’t. pinky swear.”

you settle back, too worn out to argue, but the sound of schlatt moving around the kitchen is surprisingly comforting. the soft clatter of bowls and measuring spoons, the hum of the oven warming up—it all fades into the background like a familiar song you didn’t realize you’d missed.

you sip your tea. still cold. still fine. and for once, the stillness around you doesn’t feel so suffocating.

he hums to himself—something tuneless and a little dumb—and you catch a glimpse of him through the doorway: sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed in concentration, mixing with one hand while scrolling through a recipe on his phone with the other.

you close your eyes for a second, letting the sounds blur together. mixer whirring. oven ticking. his occasional mutter of “too much sugar? nah. we ball.”

when you peek again, he’s back in the doorway, holding a mixing bowl with pride.

“alright, baby,” he says, softer now, like he doesn’t want to break whatever spell the evening’s settled into. “time for the taste test.”

you shift slightly, the weight in your belly still there, but less sharp than before. “taste test?” you echo, voice scratchy.

he grins. “you think i’d bake and not let you lick the spoon? criminal.”

you accept the offered spoon and take a bite—warm, sugary, just enough salt to make the chocolate pop. your eyes flutter shut.

“good?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“perfect,” you murmur.

he leans in and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “told you. i’m kind of a pro.”

you hum in response, letting yourself sink further into the couch as the oven ticks on. for the first time all day, something in your chest unclenches. it’s not just the sugar or the warmth of the blanket. it’s him. it’s the way he shows up.

not flashy. not loud. just… the wind at your back. always there.

minutes pass in a quiet rhythm—oven humming, cookies baking, your eyes fluttering between open and closed as schlatt occasionally peeks in with a dumb thumbs-up or exaggerated “chef’s kiss.” eventually, he returns, triumphant, with a plate in hand.

“fresh out the oven,” he declares. “don’t burn your mouth, unless you’re into that.”

you smirk and take one, crisp on the outside, warm and gooey in the center. your body still aches, but it’s easier to ignore with something sweet in your hand and him sitting beside you again, leg pressed gently to yours.

after a beat, he nudges your shoulder. “alright. time for round two.”

“what?” you blink.

he picks up the controller, wagging it like a bribe. “mario kart. winner gets the last cookie.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you made the cookies...for me.”

“and i will gatekeep them from you. pick your character, baby.”

you huff, but sit up and take the second controller. your hips are stiff, your body protesting slightly—but it feels good to move. not painless, but less suffocating. progress.

the first round is a massacre—he’s obviously letting you win, but trying to make it look casual. you give him a side-eye mid-race. “you’re going easy on me.”

“what? me? never,” he says, immediately driving his kart into a wall.

you snort. “wow. such skill.”

“you’re just cracked,” he shrugs. “must be the meds kicking in.”

and for a while, you almost forget the ache. you win the next two races, and he only starts fighting back when you taunt him too hard. even then, he lets you keep the upper hand (for the most part, anyway). it’s soft, easy fun. the kind that makes your cheeks hurt more than your stomach does.

but around race five, you start to slump a little. it’s small at first—your back pressing deeper into the cushions, your hand easing its grip on the controller.

schlatt notices.

he doesn't say anything right away. just lets the next match run as he watches you instead of the screen. you place third. he finishes dead last.

“feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice a little lower, more careful.

you wince slightly, setting the controller down. “yeah. just… fading a little.”

schlatt doesn’t hesitate. he sets his own controller aside and reaches for the blanket you’d kicked off earlier, shaking it loose and wrapping it gently around your shoulders.

“alright, that’s enough super circuit for one night,” he says softly, already scooping you up into his arms like it’s nothing. “time to relocate.”

you let out a weak protest—something about walking—but he ignores it completely, holding you snug to his chest as he carries you down the hall. “i’m serious,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. “you carried us through rainbow road. now it’s my turn.”

you bury your face against his shoulder, too exhausted to argue. he smells like clean laundry and chocolate chip cookies, and you melt into him with a quiet sigh.

✧✧✧

once in the bedroom, schlatt settles you carefully on the bed, still wrapped in your blanket. he props a pillow behind your back, then kneels down to slip off your socks with careful hands. the lights are low, the sheets cool, and the ache in your stomach hums quietly beneath it all.

