forslimslime

[forslimslime]

From Instagram user: fugifeline (I censored their faces even tho it's a public post cause I don't wanna upset anyone <3 )

HES SO.... ive never seen him next to average height people..... YALL TELLING ME THIS MY MAN????? FROM THE BACK???????

THE WIDE BACK?!

I'm having the nastiest sex with this man.

Like.

I want him to pull my hair and fuck me from behind after spitting in my mouth.

[forslimslime]

can schlatt and astro fuck already

[forslimslime]

Schlatt has said in a chuckle sandwich ep that he buys expensive furniture (VERY EXPENSIVE)

and so imagine ted is at his place and he spills something on the couch and so schlatt gets really mad righttt

but later schlatts like fucking u on the couch and u cum/squirt all over it and you think he’s going to be really mad but he loves it and makes u do it again <3

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * visitation rights ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: he hires you to redecorate his condo. you hate the layout. he hates your attitude. the couch is the only thing worth keeping—so, naturally, you try to destroy it. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: inspired by a sinful little ask about furniture, bodily fluids, and schlatt being possessive. i may have taken... several creative liberties ♡ hope that’s okay.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · hate sex · exes with unresolved everything · belt kink · oral (f & m) · overstim · degradation · possessive behavior · cumplay · ruined furniture · pettiness as foreplay

✦ note: post-scene behavior may look like aftercare, but it’s more possessive than nurturing. emotional resolution is not present—please tread carefully if you’re seeking softness or a happy ending. there isn’t one.

enjoy, pervs ♡

✧✧✧

schlatt's pov

the condo was a fucking disaster.

to be clear, it was massive—open floor plan, polished concrete, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a view of the skyline that probably made architects weep. it screamed luxury. class. money.

but whoever had picked out the furniture should’ve been tried at the hague.

there was a sectional couch in deep emerald velvet—opulent, sculptural, stunning—and it clashed with everything else in the room. a glass coffee table sat crooked on a synthetic cowhide rug, as if begging to be put out of its misery. the wall art? faux-motivational quotes in metallic cursive. one said, “hustle in silence. let your success make the noise.”

schlatt stood in the middle of it all with a hand on his hip, coffee in the other, wondering how the hell he let it get this bad.

it wasn’t like he didn’t have taste. he did. for watches. cars. whiskey. leather. things that were loud in quality, quiet in branding. but interior design? that was austin’s thing.

and it was austin who noticed. who took one look around the condo during poker night, laughed for five full minutes, and said, “you live like a divorced banker who just lost custody.”

“fuck off,” schlatt had said.

“seriously. you need help.”

“i’ve got a guy, actually,” austin had added, wiping his eyes. “she’s brilliant. brutal. you’ll hate her. but she’s the best.”

that was three weeks ago.

and now here he was. dressed like he had a meeting on wall street. two undone buttons. rolex peeking from his cuff. coffee in hand like he wasn’t pacing a condo that looked like a tech startup’s idea of cozy.

he heard the knock and exhaled slowly. calm. in control.

he opened the door.

and there she was.

her.

✧✧✧

y/n's pov

you had prepared for this meeting like any other: portfolio, mood boards, fabric swatches, and an ironed outfit that screamed competence. you wore black. structured. polished. earrings small. hair perfect. lipstick unforgiving.

professional.

because you were. this was your job. not therapy. not nostalgia. not a goddamn walk down memory lane.

still, when the door opened, you had to pause for a millisecond.

schlatt.

older. broader. hair a little longer, face a little sharper. he wore the same brand of cologne, though—you caught it faintly as he stepped back to let you in. warm. smoky. familiar.

you ignored it.

“hi,” you said crisply. “i’m here for the walkthrough.”

he blinked. “you’re the interior designer.”

“i am.”

“you’re austin’s interior designer.”

you gave him a tight smile. “that a problem?”

“no,” he said quickly, stepping aside. “no, just—didn’t realize. i mean. wow.”

you walked in without further comment, heels tapping against the hardwood. the place was just as bad as austin had warned.

“jesus christ,” you muttered, surveying the couch. “you let a computer algorithm decorate this place?”

“it came mostly furnished.”

“and you just… kept it like this?”

“i’ve been busy.”

you didn’t respond. you were already taking photos, opening cabinets, checking natural light.

he hovered.

“you’re not gonna—like—mention it?” he asked finally.

you glanced at him. “mention what?”

“that we… you know.”

you tilted your head slightly. “oh. that.”

“yeah. that.”

you offered a dry smile. “ancient history.”

he blinked.

you turned back to your notes. “let’s keep it that way.”

it hit him harder than it should’ve.

because for a second, when he saw you standing there, he thought maybe—

but no. of course not.

you were here to work. you had your clipboard and your laser measurer and your pressed slacks, and he was just the idiot who didn’t know how to buy a rug that didn’t scream cryptobro bachelor pad.

he cleared his throat. “right. yeah. totally.”

you didn’t look up. you just said, “let’s talk about that couch.”

the couch was the only thing in the condo with any real value.

not because of the color. or the fact that it was modular.

because they bought it together.

six years ago. when they still shared keys. and spotify playlists. and the occasional sunday morning worth remembering. it had cost more than some people’s cars—custom italian velvet, deep emerald, walnut trim and brass feet, imported from milan. schlatt had haggled for it like a man possessed.

he remembered how proud he was when it arrived. how the two of them arranged the pieces together, testing configurations, arguing about the chaise. how they broke it in like it was sacred. movie nights. lazy mornings. one disastrous attempt at assembling ikea drawers while tipsy.

it was the only thing he fought for during the breakup.

he’d let you take the espresso machine. the knives. the record player. the apartment.

but not the couch.

and now you were standing in front of it like it meant nothing. like it was just another piece of evidence in the case against his taste.

he watched you jot something down in your notebook, tapping your pen against your chin. you were muttering to yourself. pacing. taking measurements. referencing swatches against the fabric.

and then you said it.

"it’s the only thing worth saving."

you didn’t look at him when you said it. but it stuck. worse than a knife, sharper than pity. because you didn’t say it like it meant anything. you said it like a professional. like someone doing a job.

still, it caught him.

because now you were designing around it.

you’d said it was the only anchor in the entire mess. that everything else had to go. but not the couch.

you circled it like it was art. you built your palette around it. you asked if he remembered the name of the fabric—of course he did. you held up a swatch of slate velvet and murmured, "this might finally do it justice."

and schlatt—who hadn’t thought about milan or memory or what it meant to sit on something shared until this very moment—suddenly couldn’t think about anything else.

✧✧✧

schlatt's pov

it had been three weeks since the initial walkthrough, and schlatt had more or less surrendered the condo to her.

not willingly. not graciously.

because she hadn’t just taken over his space—she’d taken over him. breezed in with that smug little clipboard, those stupidly expensive heels, her swatches and her attitude, and acted like he didn’t even exist outside of her vision board.

now she was seated at his kitchen island, tablet propped up like a guillotine, swatches fanned beside her coffee like an art exhibit. her blazer was flawless. her ponytail severe. she looked like she’d sue someone for misusing a throw pillow.

“mr. schlatt,” you said without looking up, “i’ve mocked up revised layouts for the media room, living room, and bedroom. i’d appreciate your feedback before proceeding with orders.”

he squinted at you. “you’re calling me mr. schlatt now?”

“it’s our professional dynamic.”

“you used to call me ‘baby’ when you wanted something.”

you tapped your screen. “yeah. and you never delivered.”

the grin that tugged at his mouth was involuntary. but you didn’t acknowledge it. you just rotated the tablet toward him, like you were dealing with a difficult client and not your ex.

“this is the proposed media room,” you said flatly. “lighting balance, scale, acoustic layout. i’ve matched the walnut paneling to matte black fixtures and hidden storage. clean. sharp.”

he leaned in. “sharp’s one word for it. looks like i’m about to start monologuing to the avengers.”

you arched a brow. “is that a complaint?”

he shrugged. “it’s the first time this place has looked like it belongs to someone with an actual spine.”

that earned him a flicker of a smile. sharp-edged. pitying. “glad to hear you’re growing one.”

you clicked to the next render.

“for the living room, i kept the sectional. temporarily.”

he tensed. “temporarily?”

you didn’t look up. “it’s the only item in here with visual weight. but it doesn’t fit the palette long-term.”

his voice dropped. “you remember that couch.”

you finally looked at him. “of course i do.”

a silence passed. ugly. heavy.

and then, like nothing, you held up a swatch. “i’m pairing it with smoked oak, brass accents, and tobacco suede. you said you liked warm tones, right? still masculine. just not… depressingly so.”

he scowled. “you saying my place is depressing?”

“i’m saying it feels like a linkedin influencer who drinks four raw eggs for breakfast and thinks a quartz coaster is interior design.”

“jesus.”

you smiled, thin and mean. “i’m trying to help.”

he stared at you. “you’re trying to win.”

“i already did. six years ago.”

he barked a laugh. “you left. that’s not winning.”

you turned the tablet one last time. “here’s the bedroom mockup. layered neutrals. clean textiles. a space for someone who doesn’t wake up and immediately ruin his own day.”

he looked at it. then at you.

and for the first time in the conversation, he didn’t have a comeback.

you took a slow sip of your coffee. “you have until friday to approve the first round of orders. if you ghost me again, i’ll assume you’re too emotionally fragile to make choices, and i’ll do it all myself.”

he leaned back, voice tight. “you always did love being in control.”

“and you always loved being told what to do,” you replied smoothly. “especially if i said it with my hand around your throat.”

his jaw clenched. you smiled sweetly.

“see you friday, mr. schlatt.”

✧✧✧

the condo looked good.

too good.

it had your fingerprints all over it—every clean line, every muted tone, every stupidly perfect shelf styling. and he hated how much better it was. hated that you were the reason.

all that was left was the living room.

and the couch.

your couch. that he fought to keep. that he won.

he walked in expecting to see you fluffing throw pillows or straightening lamps like usual—but you were standing over the tablet with that look on your face. the one that meant you were about to do something calculated and pretend it was casual.

