schlatturbate

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he laughs against your thigh.

A low, ruined sound. Too pleased. Too in it. Too aware of what he’s doing to you.

Your nails scrape helplessly at the sheets, legs shaking so hard they squeak against his pillows as you gasp—

“W–wait, I can’t—Schlatt, I—”

“You can,” he murmurs, not even looking up. His breath fans over your inner thigh, warm and smug. “You’ve been doing it all night.”

His fingers don’t slow.

Two of them are buried inside you to the last knuckle, pumping slow and deep—slow enough to be merciless, deep enough to make every nerve pull tight like wire.

His thumb circles your clit once. Twice. A third time, faster, crueler—

Your vision whites out.

Your hips jerk. Your breath splinters. Your whole body pulls tight in one shuddering line— And you come apart again.

Not a moan this time. Not even a scream. Just a broken exhale, punched out of you as your body bows hard off the bed, every muscle trembling.

Schlatt groans, low and guttural, as your pussy clenches around his fingers.

“Ohhh, fuck. There she is,” he whispers, voice dropping to a rasp. “That’s my girl. God, you get so tight for me every single time…”

He never stops moving. Not once.

Not even to let you breathe.

Your thighs twitch around his shoulders, your hands digging into the mattress like you’re trying to push away—but his free hand shoots up and pins your hip down with one broad palm.

“Don’t run,” he warns gently, like he’s coaxing a scared animal. "I'll chase you, and it'll be much worse for you when I do."

Your breath stutters. Your toes curl. You can’t think. You can barely hear the blood rushing in your ears.

Then, before you can even recover—

He slides his fingers out slowly, soaked, obscene, and you think you might finally get a second to breathe.

But he doesn’t move away.

He moves lower.

Knees digging into the mattress, shoulders settling between your thighs like a man taking his rightful place, he exhales once, long and hungry, right against your swollen cunt.

You whimper. It’s pathetic. It’s involuntary.

He grins against your skin.

“That noise?” he murmurs. “That’s why I’m not stopping.”

His hands hook under your thighs, dragging you down toward his mouth with a strength that startles you even through the overstimulation.

“No—no, wait, I—Schlatt, I’m still—”

“That’s the point.”

Then he licks you.

Slow. Deep. Upward, from entrance to clit, a long, devastating drag of his tongue that makes your back arch violently off the mattress.

Your hands fly to his hair. He dives in harder.

He’s not tentative. He’s not testing. He’s not warming you up. He’s eating you like he’s fucking starving.

Sucking your clit into his mouth. Flattening his tongue against you. Fucking you with his mouth, sharp and messy and loud.

Wet sounds echo off the walls—every lick, every kiss, every sloppy pull of his mouth against your soaked skin.

You can’t hold still.

Your hips jerk up. Your thighs try to snap shut. Your breath keeps breaking in small, helpless gasps.

But he holds you open effortlessly, the size difference obscene as he presses you down with just his forearms.

“Relax,” he murmurs against your cunt, breath hot and slick with you. “You’re fine. You’re doing so fuckin’ good for me…”

You cry out as his tongue circles your clit again. Your body tries to pull away.

He growls.

A low, dangerous sound.

“Oh no you don’t.” He drags you back down onto his mouth like you weigh nothing. “You’re staying right here, I said.”

His tongue slips lower—his lips sealing around your entrance—and then he moans into your pussy.

The vibration rips through you like lightning. Your voice breaks into a sob.

“Schlatt—Schlatt, I—please, please—”

He lifts his head for the first time in minutes, chin shiny, eyes dark, pupils blown wide from the taste of you.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

You can barely speak. You shake your head, chest heaving, nails digging into his hair.

“I—I can’t take another—”

His eyebrows lift in lazy challenge.

“You said that two orgasms ago.”

He shifts his grip on your thighs, spreading you wider. Your breath hitches. He watches your reaction in real time, licking his bottom lip.

“Tell me the truth,” he says softly, leaning back in. His breath ghosts over your clit, making you flinch. “You don’t want me to stop.”

You shut your eyes, shaking.

He taps your clit with the flat of his wide, warm tongue—once—and your hips jerk violently.

“So cute,” he murmurs.

Then he dives back in.

Harder. Deeper. Tongue pressing. Mouth sucking. Fingers sliding back inside you in the same motion, curling up into that devastating spot like he owns it.

You scream. There’s no other word for it.

A raw, involuntary, broken-open sound as your climax slams through you again.

This one feels like your soul leaving your body. Your vision blurs. Your breath stops. Your hands clutch his hair desperately as your thighs clamp around his head—

And he just moans into you like he’s dying happy.

