parasocial Slimecicle user

you’re just trying to leave the house.

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

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

and then he stops.

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

then—

“jesus christ.”

you turn. “what?”

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

“what the fuck are you wearin’?”

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

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

you blink. “what are you talking about?”

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

his arm hooks around your waist. pulls you back.

“hey—” you start, caught off guard.

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

“you’ve been hiding this from me?”

you blink. “hiding what—?”

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

firm.

“this.”

your whole body stills.

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

he squeezes again. your breath stutters.

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

you swallow. hard.

“schlatt…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

he backs you up against the wall.

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

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

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

hard. slow. possessive.

he breaks it just long enough to whisper:

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

you snort. “danger?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you tilt your head. let yourself smile.

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

he nods, just once. slow. “i might.”

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

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

his jaw clenches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you—fuck. you can’t just say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

you step back. just a little.

he follows.

you press your hands flat to his chest, smirking.

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

his knees buckle. slightly. just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

“…overstimulated.”

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

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

“i said one thing.”

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

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

“i meant it as a compliment.”

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

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

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

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

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

you grin. “why not?”

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

you blink. that one makes your stomach flip.

but you recover fast.

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

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

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

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

your mouths are so close now.

and then—

you pull back.

like you planned all along.

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

stopping him.

you look up at him, all faux innocence.

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

and before he can process that:

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

you kiss his cheek.

and walk out the door.

✧✧✧

you open the door slowly.

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

you slide them out, glancing around.

“schlatt?”

no answer.

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

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

still nothing.

you walk toward the stairs.

there’s a faint creak from upstairs.

then silence again.

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

you hit the top step.

and then you see him.

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

the second your eyes meet—he moves.

deliberate. slow. controlled, but only just.

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

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

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

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

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

your grin spreads. “did you touch yourself?”

he looks at you like he wants to lie.

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

his voice is quiet. strained.

“i tried.”

you blink.

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

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

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

your stomach drops. heat pools low.

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

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

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

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

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

your breath catches.

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

you choke on a laugh. “that’s—”

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

you don’t answer.

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

that’s all it takes.

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

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

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

“and i wasn’t there.”

his voice is tight now. strained.

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

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

he leans in.

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

you blink. “schlatt—”

“be honest.”

you pause.

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

he goes still. very still.

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

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

a beat.

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

“damn right he will.”

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

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

you breathe in. shaky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you ready to get bred, sweetheart?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and stills.

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

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

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

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

and you smile. dazed. wrecked. satisfied.

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

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

you hum. "figured."

he pulls you close.

“we’ll do our own reps here.”

he doesn’t knock.

not because he’s trying to be bold or smooth or anything like that—but because he physically can’t wait. his heart’s doing something dangerous in his chest. he rounds the corner, towel still slung over his shoulder, socks quiet on the hardwood.

you’re not in the hallway. not in the doorway.

you’re standing in the middle of his room, back turned to him, towel-ruffled hair a little frizzy at the ends, bare legs streaked faint pink from the cold.

and his hoodie.

just his hoodie.

oversized, of course. it hits you mid-thigh, the sleeves bunched at your wrists, the fabric clinging to the leftover dampness of your skin. and maybe you’re not trying to be seductive—maybe you’re just trying to get warm—but he’s ruined at the sight.

you don’t look at him right away. you're poking at the folded laundry basket by the edge of the bed, absently nudging it with your foot.

“your socks are all black,” you say casually. “you seem like a black sock guy.”

his throat works. “yeah. wild observation. how’d you guess?”

you smile, but you still don’t turn around.

“lucky guess,” you murmur.

then—finally—you do. you look at him.

you’re dry now. a little flushed from the warm air, the blood returning to your limbs. your mascara’s mostly cleaned off, but there’s a little smudge left beneath one eye. your lips are soft, bitten pink. and you’re swimming in his hoodie, sleeves tugged past your knuckles, one hand curled into the hem like you’re debating whether to pull it down further or not.

you don't.

instead, you tug it up just an inch, enough to show off the crease of your thigh, the nothing beneath it.

then you toss something at him.

his reflexes kick in just in time to catch it. your dress—wet, balled up, cold and heavy in his hands.

“you said laundry basket, right?” you ask, smile innocent. too innocent.

he doesn’t say anything.

just stares.

you shift your weight, suddenly shy. “is this... okay?”

he nods. slowly. reverently.

“yeah,” he says, voice rough. “fuck. yeah.”

you tilt your head. “still hungry?”

he lets out a breath of a laugh. then sets your dress on top of the basket like it’s fragile glass and steps toward you.

two steps.

three.

you don’t back away.

you let him come close—close enough to see the flutter in your lashes, the rise and fall of your breath, the faint curve of a smile on your lips.

he stops just in front of you.

his hand lifts. slow. deliberate. he brushes a damp curl away from your cheek, fingers ghosting across your skin.

your eyes flutter shut.

“you’re warm,” you whisper.