“you’re redoing the living room?”

you didn’t even look at him. “it’s the final piece.”

he stepped closer. “what piece?”

you turned the tablet.

a couch. not the couch. just… a couch. sleek beige leather, boring brass legs, the kind of thing you’d see in a hotel lobby pretending to be chic. it looked like it came with a name like 'angled nugget chaise' and a fake sustainability pledge.

he stared at it.

then at you.

“you’re replacing my couch.”

“it’s not yours.”

that was fast. sharp.

he blinked. “i bought it.”

“we picked it. together.”

“six years ago.”

“and?”

he scoffed. “so what, now you’re just gonna design the whole place to passive-aggressively erase me?”

you looked up, deadpan. “trust me—if i was trying to erase you, i’d start with the whiskey stains in the bedroom and the framed photo of your own car in the hallway.”

“oh, fuck off.”

“no, really.” you tapped the screen with a manicured finger. “this one actually matches the palette. it doesn’t scream ‘mid-twenties man who cried during Heat.’”

he stepped forward. “that couch is the only good thing in this entire room.”

“it was the only good thing,” you corrected. “until i fixed the rest of it.”

his voice dropped. “you’re just pissed you didn’t get to keep it.”

“please.” you laughed, humorless. “if i wanted to keep it, i would’ve. i let you have it.”

“bullshit.”

you folded your arms. “you think i was gonna drag a 700-pound milanese monstrosity up three flights of stairs in a walk-up just to remind myself of you every day?”

his jaw clenched. “you think it reminds me of you?”

“god, schlatt,” you snapped, voice low, venomous. “you live like a man still clinging to the best thing he ever had and fucked up anyway.”

silence.

searing. ugly. real.

you both stood there, frozen. the couch between you like a crime scene neither of you could stop revisiting.

you arched a brow. “still can’t handle being told the truth, huh?”

he looked at the tablet again. “that couch is fucking ugly.”

“so were you. i still slept with you.”

his eyes snapped back to yours.

and for a moment—just one—there was no condo. no layout. no job.

just you. him. and six years of quiet, rotting history embedded in green velvet.

then he laughed. dry. humorless. “i’m flying out tomorrow.”

“good for you.”

“gone four days.”

you tilted your head. “i’ll hold down the fort.”

he watched you—suspicious. silent.

then turned away, muttering as he headed down the hall, “don’t touch the fucking couch.”

you didn’t answer.

just smoothed your blouse, closed the tablet, and gathered your things like a professional.

like someone who’d made peace.

like someone who hadn’t just been given a four-day window and a very, very stupid challenge.

and when the door closed behind you—

you were already texting your movers.

✧✧✧

he noticed the second he stepped through the door.

not because the replacement was ugly. god, no. it was—objectively—beautiful. italian leather, camel-toned, butter-soft. sleek lines. deep seats. the kind of thing you’d see in a luxury showroom with price tags that didn’t use decimals.

but it wasn’t his.

it wasn’t theirs.

the couch was gone.

the emerald velvet. the walnut trim. the brass feet. the years of history sealed into the seams. gone.

he stood in the middle of his living room like someone had died there.

for a moment, he thought maybe he was losing it. that she’d just rearranged things. moved it to another room. he checked. bedroom: still the same. media room: untouched. storage: empty.

that fucking couch was gone.

✧✧✧

“austin.”

“hey, man! how was the trip?”

“austin. where does she live?”

there was a pause on the other end of the line. “…what?”

“the couch is gone.”

“oh.”

“she stole the couch.”

there was another pause.

then, cautiously: “schlatt. buddy. you’re the one who said she could take full creative lead.”

“i meant the walls! the bookshelves!”

austin sighed. “you’re calling me because your ex—who you kept hired—replaced the couch she probably still dreams about burning, and now you’re having a meltdown?”

“it’s our couch...she wouldn't burn it.”

“yeah...you remember that she left you six years ago, yeah?”

“i want her address.”

austin groaned. “god, it's JUST a couch!”

“austin.”

“fine. but i’m not bailing you out if this turns into a felony.”

✧✧✧

he shows up at your place just before sundown.

no warning. no text. no civility.

he knocks once, hard, and waits.

when the door opens, you look stunned for half a second—until your eyes flick to the man in front of you, and your mouth curls like you’ve been waiting for this.

“you took the couch,” he says.

you blink once. innocently. “i updated the layout.”

“you took the couch.”

you lean against the doorframe. “and replaced it with one better suited to the home’s color story and modernized atmosphere. i even upgraded the seating depth.”

“that couch is mine.”

you snort. “please. you barely noticed it in the shop window, you were so worried about being early to the Duomo. you just paid for it.”

he steps forward. “you had it removed while i was out of state. that’s premeditated.”

you fold your arms. “and what are you gonna do? call the cops? tell them your evil ex reclaimed the overpriced sofa you emotionally imprinted on like a fucking duckling?”

he scowls. “you don’t even want it. you just wanted to take it away from me.”

you smirk. “exactly.”

it hits him like a slap. because she’s not even denying it.

“you’re insane,” he says.

“you’re welcome,” you repeat, stepping back toward the door.

but instead of retreating like a normal person, he moves. fast.

“schlatt—”

he wedges his foot in the doorway and muscles his way past you like he owns the place.

“are you serious—?”

“i’m taking the fucking couch.”

“you are not taking the couch.”

“it’s mine!”

“you gave me control over the layout!”

“i didn’t say steal the one good thing i had left!”

he’s already halfway into the living room, arms braced against the back of the couch like he’s going to deadlift it out the door by sheer rage and spite.

you follow after him, seething. “do you have any idea how deranged you sound right now?”

“oh, i’m sorry, are you not the one who surgically extracted my soul-couch while i was 900 miles away?”

you whirl around the arm of the couch to face him. “you abandoned that couch to a fake cowhide rug and a hustle grind mindset poster. i fucking rescued it.”

“you kidnapped it!”

“you’re lucky i didn’t torch the rest of your awful furniture and salt the earth!”

he lunges. not at you. at the couch, like he’s going to hoist it right over his shoulder and walk out the door. it doesn’t budge.

you shove his arm. “get your hands off it!”

he shoves back. “get your hands off me!”

you stumble, nearly trip on the rug, and he instinctively grabs your arm—steadying you—and then—

there’s a beat.

just one.

the grip doesn’t loosen.

your face is close to his now. too close. breathing hard. cheeks flushed. chest heaving.

you hiss, “let. go.”

but you don’t move.

and neither does he.

his voice drops. rough. “you don’t even want the couch.”

your eyes flash. “no. i just want you to suffer.”

and then—

he kisses you.

hard.

rough and hot and furious.

your teeth clash. your hands push. pull. your mouths crash like something breaking. it’s not tender. it’s not sweet.

it’s years of resentment and want and what if all igniting at once.

you break for air, gasping, but don’t move away. he’s still gripping your arm, and your hands are fisted in his shirt like you might throttle him or yank him closer. or both.

“you’re such an asshole,” you breathe.

“you stole my fucking couch,” he growls back.

you grab his face. he kisses you again.

this time, it’s worse. this time, you moan into it.

and that’s all it takes.

something in him snaps—like your mouth unlocked a door he’s been holding shut for six years.

he pushes you backward without breaking the kiss, hands gripping your waist. you hit the back of the couch hard—the couch—and he crowds you against it like a man who’s been starving.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your mouth, lips slick, voice wrecked. “steal my shit, bait me into losing it—was that the plan?”

“no,” you gasp, shoving at his chest, only to claw his shirt back toward you. “i was just aiming to piss you off. the rest is a bonus.”

he huffs out a laugh, biting at your jaw, dragging his teeth across your skin until you shudder. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

“and you’re predictable,” you shoot back. “you think i didn’t know you’d come for it?”

his mouth is hot on your neck now, biting just hard enough to make you hiss.

“you always were a fucking brat,” he mutters.

you dig your nails into his back. “you always liked it.”

he growls—actually growls—and lifts you like it’s nothing. your back hits the couch cushions and he follows, mouth devouring yours, one hand already sliding up your thigh with zero patience, zero hesitation.

“gonna fuck you right here,” he murmurs, voice low and venomous. “on the couch you stole. gonna make it mine again.”

“you wish,” you breathe, grinding up against him. “you couldn’t handle me then.”

“oh, sweetheart.” his hand slips between your legs, and you gasp. “i can handle you just fine now.”

you arch under him, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. he’s kissing you like a man drowning—rough, relentless, with teeth and tongue and six years of anger slamming into every movement.

you hate him. you hate him so much.

but god, he still knows exactly how to ruin you.

your blouse gets shoved up. your bra pushed aside. his mouth is on you, sucking and biting hickies into your skin.

“you want it rough?” he mutters. “you want me to remind you what this mouth can do? what these hands used to do?”

“you owe me,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “you owe me six years of orgasms and a new espresso machine.”

he huffs a laugh, breathless. “fine. let’s settle the debt.”

and then he’s moving down.

fast. desperate. determined. you don’t even have time to be smug. you barely have time to breathe.

because the second his mouth hits you—

you go silent. eyes wide. breath caught.

his tongue is cruel. precise.

your hand flies to his hair before you can stop yourself—fingers curling in tight, nails scraping across his scalp like you’re staking a claim.

he groans into you.

it’s low. guttural. monstrous.

and he doubles down.

tongue dragging through you in slow, devastating strokes, nose brushing where you’re aching, lips sucking your clit into his mouth with a rhythm so deliberate it makes your toes curl.

“fuck—” you breathe, voice wrecked.

he doesn’t let up.

he doesn’t want to let up.

because this is about more than making you come—it’s about proving something. about punishment. about pride. about planting his name back into your skin with nothing but his mouth.

you pull his hair harder, tilting his head just so—and he lets you, humming against you like he wants you to take control just to prove he’ll rip it right back.

your hips twitch, buck, grind—and his hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place like you’re some desperate little thing he’s keeping pinned just to watch you squirm.

