lambyblurbsfics

[lambyblurbsfics]

Adding more peeps to who I’ll write about, my asks and submission are open babies

[lambyblurbsfics]

.・゜゜・　S L A T T L I C K E R 　M A S T E R L I S T　・゜゜・

╔══════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════╗

　　　 　 ♛ the table is set. mind your manners. ♛ 　　　　 ♱ now pouring: fics, feelings, filth ♱ 　　　　 ✦ menu changes often. no refunds. ✦

╚══════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════╝

𖤐༺ THE POWDER ROOM — SFW DRABBLES & IMAGINES ༻

You're directed down a narrow hallway, plush carpet underfoot and gilt-framed mirrors on every wall. Perfume bottles glint under the powder-pink light, their labels faded, their scents still lingering. At the end, a painted door swings open with a quiet creak. Inside, the air is warm with hairspray and honeyed lotion. Vintage stools rest before wide vanities, soft music humming low through a little speaker on the shelf. Vue’s already inside—perched on the edge of the counter, heels kicked off, her lipstick a gentle rose instead of red. “Nothing too wild in here, sweetheart. Just the soft stuff. Glances. Gestures. Imagines that end before the kiss—or just after. If your chest aches when you leave, that’s how you know it worked.”

✦ “jazz bar pickup” – ♡ slow jazz, smoky bar, and a stranger with a lazy smile. he finds you first.

✦ “late to the show” –   ♡ a missed seat turns into something better than the movie.

✦ “just his type” –   ♡ you say one unhinged thing on stream. his chat sends it to him.

✦ “garden variety” –   ♡ you bring vegetables. he brings dinner. something else’s cooking, too.

✦ “not even a nut” –   ♡ he makes one allergy joke too many—and then saves your life.

✦ “walking red, talking sweet” –   ♡ someone mouths off. he handles it. later, so do you.

✦ “ignite my engine” –   ♡ your car breaks down. lucky for you, the mechanic doesn't just fix engines—he tests limits.

✦ “sugar and steel” – ♡ he spoils you like it’s second nature—and touches you like it’s earned.

✦ “full cup, no shame” – ♡ he made a gamer shaker with your boobs on it. now he owes you royalties—and maybe a little more.

✦ “flash me baby” – ♡ you’re the one behind the camera—until he starts snapping back. snapshots, love notes, and soft confessions in every frame.

✦ “sad sack in a hoodie” – ♡ schlatt flakes on date night, overwhelmed and self-conscious. but you show up anyway—and maybe that's all he really needed.

✦ “chicken soup for the drama queen” – ♡ you say you’re fine. schlatt shows up everything you needed. guess who wins that argument.

✦ “sleep like you mean it” – ♡ moving in, shared toothbrushes, clingy sleep habits, and the sacred art of toppling your sleepy boyfriend before he topples you.

✦ “no sender to return to” – ♡ a gut-punch rejection, an inbox full of silence, and the kind of love that holds you together on the kitchen floor.

✦ “enter at your own risk” – ♡ locked doors, lego traps, and slime-covered stairs—he’ll survive anything for a spot in your shower. (whether he deserves it is another story.)

✦ there’s always another scene in the mirror. check back soon.

𖤐༺ THE SMOKING SUITE — SFW MULTI-CHAPTER & FULL-LENGTH FICS ༻𖤐

The smoking suite isn’t marked on any map. The suite door groans open—amber lighting, cracked leather armchairs, smoke-stained curtains swaying in the draft. The air smells like bourbon and tobacco. There’s a record player in the corner playing something low and crackling, and a cherrywood tray with matches and long-forgotten lighters by the ashtray. Vue is already curled in the armchair, one hoofed leg crossed over the other, cigarette unlit and lips painted crimson. "Mmm. Thought you’d make it up here eventually. Most of these ones take their time—start slow, burn slow, linger long after. So sit back, baby. Let me light something for you."

✦ “night shift special” – one-shot ♡ jet-lag, house brews, and a bartender who carries you home—then cooks you breakfast.

✦ “forgive me not” – multiple chapters ♡ he left without a word. now he’s back—with more to prove than just an apology. unfinished business, open wounds, and the slow rebuild of something real.

chapters: ��� chapter one - party apologies ⤷ [chapter two: coming soon]

✦ “let me handle it” – one-shot ♡ domestic softness, soft dom schlatt, hair brushing, praise, and a mental health day you actually take.

✦ more stories still drifting in with the smoke.

𖤐𓆩༺ THE COAT CHECK — 21+ ONLY — NSFW REQUESTS & DRABBLES ༻𓆪𖤐

Tucked behind a velvet curtain, just off the main drag. The lights are low, the air warm, and the counter’s a little too high to be just for coats. Hooks gleam in the dark. There’s a mirror on the back wall, lipstick prints at the corners. Vue’s bent over the counter like she was waiting for you—elbows resting on the surface, a cherry lollipop tucked into her cheek. Her dress clings to her figure. One thigh slides against the other as she shifts her weight and smirks at you, eyes slow and sticky-sweet. “Quick scenes, cheap thrills. Nothing polished—just filthy little flashes to get your blood hot. Don’t worry, sweetheart... nobody checks out clean.”

✦ “pressed for time” – ♡ a sundress, a few selfies, and a dangerously responsive boyfriend—schlatt’s office hours just got a whole lot messier.

✦ “peer-reviewed tit study” – ♡ one horny anatomy lesson, two very competitive pairs of tits, and absolutely zero professionalism in the practice room.

✦ hang tight. there’s always another coat on the hook.

𖤐𓆩༺ THE VELVET VAULT — 21+ ONLY — NSFW MULTI-CHAPTER & FULL-LENGTH FIC ONE-SHOTS ༻𓆪𖤐

A red light clicks on above the door as you descend—one slow step at a time. The walls are soundproofed, padded, and plush. Music thumps below your feet like a pulse. Inside, it’s quieter than you expect. Intimate. Controlled. A faint scent of leather and perfume. There’s a chaise lounge in the corner, handcuffs on the side table, and the unmistakable echo of laughter behind a closed door. Vue’s already there—legs crossed, cigarette burning down to the filter. “You’re not here for subtle. I know what you want. These aren’t glimpses, baby—they’re confessions. Close the door behind you. And whatever you do, don’t forget the safe word.”

✦ no full-length filth yet. but don’t get comfortable. something’s already writhing behind the walls—slow-burn, soaked-through, and begging for release. the second the lock clicks, it’s over for you.

[lambyblurbsfics]

vampire schloodle bc the date is a little scary..........

[lambyblurbsfics]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 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.

✧✧✧

[lambyblurbsfics]

I’m rewatching the 28 days later and 28 weeks later movies to get up to date with the newest movie.

