You know it’s bad when you’re already sweating before the dress even hits your body.

Your bedroom floor looks like a boutique exploded—plastic garment bags, ripped-open delivery boxes, piles of tissue paper, and eight dresses in various states of defeat. Some half-zipped, some halfway on, and one on the doorknob like you choked halfway through and walked away.

The mirror is cruel in its honesty. Not because your body is bad—God, no—but because you’re exhausted. You can see every inch of your week written across your skin.

The too-long shifts. The forced smiles. The holiday deadlines. The early period bloating you didn’t see coming. The stress-eating you didn’t realize you were doing. The stupid Christmas party this weekend that requires “cocktail attire” and “photos on the company Instagram.”

And you—soft, curvy, plush, gorgeous in literally any other hour of your life—feel like the universe pressed you between two fingers and squeezed.

Dress number six lies puddled at your feet. Silky. Red. Mocked you.

You bend, breath tight, and pick up the next one—forest green, satin, off-shoulder.

You try.

You really try.

It gets stuck halfway over your chest. You tug. It bites into your arms. You tug harder. It scrapes. You gasp.

Then—with a horrible little kkkkkchhhk—

The seam at the underarm gives.

You freeze. Slowly look in the mirror.

A tiny, humiliating V-shaped tear gapes open under your arm.

Something inside you comes loose.

You don’t cry yet—not then. You just stare at it, chest rising too fast, fingers clutching fabric like maybe you can undo what happened by willpower alone.

You peel it off. Drop it. Step back.

You look at yourself.

Your belly is soft, full, swollen enough to be noticeable. Your hips curve wide and generous. Your thighs touch high up, warm and plush. Your arms are round, upper arms pillowy. Your breasts sit heavy, beautiful, but sore today.

You look like the women you save on Pinterest. Like the ones in the TikToks you send your friends whenever someone says plus-size girls can’t be hot.

But right now…right now you don’t feel like them. You feel like a person inside a too-small skin, pressed against expectations that were never made for you.

Your phone buzzes on the bed. Just a notification.

You glance.

A news headline. Something about Wicked: For Good’s new promotional stills.

You shouldn’t click it.

But you do.

Instantly, your chest tightens.

Ariana Grande—collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, ribs showing under the shimmer of the lights, a neckline that seems designed to frame the absence of softness.

Cynthia Erivo—sculpted, shiny, elegant, ethereal, the sort of thinness that looks untouchable, like she stopped needing calories or gravity years ago.

Both stunning. Both a different species of woman than the one standing in your bedroom.

You don’t want to judge them. You don’t. You know nothing about their health, their bodies, their lives.

But your body reacts before your brain can. A quick, scorching shame shoots down your spine.

Your hand rises—automatic—to your collarbone. You press your fingers there.

Nothing sharp. Nothing dramatic.

Soft. Warm. Hidden under much more layers of fat.

Your throat tightens.

Before you can stop it—the tears come.

Quiet at first. Then harder.

You sit on the edge of the bed, face in your palms, shoulders shaking. You try to breathe. You can’t. Because it’s not just the dresses. Not just the photos. Not just the hellish week.

It’s everything you’ve been holding for months, maybe years, all deciding to spill on the same night.

You’re so wrapped up in the sound of your own breathing that you don’t hear the front door. Or the heavy gym bag hitting the entryway tile. Or the water bottle thudding on the counter.

You only hear—

“Babe?”

His voice. Warm, low, a little hoarse from lifting.

Shit.

You swipe at your face, frantic. Grab the nearest cardigan and yank it around you, like softness can hide softness.

You stand too fast.

“Yeah!” you call back, voice wobbling. “I’m—yeah, I’m here!”

His footsteps climb the hall.

You sniff hard, trying to erase the redness, swallow down the storm.

The doorway fills with him.

Tall. Broad. Fresh out of the gym—hoodie damp around the collar, hair pushed back, cheeks flushed, forearms veined and thick.

He sees you. He sees the dresses. He sees your eyes.

His expression drops instantly—playful to alert in one heartbeat.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping into the room, gym bag sliding off his shoulder. “What happened?”

You shake your head. Don’t trust your voice. Don’t want to unload on him the second he walks in.

He notices, his brow twitching at your lack of vocal response. He steps closer—slow, cautious, giving you space but not distance. Strong hands hover near your arms, not touching yet, waiting for permission.

