+18 ONLY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CHILDREN PLEASE LEAVE THIS BLOG IS NSFW
This'll be a Schlatt dedicated blog cause jesus I'm delusional, but there may be other stuff every now and then.
I have a few fics posted on AO3. I guess requests are open? I've only written for Schlatt, and only feel comfortable writing him (for now at least), so just send me an ask and I'll do my best to deliver :D
Give in, you're mine
NSFW - 4k Words - Schlatt/reader - 1/1
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I Adore You
SFW - 1.5k Words - Schlatt/reader - 1/1
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
A New Place to Begin
SFW - 7.5k Words - Schlatt/reader - 3/3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I was with my bf cooking when Schlatt uploaded the vid and when we saw the notification on my phone this man legitimately dropped to his knees and clutched his hair and said he was getting cucked tonight.
i just need like a drabble of how schlatt would be with his pregnant wife, like you KNOW that man will bend over backwards for his doll and his baby
ugh. he is perfect.
╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * built like a wife, shaped like a mom ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮
imagine: you’re pregnant. schlatt is insufferable. and obsessed.
╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊
﹒₊✦ a/n: you are so right, angel ♡ we love a good protective husband and father-to-be!!!
warnings: pregnancy fluff, domestic comedy, one (1) feral husband, TOO MUCH FREAKING love and cuteness UGH
enjoy! (👶´ ∀ `👶)
✧✧✧
✧ cravings emergency ✧
approx. 6 weeks along
it’s 10:37 pm on a tuesday when schlatt’s phone buzzes violently against the nightstand. he fumbles for it, eyes still bleary, and squints at the text from you.
YOU:
i need pickles and chocolate pudding immediately. or i will cry. this is not a joke.
he stares at it.
then stares at the ceiling.
then texts back:
SCHLATT:
doll it is literally 10:37.
YOU:
and yet i am literally about to perish.
there’s a 30-second pause before he rolls out of bed like a man going off to war. “alright,” he mutters to himself, pulling on sweats. “if my girl wants pickles and pudding, then pickles and pudding she shall have.”
cut to twenty minutes later: he’s standing in front of your couch, bags in hand, panting like he just finished a triathlon. “you. owe me. gas money. and a kiss.”
you look up at him with the wide, desperate eyes of someone on the brink. “did you get the big pickles?”
he sighs and drops the bag in your lap. “barrel dills. and three kinds of pudding. and a bottle of tums because i’m smart.”
you practically burst into tears. “you’re my hero.”
he flops beside you, grumbling but smug. “damn right.”
you open the pudding first—why? nobody knows—and after a few bites, the silence stretches. he notices you fidgeting, like you’ve got something stuck in your throat.
“…what?” he asks finally.
you look down at your lap. “sooo… i also picked something up today.”
“…another snack?”
you shake your head. from under the blanket, you pull out a little plastic stick in a ziplock bag. two pink lines, clear as day.
schlatt just stares. then back at you. then at the test again.
“…i’m sorry,” he says slowly, blinking. “are you telling me that my food run was actually for two people?!”
you burst out laughing, ugly-snorting halfway through, and he grabs your face like he’s trying to scan it for truth. “you’re serious? like—you’re pregnant pregnant?”
you nod, and he exhales like he’s just been shot right in the heart.
then—
“…does this mean i have to go get more pickles?”
you laugh harder. “probably. these will last me like...6 hours, tops.”
he’s already halfway off the couch again, muttering, “jesus christ, i didn’t know there’d be a third roommate in this relationship.”
but then he pauses, glances back at you, and his voice softens:
“…we’re really having a baby?”
you meet his eyes, all warm and teary and happy. “yeah. we are.”
he grins, wide and boyish. “shit. you’re gonna be such a hot mom.”
the second is that your side of the bed is empty, and the third is the faint scent of paint drifting down the hallway.
he blinks blearily at the clock: 7:13 am. on a saturday.
he drags himself out of bed like a corpse and stumbles toward the noise. his voice is gravel. “babe…? why does it smell like… nursery school in here?”
he rounds the corner and immediately stares, slack-jawed, at the scene before him.
you’re standing in the nursery, hair shoved into a messy bun, wearing one of his hoodies over your bump and waving a paint roller like you’re michelangelo. there’s painter’s tape on the walls, drop cloths over the floor, and approximately seven opened sample cans scattered across the dresser.