I’m between Schlatt would be the best in a zombie apocalypse. So prepared will fight, have lots of supplies. And help out the best he could….

Or….

He’d die a day in to the zombie apocalypse

Idk what do yall think?

[lambyblurbsfics]

OH MY GOD IM CLAWING AT MY ENCLOSURE RN RAAAAGHHH

Anyways schlatt with a reader who gets horny as fuck on their period (just like me fr) and hes more than happy to help the first day or two but eventually hes fighting u off like "GET BACK🤺🤺 GET BACK I SAY🤺🤺" bc his cock desperately needs a break and ur insatiable lol. Anyways he ends up fingering u or letting u ride his thigh, but hes gotta tie ur hands behind ur back or else you WILL be trying to grope him😔🙏

[lambyblurbsfics]

bf schlatt who hears the shower turn on from his office and then claws at the door like a cat trying to get in with u like doesn't even have to be sexual he just wants to hang out

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * enter at your own risk ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you just want a shower in peace. your boyfriend sees that as a challenge. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the beloved anon who asked for feral, door-scratching schlatt—you are the reason this domestic chaos exists. thank you for inspiring what is possibly the most unhinged home infiltration fic i’ve ever written. i had too much fun.

warnings: contains brief sexual language · light nudity (non-explicit) · shower intimacy (clothed & unclothed) · lockpicking for romantic purposes

enjoy the madness (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

✧✧✧

schlatt's editing.

headphones on. chair creaking. mouse clicking. he's halfway through cutting a VOD when he hears it.

pssssshhhhhhhhhh.

the water.

his whole body goes still.

he pulls one ear of his headset off. freezes. listens.

pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh.

the fucking shower.

he's out of his chair before he can think, socks skidding on the laminate floor as he yanks open the office door—

and it doesn't budge.

"what the hell?"

he jiggles the knob. locked.

he rattles it again, harder this time, but it doesn't give. and it's not just the lock—he recognizes the sound. the weight. something's blocking the other side.

"babe?" he calls. "did you—did you lock me in?"

no answer.

only water running.

"are you fucking serious?"

he shoulders the door once. twice. no good.

then he sees it: a slip of paper under his keyboard.

"shower’s hot. i’m hotter. earn it, loser."

his jaw drops.

“you bitch.”

he looks around like the solution might present itself, then clocks the window latch.

"NO FUCKING WAY."

✧✧✧

he lands hard in the backyard. limps for exactly two steps before shaking it off like a wounded soldier and busting in through the sliding glass door.

and that’s when he sees it.

the hallway.

it’s covered in legos.

he stops. stares down at them. at the vibrant plastic warzone sprawled across the floor.

“BABE?” he yells. “WHY DOES THE HOUSE LOOK LIKE A WARZONE?”

you shout back sweetly, “I AM BUSY!”

“you freak,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s praying for strength.

he takes off his socks. gingerly tiptoes through the chaos, wincing every time he so much as brushes a block with his toe.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??” he screeches.

"BOYS WHO BREAK INTO BATHROOMS GET BOOBY TRAPS," you call faintly.

"YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY??"

"I THINK IT’S EARNED."

he clears the final plastic piece and steps onto the first stair—

and his foot slides.

“OH MY GOD—”

his hands catch the railing, whole body jerking as he slips half a step down. he slams into the wall with a thud, heart jackhammering.

he looks down.

green.

slippery.

goopy.

✧✧✧

“you slimed the stairs?!”

“YOU SHOWED ME HOW TO MAKE IT,” you shout from upstairs, smug and shameless.

“FOR CONTENT, NOT MURDER!”

“IT’S NONTOXIC!”

“THAT’S NOT THE ISSUE!”

he drags himself up slowly, clinging to the railing like a soldier in a war film. every step squelches.

“you’re sick,” he grits, “you need professional help—”

“YOU NEED TO LEARN BOUNDARIES.”

“IT’S A SHOWER, NOT A FEDERAL ASSET—”

“IT IS WHEN YOU CAN’T STOP JOINING ME.”

he gets to the top.

then he hits the next obstacle.

the couch. full block. right at the top of the stairs.

✧✧✧

he groans. loud.

“I HATE YOU!”

“YOU LOVE ME!”

“I LOVE YOU, BUT I HATE YOU!”

he runs at the couch.

shoves it an inch.

"WHAT IS THIS, A BOSS LEVEL?"

you cackle.

he throws his weight into it. it moves an inch.

he groans. backs up. takes a running start, even on the tiny landing.

he throws himself again. again.

he squeezes through, breathing like a man post-marathon.

✧✧✧

bedroom door?

locked.

“baby, please—”

"YOU DON'T EVEN LIKE SHOWERS."

"I LIKE YOU IN THE SHOWER."

he fumbles for his keychain. tries the master key. it works.

but the second he opens it, a full laundry basket tips over, spilling a mountain of clothes onto him.

"WHAT THE FUCK, BABY—"

“LAUNDRY’S DONE! YOU’RE WELCOME!”

he fights his way free. throws a towel off his shoulder like it insulted him.

he stares at the en suite like it personally wronged him.

“one more door,” he mutters. “one more fucking door.”

he tries the handle. rattles it.

locked.

of course it’s locked.

✧✧✧

“baby.”

no answer.

he knocks, dramatic. rapid. like a cop.

“baby, open the door.”

you call back, chipper: “no!”

“Please?”

“you’re not allowed in here.”

“i’ve earned it. i’ve been through hell. i nearly died.”

“you slipped on slime,” you yell. “that you taught me to make.”

“that’s not the point!”

“what is the point?”

“that i’m cold. and bored. and unloved.”

“should’ve thought of that before you tried to barge in here and watch me shave my legs like it’s a live documentary.”

“you do it so gracefully,” he says, smacking the door gently for emphasis. “it’s like poetry. i get misty-eyed.”

you groan. “you’re not coming in.”

he lowers his voice, sultry. dangerous.

“what if i said i was already hard?”

a beat.

“liar.”

“…okay, not yet. but i could be.”

“mmm, no. stay that way. let it build character.”

“you locked me in my office like a dog.”

“because you follow me like one.”

“because you’re my favorite person!”

“so stop breaking and entering every time i try to shower!”

“let me in!”

“NO!”

a silence.

then—

he sees it.

bobby pin on the dresser.

a sign from god.

he grabs it, kneels down, muttering the whole time. “you wanna be weird? i can be weirder. you wanna play games? i’ll win.”

click.

the door swings open.

steam hits him in the face like judgment. his hoodie’s halfway off one shoulder, sweat-darkened and twisted from shoving the couch. his pants are slipping down his hips. and—most baffling of all—there are two socks dangling from his collar like weird little trophies.

you whip around, wet hair slinging water everywhere. eyes wide. scandalized.