“stay still,” he mutters, voice muffled. “you wanted this.”

you don’t answer. you just tighten your grip in his hair and pull.

he grunts at that. nips at your clit in retaliation— enough to make your legs jerk as you yelp at the sudden pain.

your thighs are trembling. your grip on his hair is bruising. your head tips back against the couch cushions, mouth falling open, every breath a broken little sound you hate giving him—but you can’t stop.

not when he’s flicking his tongue just right. not when he’s groaning into you like he likes this. like he missed this.

he pulls back, spitting warm and lazy right onto your cunt—then spreads it with his tongue, slow and smug.

“still with me?” he mutters, thumb pressing hard at your inner thigh to hold you open.

you glare down at him. “barely.”

“good.” his mouth finds you again. “shut up.”

and you do. because the second he locks back in, there’s no room to talk. just heat. pressure. tongue working you over like he’s methodical about it, like there’s a pace he’s decided on and he’s not changing it for anything.

your hips twitch again. he slams a hand down on your stomach—flat, solid, grounding.

“don’t move.”

you’re barely breathing now. hands twisted in his hair like rope. mouth open but nothing coming out.

your head spins.

he hums against you, tongue flicking harder now. tighter circles. crueler rhythm. like he can feel how close you are and wants to make it hurt.

“fuck, schlatt—”

he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your thigh. not hard. not gentle. just enough to sting.

“don’t say my name like that,” he growls. “you know what to call me when i'm giving you everything you want.”

you bite your lip at that, the title stuck in your throat.

he notices.

his mouth curls into something slow. smug. dangerous.

“hm,” he says, tongue flicking once—deliberate, precise—right over the spot that makes your breath hitch. “thought so.”

you glare down at him, eyes glassy. your voice comes out low. strained. “don’t get cocky.”

he drags his mouth over your cunt again, slow and wet. “oh, baby.” another stroke. “i’m already there.”

you want to hit him. you want to ride him.

you want to wipe that look off his face with your thighs around his head and your fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re anchoring yourself to a sinking ship.

but right now, you’re boneless—wrecked—half-shaking and flushed all the way down to your chest.

he sits back on his heels, lazily licking his fingers like he’s tasting victory.

then he nods at you—chin tilted, tone cool. “on your knees.”

you don’t move.

he waits.

one beat. two.

you roll your eyes. “still bossy.”

“and you still like it,” he says, already reaching for his belt.

you hate that he’s right.

you push up slowly, legs unsteady, jaw tight—but you go. you kneel in front of him, still flushed, still breathing hard.

he pulls his pants down just enough, cock already hard, flushed, leaking at the tip.

you look up at him, glare sharp.

he tilts his head.

“what’s the word?” he asks.

your lips part. the word still burns. still chokes.

but the way he looks at you—like he knows you’ll say it, like he’s earned it—

your throat clicks.

“…sir.”

his breath stutters.

just for a second.

then it’s like a switch flips—his eyes go darker, his grip in your hair turns solid, possessive.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “there she is.”

the belt slides from his loops with that unmistakable hiss of leather, and you freeze—not scared. just…watching.

he holds it up. lets it hang between two fingers. then steps forward and wraps it around your throat. snug. not choking. not yet.

he pulls it just enough to lift your chin. make you look at him.

“keep your mouth open and your manners sharp,” he warns. “you know what to call me.”

you blink up at him, wide-eyed. lashes fluttering.

then your mouth curls.

and you murmur—soft, sweet, poisonous—

“yes, daddy.”

his expression snaps.

the belt tightens—not harsh, just a warning. his free hand grips your jaw.

hard.

“try again.”

you smile, all teeth. “master?”

his hand slams to your cheek—not a slap, not quite—but a sharp tap, a reset. his thumb pushes your jaw open.

“you’ve got one more chance to behave,” he growls. “say it right.”

you tilt your head just enough to test the belt's pull.

and purr, "sir."

his jaw clenches. nostrils flaring.

then his hand is back in your hair, belt still tight in his grip.

“open your mouth, since you’ve got so much to say.”

you do.

he feeds it to you inch by inch, slow and steady, keeping control with the belt as a leash—guiding you like he’s done this a thousand times.

you hollow your cheeks. he groans. head tipping back for a second before locking eyes with you again.

“that’s it. just like that.” he hisses between his teeth. “always took my cock so fucking well.”

you hum around him, eyes narrowed.

his hips twitch.

“fuck, don’t—don’t pull that shit,” he mutters, voice tight. “you hum again, i’m gonna come down your throat too soon, y/n."

you do it again.

harder.

and his hand tightens on the belt. yanking you forward just a little—not enough to choke, but enough to remind you who’s holding the leash.

“you’re such a fucking brat,” he growls. “look at you. on your knees. drooling all over me like this is what you were made for.”

spit’s already running down your chin. you don’t care.

you grip his thighs for balance, working your mouth over him, letting him hit the back of your throat and stay there.

he groans—deep. fucked. eyes fluttering. “goddamn.”

you bob your head, slow at first, then faster, messier—let your nose press to his skin, let your spit coat everything.

he’s cursing under his breath now, hand gripping the belt like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t have you tethered.

“good fucking girl,” he grits out. “look at you. letting me use your mouth like it’s mine. like you never left.”

you look up at him, eyes glassy, face wrecked.

his hips snap forward at a punishing pace.

you gag. swallow around him. don’t pull away, no matter how sore your throat is gonna be in the morning.

he groans—loud, uncontrolled. “shit, i’m gonna—”

you pull off with a loud, wet pop.

he looks ruined. flushed. chest heaving. belt still clenched in one fist like he’ll drag you back if you try to run.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

then smirk.

“missed this, sir?”

he stares down at you.

“get on the couch,” he says, voice like gravel. “hands and knees.”

you start to turn, blouse still bunched up beneath your arms, skirt hiked up, underwear somewhere on the floor.

he stops you with a tug on the belt.

“hold on.”

you glance back, breathless. “what now—”

rip.

the sound of fabric tearing cuts through the air like a gunshot.

you jerk as your blouse splits down the middle—threads popping, buttons scattering across the floor like shells.

“jesus—!”

he grabs the back panel, yanks again, and it comes clean off your arms, tossed over the couch without ceremony.

“you don’t get to look like you’re still in control,” he mutters, already reaching under you to pull the bra straps down. “not when you’re drooling all over my cock and soaking my couch.”

your bra barely holds on for another second before he snaps the clasp and peels it off like an afterthought.

you’re left in just your skirt, belt still looped around your throat, breath coming fast.

he steps back, takes you in—naked from the waist up, flushed, wrecked, trying to pretend you’re not into this.

then?

he rips the skirt at the zipper.

doesn’t even try to undo it.

just fists the fabric and pulls, and when it tears at the seam, he grins like it’s his favorite sound in the world.

you gasp, spinning halfway toward him. “that skirt was custom!”

he grabs your jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make you still.

"does it look like i give a fuck, dollface?"

then he turns you.

bends you over the couch like you weigh nothing.

hands and knees, belt still snug around your neck, chest bare, legs spread. what’s left of your outfit barely clings to you—torn, wrinkled, meaningless.

his palm lands hard on your ass once—twice—and then he’s lining up behind you, fist still wrapped in the belt around your neck.

“spread.”

you do.

you’re still catching your breath when he pushes inside you with a brutal thrust.

no warning. no easing in. just ownership.

your entire body jolts forward, hands scrabbling against the cushion.

“fuck!” you choke, back arching, walls clenching around him like your body’s trying to process the shock.

he groans—low, rough, like something primal just cracked inside him.

“still so fucking tight,” he mutters, fingers digging into your hips like he needs to ground himself. “six goddamn years, and you’re still perfect.”

you laugh—breathy, sharp. “don’t get soft on me now.”

he slams into you harder.

you yelp.

“that soft enough for you, sweetheart?”

you twist your head, glare over your shoulder. “i’m not the one simping.”

he growls and grabs the belt again, yanking your head up as he leans over you.

his voice is a rasp against your ear.

“say it again.”

“what?”

“say my name. right.”

you grit your teeth, spit pooling in your mouth.

“…sir.”

he groans, biting down against your shoulder—not enough to draw blood, just enough to make you jump.

“good girl,” he mutters. “knew you’d come back to me.”

“wasn’t for you,” you snap. “it was for the couch.”

his hips snap forward so hard the couch creaks under both of you.

you scream.

“liar,” he says. “i bet you planned this. you continued working for me...just to get fucked like this. to be ruined like this. and you know what?”

you’re gasping. shaking.

“just for that—you’re gonna come two more times,” he growls, “before i even think about pulling out.”

your laugh is wrecked. bitter. “what, trying to make up for six years of failure all at once?”

he grabs your hips tighter—slams in deep. you yelp.

“still running your mouth, huh?”

“still overpromising and underdelivering,” you bite back, breathless. “some things never change.”

he leans over you, the belt pressing against your throat as his body folds over yours. you feel him everywhere—skin, heat, teeth against your neck.

“say that again,” he hisses. “say it after you cum so hard you forget your own name.”

you whimper—but your tone’s still defiant. “bet you said that before you missed the launch party i wasn’t invited to.”

he stills.

his breath hits the back of your neck.

“you left,” he says, voice low. controlled. dangerous.

you shove back against him, grinding. “you let me.”

the next thrust is brutal.

you cry out, face pressed to the cushion, fingers fisting the ruined fabric beneath you.

“i told you i needed time after that promotion—”

“you vanished,” you spit, choking on the words. “you finally made it big, and i found out from a tweet.”

“you weren’t there at the party!”

“i wasn’t on the list, asshole.”

he growls and pulls the belt tighter—not choking, just enough to keep your breath on a leash.

“you think i just forgot about you?” he snaps. “that couch was the only fucking thing i kept because it mattered.”

your voice breaks. “you think that makes it better?”

“i think you wanted me to leave it. so i couldn’t have anything we built together.”

you twist beneath him, gasping, hate and arousal knotted together like wire. “i wanted you to look at it every day and remember you fucked it all up.”

“you think i don’t?”

his voice is wrecked now. too honest.

“i sit on this couch every goddamn night,” he mutters, thrusts slowing. “and all i think about is how you looked the day we bought it. that stupid smile. the fucking champagne. you remember that?”

your breath hitches.

“…yeah. i remember you spent half your paycheck on it.”

he slams back in—deep. angry.