Your whole body shakes uncontrollably, every nerve alight, every thought gone.

He barely lets you come down before he lifts his head and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising and falling as he stares up at you like he’s drunk on you.

“That’s three,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Color?”

“Green,” you breathe, dazed and shaking. “So fucking green.”

His smile turns dangerous. He leans forward, mouth brushing your inner thigh, warm and soft and terrifyingly gentle as he presses a kiss there.

“Good,” he whispers, crawling up your body with that slow predator’s drag of his palms over your hips. “Because I’m nowhere near done.”

✧✧✧

By the sixth one, you’re gone.

Like—gone gone. The room is warm and spinning in that too-soft way, your vision hazy, your thighs trembling uncontrollably against his shoulders each time he drags his mouth over you.

You don’t know what time it is. You don’t even know your own name.

All you know is him.

His mouth. His hands. His voice—low, praising, coaxing every orgasm out of you. You have never cum this much before in your life.

You’re crying a little and you don’t know when that started. Your fingers have been in his hair for so long your hands ache. Every sound coming out of your mouth is raw, half-hoarse, half-broken.

“Schlatt—” you gasp, voice shredded. “I—can’t—please—please—I need—”

His tongue slides up you again, slow, tasting the mess he made, and your whole body jerks like you’ve been plugged into a socket.

You sob, actually sob, grabbing at his shoulders.

“Baby.” Your voice cracks. “Baby, I can’t—I can’t—take it—oh god—”

He finally—finally—lifts his head. His face is wrecked. Wet. Shiny. Hair a mess. Eyes dark and pupils blown wide in a way that makes your stomach flip.

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, chest rising like he ran a mile.

“I know,” he pants, voice completely ruined. “I know you can’t. That’s why I’m stopping.”

You heave a breath. He doesn’t move away from between your thighs. He just leans forward, presses a soft kiss to your hipbone.

“Come here,” you whisper, reaching for him with both trembling hands.

He climbs up your body in one slow drag, his jeans rough against the inside of your thighs, the sharp scent of his sweat mixing with the sweetness on his tongue.

When his mouth meets yours, you whine—actually whine—because you can taste yourself on him.

His voice is wrecked when he pulls back just an inch.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“No,” you breathe. And then, helplessly—“Need you. Please just...I need you.”

He groans—deep, involuntary—hips grinding against yours before he can stop himself.

You feel it.

The thick, hard, soaked outline pressing into your stomach through denim.

Your eyes snap open.

“Are you—did you—?”

He hides his face in your neck like he can somehow escape the question.

You slide your shaky hand down his chest, down his stomach, until you press your palm right against his fly.

He jerks.

“You came,” you whisper, dizzy. “From eating me out.”

His breath stutters. “I—yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I did.”

“Twice?” you ask, because the denim is soaked.

He groans again. “Three.”

Your whole body lights up.

“Baby,” you whisper, pulling him up by his jaw to kiss him again, slow and breathy. “Why are your pants still on?”

He huffs a shaky laugh against your mouth. “I wasn’t—fuck—I wasn’t even thinking about it."

You reach for him again, pulling him down by the face, kissing him like oxygen doesn’t matter anymore. He kisses you back instantly—hungry, hot, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to get drunk on the taste of you.

When he grinds down this time, you feel all of him—thick, hard, soaked through his boxers, through the denim, pressing perfectly against your swollen clit.

You gasp into his mouth.

He groans into yours. A deep, involuntary, wrecked sound.

Then he does it again. Slowly. Dragging the weight of his cock along the slick heat he spent hours pulling out of you.

Your eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he pants against your cheek. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane like this.”

“Then—” your breath hitches as he rolls his hips again, “—take the jeans off.”

He laughs, breathless, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Yeah? That all it takes? A couple rolls of my hips and suddenly you’re begging?”

You gasp—half offended, half turned on to the point of dizziness.

“You’ve—been—” you arch up into him helplessly as he grinds a third time, “—eating me out for HOURS—Schlatt—I think I earned the right to beg.”

He smirks. A slow, filthy tilt of his lips.

“Oh, you earned something. Trust me.”

“Then get. Them. Off.”

He kisses you instead. Full, deep, messy, like he’s trying to make you forget your line of thinking.

You fist the belt at his waist, tug hard enough that the buckle clinks.

“Schlatt.”

He groans—loud, shivery—as if the sound of that buckle turning in your hand did something dangerous to him.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters, hips pressing into you again without meaning to.

“You could fix that,” you shoot back.