“how the fuck did you—”

he holds up the bobby pin like a trophy. “shouldn’t leave these in arm’s reach, sweetheart.”

you gape. “you lockpicked me?!”

“you locked me out!”

“YOU DO THIS EVERY TIME—”

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”

“YOU HUFF MY SHAMPOO!”

“IT SMELLS LIKE VANILLA!”

you throw your hands up. water splashes the tile. he stares at you like you’ve hung the stars.

and despite everything—despite the slime and the barricades and the actual breaking and entering—

he smiles, sheepish. crooked. boyish.

“…can i come in?”

you glare. “you already broke in.”

he lifts one sock from his collar, flings it over his shoulder like it’s a cravat. “but now i wanna do it respectfully.”

you squint. “you’re literally glistening.”

“from love,” he says.

“from sweat.”

“i worked to be here, babe.”

“you stormed the house like a castle!”

“it was booby trapped like a castle! i sprinted through legos. scaled slime. breached the couch blockade. took a laundry avalanche to the chest—”

“because you can’t stand being away from me for twenty minutes.”

he points at you. “EXACTLY.”

you blink. “that wasn’t a compliment.”

he steps closer, hand pressed over his heart. “i’m not here to argue. i’m here to apologize. to reflect. to recover.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“i need this shower.”

you snort. “you’re not getting in.”

he pouts. “baby—”

“no. this is my time. you had your chance. you blew it when you exited your office.”

he raises both hands in surrender. “okay. okay.”

a pause.

a beat.

his eyes flick to your shoulders.

to the steam curling around your skin.

to the droplets rolling down your chest.

“…what if i just stand nearby and—”

“nope.”

“i won’t even talk—”

“you never shut up.”

“i’ll just lean in the doorway—”

“you’re already in the doorway!”

“you’re so mean,” he groans, collapsing against the wall. “i risked my life for you.”

“you risked sweaty pits and a bruised ego.”

“same thing.”

he watches you rinse shampoo from your hair. watches the soap slide over your collarbones.

his breath hitches.

“please?”

you sigh, long and exaggerated. “fine.”

“YES.” he strips faster than a man possessed. hoodie gone, pants kicked off, socks flung into oblivion.

and when he steps under the spray—sweaty, smug, slightly traumatized—he melts on contact. like all is forgiven.

“this is so much better,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist. “you’re warm. the water’s warm. we’re warm together—”

you slap a wet hand to his mouth.

“no narrating.”

he nods. licks your palm.

“EW—” you yank your hand back, spluttering. “you’re disgusting.”

“you’re mean,” he says again, grinning like he just won something. “i already almost lost my big ass feet to legos and then you slimed me.”

“you weren’t supposed to make it this far!”

“oh, sorry for being determined.” he rolls his eyes, ducking down to press a kiss to your shoulder, shameless. “maybe if you didn’t look so good covered in soap, I wouldn’t have risked it all.”

your laugh snags in your throat when he presses closer, steam curling around your bodies. his chest is slick with sweat and shower mist, all heat and pressure as it presses to yours. his hands trail down, fingers splayed wide over your ass, thumbs dragging slow, reverent.

you try to pull away.

he doesn't let you.

he noses along your jaw, teeth brushing just beneath your ear. “you taunted me,” he breathes. “you trapped me.”

his lips ghost across your throat.

“you baited me.”

you can feel him now, thick and hot against your thigh. and fuck, he’s hard—not from touching, but from chasing. from wanting.

his voice dips.

“so what now, baby?” he whispers, low and dangerous. “i followed every stupid rule you laid out. now i’m here. wet, bruised, and hard for you. you gonna keep pretending i didn’t earn this?”

✧✧✧ bonus ending ✧✧✧

you stare at him.

beat.

then you shrug.

“yeah,” you say. “i think i’m good.”

he blinks. short-circuits. “wait—what?”

“you got your shower. that’s all you wanted, right?” you lather your shampoo again. “hot water. quality time. no betrayal.”

he stares at you, slack-jawed.

“you’re fucking with me.”

you glance down at his dick, smug. “i mean...you wish.”

his mouth drops open. he looks between your face and your hand—the one now methodically working shampoo into your scalp, totally unbothered—like he’s witnessing the collapse of civilization.

“you’re a menace,” he breathes. “an actual war criminal.”

you hum innocently. “non-combatant, actually.”

he runs a hand down his face, water dripping from his lashes. “i scaled a slime-covered staircase for this.”

“and look! now you’re clean.”

“i lockpicked a door—”

“you stole my bobby pin—”

“—and you’re telling me this was the endgame?!”

you flash him a smile so sweet it’s practically a death threat. “sure is, soldier.”

he groans. drags a wet hand down your back, smearing soap as he goes. “you’re lucky i love you.”

“mmhm. and you smell like apples now.”

"you bought a new scent, too?!" he glares. “that is unforgivable.”

“hey, if you’re really mad…” you lean in, kiss the tip of his nose. “you could always go shower alone.”

he stares at you. slow. offended.

then he clutches his heart, dramatically. sinks to his knees like he’s been mortally wounded.

“tell my story,” he gasps. “tell the world how i died, balls heavy and heart broken.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re fine.”

he rests his cheek dramatically against your thigh, arms looped loosely around your hips.

“this is how i go,” he mumbles. “this is my legacy.”

“naked in the shower while your girlfriend does her routine?”

“betrayed,” he clarifies. “by my lover. and what was supposed to be vanilla shampoo.”

you snort, dragging your fingers through his damp curls.

he sighs again. but softer, this time. more relaxed. his eyes flutter shut as your fingers move gently through his hair, massaging his scalp with a quiet tenderness that betrays your earlier cruelty.

“you’re lucky i haven’t kicked you out yet.”

“no you won’t,” he says, eyes still closed, voice lazy. “you love me.”

you pause. your hand rests lightly on his temple.

“…yeah,” you say, soft. “i do.”

his eyes crack open.

“…wait. does that mean i get a blowjob now?”

you shove him backwards.

he slips, yelps, and lands on his ass with a wet slap.

“worth it,” he wheezes, grinning up at you.

