I would like to humbly request a pegging fic, if thats alright? Do you think the big man would have exerience with it, or would it be a new experience to him?👀
╭﹒✦₊˚ fair is fair ⋆｡°✩ ╮
imagine: four years ago, your husband made a promise in the middle of being very, very horny. tonight, you finally decide to collect.
✦﹒₊ ╰﹒♡₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. ┊
✦ written with a gender neutral reader in mind (it's pegging so it's a little femme coded, but nothing is like...explicitly stated/described) ✦
(all are welcome to enjoy ♡)
a/n: okayyy hello my love!! so i really tried to fulfill the request within the confines of how i characterize schlatt, bc i think that he would only do this with someone he super duper trusts?? and even then, it would take a lot of convincing?? lolol also. i need everyone to understand that the mental image of this giant man trying to maintain his dignity while face-down in candlelight fundamentally altered my brain chemistry. so thank you.
warnings: MDNI !! (18+) · established marriage · schlatt and reader have kids · pegging · role reversal · soft dom!reader · prostate stimulation · praise + teasing · multiple orgasms · emotional vulnerability · oral (reader!receiving) · size difference · aftercare · safewords/check-ins · reader and schlatt being disgustingly green flags
(っ˘ω˘ς ) enjoy the emotional support pegging ♡
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You have forty-five minutes between the last bedroom door clicking shut and Schlatt finding you.
In that time, you light every candle — the tall ones on the dresser, the little ones on the windowsill, the tea lights in the ceramic holders you bought at the farmer's market two summers ago and never found a reason to use. You put flowers on the nightstand. You turn the good sheets down and set the vanilla wax melting. You change into the robe and sit on the edge of the bed and try, mostly, to talk yourself out of being nervous.
Because you are nervous. You have been planning this for four years and now that the kids are down and the candles are lit, it's very real and very close and your hands are not entirely steady when you press them flat on your thighs.
You want this. That doesn't make it less terrifying.
The door opens at eight twenty-three.
He comes in talking — something about what the little one said during the last book, one hand already working the top button of his flannel — and stops mid-sentence the second he registers the room.
"Oh," he says.
"Hi handsome."
He takes in the room, slow. The flannel is half-unbuttoned at the collar, his hair pushed back from his face, and he'd originally had a tired look that he only allows to show around you, which has quickly turned into surprise and adoration. He steps fully through the door and kicks it shut behind him (quietly, as to not wake the kids).
"Hey," he says, differently.
"Hi," you say again, and your voice comes out exactly as nervous as you feel, which you did not plan.
His head tilts. "You good?"
"Yes. Come here."
You hold out your hand to him, and he eagerly takes it, dropping onto the bed beside you with a creak of the mattress — he's a lot of weight — and his other hand goes to your knee automatically, warm and familiar. His eyes lingering on all his favorite features on his favorite person, the way a child would subconsiously rub at the velvet ears of their comfort plushie.
"What do you want tonight?" he asks.
"A good night with you," you say. You turn toward him. "And there are things you've been bringing up. That I keep saying maybe to."
The shift in him is immediate. "Yeah? Is there…anything in particular?"
"Well, we haven't done anal in a while."
The sound that comes out is embarrassingly eager, but he tries his best to stop himself. He clears his throat. "Yeah. Obviously. That's great, finally, it's been months." He stops trying to be cool about it. "Okay, yes. Tonight. You're not gonna regret this. I'm gonna take my time, do it right. I've been thinking about it, sweetheart, you have no idea. The things I'm gonna do to you, you're going to be absolutely wrecked—"
"You're going to feel every bit of it," you say.
"That's the whole plan—"
"Every single bit," you say. "You especially."
He stops. He's still smiling, but his eyebrows are furrowing in confusion. "...Meaning."
"Do you remember about four years ago? Right before the first time we ever tried it? The conversation we had?"
"Sure," he says. He sounds a lot like he doesn't actually remember.
"What do you remember about it?"
He thinks. "You said yes?"
"And I said something else first."
He thinks harder. "You said to go slow?"
"Before that."
He stares at you. His hand is still on your knee but it has gone very still. His eyes drift to the middle distance, and you watch him try to pull it up in his mind's eye, and watch the memory take shape , and watch him not love it.
"I said, whatever I let you do to me, I get to do to you."
Silence.
"And you said," you continue, "'anything, whatever you want, sure, yes, all of it, please just say yes, baby, I really wanna fuck you in the ass.'"
He opens his mouth.
"Whattttttt….no. No, but I-I was excited," he explains. He stands up. He takes two steps away from the bed and turns back around and looks at you. "I was genuinely — you know how much I like it. It's a thing for me. A significant thing. If you had told me right then that the condition was I had to wrestle a bear, I would have agreed. Immediately. And then thought about how to deal with the bear situation later."
"But you didn't think about it later."
He looks at the ceiling. He looks at you. "No," he says, reluctantly. "I did not."
"So."
He runs a hand through his hair. "So you've been sitting on this promise I made for this long?"
"Waiting for the right time."
He looks around the room — the candles, the flowers — and back at you. "The right time," he repeats.
"With the right setup," you say. You stand up and cross to him and put your hand flat on his chest and tilt your chin up to look at him. He's very tall from this close, always has been. "I want to do this with you. And before you start listing reasons—"
"I have several."
You kiss him.
He makes a muffled sound of protest that lasts approximately one second before his hands find your waist and he kisses you back, and he tastes familiar and warm and when you press into him you feel exactly how into this he still is despite everything. He pulls you closer and the kiss goes longer and deeper, one hand coming up to the back of your neck, a low hum in the back of his throat at how fulfilling it is to kiss you like this after a busy couple of weeks with having no sex at all.
When you finally pull back, you're both a little breathless. He's looking down at you.
"…I have conditions," he says, quieter now.
"Name them and it's yours."
"You stop when I say. No questions."
"Of course, baby."
"You don't bring it up after unless I bring it up."
"Easy."
"And." He's looking at your face, searching for the right words. "If it's too much for you, or you end up not being as into it, be honest and tell me and we can stop and re-think our night."
"It won't be too much," you say. "But I will let you know. You let me know, too. I want this to be fun for both of us."
He breathes out. He looks at the room, all of it, the care you put into it, and something in him decides.
"Okay," he says. "Yeah. Alright."
You break into a pleased grin.
"Don't," he says.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You have a look," he says, starting to unbutton the rest of his flannel. "You've had it this whole time."
"What does it mean?"
He drops the flannel somewhere. He points at you. "It's just weird for you to be this excited for something that I'm…not. And I don't like it." He's still half-grumbling when he says, "That robe…needs to come off, honey."
You stand, reaching for the tie.
He watches. He stops getting undressed entirely, fingers stopping just under the waistband of his pants. He decides to sit watch the show, and you smile as you pull the tie loose and let the robe slip down. His eyes go to the lingerie first — the lace, the way it sits against your chest and stomach — and then down.
And then stop.
The harness sits over the lace as if it was a part of it. Black straps, adjusted and fitted, the ring at the front empty and waiting.
He's very still.
"That," he says, pointing again. "That's a harness."
"It is."
He looks at it. He looks at you. He looks at the harness. He puts his hands on his hips. He is doing an enormous amount of processing.
"…You sure we have to do this?"
"We don't have to do this. You're allowed to say no, Schlatt."
"But you seem so…into this idea. That look on your face is so…you're looking at me like…"
"Like I want you? Because I do."
You step closer. He's sitting and you're standing and from this angle you're looking down at him, and his hands find your hips when you come into range, automatic, pulling you in between his knees. He's looking up at you with an expression you don't have a name for, something between his usual and something rawer underneath it.
"I've never had anything back there," he says. "Not once."
"I know."
"Not ever."
"I know." You put your hand on his jaw, and he leans into it slightly without meaning to. "I hadn't either. You were my first time. You remember?"
His jaw tightens under your hand.
"You talked me through the whole thing," you say. "You went so slow. You kept checking in." You hold his gaze. "I know what it's like to be scared of something and do it anyway because you trust someone." Your thumb moves against his cheek. "Trust me."
He's quiet for a long moment. He looks at you.
"Okay," he says, and this time it's a real yes — not resigned, not talked into it. Just him, choosing.
You kiss him again, slower, and he makes a low sound into it and pulls you closer and you feel the specificity of the comforting weight of your marriage — the particular way he kisses you with such devotion, the way his hands hold you with such familiarity, the exhale when he finally lets the tension go.
When you pull back, he drops his head to your stomach. You run your hand through his hair.
"You're going to be fine," you tell him.
"I know," he mutters. "I'm fine. I'm gonna be completely fine." A beat. "I'm a little scared."
"I know." You press your mouth to the top of his head. "Come on."
He gets himself sorted — goes to the bathroom to throw some water in his face, takes off the rest of his clothes when he's back — while you get what you need from the nightstand. He settles face-down on the bed, forearms under the pillow, head to the side, and you sit beside him.
You have never seen him like this before. He almost looks like he's about to go to sleep, but there's a tension that's making his back arch with a bit of purpose.
Eight years of being married to the big guy, and you have never seen him face-down and waiting, taking up most of the width of the mattress with his shoulders, his back long and solid and entirely exposed. He looks different. Larger in some ways and much more fragile in others, and something about that combination makes your chest do something complicated. You're nervous. You're excited. You want to do this right so badly that your hands are still not entirely steady.
You reach over and give his ass a firm smack.
He makes an indignant noise. "What the hell?"
"Sorry," you say, not sorry. "It was right there. And your butt is so big, Schlatt. Not half as big as your head, but…"
He cranes around to look at you. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"Occupational hazard of being married." You school your expression. He narrows his eyes.
"I'm in a very vulnerable position, love," he says pointedly.
"I'm aware, love. I'm taking this very seriously."
"That was not serious."
"That was affection," you say. "Settle down, grumpy pants."
He mutters something into the pillow and puts his head back down, and you press your lips together to hold in the smile and get yourself together. You're generous with the lube as your spread his cheeks — more than you think you need — and when the cap clicks he flinches.
"Baby!"
"I haven't put anything in yet! Calm down, you big baby…okay. I'm gonna get you warmed up now, okay?"
"Warmed up?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna use my fingers for a bit. You didn't think I'd put a cock inside you with no prep, did you?"
"Obviously," he says, obviously lying, and then you press against his hole, barely — just the outside, just warm pressure, nothing more — and he says "OKAY" very loudly into the pillow.
You pause. "I haven't even gotten inside you yet, baby."
"I KNOW THAT," he says, also very loudly, into the pillow. "I know you haven't done anything. I'm just. Very aware of the situation. Can you give me a second."
"Take your time."
He breathes. Loud, deliberate, I-am-handling-this breathing. His shoulders come down from around his ears. You keep your hand warm on his lower back, and you find that something about this angle — him under your hands, the span of his shoulders dwarfing your reach, the specific vulnerability underneath the tension — is making the butterflies in your stomach fly a little lower.
"Okay," he says, more quietly. "Okay. Go."
One finger, slow.
He grips the sheets. "Alright. Yeah. Okay."
"Good?" you manage.
"It's weird," he says, and at least he sounds human again. "It's a lot of…pressure? Is it supposed to feel like that?"
"Does it hurt?"
"No?"
"Good. Then yes, it's supposed to feel like that. A little weird, a bit of pressure and fullness…"
"Okay." He breathes. "Keep going."
You move slowly, watching the way his back rises and falls, the way his shoulders shift. He makes small whimpering sounds, breathy exhales and shaky inhales and you find that you are paying attention to every single one in a way that you didn't entirely anticipate. You were prepared to focus on him. You weren't prepared for how much you would feel watching it.
You ask about a second finger.
"Yeah," he says, after a pause that tells you he needed a second to decide. "Yeah. Use more."
You use one more. He hisses sharply when you add it, his hand slamming flat on the mattress, and the sound of it makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with concern.
"Holy shit," he says, involuntarily. Then: "Okay. Okay. That's a lot."
"You're doing so well," you say, and mean it, and feel faintly ridiculous for how warm it makes you.
"I'm not doing anything, I'm just lying here." He breaks off when you move, slow, and makes a sound that is considerably less managed than the ones before. "Okay. Okay, that's actually fine. A little…yeah..."
You try a different angle. He breaks out in a broken gasp.
"Holy…"
"Oh…" you moan. You go back to that spot, tapping it, and he twitches, his gasps higher-pitched and deliciously needy.
His whole body jolts. The sound he makes is sharp and surprised and nothing like anything before, and his hips press hard into the mattress.
"What the hell was that," he says, into the pillow. He sounds genuinely unmoored. "I felt that everywhere."
"I found something," you say, with more composure than you feel, because your heart rate has absolutely spiked.
"What? What did you find?"
"Your P-spot, or whatever. Your prostate. That you've got."
"What spot? What does that even—"
You do it again. His leg kicks out like a reflex.
"Oh my god," he says. "What is that, how are you doing that, do it again—"
"Yeah?"
"Yes, do it again, exactly like that—" He goes quiet when you do. The sound he makes is so rough and broken that it turns over something hot in your chest. "What is that," he says, almost to himself. "Why does that feel like that?"
"Just feel it," you say, because you don't have a better answer.
"B-Baby…fuck…"
You keep going. You work him slowly and watch him come apart — his hips moving against the mattress in small circles he's stopped trying to control, his knuckles white in the sheets, his words dissolving. He's stopped talking in sentences. He's stopped being able to.
"You look so good right now," you tell him, because it's true and you want to say it. "Going to pieces for me like this. You're fucking melting for me, aren't you, honey. I bet you can't even hear me you're feeling so good."
He makes a whimpering sound of acknowledgement — like he can hear you, but "hates" your teasing.
"All that attitude," you say, "and look at you now. You gonna cum for me?"
"I don't know— It doesn't feel like it normally does— Fuck, am I…shit—"
He cries out a muffled and urgent whine into the pillow, and then the tension in him crests and breaks and releases in a long slow wave, and he makes a sound you will never forget — low and wrecked and long.
You keep your fingers curled, but still your movements,
After a long moment: "Holy shit, did I just ruin these sheets?" His voice has gone completely scratchy and ragged. He clears his throat as best he can, lifting his hips a bit with some effort.
"Nope!" you say, running a hand underneath him.
He checks. "I didn't cum?"
"You didn't ejaculate," you correct. "You can have an orgasm without spilling any cum, even if you are definitely stickier than before…it's not as much as you usually cum, no."
Silence.
"I didn't know that could happen," he says simply, a bit in awe.
"It's real, baby."
"I thought that was something people made up. But now…it felt different. Like it was going through my whole body."
"It's very real and sexy as fuck."
"Huh," he chuckles a bit under his breath. "Okay. Maybe…we take a break?"
"Of course."
"How about you, love? Are you…is this doing anything for you?"
"Um. Yes? Absolutely. Why wouldn't I be turned on all the way up to 100 right now?"
"Are you serious? Come here," he says, quieter. His hand reaches for you.
You take his hand and let him pull you in. When you're close enough, he opens the pushes open the fabric of the untied robe, and underneath is the harness and the lingerie and nothing else, and you watch his expression do several things very quickly as he pushes past the leather to find you.
His hand moves to the inside of the fabric. His eyes close for half a second.
"Fucking really? "
"I told you…seeing you like that because of me? It's hot…"
"How about we hit pause on all this and lemme take care of you real quick?"
"No," you say immediately, forcing yourself to have no hesitation, lest you give into temptation.
"What? I'm just going to—"
"J." You catch his wrist, firm. "We're not done yet. I know you, and as much as I'd like to match orgasms with you, I have a goal, and I'm not going to let you pussyfoot around it."
"That is not fair though, babe."
"I know it isn't. Later. I promise."
He stares at you. "You're seriously going to make me wait to have a taste of you?"
"Yes, I am. I am putting off my well-deserved orgasms because of how badly I want to have you under me, taking my cock." You look at him steadily. "Okay?"
He laughs at your resoluteness, sighing and putting his hands up in surrender. "Fine," he says. "Okay. Fine."
You get up to get the toy.
It clicks into the ring of the harness — the toy you picked carefully, realistic, made to match your skin, proportioned right. Nothing that should be considered intimidating to anyone but a virgin. You straighten up and Schlatt has been watching you, and when you look at him he's sitting on the edge of the bed and his expression has done something new.
He looks at the toy. He looks at you wearing it. He swings his legs off the bed and stands, and crosses the room toward you — all six-foot-three of him, which at close range is always a fact — and then, without explanation, he sinks to his knees in front of you.
Your brain stutters.
He's at your hip level from the floor. He looks at the toy and then at your face and then at the toy, and you have no idea what he's about to do, and then he puts his hand on your hip and turns his face to press his mouth to your inner thigh, hot and open, and you make a sound before you can stop it.
"Okay," you breathe.
He mouths at your thigh for a moment — his grip on your hip firm, keeping you still — and then he pulls back and looks at the toy and looks at you, and there's something in his face that's curious and a little helpless and very warm.
He takes the base in one hand to keep it steady.
"J," you say.
"What."
"You don't have to—"
"I really…need to taste you, babe," he says, and puts the strap in his mouth.
You stop breathing.
He takes his time with it. He's figured out the angle and the grip and he's looking up at you from under his lashes while he does it, and you are watching your partner — your husband who has never done this in their life, and to your knowledge, never sucked dick — give the strap actual, genuine attention, and you are not remotely prepared for how the visual of it attacks your psyche and shoots down your spine. Your hand goes to his hair, gripping, and he moans around it — low and vibrating — and your hips move forward involuntarily.
"God," you manage. "Suck my cock, baby…"
He pulls back to breathe, and his grip on your hip tightens, and he goes back in and you press your hand harder in his hair and feel him hum. He works at it with a focus that suggests he has stopped thinking about the fact that this strap is not really your cock. To him, it's all you, and he's somehow convincing you, too. He's figured out a rhythm. His eyes are closed now, and your hand is tight in his hair, and the room is warm and candlelit and this is happening, this is really happening.
He pulls off slowly. Looks up at you. His mouth is red and his hair is a mess where you've been gripping it and he looks exactly like that looks.
"Did you actually enjoy that?" you ask, a little hoarse.
"More than I expected to," he says, like it surprises him. He stands, unfolding to his full height, and the toy is at his thigh from up here, which is its own kind of reminder of exactly how big he is. "I wish you could feel it like how I feel it when you've done me."
"So do I," you say, with a feeling that is very sincere.
He exhales. His hand is still on your hip. He drops his forehead to yours, briefly, and you both stand there for a moment in the warm room.
"I want to keep going," he says.
"Yeah? You think you're ready?"
"Yeah," he says, with a little more confidence he had thirty minutes ago. "Come on. Let's go."
He gets himself situated — face-down again, forearms under the pillow — and you take a moment to look at him from this angle: broad shoulders, long back, his hips in front of you. Your hands on him are small. Your reach across his back is limited. You are going to have to be up on your knees behind him and the difference in scale will be obvious, and something about that makes you feel something bright and hot and certain.
"I'm going to start here," you tell him, getting positioned, "and I'm going to want to flip you over at some point. Different angle."
"What angle."
"You'll find out." You lean forward to his ear. "You look so good," you tell him, low. "I've been wanting this for so long."
His breath hitches.
You get more lube — the right amount, which is, more than probably necessary — and you circle the tip of the toy against him without pushing, just letting him feel the shape of it, the size. He goes still, and you can almost feel his pupils dilating.
"How does that feel?" you ask.
"Nerve-wracking," he says.
"Just the outside," you say. "Just teasing you a bit, honey."
"I don't want you to tease me, baby…I—I want you."
You try to ignore the hot streak of lust that pulses through you at those words. You grip him by the hips tighter, using your thumb to move the fat of his cheeks out of the way.
"Deep breath."
He breathes. His back expands and contracts. You press forward, barely — just the tip, just inside the first resistance — and he makes a sharp, helpless sound and his hand grips the mattress.
"Slow," he says. "I'm serious. Slow."
"I've got you," you say. "I'm not moving."
He breathes through it. You stay still. You wait him out with your hand warm on his lower back, and after a moment the bracing in his shoulders slowly, slowly eases.
"Okay," he says. "More."
You go slow. Each inch deliberate, pausing when he needs it, watching his back for every tell. He's loud — not screaming, but he's stopped pretending he's not making noise. Hissed exhales. Quiet curses. Once, a low and involuntary "oh fuck me" that he doesn't acknowledge and you don't comment on.
When you're all the way in, you stop.
"Color," you say, because this warrants it.
"Yellow," he says immediately. "Give me a second."
You hold completely still. Your hand moves slow on his spine.
"I've got you," you say. "Take your time."
He breathes. The tension in his legs comes down. "Okay," he says. "Green. Move. Slow."
You move. The sounds he makes go from strained to something different — lower, rougher, less about getting through something and more about slipping into the pleasure of it.
His grip in the sheets loosens and retightens. You find an angle that makes him press his face harder into the pillow, unable to do anything but moan and whine, and you stay there.
"Going dumb for my cock already?" you ask.
He makes an indignant noise that dissolves into something else when you press deeper.
"Big boy Schlatt with the silver tongue," you say, keeping the rhythm, "can't even form a sentence when he's getting dicked down good."
"I can form sentences just fine," he says, and then you find the angle again and he makes a sound that is the direct opposite of a sentence.
"What a good boy," you say, "when you're not being difficult about it."
He says something muffled and fervent into the pillow that you take as agreement.
You build it. You take your time. You watch his back, his hands, the line of his spine, and you can feel how much of him there is beneath your hands, how small you are relative to all of it, and how completely you have him like this.
"I want you to ask me," you say, easing the pace just slightly. "Before I let you come. If I let you. I want to hear you ask."
He groans. "Are you serious."
"Very."
"I'm not going to—"
"Ask me," you say pleasantly, and find the angle, and stay there.
He makes a short, sharp sound of desperation. His hips push back.
"Ask me," you say again, your hips rolling like a tidal wave.