“you’re not,” he murmurs. “yet.”

and then he leans in.

just the gentle press of lips meeting lips—soft and steady and sure. his hands frame your face. your fingers hook into the front of his hoodie—his hoodie, on you—and you pull him closer like you’ve been waiting to.

he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. like he’s afraid it might slip away. but it doesn’t—it lingers. deepens.

your mouth parts. his thumb strokes under your jaw. and you melt into him, all warmth and need and the slow-dawning realization that you are not stopping at a kiss tonight.

your teeth graze his bottom lip. he groans. low. desperate.

you tug at the collar of his shirt. he walks you backwards until your knees hit the bed, and then—slowly, carefully—he presses you down into the mattress.

you lie back, legs curled beneath you, hoodie riding up as you settle.

he pauses, hands braced on either side of you.

and then you say, with a little lilt in your voice:

“so... what’s on the menu tonight, chef? you gonna cook me now?”

his jaw drops. you laugh, pleased with yourself.

he groans, pressing his face into your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “you’re insufferable.”

“but i’m warm now.”

“oh, now you’re warm,” he mutters, his mouth trailing over your pulse. “great. perfect. guess i’ll just whip up something spontaneous for my very special guest. tasting menu? seasonal fare?”

“mm,” you hum, breath hitching as his lips move lower. “chef’s choice.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you.

"my choice, huh?"

then—slowly—he reaches for the towel still slung over his shoulder.

folds it once.

then again.

“that doesn't look like an appetizer,” you tease, watching him.

“nah,” he says, voice husky. “it’s a blindfold.”

your breath catches at his sudden drop in voice.

his knee shifts onto the mattress. he leans closer. waits.

“you okay with that?”

you nod. too fast. “yeah. yes.”

his hands move so gently, it makes you ache.

he sets the folded cloth over your eyes like it’s a veil. ties it at the back of your head, firm but careful.

then his voice—right against your ear.

“no peeking.”

you shiver at the sudden awareness of air and breath and touch. he smiles.

and then, he lowers himself between your thighs.

his palms skim down your sides as he settles, slow and deliberate, like he's trying to memorize the outline of your body by touch alone. he’s warm, everywhere. steady hands, broad shoulders, knees spreading gently between yours—anchoring you in place like he belongs there. the blindfold keeps out all the light, and it smells vaguely like basil and rosemary...a strange scent to go along with the fluttering feeling you have in your stomach.

you hear him exhale, just once, right above your stomach, the hoodie lifted just under your breasts.

and then you feel him kiss you. just a warm press of lips below your navel, then another, lower. your toes curl.

"schlatt—"

"shhh,” he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. “just relax. let me do something good for you.”

you don’t even get the chance to answer.

his mouth finds the crease of your thigh first, kissing the soft skin like he’s trying to apologize for every dinner he didn't just confess to you. then your other thigh, slow and symmetrical, fingers following close behind to soothe where his stubble grazes.

your head tips back against the pillow, sightless. burning.

you’ve never been this aware of sound before—every shift of fabric, every exhale, every damp kiss. the storm’s still distant outside, thunder stretching like an afterthought, but all you can hear is the hum of his breath and the wet sound of his mouth dragging closer to where you want him most.

“so pretty,” he says lowly, and you swear you feel the words more than hear them. “all of you.”

and then—

finally—

his tongue.

just a flick, exploratory. and then he groans—like the taste alone does something to him. like he’s the one unraveling.

your hips twitch. “fuck—”

he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you gently in place. his other hand curls under your thigh, arm locking you in.

“keep still,” he whispers.

you nod, even though he can’t see it. “okay,” you breathe. “okay.”

and then he really starts.

slow at first. tongue tracing every part of you with almost unbearable patience. he explores like a man tasting ice cream on the first hot day of summer—eager, indulgent.

you whimper, hands fisting the sheets. your senses spiral without sight. every lick, every kiss, every suck and moan crashes into you with twice the weight.

he doesn’t rush it. he learns you.

he learns what makes you gasp and what makes you cry out. what makes your thighs tremble and your breath catch. what makes you beg, and what makes you arch up against him, wrecked and shaking.

and he doesn't stop. not until you're dripping. not until your voice breaks on his name. not even then.

he hums against you like he’s pleased. like he’s proud. and maybe he is—of your shaking legs, your flushed chest, the way you chant his name like a prayer.

his tongue moves with rhythm now. slow, thorough, devastating.

your hands are lost—clutching sheets, brushing the towel knotted behind your head. you’re blind to everything but sensation: his mouth, his breath, the way his scruff scrapes against the inside of your thighs. grounding. real.

your hips lift without meaning to.

his hand comes down across your thigh—firm, not harsh. a smack that doesn’t sting so much as startle.

“i said still,” he murmurs.

your body jerks. heat blooms under your skin like a match strike. “sorry,” you gasp, dizzy with it.

he soothes the spot right after, fingers brushing over the skin he just slapped. his lips follow. a kiss where his palm landed.

“you’re fine,” he says. “just want to take my time.”

his mouth dips lower again, and this time, you try harder to behave. to stay still. you’re shaking already, every nerve on fire, and he hasn’t even really started.

but god, it’s hard. when he sucks softly—right there—your hips jerk again.

his hand comes down again, a little sharper this time.

smack.

you gasp, loud. it echoes in the dark.