“don’t move,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “i’ll be right back.”

he disappears into the bathroom, then the kitchen. you hear the soft clatter of pills in a bottle, the sink running, the microwave whirring for just a few seconds. when he returns, he’s carrying a small pile: ibuprofen, a glass of water, a fresh pad, and a microwaved rice sock tucked into the crook of his arm.

“came fully stocked,” he says, nudging the medicine into your hand.

you take it silently, your throat tight. schlatt doesn’t say anything about the way you swallow hard or the way your hands shake just a little. he just sets the rice sock over your lower abdomen and climbs into bed beside you.

“how’s it feeling now?” he asks, his voice quiet.

you breathe in. exhale slow. “still hurts.”

he nods. “okay.”

his thumb finds your thigh again, tracing slow, grounding circles into your skin. the room falls quiet—just the soft creak of the bed and the hum of his breathing beside you.

after a minute, you speak. “you don’t have to do all this.”

“i know,” he says simply. “but i want to.”

you turn your head toward him. he’s watching you with that same warm look from earlier, like you’re something fragile he’s not trying to fix—just hold. the longer you stay in that gaze, the harder it becomes to look away.

he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles brushing your cheek. “baby,” he murmurs, voice suddenly quieter. “i have a stupid idea.”

you raise an eyebrow, too tired to brace for whatever dumb bit he’s building up to.

“i’ve heard,” he continues slowly, “that, um… sometimes…” he pauses, clearly fighting back a smirk, “certain kinds of relief help with cramps.”

you blink. “…certain kinds?”

“you know,” he says, a little too casually. “orgasms.”

you stare at him.

he clears his throat, suddenly sheepish. “i’m not saying it has to happen, obviously. but if it might help—i mean—i’d do all the work. no pressure. just… offering.”

you raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the edge of your lips despite yourself. “is this your version of a medical treatment?”

“this is strictly medicinal,” he says, deadpan. “completely selfless. i’m practically a doctor, really.”

you let out a soft laugh, your stomach tensing—but it doesn’t hurt as bad when you’re smiling. you reach over and lightly squeeze his hand.

“okay, doctor. let’s see what you’ve got.”

schlatt grins like you just handed him a diploma. “ah, my favorite kind of patient—submissive and skeptical.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t pull your hand away from his. if anything, you squeeze it tighter.

he leans in, presses a kiss to your knuckles, then shifts down the bed slowly, deliberately. “first, we’ll begin treatment with localized warmth,” he mutters, voice mock-clinical as his hands settle on your thighs. “followed by gentle pressure to targeted areas.”

you huff a laugh—but the breath catches in your throat when his lips brush the inside of your knee, then lower. his tone may be teasing, but his hands are reverent.

“tell me if anything hurts,” he says, quieter now, all the joke burned away beneath the sincerity in his voice.

you nod, your body already relaxing beneath the weight of his touch.

“good.” he kisses the top of your thigh, slow and soft. “now hold still, sweetheart. doctor’s orders.”

he hooks his fingers into your waistband and slides your clothes down inch by inch, taking his time like he’s unwrapping something precious—not because he’s trying to be seductive, but because he cares.

and then he’s between your legs, spreading you open with careful hands, his eyes flicking up to check your face before he moves any closer.

“you still good?”

“mmhm,” you breathe, and that’s all he needs.

he leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss right where you’re aching.

and god—he means it. no hesitation. no skirting around the fact that you’re bleeding. just warmth, and tongue, and care. he licks a slow stripe up your folds, his mouth easing into the rhythm like he’s done this a hundred times, like your body is a map he already knows.

you shudder. your hips twitch, and his hands are there instantly, grounding you.

“you’re alright,” he murmurs. “just let me take care of you, baby.”

his tongue circles your clit, slow and steady. each pass sends sparks rippling through you, heat blooming under your skin and pushing the cramps to the background. he licks you like it’s a gift, like you’re the reward.

and when he groans against you—real and low and hungry—you feel it in your spine.

you exhale shakily as his mouth meets you again, the heat of him sinking into every nerve. his tongue moves with slow, practiced care—one long, deliberate stroke from your entrance to your clit, like he’s savoring you.

he lingers there, circling you with the tip of his tongue, steady and gentle, coaxing rather than demanding. the pressure isn’t overwhelming—just right, just enough—each pass melting the pain in your belly down into something warmer, lower, more bearable.

