“oh, fuck!” blaise yells at his computer, aggressively slapping his desk as the words GAME OVER flash across the screen. feeling left out, you absentmindedly trace circles on his arm, trying to get his attention after hours of boredom as blaise has been busy gaming with his friends.
“what’s wrong, princess?” he questions gently, his attitude shifting in merely a second when his deep brown eyes land on you. noticing your pouty expression, he quickly pulls you onto his lap, holding you close.
“it’s just… you’ve barely been giving me any attention…” you admit coyly, nibbling on your bottom lip and tasting your own cherry lipgloss, unable to meet his gaze. he chuckles in amusement, never able to resist that adorable look you give him.
“baby, i can’t just leave. i’m doing another round with the boys… but you can sit here on my lap, okay?” he winks at you, his hands gripping your hips as your doe-like gaze lock onto his. his friends yell through his headphones for him to hurry up, prompting him to grab the controller again.
as the new round starts, you lazily grind your hips on top of him, trying to catch his attention. his eyes swiftly dart from the screen to you as he bites his lip, though he still tries hard not to get distracted from the intense game he’s playing.
you let out a moan when he suddenly flexes his thigh, the hard muscles pressing against your aching clit making you flutter your eyes shut— completely oblivious to the fact that you moaned a little too loud.
blaise doesn’t stop you, though, a cocky smile spreading across his face as he tries to focus on his game, while you uncontrollably pick up your pace. your hips desperately move on top of him, getting closer and closer to the edge.
“f—feels so good…” you moan softly, but your movements come to an abrupt halt when you hear theo, mattheo and lorenzo screaming through his headphones, causing your cheeks to heat up in embarrassment as your eyes shoot wide open.
“mate, what the fuck was that?”
“did i just hear your girlfriend moaning, blaise?”
“jesus fucking christ, you two are fucking disgusting!”
blaise, however, seems unfazed, the mischievous grin on his face only widening as his darkened eyes lock onto yours, the tent in his pants growing. you furrow your brows, feeling humiliated as the muffled sounds of the other boys’ laughter echo through his headphones.
“blaise! i didn’t know they could hear me!” “well, i did. and you gave them a good show, pretty girl. i think you deserve some attention now, hm?”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
reminder: reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated and keep me motivated. ty! ♡
Thank god Avid still had some tools on him, even though they were a bit worse for wear after years without use. For how many years, Avid was still unsure.
The first thing he noted when he broke through the surface into the crypt, was that someone had repaired the staircase. The stone had proven quite annoying to dig through, and Avid let out an annoyed sigh when he realised that the Crypt entrance had been blocked off with even more stone.
“Great..”
Avid’s voice was hoarse and raspy, a symptom of years without use.
And it probably doesn’t help that the last time he used his vocal cords, he was screaming for his life.
Avid shakes his head and takes a steadying breath. He can’t be thinking about that right now.
Before beginning to break down the stone wall that blocked him, Avid turns to look at the Crypt. Memories flood his mind; fighting off Pearl with Scott and Apo. Running into Abolish and Legundo. Being betrayed by Owen and Pyro.
Avid snaps out of his thoughts when he notices the beacon. It was black, and unlike what Avid was familiar with, it omitted no light.. What did that mean? Avid remembers the beacons he’d seen had been red, white and yellow, but he doesn’t recall any that looked like this..
“Things just keep getting more and more confusing. I hope Scott, Shelby and Drift are all still ok..”
Avid feels his chest constrict. He still didn’t know how long it had been. What if the others were cured? If they were human, and it had been a long time.. What if they were dead?
What if they weren’t cured, but were bested by the Militia in battle?
The more possibilities Avid’s mind ran through, the more he felt his blood rushing in his ears- He faintly recalls a memory of Scott and Shelby explaining that vampires don’t actually feel things like anxiety or a quickened heart, and that it's just a type of phantom reaction. Avid is convinced otherwise in this moment.
Avid shakily returns to destroying the cobblestone, wanting to get out of the cave as soon as possible.
The first rays of sunlight burn his hand- a familiar, yet oddly comforting sensation. A reminder that he is still a vampire; and a reminder that he is alive to at least some degree.
Avid’s first breath of fresh air.. He is alive. He is here.
The scent of the trees and the flowers fill his nose. And so does the familiar scent of livestock.
A deep hunger cuts through Avid’s being, like lightning in a night sky.
The fear and adrenaline had worn off, and replacing it was something primal. Something hungry.
Avid's body moved before he could think. He was starving- No. He was ravenous.
The amount of time between Avid spotting the herd of sheep, and the deaths of those very same sheep, was no more than a minute.
Avid felt stronger than he did when he awoke. Much stronger.
“I guess I'm back to level 3.. I didn’t realise I’d killed that many sheep. Scott would yell at me for not sharing, heh..”
The response from the forest was silence. Avid hugged himself, remembering he was still in Scott’s clothes.. Oh how he missed him..
Avid sighed and licked his lips, clearing them of any residual blood. He then took a moment to take in his surroundings. It looked familiar, but new at the same time- as if he’d been in this location before, but not as it was now. Tall trees surrounded him, shielding him from the sun's scornful gaze.
Another memory dredged to the surface. Didn’t Abolish and the town burn the forest? That was the whole reason the vampires decided to burn the walls of Oakhurst. Avid can almost remember the sounds of his own laughter at the time.
‘Wait.. If there’s a whole new forest.. It really has been a long time!’
With a renewed sense of panic and urgency, Avid navigated his way to a familiar path; the one to the castle.
With each step, the vampire’s head swirled. What would he find at the end of this path?
Would the castle still be there? What state would it be in? Is anyone still there? Is the beacon in the same state as the one at the crypt? That would explain why Avid couldn’t teleport..
Climbing the last of the hill, the Castle came into view. The place that he briefly got to call home, the place where he briefly had a family.
It looked… Bigger?
“W-What..? It looks almost better than before.. Does that mean..?” Avid mumbled to himself before shooting forward across the bridge- the one that now was fully patched and stable.
‘If the Castle is fine, then that means someone is here!’
Avid didn’t want to get his hopes up thinking about who the resident may or may not be.. But his heart couldn’t help but yearn.
Avid burst through the door-
“Scott!! Are you here? Shelby!? Drift?!” Avid's shouts echoed through the high ceilings. The hall was different than he remembered. There were more paintings, a new rug, more candles. It almost felt homey.
Before Avid could take in much more of the sight, he heard footsteps running towards him-
“Avid!?” Pearl’s shocked voice carried through the air, exasperation and confusion heavy in her tone.
Of all the people Avid expected to see here, Pearl was very low down on the list.
“Pearl?! What- What are you doing here! And- are you a vampire!?” As Pearl stepped closer, Avid took note of her red eyes, and- were those some kind of animal ears?
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?! We all thought you were dead! It’s been well over 100 years!”
Another set of footsteps
“Pearl! What’s- Oh my god, Avid!?” Cleo’s voice joined the fray, but Avid’s mind was still reeling from the newest information he’d learned…
“It’s been… one hundred… years..?” His ears started ringing..
‘Oh god… oh god oh god! 100 years! I’ve been dead and buried for 100 YEARS?!’
‘What about all the others? Pearl and Cleo are here.. Pearl is a vampire- that was part of the plan so that means things worked out right?’
‘What if Pyro and Owen are still around… Scott and Shelby wouldn’t let them stay after what they did… right…?’
‘... Do they even know what happened to me?-’
Flashes of memories fill Avid’s mind. He’s in a cave with Scott and Shelby, they’re talking about.. About him? When did this happen? Avid doesn’t remember how he got there. Why is he looking down at them? Why aren’t they acknowledging him-?
“AVID!!” Cleo’s voice pulls his mind from the unfamiliar memories.
An uneasy silence settles over the 3 of them. Pearl and Cleo exchange looks, both clearly just as confused as each other.
“Let’s go sit down.. I think we have a lot to talk about.” Pearl offers a hand to Avid, helping him off the ground- when did he get there?
Avid is led through to a room he doesn’t remember existing- there’s a lit fire and a table with about 6 chairs around it. Not as grand as the long table from the main hall, but more personal, as if it were designed for conversation rather than debate.
“Geez, I know you were dead and all, but you look a mess, Avid.” Cleo looks him up and down, eyes stopping on his face, clothes and hands respectfully.
“Yeah.. about that, uhm.. What.. what happened?”
Pearl sucks in a breath
“Well, assuming you don’t know anything after.. You.. died.. well..” There's an awkward silence before Cleo continues in Pearl’s place.
“I guess the first thing you’ll be happy to hear is that Scott is alive. So are Shelby and Drift.”
Avid lets out a loud sigh of relief as he sags into the chair. They’re alive!
“Where are they? Are they here?! Can I see them!?”
“Just hold on! Let us tell you everything else that happened. There’s a lot you should know before you go parading around looking for your stupid boyfriend.” Cleo huffs in annoyance
‘BOYFRIEND??--’
“Like Pearl said, it’s been around 100 years since you died. Owen and Pyro came back to the castle after you died and told us they killed you.”
Avid unintentionally leaned forward. He needed to know how everyone reacted.
Cleo continued
“Shelby looked like she wanted to strangle Pyro then and there.. Funnily enough, within the following days during the brunt of the fighting, she was the one who drove a stake through his heart.”
Avid’s mouth fell open a little.
“Shelby?! Shelby killed Pyro?!!” Avid was happy, yes- ecstatic that Pyro was gone even- but part of him will always see Shelby as the person she was when they first came to Oakhurst. The thought of her killing someone- her sire, whom she saw as a brother no less.. It was a bit shocking.
Pearl jumped in, “Although, I honestly thought Scott would’ve been the one to do it. He looked like he was just waiting for the perfect time.” Avid couldn’t stop the small grin that spread to his face
“Ugh, Pearl, why would you tell him that now? We need him to pay attention, not start fantasising about Scott.”
“Sorry, Sorry. I’ll let you continue.”
“Anyways… Pyro isn’t the only one who’s gone for good. Owen was cured, but chose to die rather than stay human.”
“No surprises there I guess.. Can’t say I’m too upset to learn those two died”
‘At least I don’t have to worry about them putting a stake through me again’
“Before Owen died though, he turned the Doctor. And this is where things get a little more complex..”
Pearl takes over and explains the process of turning and curing everyone.. And she explains that it didn’t work for Martyn, and that Martyn’s death caused Ren to fight until he had to be killed..
“Wow… so, Pyro, Owen, Maryn, Ren and Legs are all gone..? And if Abolish was cured and became human again, it’s safe to assume he’s probably dead after all these years as well. I know back then, I wanted to kill all the humans but now, I'm honestly sad it ended up that way.”
The trio sit in silence again. Within the silence, Avid remembers the people he met at Oakhurst, the friendships he forged, and the enemies he made.. Amongst the flurry of thoughts in his head, one shouts louder than the rest.
“You said that Scott, Shelby and Drift left together.. Where did they go?”
“Do you plan to find them?” Pearl looked at him knowingly.
“Yes. I wouldn’t really know where else to go if I’m being honest. But even before I died, I knew there was nowhere else I’d rather be, than by Scott’s side.”
“Eugh, stop, you'll make me sick. The three of them are living in a city called New York. They come by every year to visit your.. Your grave. They stay for a few days here in the castle before heading back home.”
“My grave..? They made me a grave?”
“Scott made you a grave.” Pearl smirks at him again. She and Cleo definitely have different opinions on Avid’s love for Scott.
Cleo pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs,clearly done with Pearl's antics.
“Pearl I swear, you are lucky I love you. Come on Avid, we’ll get you some ‘food’ and take you to your grave.. Then you can decide what you want to do.”
“Ok.. Thank you Cleo.”
The walk through the castle and the crypts was strange.. Avid’s body knew it had been years since he’d roamed these halls, but in his mind it had only been a few hours. The feeling was enough to give him vertigo.
The Castle had been redecorated, and even had some new rooms. There was a library, a study, a proper bedroom- all decorated with paintings, flowers and candles.
The crypt was most similar to what Avid remembered. The only major difference being one of the rooms appeared to have been altered into what appeared to be a giant circular bed..?
Avid figured he wouldn’t question it.