“schlatt—”

“what did i say?” he murmurs.

his voice is too calm. too warm. too good. it makes you want to break the rules. just to see what he’ll do.

“thought maybe you liked it,” you say, a little breathless, a little bratty.

he pauses.

then—another smack, lower this time. right where your thigh meets your ass.

you twitch under him. not from pain. from heat.

“careful,” he says, voice dipping low. “you’re gonna make me think you want more.”

you squirm.

“...maybe i do.”

he hums again. slow and deep, like a warning. “then ask.”

you don’t. not right away.

so his hand slides back—steady, open-palmed—and lands again. firmer. your whole body jumps.

your fingers curl into the sheets. your mouth falls open.

“fuck—”

“still waiting,” he says, brushing his knuckles over your hip like he didn’t just spank you for squirming.

you bite your lip. then—

“please,” you whisper. “again.”

his breath hitches. you feel it, more than hear it. then:

smack.

your legs tremble.

smack.

you whimper, high and wrecked, and that finally earns you a kiss between your thighs again—tongue hot and slow and possessive.

you barely catch your breath before his fingers slide in.

two of them, slow but firm, and it makes you gasp—hips jolting despite yourself.

he groans, low and rough. “look at that,” he murmurs. “so fuckin’ wet.”

you whine, but it turns into a choked sound when his tongue goes back to work, syncing with the push and curl of his fingers. together, it’s too much. perfectly too much.

“you’ve been teasing me for weeks,” he mutters against you. “every thursday. every basket. every dinner. every smile like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

his fingers thrust deeper. his tongue drags with more pressure. you cry out.

“and now look at you,” he says, voice all grit and hunger. “finally get a taste of my fucking dessert.”

you moan—loud and unrestrained.

he pumps his fingers harder, faster. his other hand grabs your thigh, keeping you spread wide. you feel the wet sounds echo in the room, filthy and honest, your own moans almost sounding foreign. he doesn’t let up.

“been dreaming about this,” he growls. “tasting you. wrecking you. making you cum on my tongue.”

your back arches. the blindfold tightens slightly as you move, the knot holding firm.

“schlatt—fuck—”

“so good for me, princess,” he says, mouth pressed right against you. “you’re gonna cum. right here. for me.”

his fingers curl just right. his tongue flattens. you scream.

and then you’re coming—hard. shaking. your hands clutching nothing. thighs locked around his shoulders, body wrung out and fluttering around his fingers.

you’re still pulsing around his fingers when he leans back in—tongue greedy, mouth hot, like he can’t help himself.

your whole body jolts.

“schlatt—wait—” your voice cracks, already trembling. “i just—i just came—”

“uh-huh,” he hums against you. “and you think that’s enough?”

you gasp, trying to close your legs, but his shoulders are in the way—broad and unmovable.

“you fed me every thursday,” he says, mouth brushing your clit with each word. “kept showing up with those little baskets. fresh herbs. tomatoes. peaches.”

his fingers curl inside you again and your head snaps back.

“what do you expect me to do, sweetheart? just stop after one?”

you let out a breathless, broken whimper. “you’re insane—”

“mm,” he agrees. “you made me this way.”

and then he sucks—gently at first, then deeper. you choke on a moan, your hips twitching off the bed.

his hand shoots up, swats your thigh.

“still,” he warns. “or i’ll tie you down next.”

you whimper. nod. try your best.

his fingers slide in again, wetter now. thicker. deeper.

you arch, arms flying out, clawing for the sheets. “oh my god—”

“there she is,” he murmurs. “fuckin’ soaked.”

“i can’t—schlatt, i can’t—”

“you can,” he says, mouth pressed to your thigh, voice rough. “you’re already shaking. you’re close again, aren’t you?”

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out—just a breathy, wrecked sound.

he moans against your cunt, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

then—

“one more,” he whispers. “be good. cum for me again.”

you nod. helpless.

he licks into you, fingers stroking just right, and when you cry out, he doesn’t let up—he devours you.

“that’s it,” he groans. “fuck, baby. give it to me.”

you break.

second orgasm crashing into you like a storm—harder, faster, deeper. your whole body clenches, back arching, legs trembling.

you cry out his name, raw and loud, blindfold soaked with sweat.

he holds you through it, fingers still deep, mouth easing up only when your twitching turns into full-body collapse.

you’re panting. limp. trembling.

he leans up, licking his lips, voice soft but wrecked:

“sweetest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever had.”

and god—if your brain were working at all, maybe you’d have something to say back.

you don’t respond right away.

you can’t.

your chest heaves. your fingers twitch against the sheets, still unsure what they’re supposed to hold onto.

his hands ease out of you, slow and careful, like he’s handling something breakable. you flinch a little anyway—your nerves lit up and humming, every inch of you raw and soaked.

“hey,” he says, voice low and steady. “you good?”

you nod under the blindfold. small, shaky.

“need a second,” you whisper.