[lambyblurbsfics]

Write ANY spicy story about the schlitties (schlatt’s man tits). I…. I want to respectfully admire and ‘study’ them…… 😳👉👈

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * peer-reviewed tit study ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: he brings you lunch during a study session. you ask him to help you practice. he volunteers his body. things get clinical—fast. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: to the scholar who requested a respectful study of the schlitties…i hope you know this got wildly out of hand.

warnings: explicit content (MINORS DNI !!!) · med student/nurse!y/n · blowjob (m receiving) · power dynamic · public tension · interrupted spice · tit fixation (m & f) · mutual tit grabbing · car sex vibes · dom!schlatt energy · research-based flirting

enjoy, overachievers (｡•̀ ᴗ -)✧

✧✧✧

the practice room smells like disinfectant and stress.

you’ve got your laptop propped up, highlighters scattered, and your folded scrub top draped over the back of a chair. the table in front of you is meant for training—ideal for learning vitals, practicing physicals, or quietly melting into a pile of regret while prepping for exams.

which is exactly what you’re doing.

until the door creaks open.

"i brought food," comes a familiar voice. casual. teasing.

you blink up, startled—and then nearly drop your pen.

schlatt leans in the doorway, brown paper bag in one hand, and that smug little smile on his face. he’s wearing your school hoodie. it fits poorly, in that it’s clearly not his, but his broad frame makes it look criminal anyway.

"what are you—how did you get in here?"

he shrugs, stepping inside like he owns the place. "guy in the lab coat outside owed me a favor."

"you bribed an emt with an energy drink again, didn’t you."

"allegedly."

you groan, but you’re already smiling as he sets the bag down on the table and leans over to kiss your temple.

"you look exhausted," he murmurs.

"that’s because i am."

"then let me help you study."

your brows lift. "you want to help me with… medical exams?"

he leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest. "yeah. be your little fake patient or whatever."

you raise an eyebrow. "you offering to take your shirt off for educational purposes, big guy?"

he grins. "you tell me."

✧✧✧

he’s shirtless on the table five minutes later.

you’ve barely touched your sandwich. he’s already unwrapped his, humming through bites like this is the best day of his life.

you try to be professional. you do. but it’s hard to keep a straight face when your mock patient is sitting there with his legs dangling off the side, tan skin on display, and that cocky look in his eye.

“vitals?” you prompt, grabbing your clipboard.

“sure,” he says. “but only if you warm your hands first.”

you shoot him a look. “you think this is a massage?”

“no, i just think you touching me should be a luxury experience.”

you sigh, setting the clipboard aside.

“pulse?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. his skin is warm. his smirk deepens.

“elevated,” you note.

“wonder why,” he murmurs.

“blood pressure?”

“skyrocketing, sweetheart. must be the hot nurse.”

you glare.

he chuckles.

you step closer.

“breath sounds...” you say, placing your fingers lightly against his ribcage.

he inhales.

so do you.

your hand stalls.

you blink.

he grins. “you good?”

“i’m fine.” you clear your throat. “i’m being professional.”

“you’re being flustered.”

you scowl, reaching for the stethoscope. “lay down.”

“buying me dinner first might’ve been nice.”

“schlatt.”

“okay, okay.”

he lies back across the table, hands behind his head. the stretch of his torso should be illegal.

you place the stethoscope against his chest.

and immediately regret it.

because now you can hear it.

the steady beat of his heart.

strong. confident. comforting.

you glance up.

he’s watching you.

“…normal,” you say.

he smirks. “yours?”

you roll your eyes, moving to write down the fake results.

then, lowly:

“i think you skipped a step, doc.”

you glance over.

“palpation,” he says. “gotta check for tenderness.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re not tender.”

“try me.”

you move your hands slowly over his chest, palms flat. it's a little ridiculous—he’s just fucking there, all warmth and muscle, and somehow still smug even as you prod his sternum.

"mm. yep," he says. "definitely tender."

you poke him, hard.

“ow.”

“babies don’t get lollipops after exams.”

“but what if i was so good?”

you sigh, bracing your hands on either side of him, leaning over the table.

"you’re the worst patient i’ve ever had."

"yeah? but i’m still your favorite."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

the silence simmers.

then:

"you gonna write me a prescription or what?"

you raise an eyebrow. "for what?"

he grins, hands finding your waist. "for another exam. i think i need a full work-up. maybe… over dinner? in your dorm? with less clothes and more hands-on testing?"

you laugh despite yourself.

“you really want me to ace this exam, huh?

he leans back on his elbows, chest rising slow. “wanna make sure you know your anatomy.”

you eye him. “mm. think i’ve got the basics down.”

his hands slide up your sides, deliberate. “then let’s get into practical application.”

you snort, but your heart’s already racing. you should scold him—remind him this is technically a school facility, that the table beneath him is meant for pretend patients and sterile technique.

instead, you step between his legs and tug his waistband.

“guess i should run another check-up.”

he watches you with a kind of greedy calm, eyes dragging down your face, your uniform, your mouth.

“thorough this time,” he murmurs. “real hands-on. i’ve got symptoms.”

“oh yeah?” you slide his sweats down his hips, slow. “what are we treating?”

he inhales as you wrap your fingers around him. “swelling.”

you bite back a smile. “localized?”

he huffs a laugh. “worse when you’re close.”

“noted.”

you sink to your knees.

he swears under his breath, one hand bracing on the table, the other brushing through your hair like he’s still trying to play it cool—even as you lick a slow stripe along his length. his thighs tense beneath your hands.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

you hum around him in response, mouth warm, slow, wet. you take your time—letting him twitch and strain and clench his jaw, watching the flush creep up his chest.

his voice is wrecked when he speaks again. “you keep doing that and i’m gonna forget what my name is.”

you pull back with a slick pop, eyes up. “tell me if anything hurts.”

“only if you stop.”

you laugh, and duck back down.

he groans louder this time, grip tightening in your hair, not to guide—but to ground. he’s already close, and he knows it. you can feel it in the way his thighs shift, the sharp hitch in his breath. you hollow your cheeks a little, just to watch him fall apart.

and then—

a knock.

“sorry to interrupt! just a reminder we’ve got this room reserved starting at two!”

silence.

utter, fucking silence.

you freeze.

so does he.

“oh my god,” schlatt says, half-choked.

you glance up at him, trying not to laugh, your hand still curled around the base of his cock.

he whispers like it’s a war crime. “you can’t stop now.”

you mouth 'we have to'.

he slaps a hand over his face, groaning like he’s being punished for a past life. “i’m gonna die in here.”

you snort, squeezing his thigh before rising. “then hurry up and tuck that thing back in before they add public indecency to your autopsy report.”

he glares at you, but it’s all for show. his ears are pink.

you hand him a tissue from your bag and fish around for your lip balm like none of this is out of the ordinary. “c’mon, schlatt. shirts on. pants up. act natural.”

he grumbles something about unfulfilled promises and cruel women in positions of power while cleaning up and shimmying back into his sweats.

you smooth your hair, give your reflection a once-over in the dark window, and open the door just wide enough to peek out.

two undergrads stand there awkwardly with clipboards, eyes wide when they recognize you.