“Talk to me,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

You swallow hard.

The words stick.

He waits.

You try again.

“Nothing fits,” you whisper.

His eyes flick to the pile on the floor. Then to you.

Your voice cracks. “Not one. Not a single fucking dress. And—and I ordered them early, and I double-checked sizing, and I thought maybe—”

You wipe your cheek, frustrated. “I thought at least one would make me feel like I didn’t need to… defend myself all night.”

His brows knit. You go on before he can interject.

“And this whole week has been hell, and I haven’t slept, and I’m bloated, and everyone at work looks like they starve themselves for sport, and then I open my phone and the Wicked photos are everywhere and—and I know it’s stupid but it just—”

Your breath shakes out of you. You press a palm to your eyes.

“It made me feel like I’m living in the wrong body.”

Silence.

Then—his hand, warm, resting gently on your forearm. Just one point of contact. Grounding. He squeezes once.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You do.

His expression is not pity. Not discomfort. Not annoyance. It’s something heavy...and maybe focused. Like he’s locking onto you and refusing to blink.

“Not stupid,” he says quietly. “Not even a little bit.”

Your blink, eyes wet.

“And you’re not in the wrong body,” he adds, voice low and firm. The kind of firm that doesn’t allow for argument, but his tone is all honey sweet. “You’re not.”

You breathe shakily. He watches every inhale like he’s counting them.

Then, finally—he steps closer.

“Come here,” he says.

And you go. You let him wrap those big, warm arms around you, gym-sweaty and all, your forehead against his chest, his hand coming up instinctively to cradle the back of your head.

He doesn’t shush you. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t joke.

He just holds you. So...heavy and solid and real.

One hand stroking slow, soothing lines up and down your spine. The other tucked around your waist, fingers sliding gently over the softness there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath evens. His jaw presses to your temple.

And only when he feels you soften, only when the last tremor leaves your body, does he speak again.

“Tell me everything. No filters. No minimizing.” His hand squeezes your hip. “I can handle it.”

Your eyes sting, but this time it’s from relief. You pull in a breath.

“…I feel ridiculous.”

He makes a soft sound — not disagreement, not irritation, just acknowledgment. Encouragement.

You exhale.

“It’s just… it’s not one thing. It’s everything.” Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie.

“Work has been hell. Everyone’s stressed and snappy, and I’ve been trying to keep up, and then this stupid Christmas party gets announced like it’s supposed to be fun. And everyone’s talking about outfits and photos and looking perfect in front of clients—”

Your voice thins.

“And I’ve been avoiding looking at myself. Because I could feel it. You know?” You pull back enough to look at him. “I could feel the bloat. I could feel the weight I’ve gained from having no time for myself. I knew these dresses were going to be a gamble, but eight, Schlatt.”

Your voice cracks. “Eight.”

He nods slowly, eyes never leaving yours. Listening. Tracking every inflection of your voice.

“Every single one fought me,” you whisper. “Every one made me feel like I was… violating the dress, like I was trespassing! Like the designers only imagine one kind of woman in their clothes and I’m not her.”

You swallow hard.

“And I’m so tired of trying to pretend it doesn’t bother me. I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice the looks I get at work when I bring my own lunch, even if it's just the same meal-prepped stuff we make together. I’m tired of feeling like I have to justify every inch of my body. I’m tired of being the ‘confident’ one when most of the time I’m just… tired.”

Your hands lift instinctively, touching your collarbones again. He notices. His expression shifts — the smallest furrow of concern, nothing judgmental.

“And then,” you continue, shaky, “those Wicked photos popped up. And they’re beautiful, obviously. They’re talented, gorgeous women, and it has nothing to do with them. But my brain…”

You press a hand to your sternum. “My brain just decided I needed to feel like shit about myself. It was like — ‘look, even the singing fantasy witches are built smaller than you.’”

Your laugh is sharp and humorless. “And I hate that. I hate that it got to me. I hate that something so stupid made me feel like I’m wearing a skin everyone can see through.”

You look away. Shoulders curl. You rub your forearm, defensive without meaning to.

“I know you don’t think about me like that. I know it’s just a dress. Dresses. Multiple dresses. I know my body is—whatever. It’s fine. Good. Normal. But tonight it felt like every insecurity I’ve ever had decided to show up at once and scream in my face.”

Silence.

Not empty.