"Please," he says, rough and raw and nothing like his usual voice. "Please, don't stop, please—"
"Please what," you say. "Specifically."
"Please let me come," he says, his voice cracking on the last word. "Please, I need to come, baby, I'm so fucking close, I just need to— please, please, please—"
"Good boy," you groan. "Cum for me."
He comes loud — genuinely, embarrassingly loud, a long broken groan that he doesn't try to muffle, his back arching hard and his whole body shaking. You hold him with both hands on his hips and keep your pace, only slowing when he holds up a hand and starts snapping — his non-verbal yellow flag.
You slow to a stop, pulling out.
You stay where you are and breathe.
"Holy shit," he says, into the pillow.
"Language," you murmer.
He doesn't even have the energy to talk back.
You ease back, careful, and reach for an extra pillow. "Can I flip you?"
He lifts his head. Looks at you, flushed and wrecked. "More? Oh my god, babe. I don't know."
"Come on, please? I had to wait so long to fuck you and you think I want to end the night with you having only two orgasms?"
"Only two of the most earth-shattering orgasms that I've ever had in my goddamned life?"
"But I really wanna give you at least one more. With a different angle that will be even better than what I've already given you, handsome. I think this one's going to be even better."
He holds your gaze for a moment, reading you. He sighs, nodding.
You tuck the pillow under his hips when he rolls over, tilting his pelvis up slightly, and you kneel between his legs. From here, the geometry is specific: you're smaller than him in every dimension, his legs are long and flank your sides, and to lean over him you have to angle your whole body forward. His face is far above your eye level. He's looking down his own chest at you. You're looking up at him.
His arm is resting at his side and you take it, curling your fingers with his — your weight behind it, pinning him — and reach between you with your other hand.
He's hard, of course. Fully, completely, heavy and warm when you wrap your fingers around him, and he makes a grumble from somewhere low in his chest.
"So good for me, baby. Just one more. I just wanted to see your face when I break you this time. So why don't you be so good for me and look at me?"
His eyes meet yours. Dark and needy, dilated and glassy. So cute.
"Hi sweetface," you whsiper.
"Hi," he manages, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade than before. "You gonna fuck me?"
"Already have. Will I do it again? Absolutely. You ready for me?"
"Yeah, think so…"
With that, you push forward, and the angle from here — with the pillow, with the tilt — is completely different, and you feel it in your hips before he reacts, and then he reacts. His mouth opens. His eyes go wide. His whole body goes taut.
"Oh," he says, and stops there, because that's all there is.
"There it is," you say.
You move your hand on his length in rhythm with your hips, and his head drops back and the sound he makes rumbles through the whole room. You work him steady and watch his face — the way it keeps changing, the way his jaw goes slack, the way he keeps looking down at you and his eyes go soft and then lose focus and come back and go soft again.
"That's it, handsome," you say. "Just feel it."
"I'm feeling it," he says, and his voice is barely there. "I'm feeling a lot of you."
"Well you like me. So you must be feeling pretty fucking close, huh? Glad I kept you to your promise?"
He makes a sound that is not a denial.
"You're so cute like this, Schlatt. Trembling and spread open just for me…while I fuck you exactly how you needed."
He shudders, the hand that you have him pinned by tightening around your grip.
You don't stop. You give him everything — steady and warm and focused entirely on him — and you feel the wave build again. His arm under your hand goes tight. His breathing goes ragged and short. He's trying to hold on and you don't make him.
"Come on," you say. "Let me hear you. Don't keep those delicious little moans inside."
And he does come louder than before — a genuine broken cry that he doesn't muffle at all, his whole body locking and then shaking, your name somewhere in the middle of it. His cock spurts in your hands like a small fountain, his cum sticky and thick in your fingers. His hand grips your arm hard. You work him through every second of it, your hand and your hips, until his grip loosens and his body goes heavy and his breath comes in long, unsteady pulls.
You ease off him, moving up beside him.
He doesn't speak. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is deep and heavy, having the specific quality of being on another plane of existence — and you don't panic, you just stay close.
"I'm here, honey," you murmer against him. "Take your time."
You get yourself untangled from the harness while you're beside him, set it aside, and pull the blanket up over both of you. You get water from the nightstand and put it in his hand, and when he doesn't move immediately, you wrap his fingers around it.
"Drink," you say. "You're probably dehydrated as fuck."
He drinks. Slowly.
You stay there with your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow from quick to steady. You talk to him in the quiet — nothing important, just your voice, telling him he did so well, that you've got him, that he can take all the time he needs.
After a while, he says, "I love you."
"I love you too, Schlatt."
His hand finds yours on his chest and holds it.
"You okay?" you ask.
"Yeah," he says. More present now. He turns his head and looks at you. Some of him is coming back — the color in his face, the focus in his eyes. He exhales. "That was a lot."
"Good a lot?"
He rolls his eyes playfully. "Don't fish."
"I'm not fishing."
"You're fishing." His thumb moves against the back of your hand. "You were nervous earlier. At the beginning."
"A little."
"You didn't say."
"I didn't want to make it about me," you say.
He looks at you. "It was about both of us," he says. "This whole thing was for both of us." His jaw shifts. "The way you watched me tonight. Knew when to slow down, when to push, when to just stay still."
"…I learned from the best."
"You took really great care of me…so can I finally return the favor?"
You look at him.
"You've been very patient," he says. "And I've been taking up a lot of the evening."
"You have," you agree.
"So." He waits.
You look at him for a moment — your partner, your husband, flushed and soft and looking at you like you're something he wants to take care of — and you nod.
Schlatt is infuriatingly good at getting you off. At some point in the night, you had totally forgotten about your own desire and would have been fulfilled with everything you were able to achieve. Lord knows that he does a lot of the work already when it comes to working in the bedroom. But, contrary to what people might say…marriage is not 50/50. It is 100/100, and even through his exhaustion, your sweet husband pushes through to try and bring even a fraction of the pleasure you've worked to give him tonight by manhandling you against his thigh.
His hands are large — large enough that the span of one covers significant ground — and he kisses at your face and neck and chest while he works you up, greedily grabbing at your hips and the fat of your ass, forcing you to grind and bump against his wide thigh at the pace he wants you to go, and at one point, you find you're making sounds that are a lot like the sounds he was making twenty minutes ago.
"Color," he says, as you're moments from reaching your precipice, dry as anything.
"Shut up," you say, breathless, putting your hand against his mouth as you grind yourself to climax. He laughs under your hand, kissing your palm as he watches you melt into whimpers and satisfied moans.
You stay tangled together in the warm room. The candles have burned low. The vanilla is still there, constant. Somewhere down the hall, your daughter is probably kicking in her sleep. Your son will be up at seven wanting a hot breakfast all ready for him. There are a hundred things tomorrow.
Tonight though, it's just you two.
"Fair is fair," you say.
His chest rises under your cheek in a huff. His hand moves slow on your back.
"Fair is fair," he says, and holds you while the candles burn down.
I need you to know that "Built for it" is genuinely my number one fic of ALLLLL TIIIIIIIME. It's also so refreshing seeing black creators in the space, it's genuinely inspired me to start writing. If I could pretty please request some more feral breeding kink stuff bc I'm a freak abt that. Maybe black reader too if you'd be interested... I know that white boy wouldn't play about his chocolate queen 🙂↕️
╭﹐✦˚₊· zero percent chance (?) ⋆.ೃ࿔:･ ╮
imagine: you and your boyfriend just got some pretty sad news. but...fake it till you're making it, you know? that's his motto.
✦﹒₊ ╰﹒♡₊˚๑✧ ﹒ ✦࣪˖ ┊
✦ written with a black fem!reader in mind ✦
(but all are welcome to enjoy ♡)
a/n: andddd back to the smut!! i was very excited to take this request because HEHEHE i get to indulge in some of my fav kinks. thank you for such a sweet message alexis - reading that my writing inspired you to start writing too means a hell of a lot to me :')) i finished up with my thesis and now i just gotta get through finals week...but today i'm going to be getting drunk on a boat with some of my friends and wanted to give you guys a little hit of dopamine too <3
warnings: MDNI (18+) !! · black!reader · lowkey switch!schlatt · body worship · established relationship · infertility-adjacent themes (low probability of natural conception) · breeding kink · hint of lactation kink · oral sex (f!receiving) · size kink · overstimulation · excessive cum, leaking · cockwarming · implied somnophilia, but no depiction
(っ´ཀ`)っ have fun ya freaks!!
✧✧✧
Cleanser, toner, body oil, shea butter — in that order, no exceptions, the way your mother taught you at thirteen. You've done it every night since. You did it the night before your college thesis was due. You did it the night your grandmother died. You did it a few days ago, before you and Schlatt sat in the parking lot of the fertility clinic for forty-five minutes before either of you said anything, and then came home and cooked and ate chicken curry and rice at the table in near-silence, and then you came upstairs and did your routine, because it's the one thing that stays the same.
Tonight the lamp on the dresser throws its low gold over everything, and you're at the vanity working shea butter into your arms and trying, mostly, not to think.
You're naked from the shower, curls loose and enormous from the wash, damp at the roots and springing free around your face and shoulders. The lamp catches the shea butter on your deep brown skin and you look warm and lit from inside, and you make yourself look at your body. Your mother also said: take up space. Look at yourself like you love yourself, and then one day you really will. You look at your full lips, the curl of your lashes, the curve of your shoulders and your hips.
You look at your stomach, and take a moment to blink away tears.
You're so focused on your routine that you don't hear Schlatt until he's in the doorway.
He's changed out of his work clothes into that in-between state you've always found endearing: soft charcoal trousers and the brown leather belt still buckled through the loops, a worn gray henley pushed up past his forearms. He's a big man — broad through the shoulders and chest, solid through the stomach, the kind of build that takes up a doorframe without meaning to. His dark hair is pushed back from his forehead, wavy on top, curling where it's grown out. The gold frames of his aviators catch the lamplight.
You look at his reflection. He's looking at your face.
"Hey, love," he says.
"Hey, baby." You keep working the butter into your arm. "…I'm fine. If that's what you're here for."
"Mm. Not exactly." He comes into the room, stops behind you. Close enough that you can see him properly in the mirror — the quiet concern behind the glasses, the way his jaw sits.
"I really am fine," you repeat. "The routine helps."
"I know it does." He reaches up, gently, and tucks a loose curl back from your face. His fingers are warm. "Can I help? With your back?"
You hand him the jar.
His hands press broad and warm to your shoulder blades — big hands, big enough that the span of each covers most of your back — and he works the shea butter in slowly. Long strokes, thumbs tracing your spine. For a while, neither of you says anything.
Then, quietly: "The doctor said low probability. Not impossible."
"I know what she said, Schlatt," you whisper back. "I was there."
"I know, I know." His hands slow at your waist, spreading wide over the flare of your hips. "I'm just thinking about that word. Impossible. She didn't say that."
"Schlatt—"
"She didn't say that," he says again, gently. His hands trace back up your sides. "And tonight I want to — I want to give you a night, a night like tonight, like the odds are in our favor. Like we're certain it will happen." He meets your eyes in the mirror. "I want to pretend, with you. If you'll let me."
Something moves through your chest. You look at your own reflection — your face, your curls, the lamp behind you — and you think about the parking lot and the silence and his hand not letting go of yours the whole drive home.
"...Pretend?" you ask.
"For tonight." Quiet. "No talk about percentages."
"That's your pitch?"
"…I did have a better one."
"Can I hear that one?"
He pauses. "I can't remember any of it now."
"Schlatt."
"I had the whole thing ready. In the car. It was genuinely good." He sounds so mournful about it. He might even be pulling out the fake tears and faux sniffles. "You're standing there looking like that and it's just — gone."
A small laugh escapes you, helpless.
"There she is," he murmers, soft. "My smiley girl."
You look down. The smile fades a little. "It just hurts. Hoping like that and then—"
"I know." Still steady. "I don't want to make it about the process or timing or positions. I don't want to think about doctors appointments or fertility specialists and their tips and tricks. I just want to let tonight be tonight. I want you."
"...Okay," you say. "Tonight is tonight."
He presses his lips to the top of your head.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You set the jar on the vanity. Turn around. He's right there, close, and his hands settle at your hips automatically. You tip your chin up to find his face. The glasses have slid down his nose. You reach up and push them back.
He looks down at you, his head tilted to the left, his pupils all dilated. His thumbs press soft circles into the sides of your waist.
"You're so beautiful," he says.
"Knees," you tell him.
He drops. Straight to the carpet, no hesitation, his big hands coming to your thighs, and he looks up at you from the floor. He reaches up and turns the vanity chair toward him. You lower yourself into it, the cushion soft beneath you, and he closes the distance on his knees.
He presses his mouth to the inside of your knee. Warm, unhurried. His eyes come straight back to your face.
"Schlatt," you say, a hint of a whine already in it.
"Shh." His mouth moves to your inner thigh. "I wanna savor this."
"You can savor it faster."
He laughs against your skin, low, and the warmth of it makes you shiver. "No I can't."
Another kiss. Higher. And another. The hair of his forearms presses warm against the inside of your thigh as he leans in and you feel his breath, two full seconds of warm breath against your skin, and then his mouth, and the sound that comes out of you is a sharp, bitten-off oh—
His tongue presses flat and slow at first. Learning. Then it finds the specific angle that makes your hips jolt and you gasp, "— there —" and he stays right there, exactly there, and doesn't move from it.
Your hand goes into his hair immediately, the dark wavy mess of it, and you pull, hard. He groans against you, muffled and low, and grips your thighs as they try to close around his head. But his hands are insistent that they stay wide.
"Schlatt—"
He hums. A silent what? as he continues to make you crumble.
"You—" The sentence dissolves. Your hips roll forward and he lets them, angles to meet you, and you lose whatever you were going to say entirely. "God—"
Another hum. Longer this time. Pleased.
"Don't—" you manage, pulling his hair again, harder, your knuckles whitening. "Don't you dare be smug about this right now!"
He laughs against you, low and muffled, and the vibration of it makes your thighs shake and your grip on the chair cushion tighten until your fingers ache.
"Oh my God—"
He makes a deep and grumbling sound that you feel more than hear, and works you slower, like he's got all night, like he's not the one on his knees.
"Please," you breathe.
He looks up at you.
Right in the middle of it — tilts his head back to find your face, dark eyes finding yours from below — and he holds your gaze and doesn't stop and you look back at him and whatever you were holding onto gives way entirely.
"Schlatt — I'm—"
He knows. His hands hold your thighs open and he keeps his rhythm and you come apart — his name in pieces in your mouth, your back arching hard away from the chair cushion. He works you through every wave of it and only goes still when you're pulling at his hair with both hands and whimpering because it's too much, too much, and he lifts his head and presses his lips gently to your inner thigh.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Good fucking girl…"
"Shut up," you breathe, still shaking.
He rises on his knees, high enough to reach you in the chair, and takes your jaw in both hands and kisses you — warm and unhurried. You taste yourself on his mouth and pull him closer anyway. He makes a low sound against you, pleased with himself, which he has every right to be and you will not be telling him that.
You break the kiss enough to look at him. His hair is a complete disaster. He looks entirely unbothered.
You slide off the vanity chair.
You end up sitting beside him on the carpet, shoulder to shoulder, backs against the front of the chair. He tips his head briefly to rest against yours and you let him, just for a moment. The lamp above you. The quiet.
Then you reach over and press your palm flat against the front of his trousers.
His breath punches in. "Hey—"
"Be quiet," you say.
You feel the belt buckle cold against your knuckles and the soft warm fabric beneath your palm and him underneath that — already half-hard, the weight of him even through the cloth. Heavy. You press slow and feel his jaw go tight.
"Babe—"
"Shh," you say.
You keep your palm flat and drag it upward, slow, feeling him out through the fabric — the length of him, the thickness, the way he twitches when your palm drags over the head. He exhales hard through his nose. His hand finds your thigh and grips but doesn't stop you. You do it again, same pace, same pressure, and this time he makes a low sound that makes him sound like a whale singing.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay?" You curl your fingers around him as best you can through the fabric and squeeze, gentle, and watch his whole face go slack.
"Okay as in — that's—" He swallows. His hips shift into your hand. "That's good. That's really—"
You work him slow and thorough, feeling him get fully hard under your palm, heavy and insistent through the soft fabric, and he's gripping your thigh now like it's the only thing keeping him in his body. His head tips back. Another sound, quiet and involuntary.
"God," he breathes. "Okay, wait—"
"I'm not even doing anything, honey," you say pleasantly.
"You're doing — you're doing a lot, actually, toots—" His breath hitches when you squeeze again. "Okay. Okay, slow down. I've been — I'm trying to save my…my orgasm."
You go still.
"...Save it," you repeat.
"For the—" He gestures vaguely toward the bed. "The baby-making. You know."
You look at him. He looks back at you, genuinely flushed, completely serious about this.
"You've been saving it," you say slowly. "For the baby-making."
"Why did you say it like that—"
"How long have you been saving your cum for me, Schlatt?"
"That's not — that's not relevant—"
A smile starts at the corner of your mouth. You look down at your hand. Back up at him.
"Do you mean, you've been saving it for just a couple hours?"
"No," he says immediately, almost ashamed that he wants more credit.
"Since yesterday?"
"I don't like this face you're making," His eyes narrow. "Don't. I know exactly what you're thinking and don't."
"Hey, wait, we haven't had sex all week. Have you been…saving it since then?"
You look at his face, grabbing his chin with your index finger and thumb and look at his face.
He looks — God, he looks absolutely pathetic in the best possible way.
His cheeks are flushed pink all the way to his ears, his glasses slightly fogged at the edges, his bottom lip caught between his teeth like he's physically trying to hold something in. His eyes are dark and a little desperate and very, very frantic as he looks at you, your face, your hand on his crotch, his hand on your thigh.
In your understanding of his thoughts — there are two equally urgent things happening in his brain right now and they are at complete war with each other. He wants to come. He also wants to be inside you when he does. He wants both of these things immediately and he cannot have both immediately and it is clearly causing him genuine distress.
"How long," you repeat. You lean over to him down his jaw, the chops tickling your nose.
He closes his eyes. "...Since Monday."
It's Friday.
"Schlatt," you say, and you don't know if you're scandalized or impressed or both.
Either way, you tighten your grip.
"Babe—"
The sound he makes is embarrassingly gratifying. His whole body goes taut and his hand slaps down over yours — not pulling it away, just holding it there, like he genuinely cannot decide.
"If you make me—" he starts.
"Mm?" You move your hand again, slow and deliberate.
"I swear to God—" His head drops back. "Stop—"
"You stop stopping me."
"I'm serious—" but his hips have shifted into your palm and his grip on your hand has gone from stopping you to just holding on, and you can feel exactly how close he is, how hard he's trying to hold the line, and you are absolutely not going to make this easy for him—
He picks you up.
Both hands, clean off the floor, and you're over his shoulder before you've finished the thought, your hands grabbing the back of his henley.
"Schlatt!"
A hard palm comes down on your bare backside — sharp and decisive — and you yelp.
"That's what you get," he says, carrying you toward the bed with great purpose.
"I didn't do anything!"
"You were about to make me come in my pants, baby." His voice has dropped an entire register from thirty seconds ago. No more flushing, no more fogged glasses. He sounds like himself again — certain, low, the version of him that knows exactly where this is going. "Been saving that since Monday for a reason."
"You can't punish me for something I was going to—"
"I absolutely can." He gives your backside another firm pat, more punctuation than punishment. "And you know what else?"
"What," you say, from upside down.
"You're going to be very grateful I stopped you." A beat. "In about twenty minutes."
You open your mouth.
"Don't," he says pleasantly, "argue with me about this."
He drops you onto the mattress.
You bounce. You can't help but laugh — startled, helpless laughter — and he's standing at the foot of the bed looking down at you with that grin on his face, wide and a little smug, and you love it and you'll never tell him how much.
"You threw me," you whine. "Careful with the merchandise…"
"You're fine." He tilts his head, looking at you sprawled across his sheets, and something shifts in his face. He looks at you like you are way more than fine.
"What?" you say.
"Nothing." He reaches back and pulls his henley over his head in one motion and drops it somewhere behind him. "Just…you."
Your giggles go quiet.
He's something to look at in the lamplight, Schlatt. Broad through the chest and shoulders, dark hair across his sternum and stomach, and the chain swings once against his skin and catches gold. He's solid everywhere, heavy-looking. He gets the belt loose — leather through the buckle — and then the trousers, and you look at all of it. You take your time.
He's thick. Even soft he'd been heavy in your hand through the fabric; hard, he's something else — the kind of thing that always needs time to adjust. He doesn't look away from your face while you look.
"Done?" he says.
"Not even close," you say, licking your lips. Should have done a BJ while you had the chance…your mouth is salivating at the thought of licking the drop of pre that has gathered on the tip.
He comes back to you — one knee on the mattress, getting over you slow — and his mouth finds your throat, the hollow of it. The hair of his chest grazes your skin and you press your palm flat against it, the warmth and density of it under your hand, and he makes a low sound. He works down your sternum, lips pressing warm, his big hands spreading wide over your waist and hips.
He traces your bottom lip with his thumb, slow, watching his own hand. Fixated. He always does this with your mouth — gets fixated on it — and you tip your chin up and let him look.
"Tell me if it's too much," he says.
"It won't be," you say. "Come on."
He lines up, looks at your face, and pushes in slow.
The breath goes clean out of you. Like your lungs have been stepped on.
He stops. "Still with me?"
"Don't you dare stop," you murmer, trying to breathe. "Keep going."
He keeps going. The stretch of him is something you have to consciously breathe through every time — the width of him, filling you incrementally, the deep ache of it as your body works to accommodate all of him. He waits when he bottoms out, forearms bracketed either side of your head, the hair of his chest warm against your breasts. Both of you just breathing.
"Move," you say, when you've got the breath for it. "Please."