Another grind. So wet and hot you forget your own name.

“Oh, you brat,” he breathes. “You’re lucky I like you like this.”

“You love me like this.”

He freezes.

Then he growls—actually growls—and pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding between your thighs to press the heel of his palm right where you’re sensitive.

You choke on a moan.

“Say that again,” he murmurs, grinding his cock against your clit in slow, devastating circles. His belt buckle scrapes lightly against your stomach—cold metal, hot skin, dizzy contrast. “Say it while I’ve still got these jeans on.”

You tug at your captured wrists, trembling.

“You love me like this,” you repeat, breathless, eyes locked on his.

His jaw flexes. His eyes darken. He dips for your mouth but stops a millimeter from kissing you.

“You’re right,” he whispers. “I do.”

Your whole body shivers.

He lets your wrists go—only to grab your hips, pull you up against him, and grind down with so much precision you cry out.

“Now say,” he pants, “please take them off, sir.”

“No,” you gasp.

His breath stutters.

“No?” he repeats, incredulous, turned on.

“No.” You arch your hips up, grinding into him this time, the drag of denim and soaked fabric making him swear.

“You want me desperate,” you whisper. “But you’re the one leaking through your jeans.”

His hand slams down beside your head like he needs to ground himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters through clenched teeth.

You smirk, weak but victorious. “Take. Them. Off.”

He finally cracks.

Both hands go to his belt. The leather strap pulls free with a sharp, violent snap. He yanks the buckle loose like it personally offended him.

“You’re in trouble,” he growls as the belt hits the floor with a thud.

“Yeah?” you whisper. "What happens now?"

"What happens now, is that you're gonna be sorry," he chuckles. "I just made you cum, what, 6 times? And you still have the energy to talk back? That's not a good sign for you, princess."

The zipper drags down.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of him.

He shoves the denim down his hips, leaving his boxers on—barely. The fabric stretches tight across him, soaked through, the outline obscene. He’s thick. Hard. Pushing against the cotton like he’s straining to get to you.

Your thighs fall open automatically.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, hooking a thumb under the waistband of his boxers. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he steps between your legs, knees nudging yours farther apart, crowding your body with his. He leans over you, bracing a hand by your head—shirtless, flushed, pupils blown—and gently, almost reverently, he lines himself up.

Not thrusting.

Just letting the heavy heat of his cock rest against your slick folds, the swollen head nudging right where you’re sensitive.

You gasp. Your hips lift without permission.

He grabs your waist—firm, grounding.

“Slow,” he murmurs, voice suddenly low and serious. “We’re doing this slow. You hear me?”

You nod, breath shaking. He nudges forward an inch.

Just the head.

Just enough to stretch you, barely enough to enter you—and then he stops.

Dead still.

Your whole body tightens around nothing.

“Schlatt, I can do it, please, I'm dripping—”

He drops his forehead to your shoulder. “Gimme a goddamn minute. You’re… fuck… you’re so warm.”

He holds there, breathing heavy, controlling himself. You wrap your arms around his shoulders—pulling him closer, needing him closer.

“More,” you whisper. “Give me more.”

He lifts his head. Your faces are inches apart.

“You want more?”

You nod desperately. He kisses you—slow, deep, dragging his mouth across yours like he’s savoring the taste of your need.

He sinks in another inch. You moan into his mouth, legs shaking around his hips. He swallows the sound hungrily.

“So fucking good for me,” he whispers. “Take me...”

Two inches more. Your mouth drops open. Your nails dig into his shoulders. He shakes with restraint.

“God—sweetheart—relax for me,” he groans. “You’re gripping like you’re trying to pull me in.”

You arch. “I am.”

Something in him snaps. He grabs the back of your thigh, lifting your leg higher around his waist, angling you open, and slides the rest of the way in with one long, slow, devastating push. Your whole body arches off the bed.

He chokes on a moan, dropping his forehead to your chest like the sensation knocked the air out of him. But he grunts, keeping control of himself.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb slow over the inside of your thigh, “you really thought you were gonna talk to me like that…and then get what you want right away?”

You swallow, heat licking up your spine. “I just—I want—”

“Oh, I know what you want.”

His hips shift just enough for you to feel him, heavy and deliberate inside you…but nowhere near enough to satisfy.

“But see…” he leans down, lips brushing your cheek. “Little brats don’t get to rush me.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

“And you were a brat, weren’t you?”

You try to lift your hips—instinctive, needy. He presses them back down with one broad hand, pinning you to the mattress like it’s nothing.

“Uh-uh, not a single inch until I say so.”