Heavy. Focused. Electric.

Schlatt lifts a hand to your jaw. Thumb brushing your cheekbone, slow and gentle.

“Sweetheart.”

His voice is low enough that your stomach tightens.

“You don’t have to defend yourself with me.”

You inhale sharply. He leans in a little, brow touching yours.

“I know exactly what you look like,” he murmurs. “I see you every day. I know how your body moves. I know how it changes. I know the parts of you that only show up when you’re tired, or stressed, or cold.”

His fingers slide down the curve of your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, pausing at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder.

“And you need to hear me when I say this, okay?”

You nod once, breath held. His voice dips — soft, but unmistakably firm.

“There is not a single thing wrong with your body. Not one.”

Heat blooms behind your ribs. He cups the side of your face fully now, guiding your eyes back to his.

“And I really don’t give a fuck what some designer thinks bodies should look like. Or what Hollywood edits into a poster. Or what anyone in your office thinks you eat for lunch. That’s background noise.”

You blink—once, twice—as the words sink in.

“But you?” His gaze drags slowly down your body — over your chest wrapped in the loose cardigan, down your stomach, your hips, your thick thighs. “You’re not background anything.”

Your breath stutters. He steps closer, chest brushing yours.

“You’re real,” he murmurs. “Soft in the ways I like. Strong in the ways that matter. And the fact that you were in here crying alone, and then tried to hide instead of letting me help you—” His jaw flexes. “—that bothers me.”

You look up at him, startled at the sudden change in his tone.

“Hey,” he says, tone gentling again. His thumb strokes your lower lip. “I’m not mad at you. I just—” He exhales, long and steady. “I wish you’d let me carry some of this before it got this heavy.”

The honesty of it knocks something loose inside you.

Your legs wobble.

You whisper, “I… didn’t want to dump all of that on you.”

“Baby.” He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “I signed up for all of you. Not the easy days. Not the curated parts. All of you.”

His hand slides down your arm, slow, reverent, until his fingers lace through yours. And then—

He brings your hand to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles. Slow. Intentional. A little too soft to be innocent.

“When you're hurting,” he says against your skin, “I want to know.”

Your lips tremble. You don’t pull away.

He squeezes your waist with his other hand.

“And when something makes you feel small?”

His voice drops another octave.

“I want to be the one who reminds you how much space you deserve to take up.”

Your breath catches.

His hands slide down your sides, over the curve of your waist, your hips, your thighs—slow, reverent, not rushing to the dirty part, just mapping you back into your own body.

“You hear me?” he murmurs into your skin. “This body right here? This body that carried you through hell this week? This body deserves softness and respect and every inch of space it wants.”

Your eyes blur again, but his thumb wipes under your cheekbone before a tear can fall.

“And if you can’t see that right now,” he says, voice dropping even lower. “I’ll see it for you.”

His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you toward him just enough that you feel the shift of his breath, the heat of him, the intention humming just under the surface.

“Come here,” he whispers. “Let me take it from here for a while.”

He steps backward, guiding you with him until the backs of your knees touch the bed.

Then, gently—almost ceremonially—he presses his lips to your collarbone.

Not hunting for bones that won’t show.

Not searching for hollows that aren’t there.

Just kissing you exactly where you are. Slow, warm, and certain.

You inhale sharply.

His mouth moves lower, to the slope where your throat meets your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly. As if to say: You’re here. I’m here. This moment is ours.

His hands glide to your hips again, thumbs sweeping the softest part of you, squeezing just enough to make you exhale a sound you weren’t expecting—half need, half relief.

“Good,” he murmurs against your skin. “There she is.”

Your pulse jumps at the low rumble—at how pleased he sounded. And he smiles against your shoulder like he felt it.

Before you can tilt your chin toward him again, the ripped dress strap slides down your shoulder under your cardigan.

You flinch, fingers darting up to grab it—instinctive, embarrassed.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “I forgot I still have this stupid thing on. Just, um, don’t look at—I can just—”

Schlatt’s hands catch yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.”

“That’s not helping,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck.

He shakes his head. “No. I mean—this isn’t what I’m seeing.”

He pushes the cardigan a bit, to touch the torn strap gently, like it’s a wound done to you, not something wrong with you.

“Turn around,” he says softly.

You hesitate...but do so. Slowly. He helps you take off the cardigan, laying it on the nearby ottoman.