His rhythm starts careful and reads you and then your hips tilt up toward him and it changes — deeper, and his hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the sound you make is sharp and comes from somewhere low.
"There she is," he murmurs.
"Don't stop, Schlatt. I swear..."
"I'm not stopping, baby. Couldn't make me pull out if you tried. You know why?" His thumb holds steady and his pace settles into something deliberate, and he watches your face from close up, his breath warm against your cheek. "'Cause 'm going to get you knocked up," he says.
Your head turns to the side. "Wha—"
"Tonight." His thumb moves and your hips jerk. "I'm going to fill you up and it's going to take."
"The chances are so small," you breathe. "Schlatt, there's no point—"
"They're not zero," he says. Simple. Certain. His pace doesn't break. "That's all I need. Not zero is enough." He presses deeper and you make a sound with no protest in it. "Tell me it's not what you want."
Your mouth opens.
Nothing.
"I can feel you," he says, quiet, right against your ear. "When I said that. Knocked up. Pregnant. Full of my seed, heavy with my child. Fuck, I can that needy little hole fluttering around me. You want it."
"It hurts," you say, honestly, your voice going unsteady. "To hope like that, it—"
"I know." He pulls back enough to look at your face — really look — his thumb gentling. "I know it does. But you're allowed to want it. You're allowed to have tonight." He holds your gaze. "Let me give you this."
Something breaks open in your chest.
"Say it again," you hear yourself say. "Please."
He does.
"I'm going to get you pregnant," he says, low and wrecked and steady all at once. "Your belly's going to be round with my baby. You're going to be so full, so beautiful — I'm going to fill you up every night until it takes, and then I'm going to take such good care of you." His rhythm deepens. "Your body's going to change for me. You'll feel me for days, every time you move. I want you on your back with your legs open and sore from me—" His thumb works and you choke on a breath. "Want your tits full of milk for our baby — I want every part of you—"
"Yes," you say, and you've stopped trying to be anywhere but right here, your ankles crossing behind him. "Yes, don't stop, say it again—"
"Mine," he grits out. "Every part of you is mine. Say it."
"Yours," you say. "I'm yours, I want it, please—"
He gives it to you.
His hips go harder, his thumb unrelenting, and you dig your nails into his shoulders and stop managing any of the sounds coming out of you. He groans low into your neck at each one like they're feeding something animal in him. You're close, building fast, your whole body pulling toward it—
"Come on," he grits. "Let me feel you."
You come hard enough that your vision goes white at the edges, his name torn apart in your throat, and he follows immediately — drives in deep and holds there shuddering, and you feel him in hot pulses, filling you up — so much of it, more than you expect, more than fits, and you feel it spilling even as he's still going, running warm down the inside of your thigh before he's even finished.
He stays.
His forehead drops to your shoulder. Both of you breathing.
After a long moment he shifts, pulls out — and you both feel what happens when he does. The warmth of him, running down the inside of your thigh, spreading across the sheets beneath you.
He looks down.
His jaw tightens.
He gets two fingers against you, pushes them inside, slow and deliberate, eyes tracking his own hand. Pressing back everything that's spilling out, working it back into you with a focus that looks almost involuntary, like he's running on something deeper than thought.
"Schlatt," you manage. "It doesn't work—"
"Shh," he says. Not unkind. Just busy.
You watch his face while he does it — the set of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the way he looks like a man who cannot stand to see a single drop of what he saved for days, wasted — and something warm and sinister turns over in your chest.
"You're insane," you say softly.
"Yeah," he agrees, not stopping. "For you."
When he's satisfied, he replaces his fingers with himself — pressing back in slow, and you gasp at the oversensitivity of it.
"Too much?" he asks.
"No," you say. "No, I want — stay."
He stays. Deep and still, and he reaches up to push a curl from your face. His fingers warm against your cheek.
"You okay?" he says.
"Yeah," you say, and mean it completely. "I really am."
He presses his lips to your forehead. Then he shifts his weight and gets his hands on your hips and turns you over, and from here — on your hands and knees, him kneeling behind you — it's immediately deeper. Fuller. You're already so sensitized that the first full press of him makes you drop your head and grip the sheets.
He gathers your curls in one fist at the back of your head — gentle but certain — and holds.
"Good?" he asks.
"Yes," you say. "Move. Please."
He moves.
No patience left in it from either of you. His hips set a rhythm that's harder than before, his free hand coming around to your clit, and you're already overstimulated enough that the first contact makes you jerk forward. The fist in your curls keeps you exactly where he wants you.
"Mmm," he grumbles, low. "That's right, baby…fuck back into me. Let me see that ass shake."
You bounce back against him, the obscene sound of your ass hitting his pelvis becoming a metronome. He builds the pressure steady — his thumb working, his pace deep and unrelenting — and you've completely given up being quiet. You're already full of him from before, and you can feel that too, the obscene slick of it, and when he drives forward you feel everything.
"That's it," he grits, his rhythm going ragged at the edges. "That's my girl. You're so — you're perfect, you're so good, fuck, you shaking, baby?"
"Don't stop," you tell him. "Don't stop, I'm so close—"
"I've got you," he says. "I've got you. Come on."
You come for the third time, your elbows nearly going out from under you, his name wrecked in your mouth, and he drives in hard and holds — deep, as deep as he can get — and the sound he makes is low and rough and doesn't end quickly. You feel him filling you up in long, shuddering pulses, and he stays pressed flush against you, hips grinding forward in small insistent circles like he's trying to get every last bit as far in as it'll go.
"Stay still," he grits, hands locked on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you. "Don't move."
You don't move. You both stay there, breathing. His forehead drops to the back of your shoulder. Slowly, carefully, like he's defusing something, he eases you both down to the mattress — sideways, his chest against your back, one arm hooked around your waist. He doesn't pull out.
He stays where he is, tucked against you, and after a moment he says, very casually, into the back of your neck:
"Can I just — sleep like this tonight?"
"...Like what."
"Like this," he says. "Inside you. Just. All night."
You're quiet for a second.
"So nothing—"
"Leaks out, yeah." He sounds completely unashamed. "Seems practical."
"That's not—" you start, and then stop, because you were going to say that's not how it works and you've already had that argument tonight and you're tired. "...Fine," you say. "Okay."
He makes a small satisfied sound and pulls you closer and you feel him, still there, and it should be ridiculous and it is a little ridiculous and you also don't actually want him to move.
A moment passes.
"Hey," you say.
"Mm."
"You don't have to — save up anymore. Like you did this week." You keep your eyes closed. "If you wake up and you want to — I don't know." Your voice drops. "I wouldn't mind. Being woken up like that."
Silence.
You feel him go very still behind you.
"Say that again," he says.
"I'm not saying it again."
"No, genuinely—"
"Goodnight, Schlatt."
"Holy shit."
"Goodnight."
"No, I just — wow." He presses his face into your hair. "I love you so much."
"I know," you say. "Go to sleep."
He doesn't go to sleep immediately. You can feel him smiling against the back of your head, stupidly happy, and you close your eyes and let him be stupidly happy about it because honestly, so are you.
I’m genuinely curious about people’s opinions on this. Why do people put “don’t interact if you’re not *insert specific gender I wrote this fic for*” in their fics?
Like I understand the, “minors dni”, but like, I write fics and specify the gender I write about, but if you fall outside of that gender and wanna read it and mentally change the pronouns or whatever go nuts! I do that too sometimes with stuff I read! I don’t think it’s inherently like a fetishising, or harmful thing?
I get asking people to not request certain pronouns if you exclusively write for some. But telling people “SHE/HER’s do not engage” is so interesting to me. Cause like to me, engaging means liking, reblogging and commenting, which are all super nice things!
Is there a reason people ask this? I understand having spaces that are specifically for you and your audience but I feel like you can respectfully engage with a fic even if you’re not within the gender of the reader yk?
fully agreed -- i'm a cis she/they, but if the smut is hot af, i'm the type of reader who can imagine myself as any gender <3
i can't imagine writing something for a specific audience and then trying to stop people outside of that intended audience,,,, from enjoying your work also??? in general i write for female readers. when i don't i put a little message that says the target audience, but welcomes everyone to enjoy it.
like, art might be made to be a commentary towards one thing, but people will always take your work and apply it to different scenarios. that's the way any sort of public work gets treated! that doesn't erase the intended audience/purpose of the work though, imo.
Could we get a SFW Schlatt × transmasc!reader fic? It's always bugged me how 99% of trans rep in fanfics is NSFW and most of it is pre-transition too. Not judging anyone, but it would be nice to see something else for a change. Just some fluff would be great. Thanks!
╭﹐✦˚₊· fifty-two weeks of you ⋆.ೃ࿔:･ ╮
imagine: a one year anniversary alone with your boyfriend – presents, stories, smores and hot-tubs…you can't wait for the years to come.
┊ ˖࣪ ✦﹒✧* ๑˚₊♡﹒╰ ﹒₊✦
✦ written with a transmasc!reader in mind ✦
(but all are welcome to enjoy ♡)
a/n: a little fluff !!!!!! just very comfy vibes — highly suggest listening to some like, woodsy-type ambiance? this is a very chill ficlet
warnings: top surgery scars (~eight months recovered) · established relationship · gift giving · grumpy x sunshine (sort of) · they u-hauled tbh · connor is a coward and a liar · fluff with no conflict whatsoever and i'm not sorry
enjoy! u lil gummy bears ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ
✧✧✧
The cabin smells like pine resin and the ghost of last night's fire, and you've been lying awake for exactly thirteen minutes — you know because you've been watching the red numbers on the bedside clock tick over with the focused intensity of someone who is absolutely not anxious about what day it is.
It's fine. You're fine. It's just an anniversary.
One year.
You stare at the ceiling. The wood grain up there is knotted and whorled, and over the course of the week you've identified at least four faces in it, one of which looks unsettlingly like your ninth grade math teacher. You've been meaning to tell Schlatt about this and keep forgetting because something more interesting always distracts you.
A lot of things happen when Schlatt is around. That's one of the better discoveries of the last year.
He's asleep beside you in the specific and deeply committed way that Schlatt sleeps, which is to say he has colonized approximately seventy percent of the available mattress and seems to be at peace with this situation. One arm is thrown over his eyes. His mouth is slightly open. His hair is the perfect mixture of fluffy and soft bed-head…over the course of this week alone, you've taken three covert photos of for personal reasons.
You watch him for a moment.
You've been doing that a lot this week…just watching. Storing things up like a museum. The way he looks reading in the afternoon light with his reading glasses on, which he owns and wears and will apparently discuss openly now, a development that took six months and which you celebrated privately and extravagantly. The way he moves around a kitchen, all that size and certainty, managing somehow to be simultaneously in the way and extremely useful. The way he laughs when something actually hits his funny bone — loud and sudden and a little helpless, that he tries to cut off and usually can't. He sounds like a witch who just made the potion for everlasting life.
One year of that laugh, you think. One year of being the person who gets to make it happen.
You still can't fully account for your own luck.
You slide out of bed carefully. He doesn't stir. You go over to your suitcase, pulling on a sweatshirt that you stole from him a while ago — the wrecked grey one that hits mid-thigh on you and that he complains about you stealing in a tone of voice that has never once indicated he actually wants it back — and pad out to the main room in your socks.
The gifts are on the table.
Yours, which you'd arranged last night with the stealth of someone defusing a bomb: the sweater folded inside tissue paper, tied with twhiskey because you're better at making things than packaging them. The album underneath, wrapped in brown kraft paper with his name written in your best calligraphy.
And his.
You stop. Is this what he had put down last night? You had been really tired, but surely you would've remembered something as neatly packaged as this.
You'd expected something wrapped. Something in a box with a bow, clean lines, the kind of gift presentation that suggests a personal shopper or at minimum a store that offers gift wrapping. Schlatt is, among other things, a man who has taste and the resources to act on it, and you've been mentally bracing for something impressive and expensive that will make you feel slightly guilty about the handmade situation.
What's on the table is a large bag. Dark green, thick paper, real ribbon on the handles. The tissue paper inside is arranged with a precision that should not be possible from someone who also cannot locate his own keys on a daily basis. There's a card tucked into the ribbon with your name on it in his handwriting, which is normally borderline illegible and here is slow and careful, like he thought about each letter.
You stand in front of it for a long moment.
Then you put the kettle on, because some things require tea first.
The mugs have organized themselves over the week — his on the left, yours on the right. It simply became fact by the third morning the way a lot of things with Schlatt simply become true before you've had a chance to discuss them. You're leaning against the counter watching the trees go from dark to lighter-dark through the window when you hear the floorboard.
There's one just inside the bedroom door with a very specific two-part creak — low then slightly higher — that has become, over the course of this week, the sound of him waking up and moving through the world. It goes now. Then footsteps. Then he appears in the doorway in his grey t-shirt and the sweatpants with the fraying drawstring that have survived three separate conversations about whether it was time to replace them.
His hair is extraordinarily messy now that he's vertical.
He looks at you. Then at the table. Then back at you, with the expression of a man processing several things simultaneously and choosing to begin with none of them.
"You were up," he says. Morning voice, lower than usual, slightly rough at the edges.
"So were you," you say, nodding at the green bag.
Amusement flickers across his face. He crosses to the table and drops into a chair and you bring him his mug, which he accepts with both hands, then doesn't take a sip at all, instead setting it down.
You sit across from him.
The table between you has a coffee ring from some previous renter and a small groove near the edge your thumb has been finding all week. Outside, mourning doves coo softly over the sound of the rushing water near your getaway cabin. The light is coming up soft and grey-gold.
"Happy anniversary," you say.
He looks up from his mug.
And there it is — for just a second, he's unguarded, letting the emotion and importance of the day run over him like a train, before he quickly reassembles himself to begin the day.
"Yeah," he says. Then, quieter, like it's just for the room: "Happy anniversary." A beat. He looks back down at his mug. Clears his throat. "You're wearing my sweatshirt, handsome."
"I am."
"That's mine."
"Mm."
"I've been looking for that."
"Have you."
"For weeks," he says, and finally takes a long sip of tea, and you bite down on your smile.
✧✧✧
You make him open his first.
"You should let me go first," Schlatt says, nodding toward the green bag. "Then you can open yours."
"Schlatt."
"Logistically it makes more sense to—"
"You're not going to be able to pay attention to anything I open if you're sitting there thinking about the bag," you say. "So. Open it."
He looks at you. Looks at the bag. He hasn't identified a flaw in your reasoning and for fast enough to deploy it.
"Fine," he says.
He reaches for the brown kraft paper covered present first, admiring his name written in calligraphy, turning it over in his hands once before pulling the paper away. The album is cloth-covered, deep burgundy, thick cream pages. He looks at the cover for a moment, running his thumb along the spine, and then opens it.
Goes still.
The first photo is from early October — a Sunday outdoor market, two months into whatever you were then, still figuring out the shape of it. Schlatt had been standing at a table of secondhand books with his back mostly to you, head bent, turning something over in his hands with the focused expression he gets when he's actually interested in something. You'd had your phone out before you'd made a conscious decision about it.
You'd taken pictures of him all year. Quietly, a little stalker-ish, but how big of a stalker can you be when he's your boyfriend? Forty-seven pictures, printed twice because the first batch came out gritty in a wweird unaesthetic way. They're all here — every one of them, arranged in order, the whole year laid out in the specific way that you see him.
Schlatt, reading. Schlatt laughing at something off-frame with his whole face, unguarded. Schlatt asleep on your couch in February with his reading glasses still on, a book face-down on his chest, during the hard week when neither of you had enough hours in the day and you'd both just — run out of steam simultaneously. Schlatt in the kitchen, side-lit, chopping something behind the counter. Schlatt looking out a window when you had your date at a skyscraper. Schlatt looking at you — in a few of them, caught mid-turn, unaware you'd gotten the shot, with an expression on his face that makes something in your chest go very warm every time you look at it.
He turns pages slowly.
You watch his face.
He goes through the October ones, the November ones. Something happens around his eyes at the December photo — Christmas, a party neither of you had wanted to go to, and Schlatt making a face at you across the room that had nearly made you choke on your drink, and you'd gotten it, the exact face, perfectly framed. He spends a long time on a photo from June — himself in the afternoon light on the back porch, head tipped back, eyes closed, looking more relaxed and happy than he usually does — and his thumb moves against the page. Against the photo. Just slightly. Back and forth.
He reaches the last page.
Just your handwriting. A few lines:
You've been taking pictures of me all year. So I thought I should take some pictures of you, too. My favorite photographer. I thought you should finally see what I see when I look at you.
And below, smaller:
Thank you for letting me look. Thank you for all the memories this year.
He closes the album.
His hand rests flat on the cover. He doesn't say anything. His jaw is set in the particular way that means something is happening that he's keeping contained, and his eyes are down, and the cabin is very quiet around you both.
You pick up your tea. Give him a moment.
"Schlatt," you say, gently.
"I'm fine," he says. To the album.
"Are you sure?"
"It's just a lot of—" He stops. Clears his throat. "You took all of these."
"I did."
"Without telling me."
"You do the same thing."
He looks up at that. His eyes are very dark and very steady, and there is something behind them that he's not quite ready to say out loud yet, and you don't push.
"The one from June," he says, finally.
"The porch one."
"I don't remember you being out there..."
"I know," you say. "That's why I took it. You looked so perfect, I had to sneak up on you to take it."
He looks at you for a long moment. A muscle in his jaw moves. He glances back down at the album, then back at you, and something in his expression shifts — then settles. Like a pebble torn up by the current finding a new spot in the river to slot into.
"There's another present?" he asks. Gruff. Redirecting. "Where's that one?"
"We can talk about this mo—"
"The other gift," he says, with the decisiveness of a man retreating to safer emotional ground.
You roll your eyes with a small grin, get up and slide it over to him.
He takes it and unwraps it with slightly more impatience than he'd given the album — tissue paper shoved aside — until it unfolds across his hands. Heathered grey-green, the color of the trees on overcast afternoons. Heavy, soft, the kind of thing that gets better with every wash. You had to re-do the collar three times. Schlatt doesn't have a lot of crocheted clothes, and his head is just so damn big.
He holds it up. Looks at you over it.
"You made this? There's no tag."
"I did."
"Like. From scratch? With your hands."
"That's the definition—"
"Do you know how long this takes?" He turns it over, examining the seams, the collar, the cuffs. "My aunt used to crochet. She made one sweater every two years and treated it like some sort of religious event."
"It took a while," you admit. "But I definitely didn't need two years. I'm…"
"You're very talented," he finishes. He holds it against his chest — checking the size, puts the sleeves against his arms, his cheeks flushed and his grin soft. Something about how quietly excited he is to recieve it, unable to act nonchalant like he usually tries to do makes you have to look at your tea for a second. He folds it, setting it down carefully on the table. Looks at it. Looks at you.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Your turn."
✧✧✧
The bag is heavier than it looks.
You pull out the tissue paper first, which has been arranged in layers like Schlatt was packing something fragile and precious and wanted zero margin for error, and then your hands find fabric and you pull it out and it unfolds as it comes, spreading across your lap, and you go quiet.
It's a quilt.
But it's not a simple storebought one. Dozens of different fabrics pieced together — different textures, patterns, weights, all of them somehow coherent, somehow working, like someone thought for a very long time about how each piece would sit next to the others. You turn it slowly in your hands and keep finding things. A square of soft dark flannel. A cream linen. A small rust-and-gold plaid. A panel of something with a tiny geometric print that makes your brain snag because you know that print, you know that—
You look up.
"Schlatt," you say.
"Before you say anything—"
"Is this from my college tote bag?"
"It's the same pattern," he says carefully. "I found a fabric supplier."
You look back down. There's a square near the center — chambray blue, soft in the particular way that only comes from something being washed so many times it's forgotten how to be stiff. Your hands know the weight of it before your brain catches up.
You had a hoodie with this fabric not too long ago.
You'd worn it almost every single day for three years. Not because it was special to look at — it wasn't, it was just a hoodie, plain and faded and nothing remarkable — but because of the way it felt on. The way you felt in it. It had been the first thing you'd reach for every morning without thinking, the thing that made getting dressed feel like something easy and right. On the days when nothing else cooperated, when the mirror was unkind and strangers would use the wrong pronouns, the hoodie was always there to hide your chest, cover your hair, cry into the sleeves.
The day after your surgery, you'd woken up and it was gone.
Not lost in the dryer. Not borrowed by Schlatt. Just — gone. Like it done what it came to do, and quietly let itself out. You'd looked for it for about two hours and then stopped, because something about looking for it felt wrong, felt like trying to hold onto the scaffolding after the building was already standing.
You'd told Schlatt about it once. Late, both of you mostly asleep, in that loose half-conscious place where things come out easier than they would in daylight. I miss it sometimes, you'd said. Not who I was before. Just — how soft it was.
He hadn't said much. Just made a quiet sound that meant I hear you.
You'd thought he'd forgotten.
"Schlatt," you say. Your voice has gone strangely warbly.
"Before you say anything—" he starts.
"Is this—" You run your thumb across the square. The exact weight. The exact give. You would bet at least a hundred bucks that this was actually the hoodie. "Where did you get this?"
He is quiet for a moment.
"Thrift store," he says.
You look up.
"There were," he says, with the careful delivery, "a lot of thrift stores. Over a few months. I had a general sense of what I was looking for." A pause. "It took a while to find the right one."
The image of Schlatt — Schlatt, who irons his shirts, who has strong opinions about thread count, who once described a restaurant as "too casual" because they didn't have tablecloths — standing in a thrift store on a random afternoon, methodically working through a rack of secondhand chambray, without telling you or asking you for help, for months —
"You went to multiple thrift stores," you say.
"The first few weren't right," he says. "They just didn't feel like the way you had described."
"Schlatt."
"But I knew what I was looking for," he says, simply. "It just took a while to find it."