“yeah. i fucking did.”

you’re trembling now—overstimulated, furious, close.

“schlatt—”

he growls, “try again.”

“…sir.”

“good girl.”

his hand drops to your clit—fingers circling fast, mean.

you sob through your teeth, legs shaking. “i’m—i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he snaps. “do it while i’m inside you. while you’re on this fucking couch we both worked and bled for.”

you cry out as it hits—sharp, brutal, a full-body collapse that steals your breath and leaves you soaked all over again.

he groans loud behind you, grip tightening, pace faltering. “one more.”

you shake your head. “i can’t—”

“yes you can. you will. you owe me.”

you try to speak. to push back. but he doesn’t stop.

not until you're twitching.

not until you're a mess of tears, spit, sweat, and slick.

you’re already coming—sharp, sudden, clenching around him so hard he chokes on his breath. you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open against the cushion as your whole body convulses.

but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

his rhythm stutters, then doubles down.

“uh-uh,” he growls, hand slamming back to your hip, cock still fucking into you without mercy. “we’re not done.”

you whimper. “schlatt—”

“sir.”

your voice breaks. “sir—please, i can’t—”

“yes, you fucking can.”

then he yanks you up.

one brutal pull, and your spine is flush against his chest, his arm locked tight around your waist to hold you upright. he keeps fucking you—deep, relentless—while your knees barely stay under you, every muscle twitching from the last orgasm.

his other hand grabs under your thigh and lifts, forcing one leg up and open across the couch cushion, wide and vulnerable.

you try to squirm, but he’s got you pinned—mouth at your ear, voice a low snarl.

“touch yourself.”

you hesitate, shaking.

“i said—” he thrusts in harder, hips slapping loud against your ass— “touch yourself.”

your hand flies down. fingers shaking, slick already everywhere. you circle your clit like he told you to, gasping, sobbing, overstimulated out of your mind.

“harder.”

you obey.

your other arm reaches back, blindly grabbing at him—fingers tangling in his hair like you need leverage just to stay conscious.

he groans, hips stuttering as your nails scrape over his scalp.

“that’s it,” he breathes. “fucking mess. just like i remember.”

you’re whining now—nonsensical, desperate, legs quaking.

his mouth is at your jaw, then your cheek, then your neck, biting hard enough to leave something.

“you wanna cum again?” he hisses.

you nod frantically. “y-yes—fuck, yes, sir—”

his pace slows—not softer. just calculated. controlled. cruel.

“then say it,” he growls. “say you’ll give me the couch back.”

you choke. “wh-what?”

“say it.”

his thrusts stay steady, thick and deep and devastating, hitting everything with no mercy.

you squirm in his grip, breath caught between a sob and a scream.

“c’mon,” he murmurs into your ear, voice almost sweet. “you’re not gonna make me ask again, are you?”

your hand’s still between your legs, rubbing fast, shaking. you’re right at the edge—vision blurred, body twitching.

“say it,” he commands. “say it and i’ll let you cum again.”

“okay,” you gasp. “okay, it’s yours—fuck—you can have the couch back—”

“louder.”

“i’ll give it back—fuck—sir, i’ll give it back—!”

that’s all he needed.

“good girl.”

his hand drops from your thigh to your clit, slapping it once—wet and mean—and you scream.

you come again like a flood.

like your whole body’s been wrung out, broken open, used. it splurges out from where you're still connected to him, hitting the couch with an audible squelch, and his groan is the loudest yet.

“fucking look at that,” he mutters, watching the mess spread under you. “you just squirt all over this thousand-dollar couch for me, huh?”

you can’t answer.

you can barely breathe.

and that’s when he lets go.

his arm slips from around your waist and you drop—sloppy, gasping, twitching—straight down into the ruined cushion.

your legs give out completely.

you collapse into the mess you made, thighs still shaking, cunt dripping, face flushed and slack. you try to push yourself up, but your arms aren’t listening.

he steps back and watches you. wrecked. ruined. leaking and twitching on a soaked designer couch like it’s your only purpose.

his hand wraps around his cock—wet from you, flushed, pulsing—and he starts to stroke.

fast. aggressive. claiming.

“look at you,” he mutters, panting. “fucking pathetic.”

you lift your head weakly, blinking up at him through your lashes.

he grips your hair with his free hand—pulls your face up, not gently, not tender. just enough to make sure you’re watching.

“you want it on the couch?” he breathes. “or on that pretty little mouth that won’t shut the fuck up?”

you can’t speak. you just open your mouth.

invitation.

his groan is pure filth.

“of course you do,” he mutters. “of fucking course you do.”

it doesn’t take long.

not with the image of you soaked and broken under him.

not after watching you come so hard you gushed for him.

he strokes faster, hips twitching—

“take it.”

—and he cums.

with a grunt, his cock twitches in his hand and ropes of hot cum paint across your lips, your chin, your cheek—everywhere.

you flinch, but don’t pull away. you let it happen.

you let him mark you.

he releases your hair. you slump against the cushion again, breathing hard, face sticky, thighs wet, skin flushed from hairline to chest.

there’s a beat of silence.

he tucks himself back into his pants, exhaling slow like he just wrapped a goddamn meeting.

then—without a word—he walks into your kitchen.

your kitchen.

like he’s done it a hundred times. like he never stopped knowing where everything is, even if he's never been here before. are you this predictable with where you keep everything?

you hear the fridge door open.

a cap twist.

the clink of glass.

you don’t even try to move.

you’re still sprawled out—soaked, twitching, your cheek stuck to the cushion. your legs feel like overcooked noodles and your brain is full static.

footsteps return.

he rounds the couch, drink in one hand, chilled water bottle in the other, paper towel tucked under his arm.

sits on the clean end of the couch like it’s a fucking chaise lounge.

and then?

he pulls you gently—almost absentmindedly—across his lap.

you end up draped over him, belt still around your neck, skin sticky and hot, face flushed with exhaustion and—fuck—humiliation.

he hums to himself.

sets the glass on the side table.

cracks the water open, holds it to your lips.

you sip automatically. you’re too stunned to do anything else.

then he sets the bottle down, takes the paper towel, and starts wiping his cum off your face like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

no rush. no embarrassment. just the kind of slow, self-satisfied care you give to something you own.

he undoes the belt around your throat, finally. tosses it beside him.

you don’t thank him. you don’t speak. you don’t cry.

but your eyes sting—because this isn’t about the sex.

it’s about the fucking couch.

you gave it back.

you promised him.

he sees it. sees you. the way your jaw tightens. the flicker of shame.

and he smiles.

soft. evil.

“y/n,” he says, taking another sip of his drink. “you can have visitation rights.”

you want to shove him off the couch. but instead, you lay there.

silent. face clean. body ruined.

couch: totally, utterly his.

[forslimslime]

headcanons, gn!reader (inspired by these pics and a vid of a real couple that i saw a while ago):

schlatt has a whole collection of yankees hats in different colors and everyday he chooses one to color coordinate with your outfit

sometimes gets frustrated when he can't decide between two similar but diff colors

because one is a closer color in shade but the other fits better because it has a cooler tone

you playfully roll your eyes and tell him to just choose one because it "doesn't matter"

but he really stands there for five minutes glancing back and forth between his collection and your fit trying to figure out the best match

finally settles on a whole nother hat that matches the lining on your shirt and your bag

you catch him sometimes just beaming in pride at your cute outfit and himself for matching (especially if someone points it out)

short nsf.w lol

imagine you surprise him wearing one of his hats and nothing else

you chose the color because it's the color of his tip LOL

riding him with a backwards turned cap and him just totally hypnotized by the view

[x]

[forslimslime]

i just need like a drabble of how schlatt would be with his pregnant wife, like you KNOW that man will bend over backwards for his doll and his baby

ugh. he is perfect.

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * built like a wife, shaped like a mom ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’re pregnant. schlatt is insufferable. and obsessed. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: you are so right, angel ♡ we love a good protective husband and father-to-be!!!

warnings: pregnancy fluff, domestic comedy, one (1) feral husband, TOO MUCH FREAKING love and cuteness UGH

enjoy! (👶´ ∀ `👶)

✧✧✧

✧ cravings emergency ✧ approx. 6 weeks along

it’s 10:37 pm on a tuesday when schlatt’s phone buzzes violently against the nightstand. he fumbles for it, eyes still bleary, and squints at the text from you.

YOU: i need pickles and chocolate pudding immediately. or i will cry. this is not a joke.

he stares at it.

then stares at the ceiling.

then texts back:

SCHLATT: doll it is literally 10:37.

YOU: and yet i am literally about to perish.

there’s a 30-second pause before he rolls out of bed like a man going off to war. “alright,” he mutters to himself, pulling on sweats. “if my girl wants pickles and pudding, then pickles and pudding she shall have.”

cut to twenty minutes later: he’s standing in front of your couch, bags in hand, panting like he just finished a triathlon. “you. owe me. gas money. and a kiss.”

you look up at him with the wide, desperate eyes of someone on the brink. “did you get the big pickles?”

he sighs and drops the bag in your lap. “barrel dills. and three kinds of pudding. and a bottle of tums because i’m smart.”

you practically burst into tears. “you’re my hero.”

he flops beside you, grumbling but smug. “damn right.”

you open the pudding first—why? nobody knows—and after a few bites, the silence stretches. he notices you fidgeting, like you’ve got something stuck in your throat.

“…what?” he asks finally.

you look down at your lap. “sooo… i also picked something up today.”

“…another snack?”

you shake your head. from under the blanket, you pull out a little plastic stick in a ziplock bag. two pink lines, clear as day.

schlatt just stares. then back at you. then at the test again.

“…i’m sorry,” he says slowly, blinking. “are you telling me that my food run was actually for two people?!”

you burst out laughing, ugly-snorting halfway through, and he grabs your face like he’s trying to scan it for truth. “you’re serious? like—you’re pregnant pregnant?”

you nod, and he exhales like he’s just been shot right in the heart.

then—

“…does this mean i have to go get more pickles?”

you laugh harder. “probably. these will last me like...6 hours, tops.”

he’s already halfway off the couch again, muttering, “jesus christ, i didn’t know there’d be a third roommate in this relationship.”

but then he pauses, glances back at you, and his voice softens:

“…we’re really having a baby?”

you meet his eyes, all warm and teary and happy. “yeah. we are.”

he grins, wide and boyish. “shit. you’re gonna be such a hot mom.”

you throw a pickle at his face.