Your pulse kicks hard. “Schlatt—”

He laughs—low, amused, pleased with you. “There she is. Now she wants to behave.”

He reaches for his belt. He drags the leather slowly across your stomach, your breast, the curve of your thigh. Not hitting.

Just reminding you who’s in charge.

“Hands.”

You offer them without hesitation.

The belt loops around your wrists, just tight enough to keep your hands together overhead as he guides them to the pillow.

He kisses each wrist before pinning them down.

“Good girl.”

Heat shoots straight through you.

“You know what you’re gonna do now?” he murmurs.

Your voice barely comes out. “What?”

“You’re gonna lie there…”

He pulls out one inch—slow, devastating—and pushes back in just as slowly. A single, perfect stroke that makes your toes curl.

“…and take your punishment like something you earned.”

You whimper. “Please—”

He tsks softly, bending to kiss your jaw.

“Oh, now you want to ask nicely. You want me to fuck you?” he asks quietly.

Your breath breaks. “Yes—please—yes—”

He smiles, slow and wicked against your neck.

“Then you’re gonna earn it.”

He thrusts again—slow, punishing, perfectly aimed. Your back arches. Your bound wrists flex.

“Say you’re sorry for being a brat.”

You swallow hard. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

His hand slides down your thigh, squeezing.

“So polite for me, baby girl.”

Another slow thrust. Another sound torn out of you.

“And you’re not gonna tell me what to do again, are you?”

“No,” you gasp.

“No what?”

“No, sir.”

"Good."

He folds forward, grabs your hips like he’s claiming land, and pulls you onto him in one savage, wet, perfect thrust.

You scream.

He moans—loud, uncontrollable, broken—like the feel of you knocks everything out of him.

“Fucking— fuck, sweetheart—” His voice cracks on the second word. He thrusts again, harder, the slap of skin loud in the room. “I can’t— Jesus—”

Your whole body jolts with every stroke, your wrists yanking against the belt because he’s fucking you like he’s been dying for it.

Your back arches. Your legs shake. You gasp his name. He loses the last thick thread of control he had.

“God, you’re—fuck— you’re perfect—”

Another thrust, deeper.

“Been tasting you for hours, I—I can’t—”

He pulls out just a couple inches—then slams back in.

You choke on a cry with each roll of his hips. Your eyes roll as you beg for more. His head drops forward, forehead almost hitting your shoulder.

“Stop begging if you don’t want me to lose it,” he grits, voice shredded. “I’m—I’m hanging on by a fucking thread—”

You moan his name again.

He’s done.

“Fuck it—” He grabs your face, kissing you so hard his teeth brush your lip. He thrusts into you like he’s furious at how good it feels. Like he’s starving and you’re the only food he’s had in days.

“You’re on the pill?” he snarls, mid-stroke, barely coherent.

“Yes—yes—!”

“Good—good—oh fuck—” His voice breaks. “You’re getting all of it—every drop—”

Your seventh orgasm hits like a punch. Your legs spasm. Your stomach clenches. Your whole body curves up into his chest.

He feels every fucking pulse. He shouts—a low, raw, involuntary sound—and his thrusts turn frantic, stuttering, desperate.

“Oh god—oh fuck I’m— sweetheart, I’m— I’m coming—”

He slams in one last time—and falls apart.

A violent shudder racks his whole body. His hips jerk against yours. His breath tears out of him like he’s been starving for oxygen.

He empties into you with a ragged groan, one arm shaking as he holds himself upright so he doesn’t collapse on you.

You feel every thick, hot pulse of him filling you.

He feels your aftershocks squeezing him through it—too tight, too much, too good—so good he moans again, helpless.

When it finally stops—when the last shiver runs out of him—he stays inside you.

Your wrists go slack in the belt. Your chest rises and falls. He lowers onto his forearms, forehead pressing into the crook of your neck.

No one talks.

No one moves.

The room is filled with the sound of both of you trying to remember how lungs work.

✧✧✧

Eventually, he shifts. Just enough to look at you.

You’re flushed. Glossy-eyed. Absolutely ruined.

He grins.

“You alive?”

You nod, a slow, exhausted drag of your chin across the pillow. “Barely.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be.”

You laugh weakly, and he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. It’s wet. Gentle. He tastes like sweat and salt and something sweeter you can’t place. Probably you.

Then, with great reluctance, he pulls out.

You whimper at the loss.

“Ohh, I know, I know,” he coos. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, aren’t you? Can’t stand being empty for even a second.”

“You broke me,” you mumble dramatically, as he unties the belt from your wrists.