You look back down at the square. Maybe it's the same hoodie. Maybe it isn't. Maybe that doesn't matter — maybe what matters is that he somehow knew. That without you having to explain all of it, all the weight and the history and the specific thing that hoodie had been for you, he knew. He went looking. He found something that felt right and he put it in the center.
"I thought you were going to get me a watch," you say, mostly to yourself.
He blinks. "A watch."
"Or something tech. I had a whole speech prepared about how I was going to love it very graciously even though—"
"A watch," he says again, like the word has personally offended him. "What would you even do with a watch."
"Tell the time, Schlatt—"
"You have a phone," he says. "Everyone has a phone. A watch." He shakes his head. "You've been working on things with your hands since before I met you. You've got that whole—" he gestures vaguely in the direction of your life, "—making things, helping people, building stuff. You came home last month with calluses from that one wood project and you were so happy about it."
"Well, I am very happy about this," you hum, smiling.
"I'm glad," he says. He looks at the quilt in your lap. "You deserved something that someone put real time into. That's all."
The cabin is very quiet.
"Schlatt," you say. "'Someone put real time into'? Did you–"
"It's weighted," he says. "Which I also thought you'd appreciate."
"I do appreciate that, but did you or did you not—"
"Do you like the edges? I didn't want to go for tassels—"
"Schlatt! Did you make this yourself?"
A pause. A very specific pause.
"...I was involved in the process," he says carefully.
"Schlatt."
"Significantly involved," he adds.
"That's not what I asked."
He looks at the wall. "Come on, open the rest of it—"
"There's more?"
"Bottom of the bag," he says, grateful for a subject change, and you reach in and find a small card tucked into the tissue paper right at the bottom, and when you open it there's a name — LittleDivasCreations — and a note in his handwriting: she did the sewing. I did everything else.
You look up at him.
"Everything else," you repeat.
"The fabrics," he says. "All of them. That was me." He meets your eyes steadily. "I knew what I wanted it to feel like.But I…I'll be honest, honey, I am not going to ever get into sewing or quilting or whatever the fuck it's called. That ship has long since sailed. But I am—" he gestures vaguely, "—a very enthusiastic patron of the arts and your happiness."
Something in your chest does a slow, enormous lift. Like a ballerina being effortlessly raised towards a spotlight.
You reach over and grab the front of his t-shirt.
He looks down at your fist in his shirt and then back up at you, and before he can say anything you've pulled him in and you're kissing him, properly, your free hand coming up to his jaw, and he makes a surprised sound against your mouth that dissolves almost immediately into something warmer. His hand finds your waist, even in this strange seated kiss. He kisses you back the way he does everything — unhurried, like he's got nowhere else to be and can't imagine why he would leave anywhere but where he is now.
When you pull back he's looking at you with that expression. The one you're sure he doesn't know he has.
"Hi," you say.
"Hey," he says. A little rough. Your eyes linger on his wet lip before you blink back up to look at him and offer a smile, to which he groans, knowing you're teasing him.
You turn back to the quilt in your lap and pull it up around both your shoulders, shuffling closer until you're pressed into his side, his arm coming around you automatically, warm and solid. He tucks you in against him and rests his cheek on top of your head.
"It's a good blanket," you say.
"Yeah," he says. "It is."
You feel him press a kiss to your hair. Quick, almost absent, like breathing.
"Thank you," you say.
"Don't mention it."
"I'm going to mention it constantly."
"Figures," he says.
✧✧✧
Breakfast is a collaborative effort in the sense that you cook and Schlatt stands close enough to be a mild obstruction and hands you things before you reach for them, which is either very intuitive or means he's been watching you cook for long enough to memorize your patterns, and you're not going to examine which one is correct too closely because you should probably be focusing on cooking.
He refills your mug without asking. He passes you the spatula. At one point he comes up behind you while you're stirring something and rests his chin on top of your head and just — stays there, his whole weight settling, and you lean back into it slightly, and neither of you say anything.
"There are four faces in the ceiling," you say.
"What?"
"The wood grain. In the bedroom." You gesture vaguely upward. "Four faces. One of them looks like my ninth grade math teacher."
Schlatt is quiet for a moment. "Which one?"
"Mr. Kowalski. Sort of disapproving, slightly asymmetrical—"
Schlatt walks away from you for a moment, as you continue to mumble the details about what your old teacher looks like. You switch to a whisk, and hear the creak of the bed. Looking back, you see Schlatt laying on your side of the bed.
"I see him," Schlatt says immediately. "Right near the edge of the wall."
"Yes. That's been bothering me all week."
"Geez, babe. We could have switched sides."
"Nah. I might find someone worse on your side."
He laughs and rejoins you, "helping" until you finally finish. You eat at the table with the quilt draped over your lap. Schlatt eats across from you and notices the quilt and bites into a forkful of his breakfast with a very rumbly hum, which is the closest he gets to that makes me happy.
After breakfast he says "walk?" and you say "obviously" and you both dress for cold.
✧✧✧
The trail behind the cabin loops out through the pines and along the ridge, and on day three you'd found a spot where the treeline breaks and you can see the whole valley laid out below — the river, the fields, the far hills going blue with distance. It had taken your breath away. Schlatt had looked at it for a long moment, hands in his pockets, and soaked it all in.
Today the frost is still on the ground in the shade. Your breath makes clouds. Schlatt walks with his hands in his pockets and his shoulder a constant gentle pressure against yours, and the trail is mostly clear but where it dips down toward the creek it gets rocky and slick, and at the worst bit you reach back without thinking and he takes your hand without being asked, and you haul him over the slippery patch and holds on for longer than strictly necessary afterward.
"Story," you say, once you're back on flat ground.
"What?"
"Tell me something. You've been quiet for too long, big man."
"I'm enjoying the ambiance," he says.
"Mm. I like your voice better than any ambiance."
He sighs through his nose, cheeks flushed at that. Looks around at the woods — the pines, the dark spaces between them, the way the light comes through in long slants. Something crosses his face. A thought arriving.
"Okay," he says. "So. You know Connor."
"Your friend Connor."
"My friend Connor," he confirms. "Who, about two years ago, decided to take camping seriously. Like, really seriously. Bought the gear. All of it. The good tent, the sleeping bag rated for temperatures that don't exist in this state, the little — " he makes a gesture, "—camp stove thing. The full situation."
"Very committed."
"Very committed," Schlatt agrees. "So he drives out to those woods. You know the ones, off Route 9, past the old orchard? State park adjacent."
You keep your face neutral. "Mm."
"Takes his gear out, sets up camp, very proud of himself. This is like, October, late afternoon. He's out there doing his thing." Schlatt pauses. "And then."
"And then."
"He sees someone coming out of the trees."
You glance sideways at him. "Coming out of the trees."
"Just emerging," Schlatt says. "From the treeline. Moving with what Connor described as, and I'm quoting here, 'a kind of horrible purpose.'"
"Horrible purpose?" you repeat.
"His words. And apparently this person looks—" Schlatt pauses, and when he continues he's not really quoting Connor anymore, he's just in it, "—rough. Like, fucking god awful. Jacket caked in dirt, shirt all snagged and pulled from the branches, hair completely gone to hell. And the thing that got Connor wasn't any of that. It was the eyes. Because this person wasn't panicked. They were just calm. Completely, utterly calm. The kind of calm you only get after you've stopped fighting off the crazy."
"The acceptance phase," you say.
"Right. And then—" Schlatt looks at you, "—they smile. This big, full smile. Out of nowhere. Just absolutely delighted to see him." He shakes his head. "Connor said it was the most frightening thing he'd ever witnessed. A filthy, branch-snagged, dead-eyed stranger emerging from the trees and smiling at him like Christmas had come early."
You walk in silence for a moment.
The woods are very quiet around you both. A branch cracks somewhere in the trees — just the cold, just the wind — and Schlatt glances toward it with absolutely no self-awareness about the atmosphere he's created.
"So what did Connor do?" you ask, trying to break the air of scare.
"What did Connor do?" Schlatt repeats. "Connor, who has a four-hundred dollar tent and enough freeze-dried meals for a week. Connor, who drove out there specifically to prove he could handle himself in the outdoors."
"What did Connor do, Schlatt?"
"He ran," Schlatt says, his mouth quirking. "Packed nothing. Left the camp stove. Just went. Didn't stop until he hit the parking lot, then got in his car and drove." A pause. "He told me about it two days later and he was still shaken up."
You are quiet for a moment.
The old orchard. Route 9. October…two years ago.
"Schlatt," you say slowly.
"He said it haunted him," Schlatt continues, warming to it now. "Like, genuinely. Said there was something about the way this person moved—"
"Schlatt."
"—like they weren't lost, like they had come for him specifically—"
"Schlatt." You stop walking.
He stops. Looks at you. "Yes, babe?"
"The woods off Route 9," you say. "Past the orchard."
"Yeah."
"Two years ago? October?"
"...Yeah?" he says, more carefully this time.
"I ran out of gas," you say. "On Route 9. I'd taken the back way home from my friend's place and I just — completely ran out. And my phone was at four percent so I couldn't get a map to load properly and I thought I remembered a gas station if I cut through the park—" you pause, "—I had been walking for about forty-five minutes when I came out of the trees."
Schlatt stares at you.
"I was so thirsty," you say. "I just wanted to ask someone if they knew how far the station was. And there was this guy with a very impressive tent camping who looked like he knew these woods well, and I started walking toward him, and he just—"
"…Ran?" Schlatt says faintly.
"Sprinted," you say. "Left his camp stove on. I actually turned it off for him before I kept walking." A pause. "Took me another twenty minutes to find the road."
Schlatt is very still.
"A horrible purpose," you say.
He closes his eyes briefly.
"I was trying to look friendly," you say. "I smiled."
"Connor said the smile was the worst part," Schlatt says, in a voice completely without affect.
You burst out laughing. Full, genuine, slightly helpless — you have to put a hand on his arm to stay upright. He stands there enduring it with the expression of a man dismantling a mythology he has been building for two years.
"He told this story at my birthday party," Schlatt says, to the trees. "In March. I let him tell it at my birthday."
"How did it end? In the party version?"
"He said he drove home and looked up local missing persons cases," Schlatt says.
You laugh harder.
"He told me he thought about it for weeks," Schlatt says. "He said it changed him. As a person."
"Schlatt," you say, wiping your eyes, "I was dehydrated and lost. I was wearing that old green jacket. The one with the broken zipper."
"The haunted figure in the woods," Schlatt says quietly, "was wearing a jacket with a broken zipper."
"I'd had a really long day."
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he presses his mouth together. Looks away. Looks back.
"You smiled at him," he says.
"I was trying to be approachable!"
"Connor said—" he stops. "Connor said he'd never seen anything like it."
"I just wanted directions!"
And then Schlatt cackles — the one that takes him by surprise — and you grab his hand because the path is uneven here and also because you want to, and he lets you, and you walk the rest of the trail like that, his hand warm around yours, occasionally one of you saying horrible purpose or local missing persons and setting the other one off again.
"I have to tell Connor," Schlatt says, when you're almost back at the cabin.
"Please don't."
"He deserves to know."
"He absolutely does not," you say. "Let him have this."
Schlatt considers. "He's going to figure it out eventually. When he meets you properly."
"And when that happens," you say, "we let it occur to him naturally."
Schlatt looks at you.
"And we say nothing," you add.
A slow smile. "Nothing," he agrees.
✧✧✧
The s'mores are Schlatt's idea, which he announces after dinner with a surge of energy and excitement coursing through him so fast you can see it glimmering in the warmth of his brown eyes.
"We have marshmallows," he says, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
"Do we?"
"Pantry. Previous renters left supplies." He holds up the bag. "Chocolate. Graham crackers. We have a fire pit."
"We also have a perfectly good bottle of whiskey that we were going to open—"
"S'mores," Schlatt says, with finality. "And then whiskey. You can't have whiskey without earning it."
"That does not sound like a good food combo—"
"It will be," he says, already heading for the back door. "I'm building the fire."
He builds the fire with a focused intensity, crouching over the pit and arranging wood with the expression of someone solving a spatial puzzle. You sit in one of the low camp chairs and pull your jacket tighter and watch him, the cold air sharp against your face, your breath coming out in visible clouds.
"You're staring," he says, without looking up.
"I'm observing," you say. "You're very focused on that fire."
"Fire requires focus," he says. "This is load-bearing wood placement. If you do it wrong the whole thing collapses in on itself and you get smoke more than an actual flame."
"Well, we need fire if we're going to be doing this marshmallow thing," you say.
"Exactly."
The fire grows for a few minutes as he tends to it, and once it's reached a good height, he settles into the chair next to yours, close enough that your knees are nearly touching. He takes a marshmallow, puts it on his skewer, and holds it with exacting patience just above the embers, rotating it slowly.
You put your marshmallow directly in the flame.
"No," Schlatt says.
"Yes," you say.
"You're burning it."
"I know."
"You're doing that on purpose."
"I like it burnt," you say. "I like the gooiness."
He looks at you with the expression of a man confronting something genuinely difficult. "The whole point," he says, slowly, "is that the outside goes crunchy and the inside goes—"
"The whole point," you say, "is that I like it my way."
Your marshmallow catches fire. You blow it out. It's blackened and slightly collapsed and perfect. You construct your s'more with it and take a bite and it's exactly what you wanted, smoky and sweet and slightly charred, and you make a sound of satisfaction.
Schlatt's marshmallow comes off the skewer perfect — genuinely, objectively perfect, golden all the way around, soft when he presses it between the chocolate and the cracker, a structural marvel. He bites into it. He chews. He looks satisfied.
You wait approximately four seconds.
"Can I try yours?"
"No," he says.
"Just a bite—"
"Make another one."
"But yours looks so—"
"Make another one the right way this time—"
"I'll make one my way and then I just want one bite of yours to compare—"
"You're going to eat the whole thing," he says, flatly.
"I'm not going to eat the whole thing," you say, and he hands it over with the deep sigh of a man who knew exactly how this was going to go, and you eat basically all of it.
"This is what I was telling you about," he says, watching you. "The outside, right? Soft? And the inside is—"
"Really good," you admit.
"Yes," he says. "Because of the technique I'm using, babe. They're almost too perfect to eat."
"And yet," you say, "I'm the one eating it."
He makes a short sound. Almost a laugh. A half groan. Gets another marshmallow.
The fire settles into itself, red and low and steady. Above the trees the stars are coming out — first one, then five, then more than you can count, the sky going that deep clear black that only happens far from the city. More smores are made. By the time you've had your third, the cold is proper now, the kind with teeth, but the fire pushes back against it and your chairs are close enough to share the warmth.
Schlatt makes another s'more, this time monitoring with one eye on you.
"I'm not going to take it this time," you say.
"History suggests otherwise, schnookums."
"I already had one of yours, honey bunches of oats."
"You had one of yours and two and a half of mine," he says. "By my count that's—"
"I'm full," you say.
He eyes you. Makes the s'more. Finally gets to eat it unbothered.
"Apparently there is a right kind of chocolate for these things," Schlatt says. "Darker, higher cocoa. The cheap stuff doesn't melt right properly anymore." He holds up the bar they'd found in the pantry. "This is the right kind. Previous renters had taste."
You smile, leaning over and put your head on his shoulder. This strange and funny man who doesn't remember the joys of using shitty, cheap Hersheys chocolate on a smore. You have to admit though, this expensive chocolate made your pretty shitty smore pretty fucking good.
He goes very still for half a second. Then his arm comes up and around you, pulling you in against his side, solid and warm, and his chin drops to the top of your head.
You sit like that while the fire dies down, your legs stretched toward the heat, the stars doing their extravagant expansion overhead. He tells you about his old group of friends who went camping one time, how young and stupid he was, and you laugh into his shoulder, and he laughs too, and the cold isn't cold when you're this close.
✧✧✧
The hot tub is around the side of the cabin, half-sheltered by the wooden lattice, and the steam coming off it in the night air looks like something from a film about fairy tales.
You go first while Schlatt locks up the house. Even though this place is isolated...you can never guarantee anything.
You pull your shirt off in the cold and climb in and the heat is almost shocking — a full-body exhale, your muscles releasing all at once, the cold air against your face and shoulders and chest while the rest of you is wrapped in something that feels like relief. You sink until the water is at your collarbone and look up at the sky.
Your chest is yours. Has been yours for eight months now.
Eight months isn't very long, in the grand scheme of things. Long enough that it's stopped feeling new, most days. Long enough that you don't feel self-consious every time you pull a shirt over your head.
The scars are still a bit thin at the edges, still obvious, and your hands find them sometimes without you meaning to — but they've become a part of you. Your journey.
Schlatt was there for before and after. He stayed through the beginning, middle and is still with you for the future, and he never once made you feel like a person who deserved to be stuck somewhere that wasn't right. You were just a person who he loved. His boyfriend of one year.
You sink a little lower into the water. The cold air is sharp on your face and shoulders, but the steam rising up from the water washes it away almost immediately.
Schlatt comes out.
He's carrying two glasses of the whiskey you'd opened after dinner. He sets them on the edge of the tub, climbs in with a sharp intake of breath at the temperature, and sinks down across from you.
He hands you a glass.
"Cheers," you say.
"Cheers," he says, and you clink and drink, and the whiskey is spicy and chilled going down.
He looks at you.
Just looks, the way he does when there's no audience and no reason to perform anything. His eyes move over your face, your shoulders, the water's surface. Something in his expression is very settled and at peace.
"You're staring again," you say.
"Anniversary rules," he says. "I get to stare."
"You say that like there's a rulebook."
"There is," he says. "I wrote it."
"When?"
"Just now. Rule one: I get to stare. Rule two—" He considers. "I get to have the rest of the chocolate we were thinking about giving to the next people who stay here."
"That's not an anniversary rule, that's just you wanting chocolate on our trip back home."
"Rule three," he continues, unperturbed, "we can't sit in silence while in here."
"Hm. Okay, easy enough." You lean your head back against the edge of the tub. The stars above are extraordinary — dense and close, the way they never are at home. "Tell me a story about us."
"Another story?"
"Tell me something I don't know," you say. "And yes, another. I like hearing the way you tell them."
He considers. The water moves between you.
"When you came over with the tide pen," he starts.
You laugh, surprised. "That's the story you're going with? When we met? That's a little cheesy, Schlatt."
"I'm just…I still think about it," he says, flushing. "When you came over with the tide pen, you didn't even say anything to me. You just — appeared out of fuckin' nowhere. Grabbed my arm and started walking."
"You were about to say something you couldn't take back."
"It would've been fine."
"Schlatt. You were not fine. Your head looked like it was going to explode"
"I was handling it. I'm very good at handling my anger."
"You were going to make that poor drunk man cry at his own stag night," you say. "I was doing everyone a favor by breaking you guys up before someone ended up with a broken rib."
He's quiet for a second, not denying your assumption. "Anyway. You had a tide pen, and I still can't believe that you did. We never would have met otherwise."
"I always have a tide pen. So we probably would have met eventually."
"Did it have to be at a bachelorette party, though? A tide pen at a bachelorette party?"
"Yes! Especially at a bachelorette party," you say. "Do you know what happens at bachelorette parties?"
He looks at you. "I feel like I'm only just starting to understand that you just — walk around prepared to deal with situations."
"Someone has to."
"Yeah," he says, and something in his voice has shifted, gone quieter. "I know. That's—" he stops. "That's the thing. You made me take my shirt off in a bar bathroom and fixed it, you fixed the stain so easily, and you didn't make it weird and you handed it back to me, and left. And I just stood there for a while. Not sure what to do with myself."
"I remember, vaguely, you saying thank you."
"Eventually."
"After like thirty seconds of just staring, yeah."
"I was…processing my feelings. You made it easy. To stop a fight, to fix a shirt, to make me fall for you. You continue to make it easy."
"Schlatt." You move through the water toward him — he watches you come, going still — and you settle in beside him, your side against his, your shoulder under his arm. The water shifts and resettles. You can feel him breathe.
His arm comes around you. His hand wraps around your far shoulder, warm and solid, and he pulls you in just slightly, adjusting, like he's finding the right configuration.
"You're such a sap, sometimes," you whisper.
"Maybe if you can stop me from feeling so sentimental, I'll learn to stop," he responds easily, to the top of your head.
You sit there. The steam rises around you. Tomorrow you'll pack up this cabin and drive home with the quilt in the backseat and the album in his backpack, and after that there will be just — life, regular life, the project you're going to start and the work you're going to do and the ordinary mornings.
"Schlatt," you say.
"Mm."
You tilt your head up. He looks down. Your faces are very close in the steam and the dark.
"I love you," you say.
He looks at you for a long moment. His arm tightens around your shoulders. Something in his face goes very quiet and very open, all the way down.
"I love you more," he murmers. Low. Rumbly. "I've been—" he stops. Tries again. "Trying to say that out loud more often."
"I know," you say. "But I feel it, you know? In all the things you do and all the ways you put up with me and my shenanigans."
"Wouldn't live life any differently, honestly." He pulls you closer.
"Next year," you start, feeling the warmth of the water startung to make you sleepy. "Somewhere warmer, maybe?"
"Absolutely not," he says immediately. "I cannot stand the heat, handsome. We could take a beach day, but I can't handle a week in the tropics with all the bugs, the giant sun…ugh. No."
"Schlatt," you say, laughing now, "We would have so much fun, though! Ice cream and swimming and tanning and canonballing into a pool to claim it back from all the teens."
"Eh…no. I'm good with being alone. Alone with you, in a hot tub surrounded by stars. Seeing you without a shirt is uh...an added bonus."
"…I love you, you goof," you laugh, capturing the soft warmth that drips over your heart. "So much."
He goes quiet, cheeks pink from both you and the heat of the water.
"Yeah," he says, after a moment, laughing slightly. "Me too. Way more than I say so, I hope you know."
His hand finds yours under the water. Your fingers, his fingers. He holds on.
"I do."