Stepping back into his old room was strange. It was as if he could picture himself pacing back and forth.
Pearl came up behind him, holding out a travel pack.
“Here you go Avid. In here is some crimson, as well as some raw meat- careful it doesn’t go rotten while you travel. We’ve also put in some clothes that are more relevant to the times, as well as some of Shelby and Drift’s old makeup.. It’s definitely expired, but it's better than not being able to cover those marks.”
Avid reached for the pack but paused
“What-What marks?”
“Oh.. you haven’t seen them? Right! Vampire… well in that case I have one more gift for you. Follow me!” Pearl shuffled upstairs before Avid could ask anymore questions.
Avid followed Pearl into a large bedroom, with a king bed. There were belongings strewn across the room, clearly belonging to two different people
‘Hold on-’
“Waiiitttt a minute.. Do you and Cleo share a room?” Avid’s voice held a playful tone
“That’s none of your damn business!” Cleo spoke up from behind, visibly annoyed at Avid’s presence in the bedroom.
‘I know what they are.’
“Ah-hah! Here you are!” Pearl turned to Avid, holding a small compact mirror.
“A mirror? But Pearl, we’re vampires, we can’t see our-”
Looking into the small mirror, Avid saw his own face looking back at him.
“-reflection.. But- but how?!”
“Isn’t it neat! Shelby brought it back for us along with a bigger one. A couple years ago they stopped making mirrors out of silver, which means we can see ourselves!”
Avid grabbed the mirror from Pearl’s hands, and looked at himself properly. Red eyes. White hair. Wow, he really did look like Scott.
The only thing ruining it, was the black streaks on his face.
He remembers now.. The demon.
“Oh… I think I might just be stuck with these.. Uhm… please don’t ask me to explain, because I’m not really sure.”
“Oh my god you are so weird! You can never be normal, can you?” Cleo had their hands on their hips, looking as if she does this 10 times a week. Some things never change.
There’s a slight shiver that goes up Avid’s spine when the group leave the Castle grounds. Last time he left, he never came back.
It’s weird to think of, considering Avid likely wouldn’t be back again this time too. Only this time, it was his decision.
Avid wasn’t sure why they decided to walk rather than bat to his grave. He guesses they didn’t want to overwhelm him. He’s not complaining too much. Seeing everything was cathartic in a way. It felt like he was walking through a dream, seeing everything so peaceful and without the stench of fear and death lurking in the shadows.
Avid can’t describe the feeling he gets when he sees his grave. He was disoriented, looking at a monument to a life that was never truly over.
His eyes drift to a weathered letter, lodged between some rocks.
Cleo notices his gaze and speaks up.
“Shelby writes to you every year. The letters usually end up being taken by the wind or the elements. But it's only been about 2 weeks since they last left, so this one hasn’t disappeared yet.”
Avid feels tears well up in his eyes. He was never forgotten.. Not in over a hundred years.
“Shelby…”
Avid reaches down to grab the letter, taking note of the wilted, half dead flowers nearby.
Avid can faintly hear whispers. Whispers of things said at his grave.
He should be scared, but instead he feels a disturbing sense of comfort..
Before he can truly listen to the whispers of the past, Pearl speaks up.
“So.. are you going to leave?”
A breeze blows between them. Avid’s snow white hair shifts, and for the first time since he’s begun this new life, he felt sure of himself.
“Yes. I think first, I’d like to walk around here. Visit some graves, relive some memories.. Then I’ll set on the path.”
“Good for you, Avid. I’m sure we’ll see you again at some point.. Take care. Don’t get killed again!” Pearl chuckles, placing a gentle hand on Avid’s back before giving a pointed look at Cleo, and beginning the journey back to the Castle.
The two remaining vampires stand in silence for a moment. Avid was never particularly close with Pearl, and he honestly can’t say he was all that close with Cleo either… but the two of them were in the same brood for a time. And as strained and toxic as those bonds were, they’re ones that stay with you, even if you wish they didn’t.
“I’m sorry for how I treated you before. And some of the things that I said… I’m glad that you’re ok, Avid. I hope you live happily with Scott.”
“Cleo.. that- that means a lot. Thank you..”
“Yeah yeah.. If you hurry and see everything while it’s still daytime, you should have the cover of night to start your journey, so get a move on. Don’t come back too early.”
Cleo morphs into her bat form and pauses for a moment… But she doesn’t say anything else as she flies away.
Avid smiles a little as he yells out “Hope you’ve enjoyed all this alone time with Pearl!”
He almost thinks Cleo didn’t hear him until a yell echoes through the trees-
“Shut up Avid!”
Avid giggles to himself. Cleo and Pearl have stayed the same all this time.. Although he had to admit they seemed happier, more at peace.
‘Good. They deserve it.’
Avid brings himself to sit on the ground in front of his grave, and brings the letter in front of his face. He opens it up, and starts to read..
Dearest Avid,
The year is now 2006! Nothing crazy has happened since last I wrote.
Except something crazy HAS happened! I finally sent my book to be published!
I’ve called it “The Vampire Diaries!” Scott said it wasn’t a very imaginative title,
But Drift liked it! Last I saw Sausage, he said he liked it too!
Speaking of Sausage, I haven’t seen him in aaaaages. He doesn’t often visit
New York anymore, not since his newest sequel to Twilight got popular! He’s been
Swamped with fan signings and events for months.
Scott is still doing ok! He recently learnt that just because a restaurant has high prices,
Doesn’t mean the find is necessarily high quality… Drift and I had to stop him from
Being too mean to the chef… some things never change, huh?
… I think he’s been missing you more lately. Last time we visited, he stayed at your grave
By himself for hours. He normally sits there himself after Drift and I leave, but last time he
Was there the whole night! I wouldn’t be surprised if he does the same again. My current
Theory is it’s because with all the new technology like the television, he’s seeing a lot
More depictions of romance. I think, when he sees them, he thinks of you.
We all think of you. I can’t believe it’s been this long…
I hope that wherever you are, you know that we love you, and that we miss you. I hope
We’ll meet again someday.
Lots of love, forever and until eternity
Shelby
Avid couldn’t help the tears that dropped to the page anymore than he could help the sobs that tore out of his throat.
“Oh Shelby… Drift… Scott..! I miss you all so much!” Avid clutched the letter to his heart, curling over it as if to protect it. He sobbed until his throat ached.
He missed his family.. He wants to celebrate with Shelby about publishing her book. He wants to laugh with Drift as they stop Scott from upsetting some poor unsuspecting human. He wants to sit with Scott and watch the various depictions of romance around them, using each one as a chance to learn how to love better.
Avid shakily breaths in as he stands, making his way towards the cliff.
‘I’ll find you! I promise!’
Avid falls forward, feeling the wind on his face and in his hair. Then the familiar feeling of flight and freedom rushes into him, as his bat form soars across the sky.
Avid had missed this feeling. The unaltered freedom that came with being a bat, causing a joy so electric that it consumed him fully. Flying had always made him feel alive in a way he’d never known before. He felt like the weight of his situation had vanished. As if he could breathe again.
With a new found goal, Avid began flying around the areas Cleo said there were graves.
The first he found was Legundo’s. Avid hovered a moment, unsure of what he felt.
“I hope you’re resting well Doc. Even if you don’t think you deserve it.” And with that he flew away.
The next grave, was Owen’s..
A deep feeling of satisfaction overtook Avid’s form.
“You got what you deserved. You were mean, and cruel- even to those who thought of you as family. I hope you rot, Owen. I’m only upset I wasn’t there to see it happen.”
Avid’s bat took to the sky again. The last grave he knew wasn’t in town, was Pyro’s. Avid read the words scripted on the headstone- “He could’ve been better, but couldn’t we all.”
The same satisfaction Avid felt at Owen’s grave was there- only this time it was tinged ever so slightly with grief.
“Pyro.. I know you kind of lost it at the end.. But I had hoped to see you as more of a brother, like Shelby did. It was easy for me to imagine Owen turning on me, but even after all you did to the humans, I never thought you would’ve betrayed me. Maybe that was Shelby’s influence. But I guess even her love has limits- something you are very familiar with.”
Avid goes silent, just for a moment. One somber moment.
And then he leaves.
As Avid flies over Oakhurst, he takes note of a few new buildings. On closer inspection, they were all various barns and greenhouses.
‘Probably Cleo and Pearl’s doing.’
Amongst the newer buildings, Avid recognises older structures, fallen apart and decaying- not unlike they were when Avid himself first set foot in the town.
All of the homes, once inhabited by the people Avid knew, were now empty. They had been claimed by the elements. It was nostalgic in a way. The kind of nostalgia that makes your heart ache, and a lump form in your throat- something akin to mourning.
But then, maybe Avid was mourning. Mourning the deaths and the life he missed.
Avid noticed 2 graves amongst the ruins. As he got closer, he read the names
“Martyn and Ren… of all the lives that ended here, you two deserved it the least. I’m sorry.”
Avid walked to the edge of town, where he walked past the graves Pearl said belonged to Abolish’s parents. He didn’t linger in their presence, deciding he didn’t know Abolish enough to stand at his parents’ graves.
Instead, he turned to face the decrepit town he once called home..
“Well… This is pretty scary haha.. I don’t even know why I’m stopping to say anything when I can just leave… I’ll probably be back at some point to visit anyways!...”
Avid closed his eyes for a second.. Letting his thoughts swim with memories.. Before opening them to gaze at the cursed town- one last time.
The sun was setting behind the town, a dying flame spilling through the streets in a way not unsimilar to the literal fire from a hundred years ago. Wind blew through the empty houses and the graves, like a restless ghost- that of which Avid knew there were many of.
It felt wrong, knowing he was leaving; a notion previously thought impossible.
Avid’s heart ached as he turned his back on what was once a town full of life.
But the further he walked into the night, the more his heart healed with the thought of the future to come.
Hope you enjoyed chapter 1! Tag list is open, let me know if you'd like to be added.
You’ve just moved into your new home. It was dirt cheap - it’s small and needs a lot of work, but it’s yours! And owning a house these days? Whoosh. The house is located in a small area, not far from the city. It’s surrounded by fields filled with cows and chickens. It’s peaceful and quiet aside from the occasional moo’s and children laughing. The neighbours look…kind? They stared at you from their windows while you were bringing in your stuff, that was when you tripped on the steps and told yourself to fix them. The first thing you absolutely need to do when moving to a new place is change the locks…can’t be that hard, right?
You went to a department store, looking around at the locks and all of the tools you’ll need. A few men came up to you, “Need help, sweetheart?”, “What’s a pretty lady like you doing here?”. Of course they all wanted to help but they were all balding middle aged men with a wedding ring. Not interesting. You got whatever you needed and sat down on the porch. The sun is scorching down onto you, tanning your arms but making you sweaty and overstimulated. “Oh for gods sake…” you mutter and sigh heavily, you run a hand over your face and resume your job. “Need help?” a rough voice speaks up from behind you, making you slightly jump up. You turn to look at the unknown man with wide eyes that softened as you glanced at him, you’re expecting some old, weird guy but it’s a…quite good looking man. He’s wearing a pair of jeans with a plaid shirt, his hair is messy which makes him way hotter. “Oh, hi…” You get up, briefly dusting off your trousers. “Schlatt” He offers a hand which you take absentmindedly, it’s large and calloused. “Y/N, nice to meet you.” You smile shyly “Changing locks, hm? No man around to help you? Not really a ladies job, is it?” Schlatt says, not in a judgy way - he’s just…testing the waters. “Nothing I can’t do…well, I thought I could handle it but” You shrug. “Let me help” He takes the screwdriver out of your hand, gently brushing it and kneels down, getting to work. “I’ll make some coffee.” You smile and walk inside, satisfied with the fact you don’t need to sit out in the hot weather pretending to know how to change a lock. He walks in before you can even finish setting the coffee down “That fast?” You ask, a bit shocked. “Not that hard” He shrugs and looks around “Nice place, a kind old lady used to live here” You nod in understanding “Yeah, it’s pretty old but, I don’t mind…Just slowly going to do some work around here-“ “I can help out” he offers before you can finish your sentence. “Oh…that’d be nice” You smile a bit
Ever since that week you’ve noticed him more and more. He’s just sort of lurking from a distance, looking for a reason to talk to you. Bringing in groceries? He’s there. Trying to fix those stairs you keep tripping on? He fixes them in an hour. He’ll mow for you, help you at with any small or big renovations. One day he even invited you over for dinner. At some point he was more often at your place than at his, sleeping over, eating at your place, doing everything he swears is a ‘man’s job’. You did end up starting to date, there weren’t many dates, just seeing eachother everyday made you inevitably fall in love.