✧ nesting chaos ✧ approx. 18 weeks along / mid-second trimester

schlatt wakes up to the sound of metal on metal.

that’s the first sign of trouble.

the second is that your side of the bed is empty, and the third is the faint scent of paint drifting down the hallway.

he blinks blearily at the clock: 7:13 am. on a saturday.

he drags himself out of bed like a corpse and stumbles toward the noise. his voice is gravel. “babe…? why does it smell like… nursery school in here?”

he rounds the corner and immediately stares, slack-jawed, at the scene before him.

you’re standing in the nursery, hair shoved into a messy bun, wearing one of his hoodies over your bump and waving a paint roller like you’re michelangelo. there’s painter’s tape on the walls, drop cloths over the floor, and approximately seven opened sample cans scattered across the dresser.

“oh!” you chirp. “you’re up!”

“…barely.”

“come look!” you wave him over, beaming. “i narrowed it down to three colors—‘hazy moonlight,’ ‘mushroom milk,’ and ‘enchanted forest.’”

he squints at the swatches, half-awake. “those are the same color.”

you spin dramatically toward him. “they are not. one is a neutral sage. one is a dusty sage. and one is a sage with cool undertones, which is crucial for light balance.”

he blinks. “you’ve lost your mind.”

you point the roller at him like a weapon. “and you said you wanted to be involved.”

“i meant, like, holding your hand and rubbing your back while you cried over animal mobiles. not waking up at dawn to paint a room green.”

“well,” you say, stepping back with your hands on your hips, “our baby deserves a room that inspires calm and creativity.”

he sighs and walks over, pressing a kiss to your temple. “you’re out of your damn mind,” he mumbles, “but you’re cute about it.”

then he grabs the nearest roller. “let’s make this kid the most emotionally balanced forest nymph on the block.”

you blink at him, touched.

“…you’re gonna do the high parts, though, right?”

he smirks. “only if i can make the closet into a secret lair.”

“deal.”

✧ sonogram appointment ✧ approx. 25 weeks along / second trimester

“do you think she’ll have my nose or yours?” you mumble, half-drowsy in the passenger seat, one hand resting on the swell of your stomach.

schlatt glances over at you, eyebrows raised. “she’s the size of an eggplant right now. she doesn’t have a nose nose—she’s got like… a snoot.”

“a snoot?”

“yeah. a lil’ critter snoot. like a capybara.”

you stare at him. “please never say that in front of the doctor.”

“i won’t,” he lies.

✧

the room is dim and cool, the gentle sound of the monitor humming beside you. you’re already lying back on the table, gel on your stomach, when the sonographer grins and tilts the screen toward you both.

“alright,” she says brightly. “let’s take a look at your little one.”

schlatt is standing at your side, one big hand cradling your shoulder, the other tangled loosely with yours. and for a minute, the two of you just stare.

there she is.

a real baby. little nose. little fingers. she’s curled up like she’s cozy in there—legs tucked close, one arm floating lazily near her head. her spine arches gently across the screen, bones visible in clean little rows like piano keys.

you can’t breathe for a second.

and when she zooms in on her profile—round head, button nose, blurry little lips—you hear schlatt exhale beside you, shaky and quiet.

“…holy shit.”

you look up at him, and he’s wrecked. glossy eyes. a smile that’s trying not to tremble.

“that’s our kid,” he murmurs. “that’s—she’s real. look at her. she’s in there, like, living.”

“she kicked me awake at four a.m. this morning,” you remind him gently.

“i know, but—” he squeezes your hand, still staring at the screen. “now we get to see the criminal herself.”

the sonographer laughs. “they're measuring strong. heart rate is healthy. do you want to know the sex?”

you glance up at schlatt. he’s already nodding.

“i mean, we’ve been calling her ‘she’ for like a month,” you say.

she grins and types something into the machine—and on the screen, in soft block letters, it appears:

“boy”

you don’t even register your own tears until schlatt’s brushing them away with his thumb, laughing wetly.

“a boy,” he whispers. “oh my god.”

“we're gonna have a little dude?!” you say, voice cracking.

“i’m gonna teach him how to mow the lawn wrong on purpose and eat cereal with chocolate milk,” he replies reverently.

you sniffle. “you’re gonna ruin him.”

he leans down and kisses your forehead. “yeah. it’s gonna be awesome.”

✧ gender reveal ✧ approx. 26–27 weeks

the bets are brutal.

schlatt’s uncle has $50 riding on it being a girl. your mom brought a pink balloon bouquet and already monogrammed a baby blanket with a cursive “sofia.” your best friend has been calling the bump “little miss thing” for two months.

no one suspects a thing.

you and schlatt sit smugly on the picnic bench, watching your backyard fill up with nosy relatives, paper plates, folding chairs, and a gender-reveal cake that’s very intentionally frosted in soft neutral tones.

“do you think it’s mean we lied to everyone?” you murmur, as your cousin sets up her phone to record.

“absolutely not,” schlatt says, not even hesitating. “this is the most fun i’ve had all pregnancy.”

you grin. “and when the inside’s blue?”

“oh, they’re gonna lose it.”

he leans over to whisper in your ear: “i bet your mom faints.”

“schlatt.”

“what? i’m not gonna catch her.”

✧

everyone gathers around the cake table, chattering excitedly. someone yells “team girl!” and half the crowd cheers. you hear the words “she’s totally carrying high!” like it’s gospel.

you and schlatt take the knife together, hands overlapping on the handle.

“alright,” he announces, clearing his throat. “moment of truth. but before we cut, i just wanna say… win or lose, i knew we were having a girl the second she told me she was pregnant.”

you elbow him gently. “shut up and cut it.”

he laughs and sinks the knife into the center, and when you pull away the slice, it’s like time slows.

bright. obvious. inevitable.

blue.

there’s a single beat of silence.

then—

“what?!”

“you said—”

“oh my god it’s a boy?!”

schlatt lets out a victorious bark of laughter. “and i win the pool!”

you turn to your stunned family and give a sheepish shrug. “sorry. we lied.”

“but he’s a very cute little liar,” schlatt adds, holding up the slice like a trophy.

your mom fans herself with a napkin. your uncle groans and hands someone a $20. and your best friend screams, “i bought a pink onesie for nothing?!”

it’s chaos. and hilarious. and just...perfect.

and when schlatt leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, hand resting protectively over your belly, you can already picture the little boy you’re about to meet—tiny, wild, and impossibly loved.

✧ the drive ✧ approx. 39 weeks

it starts at 2:43am.

you wake up feeling… damp. not sweat. not anything normal.

you sit up slowly, hand on your belly, already so over being pregnant. your back hurts, your hips click when you move, and you swear the baby has been doing barrel rolls for three days straight.

then you feel it.

that unmistakable pop and warm rush between your legs.

“…babe?”

a groggy grunt from beside you. schlatt’s got one arm thrown over his eyes, hair messy, breathing deep.

you nudge him. “schlatt.”

he flops his arm off his face. “what, baby? you good?”

you blink at him, wide-eyed. “my water just broke.”

there’s a pause.

a single beat of silence.

then—

“…you’re lying.”

“schlatt!”

“holy shit—okay—okay, okay, okay.” he sits up like a vampire rising from a coffin, grabs his glasses from the nightstand in one smooth motion, and suddenly, calmly mutters, “copy that.”

you stare at him. “what—?”

he’s already out of bed. “bag’s packed. car’s gassed. you showered before bed, right?”

“i—yeah, but—”

“good. pads in the backseat. towel’s on your chair. i preloaded snacks into the hospital bag last night. let me grab the extra charger.”

“…are you reading from a script?”

he’s shuffling around the room, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded but focused like a military general. “been rehearsing this for three weeks, baby. just breathe. you’re doing amazing.”

✧

five minutes later, he’s guiding you gently down the stairs like he’s walking a vip to a black car. you’re waddling a little, breath catching with each cramp, but schlatt is solid beside you—hand on your lower back, towel already on the seat, keys in his free hand.

“seat warmer’s on. i adjusted the recline. buckle up, princess. you just focus on breathing. let me drive.”

“…you’re terrifying right now,” you whisper as he helps you in.

he kisses your forehead. “you’ll love it when they give me a sticker at the check-in desk for 'most supportive dad'. i will be keeping it.”

✧

by the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, contractions biting down harder with each breath, schlatt’s a man on a mission.

he parks like he’s trained for this, grabs the overnight bag, loops your arm around his shoulder, and half-carries you through the sliding doors with the practiced ease of someone who’s read the checklist five times and color-coded it.

a nurse meets you with a wheelchair almost immediately. schlatt helps ease you in, tucking the towel under you like second nature, murmuring, “i got you, i got you,” the whole time. you’re wheeled down the hallway, nurses asking questions, lights flickering above, the sound of your breath and their quiet urgency wrapping around you like static.

and just as the nurse turns down a hallway to check you in—just before you disappear around the corner—he stops walking.

“hey, wait,” he calls gently, stepping close to the chair. “hang on.”

the nurse pauses.

he bends down, brushing a hand along your cheek, like he just needs a second longer to look at you. you blink up at him, breathing through a contraction, trying to smile. he smiles back—but it’s tight, almost wobbly at the edges.

“did i… do everything right?” he asks, voice low now, just for you. “i mean—i know there’s still stuff to do, but… up to this point. did i take care of you okay?”

you can feel it in his voice—not panic, but something tender and bright and scared. like he knows this is the last moment you’ll have like this: just the two of you, before it becomes something bigger. louder. louder than either of you can even imagine.

you squeeze his hand. “schlatt… honey, you’ve been perfect. you're going to be a fucking amazing father to our boy.”

he exhales—deep and soft. his shoulders fall just slightly, like he’s finally allowed himself to feel how heavy all this waiting has been.

“okay,” he whispers. “okay.”

he leans down and kisses your forehead. even when he pulls back, he lingers there for a second longer than necessary. and when he straightens, his hand slides right back into yours.