“oh!” you chirp. “you’re up!”
“…barely.”
“come look!” you wave him over, beaming. “i narrowed it down to three colors—‘hazy moonlight,’ ‘mushroom milk,’ and ‘enchanted forest.’”
he squints at the swatches, half-awake. “those are the same color.”
you spin dramatically toward him. “they are not. one is a neutral sage. one is a dusty sage. and one is a sage with cool undertones, which is crucial for light balance.”
he blinks. “you’ve lost your mind.”
you point the roller at him like a weapon. “and you said you wanted to be involved.”
“i meant, like, holding your hand and rubbing your back while you cried over animal mobiles. not waking up at dawn to paint a room green.”
“well,” you say, stepping back with your hands on your hips, “our baby deserves a room that inspires calm and creativity.”
he sighs and walks over, pressing a kiss to your temple. “you’re out of your damn mind,” he mumbles, “but you’re cute about it.”
then he grabs the nearest roller. “let’s make this kid the most emotionally balanced forest nymph on the block.”
you blink at him, touched.
“…you’re gonna do the high parts, though, right?”
he smirks. “only if i can make the closet into a secret lair.”
“deal.”
✧ sonogram appointment ✧
approx. 25 weeks along / second trimester
“do you think she’ll have my nose or yours?” you mumble, half-drowsy in the passenger seat, one hand resting on the swell of your stomach.
schlatt glances over at you, eyebrows raised. “she’s the size of an eggplant right now. she doesn’t have a nose nose—she’s got like… a snoot.”
“a snoot?”
“yeah. a lil’ critter snoot. like a capybara.”
you stare at him. “please never say that in front of the doctor.”
“i won’t,” he lies.
✧
the room is dim and cool, the gentle sound of the monitor humming beside you. you’re already lying back on the table, gel on your stomach, when the sonographer grins and tilts the screen toward you both.
“alright,” she says brightly. “let’s take a look at your little one.”
schlatt is standing at your side, one big hand cradling your shoulder, the other tangled loosely with yours. and for a minute, the two of you just stare.
there she is.
a real baby. little nose. little fingers. she’s curled up like she’s cozy in there—legs tucked close, one arm floating lazily near her head. her spine arches gently across the screen, bones visible in clean little rows like piano keys.
you can’t breathe for a second.
and when she zooms in on her profile—round head, button nose, blurry little lips—you hear schlatt exhale beside you, shaky and quiet.
“…holy shit.”
you look up at him, and he’s wrecked. glossy eyes. a smile that’s trying not to tremble.
“that’s our kid,” he murmurs. “that’s—she’s real. look at her. she’s in there, like, living.”
“she kicked me awake at four a.m. this morning,” you remind him gently.
“i know, but—” he squeezes your hand, still staring at the screen. “now we get to see the criminal herself.”
the sonographer laughs. “they're measuring strong. heart rate is healthy. do you want to know the sex?”
you glance up at schlatt. he’s already nodding.
“i mean, we’ve been calling her ‘she’ for like a month,” you say.
she grins and types something into the machine—and on the screen, in soft block letters, it appears:
“boy”
you don’t even register your own tears until schlatt’s brushing them away with his thumb, laughing wetly.
“a boy,” he whispers. “oh my god.”
“we're gonna have a little dude?!” you say, voice cracking.
“i’m gonna teach him how to mow the lawn wrong on purpose and eat cereal with chocolate milk,” he replies reverently.
you sniffle. “you’re gonna ruin him.”
he leans down and kisses your forehead. “yeah. it’s gonna be awesome.”