The way he looks when he’s just chopped up wood? Hair messy, panting, sweaty. He gets up early to get work done before the heat gets unbearable, and constantly doing stuff for you.
A part of your weekly routine has been taking sunset walks throughout the forests nearby your home. You spot deers from afar, search for mushrooms and listen to the serene river. The sun peeks through the trees making it all a wonderful ending to the day.
i love ur fics sm!! can we get actress x schladdy ?? and like he worships her and she eats that up
╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * just say the word, doll ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮
imagine: you're the darling of the silver screen—all pink silk
and painted smiles. he's your manager, the man who keeps the
wolves at bay. but after months of stolen glances and careful
distance, the line finally snaps.
╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊
﹒₊✦ a/n: old hollywood au with a possessive!manager schlatt
who's been pining for his starlet client?? yes please. this one's
tender, filthy, and just a little obsessive. hope you love it angel ♡
warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · 1940s hollywood au ·
power dynamics (manager/client) · possessive behavior · wall sex ·
size difference · praise kink · tender aftercare · soft ending
enjoy, sinners. (〃‿〃)♡
✧✧✧
the crowd roared your name like a prayer, flashbulbs bursting white against the pink silk draped over your frame. pastel chiffon fluttered with every step, soft as spun sugar, the sweetheart necklace complimenting your pearled neck.
you smiled the way they wanted you to smile — bright, airy, just a little bit shy — the kind of smile that made men swear they'd never seen anything so pure and feminine.
"miss, miss, please! an autograph?"
you leaned forward, perfume sweet as roses, signing your name with a flourish of loops and hearts, french tipped nails curling delicately around the playbill. he clutched it to his heart like it was gospel, blowing you a kiss, his friends hooting and pushing him as you laughed like a bell.
the papers would eat it up tomorrow. angel in pink steals the show once more! our darling of the silver screen. they always did.
and behind you, just at the edge of the spotlight, schlatt kept his place. manager. handler. the man who kept contracts in order and the wolves from circling too close.
compared to you, twirling, all lightness and bubbles—he was broad shouldered, fedora tipped low, cigarette glowing faint between his fingers. he didn't smile. he didn't wave.
but his eyes never left your figure as you strutted your way down the carpet, smiling happily, even if the lights were beginning to sting your eyes.
the shouting grew louder, the press shoving forward, the questions sharp as the camera flashes.
"y/n! y/n! over here, sweetheart — who designed your gown?"
"give us a smile, darling, one more!"
"are the rumors true—"
your breath caught a little as the edges of your smile tightened.
schlatt stepped foreard, broad shoulders filling the gap like a wall, one hand lifting slow, deliberate. the cigarette burned low between his fingers as he drawled, voice rough.
"alright, fellas, that's plenty. you got your shots, you got her to smile for ya—don't get greedy."
his voice wasn't very loud, but with you basically hiding behind him, his words rolled over the crowd with a weight of authority.
a few reporters tried to call out again, but schlatt tipped his head, fedora shadowing his eyes.
"your cameras will still work tomorrow. let the lady breathe."
the noise faltered, the shuttering slowing down just enough.
and then his hand was at the small of your back—warm, steady, guiding you through the last stretch of velvet rope. "c'mon doll," he murmured for you alone, the gravel in his voice making your chest rumble. "let's get you inside."
✧✧✧
after the premiere…
✧✧✧
inside, the noise dulled to a hush. the heavy doors shut behind you, muting the chaos of flashbulbs and shouting. only the echo of your heels on marble filled the lobby as schlatt guided you through, his hand still steady at your back.
you were glowing. flushed from the crowd, eyes bright. "did you see their faces? when the curtain went down—oh, schlatt, they loved it. i could hear them clapping even before the lights came up!"
he laughed low, the sound rolling out of him warm and rough. "damn right i saw it. half the joint was on their feet, ready to cheer just as the last line was said. didn't even wait for the credits."
you beamed at him, clinging to his arm as the driver held the car door open. "really?"
"really," he said firmly, a grin tugging at his mouth as he ducked into the car behind you. the door shut, muffling the city, and he turned toward you, eyes gleaming under the brim of his hat. "you had 'em eatin' outta your hand, doll. whole room wrapped 'round your little finger."
you giggled, silk and chiffon skirts pooling as you kicked off your heels, and the car lurched into motion. "you think so?"
"i know so," he shot back, leaning closer, his grin wide—the type no one else gets to see but you. "been in this racket long enough to know when someone's the real deal. and baby—you're it. the whole goddamn package. and they eat you up every time.
you keened and flushed at his words, glowing brighter than any spotlight. the city lights streaked through the window, catching in your pearls, your lashes, the curve of your smile.
"you're too sweet to me…" you mumbled, half hiding behind your hand, but your foot brushed against his pant leg as you said it.
his eyes flicked down, then back up, his mouth quirking to the side. "sweet? nah. i'm just tellin' it straight. the crowd's crazy for you. i'm just the schmuck who gets the best seat in the house…"
you laughed, kicking off your other heel, your toes nudging his thigh now. "…mm. doesn't sound very professional, schlatt."
he shifted in his seat, shoulders rolling like he was trying to shake it off. "doll…" the word came out low, a warning he didn't really mean.
you tilted your head, feining innocence, even as your toes pressed a little firmer into his leg. "what? managers are supposed to…support their clients, right?"
the driver's eyes flicked to the mirror, then away. you bit back a grin.
schlatt cleared his throat, leaning back against the leather seat like it might ground him. "support don't usually mean lettin' some brat play footsie in front of the whole damn car."
"oh?" you blinked at him, all wide-eyed sweetness. "so i should stop, then?"
his jaw tightened, his voice dropping. "…i didn't say that."
you smirked, sliding your toes higher up his thigh. his breath caught, just barely, but you heard it.
"jesus, doll," he muttered, running a hand over his face, hiding the grin breaking through. "you're gonna kill me one of these days…"
"don't be so dramatic, mr. manager," you said lightly, leaning back, still nudging him. "you like it. don't you?"
his eyes cut to you, sharp under the brim of his hat, but the way his mouth curled betrayed him.
"yeah," he admitted finally, gravel low in his chest. "yeah, i like it."
you smirked, triumphant, and slid your toes higher, brushing right against the inside of his thigh.
his hand shot out fast, big fingers wrapping around your ankle. he held you there, firm but careful, his grip sending a jolt straight up your leg.
your breath caught. "schlatt—"
you'd teased him before. that was part of the game: batting your lashes, leaning too close with a shirt too small, brushing his sleeve as if by accident. he'd always played along with that crooked grin, always let you push, always kept it just on the edge of harmless.
but this was different. his skin was warm against your ankle, rough where his thumb pressed into you, holding you still. your pulse jumped so hard you felt dizzy.
his eyes stayed on you, sharp under the brim of his hat, but his voice dropped quieter, more deliberate. "that's enough, doll."
your heart tripped — not from fear, but from the way his words curled hot in your chest. you couldn't stop the smile pulling at your lips, even as this nervous heat climbed your neck.
he sees your grin. his mouth twitched, but he forced his jaw tight instead.
"i shouldn't," he muttered, so quiet you thought he was talking to himself. "you keep pushin', and i'm not gonna stop at this."
the driver shifted in the front seat, clearing his throat. schlatt's hand lingered another second, thumb stroking your ankle, his fingers climbing up your calves, and you see him take a deep, shuddering breath with his eyes closed, like an addict who just took their first hit in months.
your pulse jumped, hard enough that it almost hurt.
he’d touched you before — guiding you through a crowd, steadying you at the stairs, handing you a pen. things a manager’s supposed to do.
but this wasn’t that. this was heavier. firmer. and for a split second, you wished he wouldn’t stop. wished he’d pull you into his lap right there, driver be damned.
you liked watching him fight it — the way his jaw worked, teeth grinding, lips tightening into a straight line.
because schlatt wasn’t like the other men. they fawned, they pawed, they wanted a piece of the starlet. but him? he was steady. solid. he wanted all of you, all the time, no matter what state you were in—when you were yelling at him, crying on set, kissing up to other men, or jealously demanding to be the only client he managed.
that’s what made you want to break him. not to hurt him, not really. you just needed to know if he’d still look at you the same once the shine came off. if he’d stay when you stopped being perfect, when the act slipped and the picture cracked. because everyone else loved the performance; he was the only one who made you feel like there was something underneath it worth seeing.
his thumb pressed once more into your calf before he let go. his hand dropped back to his knee like he had to sit on it to keep from reaching again.
you sat there grinning to yourself, face hot, trying not to let him see.
nobody said anything else. the only noise was the hum of the tires and the city passing outside.
by the time the car slowed in front of his office, your chest felt tight. this wasn’t the same game anymore, and you knew it.
✧✧✧
in schlatt's office…
✧✧✧
the office smelled faintly of smoke and old paper, the kind of place where cigars burned slower and phones rang too often. the blinds were drawn, city lights bleeding through in thin gold stripes across the desk. papers were stacked high in one corner, contracts half-signed, a script with your name typed bold across the cover page.
his jacket was slung over the back of the chair, his tie loose, sleeves rolled past his elbows. it didn’t look staged for you — it looked lived in, like he’d been here pacing all afternoon before the premiere.
on the credenza sat a chilled bottle, already sweating, with two coupe glasses beside it. not the finest champagne money could buy, but good enough — crisp, dry, with a bite that stuck to the tongue. the kind of bottle a man kept on hand for moments he swore he didn’t plan for, even though he always did.
“see?” schlatt said, setting his hat down on the desk, flicking the cork loose with a practiced twist. the pop cracked through the silence, fizz rushing up the neck. “told you — tradition.”
you laughed under your breath, setting your clutch down by the stack of papers, skirts swishing as you moved closer. “every premiere, huh?”
“every one,” he answered, steady as he poured, the bubbles catching the light like tiny sparks. “you knock ‘em dead out there, we toast in here.”
the glass was cool against your fingers when you took it from him, brushing his hand for half a second. the champagne fizzed sharp at the top, little bubbles snapping as if they couldn’t wait to be drunk.
you held it up, arching a brow. “to what?”
he leaned back against the desk, glass loose in his hand, and gave you a look that felt heavier than the whole crowd outside.
“to you, doll,” he said. “to my star.”
you tipped your glass to his, the clink sharp in the quiet.
the champagne bit down on your tongue, not sweet, not smooth — but sharp enough to keep you buzzing. you let it linger before setting the glass back down, tilting your head at him.
“to me, huh?” you said lightly. “…don’t you get tired of sayin’ that?”
his mouth tugged into a grin, one corner only, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. “not when it’s the gospel.”
you laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “sounds like a lotta malarkey, mister manager. flattery’s cheap, y’know.”
he tipped his chin, glass turning lazy in his hand. “cheap’s what they write about you in the papers. what i’m tellin’ you? that’s the real thing.”
you arched a brow, lips quirking. “oh? and what makes you such an expert?”
“experience,” he said flat, no hesitation. “i’ve seen every two-bit ingénue this town’s tried to shove down the public’s throat. none of ‘em had what you got. none of ‘em could hold a room like you.”
you tilted your head, lashes low. “and what exactly do i got, schlatt?”
his jaw flexed. “everything that counts.”
you let the silence linger for a moment, then chuckled, setting your glass down with a sharp little clink. “you oughta bottle that line. sell it to every wide-eyed girl with pin curls and a smile. make yourself a fortune.”