“hey,” you say sweetly, “thanks for being patient. if you could just give me two more minutes? then the room’s all yours.”

one of them gives you a thumbs up. the other stares at schlatt—who, behind you, is clearly still adjusting his waistband—and mouths is that your boyfriend?

you shut the door with a snap before answering.

✧✧✧

the walk to the parking lot is suspiciously silent.

not out of guilt. not really. more like shared tension—like you both know damn well what almost just happened and your bodies haven’t gotten the memo it’s over yet.

the second the truck’s in view, schlatt veers toward the passenger side like a man on a mission—but then stops short.

you blink. “uh. you good?”

he glances at you, eyes a little wild. “get in the back.”

you laugh. “what?”

“front’s too cramped.”

“for what?”

he doesn’t answer.

just opens the back door, crawls in, and looks at you expectantly.

and maybe you should say no. maybe you should remind him you both have places to be. maybe you should pretend you’re above a little heat-fueled make-out session in the back seat like a pair of hormonal teenagers.

but your hands are already gripping the door.

and your knees are already pressing into the leather as you slide in after him.

he closes the door behind you.

and that’s all the warning you get.

his hands are on your hips in seconds, pulling you into his lap with a groan like he’s been starving for this. your knees bracket his thighs, your mouth finding his fast—hot, needy, and a little reckless. all the breathy restraint from earlier boils over.

his hands move up your back, under your shirt, fingers greedy against your skin.

you arch into it, one hand threading through his hair, the other gripping his shoulder.

he grins against your mouth. “you’re real handsy for someone who called things off twenty minutes ago.”

“you’re real smug for someone who almost got caught with his pants down.”

“you didn’t seem to mind.”

“i minded plenty,” you whisper, kissing the edge of his jaw, “but you looked so pretty, i got distracted.”

he groans, hands sliding down to squeeze your ass. “say that again.”

you press your forehead to his. “you looked pretty.”

“fuck.”

he kisses you again, rougher this time—biting at your lip, letting out a noise when your hips shift over his.

your fingers skate down his bare chest, dragging slow as you pull back to look at him, breathing hard. he’s flushed, pupils blown, lips wet.

“what?” he asks, breath catching as you swipe your thumbs across his nipples. again. deliberately.

“just thinking,” you murmur, fingers teasing the swell of each pec. “they really are perfect.”

“they’re not even—”

“no, shut up. you’ve got better tits than me.”

he chokes on a laugh. “that’s not true.”

“look at you,” you say, giving one a light squeeze. he jumps. “they bounce. they’ve got mass. shape.”

“stop,” he wheezes, hands tightening on your waist. “i’m gonna develop a complex.”

“a good one,” you hum, leaning in to mouth at his chest, sucking a bruise right under his collarbone. “like a… medical marvel. patient zero for pec envy.”

he groans, head thumping back against the seat. “jesus christ.”

his hands come up, tugging your shirt until it bunches under your arms. he wastes no time reaching for your bra, pulling the cups down until your tits spill out into his waiting palms.

“you really wanna compare?” he says, low and smug, thumbing over one nipple until it hardens under his touch. “’cause baby, you’ve got no idea how obsessed i am.”

“show me.”

he does. with both hands and then his mouth—sucking at one, rolling the other between his fingers, humming like he’s tasting something decadent. you arch with a gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

“god,” you whisper. “you’re ridiculous.”

he pulls back, lips shiny, eyes gleaming. “admit it.”

“what?”

he gives your tits one last squeeze. “mine are better.”

“you’re delusional.”

he flicks his tongue over your nipple and grins. “say it.”

“never.”

he laughs—open, shameless, so him—and then leans in again, kissing between the swell of your breasts before dragging his mouth back up to yours.

“fine,” he mutters. “we’ll settle this later. in bed. with scientific analysis.”

you groan against his lips, hips grinding down on him. “can’t wait for the peer-reviewed tit study.”

“baby,” he breathes, biting your lip on the next kiss, “i am the peer.”

the windows are fogged. your clothes are barely on. and when he kisses you again, it’s all tongue and heat and wandering hands.

until—

a distant door slams.

you both freeze.

he pulls back, panting. “was that—?”

you scramble off his lap, breathless. “we need to go.”

“what?” he blinks. “no, c’mon, just two more minutes—”

“nope,” you say, tugging your shirt back down. “you said yourself. front seat’s too cramped. you want more hands-on testing, we’re gonna need a controlled environment.”

he’s already climbing forward again, one arm snagging his shirt from the floor. “your place. now.”

“your driving better be as good as your tits.”

he snorts. “buckle up, doc. we’re skipping straight to the home visit.”

[lambyblurbsfics]

while you were sleeping

Ted Nivison x reader x JSchlatt

a retelling of while you were sleeping (1995)

every day, you’ve lived the same lonely shift at work, no family, even working through the holiday shifts.

until your favorite charming customer (who you may or not be crushing on) gets robbed and shoved onto the train tracks.

without even thinking about it, you save his life. everything seems fine. until one thing leads to another, and your good deed leads to a misunderstanding that somehow, you are his fiancée.

now, you have to scramble to keep the lie up to his family, including his suspicious but sexy rogue of a brother, who knows something isn’t quite what it seems.

coming soon.

[lambyblurbsfics]

I’m eating this fic and you can’t stop me

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬

popstar!ethan nestor x reader

ten years after leaving his sleepy town of farbolo, vermont in the middle of the night, Ethan Nestor, popstar extraordinaire, finds himself forced to return to lay low after run-ins with the law threaten to derail his career and popularity.

he’s the town hero, so it shouldn’t be too bad, right?

there’s just one problem.

when he left all those years ago, he left behind and didn’t speak to a friend group who, needless to say, aren’t as quick to bow down and forgive the town hero.

including you.

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧.

[lambyblurbsfics]

car sex - schlatt.

finally got this finished after 4 months. apologies if the writing is dogshit, i’ve completely forgotten how to write.

schlatt had recently bought a toyota supra as a gift to himself. when he first bought it to get it imported to the us, he’d promised you that he’d take you for the first drive in it. and as soon as it arrived and the weather was okay, he acted on his promise.