“i’m right behind you,” he says to the nurse.

✧

the hospital room is quiet now. dim lights. soft breathing. a baby sleeping on your chest, impossibly small, impossibly real.

you’ve been alone with him for a while—just the two of you. letting your body settle. letting your heart catch up.

but now, you need him.

“can you get my husband?” you whisper to the nurse.

and not a full minute later, the door opens gently.

there’s schlatt.

he peeks in with wide eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here yet. he’s got his hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, hair a wild mess, and he’s clutching a paper coffee cup he definitely forgot to drink.

but his eyes are on you.

not the baby. not the monitor. just you.

“hey,” he says softly, stepping in.

“hey,” you breathe back.

he comes to the side of the bed, setting the cup down without looking at it, his gaze scanning over your face like he’s trying to memorize every part of you. his hand brushes your hair gently out of your face, and when he sees the tired shimmer in your eyes, something in his chest visibly eases—like just seeing you alive and okay made the world spin again.

“you good?” he asks, his voice low, unsteady. “you—shit, baby, are you good?”

you nod, leaning into his touch. “i’m good. tired. sore. but… i’m okay.”

his eyes go glassy. “you scared the shit outta me,” he whispers, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “i’ve never—i mean. you—”

he cuts himself off, just swallowing hard before leaning in and pressing his forehead gently to yours.

“you were so fuckin’ brave,” he murmurs. “you did everything. you—god, you’re incredible.”

you let out a shaky laugh, your hand finding his. “you were pretty brave yourself.”

he exhales sharply, squeezing your fingers.

it takes a moment for his eyes to finally flick down to the bundled-up baby against your chest. he goes still.

“is he…” schlatt blinks fast, like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming. “is he okay?”

you nod. “he’s perfect.”

and that’s when the awe sets in. that quiet, open-mouthed holy shit look that only schlatt could make both adorable and heartbreaking at once.

“can i…?”

“you can hold him,” you say gently, already shifting the baby toward him. “of course you can.”

his arms slide under with an instinct you didn’t know he had, cradling the newborn like something rare and sacred. and as soon as the baby settles in his arms, all the air leaves his lungs at once.

“hi, buddy,” he whispers, the tiniest smile curling his lips. “i’m your dad.”

your throat tightens.

he looks back at you, eyes swimming. “you did so good,” he says again, voice raw. “i’m so proud of you. i love you so much.”

"i love you. so, so much." you rest your head on his arm as he holds the baby, the three of you close and safe and whole.

and now there’s nothing left but to hold each other—and your son—as the sun rises on the first morning of the rest of your lives.

[forslimslime]

Girlie, I NEED a part 2 of Garden Variety

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * garden variety, another bite ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: more thursdays pass by. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

part two of garden variety — please eat responsibly.

﹒₊✦ a/n: to the lovely soul who asked for seconds—thank you for planting that seed. i had way too much fun letting it grow into this. hope you’re hungry (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

warning: mutual pining, wet sundresses, spoon-related breakdowns, and one hoodie that may or may not change the course of a man’s life.

p.s. should we let part three get steamier...? just asking for... purposes of good intent <3

✧✧✧

he rushes back in and almost forgets the ratatouille is still on low heat.

“shit—”

it’s fine. mostly. a little crisp on the edges. rustic, he tells himself. artisanal.

he plates two servings, sets the table, even finds a candle and lights it like a lunatic. immediately regrets it. blows it out. relights it. leaves it.

and then you’re knocking.

he answers too fast. again.

you’re in that oversized sweater, sleeves half-covering your hands, with a baguette tucked under one arm and a grin on your face that nearly takes him out.

“told you i had bread,” you say, lifting it like a prize.

“you weren’t kidding.”

“i never kid about carbs.”

you follow him inside, humming approvingly at the smell, and he’s suddenly very aware of how much effort he tried to make it all look casual. how the lighting’s too dim, bordering on dark, because he wanted it “moody.” how the leather chairs squeak when you shift in them. how he lit a candle and now the place smells like basil and bergamot, which might be a weird combo. also, there's still a tomato stain on his shirt—

“wow,” you breathe, leaning over the table. “you really went for it.”

“yeah, well. seemed fair. you grow the stuff, i figure the least i can do is try not to ruin it.”

you both sit. dig in.

and it’s... good.

you moan a little after the first bite—moan—and he has to grip his fork like a lifeline.

“okay, hold on,” you say between bites, “this is actually incredible. what did you do?”

“uh,” he says. “followed a French mouse’s advice and winged it.”

you laugh. he’s never loved a sound more.

for a while, it’s easy. food, wine (cheap wine,, he wasn't prepared), conversation about your garden, his weird neighbor with the windchimes, the time you accidentally grew way too many cucumbers and tried to give them away black market style. he tells you about the time he set off the fire alarm making toast. you tell him that tracks.

and then—

somewhere between second helpings and licking the spoon clean, he decides he’s gonna say something.

he's gonna do something.

maybe brush your hand. maybe say your eyes look like sunlight through pickle jars or some other dumb metaphor he’s half-drafted in his brain.

he clears his throat. shifts closer.

“hey,” he starts. “i’ve been thinking—”

but the words fall off a cliff when you glance up, licking tomato sauce from your thumb, looking so casual and gorgeous he loses the plot completely.

“…thinking?”

you tilt your head.

he panics.

“that i might try zucchini next week. like—grilled. or fried. or something.”

there is a long, long pause.

“…zucchini.”

“yeah.”

you nod, slowly. “big thoughts.”

“huge,” he says, dying inside.

but you just smile. sip your wine. “well, let me know if you want a taste tester.”

and you stay another hour.

you help him wash dishes. you steal the last piece of bread. you leave smelling like herbs and laughter.

and when the door closes behind you, he thunks his head against it.

“…zucchini?” he whispers to himself, full of shame and longing.

✧✧✧

the next thursday, you bring zucchini.

he handles it like it’s a live grenade.

“thought you might wanna make that grilled or fried zucchini you mentioned,” you say, breezy as ever, but there’s a little gleam in your eye. like maybe you remember the awkward stammering, the zucchini deflection, the nearly something that almost happened at dinner.

he pretends he doesn’t.

"right,” he says, voice cracking like a teenager. “yeah. perfect.”

✧✧✧

by the week after that, he’s bought a garlic press.

a garlic press.

and a new cookbook. and some little ramekins he’ll probably never use but they looked impressive in the cart.

you bring radishes that week. he makes a salad he hates but eats anyway while you rave about how crisp they are. he thinks your smile is crisp. and bright. and so stupidly pretty he forgets to chew.

✧✧✧

the week after that, he tries to time it just right.

he cleans the house before you show up. runs a hand through his hair. checks the mirror.

and when you knock—he opens the door casual, like he hasn’t been waiting by it for seven minutes.

you hand him a bundle of beets and chard. handwritten note attached:

“highly underappreciated vegetables for a highly underappreciated chef.”

he wants to frame it. instead, he says, “chard, huh?” like an idiot.

but you laugh. and linger. and sip the iced tea he offers through an amused smile.

✧✧✧

by the fourth thursday, you’re in his kitchen again—bare legs, soft voice, the scent of fresh-cut basil trailing behind you like a trap.

he’s trying to act normal. calm. like your presence isn’t short-circuiting every neuron in his brain.

you rinse your hands at the sink and glance over your shoulder. “want me to chop these?”

“uh—yeah. sure,” he says, clearing his throat twice. “if you want.”

you move to the cutting board and pick up the knife, but before you start, you pause. tilt your head. “actually… show me how you do it.”

he freezes. “me?”

you nod. “yeah. hands-on demonstration.”

he swears his pulse is audible.

you look so relaxed. so close. and without a second thought, you lift the knife gently on the handle.

“here. guide me,” you say softly.

he steps behind you.

slow. careful.

his chest almost touches your back. he hovers for a breath. then sets his hands over yours—one large, calloused palm at a time. your fingers twitch slightly under his.

“like this?” he asks, voice quieter now. unsteady.

“mm,” you murmur. “feels right.”

his heart clatters in his chest like a plastic plate. spinning, spinning, spinning.

you let him move your hands—back and forth, a slow, rocking rhythm. basil gives under the blade. the scent is rich, sharp. his palms stay pressed to yours, steady, warm, and shaking just barely.

your head tilts, just a little, brushing under his chin.

he smells vanilla and peach shampoo. his eyes flutter seeing the minimal distance between you and him, how easily he could rest his head on your soft hair.

you lean back slightly, unintentionally, and he flinches like he’s been zapped.

“too close?” you ask, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“no,” he says, too fast. “no, not—uh. it’s fine. good. i’m good.”

you smile, gentle. “you sure?”

he nods. doesn’t let go of your knife-wielding hands. you turn your head just enough to catch his face.

and yeah. he’s flushed. practically glowing red. eyes wide, lips parted. completely and utterly undone by the feel of your hands under his and your back against his chest.

you don’t say anything.

you just smile—soft, like you’re letting him keep his dignity—and go back to chopping like you don't know what you're doing to him.

like you’re not pressed against his chest. like your hands aren’t under his. like his pulse isn’t hammering loud enough to echo off the goddamn stovetop.

he tries to focus. tries to breathe.

but then you laugh—low and casual and dangerous—and he knows he’s done for.

"you're being so quiet, schlatt," you murmur, tilting your head slightly, just enough to glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “concentrating hard, huh?”

his hands tense over yours. “trying not to cut off a finger.”

"mm. wise."

you guide the knife through the last strip of mint, let the rhythm slow, then set it down. you reach for the cutting board, brushing past his ribs, and that’s the moment he finally steps back—just enough to stop hovering. you wipe your hands on a dish towel and hop back up on the counter, easy and graceful.

“you sure you're good?” you ask again, eyes twinkling.

“i’m—” he clears his throat. “yeah.”

a beat.

then, softly:

“i like cooking with you.”

you blink. just once. then that grin softens, stretches into something slower, warmer.

“me too.”

he turns back to the stove, trying to hide his face. tries to tell himself it’s fine. normal. casual. except nothing about you ever feels casual.