“take it,” he says, and you feel his lips press to your inner thigh. another kiss. and another, this one just above your knee. gentle, anchoring. “you’re alright. i got you.”

you nod again, swallowing hard.

then, breathlessly: “can i see you?”

his breath catches.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “yeah, of course.”

his fingers move behind your head. the towel loosens. slips away.

light floods back in slow—warm lamplight, the shape of him above you, golden skin and flushed cheeks and soft curls damp with sweat.

he looks down at you like he’s been waiting to be seen.

you reach up. cup his jaw.

he leans into your palm.

“hi,” you say, still breathless.

he huffs a laugh, kissing the inside of your wrist. “hi.”

you tug him down. not hard, but he doesn’t resist. his mouth meets yours soft at first—tentative. almost reverent.

and then you press back. greedy.

your arms wrap around his neck. he growls into the kiss, one hand sliding under your back to pull you closer, the other bracing by your hip as he deepens it.

it’s messy. hot. slow.

you taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you moan into his mouth. he swallows the sound like it’s fuel, like he needs it.

“you’re unreal,” he mutters against your lips. “you know that?”

“uh-huh,” you say, dazed. “you too.”

he kisses you again, longer this time. tongue sliding against yours, unhurried and shameless. one of your hands tangles in his hair. the other claws at his back, trying to get him closer.

he shifts, slides his thigh between yours, and groans when he feels how wet you still are against his skin.

“jesus,” he breathes.

you just grin. tipsy on sensation. “you wanted dessert.”

“mm,” he kisses along your jaw, your neck. “might go back for thirds.”

you shiver. arch. your lips brush his ear.

“bet you want it bad,” you murmur, voice honey-sweet. “still haven’t come, have you?”

he huffs a breath—more like a moan. “fuck...no.”

you kiss his neck. slow. teasing. “poor thing.”

his hips twitch against your thigh. he’s hard. so hard. hot and heavy against you, straining inside his sweats. and he’s still being good—still hovering above you, letting you touch and tease without grinding down the way he clearly wants to.

“hands,” you whisper.

he pulls back slightly. “what?”

you trail your fingers up his chest, then past his shoulders, until they settle on the wooden railing of the headboard.

“put ’em there.”

he stares at you—wide-eyed, breath stuttering.

you tilt your head. “what, you can’t follow simple instructions?”

his breath shudders out of him as he obeys, arms stretching up, big hands gripping the rails like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

“good boy,” you say, sweet and slow.

he groans—deep in his chest. his hips twitch again.

you take your time—slide down his body, trailing kisses over his stomach, over the faint line of hair below his navel. he shivers under you, muscles taut, breath catching when your fingers slip past the waistband of his sweats.

you ease them down. slowly. deliberately. his cock springs free, flushed and aching, a drop of precum already smeared across the head.

you hum—pleased—and curl your fingers around him, firm and gentle.

he gasps. tenses. his hands tighten on the headboard.

you stroke him once, long and slow, from base to tip. his cock twitches in your hand, heavy and hot, veins standing out against your palm.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re killing me.”

you smile, lazy. “don’t be dramatic.”

your thumb swipes over the slick at his tip, spreading it down the shaft. you feel him pulse, see his abs twitch when your grip tightens slightly on the downstroke.

you go slow. so slow. let your palm twist just enough. let your wrist flick just right.

his head drops back, mouth parted. eyes squeezed shut. he looks wrecked. beautiful.

you lean in, breath warm against his skin.

“remember,” you murmur, teasing, “no touching.”

his hips twitch again—instinctive, needy.

but his hands stay where they are. knuckles white against the wood.

and your hand keeps moving.

slow. steady. cruel.

“god,” he groans. “you’re unreal.”

you lean in, kiss the underside of his cock, right where it’s most sensitive. he jolts—swears, chokes on a gasp—and his thighs go tense beneath you.

your mouth lingers. your hand doesn’t stop moving.

and then, voice low, you murmur:

“you wanna know what i did after the first thursday?”

his hips jerk, and he hisses through his teeth. “jesus—what?”

you smile against his skin. then draw back, just enough to speak into the space between you.

“i went home and touched myself.”

his eyes blow wide, even as his knuckles stay glued to the headboard. you stroke him again—tight and slow—and continue, like it’s a secret you’ve been dying to spill.

“wasn’t even five minutes after i closed my door. didn’t even make it to the bed. i was still in my sundress.”

he moans—helpless.

“kept thinking about your hands,” you whisper, “your arms. the way you looked at me when i handed you that basket.”

you run your tongue flat against the side of his cock. feel him twitch again. he’s close.

“every week i wondered if you'd invite me in,” you murmur. “every week i’d go home and fuck myself thinking about your mouth.”

his hips stutter, breath ragged. he looks at you like he might fall apart.

"oh, and then you finally got up the courage to ask me to come over for dinner,” you finish, smug and sweet, your grip tightening just a little. “like you weren’t starving for something else.”

he groans—low and wrecked.

“you think i didn’t know what you were doing?” you go on, mouth brushing the flushed head of his cock. “lighting candles. wiping your hands on that little towel and eating ratatouille like we were on a date.”

his breath shudders out of him. deep. ragged. a sound torn from somewhere low in his chest.