“Nah,” he says, tossing it aside. “You liked it too much to be broken from it.”

He wipes your wrists with the edge of the bedsheet, checking the indents without saying anything. You watch his face. He’s got that thoughtful look on his face. All bite and no bark.

“You weren’t supposed to be like that,” you say quietly.

“Like what?” He glances up, amused.

“Good.”

He barks a laugh. “You weren’t supposed to be like that,” he fires back, sitting back on his heels. “Little tease. Talkin’ back. Fuckin’ laughing after six orgasms like you wanted twenty.”

You smirk. “So I surprised you?”

He runs a hand through his hair. The other one’s already on your thigh. “Let's just say I would've gone longer if I could have. You don’t even know how good you taste.”

Your cheeks flush—again—and he smirks, not letting you hide.

“You made the dirtiest sounds I’ve ever heard,” he adds, crawling back over you to whisper in your ear. “And the faces—Jesus. You looked like one of those anime girls doing an ahegao.”

“I didn’t!” you gasp.

“You did!” he grins. “Tryna act all cocky while your legs were shaking and your eyes were rolling back. You’re insane.”

“I thought you liked that.”

He chuckles low and dark, dragging his nose along your jaw. “Oh, I loved it.”

You blink up at him. “So what now?”

He kisses you again—longer this time. Slower. When he pulls back, he’s still close.

“I’m gonna get you in the bath,” he says. “Then I’m making you food.”

Your brows raise. “You cook?”

“Not well,” he says, deadpan. “But you’re not going to be able to walk to the kitchen, and I’m not letting you starve. So suck it up.”

You grin. “That’s hot.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everything I do is hot.”

You reach up to cup his jaw. His scruff is damp. He leans into the touch before catching himself and pulling back, just slightly.

“I mean it,” you say.

He swallows. Then nods once, quick, like if he lets himself feel it for too long he’ll explode.

“I’ll run the water.”

He slides off the bed, jeans still on, belt forgotten on the floor, and walks into the bathroom. You hear the water start, then the sound of him rummaging under the sink.

When he comes back, he’s got a towel slung around his neck and a stupid grin on his face.

“Bubble bath or regular?”

“Bubble,” you croak.

He points. “Knew you had good taste.”

You giggle. "Mm, I think you proved that you have better."

With a cackle, he disappears again.

You stare at the ceiling, too tired to cry, too full to float.

You didn’t expect all this.

✧✧✧

You hear him whistling in the bathroom.

Whistling.

You blink hard at the ceiling, then sit up too fast and instantly regret it.

Your legs wobble. Your spine feels like it’s been… adjusted. The sheets are damp and the belt is still looped in the shape of your wrists at the edge of the bed, and you can’t tell if your stomach hurts from coming so hard or from how fucking emotionally confusing this all is.

This was not supposed to be confusing.

This was supposed to be sex.

You reach for your phone and yank it off the charger with the last 3% of your strength. Your messages with Val are still open.

you: girl. emergency. i think i just got f*cked into a situationship val: ????? what do you mean you: i mean i hooked up with your horrible little streamer friend and he made me a BUBBLE BATH and is going to COOK for me and speaks with the softest hottest raspiest voice i’ve ever heard and wiped my wrists off and kissed my neck like he CARES i thought he was going to kick me out and he just told me not to move??? val: WAIT WAIT wait SCHLATT???? you f*cked JSCHLATT???? girl. girl he hasn’t texted ANYONE back all day he cancelled a sponsored stream that man doesn't turn money down easily what did you DO TO HIM

You stare at the screen.

Then throw the phone onto the carpet and groan into your hands.

He warned you. Told you he was infamous. That he bites. That he’d break you. That it's a wonder Schlatt was even interested in you. And you’d said, sure, cool, whatever, I’m not trying to marry the man.

Now here you are. Trembling on the edge of his bed, staring down at your jeans in a heap on the floor and wondering if you can leave before this gets worse.

You reach for your underwear. Jeans next. Hoodie. Sneakers? Where are your—

“You tryin’ to sneak out on me already?”

You jump.

He’s in the doorway. Still shirtless, damp hair curling behind his ears, a towel draped around his neck. He’s wearing pajama pants low on his hips and looking at you like you just insulted his grandma.

You freeze mid-pull-up.

“I wasn’t—”

“Uh-huh,” he says. “That’s why your pants are halfway on and you’re lookin’ around like a raccoon caught in the fridge.”

You cringe. “You were in the bathroom, I thought you’d be longer—”

He walks up to you without breaking eye contact and gently, gently, takes you by the hip, warm fingers running up cool skin.