your breath stutters as your hips twitch beneath his touch. he holds you steady, palms firm on your thighs, but never rough. “that’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice low and almost reverent. “you’re doing so good, baby.”

he picks up the rhythm just slightly, tongue gliding with more confidence now, feeding off the way your legs start to tense. his mouth is soft, but purposeful—focused. every movement says i’m here for you. i’ve got you.

a low groan escapes his throat as he sucks softly at your clit, the vibration shooting straight through your core. you moan before you can stop yourself, fingers curling tight in the sheets.

and then—without warning—his fingers slide inside of you, slow and smooth and so careful.

you gasp, your back arching as he fills you. he’s not rushed, not greedy—just steady, like he knows exactly what you need. his thumb brushes your thigh, grounding you as he begins to move.

“you okay?” he murmurs, glancing up at you through half-lidded eyes.

you nod quickly, breathless. “yeah… it’s good. really good.”

he hums softly, mouth already back on you. his tongue flicks, licks, sucks—all while his fingers move in slow, delicious thrusts, stroking deeper with each pass.

he curls them just right, and your hips jerk in response. “there it is,” he mutters, almost to himself. “that’s what i was looking for.”

you whimper, thighs starting to shake as the tension builds. every part of you is locked in on the heat building in your gut—your belly tight, your skin buzzing, your body climbing toward something you desperately need.

“schlatt—” your voice is thin, cracking.

“i know, baby,” he breathes, kissing the inside of your thigh. “i’ve got you. just let go for me.”

he thrusts a little faster, a little deeper, fingers hitting that spot over and over. his mouth never stops moving, tongue circling and sucking in just the right way—and that’s all it takes.

your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing down and curling your toes, stealing your breath as your body trembles under him. your cry breaks open in your throat, high and raw, and you feel yourself unravel completely—mind blank, muscles tight, everything going white-hot and gone.

he doesn’t move until the aftershocks settle. just strokes you gently through it, whispering little nothings—there you go, you did so good, that’s my girl—while your body slowly softens beneath him.

and when you finally breathe again, shaky and full of quiet relief, he pulls back with a low sigh, like he's the one who just orgasmed.

you blink your eyes open slowly, still dazed, still floating. schlatt’s head pops up from where he’s been pressing gentle kisses to your stomach, his curls a mess, his mouth pink and a little smug.

your body feels heavy and loose, your brain full of static and sugar. the cramps have dulled into a distant hum, and your limbs sink into the mattress like they’ve forgotten how to function.

he tucks the blanket back over you with all the ceremony of a man sealing sacred ground. then he crawls in beside you, big arms wrapping around your waist like a very clingy, very cocky body pillow.

you melt into him with a sigh, forehead tucked under his chin, the warmth of him buzzing through you like a second heating pad.

and just as your breathing starts to even out—just as you think he might actually let you drift off in peace—

“y’know,” he whispers dramatically, “technically, that counts as feeding.”

you pause. “...what.”

his voice drops an octave. “the blood. the offering. the... delicacy.”

you groan. “oh my god.”

“face it,” he intones, clearly trying to sound like a victorian ghost. “you’re dating a vampire now.”

you smack his chest weakly. “schlatt, i swear to god—”

“count schlattula,” he corrects, solemn and proud.

“you’re disgusting.”

“and no longer thirsty.”

you try to roll away from him, but he catches your wrist like the dramatic little menace he is, pressing a kiss to your knuckles with a flourish. “don’t worry, my sweet little snack,” he purrs. “i only feast under a full moon… and your worst days.”

“you are never allowed to say ‘feast’ again.”

“you’ll beg me to next month,” he says with a smirk, already nuzzling into your neck like a creature of the night.

you sigh, half-laughing. “you’re insane.”

“and immortal,” he replies proudly.

you curl tighter into him, exhaustion finally pulling at your limbs again. “if you start sparkling, i’m dumping you.”

he gasps. “you wouldn’t.”

“watch me, dracula.”

he hisses—hisses—into your neck, fangs clearly implied.

and you laugh, real and full and breathy, the last bit of ache easing out of your chest as the night wraps around you.

the cramps are still there, somewhere deep. but for now, you’re warm. you’re safe. you’re curled up beside your idiotic, cookie-baking vampire boyfriend.

and honestly? you could do this every month.

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