“jesus,” he whispers—like a prayer, like a curse. “fuck, baby—”

his hands twitch off the headboard.

“ah,” you tut, pulling your mouth away, hand stalling. “what did i say?”

he groans. tilts his head back against the pillows. tries to catch his breath like it’ll save him. “hands,” he pants. “hands on the fucking headboard. yeah, i know.”

“then act like it,” you purr. “unless you’d rather finish this by yourself.”

he gasps. his hands immediately find their way back, gripping the wood so tight his knuckles go pale.

you reward him with a slow stroke, just enough pressure to make his hips jerk.

“that’s better.”

his chest rises and falls fast, like he’s trying to catch up to everything happening at once. like he might actually lose it if you keep going.

“you didn’t want dinner,” you go on, dragging your tongue up the side of him, slow and indulgent. “you wanted me. bent over that little table we ate at, probably. hands on my hips. dress all bunched up.”

he groans again—louder now. a desperate, pleading sound.

“say it,” you whisper. “tell me what you thought about. tell me what you wanted.”

he swallows. hard. chest heaving.

“i—” he chokes on it. pants through the confession. “wanted to fuck you. bend you over the table. take you right there. move the salt and pepper and throw the plates to the ground so i could make room for what I really wanted..."

you pause. look down at him with a little smile—something slow, knowing, and just shy of cruel.

then, wordless, you climb off the bed.

“wait—what’re you—” he starts, voice cracked open.

but he shuts up fast when you hook your fingers under the hem of his hoodie and pull.

you peel it off slowly, deliberately, and let it drop to the floor. your skin catches in the low light—soft curves, bare chest, flushed skin, the heat of you undeniable. you're completely naked now, shameless in your unveiling, and it knocks the wind out of him.

“fuck,” he breathes, hands twitching again like they’re begging for permission. “please—”

“don’t,” you warn softly, stepping closer. “you touch me, and this ends early. you want that?”

he shakes his head. hard. “no. no, baby—i don’t.”

you hum, pleased.

then you crawl over him, knees on either side of his hips. your fingers drag lightly over his stomach, feeling the tension there, the heat. he’s still flushed—chest rising fast, mouth parted like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

you wrap your hand around him again, slow, deliberate, and stroke him once—twice. his hips twitch, but he doesn’t move otherwise.

you smile. lean forward, nose brushing his cheek.

“good boy,” you murmur, voice low. “just stay still.”

he nods, barely. like it costs him.

you shift your hips and guide him to your entrance, nudging the head of his cock against you—slick and warm and barely-there—and you both feel it, that spark, that edge.

then you sink down.

just an inch.

his breath punches out of him.

your mouth parts on a gasp—half pleasure, half disbelief at the stretch. he’s thick, almost too much this way, and your thighs tremble from holding yourself just above the rest of him.

but his hands—god, his hands.

they leave the headboard.

one wraps around your waist, firm and shaking. the other slides to your thigh, gripping tight—like he’s not sure if he’s asking for forgiveness or permission.

your eyes snap open beneath the blindfold. “schlatt—”

but he’s already moving.

he sits up in one fluid, hungry motion, chest pressed to yours, arms around your back. he lifts you—effortless, wild—and you gasp as the motion drives him deeper. the stretch makes your head spin. your arms scramble to hold onto his shoulders, nails digging in.

“fuck—” he mutters against your neck. “sorry. couldn’t—couldn’t let you do all the work. not when you look like this. not when you feel like this.”

you barely have time to catch your breath before he shifts again—rolls you with him, slow but decisive, until your back hits the sheets and he’s above you. caging you in. thick forearms on either side of your head. your legs spread wide beneath him, still trembling, still so full.

and when his hips roll forward—slow, deep, no warning—you feel him bottom out. you cry out, hands flying to his arms, nails sinking in. your head tilts back, lips parted.

he leans in—presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your mouth.

and all the while, he moves. slow. thorough. deep enough to knock the air from your lungs each time.

“fuck,” he murmurs. “you feel so good. i don’t—i don’t know what i was thinking, waiting so long.”

your fingers tangle in his hair. your legs wrap around his waist.

“you should’ve said something,” you gasp. “could’ve had this weeks ago.”

“nah,” he breathes, hips rocking in a lazy, perfect rhythm. “i wanted it to mean something.”

you still under him, just a little. his hand finds your jaw. tips your face back toward him.

“and it does,” he says. voice rough. eyes soft. “you think i cook ratatouille for just anyone? think i buy bale leaves and pretend i know how to use them? i still don't, honestly.”

you laugh, breathless.

he kisses your throat. your collarbone. rolls his hips again, and you keen.

“been losing my mind over you,” he admits, voice lower now. “every thursday. watching you walk away. your house is so close, and yet, you felt so far away...”

“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper, smiling so wide it almost hurts.

“i’m serious,” he pants. “i wanted you like this. under me. around me. telling me i’m yours.”

you arch. “you are.”

his pace stutters. a small, wrecked sound leaves his throat.