“You really gonna run after all that?” he murmurs. “After I ate you like a dying man?”

Your breath catches. “You said no strings.”

“Did I?” He tilts his head. “Pretty sure I said ‘you’re gonna be obsessed with me,’ and then you laughed in my face.”

You try to glare. It falters.

He’s too close. He smells like soap and sex and sleep. There’s a tiny scratch on his chest, and you know you put it there.

“I just didn’t expect…” You wave a hand vaguely. “This.”

He quirks a brow. “What, this is gourmet treatment?”

“You offered me food.”

"They're chicken nuggets, princess."

"Still."

“Gimme those,” he says, and tugs at the waistband of your half-pulled-on jeans like they’re offending him. You don’t resist. He peels them off smooth and slow, like it’s normal. Like he’s done this before. Like he’ll do it again.

Then—like it’s nothing—he lifts you off the bed, throws you over his shoulder, and carries you toward the bathroom.

You squeal in surprise. “Schlatt—!”

He grunts, adjusting you with a light slap to your thigh. “You talk too much after getting dicked down.”

“You made me have six orgasms, I think I’m allowed to be a little chatty after surviving all that.”

“Six and a half,” he corrects, smug. “I don't count penetration orgasms as a full one. And if you keep squirming, I can get that number up to seven real quick.”

You go still. Your breath shudders out of you.

He chuckles. “That’s what I thought.”

Your cheeks burn. But you don’t tell him to put you down.

He carries you through the hallway like it’s routine. Like he does this all the time. Like you live here. Every step creaks and tilts your perspective. You pass a mirror and catch the two of you—his bare back, your bare legs, your arms clutching his shoulders like an anchor. The image knocks the wind out of you.

You are not supposed to want this.

You are definitely not supposed to feel safe like this.

“Do you always do this?” you murmur.

“Do what?”

You hesitate. “...All this.”

He shrugs. “Depends.”

“On?”

He sets you down by the edge of the tub, carefully, like you’ll break if he drops you too fast. The air is thick with steam and lavender bubbles. You blink up at him.

He smiles slow. “On whether they’re worth the effort.”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out.

“You gonna get in,” he says, voice low, “or do I have to do everything for you?”

You swallow.

“I thought this wasn’t a girlfriend thing.”

He grins. “It’s not.”

“So why are you being—”

“Being what?” he interrupts, wicked. “Nice to the girl who just let me ruin her for like… three hours straight? Damn, guess I am the problem.”

Your face goes hot. “That’s not—”

He leans in and kisses your forehead. And it shuts you up.

“You’re thinkin’ too hard,” he says against your skin. “Bath. Then nuggets. Then you sleep here, and in the morning you can pretend it was all a fever dream if you want.”

“And if I don’t want to pretend?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Then you can stay.”

Simple as that.

✧✧✧

The second the bathroom door shuts behind him, you sink into the bubbles like a corpse.

Fully submerged in perfectly warm water. Up to the ears. Eyes squeezed shut.

You don’t scream. Not out loud.

But you are kicking your legs under the water like a Victorian heroine about to be ruined by a duke with a jawline.

Because what the fuck.

You were supposed to hook up. One night. One-and-done. Friend-of-a-friend. Tall, annoying, charming in that “ugh” kind of way. You knew his reputation. You expected a good time and a walk of shame.

Not six orgasms.

Not a bubble bath.

Not chicken fucking nuggets.

You come up for air, exhaling as you wipe your face, long and low, and let your head fall back.

The ceiling light swims above you in watery gold. Everything smells like lavender and sin.

You’re not catching feelings. You’re just… physically compromised. Temporarily stupid.

You’ll go home in the morning.

✧✧✧

He’s got a plate ready by the time you emerge in a towel.

“Well,” he says, leaning on the counter in flannel pajama pants and nothing else, “you clean up real nice.”

You roll your eyes and try not to fall in love with the sight of shirtless domestic Schlatt plating nuggets like they’re filet mignon.

“Is this your thing?” you ask, trying to sound light. “Lure women into your apartment and feed them Tyson brand Stockholm Syndrome?”

“Bold of you to assume they’re Tyson,” he says. “These are dino shaped.”

You blink. “You're kidding.”

He grins and taps the plate. “T-Rexes only. I ate the stegosaurus ones while you were in the tub.”

You laugh despite yourself, tugging your towel tighter as you hop onto a stool. You don’t miss the way his eyes drag down, then back up, slower.

He hands you a dipping sauce like it’s a glass of wine.