“toots! i’m gonna take the car for a drive! you comin’ or no?” schlatt calls out from the front door, his voice ringing through the house. the keys to the car hang from his index finger as he waits, the metal swinging faintly.

once his voice reaches your ears, you pad down the stairs from the shared bedroom, dressed in one of schlatt’s hoodies to combat the cold and some lounge shorts. you follow him out to the car and get situated in the passenger seat, excited for schlatt to take you for the first drive.

you were in the middle of watching tiktok’s when he called out to you. but you’d much rather spend time with schlatt if it means he’ll look at you all kind and sweet.

schlatt turns the key and shifts the car into gear, letting it roll out of the driveway. his hand quickly finds purchase on your thigh and squeezes as he navigates through the city to get to the country roads.

once the tyres hit the dirt road, he slams on the accelerator and goes for a joyride. it’s his car, so he deserves to have his fun for a little while. you sit next to him and watch him drive, a soft smile on your face as his hand gently squeezes at your thigh.

his happy laughs and toothy grins are enough to make you forget about everything that could possibly go wrong right now. he’s enjoying himself, so you’ll enjoy it with him.

he’s eventually has enough and turns around, driving the car back to near where he started. schlatt brings the car to a stop and pulls the handbrake, the aircon still on to keep the car warm.

the car was parked on a patch of dirt with a beautiful view of the night sky and the trees that seemed to kiss the horizon. the faint chirping of the birds putting their chicks to sleep lulled your mind into a sense of tranquility as the soft sound of the stereo starts through the car. some classic song. sinatra, maybe. schlatt’s playlist.

your eyes are met with his loving smile, his teeth barely peeling out from behind my lips. he looked beautiful. the calm after his adrenaline wears off makes him look 10 times hotter than usual. his thigh finds purchase on your thigh as your gaze focuses back on the night sky and your head meets the curve of his shoulder. you were so very grateful that he’d had the thought of taking you for the first drive in his new car.

his thumb grazed lazily over the inside of your thigh, tapping every so often to the rhythm of the music. it was moments like these that you were glad you got to see the soft, less brash side of your big guy. the side that loved his cats like no tomorrow, the side that loves on you and mends every scratch and cut in your heart, the side that treats you so well whenever you even so much as hint-

“‘ey, space cadet. you all in there?” he’d poked your cheek, speaking on the upturn of the side of his lip. his signature smirk, the one that could either calm you down or rile you up.

the roll of your eyes is enough to tell him that you were just off in your own thoughts. no harm in that. so he watches the sky again, relishing in your presence and letting the night guide itself. your breaths combined with his in front of the both of you, and the intimacy of the moment grew as the night dragged on.

your eyes had grown lidded, not from the inevitable tiredness creeping in, but simply from the admiration you had for schlatt and the desire to be all over him and savour every last view.

his hand crept further up your thigh, skimming the hem of your lounge shorts. his gaze was now on you, watching your lidded eyes intently. he could tell how you were feeling, but he doesn’t bring it up yet, just waits to see if you’ll do anything. and you don’t.

time passes and you ended up cuddled into schlatt’s chest with him sat in the passenger seat. you were settled on his thigh, you head tucked into his neck while his hand rubbed at your lower back.

the both of you relax, taking in the moment and the peacefulness of the night. soft kisses full of love turn into kisses of admiration down his neck turn into hands holding each others face like the other will disappear and tongues tangled together in an intricate dance. he just looked absolutely breath-taking when he was enjoying himself without a care in the world, and you wanted to show him how attractive he was to you.

your soft hands trail down his shirt, feeling over the soft pudge of his belly, until your fingers graze the metal of his jeans. the button is pulled out of place and the zipper is undone, while your lips are still pressed to his. he helps you push his jeans down to his knees, and lets your hands push his boxers down until his cock is free.

only then do your lips disconnect. your gaze falls to his crotch and your hand wraps around the now-firm length. humming along to the song quietly, you rest your head against schlatt’s collar bone, your hand working up and down.

his hips buck into your hand after a little while, precum beading on his tip as his body aches for more. with a steady swipe of your thumb over his tip, his hips buck harshly and you take it as your sign.

you shift to lean on your knees, your pussy just barely grazing the tip. he plants one hand on your hip and lines himself up with your hole before gently lowering you down till your thighs meet. pleased sounds filled the car once the two of you were comfortable, and you let yourself exist in the familiar moment. it was the kind of intimacy where it wasn’t rushed or heated. it was comfortable.

schlatt’s hands wrap around your waist while the both of you sit in the passenger seat, the car stereo playing something soft. eventually, you lift your hips, hold your position, and sink down slowly. quiet sighs slip past your lips with each drag of his length against your walls feeling like heaven.

schlatt plants kisses onto your shoulder as you ride him slowly, ‘everybody wants to rule the world’ playing in the background as he whispers to you.

“always feel so nice, sweets… god… could stay like this forever…” his voice is almost reverent, and if you weren’t hyper-aware of everything he did, you would’ve missed it.

the chirps of the crickets outside and schlatt’s hands splaying and pressing into your lower back were enough to keep you satisfied. your ass met his thighs every couple seconds, and you honestly felt like if you kept your eyes closed for a few more minutes, you’d feel like you’re floating.

once your thighs get a little tired, schlatt takes the reigns and gently bucks his hips up into yours. the pace is just the same as yours, but it makes the both of you feel better than before.

“thanks for coming for a drive with me…” he smiles, the quirk of his lips dopey as he watches your face. you looked beautiful in the dim light of the car with the songs of the animals and his playlist in the background.

“mhm… glad you had fun… i had fun too…” you whisper back, shifting to press your lips to his again so he’s entirely convinced you’re not joking about the last part. you can feel his smile in the kiss, and your lips stay connected and soft even as the two of you grow closer and schlatt’s pace speeds up.

his sighs turn into quiet grunts and your occasional whimpers turn into gasps and near-silent moans. his fingers dig into the skin of your hips, his hips thrusting upwards faster while his hands pull you down to meet his thighs.

his lets go of one hip and reaches down to where your bodies join, his fingers swiftly finding your clit and rubbing it the motion he knows brings you to the edge quickly. his eyes darted down to your pussy swallowing his cock. he could never get enough of the sight.

his eyebrows relax and his head falls back to meet the headrest, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as your noises get louder and more needy. the both of you were close.

“jay, ‘m close…” you whimpered into his neck, your hands tangling in the hair on the back of his head, your eyes squeezing shut and your mouth hung open.

“i know… y’ gonna come with me…?” a kiss was pressed to your temple, and that was enough for you to nod, grip harder at his hair, and let yourself go.

his quiet groans help you over the edge, his thighs coated in your slick and the all-too-familiar feeling of schlatt’s cum coating your walls. the two of you stay in the same position, riding out your highs and slowly coming down in each others’ presence.

his kisses on the top of your head and the fullness in your lower belly were the only things keeping you grounded. they kept you in a state of calm until schlatt has to actually drive home.