A warm breeze rushes by, cutting through the song of cicadas and crickets chirping. Tomorrow you'll go home with a quilt, a photo album, a homemade sweater, and a year that has been, without question or competition, the best of your life so far.
"Fifty-two weeks," you say.
His thumb moves across your knuckles. Once. Twice. Slow.
╭﹐✦˚₊· the door between us ⋆.ೃ࿔:･ ╮
imagine: he comes home with good news and finds you already breaking. he doesn't look at the mess. he just opens his arms.
┊ ˖࣪ ✦﹒✧* ๑˚₊♡﹒╰ ﹒₊✦
a/n: this is a quick little drabble for the people who've sat on cold bathroom floors and told themselves they were fine. for everyone who's ever needed someone to stand on the other side of a door and just wait. you don't have to be okay tonight. you just have to still be here. this fic is a love letter to people on both sides of the door. ♡
warnings:⚠️ please take care of yourself before reading · self-harm depictions (cutting) · suicidal ideation · mental health crisis · negative self-talk & intrusive thoughts · wound care / bandaging · hurt/comfort· GN!reader
take care of yourself bby ilyssssm <3 also pls lemme know if i need to add any tags to this to prevent you (or others) from being triggered
✧✧✧
The tile is cold in here. You sway a bit on your feet, shifting your weight from left to right as you look at yourself dumbly in the mirror. Immediately, your eye focuses in on all the scars from acne that was picked off, ingrown hairs on your neck and chin that keep coming back, your teeth covered in plaque from you staying in bed instead of brushing your teeth for the last two days.
You sigh, your back sliding down the tiled wall so that your legs could splay out, knees bent and feet resting on the door of the dark brown cabinet. Your skin gets goosebumps climbing up your back from the sudden dip in temperature poking at your thighs, even through your grey sweatpants –– which all made you think of your thighs.
And once you start thinking about your thighs, you start thinking about everything else.
Your stomach. The soft part of your arms. The way you'd avoided looking down in the shower this morning — actually bothered to shower this morning, which felt like it should count for something, except it doesn't, because the bad thoughts don't negotiate, the good ones don't give credit, they just —
Look at you.
You exhale through your nose. Slow. Controlled. It's fine, it's fine, itsfine…
You've been doing that for two days now. Lying down on the ground and breathing, that is. That, or the process of staying in bed until the afternoon light shifted from yellow to orange and back to grey without you having done a single thing under it except watch it go past over and over again. You'd told yourself it was rest and that you were being kind to yourself. You'd told yourself a lot of nice things…parroting a lot of stuff you've heard from therapy, but it never sticking in your head.
Your brain was working against itself – and as much as you were kind, your brain returned with cruelty.
You're not resting. You're rotting. There's a difference.
You press the back of your head against the tile.
He's going to come home and look at you and wonder what he's doing here. He does already. You can see it — in the half-second before he says something, where his face just — doesn't. Where he has to pick an expression and put it on. You make him work for it. You make everyone work for it.
"Stop," you say out loud, to nobody. Your voice is embarrassingly thin.
You can't even do that right.
It had started the way it always does — quietly. A low hum underneath everything. A kind of gravitational pull toward the medicine cabinet that you'd been successfully ignoring for three weeks, four days. You know because you counted. You count the way other people count calories or steps, ticking it over in the back of your head like a clock — three weeks, four days, three weeks, four days — like if you say it enough times it becomes something to be proud of.
It doesn't feel like something to be proud of right now.
The medicine cabinet is right there. You can see it from here — the little silver latch, the smudged mirror front. You know exactly what shelf it's on. You know because you put it there, back behind the box of cold medicine and the expired melatonin, told yourself that putting it further back would make it harder. Like distance could argue with a thought that's already made up its mind.
Three weeks and four days is a long time to be tired.
"It is," you agree. Quietly. To the thought.
And that's when you know you're already losing, because you stopped arguing and started agreeing, and the next part goes very fast.
You're not thinking anymore. Your body just — moves. Climbs to its feet. Opens the cabinet. Pushes past the cold medicine, the melatonin. Your fingers know the shape of it better than you want them to.
You sit back down on the tile with it in your hand.
You push your sleeve up.
The scars there are old ones, most of them — white and flat and healed into the skin like they belong to strange evil scientist's test subject, except they don't, they belong to you. You trace the edge of one with your thumb. The thought is very quiet now. Almost gentle.
There. See? That's all this is. That's all you need.
The first one is shallow. More of a sting than anything. Your breath comes out in a long, shaking stream — and in the exhaling, something does loosen within you. Something heavy and coiled and loud gets a little less quiet. Your shoulders drop. The back of your head finds the tile again.
See?
Quiet.
You close your eyes.
And then —
The front door opens.
✧✧✧
You go completely rigid.
The sound of the jangly rattle of his keys, the little worn carabiner he's had since before you met him hits you like a live wire straight to the sternum. The door swings wide and thump, his shoes hit the mat, and you hear the rustle of a bag, and you are still sitting on the bathroom floor with your sleeve pushed up and—
"Okay, so."
His voice carries down the hall, easy and loose and completely, horrifyingly unaware. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck he's early—
"You know how I've been saying the onion volcano at Mikura's is mid?"
Move.
"Because it is. It's objectively, embarrassingly mid, and I will not hear arguments—"
You're already scrambling. Your hands are shaking — both of them, badly — and you grab at the toilet paper roll, pressing a wad of it to your arm. Your sleeve won't come back down all the way with your hand underneath it and you yank it anyway, too hard, and it hurts and there's already blood coming through the thin cotton and you need to put the —
put it away, put it away—
"—so I'm driving home, right, and I pass this place — Kenji's, have you seen it? Little strip mall thing — and I doubled back because the sign had a flame on it, and babe, they have a full teppanyaki section—"
You shove yourself up to the sink. Turn on the tap. Try to run your arm under it. Your reflection looks back at you and it is very bad: your face is wrinkling and paling like old paper, your pupils are dilated like crazy and somewhere in the part of your chest that processes things like consequences and oh god you realize you are making a sound.
A high, cracked, involuntary sound. Somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
You press your free hand over your mouth. Too late.
The footsteps in the hallway slow.
Stop.
"…Hey."
His voice is different now. The warmth still there, but pulled taut over something else. Something careful.
"You in there?"
Your hand is still over your mouth. You breathe through your nose. In. Out.
"Yeah." It comes out all wrong and even you aren't convinced. You sound like a toy with a broken voice box, all scratchy and fake.
A pause.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." You look at your reflection because you can't look away. "I'll — I'm fine. I'll be out in a second."
Silence.
Then, soft. Two knuckles against the door. Nothing demanding.
"Can you open the door for me?"
"Schlatt—"
"I'm not going to do anything. I just want to see you."
"I swear that I'm okay, I just need a second."
"You don't sound okay."
"I will be." Your voice breaks clean in the middle of it. You hate that. You squeeze your eyes shut. Why does it hurt to blink? Why does it hurt to breathe? Why is he here, he's going to stop you from doing this, you should be able to do whatever you want... "Please just — go back out there. I'll clean up and I'll come out and I'll be fine, just—"
"I'm not going anywhere."
The simplicity of it floors you. No argument, no negotiation.
"You don't know what—" You stop. Swallow. "I don't want you to see me like this."
"I know." A beat. "I want to anyway."
Something in your ribs does something complicated.
"You already deal with so much," you say, and your voice has gone strange — very quiet, very even. "And I'm supposed to be — I should be fine. I'm supposed to be fine by now. I have no reason not to be fine—"
"Hey."
"—and every time you come home I can feel you looking at me and trying to figure out if it's a good day or a bad day before you even put your bag down, and I hate that I make you do that—"
"Hey." Firmer, now. Not unkind. "I hear you."
"—and I'm so tired of being like this." The words are coming faster now, barely room between them. "I'm so tired of it being so loud all the time and I just — I needed it to stop for a minute. I just needed a minute, and I know, I know that's not — I know it's not—"
"I know," he says. Through the door. Low and level. Like his forehead is leaning against the wood of the door and he's holding himself there with one hand on the handle and the other trying to move through the barrier. "I know what the noise sounds like, babe. You've been running the sink for a while now."
You stop.
The tap is still running. The water is very cold over your arm. You reach out and turn it off, and the quiet it leaves behind is enormous.
"Will you open the door for me?" he says. Just that. No pressure behind it — the question sitting open, like he'll wait as long as it takes.
You look at the handle.
Your hands are still shaking.
"…Okay," you say.
You hear him exhale.
You reach out. Turn the lock.
✧✧✧
The door swings open, and he's standing there in the hall, still in his jacket, one hand braced on the doorframe, keys already shoved in his pocket like he put them away specifically so his hands would be free.
And he looks at your face first.
Not your arm. Not the sink. Not the tissue you've got pressed against your sleeve or the way the front of your shirt has gone wrinkled from where you've been clutching it. He looks at your face, and whatever he finds there — whatever is written all over you right now in a language you don't have words for — makes something in his jaw clench a little bit.
Concern. He feels concerned — you're making it bad, you're making it worse, you should have never opened this door, you should've—
He steps forward.
And then his arms come around you, all the way, his hand at the back of your head and the other flat and warm between your shoulder blades, pulling you into him like that's just where you go. Like that's just physics.
"Come on." His voice in your hair. Low. "Come out here. Come on."
He walks you down the hall. One arm stays around your shoulders the whole way and he eases you down onto the couch like he's thought about where to put you. Like he's been thinking about it since he heard your voice through the door.
He sits beside you. Close. His knee solid against yours.
"Let me see," he says.
You peel the sleeve back.
He looks. One long, steady look. His jaw tightens slightly, releases — and then he nods. Just once. His hand comes up, cupping your arm from underneath, tilting it toward the lamp on the side table. You can see him talking to himself in his head, but it's too inward to see what he's actually saying.
"Okay," he says. His voice is even. "That's manageable."
And there is something in the word manageable that doesn't minimize the situation — it makes it seem…practical. Manageable like homework or cleaning. But then that makes you think about chores that you haven't found the energy to do, maybe you're the chore, maybe manageable isn't a good word because actually you're the thing that needs managing—
He gets up. Comes back with the first aid kit. Sits back down so close his thigh is warm against yours.
"This'll sting."
"…I know." You kind of want it to.
He works quietly. Antiseptic first, then gauze, then tape, smooth and careful, his hands bigger than yours and steadier than they have any right to be. When he smooths the last piece of tape flat he holds your arm for a second, both of his hands bracketing the bandage like he's checking his own work. You didn't flinch for any of it.
Then he looks up.
"It wasn't — I wasn't trying to—" you start.
"I know," he says.
"I don't want to die." The words feel important to clarify. "I just wanted it to be quiet."
"I know," he says again. And then, quieter: "I know what that feels like."
You look at him.
"I've been there," he says. Matter of fact and honest. "Not the same way, every time — but the same place. Where the noise gets so loud that you'd do pretty much anything to get it to stop for five minutes." He holds your eyes. "It's terrible to feel like you're carrying everything, and you know what would make it stop. But it also sucks to feel like you can't do the thing to make it stop because that makes everyone around you concerned."
Your throat tightens. "How did you—" You stop. Try again. "What made you stop? When it was bad."
He's quiet for a moment. His thumb moves against your arm, just above the bandage. Back and forth. Slow.
"Different things, at different times," he says. "For a long time it was just getting to the next thing. Next hour. Next day." A beat. "And then it was you."
The words land somewhere very deep and very tender and you look away fast because if you don't you're going to come apart completely.
"Schlatt—"
"I'm not saying it to put that on you," he says, and his voice is careful — he's thought about how to say this, you realize. He's thought about it for longer than just tonight. "I'm not saying it so you feel like you owe me anything. I'm saying it because it's the truth, and I think you need to hear something true right now." He shifts slightly, turning toward you on the couch. "Coming home to you is the best part of my day. Watching you laugh. Showing you stupid things. Telling you about a guy in a strip mall doing the most unhinged onion-based theatre I've ever witnessed at a work lunch—" the corner of his mouth does something soft, barely a smile, "—that's what I want. That's what keeps me going. And I need you to still be here for it."
A tear tracks down your face before you register it happening. You wipe it away roughly with the back of your hand.
"I didn't want to be a burden," you say. Small.
"You're not a burden." Flat and certain – like his heart was speaking straight out of his chest instead of his mouth. "You're my person."
"I make things harder—"
"Sometimes things are hard," he says. "That's not the same as you making them that way." He reaches out. His hand finds your jaw — big, warm, tilting your face toward his slowly, giving you time to decide whether you want it. You do. You turn toward him. "Next time," he says. "Before it gets here. I know it moves fast sometimes. I know you can't always catch it. But if you can — you call me. You text me anything. One word. One letter. A period, I don't care. I'll know."
"I didn't want to interrupt your day."
"You are my day." Oh, this man…how does this poetry just swim so easily through and out of him? "You come first, do you understand me? Not the errands, not whatever else I'm doing. You."
You look at Schlatt for a long moment. The lamp on the side table is warm and low, and outside the window the evening has gone fully dark, and here in this circle of light he is looking at you like you are the centrepiece of the room.
Like you are not something to be managed or fixed or endured.
Like you are someone he chose, and keeps choosing, and will choose again tomorrow.
Something in you — something that has been braced for a very long time — goes soft.
"Okay," you say.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He opens his arms.
You go into them slowly, cautiously, your body leaning awkardly and falling into him, getting it wrong somehow. But his arms close around you fully, catching you, and he pulls you in against his chest, one hand at the back of your head, your bandaged arm tucked carefully against him. His chin comes down over your hair.
Neither of you says anything for a while.
His heartbeat is steady under your ear. He's so calm…not panicked or scared.
"Tell me about the onion volcano," you say eventually. Muffled against his shirt.
He stills. Then a short breath — almost a laugh. "You sure? It's kinda crazy."
"Yeah."
He settles back against the cushions, adjusting his hold on you so you're more comfortable. His thumb starts moving against your arm again — that same slow, grounding stroke, above the bandage. When he speaks, his voice is easy. Warm. It curls around you like a fireplace.
"Okay so. This guy. Absolute showman, full commitment. He builds the thing up — and I mean the construction is already impressive — stacks it perfectly. Then he lights it, and I'm expecting the usual, right, little flame, polite applause—" he pauses for effect, "—this man had a column of fire. thought he was gonna stop at five, six layers, right? Wrong. They brought out this giant ass onion and that thing was at least twenty layers built on top of each other. And then the fire that came out? The fire department is going to be having a field day when they find out how high that fire goes. It's a wonder no one has stuck their arm in there yet, thinking it's fake.
"That….is crazy."
"I would never lie about onion theatre."
You huff — and it comes out almost like a laugh. Small and rusty, like something that hasn't been used in a couple of days, which is accurate. You feel him notice it. The way he goes just slightly stiller for a second, the way his hold adjusts — tightening around you, just barely. Like he wants to keep that sound close.
"There was a kid at the next table," he continues, voice unhurried. "Maybe seven, eight years old. Completely losing his mind. Like — hands on the table, standing up a little in his seat—"
"They let him stand?"
"His mom was too busy filming to notice. And honestly? Valid. I was filming too."
You pull back slightly. Look up at him. "You filmed it?"
He blinks down at you. "Obviously I filmed it. You think I'm going to witness something like that and not document it?"
"Show me."
He shifts, reaching for his phone on the cushion behind him — not letting go of you, maneuvering with you instead, which is somehow the part that gets you. That he doesn't let go. He pulls the video up, angles the screen toward you, and there it is. Shaky phone footage, warm orange restaurant light, and a column of fire rising out of an onion structure that has absolutely no business being that architectural.
You watch the kid in the corner of the frame completely lose his mind, the fire in his eyes and blown back hair only adding to the effect.
"Oh my god," you laugh.
"I know."
"That kid is going to remember that for the rest of his life."
" I'm going to remember that for the rest of my life." He locks his phone, tosses it back onto the cushion. His arm settles around you again, easy, like it belongs there, because it does. You've always thought that. Even on the bad days. Maybe especially then. "We're going. Next week. I already looked up the reservation situation."
"Yeah?"
"Non-negotiable. You're going to sit across from me and watch a man commit fully to the onion arts and you're going to love every second of it."
How can you struggle the way that you do when you have him to put everything at ease? You feel your heart get so full. The way good things feel when you've been empty long enough to forget there was another option.
"Schlatt."
"Mm."
You shift against him, tilting your head up so you can see his face properly. He looks down at you. The lamplight catches the line of his jaw, his mutton chops, the dark of his eyes. All of it worn and familiar and yours.
"Thank you," you say. "For coming in."
Something moves across his expression. He reaches up, brushes the hair back from your forehead with two fingers. Like he's brushing a hand along your cracked porcelain exterior, so gentle, so slow.
"Always," he says.
"I mean it. You didn't have to—"
"Yes I did." Not unkind. Just true, the way he says things when he wants to make sure they land. "And I'd do it every time. Every single time. So let me."
You look at him for a long moment. He looks back. Neither of you in any hurry to be anywhere else.
"Okay," you say softly. "I will try. To let you."
"Thanks, honey."
He makes a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something warm that lives between the two. His hand comes up, cradling the side of your face, his thumb moving along your cheekbone like he's just checking. Like he just wants to feel that you're here and real and still.
And then he tilts forward, slow enough that you see it coming, slow enough that it's a question.
You answer it by closing the distance yourself.
He kisses you gently. Just that. Soft and unhurried, his thumb resting still against your cheek, his other arm keeping you tucked against him like his favorite teddy bear. The kiss is warm and present and steady, the same way he's been all night. The same way he always manages to be when it counts the most.
When he pulls back it's only barely. His forehead comes down to rest against yours.
"You're still here," he murmurs. Reminding himself, it seems.
Your eyes close.
"Yeah," you say. "I'm still here."
His thumb strokes once, slow, across your cheek. His breath is warm and even against your face, and you stay like that for a moment — foreheads together, the lamp low behind you, the city doing its usual indifferent thing outside the window.
You are tired. You are bandaged. You are not fixed — you know that, and so does he, and neither of you is pretending otherwise. Tomorrow will come with its own weight, and the noise will find you again, and there will be hard days ahead that neither of you can see the shape of yet.
But tonight you are here.
And he is here.
And his arms are around you, and somewhere on his phone there is a video of a kid watching twenty layers of onion catch fire in a strip mall restaurant, and next week you are going to sit next to your man and watch a chef perform the most unhinged onion-based theatre either of you has ever witnessed, and he is already looking forward to watching your face when it happens. To see if the fire lights up your eyes.
Tomorrow, you think. You'll figure out tomorrow.
For now you just breathe, tucked into the warmth of him, and let yourself stay.
✧✧✧
you are not a burden for struggling. you are someone who deserves to be held.
if you're in crisis, please reach out — you deserve real support.
i realize that i forgot to give you guys a reason for my hiatus -- but it's literally because i'm going to get my degree in less than a month LOL and i'm working on my thesis day and night (i'm writing a play! unfortunately not about schlatt). i swear to you all that i will come back soon and spoil you with all the fics and (crazy) requests i still have in my inbox <33
have you guys seen all these clips and shorts of schlatt from his time on the qsmp??? hot asf,,, i'm obsessed with all these pumpkinduo clips because quackity brings out the angry queer in schlatt and i am just brought to life by him being pissed tf off
also transmascs and transfemmes........gimme some fic recs of your fav trans!reader fics (both nsfw and fluff), i literally will read for any fandom, but i definitely need some more concrete examples to improve (i'm not super happy with how "payment method" turned out???) –– please and thank you for your patience with me, my goal is to take over the trans!reader x jschlatt tag with many many delicious fics for you to indulge yourselves with because you all deserve it (〃´∀｀)
thank you for continuing to commenting and reblogging my work still, i know it's been a minute :'(( this writing shit is hard to do especially with professors breathing down my neck
✦ written with a transmasc!reader in mind ✦
(but all are welcome to enjoy ♡)
warnings:
nsfw / explicit sexual content (MDNI !!)
dom!reader x lowkey brat!schlatt
oral + penetration
humiliation
class differences
arguing, tension
workplace setting
author’s note:
okay!! so, i tried to go for super vague anatomy here?? so no specificity on pre or post op reader...but i'd love some feedback.
═══════════════════════════════
✧✧✧
The snow started around eight.
By the time you're wiping down the counter for the third time, it's coming down heavy enough that you can barely see the streetlights through the windows. Fat, wet flakes that stick to everything and make the parking lot look like the surface of the moon.
Which means nobody's coming in.
You're the only person left in this godforsaken fast food place on a Monday night in the middle of a snowstorm, and honestly? You're fine with it. You'll finish cleaning, flip the sign, and be out of here by eleven.
And then the door chimes.
You look up—and immediately clock that this guy does not belong here.
He's wearing a Canada Goose jacket. The real kind, the one that costs like fifteen hundred dollars, with the little patch on the arm. Snow is still clinging to the black fabric, melting into dark spots on his shoulders. When he unzips it and shrugs it off, underneath he's wearing a full suit. Pressed white shirt, tie slightly loosened, slacks that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.
He looks like he just walked out of a business meeting and somehow ended up in your lobby.
"We're about to close," you say flatly.
He doesn't even look up. Just pulls out his phone, scrolling with his thumb. "Sign says eleven. It's—" He glances at his watch. Rolex. Of course. "—ten forty-eight."
Your jaw tightens. "In case you didn't notice, there's a blizzard outside."
"I noticed." He's still looking at his phone. "Okay, so I need a double cheeseburger—no pickles, extra onions, light mayo, add jalapeños. Two large fries, one with extra salt, one plain. Chocolate shake. Six-piece nugget. Mac and cheese. Two apple pies." He finally looks up. "Are the pies hot or just warm?"
You stare at him.
He stares back, expectant.
"You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
"Dude. It's ten forty-eight on a Monday night. In a snowstorm. I'm the only person here."
He glances around the empty restaurant like he's just noticing. "Okay. And?"