“don’t need a fortune,” he said, leaning forward now, elbows heavy on his knees, his grin wolfish. “not when i've got you.”
the words hit harder than you expected. your stomach flipped, your pulse skipped.
so you pressed him. you stepped closer, chiffon skirts whispering against the desk as you leaned your hip on it, setting yourself right in his space. “dangerous talk for a manager,” you purred, voice syrupy. “people might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”
his eyes cut up to yours, sharp under the brim of his hat. “let ‘em.”
you smirked, leaning down just a little, close enough to smell the smoke on his shirt. “that a confession, schlatt?”
his glass hit the desk with a heavy thunk, his hand curling on the wood like he needed to anchor himself. you were close now, close enough that your nose nearly brushed his.
the fizz from the champagne still crackled faint on your tongue, but the air between you was thicker, hotter.
for a long moment, neither of you moved. just breathing, staring, waiting for the other to blink first.
then his hand was on the back of your neck, dragging you forward. the kiss hit hard, messy, teeth knocking, his mouth hot and insistent on yours. the glass tipped, champagne spilling over the desk, but neither of you moved to catch it.
your hands fisted in his shirt. his sideburns scraped your skin, his breath hot as he pressed closer, one hand locked at your waist, the other gripping the desk like he needed something to hold him back.
but you didn’t. you pushed forward, knee hitting the desk, skirts dragging across the wood as you hauled yourself over it. papers slid to the floor. an ashtray clattered and rolled.
he grunted when your weight tipped against him, the chair scraping back an inch as you straddled his lap. his arms went around you fast, steadying you before you could even get balanced.
your chest pressed to his, both of you breathing hard, the kiss breaking for a second only for him to catch your mouth again, rougher, hungrier. your hands shoved his tie loose, fingers digging into his shoulders.
the office was a mess around you—papers scattered, champagne soaking into contracts and scripts, the glass rolling off the edge—but you barely noticed. everything was just him. his lap, his grip, his mouth.
your skirts bunched around your thighs as you shifted in his lap, trying to get closer, trying to feel more. his chair groaned under both your weight, his arms locked tight around you, one hand splayed wide against your back, the other gripping your hip.
he dwarfed you. every move you made, every shift forward, he caught you, held you, steadied you. your chest heaved against his, your legs straining to stay around him, and he just sat back, massive in the chair, letting you squirm and tug at his tie like you were a doll on his knee.
you couldn’t stop yourself. you wanted him — had wanted him longer than you’d ever admit. for all your pink dresses and polite giggles, your thoughts when it came to him had never been pure. they were sharp and needy and shameful, and now they were spilling out of you in the way your hips pressed against his.
he groaned, low in his chest, catching your wrists before you could tug his tie all the way loose. his grip covered you completely, his voice rough, strained.
“careful, doll…”
your eyes flicked up, dazed. “why?”
his jaw flexed. he looked wrecked, like a man fighting with himself. “because you don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”
heat curled in your stomach, stronger at his words. “i do,” you whispered. your voice cracked, but you didn’t look away. “i’ve thought about it. about you. more than i should.”
his eyes closed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, a rough breath leaving him. his hands were still on you, big and heavy, but shaking like he was holding himself back.
his forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged. “jesus, sweetheart…you’re too goddamn innocent for me.”
your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at you. “you kissed me,” you whispered, lips trembling but sure. “you started it.”
his jaw tightened. “i shouldn’t have—”
“—but you did.” you rocked your hips, just a little, feeling the thick strain of him through his slacks. his whole body tensed, a groan ripping out of him. “and you don’t do anything you don’t mean.”
“doll—” his voice cracked, warning again, but weaker this time.
you leaned in, pressing your lips to his jaw, your neck, whispering against his ear. “i’ve thought about this. about you. all the time. in the car, in the mirror, when i’m supposed to be smiling pretty for everyone else—”
he cursed under his breath, big hands sliding down to your hips, trying to still you, but you rocked again and he broke on a groan, his head snapping back, eyes blown wide.
“you’re gonna drive me outta my mind,” he rasped, his fingers digging hard enough to bruise.
“then let me. stop holding back,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “stop pretending you don’t want this as bad as i do.”
his chair screeched against the floor as he stood in one brutal motion, hauling you up with him like you weighed nothing. you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, but before you could catch your breath he had you laid out across his desk, papers scattering, the half-empty champagne glass shattering as it hit the ground.
he loomed over you, chest heaving, his tie loose, his shirt pulled half out of his slacks from your hands.
“you got no idea what you’ve done to me,” he growled, bending down to claim your mouth again, rougher this time, hungrier. his hands slid down your thighs, spreading you open against the desk. his weight caged you in, broad shoulders blocking the lamplight, chest pressed down against yours so you could barely breathe.
his breath was ragged, hips grinding down into you hard enough that the desk groaned. his mouth was hot against your ear when he finally let the words slip.
“you got no idea how bad i’ve had it, doll,” he muttered. “sat through dinners watchin’ you smile at men who didn’t deserve it. wanted to snap their forks in half just to get you to look at me instead.”
his hand slid higher up your thigh, grip heavy, holding you still. “press conferences, interviews — i’d stand behind you, hear every slick question they threw at you, and all i could think was how much i wanted to carry you out of there and tell ‘em you weren’t theirs to pick at.”
you whimpered when he rolled his hips again. his voice dropped lower, rougher.
“that night in chicago — you dropped your script on the curb. bent down in that skirt. i saw every pair of eyes on you, and i swear i almost lost it right there. i wanted to cover you up, haul you into the car, keep you where nobody could stare.”
your fingers clutched at his shirt, your chest heaving against his. he kissed you again, teeth catching, then broke away just long enough to rasp against your cheek.
“and at the studio, doll — you sittin’ pretty in pink with your knees crossed. everyone starin’ like you were a meal, and me? i was in the back thinkin’ about how i’d already claimed you in my head a hundred times over. filthy shit. darker than i should ever tell you. and i still couldn’t look away.”
he ground down harder, making you gasp, his forehead pressing to yours.
“i’ve been eatin’ myself alive…pretendin’ i didn’t want to lock you away and worship you till you cried. all while you sat there smilin’ sweet, actin’ innocent, knowin’ damn well what you do to me.”
his words tumbled out rough, his hips grinding down harder with every confession. you clutched at his shirt, breathless, your head spinning at the way he sounded — gutted, desperate, filthy.
you swallowed, voice low. “tell me.”
his eyes snapped to yours. “what?”
“the one you go back to,” you said, your mouth brushing his. “the fantasy you can’t shake. the thing you think about when no one’s lookin’. tell me.”
he froze, breath coming sharp. his jaw clenched, his hands digging into your thighs like he could crush the question out of you.
“y/n…”
“tell me,” you pressed, your voice almost a whisper, but steady. “please.”
for a long second, he looked like he might choke on it. then it ripped out of him, low and wrecked.
“the wall,” he rasped. “always the wall. i picture you pressed up against it, skirt up around your waist, your legs locked around me while i—” his breath broke, his hips grinding down into you harder. “fuck. thought about it so many times i could paint the picture from memory. you beggin’ me to hold you up and never let you down.”
your chest heaved, dizzy with the weight of how fucking hot that sounded. you stared up at him, lips parted, and then you smiled — slow, wicked.
“the wall, huh?”
before he could answer, you slid out from under him, slipping off the desk. his hands twitched, reaching like he didn’t want to let you go, but you just walked across the room, your heels clicking against the wood.
he froze as you stopped by the wall, turned, and leaned back against it. your skirt rode higher as you hitched it up yourself, hands smoothing it over your thighs.
“like this?” you asked, feigning innocence, tilting your head.
his eyes went dark, his chest rising hard, but he didn’t move.
you hooked one foot up against the wall, opening your stance just a little, eyes locked on him. “is this what you think about, schlatt?”
he cursed, rough and guttural, and in two strides he was on you.
your gasp caught sharp when his hands grabbed under your thighs, hauling you up in one motion. your legs wrapped around him without thinking, skirts riding high. the plaster thudded with the force of your back hitting it, his chest crushing against yours.
he let out a hot breath. “you’re not real.”
“i’m right here,” you said, voice shaking a little now. “so what are you waiting for?”
your back hit the wall hard enough that it shook, but he barely blinked. he lifted you like you weighed nothing, palms under your thighs, holding you open against him. your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, your heels sliding useless against his back.
you couldn’t stop the thought — he’s huge. he could keep me here forever if he wanted.
his chest pressed you flat, his shoulders blocking out the light, his chops scraping rough against your neck as his mouth found your skin. you gasped, clinging harder to his shirt, dizzy with the way he filled your vision.
“schlatt—” it slipped out raw, shaky.
he groaned against your throat, his breath hot. “look at you. hangin’ off me like an icicle.” his grip shifted higher, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. “so fuckin’ small. i could break you in half.”
your stomach flipped. you tipped your head back, forcing his mouth away just long enough to breathe. “…you could try…”
he laughed at your mischevious tone, forehead pressing hard to yours, his jaw tight. “you don’t know what you’re askin’, sweetheart.”
your lips brushed his, daring. “i know exactly what i’m askin’.”
his breath came hot against your face, ragged, uneven. one of his hands slid down from your thigh, fumbling with the hem of your skirt, shoving it higher and higher until the silk bunched around your waist.
the other hand stayed locked under you, holding your whole weight up like it was nothing.
“schlatt—” you gasped when his fingers hooked into the thin strip of your panties.
he didn’t answer. just gave a sharp tug.
the fabric gave way with a snap, tearing right off your body. the sound was obscene in the quiet room, quick and final.
you yelped, heat rushing to your face. “you—”
he crushed his mouth over yours before you could finish, swallowing the shock out of you, his beard rough against your skin. he tossed the ruined panties aside without even looking.
you were bare now, pressed open in his grip, your ass resting heavy in his big palm.
he groaned into your mouth like the feeling of it satisfied a deep desire in him.
then you felt the shift — his free hand dropping to his belt, working it open with a speed that told you how long he’d been waiting for this. the metal buckle clinked, his zipper rasped loud, the sound sharp as a knife.
your stomach knotted, your body tightening around nothing.
his hand went inside, knuckles bumping your thigh, and then he was out—hot against your skin. you looked down without meaning to. thick. heavy in his fist. the head flushed dark, a small smear of slick catching the lamplight. a vein ran the length of him, pulsing under his grip. he stroked once, slow, breath stuttering against your cheek.
your mouth went dry. “oh…shit.”
“yeah,” he muttered, voice rough. “yeah.”
he shifted you up in his hold, palm under your thigh, opening you that last inch until you could feel the blunt heat of him nudge between your lips. the contact made you jolt. you were embarrassingly wet; he found it immediately, the head sliding through the slick like a hot spoon through butter.
“you sure?” he asked, barely a breath. his forehead pressed to yours, eyes blown wide.
“yes,” you said, quick and shaky. “do it.”
he lined up, jaw tight. the first push was steady, no snap to it—just pressure. a long, slow drag as your body gave. the stretch stole your breath; you clutched his shoulders and felt him pause, holding still until your nails eased.
“good girl,” he rasped, his nose nudging almost comfortingly at your jaw. he eased in another shallow inch. your chest hitched; heat crawled up your neck. you nodded, tiny, and he did it again—slow, careful, letting you adjust, letting you feel every millimeter.
you could hear everything: both of you breathing too loud, the faint wet sound each time he sank a little deeper, the tiny creak of the wall at your back. your legs tightened around his waist on instinct. he groaned into your mouth at the squeeze.
“fuck—so tight,” he ground out. his hand slid higher, spreading you wider in his palm, holding you exactly where he wanted you. “you’re takin’ me like such a good fucking girl…that’s it, there you go...”
another inch. another. your eyes blurred; it was too much and exactly right at the same time. he kissed you through it—short, messy presses of his mouth like he couldn’t stand not touching you somewhere.
you felt the base of him brush you and realized he was all the way in. full. deep. your body fluttered around him, a nervous and relieved sound stuttering out of your throat.
you blinked at him, still breathless. “schlatt—”
"if you told me to, i’d cut every deal, burn every reel, tear down every marquee with your name on it—just to keep you for myself. i’d do it. don’t think i wouldn’t.”
your pulse spiked. “that’s… insane,” you whispered, but you didn’t pull away.