✧✧✧

it’s raining.

not just a drizzle—pouring. thunder rolling like god’s got something to prove.

he’s sure you won’t come. he wouldn’t blame you. it’s ridiculous out. but still—he keeps glancing at the window.

just in case.

and then—

a knock.

he opens the door and—

“holy shit,” he breathes. “are you...?”

“fine,” you say quickly, eyes wide. “i’m fine. it just—the storm—came out of nowhere.”

your dress is soaked. your hair’s half undone. water drips down your neck, slides along your collarbone, pools in the weave of the basket you’re hugging like a lifeline.

he can’t breathe.

you laugh a little, wet and sheepish. “i look like a wet cat.”

“you look beautiful.”

you blink at him, stunned. he blinks at himself, stunned.

you weren’t supposed to hear that.

you weren’t supposed to show up like this, looking like every dream he’s ever had and every instinct he’s ever had to protect.

you shift, like you’re thinking about leaving, so he moves—steps back, holds the door wider.

“get in here.”

you do.

and now you’re dripping on his floor, standing in the middle of his kitchen, shivering a little, arms around yourself. your mascara’s smudged. your shoes are off. and your knees are pink from the cold.

he disappears for a second, then comes back with a towel. big. soft. already warm from the dryer.

you blink again, surprised.

“you knew i’d still come?”

“i just...i hoped.”

he holds it out. you take it. wrap it around yourself like armor.

“sorry,” you say quietly. “i wanted to look nice.”

he looks at you for a long moment.

and then, quietly—“you do.”

you let out a breath. shaky. relieved.

“even with mascara halfway down my face like...some sort of raccoon?”

“especially then.”

your laugh comes out watery. “charmer.”

and maybe it’s the storm, maybe it’s the silence, maybe it’s the way he hasn’t stopped thinking about your mouth since that first damn basket of tomatoes—

but he takes a step closer.

you don’t move. but you look up at him with the towel around your shoulders, tilting your head slightly. you swallow nervously.

“i like thursdays,” you say softly.

his heart thumps so loud he’s sure you hear it.

“me too.”

and then—god, you look so hopeful, like you want something but you’re not sure if you can ask for it.

so he asks for you instead.

“can i kiss you?”

you nod. "...please."

and everything snaps into place.

it’s rain-slick and warm-palmed and holy. it’s his thumb brushing your cheek, his other hand still holding the edge of the towel wrapped around your shoulders. it’s your lips parting under his, soft and unsure and perfect.

it’s your nose bumping his, your hands curling into his shirt, your breath catching like you can’t quite believe it.

he could live here. right here. in this moment. in this kiss.

the rain hammers the roof, thunder grumbles low and long, but all he hears is your breath and his blood and the way you whisper his name.

and when you pull back, blinking like you forgot where you were—

he looks at you like you hung the damn moon.

“hi,” you whisper, dazed.

he grins.

“hi.”

your forehead rests lightly against his, and you sigh. soft. content. like the chaos outside has nothing on what just passed between you.

but then you shiver.

he feels it—feels you flinch, just barely, against his chest—and pulls back, brow furrowing.

“you’re freezing.”

“‘m fine,” you protest, though your lips are a little blue. “just need to warm up.”

“yeah. no shit.” he peels the damp towel off your shoulders and frowns. “you’re soaked through.”

you look down at yourself, wet dress clinging to your skin. “okay. yeah. this was a bad plan.”

“it was a great plan,” he mutters, already tugging open a drawer for clean dishtowels. “best thursday of my life. but you’re gonna get hypothermia in that thing.”

you giggle, teeth chattering.

“come on.” he tosses a towel over your hair. “hoodie’s in the laundry basket in my room. grab it. socks, too, if you want.”

you blink. “you want me to go through your laundry?”

“it’s clean,” he says, mock-offended. “probably. just—pick whatever you want. i’ll warm up dinner.”

you pause. tilt your head. “what if i come back in your hoodie and nothing else?”

he stares.

you blink, innocent.

his ears go red.

he clears his throat. “then, uh... dinner’s gonna burn.”

you grin. “worth it?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. runs a hand through his hair like that’ll help him think straight.

and then, from the hallway:

“you got boxers or should i just wear the hoodie like a dress?”

the wooden spoon clatters to the floor.

he turns off the stove, slinging a towel over his shoulder like he’s going to war. well...just down his hallway.

“...wear whatever gets you back out here fastest.”

and then he’s gone, down the hall after you, muttering something that sounds a lot like a prayer and a curse and “i’m so screwed” all at once.

[forslimslime]

okay and if I killed myself.

[forslimslime]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * sugar and steel ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’re trying not to fall for the man funding your favorite bad habits. he’s not trying at all. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✧✧✧

the first time he paid, it was for dinner.

just dinner.

it had been a nice place, though. being trapped in a booth with him, velvet seating, warm lighting, the sound and view of the ocean just to your left, and schlatt's handsome visage of broad chest and crisp white shirt, tied already undone. he snatched up the bill when it was sent down. 

“got it covered,” he’d said, casual. effortless.

“you don't have to do that,” you murmured, a little too soft, a little too late.

he just shrugged. “i was always taught that the gentleman should pay. blame my ma if you have a problem."

✧

the second time, he called it an accident.

a "little" deposit to your account that your bank notified you about—you thought it might have been a crazy glitch that might have you investigated for fraud.

you called him, stressing about it, crying into the mic of your earbuds, pacing your apartment in socks with one slipper missing.

“you sent me two grand, schlatt.”

on the other end, he was silent for a beat.

then—“and?”

“and? are you trying to buy me off or something?”

he chuckled. low, unbothered. “what would i be buying, sweetheart?”

you went quiet. he let the silence stretch.

“look,” he added, voice softer now. “you needed it, right?”

“…no.”

"sweetheart."

"...maybe."

“then don’t worry about it.” a pause. “unless you’d rather pay me back. i hear gratitude works wonders.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“yeah,” he said. “and now your rent’s covered.”

✧

“i’m not yours,” you told him once, when the air between you got a little too heavy. when his voice dipped low and his eyes got that look.

he didn’t argue.

just smiled, all teeth and slow drawl. “nah, not yet.”

✧

you told yourself it was a fluke.

told yourself you weren’t the kind of girl who took handouts. weren’t the kind of girl who let a man like that—moneyed, smug, irritatingly charming—swoop in and fix things.

but that’s before he started showing up.

not just with money. with answers. with groceries when you were out of milk. with the contact info for a mechanic who wouldn’t screw you over. with hands that never wandered unless you asked, but lingered like a promise.

✧

he didn’t push.

not once.

but god, he knew what he was doing.

"you got a bad habit of biting your lip when you're stressed," he said once, watching you fold laundry in his living room. "you want something? ask for it."

you didn’t.

but when you went home that night, you found a box with the shoes you had returned the other day.

✧

his couch is warm. the drink is gone. and now he’s closer.

he leans in, forearm against the backrest behind you, the space between you carved thinner by the second.

“you ever gonna admit it?” he asks, voice low.

“admit what?”

“that you're finally okay with being called mine."

“…schlatt.” you roll your eyes, but your heart is skipping.

“spit it out, sweetheart.”

you swallow. “this doesn’t mean anything.”

he hums, noncommittal. tips his head, eyes dragging across your face like he’s memorizing it. “no?”

“no,” you whisper, palms still pressed to his chest. his heart’s beating steady under your hand. yours feels louder.

“then why’re you shaking?”

your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. “i’m not.”

he raises a brow. one hand lifts, knuckles grazing your jaw—barely. like he’s not quite touching you, just warning that he could. “baby,” he murmurs, “you’re trembling.”

you try to move off of him.

he doesn’t completely stop you. he just tightens his hold—but it's just enough to keep you straddled against him.

“you want out,” he says lowly, “say the word.”

you don’t.

you’re still looking at his mouth.

“that’s what i thought,” he says, almost smug. but there’s a rasp in it now, something deeper, something needing.

his fingers slide under the hem of your dress, just enough to rest on bare skin. your breath stutters.

"this okay?"

you nod.

“nah.” his voice dips. “words, sweetheart.”

“yes,” you whisper. “it’s okay.”

he smiles like he’s won something. and maybe he has.

but he doesn’t rush.

he just leans up, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, just shy of your lips.

“you gonna keep pretending you don’t want this?” he asks, right against your skin.

you shiver. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“maybe,” he murmurs, mouth at your ear, “but you want to be full of me too. don’t you?”

[forslimslime]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * garden variety ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: she brings him vegetables. he’s halfway to proposing. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✧✧✧

it’s thursday.

he knows it’s thursday because you’re on his porch again, holding a woven basket like a goddamn fairytale princess.

“bit of a heavy harvest,” you say, breathless and sweet, as he opens the door. “figured i’d share.”

you always do. every week.

and he always forgets how to speak for half a second when you smile at him like that.

“right,” he says, clearing his throat. “thanks.”

you hand it over. warm fingers brushing his. the basket smells like mint and basil and whatever the hell else you’re growing out there in your magical little eden. you nod, already halfway down the steps.

“enjoy, neighbor!”

he watches you go. doesn’t mean to. definitely doesn’t watch the sway of your hips or the way your hair catches the sunlight.

definitely not.

✧

he sets the basket on the counter like it’s fragile. sacred.

squash. tomatoes. green beans. three eggplants. a bundle of herbs tied in twine with a tiny paper tag that just says “best in sauces!”

he stares at it all like it’s a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve.

“okay,” he mutters. “okay, big guy. you got this.”

he googles what to cook with vegetables when you don’t really like vegetables but a very pretty girl keeps giving them to you and you wanna impress her without looking like a loser.

no helpful results.

he tries again. something simpler.

"ratatouille?" he reads aloud. "...that little mouse movie?"

✧

an hour later he’s covered in tomato guts, there’s something smoking on the stovetop, and his smoke alarm is judging him with every obnoxious beep.

an hour later, he’s covered in tomato guts, his kitchen looks like a war zone, and he’s pretty sure he accidentally invented a new spice blend by sneezing too close to the herbs.

but the ratatouille’s done. it’s steaming on the stove in his nicest (least chipped) ceramic dish. and it smells... kinda incredible.

he wipes his hands on a towel. runs it through his hair. and before he can talk himself out of it, he’s already out the door.