✧ gender reveal ✧
approx. 26–27 weeks
the bets are brutal.
schlatt’s uncle has $50 riding on it being a girl. your mom brought a pink balloon bouquet and already monogrammed a baby blanket with a cursive “sofia.” your best friend has been calling the bump “little miss thing” for two months.
no one suspects a thing.
you and schlatt sit smugly on the picnic bench, watching your backyard fill up with nosy relatives, paper plates, folding chairs, and a gender-reveal cake that’s very intentionally frosted in soft neutral tones.
“do you think it’s mean we lied to everyone?” you murmur, as your cousin sets up her phone to record.
“absolutely not,” schlatt says, not even hesitating. “this is the most fun i’ve had all pregnancy.”
you grin. “and when the inside’s blue?”
“oh, they’re gonna lose it.”
he leans over to whisper in your ear: “i bet your mom faints.”
“schlatt.”
“what? i’m not gonna catch her.”
✧
everyone gathers around the cake table, chattering excitedly. someone yells “team girl!” and half the crowd cheers. you hear the words “she’s totally carrying high!” like it’s gospel.
you and schlatt take the knife together, hands overlapping on the handle.
“alright,” he announces, clearing his throat. “moment of truth. but before we cut, i just wanna say… win or lose, i knew we were having a girl the second she told me she was pregnant.”
you elbow him gently. “shut up and cut it.”
he laughs and sinks the knife into the center, and when you pull away the slice, it’s like time slows.
bright. obvious. inevitable.
blue.
there’s a single beat of silence.
then—
“what?!”
“you said—”
“oh my god it’s a boy?!”
schlatt lets out a victorious bark of laughter. “and i win the pool!”
you turn to your stunned family and give a sheepish shrug. “sorry. we lied.”
“but he’s a very cute little liar,” schlatt adds, holding up the slice like a trophy.
your mom fans herself with a napkin. your uncle groans and hands someone a $20. and your best friend screams, “i bought a pink onesie for nothing?!”
it’s chaos. and hilarious. and just...perfect.
and when schlatt leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, hand resting protectively over your belly, you can already picture the little boy you’re about to meet—tiny, wild, and impossibly loved.
✧ the drive ✧
approx. 39 weeks
it starts at 2:43am.
you wake up feeling… damp. not sweat. not anything normal.
you sit up slowly, hand on your belly, already so over being pregnant. your back hurts, your hips click when you move, and you swear the baby has been doing barrel rolls for three days straight.
then you feel it.
that unmistakable pop and warm rush between your legs.
“…babe?”
a groggy grunt from beside you. schlatt’s got one arm thrown over his eyes, hair messy, breathing deep.
you nudge him. “schlatt.”
he flops his arm off his face. “what, baby? you good?”
you blink at him, wide-eyed. “my water just broke.”
there’s a pause.
a single beat of silence.
then—
“…you’re lying.”
“schlatt!”
“holy shit—okay—okay, okay, okay.” he sits up like a vampire rising from a coffin, grabs his glasses from the nightstand in one smooth motion, and suddenly, calmly mutters, “copy that.”
you stare at him. “what—?”
he’s already out of bed. “bag’s packed. car’s gassed. you showered before bed, right?”
“i—yeah, but—”
“good. pads in the backseat. towel’s on your chair. i preloaded snacks into the hospital bag last night. let me grab the extra charger.”
“…are you reading from a script?”
he’s shuffling around the room, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded but focused like a military general. “been rehearsing this for three weeks, baby. just breathe. you’re doing amazing.”
✧
five minutes later, he’s guiding you gently down the stairs like he’s walking a vip to a black car. you’re waddling a little, breath catching with each cramp, but schlatt is solid beside you—hand on your lower back, towel already on the seat, keys in his free hand.
“seat warmer’s on. i adjusted the recline. buckle up, princess. you just focus on breathing. let me drive.”
“…you’re terrifying right now,” you whisper as he helps you in.
he kisses your forehead. “you’ll love it when they give me a sticker at the check-in desk for 'most supportive dad'. i will be keeping it.”