“yeah,” he muttered, almost a laugh, “yeah it is. but you made me like this, y/n. months of watchin’, months of touchin’ you like glass while thinkin’ about draggin’ you off stage and keepin’ you where no one could touch you.”
his forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark, breath hot. “say the word, and i’ll make it true. say it and you’re mine tonight. not just a client. not bound to some stupid, paper contract. mine.”
your nails dug into the back of his neck, forcing his eyes to stay on yours even as your thighs trembled around him. your smile curved slow and wicked, the kind you never gave the cameras.
“yours?” you murmered. his breath hitched; you felt it against your lips. “if you’re gonna say things like that…” you leaned in, whispering against his mouth, “…then worship me. right here, right now.”
his forehead stayed pressed to yours, but his grip on your thighs changed — no more manager’s hands steadying an innocent starlet, just a man’s hands holding on like he’d finally found the woman he’d been pining for forever.
his fingers dug into your soft flesh, lifting you an inch, dropping you back down, a slow, helpless roll of his hips that made both of you gasp. you held onto him tighter, groaning, your head turning to the side, exposing your neck.
“mine…” he muttered against your neck, not even realising he was saying it. “mine…mine…”
he shifted you higher, your back arching against the wall as he buried himself in you again and again, deeper, rougher now, like every inch was a confession. every roll of his hips a release from months of silent longing.
is this what it feels like to truly be the shining star in someone's life? and you could have had this months ago? you grip onto him tighter, teeth gritting together with a strange mix of deep regret and swelling pleasure.
your breath hitched as his hips snapped up again, dragging a desperate sound from your throat. your nails clawed at his back, searching for something to anchor you to the moment.
“fuck,” you gasped, lips brushing his ear. “we should’ve done this sooner…”
he groaned like that broke something in him, like the idea of having you tonight, then having to wait to have you again had become unbearable now that he’d finally had a taste of you.
“i’m yours. you hear me? all this, all me — it’s yours. they can watch me onstage, they can scream my name... but they don’t get the real me.” you tightened around him deliberately, voice catching. “only you.”
his head dropped to your shoulder, a broken sound spilling from his chest as he thrust up hard enough to rattle the frame of the wall behind you.
“that’s right,” you breathed, half-drunk on the sound of him falling apart. “go on, schlatt. worsh ip me…”
his answer was a sound, not a word—something raw that tore up from his chest. your name tumbled out of it, half-curse, half-prayer.
the rhythm broke apart, every motion turning ragged, desperate, like he was trying to memorize you through touch. the room seemed to collapse to breath and heartbeat and the crack of the wall behind you.
breath. heat. the scrape of his shirt against your skin. the weight of him, all that strength shaking now. your name again, a broken whisper, and then his forehead pressed to yours like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let you go.
then the world went white-hot and soundless, the air splitting open around you. the pressure broke like a thunderclap, every nerve flashing at once as you clung to him. a shiver raced down your spine; his answering growl vibrated through your chest, low and rough, grounding you as the world came back into focus.
✧ ✧ ✧
for a long moment neither of you spoke. the city outside was still roaring, but in here it sounded far away, like waves under glass.
you could feel him start to breathe again—slow, careful, the kind of breath a man takes when he’s afraid to wake himself from a dream.
“you alright?” he murmured finally. his voice was hoarse, worn down to gravel.
you nodded against his chest. “more than alright.”
he exhaled a laugh that barely made it past his throat. “good,” he said, voice low. “that’s good.”
after a moment he shifted, easing you back to your feet. your legs wobbled; he caught you without thinking, one hand at your waist, the other smoothing down the back of your dress. “easy,” he murmured. “got you.”
the air between you was warm and heavy, thick with the smell of smoke and champagne. you could still hear his heartbeat where your cheek rested against his chest. it was slowing, steadier now.
“you should sit,” he said quietly. “there’s a bathroom through there—towel, mirror. i’ll grab you some water.”
you nodded, still a little dazed. “come with me?”
he smiled tiredly. “yeah, doll. not lettin’ you outta my sight yet.”
he helped you through the half-open door into the washroom, the light soft and yellow. you both moved in silence: him turning on the tap, you rinsing the little bruises around your wrists, straightening out your hair. when you caught his reflection in the mirror—tie loose, eyes a little wild—you smiled toothily.
he still had that hungry look in his eyes. you were glad that he didn't lose it.
“we look a mess,” you said.
“speak for yourself, baby. this is the best i’ve ever looked,” he answered.
the laugh that left you was quiet but genuine, the kind that made your shoulders relax.
back in the office, he poured two glasses of water and handed you one. you took a sip, then set it down, watching the ripples fade.
“what now?” you asked softly.
he leaned against the desk, rubbing a hand over his face. “now I take you home. and tomorrow, we pretend we’re still the best team in town.”
"don't gotta pretend. everyone knew that before you were fucked me."
"shit. and i was trying not to be so obvious," he quipped, his hand now going up to cover the blush that threatened to go past his cheeks.
"never mind all that, mr. manager," you teased, reaching for his hand. "what about tonight?"
"ah, ah, i know what you're gonna say," schlatt tutted at you. "you're gonna say, 'schlatt, can i please—"
"can i pleaseeee stay with you tonight?"
“see? knew it.” he tried to glare at you, but it came out as a grin. “you’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”
“mm-hmm. so is that a yes?”
“that’s a ‘you’re impossible.’”
“so that’s a yes,” you said again, already tugging at his tie like it was his leash, and you wanted him to heel.
he laughed, low and rough. “you got a whole damn apartment, doll. big bed, big mirrors, fancy view of the city—”
“and zero schlatt,” you cut in. “kinda kills the mood.”
he shook his head, but the smile didn't leave. "you're a problem."
"your favorite problem," you corrected.
"yeah," he admitted quietly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "my favorite problem."
you hummed, pleased. "lucky for you, i solve easy."
he huffed a laugh. "that so?"
"mm-hmm. all you gotta do is take me upstairs."
his eyes flicked up to the ceiling, then back to you. "figures you'd remember i live up there."
"hard to forget when you stomp around every morning before meetings," you said, smiling into your glass. "so?"
he sighed, already defeated. "so what?"
"so are you gonna keep talkin’ or are you gonna show me where that bed is?"
"jesus, doll," he muttered, but he was already setting his water down, the corner of his mouth twitching. "you really don’t know how to let a man catch his breath, huh?"
"you don’t look like you’re complainin’," you said, standing and straightening his tie just enough to make him swallow.
"not complainin’," he admitted. "just—"
"shut up, schlatt."
he laughed again, the sound worn but warm, and laced his fingers with yours. “fine, fine. c’mon. try not to trip over the stairs in those heels.”
“i’ll manage,” you said, bumping his shoulder as he led you to the narrow staircase tucked behind the office door.
the climb was quiet—just the creak of wood, your joined hands, the faint hum of the city leaking through the windows. at the top, the apartment waited: half-lit, cluttered, smelling faintly of smoke and old paper.
“home sweet home,” he said dryly.
“you’re terrible at decor,” you teased, stepping past him.
“i decorate in contracts and cigarette butts.”
“so romantic.”
“yeah, well,” he said, voice softening as he came up behind you, “you fill the place fine enough.”
you turned, your smile small but real. “keep talkin’ like that and i might never leave.”
he shrugged, eyes half-lidded, tired, adoring. “wouldn’t complain.”
the bed wasn't anything special—no fancy headboard, sheets worn soft from use. it smelled like him. tobacco and something warm.
"not exactly the ritz," he said. "sorry, doll. no silk pillows or champagne."
"good," you said, kicking off your heels. "i've had enough silk for one night."
he laughed, unbuttoning his shirt as he sat down. "mmm…me too."
you paused at that, something settling between you. then, without ceremony, you reached behind you and undid the zipper of your dress. the silk slid off your shoulders, whispering to the floor in one smooth motion. it wasn’t a tease—it was a shrug. a small rebellion. you’d worn it for everyone else; and tonight, it meant nothing.
he went still for a second—then gave a low, appreciative whistle. “...hell of a view, sweetheart.”
you shot him a look over your shoulder, half amusement, half warning.
“what?” he said, grinning now, hands raised like he was innocent. “can’t help it. some of us appreciate fine art when they pull the curtain back…or was it 'peel the fabric off'…”
“you’re impossible,” you muttered, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
“nah,” he said, voice softer now, “just lucky.”
you draped the dress over the chair beside his jacket, the two of them wrinkled and tangled together. “no more costumes,” you murmured.
"no more cameras. no more press," he echoed, coming up behind you.
his hands found your waist, careful but sure. you leaned back into him, feeling the warmth of his chest against your bare shoulders.
"just us," you said quietly.
"just us," he repeated.
for a moment you both stood there, his chin resting on top of your head, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his forearms. the city hummed outside—distant sirens, car horns, the low pulse of life that never really stopped. but up here it felt separate. like you'd stepped off the stage and into something real.
"c'mon," he said eventually, tugging you gently toward the bed. "before i fall asleep standing up."
you crawled in first, and he followed, the mattress dipping under his weight. he pulled the blanket up over both of you, his arm settling around your waist like it belonged there.
"comfortable?" he asked, voice already drowsy.
"yeah," you said, turning to face him. his eyes were half-closed, hair mussed, tie somewhere on the floor. he looked nothing like the sharp-dressed manager who ran the show downstairs. he just looked like schlatt. "you?"
"best i've been in a while," he admitted.
you smiled, tucking yourself closer. "good."
his thumb traced lazy circles on your hip. "hey."
"hey what?"
"tomorrow's gonna be weird, isn't it?"
you thought about it—the office, the contracts, the careful distance you'd kept for so long. "probably."
"yeah." he was quiet for a beat. "worth it, though."
"yeah?"
"yeah." he kissed your forehead, brief and warm. "you're worth it."
you didn't say anything to that, just pressed your face into his chest and let yourself relax. his heartbeat was steady under your ear. his breathing started to even out.
"schlatt?" you whispered.
"mm?"
"thanks for letting me stay."
he huffed a quiet laugh. "like i had a choice."
"you didn't," you agreed.
"damn right." his voice was fading now, pulled under by sleep. "...g'night, doll."
"night, schlatt."
and somewhere between his warmth and the soft give of the mattress and the city noise bleeding through the walls, you drifted off too—no scripts, no spotlights, just the two of you tangled up in sheets that smelled like smoke and home.
“Honey?” you called out for your boyfriend, you were wondering how he was holding up in the short time you stepped out to grab snacks
you made your way to your shared bedroom, as you got closer the whines got louder. you opened the door to find your boyfriend exactly where you left him. tied to your bed with a vibrator strapped to his cock.
“How ya doin’, pretty boy?” you coo, he only whines in response. his cock is still red and he has a pool of cum on his stomach. you saunter to his side to plant a kiss on his forehead.
“M-Mommy…” he nearly sobs. “Break..please..” his voice was strained and pathetic. you decided to take pity on him and turn off the toy for now. he took the first deep breath he’s taken in a while as tears of relief brim his eyes.
“Have you learned your lesson, baby?” your tone was strict as your gripped his jaw to force eye contact. he nodded furiously, a few more tears flowing down the sides of his face. “Yes! Yes… i won’t do it again, I promise!”
“What won’t you do again, J?” you squish his face a little harder, enough to make him wince a little. “Cum without permission…I won’t ever cum without your permission again!”
fluff & smut here… don't send in jschlatt reqs !!!
i'm only writing this bc, he's live rn, & i need him badly…
jschlatt with benevolent & sensible!reader, enjoyyy !!
᯽. ࿐ comparing hand sizes, against each other's palms. wether that’s you sitting on his lap, sitting next to him, while he’s chatting away with chat, laying on your pouch, cooking together, or literally brushing your teeth together.
᯽. ࿐ him playing around with yours and his wedding band, comparing sizes, closing one eye and comparing the sizes, at a closer distance. idk man, schlatt is loving this. tongue in cheek, snickering to himself out of enjoyment.
᯽. ࿐ schlatt effortlessly doing the all night beyoncé trend on tiktok. that man has no struggle with picking you up all, obviously it’s gonna include him winking at the camera… duh.