✧

you open it before he finishes knocking.

“schlatt?”

“hey. uh.” he clears his throat. “so... i made ratatouille.”

a blink. a pause. you tilt your head, confused.

“with the stuff you gave me,” he adds quickly. “and—i was wondering, like—if you’re not busy or anything—maybe you’d wanna come over? have some with me?”

you blink again. then smile, wide and bright.

“wait, really? you cooked?”

he nods, scratching the back of his neck. “gave it my best shot.”

"if that's what i've been smelling all afternoon," you lean against the door frame, nose crinkling. “it smells amazing.”

a beat. then, softer—

“i’d love to.” you glance down at your own basket. “should I bring dessert?”

he laughs, breathless. “not unless you grew chocolate in there.”

you nudge him with your shoulder as you step out.

“give me five minutes to grab a sweater. i think i might have a good baguette from yesterday to pair with it, too...so don’t start without me.”

he watches you go, dazed. grinning like an idiot.

and yeah—

maybe he overcooked the eggplant. maybe he’ll burn the toast. maybe the whole thing’ll be a mess.

but you’re coming over.

you said yes.

and maybe, if he’s lucky, he won’t just get a taste of dinner tonight.

maybe he’ll get a taste of you, too.

✧✧✧

[forslimslime]

"pretty"

[forslimslime]

can you just imagine like personal assistant!y/n x charlie and then it just devolves into free use because hey, whatever he needs ,right? whenever, right?

he humps it

[forslimslime]

Somethin’ Stupid

Pairing: Jschlatt (Jay) x fem!reader

Word count: ~1.5k

Warnings: Emotional repression, heavy yearning, late-night vulnerability, missed signals, slow burn, mutual pining, self-sabotage, fear of ruining friendship, bad timing, almost-confessions, soft resolution, Schlatt being hopelessly in love and awful at handling it, fluff

Summary: You fell first. He fell harder. Neither of you noticed the other was falling—until it was almost too late to say anything at all.

A/N: IT WONT LET ME REPLY TO THE SUBMISSION BUT THIS IS FOR 🐠 ANON!!! I might be stealing some more songs from that list for inspo but I knew I ABSOLUTELYYYYY needed to do somethin stupid first.

You always end up here.

Half-drunk on the living room floor, back pressed against the couch, your cheek resting against the scratchy fabric, listening to Jay ramble about something half-relevant while an old record hums in the corner.

Tonight, it’s Sinatra. Of course it is. Something about the way he croons makes the air feel heavier than usual. Like the room is holding its breath. Like you are.

Jay’s on the couch behind you, sprawled sideways, a half-finished beer perched on the windowsill and one arm slung over his forehead.

Your legs are tangled in a throw blanket. You’ve been nursing a glass of red wine for the last hour. You’re not even tipsy anymore, just tired. Slow. Warm in that way that makes you too honest.

You don’t look at him when you speak.

“Do you ever think we missed it?”

His voice is soft, a little hoarse from laughing earlier. “Missed what?”

“I don’t know. A moment. A chance. Something we didn’t notice at the time.”

He shifts. You hear the fabric of the couch sigh beneath him.

“You mean like… us?”

Your throat catches.

You swallow. “Do you?”

There’s a pause. Too long. The kind that makes your stomach curl.

Then he laughs. It’s not mocking, but it’s distant.

“Nah,” he says. “We’re good.”

You nod, eyes fixed on the dark window across the room.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re good.”

⸻

You fell in love with him two falls ago. Somewhere between long walks back from corner bodegas and laughing until you cried over diner pancakes at 2 a.m.

He wasn’t trying to be anything. He was just himself. Stupid and tall and warm and sharp where it mattered. A little reckless, a little tired. A little too good at making you feel like the center of the universe when you were with him.

He made you forget to be careful.

That’s where you messed up.

⸻

He calls you “dude” when he doesn’t want to say your name. You figured that out months ago.

It started after a night where your hand brushed his and neither of you moved away. He made a joke. You laughed. But something had shifted.

He said “dude” three times in the next five minutes.

You didn’t bring it up.

Neither did he.

⸻

Sometimes he touches you like it’s accidental. Like his fingers didn’t mean to brush your wrist. Like his knee didn’t mean to knock into yours when you both reached for the remote.

You let it happen every time.

You don’t want to know if it means nothing.

⸻

You’re sitting on his kitchen counter one night in February. He’s cooking something half-frozen and awful. The overhead light flickers.

“You ever think we should’ve hooked up just to get it out of the way?” he asks, casually, like he’s asking if you want hot sauce.

You go still.

He’s not looking at you. He’s stirring something.

You laugh. “You’d never survive.”

That makes him glance at you, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What, you think you’d ruin me?”

“I know I would.”

He nods once slowly and lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He says it like a joke.

He says it like it doesn’t mean anything.

But your cheeks burn for the rest of the night.

⸻

There’s a girl on his Instagram story the next weekend. Someone you don’t know. Someone with rings on every finger and a high laugh that cuts through the room even with the volume low.

You don’t ask.

He doesn’t bring it up.

But he notices when your replies start coming slower. When you stop double-texting. When you say “I’m tired” instead of “come over.”

He doesn’t ask either.

And that’s the worst part.

⸻

You dream about kissing him sometimes. It’s never dramatic. Never fireworks or slow fades.

Just quiet. Familiar. A moment in the kitchen or in the passenger seat of his car.

Once, in the dream, he kissed you and whispered “finally.”

You woke up crying.

⸻

You go out together one night in late March. Some rooftop thing his friend dragged him to. You come because you said yes before thinking about it.

He’s in a black t-shirt. Hair slicked back. Beer in hand. Talking to people you don’t know.

You’re wearing lipstick for the first time in weeks.

He notices.

Doesn’t say anything.

But you catch him glancing. Once. Twice.

Later, some guy you don’t care about asks for your number.

Jay is on the other side of the deck. He doesn’t see it.

You think about telling him.

You don’t.

⸻

You’re in his apartment again in April.

He puts a record on without asking. Sinatra again. He’s halfway through an edit and says he just wants background noise.

But you know better.

He always puts this record on when he wants to feel something but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

You sit on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

You smile faintly. “I won’t.”

A beat.

Then: “Jay.”

He hums in reply.

You open your mouth.

Then close it.

He looks at you.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a second. Then goes back to his screen.

The song keeps playing.

You almost said it.

⸻

You don’t talk for the rest of the night.

You sit in the glow of his desk lamp while he finishes editing. The light paints him in soft gold, jaw set, fingers moving with that twitchy rhythm he gets when he’s trying not to think too hard.

You say you’re tired. He offers you the couch.

You curl up in his hoodie, the one that smells like him. The one he pretends not to notice you borrow every time.

The apartment goes quiet except for the low, steady scratch of the record looping back.

And then you hear it.

His footsteps. Bare feet against wood floors.

You keep your eyes closed.

You feel him standing there.

You feel him hesitate.

Then retreat.

The door to his room clicks shut like a sigh.

And you cry. Just a little.

Just enough to feel it.

⸻

You stop texting first.

He doesn’t say anything about it.

But you know he notices. He always notices.

You still see him. Still hang out. Still fall asleep on opposite ends of the couch like nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

He doesn’t ask who’s texting you when your phone buzzes. Doesn’t knock his knee into yours under the table. Doesn’t ask you to stay when you say you should go.

You wonder if this is what letting go looks like.

You wonder if he’s doing it too.

⸻

Your friends ask if you’re okay.

You say yeah. Of course. You’re just tired. Just busy.

You lie with your teeth clenched and your throat full.

You stopped waiting for him to say it. That’s what hurts the most.

Not that he didn’t love you.

But that he never wanted to.

⸻

It’s raining the night it happens.

Of course it is.

You didn’t plan to go to his place. You’d both been quiet for weeks. Distant in that way where the silences feel sharp.

But he texts.

you up?

And you don’t think. You just go.

When he opens the door, he looks wrecked. Not sad, not sick, just raw. Like he hasn’t slept right in days. Like he’s been trying not to say something for too long and it’s burning a hole in his throat.

“You okay?” you ask.

He steps aside.

You follow him in.

⸻

You sit on the bed. Same spot you always sit. You pick at a loose thread in the comforter.

Jay sits across from you on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up.

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then:

“I miss you,” he says.

Your stomach flips.

“I’m right here.”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not. Not like before.”

You look away.

“I know it’s my fault,” he says. “I pulled away. I thought I was protecting something. But I think I just killed it slower.”

You don’t speak.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he murmurs. “But I ruined it anyway.”

You blink hard. Your throat aches.

Jay’s voice is quiet. “I’m in love with you.”

It breaks.

Not loudly. Not with ceremony.

Just a soft unraveling, like a thread finally giving way.

You press your palms to your eyes.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You’re late.”

He lifts his head.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long it started to feel like part of my routine.”

Jay laughs—cracked, breathless. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He looks down at his hands.

You walk over before you can stop yourself.

Sit on the floor in front of him.

Your knees knock.

He looks up.

You lean in.

And kiss him.

It’s not perfect. Your teeth knock. His hand trembles when it lands on your jaw.

But it’s real.

It’s quiet.

It’s long overdue.

⸻

You fall asleep beside him that night, curled into his side, still in your jeans.

His arm stays around your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

⸻

In the morning, everything feels different.

But not bad.

He makes you coffee without asking how you take it. You scroll through your phone like you’re not watching him from the corner of your eye.

He kisses your forehead, and it feels easy. Familiar.

Like this is what it was always supposed to be.

Divider by @uzmacchiato

[forslimslime]

putting myself thru hell again because i wanna get into a top school

I’N FREEEE

3 months of studying all for just one 7.5hr exam

[forslimslime]

I think I improved :)

[forslimslime]

She sleeps on my de till I’m prived

[forslimslime]

SDP Webkinz

Repost since they dropped that video :D I honestly loved it lol

You can buy these as stickers on my shop!

[forslimslime]

And twink schlatt! Ugh he's so pretty I can't handle it!!!