His fingers find the hidden zipper at your spine—careful, unhurried. He lowers it inch by inch, keeping the fabric against your skin so nothing feels exposed before you’re ready.

When the zipper reaches the base of your back, he pauses.

“Arms up,” he says.

Your throat tightens. But you lift them.

The whole dress slides off you in one clean motion—down your ribs, over your hips, pooling at your ankles like it was never worthy of your body to begin with.

You stand there in your underwear and the soft tank you’d thrown on underneath for warmth, breathing hard like you’ve run a mile.

He sets the dress on the floor with zero ceremony.

Then he steps back to look at you. Slowly. Reverently.

“Much better,” he murmurs. “I wanna see you, not that thing.”

Your knees wobble.

“Lay back for me?” he asks. A question said in a tone that leaves your body warm and obedient.

You do.

Slowly lowering yourself onto the comforter, your head resting against the pillow, your thighs soft and parted instinctively, breath rising and falling in unsteady waves.

He looks down at you like you’re something holy.

Like nothing about you needs fixing.

And then—without breaking eye contact—he climbs onto the bed and settles between your legs.

Not touching yet.

Just letting the weight of his presence press the air warm and heavy around you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, admiring your form hungrily. “Now let me make you feel as beautiful as you actually are.”

✧✧✧

The mattress lifts with his weight as he crawls up over you—slow, deliberate, like he’s taking his time on purpose, letting you feel every inch of him coming closer.

He stays low, braced on his forearms so his body cages yours without crushing you, his hips settling between your thighs like this is exactly where he was meant to land.

Your breath stutters.

He notices. He likes that.

His nose brushes along your cheekbone—warm, grounding, almost domestic—before he murmurs against the corner of your mouth:

“Good girl. That’s it.”

Your thighs soften around him, opening without thought. His hands slide down your sides again—over the curve of your waist, the plush part of your hip, the thick, warm strength of your thighs. He squeezes once.

“You know what kills me?” he asks quietly, dragging his knuckles up the outside of your leg. “You walk around like I don’t think about this—” his hand cups the soft fullness of your hip, “—all the fucking time.”

Heat kicks through your stomach.

He kisses the underside of your jaw. Then the side of your neck. Then the curve where your shoulder meets your chest.

Each kiss is slow. Intention poured into every press of his lips.

“You think I see something wrong,” he murmurs against your skin, “when all I see is the sexiest woman I’ve ever fucking touched.”

You inhale sharply. He smiles against your shoulder—small, knowing.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers. “Don’t worry about… anything. Just tell me if something doesn’t feel good.”

It’s strange—how much permission that gives your body. Your muscles unclench all at once.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He pulls back just enough to look down at you. His hair is damp from the gym. His cheeks flushed. His expression? So, devastatingly, tender.

“Spread your legs for me.”

The way he says it—soft, like a favor, like a question he already knows you’ll say yes to—makes your breath vanish.

You open for him.

Slowly.

He watches the movement, pupils dilating.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s perfect. Look at you…”

His hands slide up the insides of your thighs—hot, steady, gentle where you need gentle and firm where you need grounding. He reaches the hem of your underwear and pauses.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod.

He shakes his head once. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

God, you feel it all the way down your spine.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Take them off.”

"Mm...I love hearing you say what you want."

He rolls them down your hips with both hands, slow enough that you can feel every inch of fabric sliding off. When they’re gone, he shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, taking a moment just to look at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he says, voice low and serious. “You don’t even know.”

Your face burns, but your thighs open a little wider anyway. His eyes flick down, his ears turning a new shade of red.

He stands again for a second, just long enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and shove them down his hips. They hit the floor with a soft thud. He steps out of them, breath steady but chest rising like he’s holding back more than he’s saying.

Your eyes drop automatically.

You don’t see everything—just the heavy outline of him, thick and unmistakably hard, the flushed tip brushing his stomach as he shifts. But you feel it in your stomach.

He catches your stare and smirks, low and warm. “C’mere.”

He climbs back onto the bed, knees bracketing your hips. He takes your left leg first, guiding it gently up until your knee rests over his right shoulder. Then your right leg, lifting it to mirror the first—your thighs spread, your hips angled up toward him, but your spine supported against the pillows, so nothing pinches or strains.

"Schlatt, what is this?"

He grins, pressing a kiss to the side of your calf. "Calling it the shoulder holder."