You dip a nugget.

Take a bite. Chew. Swallow.

And then: “...So what is this, exactly?”

His jaw ticks. The smile flickers—but doesn’t fall.

“Dinner,” he says.

“I meant us.”

He studies you.

Tension crackles in the silence.

You regret asking. Or maybe you don’t. You’re not sure. Your heart is loud.

“Dunno,” he says eventually, voice quieter. “Guess I thought you were just into the whole… casual thing.”

“I was.”

“Was? As in past tense?”

You shrug. “You gave me a bubble bath. That wasn’t in the deal.”

He snorts. “Oh, that’s what did it? Not the orgasms?”

You grin. “A girl’s got standards.”

"Yeah?" He leans in. His elbow brushes yours. His tone dips low. “What other standards do you have?"

You chew your lip.

It’s the kind of question that feels like a trap. Like if you say the wrong thing, he’ll laugh. If you say the right thing, he’ll really laugh.

So you go for middle ground.

“I don’t sleep over unless the food is good.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And?”

You nudge a nugget with your fingertip. “And only if the food is shaped like dinosaurs. And only if I’m manipulated into staying.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “That easy, huh?”

“Didn’t say I was easy.”

You glance up, waiting for the quip—then why’d you let me hit?—but it doesn’t come.

Instead, he's just looks at you. And fuck, it’s such a warm look. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just… interested.

You shift. “You really never had someone sleep over?”

“Not on purpose.”

You blink. “So I’m the first?”

“Technically, yeah.” He pauses. “They usually leave.”

You snort. “Because you kick them out?”

“Sometimes,” he smiles, rolling his eyes, like it’s obvious. “But it's mostly because they wanna go.”

You don’t say anything. You could. You could say: I’m not like them.

But you don’t want to be That Girl. You don’t want to admit you want something. You already broke the deal by catching feelings—might as well not air it all out on the kitchen counter.

So instead you say, light as air: “And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“Do I get kicked out in the morning, or do I make the cut for a ride home?”

Schlatt smirks. “You wanna leave?”

“…No. Not yet, anyway.” You pause. “But I don’t wanna stay if I’m the only one who wants me to.”

His mouth twitches, then flattens. His hands flex on the counter like he’s not used to talking about feelings with his shirt off.

“Look,” he says finally. “I’m not the best at this. I didn’t expect to like you.”

Your heart hiccups.

“But I do,” he adds, low. “I like you. I just don’t know what to do about it yet.”

And that—that—is both more than you hoped for and not enough at all.

You nod.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. We can just…” You gesture vaguely. “See where it goes.”

His eyes narrow. “So no pressure?”

“No pressure.”

He hums. “No expectations?”

You grin. “Aside from more food next time? None.”

He tilts his head. “So there is a next time?”

Your grin grows. “Only if you’re good.”

"Mm. I should be saying that to you."

✧✧✧

You start going over every couple weeks. Then every week. Then it’s like… you just never leave.

The toothbrush appears first. Then the hair tie on his nightstand. Then a sweatshirt you forget on purpose and he doesn’t give back.

You don’t bring it up.

Neither does he.

He starts greeting you at the door with a sly smirk and half-laced shoes. You never catch him putting them on. You’re pretty sure he just paces when he knows you’re coming over.

Some nights are sex. Loud, messy, unbelievable sex that leaves your thighs trembling and your heart even worse.

Some nights are pizza and YouTube. Some nights are just sleep.

One time you show up in a skirt and no underwear and he physically walks into a wall. That buys you three orgasms and a sore throat and one kiss on your hips he pretends didn’t happen.

You call it even.

He steals your fries. You steal his hoodies. He calls you princess like it’s a joke. You laugh every time like it doesn’t make your stomach flip.

He talks shit. You talk back.

But somewhere in there, the insults get softer.

He stops calling you a menace and starts calling you a brat.

You think it might be a promotion.

You text more. Not just the “u up?” kind. Real ones. Stupid ones. You send him a video of a duck trying to eat a worm and he sends back “that’s u.” Then he sends another one. Then another. Then a selfie with the caption: “miss me?”

You try not to read into it.

You fail.

You try not to notice the way he brushes your hair back when he thinks you’re asleep. Or the way he pulls the blanket over your bare legs when you pass out on his couch. Or how he never lets you leave without water, a snack, and at least one smug comment about how clingy you are for always coming back.

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends not to care.

You both lie through your teeth.

✧✧✧

The text comes while you’re scraping leftover mac and cheese into a bowl, still in Schlatt’s hoodie and your thigh-high socks, humming something tuneless.