“hey, sweetheart… yeah, look at me… hey… you wanna go home now…?” his voice is soft, similar to what you imagined whipped cream and pancakes on a cloudy morning would sound like. your eyes connect with his, the brown marbles of his iris’ reflecting nothing but his love for you. your meek nod was enough for him to ease you off of him, make sure a huge mess isn’t made, and climbing back into the drivers seat.

he glances back at you, making sure you’re genuinely alright before setting his hand on your knee and turning back on to the highway. once you got home, he cleaned you up, got you comfortable in some of his clothes, and cuddled up with you until the morning.

taglist; @anotherfcknschlattsimp (ask to be added!)

author’s note; i’m so sorry this took forever and that it’s so fucking shit. i did my best, and im trying my best with everything in my life.

[lambyblurbsfics]

do you think if long distance bf/gf situation you would take polaroid nude photos for him to keep, maybe some cute ones too just for when hes missing you

[lambyblurbsfics]

sometimes i just think and go, rahhhhh to schlatt because fuck his face is so grabable and kissable

[lambyblurbsfics]

[lambyblurbsfics]

Jschlatt undertale battle animation @lonelyflowering

[lambyblurbsfics]

he’s so pretty when he smiles i can’t handle it :((((((

[lambyblurbsfics]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * N I G H T   S H I F T   S P E C I A L ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ a jschlatt x male!reader one-shot ↳ 2.2k words · sfw · bartender au ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✦ written with a male y/n in mind ✦ (but all are welcome to enjoy ♡)

you find the bar by accident. you stay because of him. not just for the drinks, not just for the quiet— but for the way he makes space for you like he was always waiting.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

you’re tired. jet-lagged. everything outside the bar is too bright, too fast, too foreign. and your brain, still slow from the time difference, trying to remember all the lesson languages you've been taking for years.

the first time you see him, he’s behind the bar, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hand steady on a tap as amber liquid rushes into a glass like it knows where it’s going. the bar smells like burnt citrus and old wood—clean, but not new. lived-in.

“いらっしゃいませ,” he says as you step inside. welcome.

you nod. say nothing. you’re not sure you could, even if you wanted to. your brain’s still stuck somewhere over the pacific, lagging half a beat behind your body. you pick the barstool closest to the far wall and sit.

he watches you for a moment, then sets a glass down on the bar.

“何にしますか?” he asks. what’ll you have?

you try to respond. really. the words are there, somewhere, under the panic curling in your chest and the weight of the move and the loneliness of it all, but they won’t come out.

he tilts his head. studies you.

“you good, man?”

your head jerks up. that—that was english.

“i—yeah,” you breathe. “sorry. just—long day.”

“no sweat.” he leans on the bar, easy. “you want me to keep going in english?”

“…please.”

“no sweat.” he straightens up, pulls a clean glass from the shelf. “you look like you’ve had a shit day.”

you blink. then sigh. “yeah.”

“you new around here?”

“three weeks.”

he whistles. “jet lag still kicking your ass?”

“only when i sleep,” you mutter.

that gets a low chuckle out of him. “well, you’re in luck. i just tapped a new batch—house brew. cold, smooth, and strong enough to take the edge off.”

“house brew?”

“i make it in the back. renovated the place myself. needed something to do with my hands when i first moved here.” he sets the beer down gently in front of you. the foam’s just right. “first one’s on the house.”

“…you sure?”

“you got that look.”

“what look?”

he shrugs, already wiping down the bar again. “like you’re one more night away from crying in the bathroom.”

you blink.

then—laugh. a real one, this time.

he doesn’t say anything else. just gestures to the drink.

you take a sip.

✧

you come back the next night. and the one after that.

it’s not flashy—just quiet. steady. locals linger. tourists drift in. but you keep coming back. maybe because schlatt keeps saving you a seat.

that's your spot now, he says.

he now remembers your usual. greets you like the place doesn’t really open until you show up.

you still don’t know if "schlatt" is a first name, last name, or nickname. he never offers. you don’t ask.

he doesn’t pry either. just pours. listens. tells stories that make you laugh without thinking. sits next to you when it’s slow. his shoulder brushes yours sometimes. he never moves away.

“you really brew all of this yourself?” you ask one night, swirling the last of your drink.

“every batch,” he says. “only way i trust what’s in it.”

“you’re intense,” you murmur.

he shrugs. “if i’m filling your glass,” he murmurs, eyes heavy on yours, “i want to watch you swallow every drop, knowing i made it.”

you cough—half-choke, really. “jesus,” you mutter, wiping your mouth. “warn a guy next time.”

he laughs—loud, rough, and real. leans back on his stool like he didn’t just say the most loaded sentence of the night. “what? i’m just talkin’ about beer.”

you don’t answer.

just lift the glass. tip it back. finish it slow—swallowing every drop.

then set it down. drag your thumb across your lip.

“…like that?”

he freezes for half a second. then grins.

not like before. not cocky. not smug. just…pleased. like he saw what you did, what you meant, and liked that you played along.

he leans forward again, forearms braced on the bar, voice low and just a touch rough.

“yeah,” he says. “just like that.”

✧

you show up with friends this time.

voices already loud from the alley. laughter tumbling in before the door even shuts. you look different—work jacket, leather shoes, but there’s something looser in your shoulders. pink on your cheeks. your smile’s a little crooked, like it’s been earned over a long night of cheap drinks and good company.

schlatt clocks it all from behind the bar. doesn’t say much.

just nods when your group piles in, pulling stools and slapping coins on the wood like they own the place.

he only looks at you when you’re not looking at him.

✧

your work friends trickle out one by one.

train times. early shifts. a girlfriend waiting at home. one guy says he might puke if he has another drink, and that’s as good a reason as any. they clap you on the back, thank schlatt for the beer, file out into the night.

you stay.

slouched forward on the bar, chin in one hand, spinning your glass with the other. your voice is quieter now. not totally slurred. but softened. and your eyes—barely staying open.

schlatt clears a few empties. wipes the counter. then he’s standing across from you, arms folded.

“you good, man?”

you glance up. blink slow.

“you know…i thought only one schlatt was hot…and now there’s two of you…”

schlatt huffs out a laugh through his nose. shakes his head. “jesus.”

you try to sit up straighter, but it just tips you a little too far to one side. your elbow slips. you barely catch yourself.

he’s already around the bar by the time you steady.

“alright,” he mutters, looping an arm around your waist like it’s routine. “time to call it.”

“call what?”

“the night.”

“but i’m—” you hiccup, then grin. “—thriving.”

“you’re barely vertical.”

“i’m…more charming when i’m horizontal.”

schlatt raises an eyebrow at that, already scooping an arm beneath your knees like it’s nothing. “that so?”

you blink, surprised at the sudden lift, hands grabbing instinctively at his hoodie. “wait—woah, what’re you—”

“you wanted horizontal, didn’t you?” he drawls, voice low and just a little amused as he hoists you up against his chest. “i’m just here to deliver.”