“say it again.”

“you’re mine,” you repeat, voice shaking as he thrusts deeper. “and i’m—”

“y/n…” he breathes, ragged, like he’s barely holding himself together. “you belong to me.”

the words fall out of him like a prayer, like a claim he’s been dying to make.

your whole body tightens at the sound.

he doesn’t stop—can’t. his rhythm gets rougher, deeper. one hand finds your thigh and grips it, anchoring you beneath him. the other slips behind your head, cradling it like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

“been thinkin’ about it,” he growls, low in your ear. “every time you smiled. every time you knocked on my door with a new little outfit...those fucking skirts.”

your breath catches. your legs tremble.

“wanted to open the door one thursday and pull you in. fuck you right there in the doorway. let the whole neighborhood know what i do with their favorite neighbor.”

your nails dig into his back. your head tips back with a whimper.

“should’ve known you liked it filthy,” you manage, dazed. "the quiet ones always are."

he groans—deep, breathless. he thrusts harder, more frantic now, like your words flipped a switch.

you cling to him. wrap your arms around his shoulders, pull him closer. “want you to,” you whisper, barely audible between your gasps. “want you to cum inside.”

his head snaps up. eyes dark, blown wide. his hips stutter—once, twice—like the control he’s been clinging to is hanging by a thread.

“you sure?” he rasps, voice shaking. “fuck—don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

you nod, wild with it. “been thinking about it. wanted to tell you that i'm...prepared for you. been prepared...”

“jesus christ,” he mutters, like he’s already halfway gone. “you’re gonna kill me.”

his mouth crashes into yours—sloppy and hot and desperate. he fucks into you like he’s starved, like this is the only thing that’s ever mattered. you cry out into the kiss, legs wrapped tight around his waist, back arching.

“come with me,” he pants. “please. let go. wanna feel you.”

your body answers before your voice can. your third orgasm hits like a wave. your whole body tightens around him. he chokes on your name and follows with a broken groan, burying himself deep as he spills inside, heat blooming between you.

he keeps moving through it—gentle now, almost reverent—like he can’t bear to stop touching you, not yet.

not when you’re gasping under him, skin slick with sweat, fingers tangled in his hair like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

“fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “you’re… so perfect. so fucking perfect.”

your laugh is slow and lazy, more breath than sound. your fingers trail down the slope of his spine, gentle.

“you’re just saying that ‘cause i let you finish inside me.”

he lets out a broken laugh—wrecked, dazed. “i mean, yeah. maybe a little.”

when he shifts to pull back, your legs lock tighter around his waist.

he freezes. hands planted on either side of you. “wait—shit—are you okay?”

“don’t,” you whisper. “not yet. just… stay.”

his brow furrows. “you said you were prepared, but—fuck, did you mean—?”

you shake your head. slow. deliberate.

“i’m on the pill,” you say, voice low and certain. “been on it. i wanted this.”

his eyes search yours. dark. cautious. turned on beyond reason. “you sure?”

you nod again. “i’ve been thinking about it for weeks, schlatt. coming over, dropping off veggies, playing nice… all while hoping you’d finally get desperate enough to fuck me full.”

his mouth drops open. he stares at you like you just short-circuited his brain.

“you—you wanted that?”

you smile, sweet and cruel. “i wanted to feel you lose it. wanted you so deep in me you couldn’t help it. wanted to feel your cum inside. warm and thick and mine.”

his whole body twitches.

“jesus christ.”

“didn’t wanna stop you,” you go on, dragging your fingers up the sweaty line of his spine. “not when i’ve been thinking about this since the first thursday. not when i finally got to feel you breed me.”

he chokes on air. hips twitch again.

“fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice shaking. “you can’t say that. you can’t fucking say that while i’m still inside you.”

“why not?” you grin. “gonna get hard again?”

his head drops to your shoulder. you feel the groan vibrate through his chest. “you’re evil.”

you press a kiss to his jaw. “you like it when i'm mean to you."

he huffs. “unfair.”

you hum, pleased. “you should’ve seen me. all those thursdays, walking back to my house, thinking about this. about you. your hands. your hair. your arms. how you always smelled like smoke and vegetables and—god—how you looked at me.”

he swallows, hard. his fingers twitch against your ribs.

“how was i able to keep myself from touching you?” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “didn’t let myself even think about you too long. figured you were just being neighborly.”

“i was being horny, schlatt.”

he laughs, breathless. hides his face in your neck. “fuck. i’m an idiot.”

“you’re my idiot,” you correct, threading your fingers into his hair. “especially now.”

he nudges his nose against your throat. “you’re not gonna let me live this down, are you?”

“not a chance.”

his hips rock once—slow, instinctive. and you both gasp.

“...we should eat,” he says after a beat, though he makes no move to leave.

“or nap,” you counter.

“...we should eat,” he says after a beat, though he makes no move to leave.

“or nap,” you counter, dragging your fingers through his damp hair.

“or—” he shifts against you, hips rolling just enough to make your breath hitch “—fuck you again.”

you blink. slowly. then smile. “already hard?”