᯽. ࿐ just schlatt pinning you down with no effort, what’s so ever! wether that’s you play fighting with him, or you being pounded by him in mating press!😵💫
᯽. ࿐ schlatt being the lap magnet he is! “toots, i got a seat for you.” with the fattest smirk, plastered across his face…
᯽. ࿐ schlatt is just standing there, arms crossed, leaning on the doorway, while you’re trying to reach something from top shelf… schlatt teases you by holding up the product you needed just out of reach, before finally handing it over with a fond smile.
᯽. ࿐ him doing a complete body comparison with you. you standing in front of him, comparing hands, wavering your arms and legs in the air together, while you’re both laying on the bed next to each other. resting your legs on the headboard, giggling to the point of cramping. how certain things look like when you hold them, then when he’s holding them said products, wearing his flannels n’ shirts. the list will go on eternally…
᯽. ࿐ waking up to schlatt’s entire body weight as collateral damage on your body, in the morning… “hun, you’re killing me…” trying to speak with whatever oxygen is left in your lungs, while schlatt just replies back with a grunt…
᯽. ࿐ just schlatt shouting ‘attagirl’, at any given moment. any. moment…
᯽. ࿐ you’re inlove with schlatt fucking you in missionary, with the palm of his hand applying pressure to your lower stomach. + it’s the same with him fingering you.
᯽. ࿐ obsessive with holding your knees to your chest, when he’s effortlessly fingering you in his lap…
᯽. ࿐ schlatt obsessing over the strength that he can fuck up into during the cowgirl position, EFFORTLESSLY.😵💫
᯽. ࿐ schlatt using cockwarming as a break… especially if he’s the one laying his entire weight on top of you!!
᯽. ࿐ schlatt holding his cock against your stomach/hips, just to show of how much he can stretch you out + creampies you everytime he does a belly bulge…
᯽. ࿐ using the fuck out of you, whenever you’re dry humping him, for your sake.
᯽. ࿐ schlatt being completely mesmerises with pulling out, watching his cum oozing out of you. while slapping and spitting on your clit, to squeeze more out of you!!😵💫😵💫
Reader as Schlatt's high-maintenance makeup influencer gf tests all her "transfer proof" lipsticks on him by kissing his cheek(and bjs off camera teehee). He's actually sad and pouts when she finds one that lives up to the hype.
╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * transfer pending ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮
imagine: 83 lipsticks, one poor man’s face, and a test that was never going to stay scientific.
╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊
﹒₊✦ a/n: for the anon who asked for high-maintenance makeup-influencer!reader and schlatt slowly losing his mind over it—thank you. he was never going to make it out clean.
you just tilt the camera down—dramatically, slowly—to reveal the absolute mountain of lipstick tubes flooding your desk.
“okay,” you announce, flicking a gloss out of the pile and holding it up like evidence, “before anyone says anything—yes, this is a problem. yes, i have a drawer full of unopened pr lipstick. yes, it’s been sitting there for like... eight months. and no, i don’t wanna talk about it.”
chat immediately loses it.
mama are you okay
eight MONTHS is crazy
girl just eat them at this point
PR my ass...
you sigh, already digging through the glittery mess like it personally offended you.
“they all say they’re transfer proof,” you mutter. “but that’s literally just a buzzword. it means nothing. so now i have to test them. like a scientist.”
why do you need so many transfer proof lipsticks
absolutely no glosses to be seen
girl u could start a shop
i just trust the label
you hold up two tubes—one in each hand. “these are the same brand. same line. same formula. one of them lasted through a hot girl breakdown in a denny’s parking lot. the other one transferred onto a napkin in under three minutes. so. no. i don’t trust the labels.”
you hold eye contact with the camera.
“and i am gonna kiss my boyfriend until i figure out which ones aren't liars.”
a beat.
from the hallway, schlatt’s voice calls out like he knows his fate is already sealed.
“do i have to be here for this?”
you don’t even look up. “yes.”
he appears in frame three seconds later, hoodie half on, hair still wet from the shower, and looking like he already regrets coming home.
he blinks at the lipstick pile.
“jesus christ.”
“right?”
“what are you doing?”
“curating,” you say, like you’re talking about fine art. “we’re finding the transfer proof lip. one to rule them all.”
“you couldn’t just swatch them on your arm?”
you gasp.
chat gasps.
HE’S GONNA DIE
ugh men don’t understand anything
this is why she’s the talent and he’s the arm candy
y'all have been dating for how long???
“do you want to be publicly executed?” you ask sweetly. “you think the texture of your arm is the same as a cheek? or lips? or my—”
“okay, okay, okay.” he throws up his hands. “jesus. i’m sorry. i’m stupid. i’m learning.”
“thank you,” you say primly, already applying a matte brown shade with one hand while you gesture with the other. “some of us are artists. and some of us are canvases.”
he mutters something under his breath about how this is abuse. you blow him a kiss.
“bring your face here, baby,” you coo. “good scientists always require good test subjects.”
he groans—loud, dramatic, half a laugh—and leans in anyway.
the kiss lands square on his cheekbone. you hold it there a second longer than necessary. lips plush, glossy and freshly pigmented, pressed to his skin like you're a stamp to an envelope.
you pull back with a quiet mwah.
there’s a pause.
you both look—him in the monitor, you straight at him.
“goddamn it!” schlatt barks, half-laughing, half-aggrieved. “what the fuck is this one called, shit stain?”
“it’s called no kiss and tell,” you reply sweetly, twisting the lipstick back down and placing it in the ‘rejected’ pile. “and she’s a liar.”
“that’s it,” he says, wiping at the contrasting chocolate color on his cheek. “i’m filing a complaint.”
“file it with your lawyer,” you say, reaching for the next tube. “we’ve got eighty-two more.”
“eighty-two—? jesus christ.”
✧✧✧
lipstick number 18.
“alright, chat,” you purr, uncapping another tube with a satisfying click. “this one’s called ‘funeral wine.’ limited edition. no scent. matte. promises to ‘outlast heartbreak, hurricanes, and head.’ their words, not mine.”
schlatt snorts behind you. “head?? you serious?”
you wiggle the tube at him. “it’s in the product description.”
“bullshit,” he mutters, already leaning forward. “bring that here.”
you turn to camera with a wink. “he’s gotten so compliant, hasn’t he, chat?”
your chat explodes:
NOT FUNERAL WINE 😭 I HAVE THAT ONE
head durability test WHEN
he’s lowkey down bad...................
schlatt blink twice if u like it
you stifle a laugh and lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek with a bit more purpose. the deep purple sticks instantly. rich. dramatic. beautiful. you sit back, satisfied.
he doesn’t say anything. just stares at you. and you can feel it—that quiet, dangerous tension humming beneath his skin.
“well?” you ask, voice coy. “does it suit me?”
he blinks once. slow. then shifts in his seat, trying very hard to adjust himself without making it obvious. it’s not working.
“fucking—yes,” he mutters. “looks insane. evil. sexy.”
not him squirming
schlatt ur neck is turning red bro
evil and sexy is SO real
lipstick kink CONFIRMED
next test is on his DI—
you cut the chat off with a cough, glancing toward your screen. “okay, chat. behave.”
schlatt, meanwhile, is still looking at you like he’s debating dragging you off-camera and ruining every pair of panties you own.
you smooth the color across your bottom lip again, slowly, purposefully. watch his jaw clench. you up at him through your eyelashes at him coyly, winking at him with a long, fluttery lash.
and your chat?
girl he’s gonna fold
i can’t tell who’s more feral rn
he’s breathing like she just stepped on his balls
“alright,” you say sweetly, reaching for a makeup wipe. “funeral wine? transfer confirmed. but the vibes are—”
“fuck the vibes,” schlatt mutters, reaching across the table and snatching the tube out of your hand. “this one’s stayin’ in the drawer.”
you blink. “for...?”
“personal reasons.”
your chat erupts.
PERSONAL???
oh he’s NEVER recovering
someone get him a bib,, the man is drooling
‘personal’ aka he’s jerkin it later LMAOOOO
you’re gonna be buried in that lipstick
you’re grinning too hard to argue.
✧✧✧
lipstick number 27.
you click the bullet up with one hand, propping your chin with the other. “this one’s called ‘brat behavior.’ fitting, no?”
schlatt doesn’t even look at the name. “you’re not kissin’ me with that one.”
you apply it slowly. cherry red. high-gloss.
“c’mere,” you purr.
he groans, but obeys.
you leave a perfect print right over his dimple. and then another. and another. until he looks like he lost a fight with a valentine’s day card.
she’s marking her territory omg
schlitt curse rn if ur hard
this is psychological warfare and i’m HERE for it
chat needs a new safe word
✧✧✧
lipstick #32 is an ominous red-orange. slightly shiny.
you turn the label toward camera. “this one’s called ‘heat stroke.’”
schlatt exhales, visibly bracing. “fitting.”
you smile sweetly. “let’s see how long you last.”
he doesn’t even blink when you kiss his cheek. but when you move to his jaw, slower this time, your lips lingering just long enough to warm the skin—
his hand twitches on the desk.
your chat catches it immediately.
HE FLINCHED. I SAW THAT.
#32 taking him out rn
he’s gonna explode and she’s just clocking lab results
“still transferring,” you say, lips pursed, voice calm. “next.”
he clears his throat. doesn’t look at you. doesn’t look at the camera either.
“how many more?”
you hum, reorganizing the trays. “just a few… dozen.”
he turns his head. slow. sharp. full of dread.
“baby.”
you don’t even glance up. “yes, my love?”
his voice is low. gravelly. on the edge. “please end the stream.”
chat instantly combusts.
he’s losing it
he said please???
we are witnessing a live breakdown
girl keep going he deserves it
you sigh—long, theatrical—and start uncapping the next bullet with delicately manicured fingers. “schlatt, i told you. we are not done until i find the one. this is science. this is data. my integrity is on the line.”
he rubs a hand down his face. “you’ve applied lipstick to me 29 times.”
“32,” you correct brightly. “the glosses might have been packaged together, but each color counted separately.”
his jaw flexes. and he leans back, staring at the ceiling, mouthing something like a prayer.
✧✧✧
“last one,” you say.
schlatt doesn’t look up. “you said that ten minutes ago.”
“yeah, well. i lied.”
you hold up the tube.
he finally glances over. stares.
“what is that.”
“aqua frost.”
schlatt stares at the tube like it insulted his mother. “that’s glitter. that’s frozen windshield wiper fluid in a tube. what the fuck are you planning to do with that?”
“kiss you,” you say simply.
chat starts stirring.
WHAT IS THAT COLOR
mama no
no bc that’s the kind of gloss i wore to prom in 2011
i smell ozone
you apply it anyway. a little uneven because the texture is weird, but it’s fine. you’re too far gone.
“i look like i licked a disco ball,” you mutter.
“you look like a brand ambassador for a discontinued soda,” schlatt says.
you smack your lips. turn to him. “c’mon.”
he sighs like a man walking into a firing squad.
first kiss: cheek. nothing.
second kiss: jaw. still nothing.
third: neck. you both freeze.
he wipes it.
nothing.
chat explodes.
OH IT’S OVER
NOT THE BATH BOMB BEING THE ONE
it’s always the ones you least suspect
the glitter is permanent now. it lives in your walls.
“it’s actually transfer-proof,” you murmur, staring at the tube like it just confessed a crime.
schlatt doesn’t respond. he’s still looking at his reflection. dead inside.
you both sit in silence for a beat.
“so…” you say eventually, “this is the winner.”
“this is the loser,” he replies.
“it’s the only one that worked.”
“at what cost.”
you look into the camera. blank expression. lips glowing like toxic sludge.
then you smile. sweet. terrifying.
“alright, stream’s over,” you purr. “i’ve got a date with a man who’s about to get absolutely ruined by glitter.”
you wink.
chat disintegrates.
NOOOO BAHAHAHA
he’s gonna see that teal in his dreams
someone pray for schlatt
you kill the stream.
schlatt sighs from relief and disappointment.
you tilt your head. still smiling. “what’s wrong, babe?”
“you know what’s wrong.”
“no, you’re gonna have to be specific,” you say, sauntering closer. “i just ended a stream. i’m tired. need a little direction.”
he watches you like you’re a wild animal approaching. half-threat, half-hypnotic.