Ben: yo u still down for that thing Friday?

You glance at it, tap a quick reply:

maybe. gotta check smth first.

Ben: cool 😁 just lemme know

You don’t notice Schlatt reading it over your shoulder. But you feel him stiffen.

The air gets cold.

When you turn, he’s leaning on the counter with his arms crossed, jaw set.

You squint. “What?”

He shrugs.

You blink. “No, really—what?”

“Didn’t realize you had Friday plans.”

You frown. “I don’t. Not yet.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move. Just stares at you like the floor’s about to drop out.

“Who’s Ben?”

You pause. “My coworker. We’re supposed to help with a shoot. He was gonna drive me.”

“So, what—he just… texts you like that?”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

“It's midnight. He's being all casual with you, but he was thinking about you when it's this late at night. That's practically asking for pics or something.” He snorts, bitter. “Bet he doesn’t even know you’re—”

“Say it,” you snap.

He does. “—fucking me.”

You set the bowl down, sharp. “Wow. You wanna try again, big baby, or should I leave now?”

“Maybe you should,” he says. But he doesn’t mean it. His voice cracks halfway through.

And that makes you angrier.

“Where the hell is this coming from?”

“I don’t know, maybe from the fact that you keep me at arm’s length until you want my dick, and then you’re all soft and sweet and giggly in my bed, and I’m just supposed to play cool while Ben sends you smiley faces at midnight?”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, setting the bowl down. “You’re jealous.”

He barks a laugh, but there’s no joy in it. “You act like I’m soo crazy.”

“You are crazy!” you snap. “You think I’m out here sneaking around with Ben when I’ve spent the last three weeks in a row with you?”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he says, all bravado. “You said no pressure, right? No expectations.”

You blink at him. “So what is this, then? What am I to you?”

His mouth opens. Then closes.

“Yeah,” you say. “Exactly.”

He shifts, agitated. “I didn’t think I’d care, okay? I didn’t expect to like you.”

“Then why are you acting like you don’t?” you say, too loud. “You get weird every time I sleep over. You've stopped touching me after sex like I’m made of glass. You make me breakfast and then pretend it wasn't you, like you ordered it from some brunch place, like it's some fucking accident!”

“You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t!” you yell. “I didn’t expect to like you either! I thought you were a one-night stand with a decent dick and a mean streak. But then you kept… showing up. And letting me stay. And looking at me like I was more than a good time. And I fell for it. So fuck you if you’re gonna pretend I imagined that.”

He looks like you hit him. And maybe you did.

You step back. “If this is nothing to you—if this is just fun until one of us finds someone better—then say that. Right now. Out loud.”

Silence.

Then, finally, raw and ragged: “It’s not nothing.”

Your eyes find his, searching for lies.

“It’s not nothing,” he repeats, voice cracking. “But I don’t know how to do this. I’m not built for relationships. I don’t do soft. I don’t do safe. I do fucked up, and too loud, and never ready.”

“I don’t need you to be safe,” you say. “I just need you to be real.”

He looks at you like that might be the worst thing anyone's ever asked of him.

You take a shaky breath. “And if being real means you care that some guy texted me about a ride, then just say that. Don’t stand there acting like I’m the villain for not reading your mind.”

“I do care,” he says, stepping forward, hands shaking. “I care more than I want to. And it’s not just about Ben. It’s about me not knowing how to handle any of this. It’s about you looking at me like I’m worth staying for and me not knowing how to live up to that.”

Teeth click. Arms tangle. Your back hits the fridge and he groans like he’s starving, like the only way to shut up the jealousy screaming inside him is to taste you again. Your hands go to his hair, his waist, anywhere to hold on.

You’re both shaking, eyeing each other up, feeling all this distance between you.

And then something breaks.

In both of you.

And you collide like magnets.

“I’m sorry—”

“Me too, babygirl—”

“I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to push you—”

“I didn’t mean to scare you—”

“I want you—”

“I want this—”

You’re crying and laughing and moaning into him as he lifts you onto the counter, hoodie bunching around your hips, thighs tight around his waist. His forehead presses to yours.

He lifts you onto the counter and you wrap around him like instinct, like muscle memory. His hoodie rides up, your thighs squeeze tight, and you kiss until it’s too much, until it burns hot again, until clothes are halfway off and neither of you care that the food is getting cold.

There are no more words.

Not for now.

Just mouths. Hands. A desperate, unspoken truth carved into the heat of your bodies: you don’t want to lose this. Even if neither of you know what “this” really is.

And maybe that’s enough for tonight.