“you said ‘bred,’” he mutters, mouth against your neck like he’s embarrassed. “you said it while i was still inside you. what the hell was i supposed to do?”

you laugh—soft and smug. “so weak.”

he groans, nips at your shoulder. “don’t test me.”

“oh?” you grin. “what’ll you do, neighbor?”

he lifts his head. eyes hooded. breath heavy. then he leans in, kisses you hard and messy—still flushed from before, but full of intent.

you feel it.

he’s still inside you, half-hard and thick, and somehow getting harder with every breath.

and then he moves.

effortless. strong.

he shifts upright, wraps one arm around your back, the other under your thighs—and lifts you without ever pulling out.

your breath catches.

he’s still inside you. still thick. hardening with every step.

“schlatt—”

“shh,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder as he carries you through the hallway. “you said you wanted it. said you prepped. so now you take it.”

you bury your face in his neck, barely breathing. every step makes him press deeper, makes your whole body feel like it’s pulsing around him.

you whimper. “you’re insane.”

“yeah?” he grunts. “whose fault is that?”

you don’t answer. can’t. your body’s too full, too raw, too aware of every twitch of his cock inside you as he walks.

then you feel it—the shift in air. cooler, open.

the kitchen. he stops just short of the dressed up table, panting.

“hang on,” he says, lips brushing your ear.

he sets you down on your feet as he pulls out—slow, teasing. a wet sound follows, obscene and needy—and you gasp, already feeling empty.

but then he’s guiding you. turning you around. bending you forward. both hands on your hips now, positioning you with care but zero patience.

“hands on the table,” he rasps. “spread your legs. don't move.”

you obey without thinking—palms flat, thighs parted, cheek resting on the cool wood.

his hands roam your ass, your back, your sides—like he’s committing this to memory.

“fuck,” he mutters. “look at you.”

and then he’s inside again—one rough, hungry thrust that knocks the breath out of your lungs.

you cry out. the table creaks under your grip.

“jesus,” he groans behind you. “this—this what you wanted?”

you nod, gasping. “yes. fuck—yes.”

he sets a pace that’s brutal, focused—every snap of his hips pushing you against the table, filling you deep.

and now you’re both saying everything you’d held back. moaning, cursing, breathing like you’re coming back to life with every thrust.

“knew you’d be like this,” he grits out. “knew you’d take me so well."

you whimper—head down, knuckles white against the table’s edge. “harder,” you whisper. “please.”

and he gives it to you. hips slamming into yours, deep and fast, every thrust soaked with the slick sounds of you taking him over and over again.

“fuck,” he pants. “you’re so wet. already took me once and you’re still dripping. greedy little thing.”

“not greedy,” you manage, voice wrecked. “just—just ready. i wanted it. been wanting it.”

“wanted me to bend you over, didn’t you?” he goes on. “fill you up like one of your garden beds. bury it deep. watch it take.”

you moan—loud. trembling. absolutely gone.

“bet you even thought about it,” he pants. “what it’d feel like. havin’ me cum inside you. keepin’ me there. makin’ sure it stuck.”

you nod—desperate. nearly crying. “please—”

“fuckin’ knew it,” he groans. “you’re a filthy little thing. my pretty gardener with her hands in the dirt and her legs wide open—just waitin’ to be bred.”

you cry out, one hand flying back to grab his wrist, grounding yourself.

but he’s not done.

“want me to knock you up?” he rasps. “want me to fill you until you’re so full it has to take?”

“yes—fuck, yes—”

“gonna cum inside you again,” he grits out. “deeper this time. harder. wanna see it drip outta you and know you’re gonna be leaking me for hours.”

you sob—wrecked, undone.

“say it,” he demands. “tell me what you want.”

“i want your cum,” you gasp. “i want it deep—want you to plant it—fuck—make me yours.”

he lets out a sound—half-snarl, half-moan—and slams into you one last time. you go taut beneath him as he spills inside, groaning like he’s been waiting years for this.

your orgasm hits right after. blinding. overwhelming. you scream his name as your body convulses around him, legs trembling, knees weak.

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t move. just leans over your back, breath hot and panting, one hand still gripping your hip like he can’t let go.

“god,” he breathes. “fuck. you’re—”

“perfect?” you offer, voice wrecked and hoarse.

he chuckles, breathless. “no. you’re evil.”

you grin, cheek still pressed to the table. “you said i was perfect. can't take it back now."

“you’re both.”

you hum—satisfied, blissed out, ruined. “that’s what i thought.”

he leans in, presses a kiss to your spine. slow. reverent. like worship.

“c’mon,” he murmurs. “gotta get you cleaned up. you’re a mess.”

you snort. “whose fault is that?”

“mine,” he says proudly, easing his softening cock out of you with a groan. you both hiss at the loss. “definitely mine.”

✧✧✧

you’re still catching your breath as he gathers you up again—arms under your thighs and back, lifting like you weigh nothing.

“you’re obsessed with carrying me,” you mumble against his shoulder.