“you’re wearing that,” he says flatly.
you pretend to glance down at yourself. your obnoxiously teal lips catch the light again. “hm? oh. yeah. our new holy grail.”
“you look like a sexy aquarium.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t—” he sighs. runs a hand down his face. “fuck me.”
“eventually,” you chirp, toeing off your shoes.
he doesn’t move. just leans back in the chair, legs spread, staring at you with the kind of unblinking, haunted devotion usually reserved for war veterans and guys who’ve been edged for ninety minutes on stream.
you pad over, easy. confident. hands settling on the arms of the chair as you lean in—lips hovering just over his.
“you still hard?” you murmur.
his eyes flutter.
“…obviously.”
you grin. “then this color is working...despite your complaints.”
he exhales through his nose. “you’re enjoying this.”
“obviously,” you echo back, voice syrup-sweet.
the chair creaks as he shifts, just a little—legs opening further, body tilting like he’s bracing himself for you to climb into his lap. and yeah, that’s what he expects. what he’s hoping for, probably.
but instead, you drop.
knees to the carpet.
his breath catches. “oh—fuck.”
you look up at him, lashes fluttering, lips glinting teal in the low light. like poison in a fairytale. like trouble with perfect aim.
“wanna test if this lipstick can get through a blowjob, baby?” you ask.
his hands twitch on the armrests.
his throat bobs.
“you—you’re serious?” he manages, already breathless, like the idea alone has winded him.
you tilt your head, mock-thoughtful. “i mean… you said it’s awful. might as well ruin it properly, right?”
he groans—like he’s in pain, like he’s grateful for it. “fuck, you're insane.”
“mm. but you’re still hard.”
he nods. dumbly. hopelessly. completely gone for you.
you curl your fingers under the waistband of his sweats and drag them down, slow and purposeful. the fabric catches just slightly on his thighs, enough to make him twitch again. you let your nails graze skin, teasing the whole way.
and when you finally get him free?
you hum in appreciation. wrap one hand around the base—lazy, loose.
“you gonna be good for me?” you ask, lips just an inch away, eyes still fixed on his.
he nods again. Words? Not available.
“good,” you murmur.
then you lean in.
warm, wet, lips parted just enough to press a kiss to the tip. soft. barely-there. then another, messier. one that drags your lower lip down in the process, smearing just the faintest trace of glitter-blue gloss along his skin.
his whole body tenses.
“jesus christ—”
“shhh,” you soothe, licking a stripe up the underside before taking him halfway in, steady and slow.
he groans. one hand finds your hair, not pushing, just holding.
“fuck. that color—fuck, i take back everything i said.”
you laugh around him. he feels it. curses again.
your movements are slow at first—controlled, measured. your lips glide with perfect pressure, wet and warm and dangerously pretty, leaving just enough behind that it looks intentional. like art.
he’s shaking. softly. trying so hard not to fuck up the moment. trying not to buck his hips or groan too loud. you can tell—it’s written all over him.
but you don’t stop. just sink lower. deeper. the chair creaks as he shifts, hands clutching the armrests like he’s barely holding it together.
“baby,” he gasps, voice rough and wrecked. “gonna cum if you keep—shit—if you keep looking at me like that—”
you blink up at him. teal smeared faintly at the corners of your mouth, but still untouched on the curve of your lips. pristine. flawless. like you’ve rehearsed this a hundred times.
“fuck,” he hisses. he can’t look away. can’t even breathe right. it’s all he sees—your lips wrapped around him, tight and wet, suction pulling him in like gravity itself, that unnatural blue gleaming like it was made just for this.
his focus narrows. the wet sound of you—obscene, sloppy, not from the lipstick but from you taking him so well, your tongue sliding along every inch. his thighs twitch. his knuckles whiten around the armrests.
“jesus christ—” he groans, hips jerking just slightly when you take him deeper, your throat opening around him. “fuck, look at you. look at your fucking mouth—oh my god.”
you hum in response, low and deliberate, sending vibrations down his spine. his whole body jolts. sweat beads at his hairline.
“that color—shit—doesn’t even move,” he babbles, chest heaving. “doesn’t smudge—doesn’t—baby, i’m gonna lose my fucking mind—”
you pull back just enough to drag your lips up the length of him, slow, teasing. a line of spit connects you, glistening under the ring light. and still, that lipstick is perfect. untouched.
“fuck, you’re so goddamn messy,” he breathes, voice low, desperate. “but your lips—god—”
his eyes flicker between your mouth and your gaze, blown wide and half-crazed. every time you swallow him down again, the sound—that sound—has him twitching, hips trying to lift, but you keep him pinned with a hand on his thigh.
“don’t—don’t stop,” he chokes out, head tipping back. “please. i don’t care how stupid that color is. you—you make it look like the hottest thing on the planet—”
you suck him deeper. hard. relentless.
he swears, a broken, breathless noise that tears out of him like it’s been waiting all day.
his whole body tenses. the kind of tension that comes right before something shatters.
“baby,” he whines—actually whines—as your mouth works him, relentless, hot and tight and perfect. “fuck, fuck, i’m—”
he doesn’t even finish the sentence.
his release hits like it’s been waiting all day to destroy him. he bucks once, twice—then falls back with a hoarse, gasping groan that sounds like reverence and surrender at once.
you take what you can.
but it’s a lot.
thick and hot and messy, pulsing into your throat. you try to keep up, swallowing around him, your throat working, but he just keeps going—spilling over, dripping past your lips. spilling onto your tongue, your chin, your hand. and still, you don’t stop moving. don’t stop looking at him like this was your plan all along.
when you finally pull off—slowly, gently—your mouth is wet and flushed, lips swollen.
and the lipstick?
smudged.
the first time all night.
it leaves a faint, shimmering ring around the base of his cock. your chin sparkles with teal glitter. your mouth a more faded, transparent blue
schlatt stares at you like you’re a vision. like you just crawled out of a goddamn fever dream.
“…holy shit,” he breathes.
you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, eyes gleaming. “so,” you say, voice rough but smug. “guess it wasn’t transfer-proof after all.”
he’s still panting, blinking like he’s trying to reboot.
you crawl up into his lap, straddling him lazily, and lean in, voice low in his ear.
“but you came so hard, babe,” you whisper. “i think we can forgive the false advertising.”
he doesn’t even argue when you nudge his thighs open and rise from his lap, just lets his arms go slack, head lolling against the back of the chair like he’s seeing stars.
“c’mon, baby,” you murmur, coaxing him up with both hands. “bedtime.”
he grunts. it’s the kind of sound someone makes after their soul leaves their body. but he lets you (try to) pull him up, all long limbs and dead weight. wobbly. dazed.
you lace your fingers with his and tug him gently toward the hallway, guiding him like he’s forgotten how to walk. he’s heavy against your side, shoulders slouched, skin still warm. you kiss his jaw. then his cheek. his temple. a trail of soft, quiet affection the whole way down the hall.
he mutters something under his breath.
“hm?” you ask, glancing up.
his eyelids are barely open. “love bein’ your test subject.”
you smile. “yeah?”
“mhmm,” he mumbles. “gotta… test the other ones.”
“even the ones that transfer?”
his hand tightens slightly in yours. “especially those.”
you laugh, nudging the bedroom door open with your hip.
he collapses onto the bed like gravity gave up on being subtle.
you follow, curling up beside him, arm thrown across his stomach.
he shifts just enough to press a clumsy kiss to your forehead.
“…fuckin’ love science,” he slurs.
then he’s out cold.
you grin into his chest, breath evening out.
and if there’s still a little glitter smeared between you?
The room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the TV, some half-watched movie flickering across the screen. You were curled up beside Alex on his couch, legs tucked under you, a popsicle in one hand, dressed like it was your apartment: tiny black shorts and a pale pink tank top that clung to your chest like a second skin.
He hadn’t noticed at first.
You were just his best friend.
The movie was decent. He liked having you close. Nothing new.
But then your leg brushed his. Bare thigh against sweats.
Then you shifted—just enough for your tank top to tug lower—and suddenly he could see the slope of your chest, the soft press of your tits practically spilling from the neckline.
That was when things started to fall apart.
You took a long, slow lick of your popsicle and sighed like you were blessed.
“This was such a good idea,” you mumbled, swinging your foot lazily while the red syrup dripped down your fingers.
Alex swallowed hard.
His eyes dropped.
Big mistake.
The popsicle. Your mouth. The stretch of your throat as you licked a stripe from base to tip like you were trying to get every drop.
He shifted his leg and tried to think of literally anything else.
Taxes. Fire ants. Cement.
Nothing worked.
You leaned into him without even looking, laughing softly at something on the screen.
Your thigh pressed against his.
Your arm brushed his hoodie.
Your hair tickled his neck.
And he was so hard he thought he might pass out.
He couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop thinking.
It had been years since he’d had sex. Since he’d seen someone naked. Since anyone had even looked at him the way he wanted you to—warm and needy and wrecked.
And now you were here. Inches away.
Looking like sin in a tank top that kept slipping lower, giggling at stupid movie dialogue, popsicle gloss on your mouth like you were made to ruin him.
You licked a melting drop from your finger and moaned lightly under your breath.
Alex squeezed his eyes shut.
Fuck.
He could feel the tension pulsing in his thighs, the way his cock was pressing against the inside of his sweats. It was unbearable. And you—so clueless—just kept being worse.
“Ugh,” you groaned suddenly, sitting up. “I need a napkin, this thing’s dripping all over me.”
You leaned forward over your lap, reaching for the coffee table—
And he saw everything.
Your tank top gaped forward. The full view of your tits swaying softly in your bra, the shadow of lace, the curve of warm skin lit perfectly by the screen.
His mouth went dry.
He looked away fast, heart pounding.
Do not get caught. Do not get caught.
You sat back up with the napkin, oblivious. You licked your fingers one more time and glanced at him.
“You’re super quiet,” you said. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer right away.
His leg bounced. His jaw flexed. He tugged at his hoodie like it might hide the obvious strain in his pants.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “Just tired.”
You gave him a look. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You look like someone just drop-kicked your brain.”
He forced a laugh.
You turned back to the screen, still nestled close, and took another slow drag of the popsicle—tongue sliding down it in a way that made his entire body tense.
He tried to focus on the movie.
He failed.
All he could think about was that popsicle. Your mouth. Your tits bouncing when you laughed. The soft sighs you made when something funny happened. The fact that you didn’t even realize you were teasing him.
Or maybe you did.
And he was fucked either way.
———————-
Alex spent five full minutes in the bathroom just breathing.
He didn’t jerk off. He thought about it. God, he thought about it. But something about the tension—about the forbidden slow build of it—made it worse. Made it better.
Made it deliriously painful.
He splashed cold water on his face. Pressed his palms to the counter. Avoided looking at his own eyes in the mirror.
Get it together. She’s your best friend. She’s not doing it on purpose. Chill the fuck out.
He adjusted himself—awkward, half-hard and half-mad about it—and headed back into the living room with every intention of pretending nothing had happened.
And then he saw you.
You were lying on your stomach now.
On his couch.
Ass in the air. Legs bent at the knees. Bare feet kicking lazily.
Tank top even lower than before, breasts pressed together by the way you were propped up on your elbows, soft curves practically spilling out as you stared at the screen.
And between your lips?
Another fucking popsicle.
Cherry. Again.
Your mouth closed around it, cheeks hollowing slightly, and he swore his soul left his body.
You looked up when you heard him.
“Oh hey,” you said, casual as ever. “I was gonna wait, but these melt fast.”
He blinked. “You—you got another one?”
“Yeah. You want one?”
He didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Your tits jiggled slightly as you shifted to make room for him, the way your arms were pressed under them practically framing the soft swell of your cleavage like a fucking offering.
You looked up at him again, popsicle still between your lips.
“You good?”
Alex stood there frozen. Sweats hanging low on his hips. Hoodie sleeves shoved up. Hair sticking to his forehead from sheer stress.
You blinked, lips pink and glossy from the popsicle, voice light and sweet as you asked:
“…What?”
And that’s when he realized—
You had no idea.
You had no idea you were driving him crazy. No clue how close he was to grabbing your hips and dragging you back onto his lap. No idea how long it had been since he’d been touched, since someone had looked at him, and now here you were—
Best friend. Popsicle. Tank top. Everything.