You can't help the snort. "Patent pending?"

"You know it, baby. Gonna copyright this shit just so no one else can use it. Feel good?"

You nod fast. “Feels… really good.”

His smile turns slow, wicked, reverent.

“Oh, sweetheart. we’re not even at good yet.”

He shifts forward until his chest is hovering over yours, your knees resting on the right side of his cheeks, his hands sliding under your hips to lift them into the exact angle he wants you.

You feel the first brush of him before you see anything.

The thick, warm weight of him drags along your center—slow, unhurried, the ridge of his head gliding through the slick he’s pulled out of you. The sensation sparks straight up your spine.

Your breath catches. Your hips twitch. Your hands fists in the sheets.

His grip tightens on your hips, steadying you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “You feel that?”

He rolls his hips again—deliberate, the head of his cock pressing right where you’re most sensitive, sliding through your wetness until you gasp.

“Jesus Christ…” You don’t even mean to say it. He groans quietly, like your reaction hit him somewhere vulnerable.

“You have no idea,” he breathes, lining himself up again, “how bad I want to be inside you.”

Your thighs tense around his shoulders.

“Then do it,” you whisper.

He exhales like you just snapped something inside him.

“You want more?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please...”

His eyes flutter shut for a moment—just a moment—like he’s savoring the word.

Then he opens them again and pushes forward.

Just the tip.

Just enough to stretch you, to make you gasp and grab at his shoulders, to feel the thick heat of him at your entrance—heavy, deliberate, filling you one slow inch at a time.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath when he feels how tight you are like this. “You’re...god...so warm...”

Your hips lift instinctively, trying to draw him deeper. He holds you steady, eyes flicking to your face.

“You okay?” he asks, breathless.

You nod, panting. “More. Please more.”

He swears again, low and filthy, bracing one forearm beside your head while the other hand stays locked under your thigh, lifting you into him as he pushes deeper—stretched around him and shaking.

When he bottoms out, your breath leaves your body in a sound somewhere between a moan and a cry.

His head drops to your shoulder, his voice wrecked. “Jesus, sweetheart… you feel perfect around me.”

He gives you a second—one, two, three breaths to adjust.

Then he tilts his head up, looks right into your eyes, and says:

“You ready?”

You nod.

It’s not even a word—just a sound, a breath, a surrender.

Then he pulls back and pushes back in with a long, deep stroke that makes your whole-body jump.

You gasp, back arching, hands flying up to grip his forearms.

“Oh, god—”

“Mmhm,” he groans, head tipping back slightly, jaw tight. “That's why I'm getting the fuckin' patent...”

He does it again—slow out, deeper in—letting you feel every thick inch of him, letting your body open around him at its own pace. The angle, with your knees hooked over his shoulder, sends him hitting a place inside you that feels like a live wire.

Your breath breaks.

“Schlatt—”

“I know,” he whispers, tightening his grip behind your thigh to pull you into the next thrust. “Trust. I feel it. Feel all of you...”

And he does—you can tell in the way his voice frays, the way his eyes flicker shut for half a second, the way his hips stutter like your body just punched the air out of him.

He leans down, shifting forward just enough to press your thighs closer to your chest—opening you wider, angling you perfectly, his face now hovering right above yours.

Your bodies are so close your breasts brush his chest with every breath.

Then he takes one of your breasts in his hand. He cups the weight of it, thumb brushing over your nipple—the same moment he thrusts deeper, harder, the combination making your head snap back against the pillow.

A broken moan rips out of you.

He groans at the sound, dragging his thumb over the peak again, slower. “Fuck, sweetheart. They bounce so pretty when you do that.”

Heat shoots down your spine. Your hips jerk up to meet him.

He chuckles at that, bending to take your nipple into his mouth.

The shock of warm lips around the sensitive skin sends your whole body tightening around him. Your hands fly into his hair without thinking, grabbing at the messy curls at the nape of his neck.

He groans into your chest—deep and hungry—and the vibration of it makes you whimper.

“Schlatt, fucking, oh my god—”

He pulls off just long enough to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown, mouth shining.

“Touch me,” you manage.

He huffs a half-laugh, half-moaned curse and thrusts into you harder—your thighs bouncing over his shoulder, your breath catching.

“I am touching you,” he growls. “Just...hard to focus with you clenching around me like that—fuck.”