"And that's—" You gesture vaguely at nothing. "That's a lot of food."
"I'm aware. I'm hungry." He slides his phone into his pocket. "Are you going to make it or not?"
The audacity. The sheer fucking audacity of this guy.
"Yeah," you say, voice tight. "I'll make it."
"Great." He moves toward one of the booths, draping his expensive jacket over the back of the seat like he's at a five-star restaurant. "I'll wait here."
"You need to pay first."
He waves a hand dismissively. "I'll pay when you bring it out."
"That's not—"
But he's already sitting down, pulling his phone back out, completely ignoring you.
You stand there for a moment, fingers curling into fists at your sides.
Then you turn on your heel and head to the kitchen.
Fine.
He wants his elaborate order? He'll get his elaborate order.
✧✧✧
Twenty-two minutes later—because you took your time, because fuck this guy—you load everything onto a tray. Burgers wrapped perfectly, fries in their containers (one heavily salted, one naked), shake blended thick, nuggets golden and crispy, mac and cheese still steaming, both apple pies hot enough to burn the roof of his mouth.
You carry it all out to the dining area.
He's on the phone. Leaning back in the booth like he owns the place, one arm stretched across the back of the seat.
You set the tray down in front of him with a solid thunk.
He doesn't look up. Just holds up one finger—one second—like you're his personal waiter.
"—yeah, no, I'll be there first thing tomorrow," he's saying. "The contract's basically done, we're just finalizing terms—"
He glances up, still talking. "—yeah, hang on—" Then, to you, like you're interrupting: "Can you give me a minute?"
"No," you say flatly. "Forty-three seventy-eight."
He blinks. "What?"
"Forty-three. Seventy-eight." You tap the tray. "Dollars. As in, your total."
"Right, yeah, just—" He waves at his phone. "One second."
"I'm not waiting."
He looks at you properly now, and there's irritation in his expression. "Dude, I'm on a call."
"And I'm about to close. Pay or I'm taking this back."
He stares at you for a long moment.
Then, into the phone: "Let me call you back."
He hangs up, shoves his phone in his pocket, and reaches for his jacket.
He digs through the inside pocket.
Pauses.
Checks the other pocket.
His expression changes.
He pulls out a wallet—small, bright pink, with Rainbow Dash emblazoned across the front with her name in glittery, rainbow letters.
You both stare at it.
There's a beat of complete silence.
"This isn't mine," he says.
"Yeah, I can sense that."
"No, I'm serious—" He's opening it now, rifling through the contents. A library card with someone else's name. A Chuck E. Cheese rewards stamp card. A single dollar bill (which you think is actually monopoly money) and some loose change. "What the fuck."
"Can't pay?" you ask, voice dripping with false sweetness.
His jaw tightens. "I got pickpocketed. On the subway."
"That sucks."
"I'm not making this up—"
"I didn't say you were." You reach for the tray. "But you still can't pay."
His hand shoots out, stopping you. "Wait—"
"Wait for what? You gonna Venmo me? Cash App? Because the register doesn't take that."
"There's an ATM down the block—"
"In that?" You gesture at the window. The snow is coming down sideways now, visibility near zero. "Good luck. We close in seven minutes."
"Then I'll come back tomorrow—"
"No." You pull the tray toward you. "I just spent twenty-two minutes making this. You don't get to walk out with it."
His eyes flash. "Are you serious right now?"
"Are you?" Your voice rises. "You walk in here twelve minutes before close, in the middle of a fucking blizzard, order half the menu, and now you're telling me you can't pay? You think I did all that work for nothing?"
"I didn't plan to get robbed—"
"I don't care!" You slam your hand on the table. "I don't care about your subway story or your business calls or your expensive fucking suit. What I care about is that I made your food, and you're trying to leave without paying for it."
His face flushes. "I'm not trying to scam you—"
"Then what the hell are you doing?"
He stands up. He's tall—taller than you realized—and when he steps around the table, you're suddenly very aware that you're alone here. That it's late, and dark, and there's no one else around.
But you don't back down.
"What do you want me to do?" he snaps. "You want me to give you my watch? My jacket? What?"
"I want you to pay for your food."
"I can't!"
"Then you're gonna have to give me something else."
He laughs, sharp and humorless. "Like what?"
"You can help me close." You cross your arms. "Take out the trash. Do the dishes. Mop the floors. Something."
He stares at you. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
His jaw works. You can see him weighing his options—probably mentally calculating whether his pride is worth more than forty-three dollars.
Finally, he says, "Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine. I'll help you close. Whatever."
You blink. You weren't actually expecting him to agree.
"Okay then." You set the tray back down on the table. "Start with the trash."
He nods. Rolls up his sleeves—his expensive, probably-dry-clean-only sleeves—and walks toward the back.
You follow, arms still crossed, ready to supervise.
He stops in front of the trash station.
The big industrial garbage can is overflowing. It's been a long day—there's grease-soaked napkins on top, crushed soda cups leaking syrup, and at least three different mystery sauces congealing on the sides. The smell hits him immediately.
You watch as he reaches for the bag.
His hand hovers.
He leans in slightly, takes one breath through his nose—
And immediately recoils like he's been shot.
"Oh god," he says.
"What?"
"That's—" He looks at the trash can like it personally offended him. "That's fucking disgusting."
"Yeah. That's trash."
"I can't—" He looks at you, and there's genuine distress in his expression now. "I can't touch that."
"Are you serious?"
"It smells like something died in there—"
"It's a trash can. What did you expect?"
He backs away, hands up. "Okay, no, I changed my mind. I'm not doing this."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not—" He gestures wildly at the trash. "I'll do something else. Literally anything else. But not that."
Your eye twitches. "You agreed to help me close."
"I didn't know it would be that—"
"It's a fast food restaurant! What did you think the trash would smell like?!"
"I don't know! Not that!"
You take a step toward him. "So let me get this straight. You walked in here, ordered all that food, can't pay for it, agreed to help me, and now you're backing out because the trash is too gross for you?"
"When you put it like that—"
"That's exactly what's happening!"
"Look, I'll mop—"
"The mop bucket hasn't been cleaned in a week—"
"I'll do dishes—"
"The dishes are covered in fryer grease and mystery sauce—"
"Then what do you want from me?!" He's yelling now too, and the sound echoes in the empty restaurant.
"I want you to do literally ANYTHING to make up for wasting my time!"
"I just told you, I can't do any of that!"
"Then what CAN you do?!"
The question hangs in the air between you.
He's breathing hard, face flushed, tie even more askew than before.
And then something shifts in his expression.
He's quiet for a long moment, eyes locked on yours.
"I—" He swallows. "What if I offered something else?"
"Something else?"
"Something—" His voice drops lower. "Something better than taking out your trash."
Your brain takes a second to catch up. "Are you—"
"I'm saying—" He takes a step closer. "I'm saying you worked hard. You made my food. And I should pay you back. So..." He shrugs, but there's nothing casual about it. "Let me."
You stare at him. "You're propositioning me right now."
"I'm offering you a better deal than making me touch that fucking trash can."
"That's—" You can't even process this. "That's insane."
"Is it?" Another step. He's close enough now that you can see the snow starting to melt in his hair, the way his chest is rising and falling. "You're pissed at me. I get it. And I can't give you money. But I can give you something else. If you want it."
Your heart is pounding. "Why would I want that?"
His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "Because you're looking at me like you're deciding whether to kill me or kiss me, and I'm really hoping it's the second one."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm desperate." His voice drops even lower. "Please. I'll make it worth your time. I promise I'll make it worth your time."
You should say no. You should absolutely say no, kick him out, call it a night.
But instead you hear yourself say:
"You really think you're worth more than an hour of labor?"
"Let me prove it."
"The trash is right there—"
"Please." And now there's something raw in his voice. "Please don't make me take out the trash. I'll do anything else. Anything. Just tell me what you want."
You're both standing there, snow still melting on his jacket, the smell of fryer grease hanging in the air.
And then he drops to his knees.
Right there on the tile floor, in his expensive slacks, looking up at you with something desperate and heated in his eyes.
"Please," he says again. "I'm begging you. Let me pay you back properly. However you want. I'll do whatever you tell me to do. I'll be so good for you, I swear. Just—" His hands flex at his sides. "Just give me a chance."
Your breath catches.
Because he's on his knees in the middle of your restaurant, in a suit that probably costs more than your car, and he's begging you.
"Why should I?" Your voice comes out rougher than intended. "Give me one good reason why I should say yes."
"Because—" He looks up at you through his lashes. "Because I'll make you feel better than you've felt in months. Because I'll do exactly what you tell me to do. Because right now, I'm on my knees for you, and I'm not getting up until you say yes."
You stare down at him.
At the desperation in his eyes.
At the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters right now.
"Stand up," you say quietly.
He does, slowly, never breaking eye contact.
You walk to the front entrance.
Flip the LED sign from 'OPEN' to 'CLOSED.'
The red light reflects off the snow outside, bathing everything in crimson.
When you turn back around, he's still standing there, watching you with barely contained anticipation.
"Back office," you say. "Now."
He moves immediately.
✧✧✧
The office is small and cramped, smelling faintly of industrial cleaner and stale coffee. There's barely enough room for the desk, the filing cabinet, and the single rolling chair that's seen better days.
You sit.
He stands in the doorway, hands flexing at his sides, waiting.
The fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting shadows across his face. His tie is crooked, his hair is a mess from the snow, and there's something almost vulnerable about the way he's looking at you now—like he can't quite believe this is happening.
"Close the door," you say.
He does, and the soft click of the lock sounds impossibly loud in the small space.
"Take off the jacket."
He shrugs it off immediately, draping it over the filing cabinet. Underneath, his dress shirt is slightly wrinkled, sleeves still rolled up from his failed attempt at trash duty.
"The tie too."
His fingers go to his collar, loosening the knot and pulling the silk free. He sets it on top of the jacket, and now he's just standing there in his shirt and slacks, looking at you like he's waiting for permission to breathe.
"You know what's funny?" you say, leaning back in the chair.
"What?"
"That jacket probably cost more than I make in a month. That watch?" You nod at his wrist. "Definitely more than I make in three months. And yet here you are, about to get on your knees for a fast food worker because you can't handle taking out the trash."
His jaw tightens. "I—"
"What's wrong?" You tilt your head. "Does that hurt your ego? Knowing that all that money doesn't mean shit right now?"
"No," he says, but his voice wavers.
"Liar." You spread your legs slightly. "Get on your knees."
He sinks down immediately, like he's been waiting for this. His knees hit the tile with a soft thud, and he settles between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.
"Look at you," you say softly. "Couple minutes ago you were too good to take out my trash. Now you're on your knees in your expensive slacks, begging to make it up to me."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away. "I'm not too good for this."
"No?"
"No." His voice is rough. "I want this. Want you."
"Yeah?" You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just slightly. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. "You want to make me feel good? Want to prove you're worth keeping around?"
"Yes."
"Then you better work for it." You tug harder. "Because right now, you're just some rich asshole who couldn't even handle basic restaurant cleaning. You're gonna have to convince me you're good for something."
"I will," he breathes. "I'll be so good, I promise—"
"We'll see."
You start unbuttoning your jeans. His eyes track the movement, pupils blown wide, and when you lift your hips to shimmy the denim down, his hands come up to help immediately.
"At least you're eager," you mutter. "Maybe that's worth something."
He pulls your jeans off completely, setting them aside with surprising care. His hands slide back up your thighs, slow and reverent, and you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers.
"Can I—" He swallows. "Can I touch you?"
"That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
He leans in, pressing his mouth to your inner thigh, then higher. The heat of his breath makes you inhale sharply, and he takes that as encouragement.
When his mouth finally finds you, the first touch makes your breath catch. He's focused, attentive, and you can tell he's paying attention to every reaction—every hitch of your breath, every time your fingers tighten in his hair.
"Slower," you instruct. "You don't get to rush this just because you're desperate."
He obeys immediately, and the deliberate pace is almost maddening in the best way. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady, and when he adds his fingers—sliding them inside with careful precision—you have to bite back a moan.
"Fuck—" You grip his hair tighter. "Right there—"
He curls his fingers just right, and the combination of his mouth and hands is overwhelming. You can feel the pressure building, heat coiling low in your stomach.
"Don't stop," you breathe. "Don't you fucking dare—"
He doesn't. Just maintains that perfect rhythm until you're coming apart, thighs shaking as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it without hesitation, not stopping until you're pushing him away with trembling hands.
When he pulls back, his lips are wet and swollen, eyes dark and hungry.
"Good?" he asks, voice absolutely wrecked.
"Better than I expected," you manage. "But I'm not done with you yet."
His eyes widen. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Stand up."
He does, and you can see how hard he is, straining against his expensive slacks.
"Shirt off," you order.
His hands go to the buttons immediately, fumbling slightly in his eagerness. When he shrugs it off, you get a proper look at him—broad shoulders, the hint of muscle beneath, skin flushed with want.
"Better," you murmur. "Now get back down here."
He drops to his knees again without hesitation.
You lean forward, fingers trailing down his chest. "You want to touch me more?"
"Yes," he breathes. "Please—"
"Then ask nicely."
"Please—" His voice cracks slightly. "Please let me touch you. Let me—can I take off your shirt? Please?"
You consider making him wait, but the desperation in his voice is too good.
"Go ahead."
His hands are gentle as he helps you pull your shirt over your head, reverent as he takes you in. When his mouth finds your chest, tongue working over sensitive skin, you can't help the soft sound that escapes you.
"That's it," you murmur, fingers threading through his hair again. "See what happens when you ask nicely?"
He makes a muffled sound of agreement, too focused on his task to form words. His hands are everywhere now—your sides, your back, sliding down to grip your hips.
You let him work for a few more moments before pulling him up by his hair. He goes willingly, rising to his feet, and before he can say anything you're pulling him into a kiss.
He melts into it immediately, kissing you like he's starving for it. You bite his bottom lip and he gasps, letting you deepen the kiss, take control of it completely.
"Pants off," you murmur against his mouth. "Now."
He breaks away just long enough to shove his slacks and boxers down, kicking them aside. When he tries to kiss you again, you stop him with a hand on his chest.
"Not yet. Sit down."
He looks confused for a moment, then realizes you mean the chair. He sits, and you can see how hard he is, practically trembling with need.
You stand, and his eyes track every movement as you remove the last of your clothing. Then you move to straddle his lap, hovering just out of reach.
"You want this?" you ask.
"Yes—fuck, yes, please—"
"Then beg for it."
"Please," he says immediately. "Please, I'll do anything, I'll be so good, just—please—"
You sink down slowly, taking him in inch by inch, and the sound he makes is absolutely wrecked. His hands fly to your hips, gripping tight like he needs something to anchor himself.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Oh my god—"
You start to move, setting a deliberate pace that has him panting beneath you. His head falls back against the chair, exposing the long line of his throat, and you lean in to bite at his pulse point.
"You feel good," you murmur against his skin. "Better than I thought you'd be."
"Thank you—fuck—thank you—"
You pull back to look at him. His eyes are glazed, lips parted, completely lost in it. "You like this? Like being used?"
"Yes," he breathes. "Yes, I love it—"
You kiss him again, swallowing his moans as you move faster. His hands are shaking where they grip your hips, and you can tell he's trying so hard not to take control, not to thrust up into you.
"Good boy," you murmur. "Just let me use you."
The praise makes him whimper, and you file that away for later.
The angle is perfect, hitting just right with every movement, and you can feel another orgasm building already. You reach between your bodies, touching yourself, and his eyes lock onto the movement like he's hypnotized.
"Fuck, that's so hot," he gasps. "Please—can I—"
"Can you what?"
"Can I come? Please, I'm so close—"
"Not yet." You pick up your pace, chasing your own pleasure. "Not until I do."
He makes a desperate sound but doesn't argue, just grips your hips tighter and lets you take what you need.
When you come, it's even more intense than the first time—pleasure washing through you in waves as you clench around him. He's making these beautiful broken sounds beneath you, clearly struggling to hold back.
"Now," you gasp out. "Come for me now—"
He does immediately, hips finally jerking up as he spills inside you with a choked moan. His whole body shudders, hands flexing on your hips hard enough to bruise.
You both stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Holy shit," he finally manages.
"Yeah," you agree.
You climb off him slowly, both of you wincing at the loss. There's a box of tissues on the desk—because of course there is—and you grab a handful for both of you.
The silence isn't awkward, exactly. Just... loaded. Neither of you quite sure what to say.
Finally, he speaks. "So. Are we good?"
You glance at him—still naked, still catching his breath, looking thoroughly debauched. "Yeah. We're good."
"Good." He starts gathering his clothes, pulling his boxers back on. "Because that was—fuck. That was incredible."
"Wasn't bad," you say, deliberately casual as you get dressed.
He laughs. "Just 'not bad'?"
"Yeah. Not bad. I'm sorry, did you want praise? You wanted to be called a good boy for doing such a good job?"
"…Yeah, actually."
"Well, you're not getting it."
"Damn."
✧✧✧
Ten minutes later, you're both back in the booth, and he's already halfway through his burger.
You steal one of his fries—the heavily salted ones—and have to admit they came out perfect. Crispy, hot, the right amount of grease.
"Okay," you say, reaching for the mac and cheese. "I'll give you this—this is actually a really solid order."
He looks up, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. The jalapeños on the burger with the light mayo, the contrast between the salted and plain fries, even the shake thickness. It works."
"Told you I knew what I was doing."
"Don't get cocky. You still couldn't pay for it."
He laughs, and it's softer than before. Less polished. "Fair point."
You work through the food in comfortable silence for a bit. The snow is still falling outside, coating the windows in white. The restaurant is warm and quiet, just the two of you and way too much food that's actually turning out to be worth the effort.
"I still don't get how this took you almost half an hour though," he says, dunking a nugget in sauce.
"Are you seriously complaining about prep time right now?"
"No, I'm just—" He gestures at the spread. "It's a burger, some fries, nuggets. That's like, fifteen minutes tops, right?"
You level him with a look. "You ordered two different kinds of fries that needed separate baskets because of the salt situation. The mac and cheese has to heat for twelve minutes minimum or it's cold and congealed in the middle. The pies have to come out of the warmer and rest or they'll burn your mouth off. Your shake needed to be thick enough to stand a spoon in. And I had to hand-mix jalapeños into fresh burger toppings because we don't keep them prepped." You steal another fry. "So yeah. Twenty-eight minutes. For one person. At closing time. In a blizzard."
He has the decency to look a bit sheepish. "When you put it like that..."
"Exactly."
He grins and reaches for the shake, taking a long sip. "Still worth it though."
Heat flickers through you, and you look away first, focusing on the apple pie.
You finish eating, and he helps you clear the table without being asked. When he stands to put his jacket on, you notice his neck—bare, collar open.
"Wait." You glance back toward the office. "Your tie."
"Oh—" He looks down at himself like he just realized. "Shit, yeah."
"Stay here."
You head back to the office, grabbing the tie from where it's still draped over the filing cabinet. When you return, he's zipping up his jacket, looking rumpled and thoroughly debauched despite being mostly put together.
And then you remember.
Cameras.
Fuck.
You're definitely going to need to delete some footage before you leave tonight. The office camera is old and the angle is shit, but still. Better safe than fired.
"Here." You hold up the tie. "Can't leave evidence behind."
His eyebrows raise. "Evidence?"
"Come here."
He steps closer, and you reach up, flipping his collar up and looping the tie around his neck. Your fingers brush against his skin as you work, and you feel the way his breath catches.
You tie it efficiently—not perfect, but good enough—and flip his collar back down, smoothing it flat.
"There," you murmur. "Now you look respectable again."
He's looking down at you with something soft and surprised in his expression.
"You're good at that," he says quietly.
"Yeah, well. I'm good at a lot of things."
"I noticed." His voice drops lower. "You're also—" He pauses, like he's trying to find the right words. "You're kind of incredible. Like, actually. Not just the—" He gestures vaguely. "Everything. The way you handled all that shit, the food, the attitude. You're... yeah."
Your chest does something complicated.
"Listen," he continues, voice softer now. "I know this was supposed to be a one-time thing, but I'd really like to—"
You sigh, holding up a hand. "Okay, stop."
He stops.
"Look," you say. "We're cool. What happened, happened, and I'm not gonna be weird about it. And if you want to come back sometime, see me, maybe actually ask me out or something—" You shrug. "I close on Mondays and Thursdays."
His eyes light up. "So—"
"But right now?" You gesture at the window, where the snow is coming down even harder. "It's a fucking blizzard. You got robbed. I still have this entire store to clean and close down properly." And security footage to delete, but you don't say that part. "So it's just not a good time for whatever you're trying to do here."
He opens his mouth.
"Don't get your panties in a twist," you add. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying not right now. Just... get home safe, okay? Before the roads get worse."
He stares at you for a long moment, and then something shifts in his expression—surprise giving way to something warmer, almost fond.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Yeah. Okay."
"Good."
He heads for the door, pulling it open. The cold air rushes in, along with a flurry of snow.
He pauses in the doorway, looking back at you one more time.
"Mondays and Thursdays?" he confirms.
"Mondays and Thursdays."
His grin is crooked, still a bit dazed. "I'll remember that."
"You better."
And then he's gone, disappearing into the snow and the night.
You lock the door behind him and lean against it for a moment, exhaling slowly.
Then you turn back to survey the restaurant. Floors to mop, fryers to wipe down, receipts to count.
And one very specific piece of security footage to make disappear.
You get to work, and if you're smiling while you mop, well.