“you’re obsessed with getting wrecked,” he fires back, kissing your cheek. “so i guess we’re even.”

he carries you to the bathroom like it’s routine. flicks on the warm lights, starts the tap, tests the water with his hand. you watch from the edge of the tub, dazed and content, legs still shaky, arms limp at your sides.

the tub fills slowly—steaming and scented. not from anything fancy. just him. clean soap. old candles on the windowsill, lit with shaking hands.

“in you go, evil,” he murmurs once it’s ready, helping you step in.

you sink into the water with a sigh. your body stretches, submerged in heat. muscles loosen. brain melts.

“god,” you whisper. “this is heaven.”

he grins, then climbs in behind you, arms wrapping around your middle. your back meets his chest. the water laps over both of you, warm and gentle.

you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as he starts to run a soapy washcloth along your skin—soft, slow, quiet.

he kisses your shoulder. “you okay?”

“mhm,” you hum. “just full. happy. feeling a little insane.”

he laughs. really laughs. “yeah? didn’t seem very insane when you were begging me to keep it in.”

“shut up,” you say, eyes still closed. “i’m trying to recover from the best dicking of my life.”

“oh, what was the best part?” he grins against your neck. “when i was slamming you into the table talkin’ about plantin’ seeds? when i was doing my damnedest to listen to you but couldn't help but flip you over?”

you elbow him—weakly. he just snickers, presses another kiss to your damp skin.

“you know i made food, right?” he murmurs eventually. “like, actual food? for you?”

you blink one eye open. “was it that ratatouille again?”

he snorts. “no. better. i perfected my risotto. there’s like… wine in it and everything.”

“so you’re saying it’s a post-sex risotto?”

“i’m saying it’s a michelin star post-breeding risotto, actually.”

you snort, letting your head rest back against his shoulder. “that’s insane.”

“is it?” he hums. “i stirred for, like, forty minutes straight. had to google what ‘al dente’ meant.”

you groan. “you’re gonna make me get out of this bath, aren’t you?”

he kisses behind your ear. “i’m gonna make you a plate.”

“i’m too boneless to move,” you mumble.

“guess i’ll carry you again.”

you tilt your face to look at him. “you love that.”

“you love that,” he corrects. “don’t think i didn’t see your little face light up when i hauled you off that bed.”

“i was lightheaded from orgasm.”

“and now you’re lightheaded from hunger.”

you groan dramatically. “i am hungry.”

“then let me feed you, woman.”

you laugh so hard your shoulders shake. “oh my god, okay.”

✧

he wraps you in a towel like you’re the prize pig at the fair and carries you to the kitchen bridal-style. it’s ridiculous. he smells like sweat and soap and sex and smugness.

“put me down, you overgrown golden retriever.”

“say please.”

“please put me down so i can eat the goddamn risotto.”

he sets you gently on a chair. kisses your forehead. disappears for a moment.

when he returns, it’s with two heaping bowls and a bottle of wine. the risotto smells heavenly—creamy, garlicky, something earthy and rich beneath it all. probably mushrooms. probably magic.

“did you put parmesan in this?” you ask, halfway through your first bite. “because holy shit.”

he beams. “only the best for the woman i just wrecked in three different rooms.”

“technically only two—”

“kissing in the foyer counts.”

“fine. three.”

you both eat in silence for a minute. just forks scraping and the occasional satisfied moan.

then, between bites, he says:

“so... when are you moving in?”

you snort. “bold of you to assume it’s me moving in with you.”

he shrugs, grinning into his risotto. “well, this is where the magic happens.”

“you mean the oversensitive smoke alarm and that towel you use for everything? i can't believe i let you use it on me like a freaking blindfold.”

“it’s very versatile.”

“it’s a health hazard at this point.”

he laughs. “okay, fine. counteroffer—you let me come over to your place. get to know your garden, maybe.”

“you’ve never even been inside my place,” you say, raising a brow.

“i’d like to change that. officially.”

your eyes narrow, but you’re smiling. “you asking me on a date, neighbor?”

“i am,” he says, softer now. “a real one. i bring you out, then maybe you bring me home. i just bred you on a kitchen table. feels rude not to take you out for pancakes.”

you choke a bit, lean back in your chair, acting like you’re thinking hard. “hmm. might have to be a day that isn’t thursday.”

he clutches his chest. “what? break routine? what will the neighbors think?”

you smirk. “this from the man who said he wanted to fuck me on the porch and let the whole neighborhood know?”

he shrugs, trying not to grin. “yeah, well. porch sex says power couple. midweek sleepovers say codependent.”

you reach for your wine, eyes glinting. “guess we’ll just have to ease them into it.”

“baby steps?”

“sure,” you say. “you can start by doing the dishes.”

you slide your empty plate toward him.

he groans. “thought you said i was a good boy.”

“you are,” you say sweetly. “and good boys clean up after themselves.”

he leans across the table, still flushed, still wrecked, but hopelessly smitten. “you really gonna make me do the dishes after the best sex of my life?”

“you made the risotto.”

“and?”

you sip your wine, smug as hell. “not my fault you had dessert before dinner.”

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.

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

✧ 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.

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.