Your whole body flares, heat rushing low in your stomach.

He kisses your breast again—open-mouthed, wet, hungry—and then rises back up, planting one hand beside your head while his other stays hooked behind your thigh, holding you open, holding you steady, holding you right where he wants you.

His hips start a rhythm now.

Slow, deep, devastating. Dragging every inch of him through you. Hitting that one spot that makes your vision stutter at the edges.

Your nails dig into his biceps. “Schlatt, please, please, don’t stop—”

His breath breaks on a laugh, wrecked and loving. “Baby, I’m not stopping until you’re shaking.”

Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, unable to hold back the slight whimper with each thrust.

“Yeah,” he groans, thrust hitting deeper. “Just like that. Let me hear what I do to you.”

Your entire body tightens, pleasure curling hot and fast.

His voice drops, rough and reverent:

“Let me take care of you. Let me handle you the way you deserve.”

Your breath catches.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, more certain. “Right here. Right around me. Let go, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Your mouth falls open. Your fingers claw at his shoulders. That hot, unbearable pressure snaps—

And you break.

Your whole body arches, thighs clamping around his shoulders, your cry muffled against his forearm as he keeps thrusting through it—slow, controlled, riding you through every tremor.

He groans, long and guttural, feeling you pulse around him.

“That’s it,” he whispers fiercely. “That’s my girl. God, you feel—fuck—”

Your climax rolls through you in waves, long and shaky, your chest heaving, your thighs trembling so hard he has to hold you steady, so you don’t slip from the angle.

It takes a long moment for your breathing to steady, for your vision to come back into focus.

He doesn’t move.

He just holds you—your legs draped over his shoulders, your body limp beneath him—his thumb rubbing your hip, grounding you back into your body.

Your pulse is just starting to slow when he lowers your legs from his shoulders—careful, hands warm and steady on your calves, kissing the inside of your knee like he’s apologizing to your muscles.

You’re still trembling.

He loves it. You can see it in the way his eyes darken as he lays your legs open across the sheets—still spread for him, still glistening, still soft with aftershocks.

He settles between them again, but doesn’t push in.

Not yet.

Instead, he leans over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other sliding from your hip to your jaw, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him.

His voice is low. Rough. Honey-thick.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I’m not done with you. Not just yet.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb strokes your cheekbone.

“But I need to ask you something first.”

Your eyes flutter half-lidded. “Ask.”

He leans closer—nose brushing yours, lips barely touching but not kissing, breath warm on your mouth.

“I want,” he says quietly, “to put you how I want you.”

Your pulse quickens.

“I want to hold you the way I’ve been imagining all week. I want to…” his voice cracks just slightly, like he’s been holding this back, “…fuck you like you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches around nothing.

“I need…” He swallows. “I need more of you. I need to feel you around me again. I want to…” his voice nearly breaks, “…spoil myself on you.”

Your breath stutters.

“Schlatt—”

“Say yes,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “It’s been a week. A fucking week of pretending I’m not thinking about you every five minutes, and then I walk in and see you like this...” his hands roam your waist, your hips, your thighs like he’s trying to relearn them, “...and I just… I need you.”

You whisper the only word you can.

“Yes.”

Everything inside him goes molten.

He drags you into his lap with a greedy, relieved groan—your legs falling open before you can think, his hands sliding under your thighs to pull you wide, wide enough that he can see everything he wants.

He stares.

And you feel the shift. Like he’s looking at the one thing on earth that belongs to him in a way nothing else ever has.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost awed. “Look at what’s mine.”

Your breath catches.

“And you’re still so soft for me—fuck—still warm from the first time—” His hand cups you from beneath, thumb brushing through your slick slowly, reverently. “—you’re gonna let me back in, aren’t you?”

You nod, shaky. He grabs your jaw gently, guiding your face up.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you back in. Inside...inside me.”

His eyes darken. He kisses you—he’s starving for more of you.

Then he breaks the kiss just long enough to line himself up again, the head of his cock sliding through the wet heat between your thighs.

You gasp at the new angle, gravity making you sink down onto his tip more easily than the first time. He groans involuntarily, hiding in your shoulder as he tried to control his dark, overly possessive thoughts of just throwing you down and fucking you.

“Fuck—this body was made for me. Just for me—mine.”

You whimper, thighs twitching around him. He smirks as he lowers you onto him inch by inch, watching the way you shudder, the way you cling, the way your breath stumbles.