✦ written with a male y/n in mind ✦
(but all are welcome to enjoy ♡)
word count:
~5K
warnings:
oh god you guys idk,,, for this chapter it's literally just ball LOL
author’s note:
i am so sorry to people who actually know about baseball,,, and also to those who also have no idea what the fuck baseball even is,,, i tried to do as much research as i could (emotionally bear) and i feel like i just ended up in a weird grey middle of knowing baseball terms but maybe not exactly what they mean??? so idfk just strap in for the ride
enjoy??? ∠( ᐛ 」∠)_
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BASEBALL TERMS GUIDE (take this with a hint of salt LOL)
at-bat: a player’s turn to hit
ball: a pitch outside the strike zone
batter’s box: the rectangle beside home plate where the hitter stands
count: the number of balls and strikes (example: “two and two”)
curveball: a pitch that breaks/curves as it reaches the plate
double: a hit that lets the batter safely reach second base
dugout: the bench area where teams sit during the game
fastball: a pitch thrown hard and straight
fly ball: a ball hit high into the air
foul: a hit that lands outside the foul lines (usually counts as a strike)
grounded out / ground out: a ball hit on the ground that’s fielded for an out
hanging curveball: a curveball that doesn’t break enough and sits in the strike zone (easy to crush)
inning: each team gets a turn to bat; most games have 9 innings
leadoff hitter: the first batter in the lineup
mound: the raised dirt area where the pitcher throws from
PA system: the stadium announcer (the voice calling who’s batting)
pitch count: how many pitches a pitcher has thrown (used to track fatigue)
popped out / pop out: a short, high hit that’s caught for an out
rubber: the white pitching plate on the mound the pitcher pushes off from
shake off / shook him off: the pitcher rejects the catcher’s sign and chooses a different pitch
single: a hit that lets the batter safely reach first base
strike: a hittable pitch (or a swing-and-miss)
strikeout: the batter gets three strikes and is out
tag: touching the runner with the glove/ball to record an out
triple: a hit that lets the batter safely reach third base
walk / ball four: the batter gets four balls and takes first base
warning track: the dirt/gravel strip right before the outfield wall
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The locker room smelled like old leather, fresh-cut grass, and the kind of nervous energy that made your hands shake when you tried to tie your cleats.
You'd been in this room a thousand times. Three years of early morning practices, late-night film sessions, championship celebrations, and gut-wrenching losses. But today felt different. Today, the weight of senior year pressed down on your shoulders like a hundred-pound barbell.
"Yo, you good?" Marcus, your roommate and the team's starting shortstop, nudged your shoulder as he pulled his jersey over his head. Number 14. "You've been staring at that glove for like five minutes."
You blinked, realizing you'd been running your thumb over the worn leather of your center fielder's mitt, tracing the same path you'd traced since high school. "Yeah, I'm good. Just... thinking."
"About the scouts?" He raised an eyebrow, sitting down on the bench next to you to lace up his cleats.
"Among other things." You grabbed your own jersey—number 7—and pulled it on. The fabric settled against your skin like a second home. Eastern State University, bold letters across the chest. Three years you'd worn this jersey. This was the last first game you'd ever play in it.
The thought made your stomach flip.
"Dude, you're gonna be fine," Marcus said, clapping you on the back hard enough that you lurched forward a step. "You're one of the best hitters in the conference. Scouts are gonna be drooling over you by the third inning."
"If I can get on base," you muttered, reaching for your batting gloves.
"When you get on base," he corrected. "Positive thinking, my guy."
Around you, the rest of the team was in various states of preparation. Music blasted from someone's speaker—something bass-heavy that vibrated in your chest. Jake, the catcher, was going through his pre-game ritual of rhythmically smacking his glove to the beat. The pitchers were huddled in the corner, talking — probably mechanics and strategy.
This is how it's always been. The familiarity, despite the eardrum killing music, was comforting, in a weird way.
Coach Williams emerged from his office, clipboard in hand, whistle around his neck. The room didn't exactly go silent, but the music stopped almost immediately. Focused.
"Alright, boys, bring it in."
You stood, shoving your batting gloves into your back pocket, and joined the semi-circle forming around Coach. He was a stocky guy in his fifties, with a graying beard and the kind of intense green-eyed stare that made you want to run sprints just to avoid disappointing him.
"First game of the season," Coach said, his voice gravelly. "Senior day's gonna come faster than you think, and before you know it, you'll be walking across that field for the last time." His eyes scanned the group, landing on you and the other seniors. "This is your legacy year. What you do this season? That's what people are gonna remember. That's what you are going to remember."
Your jaw tightened. Legacy. The word hung in the air like a knife to a throat.
"Now, I know Riverside Tech is walking onto our field today thinking they're gonna roll right over us." Coach's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "They won last year's Iron Nine. They think they've got our number."
A few of your teammates grumbled. The Iron Nine—the championship game every spring between ESU and Riverside Tech. Fifty-three years of history. Bragging rights that lasted until the next matchup. And last year, Riverside had taken it. Almost too easily.
"But here's the thing," Coach continued, his voice rising. "That was last year. This is a new season. A new team. And today, we show them exactly what Eastern State Baseball is made of."
The team erupted in whooping and clapping, the energy spiking instantly.
"Protect home plate! Trust your training! And play like you've got something to prove—because you do!" Coach punctuated each sentence with a slam of his clipboard against his palm. "Now get out there and show those Riverside boys what real baseball looks like!"
The team roared. You felt it in your blood, that electric surge of adrenaline and purpose.
As everyone grabbed gloves and bats and started filing toward the door, Marcus fell into step beside you.
"You ready for this?"
You glanced at him, then toward the tunnel leading out to the field. Somewhere out there, the stands were filling. Scouts with clipboards. Your parents with their ESU gear. Sierra, who'd texted you 'good luck' with way too many exclamation points this morning.
And Riverside Tech. Their team. Their fans.
Him.
You swallowed hard and forced a grin. "Yeah. I'm ready."
Marcus grinned back and shoved your shoulder. "That's what I like to hear. Let's fucking go."
You grabbed your glove and followed your team out into the sun.
✧ ✧ ✧
The stadium wasn't massive—Eastern State wasn't a baseball powerhouse like some of the SEC schools—but it was yours. The bleachers could hold maybe two thousand people, and today they were filling up fast. Students claimed spots in the outfield berm with blankets and coolers. Parents clustered behind home plate. And scattered throughout, easy to spot if you knew what to look for, were the scouts.
Clipboards. Radar guns. Stone-faced expressions behind dark sunglasses that gave nothing away.
Your mom spotted you the second you emerged from the dugout.
"THAT'S MY BOY!" she screamed, jumping to her feet in the third row behind home plate, decked out head-to-toe in ESU blue and gold. She had a foam finger. She had face paint. She was that mom, and you loved her for it.
Your dad, sitting beside her in his faded ESU baseball cap, raised a hand in a casual wave. He was holding his old glove—the one he'd played with in college years ago—like he always did. For luck, he said.
You couldn't help but grin, raising a hand back before jogging toward the outfield to start warm-ups.
"Your mom is insane," Marcus called from shortstop, laughing. "I can hear her over everyone."
"Yeah, I know," you called back, grin widening.
You also caught sight of Sierra. She was sitting with your parents—had been since freshman year, basically part of the family at this point. She saw you looking and waved enthusiastically, her smile bright and genuine.
You waved back, something warm settling in your chest. She'd driven over early just to make sure she got a good seat. That was Sierra. Always showing up.
But as your gaze drifted across the field toward the visitor's dugout, that warmth iced over.
Riverside Tech was taking the field now, their deep red and black uniforms stark against the green grass. You recognized a few faces—players you'd gone up against for three years now. Good players. Tough competitors.
And then you saw him.
Schlatt walked out of the dugout with that same easy confidence he'd always had, glove dangling from his left hand. He was tall—taller than you remembered, somehow, though that didn't make sense since you'd just played against him last season. His hair was a little longer, curling out from under his cap. Number 22. Same as always.
He made his way to the mound for warm-ups, and you hated how your eyes followed him without permission.
Across the diamond, in the visitor's section, you could see his parents.
His dad was impossible to miss. Arms crossed, jaw set, laser-focused on Schlatt like he was watching game film instead of warm-ups.
Next to him, Schlatt's mom was the complete opposite. She was already on her feet, waving a Riverside flag, wearing what you think was about fifteen different pieces of team merch at once. She had a cowbell. You could hear it from center field.
"LET'S GO, BABY! THAT'S MY SON!" she screamed as Schlatt threw his first warm-up pitch.
Despite everything, you almost smiled. Some things never changed.
"Alright, ladies, let's get loose!" your center field coach called, snapping you back to reality.
You shook out your arms and got into position, tracking fly balls as they were hit your way. Catch, throw, reset. Catch, throw, reset. The rhythm was meditative, grounding.
But even as you moved through the motions, you couldn't stop your gaze from drifting back toward the mound.
Schlatt was stretching his arm now, long and fluid, his left arm—the one his dad had trained him to throw with—cutting through the air with precision. He looked calm. Focused. Totally in his element.
You wondered if he'd seen you yet. If he even cared.
And then, as if summoned by the thought, Schlatt turned his head.
Your eyes met across the field.
It was only a second. Maybe two. But it felt longer. The noise of the stadium faded into static. The world narrowed to just the two of you, fifty yards apart, standing on opposite sides of a line you'd drawn years ago.
Neither of you looked away first.
His expression was unreadable. Not angry, not smug. Just…watching you the same way you were watching him.
"Yo, you gonna catch this or what?"
A baseball thudded into the grass three feet to your left.
"Shit—sorry!" You scrambled to grab it, heat flooding your face as your teammates laughed.
"Dude, what's got you so distracted?" one of the outfielders called, grinning. "Their pitcher that threatening?"
"Fuck off," you muttered, throwing the ball back harder than necessary.
But when you glanced back toward the mound, Schlatt had already turned away.
✧ ✧ ✧
The leadoff hitter grounded out on the second pitch—a hard-hit ball right at the shortstop. Unlucky, but that was baseball. Still, setting the tone of the game with that?
Breathe. You were up. You could do this.
You grabbed your batting helmet and your bat—a Louisville Slugger, black and gold, perfectly weighted—and stepped out of the dugout. The crowd noise swelled as your name crackled over the PA system.
"Now batting for Eastern State, number seven, center fielder—"
Your mom's scream cut through the announcement like a foghorn. You didn't have to look to know she was on her feet.
Marcus leaned out of the dugout. "Make him work! Get on base!"
You nodded, rolling your shoulders as you approached the batter's box.
And there, sixty feet and six inches away, stood Schlatt.
He was toeing the rubber, glove raised to his face as he stared in at the catcher for the sign. His expression was calm. Focused. Like you were just another batter.
You dug into the box, back foot firm, front foot light. Adjusted your batting gloves. Took a practice swing.
When you looked up, Schlatt was staring right at you.
Not at the catcher. Not at the plate.
At you.
The catcher settled into his crouch and put down a sign. Schlatt nodded once, wound up, and threw.
The ball exploded out of his hand.
You barely had time to react—pure instinct swinging the bat around as the fastball screamed inside. Your bat made contact with a sharp crack, but the ball shot foul, spinning off into the netting behind first base.
"Strike one!"
Your hands stung from the impact. That pitch had been fast. And inside. Uncomfortably close.
You stepped out of the box, taking a breath, resetting.
The catcher didn't say anything, but you could feel the smirk under his mask.
When you stepped back in, Schlatt was already set. He wound up again.
This time it was a curveball—a nasty one that started high and dove low. You watched it, forcing yourself not to chase.
"Ball one!"
Good. Make him work.
Schlatt caught the return throw, his face giving nothing away. He turned the ball over in his glove, adjusted his grip, and looked in for the next sign.
The catcher put down two fingers.
Schlatt shook his head.
The catcher tried again. One finger.
Schlatt shook him off again.
You saw the catcher's shoulders sag in frustration before he finally put down a different sign. Schlatt nodded.
He was calling his own game. Throwing what he wanted to throw.
The windup. The release.
Another fastball—this one on the outer half of the plate. You swung hard, trying to drive it, but the ball jumped off your bat and sailed deep into foul territory down the left field line.
"Strike two!"
Damn it.
You stepped out again, this time taking a longer breath. Your heart was pounding, adrenaline spiking.
Focus. See the ball. Trust your hands.
When you stepped back in, you made the mistake of looking at Schlatt's face.
He wasn't smiling. But there was something in his eyes. A flicker of—what? Satisfaction? Challenge?
It pissed you off.
The next pitch was another curveball, and this time you were ready. You laid off, watching it break low and away.
"Ball two!"
The count evened up. Two and two.
Schlatt took his time with the next pitch, working the ball in his glove, staring you down. The crowd was buzzing now, sensing the battle.
Finally, he set. Wound up.
Fastball. Middle-in.
You swung.
The contact was perfect—the sweet spot of the bat meeting the ball with a sound that echoed across the field. You knew it was good the second you felt it.
The ball rocketed past Schlatt's ear, a frozen rope into right-center field. You were already sprinting out of the box, legs pumping, eyes tracking the ball as it shot into the gap.
The right fielder was running hard, but the ball had too much juice. It bounced once, twice, and rolled toward the wall.
You rounded first base without slowing, digging hard toward second. The relay throw came in as you slid feet-first into the bag, a cloud of dirt exploding around you.
"Safe!"
You popped up, brushing dirt off your pants, chest heaving.
And then you looked toward the mound.
Schlatt was standing there, glove on his hip, staring at you.
You stared back.
For a moment, the entire game seemed to pause. Just the two of you, locked in.
You didn't smile. Didn't gloat.
But you didn't look away, either.
Schlatt's jaw tightened. He turned back toward home plate, adjusting his cap.
The next batter stepped in, and the game moved on.
But as you took your lead off second base, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.
The war had officially started.
✧ ✧ ✧
The game settled into a rhythm after that—a back-and-forth war where neither team could pull ahead.
Your double in the second inning hadn't mattered. The next batter grounded out weakly to short, leaving you stranded on second base. Story of the game so far—hits, but nothing to show for them.
Schlatt was locked in on the mound, mowing through your lineup like he had something to prove. Fastballs painted the corners. Curveballs that buckled knees. The occasional changeup that made even your best hitters look foolish.
By the fourth inning, the score was still 0-0.
Your team's pitcher—a senior named Rodriguez—was dealing too, matching Schlatt pitch for pitch. It was the kind of game scouts loved. Low-scoring. High-tension. Every pitch mattered.
In the top of the fifth, Riverside finally broke through.
Their cleanup hitter—a massive dude who looked like he benched trucks for fun—crushed a hanging curveball from Rodriguez deep to left field. It cleared the fence by twenty feet.
1-0, Riverside.
Schlatt's mom screamed, the cowbell ringing so loud you heard it in center field. His dad nodded once, arms still crossed, but you swear you could see the satisfaction on his face.
ESU answered in the bottom half of the inning when Marcus doubled down the line and scored on a sharp single up the middle.
1-1.
The game stayed tied through the sixth.
And then, in the top of the seventh, it happened.
Schlatt stepped up to bat.
Pitchers hitting was always a little awkward in college ball—most of them didn't spend much time in the cage—but Schlatt wasn't most pitchers. You'd seen him hit before. He was scrappy. Competitive.
Annoying.
Rodriguez threw a fastball middle-in, and Schlatt turned on it.
The ball shot off his bat toward the gap in left-center.
Toward you.
Instinct took over.
You turned and sprinted, legs burning as you tracked the ball over your shoulder. It was slicing away from you, curving toward the wall. If it got past you, Schlatt would have a triple easy. Maybe an inside-the-park homer if he ran hard enough.
You stretched your legs longer, arms pumping.
The ball was descending.
You dove.
Time seemed to slow as you left your feet, glove extended, eyes locked on the ball. The leather of your mitt met the ball mid-flight with a smack, and you hit the ground hard, rolling through the impact.
For a second, you weren't sure if you'd held on.
You opened your glove.
The ball sat there, clean and white against the brown leather.
The umpire's arms shot out. "Out!"
The ESU crowd erupted.
You pushed yourself to your feet, grass stains on your uniform, dirt on your face, and fired the ball back toward the infield.
And then you made the mistake of looking toward third base.
Schlatt was standing there.
He'd been running hard—would've made it to third easily if you hadn't caught it. Now he was just standing there, hands on his hips, chest heaving with breath, staring at you with those intense brown eyes.
You were maybe thirty feet apart.
Close enough to see the frustration in his eyes. Close enough to see the way his jaw clenched.
"Nice catch," he said.
His voice carried across the field, low and even.
No warmth. No sarcasm.
Just a statement.
Like you said, annoying.
You straightened, pulling your glove tighter onto your hand.
"Nice hit," you replied, matching his tone and inflection.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The umpire called for the next batter, breaking the spell.
Schlatt turned and jogged back toward the dugout. You stayed in center field, watching him go, the 22 on his back fluttering against his back muscles in the wind.
Your heart was pounding, but surprisingly, it wasn't from the diving catch.
✧ ✧ ✧
Bottom of the seventh. Still tied 1-1.
Schlatt was still on the mound—still throwing heat, still refusing to give an inch. Most college pitchers would be gassed by now, but he looked as sharp as he had in the first inning.
You came up to bat with two outs and a runner on first.
The crowd was fully invested now, the energy in the stadium crackling like a thunderstorm about to break. Scouts were scribbling notes. Your mom has been on her feet for fifteen minutes. Sierra was leaning forward in her seat, her ringed hands clasped like she was praying.
You stepped into the box.
Schlatt stepped onto the mound.
The catcher put down a sign. Schlatt shook him off immediately.
Another sign. Another shake.
Finally, Schlatt nodded.
The first pitch was a fastball up and in—not quite at your head, but close enough to send a message. You jerked back, the ball zipping past.
"Ball one!"
You stepped out, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the adrenaline spike.
He's trying to rattle you. Don't let him. Don't fucking let him.
The next pitch was a curveball low and away. You watched it.
"Ball two!"
Two balls, no strikes. Advantage hitter.
But Schlatt didn't look worried. If anything, he looked more focused.
The third pitch was a fastball right down the middle—a challenge pitch. You swung hard and fouled it straight back into the netting.
"Strike one!"
Fourth pitch: another fastball, this one tailing inside. You fouled it off again, the ball spinning foul down the first base line.
Two and one.
Fifth pitch: changeup. You started to swing, recognized it late, and held up just in time.
"Ball three!"
Three balls, one strike. Full count.
The entire stadium was on its feet now, the noise deafening. You could feel the pressure like a physical weight on your shoulders.
Schlatt took his time, working the ball in his glove, staring you down from sixty feet away.
You stared back.
Come on. Give me something.
He wound up.
Fastball. Outside corner.
You watched it all the way into the catcher's glove, not moving.
For a split second, the umpire said nothing.
Then: "Ball four!"
You dropped your bat and jogged to first base, forcing yourself not to react, not to smile, not to look at Schlatt.
But as you rounded the bag and took your lead, you couldn't help it.
You glanced back.
Schlatt was standing on the mound, glove dangling at his side, staring at you.
"Got lucky," he called, just loud enough for you to hear.
You turned fully toward him, jaw tight.
"Luck's got nothing to do with it."
For a moment, the air between you seemed to crackle.
Then the next batter stepped in, and Schlatt turned his attention back to the plate.
But you saw it.
The way his shoulders tensed.
The way his next pitch sailed high and outside.
You'd gotten under his skin.
Good.
The next batter flied out to end the inning, and you jogged back to the dugout, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins.
Marcus grabbed your shoulder as you passed. "Dude, what the hell was that? You two about to fight?"
You shook your head, grabbing your glove. "No, no. Just baseball."
But even as you said it, you knew it wasn't true.
✧ ✧ ✧
The ninth inning arrived with the score still knotted at 1-1.
Rodriguez had been pulled after the eighth—his pitch count too high, his arm too tired. Coach brought in your closer, a junior named Stevens who threw nothing but fastballs and had the kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance.
Riverside's first batter struck out swinging.
The second batter popped out to shallow center. You called off the infielders and made the catch easily, firing the ball back in.
Two outs.
And then Schlatt stepped into the batter's box.
Of course it was Schlatt.
Stevens wound up and threw a fastball right down the middle—a challenge pitch.
Schlatt didn't miss.
The crack of the bat echoed across the stadium, and you knew instantly it was trouble. The ball shot off Schlatt's bat and soared high and deep toward center field.
Toward you.
You turned and ran, legs pumping, eyes tracking the ball against the darkening sky. It was carrying, carrying—farther than you thought possible.
You hit full sprint, arm stretched overhead, watching the ball descend.
Please. Please drop.
But it didn't.
The ball sailed over your outstretched glove by maybe three feet or more and bounced once off the warning track before rolling toward the wall.
Fuck.
You scrambled after it, bare-handing the ball off the ground and spinning to throw. Schlatt was already rounding second base, legs churning, cap flying off as he ran.
Your throw to third was perfect—a laser that hit the cutoff man chest-high.
But Schlatt was fast.
He slid into third base in a cloud of dust just as the tag came down.
"Safe!"
Triple.
The Riverside dugout exploded. Schlatt stood up, brushing dirt off his pants, and you saw him glance toward center field.
Toward you.
You stood there, seventy feet away, glove hanging at your side, chest heaving.
He didn't smile. Didn't celebrate.
Just looked at you.
And you knew exactly what that look meant.
I got you.
Stevens bore down after that, trying to strand Schlatt on third. But the pressure was too much. The next batter—a scrappy contact hitter—blooped a soft single into shallow right field.
Schlatt jogged home easily.
2-1, Riverside.
The stadium deflated like a punctured balloon.
You jogged back to your position, jaw clenched so tight your teeth hurt, and watched as Stevens got the final out.
Bottom of the ninth. Down by one. Last chance.
✧ ✧ ✧
ESU went down quietly.
A strikeout. A pop out to second base. A weak grounder to short.
Three up, three down.
Game over.
The Riverside dugout emptied onto the field, players mobbing each other in celebration. You could hear Schlatt's mom screaming, the cowbell clanging loud enough it sounded more like the bells of Notre Dame instead.
You stood in center field, watching it happen, feeling the weight of the loss settle into your bones.