"deliver me where?"

schlatt adjusts his grip like you weigh less than the keg he changed earlier. his voice stays even. calm. like he does this all the time.

"upstairs. my place."

your brow furrows. "you live… above the bar?"

"cheaper rent. fewer neighbors." he smirks down at you. "and easier to carry dumbasses who can’t hold their liquor."

"i can hold it," you mumble into his chest. "i haven't even vomited."

schlatt rolls his eyes. "not yet."

you groan, forehead pressing lightly into his collarbone. “if i do, i’m aiming for your shoes.”

“that’s cute,” he mutters. “i’ll make sure to drop you on the stairs.”

you grin against his hoodie. “you’re so nice to me.”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. his hold stays steady, firm without being rough, one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back.

the stairs creak beneath his weight, but he doesn’t slow down. just gets you to the door at the top, shifts you enough to unlock it, and nudges it open with his foot.

the lights inside are low. warm.

and for a guy who runs a dive bar, schlatt keeps a damn clean apartment.

he kicks the door shut behind him and carries you straight to the bed. it creaks a little under the weight, but the mattress is soft—clean sheets, slightly rumpled, like someone made an effort this morning but didn’t expect company tonight.

schlatt stands beside your prone form, voice even. “alright. arms up.”

you blink at him, then raise your arms like a kid getting dressed for school. he peels off your shirt, careful and efficient.

“christ,” he mutters. “you sweated straight through this.”

“work is hard,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.

he snorts, and grabs one of his own t-shirts from a half-opened drawer. slips it over your head—soft, oversized, smells like soap and liquor and…him.

you lean into the fabric for a second. take a long, slow inhale like you’re doing it on instinct.

schlatt freezes at the sight.

you sigh, content. “smells good…”

his ears go red.

“alright,” he grumbles. “now pants.”

you don’t move.

so he sighs. “i’m not wrestling you outta denim, man. help me out here.”

somehow, you manage it—kicking your legs a little while he peels your jeans down. he gets them off without too much trouble, averts his eyes at the last second. his cheeks start burning up to match his ears.

then he tosses the jeans aside, stands up too fast, and mutters something like “christ almighty” under his breath.

he turns to go—maybe to grab water, maybe to spare himself—but your hand catches his wrist.

you’re still half-asleep, but your grip’s firm.

“don’t go,” you mumble, pulling gently. “c’mon. bed’s big. warm. actually…cold. warm…you in it…”

he hesitates.

then sighs—and climbs in.

you’re already rolling toward him, face buried in his shoulder, fingers curling in the hem of his borrowed shirt.

“hey, schlatt,” you murmur, low and almost nonsensical. “if i wasn’t so fucked up right now…i’d let you…”

he freezes. mouth half-open about to respond.

but you don’t notice. because you’re already out cold.

just soft breathing, slack jaw, warm breath against his collarbone.

he stares up at the ceiling, heart pounding.

“…fuck."

✧

you wake up slow.

the room’s dim with early light, curtain cracked just enough to catch the edge of morning. your head’s pounding—dull and low, like someone stuffed cotton in your ears and whispered congratulations on your hangover.

the sheets smell like soap. the pillow smells like him.

you sit up.

you’re in someone else’s shirt—soft and big, collar stretched from sleep. and your jeans are missing. you have boxers, thank god. but still. that’s not your shirt. not your room.

then it hits you.

schlatt.

before you can spiral, the smell of something good drifts up from downstairs. warm. savory. comforting.

then his voice, calling up—teasing, singsong, rough with sleep and still somehow smug:

“おはよう、お眠さん!” good morning, sleepyhead!

you blink hard. drag your feet over the side of the bed and call back, groggy: “are you cooking?”

“wow, you figured that out all by yourself?” he yells back.

you shuffle to the stairs, barefoot and disoriented.

the sight that greets you downstairs nearly makes you trip.

schlatt’s behind the bar again, but this time, there's a little portable stove in front of him instead of dirty mugs—his hair is messy, his white tee wrinkled as he focuses on plating up grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and what looks like a soft-boiled egg done perfectly. next to the plate, there's a tiny glass of something light gold.

“おはよう…you made breakfast?”

he shrugs. “you almost died in my bar, and then you stole my bed. seemed like the least i could do.”

you rub your temple, wary. “what’s that?”

“hangover cure. ukon no chikara. turmeric drink. tastes like piss, works like magic.”

he sets the turmeric drink beside the miso soup, then leans in a little—voice low, teasing.

“don’t look at me like that. i could’ve left you face-down in an alley with nothing but your pride and an empty wallet. but no…” his eyes flick down, then up again. “i tucked you in. took your pants off. gave you my favorite shirt.”

you sit, throat dry. “you always this nice to blackout drunks?”

he smirks. steps in close enough to make the countertop feel like a boundary instead of furniture.

“only the cute ones who beg me to crawl into bed with them.”

you nearly choke on your turmeric drink.

he just grins—wide and wolfish—and goes back to flipping the tamagoyaki on the skillet like he didn’t just derail your nervous system.

“eat up,” he says, plating the eggs. “you’ll need the strength.”

you squint at him, still groggy. “strength for what?”

he doesn’t look back—just sets the breakfast in front of you with practiced ease. “you’re spending the day with me.”

“oh yeah?”

“mhm.” he finally turns, resting his weight on one hand against the counter, eyes dragging over you slow. “you don't have work. bar is closed. so, i’m gonna show you around—go see some of my favorite vending machines, go check out a garden, maybe… wear you out a little.”

your stomach flips. “wear me out?”

he shrugs. “city’s big. lotta walking.”

“right…and after?”

schlatt leans in a little, just enough to make you forget about the steam rising off your miso soup. his voice drops.

“after?” he taps a knuckle on the table. “we’ll probably end up right back here. or upstairs…hopefully, anyway.”

you still. he grins.

“try not to be blackout drunk this time, yeah?”

you blink. try to laugh it off. “no promises.”

but he doesn’t laugh.

just watches you, gaze steady. low.

“make one,” he says. quiet. firm. “i want you to remember it.”

you hold his stare. no jokes. no deflection.

just the truth.

“i will, then. i promise,” you say. “i want to remember all of it.”

schlatt’s eyes flicker—just enough for you to catch it. like he didn’t expect you to say that. like he’d braced for the dodge.

but instead of answering, he nods once. slow. like the deal’s been struck.

and then—finally—he turns back to the stove.

“good,” he hums, licking a bit of yolk from his thumb. “i’ve got plans for you, sweetheart—and none of ’em involve rest.”