But he doesn’t start moving.

Not yet.

He stays inside you. Buried deep. Holding you still with his hands on your hips, thumbs pressing possessively into the soft curve of your waist.

“Do you feel that?”

You nod, trembling.

“That’s all me,” he murmurs, kissing your neck. “All inside you. All of this—” he shifts his hips just slightly, pulling a gasp from you, “—is what you do to me.”

His hand cups your breast. His mouth finds your throat. His other hand slides beneath you to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to make your breath catch.

“You’re perfect,” he mutters into your skin. “Perfect for me. Perfect under me. Perfect around me.”

Your hips roll without meaning to—your body eager, chasing friction.

He inhales sharply.

“Fuck—yes—do that again.”

You roll against him, helplessly following the command, and his grasp tightens.

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t even know,” he groans. “You don’t know how good you make me feel. How much I want to live right here—right between your legs—until you can’t fucking walk.”

"Schlatt, please..." you whine helplessly, clinging to him.

“I should have come home earlier. Should’ve been here the second you started crying. Maybe I haven't been fucking you good enough to get it in your pretty little head how perfect you are.”

“Schlatt—” you gasp.

“That’s right,” he murmurs. “Say my name. Let me hear who you belong to.”

He kisses you again—deep, possessive, starving—and finally lifts your hips just an inch before pulling you back down onto him with a slow, devastating thrust.

You choke on a moan, eyes rolling back, feeling how thoroughly he fills you.

He exhales through clenched teeth.

“Oh my god, sweetheart...I’m gonna ruin myself on you.”

And then he starts moving.

Slow at first, savoring every clench, every gasp, every desperate sound you make. Then deeper. Then harder. Then with the kind of steady, consuming rhythm that makes your back arch and your voice break.

His breath stutters. His pace falters. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise.

“Let me—let me finish inside you—please—”

You grab his face.

“Do it, please,” you whisper. “Fill me. Show me.”

He shudders violently.

“Fuck—sweetheart—”

One more thrust. Another. A broken gasp—

And he spills inside you with a low, wrecked groan against your chest, holding you down on him like he can press the feeling into your bones.

“Mine. Mine. My girl. My everything.”

He keeps moving through it—small, shallow thrusts, desperate to stay inside you, desperate to feel every aftershock.

He doesn’t let you go. Doesn’t let you shift. Doesn’t let a single drop leave your body.

✧✧✧

Two days later.

The city is glazed in early-December cold, all polished windows and wreaths hung too neatly on storefront doors. Your company’s annual Christmas Gala is in four days, the kind of event where everyone pretends they don’t care about looking good when in reality the whole room is silently measuring each other’s outfits like blood sport.

But today?

You are not spiraling. You are not scrolling Instagram. You are not thinking about green, shown in HD collarbones.

Because Schlatt is holding your hand like he’s walking you into your coronation.

And the boutique he chose?

Not fast fashion. Not plus-size-as-an-afterthought. This is a real nice place. Elegant. Expensive. Tailored. One of those places where the lighting makes everyone look expensive. But nobody seems to be in the store today.

You stand just outside the gold and glass doors.

“Baby,” you whisper, pulling your coat tighter. “This place looks—”

“Perfect?” he supplies, smirking. “Yeah. That’s why I brought you.”

You elbow him, flustered. “I meant expensive?”

"And?" He leans down, kisses your cheek. “You’re worth every fucking penny.”

You swat at him, but your smile betrays you.

Inside, the boutique feels like a dream—soft carpeting, warm lighting, rows of gowns displayed like art pieces. A sales associate approaches immediately, smiling politely.

“Mr. Schlatt! Wonderful to finally be hosting your lovely guest today." She brushes a stray piece of hair back, glancing at you, offering a cheeky smile. "He is always in here but never buys anything! I'm so glad to finally put a face, and a dress, to the name he goes on and on about. Looking for anything in particular?”

Schlatt answers before you can.

“She needs options,” he says, confident, protective, warm. “A lot of options. And nothing that’s gonna make her feel small.”

The associate’s smile softens. “Of course. We have a new collection in back—structured bodices, strong lines, beautiful fabrics. Sizes across the full spectrum. XXS - 10XL, and we always have a tailor on hand if anything you love doesn't fit perfectly.”