And Alex was losing his goddamn mind.
—————-
Alex sat back down slowly.
Carefully.
Like a man approaching a wild animal—except you were the one all soft and sweet and dangerous, legs kicked up, tank top clinging to your chest, popsicle dripping down your fingers like you were made to test him.
He adjusted his hoodie in his lap. Cleared his throat.
You didn’t even glance over. You were too busy eyeing the popsicle.
“This one’s messier,” you said casually, lifting it to examine the sticky trail melting down the side.
Alex couldn’t look away.
“I wonder…” you started, voice light, like a daydream. “You think anyone’s ever, like… fucked one of these?”
His entire brain short-circuited.
“What?”
You giggled. “A popsicle. It’s just kinda… shaped for it, y’know?” You held it up, rotating it in the light. “Like it’s got the dimensions. Give it a lil warm-up, it’s practically a toy.”
Alex blinked at you like you’d summoned a demon in front of him.
You gasped suddenly as a drip ran down your knuckle. “Ugh, messy—”
Then dragged your tongue up the side, slow and long, lips puckering at the top as you sucked it clean with a quiet, satisfied hum.
Alex didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
You looked over at him with innocent wide eyes. “What?”
He swallowed hard.
You tilted your head, smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re staring.”
He tore his eyes away, blinking fast. “You’re—you’re talking about fucking popsicles, what am I supposed to do?”
“I’m just saying,” you teased, twirling the stick between your fingers, “someone, somewhere, definitely shoved one up their pussy at some point.”
Alex groaned. “Can you not say that word right now?”
“Which one?”
He glared.
You smiled, slow and smug, then licked the tip of the popsicle again—lazily, like you had no idea what you were doing to him.
“Pussy,” you whispered, and he visibly flinched.
You burst out laughing.
“Oh my God, are you actually blushing?”
He wasn’t. He was sweating.
Hard.
“You’re evil,” he muttered, adjusting himself again, doing everything he could to keep his hands to himself. “Fucking evil.”
You rolled onto your side, tits still practically spilling out, resting your cheek on your arm as you smiled up at him, popsicle dangling lazily from your fingers.
—————
You were now fully sprawled on your stomach across the couch, legs swinging lazily in the air, tank top sliding lower by the minute, and a second cherry popsicle halfway melted in your grip.
Alex had moved to the far corner of the couch, as if another twelve inches would make a difference when his dick was pulsing in his sweats and his brain was absolutely fried.
You were oblivious.
Or maybe you weren’t.
“You ever think about how weird it’d be to actually fuck one of these?” you asked casually, giving the popsicle a little bounce. “Like, I’ve never had anything cold inside me before. That’d be like—fucking the Abominable Snowman.”
You laughed at your own joke—hard, shaking the couch, your tits bouncing in that tiny tank top, one strap slipping even lower.
Alex made a quiet, pained noise.
You licked the popsicle.
He closed his eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
You turned your head toward him, grinning. “What?”
“You have no idea what you’re doing right now.”
You blinked up at him, playing dumb—way too well.
“I’m just talking,” you said, voice syrupy. “I talk a lot, Lexi, you know this.”
He stared at you, jaw tight, legs spread, hands clenched in the fabric of his hoodie like it might ground him.
And then you giggled, eyes wide with faux curiosity.
“Ooh, wait—” you said, popsicle pausing inches from your lips, “you think if I actually did fuck a cherry popsicle, it’d, like… make my pussy taste like cherry afterwards?”
Alex made a noise like a dying animal.
You laughed again, delighted.
“You’re such a little perv,” you teased. “I say pussy and you forget how to function.”
He didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
You stuck the popsicle in your mouth and slowly dragged it out, tongue curling around it for one final tease.
And Alex?
He dropped his head into his hands and groaned.
“I need God.”
—————
Alex hadn’t spoken in three minutes.
You were lying on your stomach still, shirt barely containing your tits, popsicle lazily melting in your fingers while your lips glistened with cherry sugar.
He was fully red in the face, jaw clenched, eyes on the TV but seeing nothing.
You tapped your lip thoughtfully with the stick.
“I think I need to test this theory.”
He blinked. “What—what theory?”
“The flavor thing. Y’know, if I fuck a popsicle, will my pussy taste like it?” You kicked your legs playfully, grinning at him like you weren’t talking about putting a popsicle in your cunt.
He choked. “Please.”
“It’s for science, Alex,” you said seriously.
He looked at you, wild-eyed. “Stop saying shit like that.”
“But if I’m gonna do it,” you went on, ignoring him completely, “I need to pick the right flavor. Like, if I’m gonna be edible, I wanna be delicious, obviously.”
You tapped your chin, then turned slowly toward him.
“Hey, Lexi.”
He didn’t answer.
You batted your lashes. “What flavor would you want a girl’s pussy to be?”
He actually stopped breathing.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?”
“You gotta pick one.”
“I—Jesus Christ.”
“Come on,” you teased, rolling onto your back, shirt riding up your stomach, legs spread just enough to be dangerous. “It’s just a hypothetical. A little… oral taste test.”
“Stop,” he groaned.
“Pick.”
“I—fuckin’—fine. Cherry. Happy?”
You grinned. “Mm, good choice.”
Then hopped off the couch like this was all perfectly normal and made your way to his freezer.
He watched in horrified silence as you bent over, ass on full display, and grabbed another cherry popsicle.
You walked back, sucking it once, slow and dramatic.
Then smiled at him sweetly.
“You don’t mind if I do this on your couch, do you?”
He blinked. “Do what.”
You leaned close.
“The experiment.”
Alex stared at you.
Mouth slightly open.
Breathing hard.
And said absolutely nothing.
Because he had no idea whether he wanted to run away—
Or fucking help.
————
Alex stared at you like you’d just said you were going to light yourself on fire.
“You are not fucking shoving that up your—your—”
You tilted your head. “My pussy?”
His hands flew to his face. “Yes! That!”
You laughed, twirling the popsicle between your fingers, completely unfazed.
“God, Lexi,” you teased, voice syrupy, “don’t get all flustered. It’s not like I’m gonna strip down or anything. I’m not even wearing panties.”
He froze.
“What,” he croaked.
You flopped back on the couch and looked up at him sweetly.
“I said I’m not wearing panties.” You wiggled your hips, shorts riding up even higher. “So there’s, like… nothing in the way.”
His eyes went wide. “You’re not serious.”
You grinned. “You think I wore those dumb little lace ones with these shorts? They bunch.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You reached for the waistband casually, fingers curling under the hem, and slowly pulled your shorts to the side.
Alex’s mouth dropped open.
You weren’t lying.
Bare, soft, smooth. Exposed without even taking anything off.
Then—with no hesitation—you unwrapped the cherry popsicle with a lazy hum.
Held it up like it was just part of your snack.
And said:
“Don’t be dramatic, Lexi. It’s not like I’m asking you to help.”
He actually whimpered.
“You’re not doing this on my fucking couch,” he managed, voice hoarse, breathless, high with disbelief.
“Why not?”
“Because—fuck, because I’m right here!”
You smiled, slow and evil.
“I know. That’s half the fun.”
And then, before he could stop you, you slid the popsicle between your thighs—slow, dramatic, evil—pressing the melting tip to your folds with a little hiss.
Alex didn’t breathe.
Didn’t move.
He just watched.
Eyes wide, cock painfully hard in his sweats, hands clenched in his lap like it might stop him from reaching over and taking it out of your hand.
————
The second the cherry popsicle touched your folds, you gasped—high-pitched, breathy, startled by the cold.
Alex twitched.
His hands clenched into fists on either side of him, hoodie bunched in his lap, his eyes glued to your legs spread wide, shorts tugged to the side, that red fucking popsicle glistening between your thighs.
You winced again, hips twitching.
“Holy fuck it’s cold—” you moaned, breath shaking.
His brain short-circuited.
You pushed it in slow. Not all the way—just enough to make your back arch, enough to whimper, soft and bratty, like it wasn’t your idea.
“Oh my God,” you whined. “It’s—fuck—it’s so cold—”
Alex made a sound—somewhere between a growl and a dying prayer.
Your tank top was hanging low, tits pressed together from how you were leaning back on one hand, other fingers between your legs holding the red stick that was now dripping with slick and juice.
You slowly pulled it out, blinking down at it, then looked up at him with a grin.
“Fuck,” you giggled. “I don’t know if it’s popsicle juice or me.”
He groaned, loud, wrecked, like it physically hurt.
“Give it to me.”
You blinked, confused—but smirking.
You held the popsicle out to him, syrup sliding slowly down the stick, still wet from you.
“…The popsicle?”
He looked up at you, furious, flushed, eyes black with need.
“No,” he growled.
“Not that.”
He stood.
Took one step forward.
Grabbed your face.
“You fucking menace.”
Then shoved you back onto the couch, mouth on yours, hips grinding against your bare thigh—and finally finally said:
“Give me your fucking pussy.”
—————-
His mouth was on yours. Hands gripping your thighs. The popsicle, still glistening with slick and syrup, dangled from your fingers.
But before he could take it—before he could drop to his knees and taste you like he wanted to—you pulled back with a teasing little pout.
“Wait.”
Alex froze. “What.”
You grinned, devilish. “I don’t even know if it’s cherry flavored yet.”
He blinked.
Then watched—silent, tense, shaking—as you slowly dragged the popsicle back down between your thighs and rubbed it over your pussy again.
“Just gotta, y’know,” you said softly, tongue against your teeth, “get a real sample.”
And then you slipped it back in.
You gasped, hips twitching.
“It’s—ugh—it’s so cold—”
Alex dropped to his knees in front of the couch, hands already sliding up your thighs, and just as you reached to pull the popsicle out again, he grabbed your wrists.
Hard.
“Nope.”
You froze.
“Leave it,” he growled, eyes dark. “Let it melt inside you.”
Your eyes widened. “Alex—it’s cold—”
“Good,” he muttered, leaning in closer, his breath brushing over your still-parted thighs. “You wanted to be a fucking popsicle experiment? You’re getting one.”
You whined. High-pitched. Desperate.
“Lexiiii,” you whined again, wriggling under his grip. “It’s cold. It’s freezing. I don’t think I can—*”
“You can.” His voice was low, rough. “You’re gonna sit there and let it melt inside that perfect pussy.”
You whined again, back arching, breath stuttering.
And then he smirked.
“Gonna make you taste like candy,” he whispered, “and then I’m gonna fucking eat you.”
————
Your thighs were shaking.
Sticky.
Syrupy red rivulets sliding down the backs of your legs, soaking into the couch cushions beneath you as the last of the cherry popsicle melted between your folds.
You whined—high and breathy, hips twitching.
“It’s melting, Lex…”
Alex was already on his knees between your thighs, fingers wrapped tight around your thighs, pupils blown, breathing hard.
“I know.”
You looked down at him, wrecked and pink and panting.
“It’s dripping—”
“I know, baby,” he rasped. “I’m fucking watching.”
He reached up, slid his fingers between your folds, and pulled out the mostly-melted popsicle—dripping red and slick and obscene.
Then tossed it to the side like it meant nothing.
And grabbed your thighs.
And devoured you.
His mouth was everywhere—tongue gliding through syrup and slick, sucking your clit into his mouth like he wanted to make it bruise, moaning so low it vibrated through your cunt.
You screamed.
“F-fuck, Alex—”
“You taste so fucking sweet,” he groaned into you. “Like candy. Like cherry—Jesus fucking Christ—”
He licked you deep, tongue plunging inside like he was trying to clean up every single drop the popsicle left behind.
Your fingers dug into his hair.
Your legs clamped around his head.
You were gasping, writhing, moaning so high and broken it barely sounded like words.
“Lex—Lexi, fuck, I’m gonna—gonna—”
He sucked on your clit again and your whole body snapped—back arching, thighs trembling, hips grinding into his face while he held you down and ate you through it.
And even when you came, even when you were shaking, he didn’t stop.
He moaned against your dripping pussy like he was addicted.
You could barely speak.
You could only whimper:
“Cherry…”
He pulled back just enough to grin against your thigh—lips red, chin slick, eyes feral.