✧
by the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, contractions biting down harder with each breath, schlatt’s a man on a mission.
he parks like he’s trained for this, grabs the overnight bag, loops your arm around his shoulder, and half-carries you through the sliding doors with the practiced ease of someone who’s read the checklist five times and color-coded it.
a nurse meets you with a wheelchair almost immediately. schlatt helps ease you in, tucking the towel under you like second nature, murmuring, “i got you, i got you,” the whole time. you’re wheeled down the hallway, nurses asking questions, lights flickering above, the sound of your breath and their quiet urgency wrapping around you like static.
and just as the nurse turns down a hallway to check you in—just before you disappear around the corner—he stops walking.
“hey, wait,” he calls gently, stepping close to the chair. “hang on.”
the nurse pauses.
he bends down, brushing a hand along your cheek, like he just needs a second longer to look at you. you blink up at him, breathing through a contraction, trying to smile. he smiles back—but it’s tight, almost wobbly at the edges.
“did i… do everything right?” he asks, voice low now, just for you. “i mean—i know there’s still stuff to do, but… up to this point. did i take care of you okay?”
you can feel it in his voice—not panic, but something tender and bright and scared. like he knows this is the last moment you’ll have like this: just the two of you, before it becomes something bigger. louder. louder than either of you can even imagine.
you squeeze his hand. “schlatt… honey, you’ve been perfect. you're going to be a fucking amazing father to our boy.”
he exhales—deep and soft. his shoulders fall just slightly, like he’s finally allowed himself to feel how heavy all this waiting has been.
“okay,” he whispers. “okay.”
he leans down and kisses your forehead. even when he pulls back, he lingers there for a second longer than necessary. and when he straightens, his hand slides right back into yours.
“i’m right behind you,” he says to the nurse.
✧
the hospital room is quiet now. dim lights. soft breathing. a baby sleeping on your chest, impossibly small, impossibly real.
you’ve been alone with him for a while—just the two of you. letting your body settle. letting your heart catch up.
but now, you need him.
“can you get my husband?” you whisper to the nurse.
and not a full minute later, the door opens gently.
there’s schlatt.
he peeks in with wide eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here yet. he’s got his hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, hair a wild mess, and he’s clutching a paper coffee cup he definitely forgot to drink.
but his eyes are on you.
not the baby. not the monitor. just you.
“hey,” he says softly, stepping in.
“hey,” you breathe back.
he comes to the side of the bed, setting the cup down without looking at it, his gaze scanning over your face like he’s trying to memorize every part of you. his hand brushes your hair gently out of your face, and when he sees the tired shimmer in your eyes, something in his chest visibly eases—like just seeing you alive and okay made the world spin again.
“you good?” he asks, his voice low, unsteady. “you—shit, baby, are you good?”
you nod, leaning into his touch. “i’m good. tired. sore. but… i’m okay.”
his eyes go glassy. “you scared the shit outta me,” he whispers, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “i’ve never—i mean. you—”
he cuts himself off, just swallowing hard before leaning in and pressing his forehead gently to yours.
“you were so fuckin’ brave,” he murmurs. “you did everything. you—god, you’re incredible.”
you let out a shaky laugh, your hand finding his. “you were pretty brave yourself.”
he exhales sharply, squeezing your fingers.
it takes a moment for his eyes to finally flick down to the bundled-up baby against your chest. he goes still.
“is he…” schlatt blinks fast, like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming. “is he okay?”
you nod. “he’s perfect.”
and that’s when the awe sets in. that quiet, open-mouthed holy shit look that only schlatt could make both adorable and heartbreaking at once.
“can i…?”
“you can hold him,” you say gently, already shifting the baby toward him. “of course you can.”
his arms slide under with an instinct you didn’t know he had, cradling the newborn like something rare and sacred. and as soon as the baby settles in his arms, all the air leaves his lungs at once.
“hi, buddy,” he whispers, the tiniest smile curling his lips. “i’m your dad.”
your throat tightens.
he looks back at you, eyes swimming. “you did so good,” he says again, voice raw. “i’m so proud of you. i love you so much.”
"i love you. so, so much." you rest your head on his arm as he holds the baby, the three of you close and safe and whole.
and now there’s nothing left but to hold each other—and your son—as the sun rises on the first morning of the rest of your lives.