You relax. Just a little. Schlatt's thumb rubs slow against your knuckles comfortingly.

You’re shown to a private fitting suite—plush chairs, mirrors that don’t warp your shape, a curtain heavy enough to block out the world.

Dress after dress is brought in. Eight… nine… ten…

Soft velvet. Deep greens. Royal blues. Stunning blacks. Iridescent fabric that shifts in the light.

Schlatt sits in the armchair like a man attending a fashion show designed for only him, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving you.

He mostly reacts to you, but he can't help but sneak in a low whistle when the dresses feature more lift to your chest, or more open slits. But he mostly takes notice of your reactions.

The way your eyebrows lift when a fabric feels right. The way your shoulders drop when you’re comfortable. The way your smile tries to sneak out but doesn’t commit.

Then, you step out in it.

The dress.

It’s simple at first glance—a deep winter green, satin but not shiny, fitted in a velvety, embroidered bodice with wide straps that make your shoulders look regal, and a skirt that drapes over your stomach and hips like it was sewn directly onto your skin. It hugs where you want it to, glides where you don’t, and cinches your waist without digging.

It makes your body look like the natural shape it is, the shape he loves. You didn't even need the tailor! It just...fits.

Schlatt’s reaction is immediate. His mouth actually falls open.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

You stand straighter. “Is it… okay?”

“Okay?” He stands—towering, golden in the boutique lights—walking toward you with steps too deliberate to be innocent.

He circles you once. Twice. Not touching. Just looking. Then he comes to stand behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, “you look—”

He exhales, shaking his head a little.

“I don’t even have a word for it.”

Your cheeks heat. You look away. He gently cups your jaw and guides your eyes back to your reflection.

“No. Look,” he whispers.

Your throat tightens. He steps closer, chest to your back, his warmth grounding you.

“This…” he says softly, “this is the woman who walked into my life and ruined me.”

You huff a weak laugh. He smiles in the mirror.

“This is the woman I brag about without meaning to. The one I dream about dressing up. The one the whole room won’t be able to stop staring at when we walk in.”

His hand slides to your waist, anchoring you like he always does.

“And if you want this one? We’ll take it.” He kisses your cheek. “If you want the other dozen you tried on? We’ll take all of them, too.”

You laugh through a swell of emotion. He watches you in the mirror, eyes soft.

“…Do you like it?” he asks softly.

“I love it,” you whisper.

He lights up.

“Then we’re getting it.”

You turn in his arms. “It’s expensive—”

“I don’t care.”

“Schlatt—”

He cups your face with both hands, forehead to yours.

“You deserve to walk into that party,” he murmurs, “feeling like the most beautiful woman in the room. Because you will be, and you will steal the show. And I want to be the man on your arm while you do.”

You feel your eyes line with tears, but you blink them back. Darn happiness, why does it have to make you so emotional? His thumb strokes your cheek once, slow and steady, like sealing the promise into your skin. Then—very gently—he presses one more kiss to your forehead and steps back.

“Stay right here,” he says softly. “Don’t move. I’m gonna go get her.”

“Schlatt,” you start. "You really don't need to—"

He gives you a look that stops you immediately. He just looks at you, so warm and sure in himself.

“I’m getting her,” he repeats, voice low. “You stay and look at yourself, sweetheart.”

The curtain falls closed behind him.

And for the first time since you stepped out in the dress… it’s just you. You and the mirror. You take a slow breath. Then another.

You turn slightly, looking at the line of your waist, the way the bodice holds you like it was made for your shape—not someone smaller, not someone else. You smooth your hands over the skirt, the way it drapes without clinging, the way it moves with you instead of against you.

You look at your shoulders. Your arms. Your stomach. Your hips.

All the parts you expected to hate under these lights… don’t look like enemies.

They look like you. Like a version of yourself you haven’t seen in years—confident, elegant, soft in all the right ways.

You shift once more and catch sight of your face.

Not the insecurity in your eyes. Not the stress. Just… you.

Warm. Glowing. Beautiful. Loved.

You swallow hard.

Outside, you hear Schlatt’s voice—low, polite, a little urgent: “Yeah. That’s the one. I know, first purchase! Hopefully, not last. She's too stunning to just have one.”

You smile, small at first, then really wide, looking at yourself smiling in the mirror becoming an infection, immediately smiling harder at the sight.

And for the first time all week, all month, maybe all year—

You believe him.