One game. It was just one game.
But it felt like more than that.
Eventually, you forced yourself to move, jogging in toward the infield. Your teammates were already heading to the dugout, heads down, silent.
As you passed near third base, you saw him.
Schlatt was in the middle of the celebration, teammates slapping his back, shouting his name. But for just a second—just one—he looked over.
Your eyes met.
And something flickered across his face. Not quite guilt. Not quite regret.
You raised an eyebrow at him, and he looked like he was going to yell something.
Then one of his teammates grabbed him in a headlock, and the moment shattered.
You looked away… and kept walking.
✧ ✧ ✧
In the dugout, Coach gave the usual post-loss speech.
"Heads up, boys. That's a good team. We'll see them again. Learn from this. Get better."
The words washed over you like white noise.
You grabbed your gear bag and headed toward the locker room, desperate to get out of your uniform, to wash the dirt and sweat and loss off your skin.
Your parents were waiting outside the locker room when you emerged twenty minutes later, freshly showered and back in street clothes.
Your mom pulled you into a hug immediately. "You played so well, honey. That catch in the seventh—"
"We lost, Mom."
She pulled back, hands on your shoulders, and gave you that look. The mom look that said I know you're hurting but I love you anyway. But also with a hint of You're my son, and I love my son, so don't you dare talk bad about my son.
"One game," she said firmly. "It's one game."
Your dad clapped you on the shoulder. "You battled. It felt like a true war, son. That's what matters. Scouts saw you compete."
You nodded, throat tight, not trusting yourself to speak.
Sierra appeared a moment later, having navigated through the crowd. She was still wearing her ESU shirt, her face soft with sympathy.
"Hey," she said quietly.
"Hey."
Your parents exchanged a look—the kind of silent communication that came from twenty-five years of marriage.
"We're gonna head out," your dad said. "You good?"
You nodded. "Yeah. I'm good."
Your mom kissed your forehead. "Love you, sweetheart. See you this weekend?"
"Yeah. Love you too."
They left, and suddenly it was just you and Sierra standing outside the locker room, the sounds of the stadium slowly dying down around you.
She bumped her shoulder against yours. "Ice cream?"
Despite everything, you felt the corner of your mouth twitch up at her offer. "You're buying?"
"Obviously." She grinned. "Come on. My car's this way."
✧ ✧ ✧
Twenty minutes later, you were sitting outside the Dairy Dream—a local ice cream shop that had been an ESU tradition since before you were born. The evening air was cooling down, the sun setting in streaks of orange, lavender and pink.
Sierra had gotten cookie dough. You'd gotten mint chocolate chip.
For a while, neither of you said anything. Just sat there, eating ice cream, watching cars pass by on the street.
"You played really well," Sierra said eventually, breaking the silence.
You stared at your cone. "We lost."
"Yeah. But you still played well." She took a bite of her ice cream, thoughtful. "That at-bat in the seventh? I thought the whole stadium was going to explode."
"Didn't matter. I got stranded."
"You got on base. You made him work for it. You—" She paused, then said more quietly, "You stood up to him."
You glanced at her. "It's just baseball, Sierra."
"Is it?"
The question hung in the air between you. And it felt strangely sharp to continue thinking about what happened with you and Schlatt on the field today.
You looked away, focusing very hard on your ice cream.
"I should've caught that ball in the ninth," you said finally. "If I'd just been a little faster—"
"You can't catch everything," Sierra interrupted. "You're not superhuman."
"The scouts were watching."
"And they saw you battle one of the best pitchers in the conference." Her voice was firm now, the same tone she used when she was trying to talk you out of spiraling. "That counts for something."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the ways you'd failed today.
But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, you just sat there, ice cream melting slightly in the cone, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on you.
Sierra shifted closer, her knee bumping against yours.
"You're going to be amazing this season," she said softly. "One loss doesn't change that."
You managed a small smile. "Thanks for this. For... everything."
"Always."
She was smiling, but there was something else in her eyes. Something warm and hopeful and just a little bit sad.
You didn't know what to do with that, so you just smiled back and went back to your ice cream.
For a while longer, you sat together in comfortable silence, watching the sun set over campus.
Eventually, Sierra drove you back to your dorm. You hugged her goodnight—she held on just a beat longer than usual, but you were too in your head to notice.
"Text me later?" she said.
"Yeah. I will."
She smiled, climbed back into her car, and drove away.
✧ ✧ ✧
You trudged up to your room, dropped your gear bag by the door, and collapsed onto your bed.
Your phone buzzed almost immediately.
TEAM GROUP CHAT
Marcus
practice tomorrow 6am. coach says we're running
Jake
fuck
Rodriguez
my arm is dead
Marcus
@everyone who's got legs, we're RUNNING
You stared at the messages, then tossed your phone onto your desk.
Your eyes drifted to your glove, sitting on top of your gear bag. The leather was scuffed and worn, broken in perfectly over years of use.
You grabbed it, turned it over in your hands.
One game. It's just one game.
But it didn't feel like just one game.
It felt like the start of something.
You thought about Schlatt standing on third base. About the way he'd looked at you across the field. About that triple he'd hit—the one you couldn't catch.
╭─────────────────────────────────────────╮
the foreman's promise
chapter three — come morning
╰─────────────────────────────────────────╯
wordcount: ~9K
previous chapter? | final part </3 | back to the masterlist?
content warnings:
emotional tension / heavy yearning
jealousy-adjacent conflict
intimacy + explicit sexual content (MDNI !!)
possessive dialogue
restraint / bondage
light dominance / praise + commands
a/n: thank you guys for being patient with me for this last chapter!! i am very proud of it, so i hope that you guys have fun ;)
enjoy! (///￣ ￣///)
✧✧✧
Charleston smells weird. Mm, no, not even just weird — wrong.
You notice it the moment you step off the train - the salt air, yes, but also something else. Perfume and coal smoke and the particular smell of city, all those people pressed together. It's familiar, should be comforting, but instead it makes your throat tight.
Your mother is already chattering about all the places you need to visit, the people you need to call on. Your trunks are loaded into a carriage - a proper carriage with cushioned seats and a driver in livery, so different from the ranch wagon with its hard bench and dust.
The house, when you arrive, looks smaller than you remember. Or maybe you've just gotten used to the endless sky, the way space feels different when there's nothing to contain it. Here everything is pressed close - buildings and people and carefully manicured gardens that look almost artificial after weeks of prairie grass.
"Doesn't it feel wonderful to be home?" your mother asks as you climb the steps to the front door.
You make a noncommittal sound. Home. Is this home? It doesn't feel like it anymore.
Inside, everything is exactly as you left it. The wallpaper you picked out yourself, the piano in the parlor, your bedroom with its canopy bed and vanity and all your beautiful dresses hanging in the wardrobe. Nothing has changed.
Except you have.
You catch sight of yourself in the mirror as you're unpacking. Your face is darker than it was - sun-kissed despite the hat you wear, a dusting of dark freckles across your nose that your mother will undoubtedly have opinions about. And your hands...
You turn them over, studying the palms. The calluses are still there, rough patches that catch on the silk of your dress. There's a healing blister on your thumb, a thin scar across your palm. Working hands. Wrong hands for this place.
That night at dinner, your mother outlines the social calendar. Teas and calls and a ball at the Hawthornes' next week. Your friend Elizabeth has been asking after you constantly. The Morrison boy - James, wasn't it? - has ended his engagement and has been making inquiries about your return.
"Such a good family," your mother says meaningfully. "And he's quite handsome. This could be an excellent match for you, dear."
You push food around your plate and make the appropriate noises. Your father, thank God, is still at the ranch. He'll return in two weeks. Two weeks and then you'll have to go back.
The thought should depress you. Instead, it's the only thing keeping you tethered.
✧✧✧
The first week passes in a blur of social obligations.
You sit in drawing rooms with your legs crossed at the ankle, your back straight, your hands folded in your lap. You wear gloves - soft kid leather that hides your calluses. You sip tea from delicate china cups and make polite conversation about the weather, about fashion, about nothing at all.
Elizabeth comes to call on the third day, sweeping in with all her usual energy.
"Oh my darling, I've missed you terribly!" She embraces you, then holds you at arm's length. "But look at you! You've gotten so... tan. And are those freckles?"
"The sun is rather intense in Texas," you say mildly.
"Well, we'll have to do something about that. Mother swears by a lemon and cream mixture." She settles on the sofa, arranging her skirts. "Now, tell me everything. Is it terribly rustic? Do they have actual savages? Are there gunfights in the streets?"
You think about the ranch - the careful work of managing livestock, the skill required to gentle a horse, the intricate knowledge of land and weather and animal behavior. You think about J's hands, competent and sure, never wasting a movement.
"It's different," you say finally. "But not savage."
Elizabeth looks disappointed. "Well, never mind that. You're back now! And just in time - James Morrison has been asking after you constantly. I think he's quite taken. He'll be at the Hawthornes' ball, of course."
"Of course."
"You'll let him court you properly, won't you? He's such a good match. Father says the Morrison family is one of the best in the city."
One of the best. Meaning wealthy, meaning good connections, meaning all the things that are supposed to matter.
"We'll see," you say noncommittally.
That night, alone in your room, you take off your gloves and stare at your hands again. You can still feel phantom memories - the rough hemp of a rope, the smooth leather of a bridle, the coarse hair of a horse's mane. And underneath it all, sharper and more persistent, the memory of standing in your chemise while J's voice washed over you, telling you exactly what he wanted to do.
You press your thighs together and try not to think about it.
✧✧✧
A letter arrives from your father at the end of the first week.
You tear it open with unladylike eagerness, scanning the contents. Updates about the ranch - fence repairs completed, several successful sales to local buyers, plans to purchase additional breeding stock. All business, all practical.
J's name appears once, in passing: The foreman continues to manage operations efficiently.
That's it? Yes, that's all.
You read the letter three more times, looking for something more. Some hint, some mention. But there's nothing.
Of course there's nothing. What did you expect? J asks after you? J seems melancholy since your departure? Your father barely knows there was anything between you at all. To him, J is just the foreman. Competent, reliable, unremarkable.
You fold the letter carefully and tuck it in your desk drawer.
That night, you dream about storms.
✧✧✧
The Hawthornes' ball is exactly the kind of event you used to love.
The ballroom is magnificent - crystal chandeliers, polished floors, hothouse flowers in elaborate arrangements. The women are dressed in silks and satins, jewels glinting at their throats. The men are in their finest evening wear. There's champagne and a full orchestra and everything is beautiful and elegant and utterly suffocating.
Your mother had your lady's maid lace your corset tight enough that you can barely breathe. Your dress is rose silk with layers of tulle and lace, the bodice fitted perfectly, the skirt full and rustling with every step. Your hair is arranged in an elaborate updo, pinned and curled and decorated with small white flowers. Your gloves go all the way to your elbows.
You look like a porcelain doll. Perfect and pretty and breakable.
James Morrison finds you within twenty minutes.
He's handsome, you suppose - tall and fair with blue eyes and features that are generally considered pleasing. He's well-educated, well-spoken, from an excellent family. Everything a sensible woman should want.
"Miss—" he starts, then catches himself. "May I have this dance?"
You let him lead you onto the floor. He's a good dancer, you'll give him that. Smooth and confident, guiding you through the waltz with practiced ease.
"I'm so glad you've returned," he says as you move together. "The season felt incomplete without you."
"You're too kind."
"Not at all. I've been hoping for an opportunity to call on you properly. With your permission, of course."
He's asking to court you. You should be flattered. Should feel something.
Instead you feel numb.
"That would be... lovely," you hear yourself say.
He smiles, clearly pleased. He's still talking - about his family's business interests, about his travels, about his plans for the future. You make the appropriate responses, but you're not really listening.
You're thinking about rougher hands and dark eyes and a stray raindrop slipping past mutton chops, down a thick neck, past a damp collar—
"Are you quite alright?" James asks, and you realize you've missed something he said.
"Yes, sorry. Just a bit warm."
"Shall we step out for some air?"
You nod, and he guides you toward the terrace. Other couples are out here too, taking advantage of the cool evening. Everything is proper, chaperoned, appropriate.
All you can think is that this man has never worked a day in his life. Has never felt the satisfaction of completing a hard task, never earned the bone-deep tiredness that comes from real labor. His hands are soft. Clean. They've never mended a fence or gentled a horse or—
"I hope I'm not being too forward," James is saying, "but I find myself quite taken with you. I know we've only known each other socially, but I would very much like the opportunity to court you properly. With your father's permission, of course, but I wanted to ask you first. Would you be amenable to such an arrangement?"
He's asking you to let him court you. To begin the formal process that would lead to engagement, to marriage, to the rest of your life.
With him. In Charleston. At parties and balls and social obligations. Living in a beautiful house with servants and fine things and absolutely nothing that matters.
"I—" you start, but you don't know how to finish.
Because the truth is sitting there, clear and unavoidable: you don't want this. Any of this. Not James with his soft hands and easy life. Not Charleston with its careful manners and suffocating propriety. Not this future that everyone expects for you.
You want dust and sweat and early mornings. You want aching muscles and rough hands and work that means something. You want sky so big it makes you dizzy and land that stretches on forever.
You want J.
The realization hits you with the force of a physical blow. Not just want in the abstract, not just attraction or desire or whatever you'd been telling yourself it was. You want him specifically - his dry humor and rare smiles and the way he looks at you like you're capable of more than you think.
You want the life you've been building there, piece by piece, early morning by early morning.
And you're standing here in a silk dress letting a man you barely know ask to court you.
"I'm sorry," you say abruptly. "I can't—I need to—excuse me."
You pull away from James and hurry back inside, ignoring his confused protests. You push through the crowd, not caring who you bump into, making a beeline for the entrance.
"Darling?" Your mother intercepts you in the hallway. "Where are you going? The evening has barely begun!"
"I need to go home."
"Don't be ridiculous. James Morrison brought you to the terrace! This is exactly what we—"
"I don't want to be with James Morrison." The words come out sharper than you intend. "I don't want to be courted by him or anyone else here. I don't want any of this."
Your mother's eyes widen. "What are you talking about? You're just overwhelmed, that's all. Come, sit down for a moment—"
"I'm not overwhelmed. I'm clear-headed for the first time in weeks." You can feel people staring, but you don't care. "I'm going back to Texas. Not in a month. Now."
"That's absurd! Your father isn't even back yet!"
"Then I'll go without him." You're already moving toward the door. "I'll hire someone to take me to the station. I'll go tomorrow if I can get a ticket."
"This is about that ranch, isn't it? That awful, dusty place—"
"That awful, dusty place is where I want to be, mother!" You stop and turn to face her. "I know you don't understand. I know you think I've lost my mind. But I can't stay here pretending to be someone I'm not anymore. I can't marry some man I don't love and live in a house that feels like a cage just because it's what's expected."
Your mother's face has gone pale. "If this is about some... some ranch hand—"
The word stings, even though she doesn't know how accurate she is. "This is about me," you say firmly. "About what I want. For once in my life, I'm going to choose what I want."
You don't wait for her response. You gather your skirts and walk out into the night, leaving behind the ballroom and the champagne and James Morrison and the entire life you're supposed to want.
✧✧✧
It takes three days to arrange everything.
Three days of your mother's tight-lipped disapproval, of hasty packing, of booking train tickets and hiring a companion for propriety's sake since your father isn't back yet to travel with you. Three days of Elizabeth coming to call and trying to talk sense into you, of well-meaning friends suggesting you're having some kind of nervous episode.
You let them talk. You don't try to explain. How could you make them understand?
The night before you leave, you sit at your desk and try to write a letter to J. You start a dozen times, crumpling each attempt.
Dear J, I'm coming back—
Too formal.
J, I couldn't stay away—
Too desperate.
I need to tell you—
Tell him what? That you can't stop thinking about him? That you choose him over everything else? That you're terrified he won't feel the same way?
In the end, you don't write anything. You'll tell him in person. Or you'll lose your nerve and not tell him at all, and you'll just... be there. Working beside him. Hoping that it'll be enough.
The train ride back feels twice as long as the trip to Charleston. You're accompanied by Mrs. Henderson, a widow your mother hired as a chaperone - a thin, severe woman.
You barely speak to her. You spend most of the journey staring out the window, watching the landscape change. As you move west, things open up. The buildings get smaller, farther apart. The sky gets bigger.
You feel like it's getting easier to breathe again.
✧✧✧
You arrive at the ranch in the late afternoon, dusty and exhausted from travel.
Mrs. Henderson takes one look at the place and makes a disapproving noise. "I'll be staying at the hotel in town," she announces. "This is hardly suitable accommodation for a lady of quality."
"That's fine," you say, too tired to argue. You pay her for her services and arrange for someone to take her into town, then turn to look at the ranch.
It's been less than two weeks since you left. It feels like years.
The house looks the same. The barn looks the same. Everything is exactly as you left it, and yet it all feels different. Or maybe you're different. Maybe you're seeing it with new eyes - not as an obligation or a temporary exile, but as home.
Martha appears on the porch, shading her eyes. "Miss? Is that you?"
"It's me, Martha."
"Lord have mercy! We weren't expecting you for another two weeks at least!" She hurries down the steps. "Does your father know you're back?"
"Not yet." You gesture to your trunk. "Could you have someone bring this inside? I need to..."
You need to find J.
"He's in the south pasture," Martha says, reading your mind in that way that she's apparently always been able to do. "Fixing fence with Tommy and Marcus."
Of course he is. Always working.
"Thank you." You start toward the barn, then stop. "Martha? Did he... did he mention me at all while I was gone?"
Martha's expression softens. "Honey, he hasn't mentioned much of anything. Been quieter than usual, working longer hours. Worried us all a bit, truth be told."
Your heart sinks, the steady rhythm feeling low and slow. You nod and continue toward the barn.
You're still in your traveling dress - entirely impractical for riding, but you don't care. You saddle up Beatrice, the mare you had been working with, and she leans her giant head into your small hand when you pat her hello. You almost sob when she nickers at you with familiarity— she's happy to see you back. Good to see you too, girl.
Then you ride out toward the south pasture.
The sun is starting to sink toward the horizon, painting everything gold. The air smells right - dust and grass and that particular scent of the prairie that you'd been missing without realizing it. Your body settles into the rhythm of the ride, into the movements that have become second nature.
This is what you wanted. Not ballrooms and champagne. This.
You see them in the distance - three figures working on a section of fence. As you get closer, you can make out details. Tommy sees you first, straightening up and shading his eyes. Then Marcus. And finally J.
He goes very still when he sees you. Even from here, even with the distance, you can see the tension that goes through his body.
You dismount while you're still several yards away, your legs shaking slightly. Now that you're here, you don't know what to say. What do you say to someone you left, someone who told you not to give him hope?
Tommy is grinning. "Well, look who's back! Didn't expect to see you for a while yet."
"Change of plans," you manage.
"We'll just... go check that other section," Marcus says, shooting Tommy a meaningful look. "Over on the far side. Take our time with it."
Tommy catches on. "Oh. Yeah. That section. Come on."
They gather their tools and head off, leaving you alone with J.
He hasn't moved. Hasn't said anything. He's just standing there, hat in his hands, watching you with an expression you can't read.
"Hi," you say, because you have to say something.
"You're back." His voice is flat, carefully neutral. "Your mother get tired of you already?"
"I got tired of Charleston."
"It's only been two weeks."
"I know."
"You're supposed to be gone a month. Your father's expecting you back with him."
"I know that too."
He stares at you for another long moment, then turns away, setting his hat back on his head. "You shouldn't have come back."
The words hit harder than they should. "Why not?"
"Because—" He stops, jaw clenching. "This isn't Charleston. This isn't you. You chose to be with your family, your old house. It's the right place to choose because it's where you belong."
"I chose wrong."
"No, you chose right." He bends to pick up his tools. "You belong there. With people like James Morrison and his—"
"How do you know about James Morrison?"
"Your father mentioned it in a letter. Said your mother was hopeful about a potential match." His voice is tight. "Sounds like exactly what you should want."
"Well, I don't want it." You move closer. "I don't want him. I don't want Charleston. I don't want any of it."
"Then what do you want?" He turns to face you fully now, and there's anger in his expression. Real anger. "Because two weeks ago you got on a train and left. You went back to your parties and your suitable suitors and your real life. And I—" He stops himself, breathing hard.
"You what?"
"I made peace with it," he says roughly. "I told myself it was the right thing. That you were where you belonged. And now you're back here saying what, exactly? That you've decided to slum it with the ranch hands for another few weeks before you get bored again?"
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" His voice rises. "You want to talk about fair? You left. You stood in that bedroom and pushed me until I was barely holding on, until I told you things I had no business saying, and then you left. And now you're back like nothing happened, like you didn't—" He breaks off again, turning away.
"Like I didn't what?" You're close enough to touch him now. "Say it."
"Like you didn't make me have hope." The words come out quiet, bitter. "When I specifically asked you not to."
Your throat feels tight. "J, you know that's not what I meant—"
"I spent two weeks telling myself I did the right thing. That I was smart to walk away. That you'd realize what privilege you were throwing away and come to your senses." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "And apparently you did. You went back to Charleston and remembered what your real life looked like and—"
"And I hated it," you interrupt. "Every second of it. I hated the parties and the small talk and the men. I hated the idea of having to dance with them or marry them. I hated wearing gloves to hide my calluses. I hated pretending to be interested in things that don't matter. I hated being someone I'm not."
He's staring at you now, something shifting in his expression.
"James Morrison asked to court me," you continue. "At a ball. And I realized standing there that I'd rather muck out stalls for twelve hours straight than spend another minute pretending I want to live a life with a man like him."
"So what?" J's voice is still hard. "You decided ranching is more interesting than ballrooms? That's not enough. Your life—"
"I decided I'd rather be here with you for the rest of my life than anywhere else without you for even but a second." The words tumble out, raw and honest. "I decided that waking up before dawn to work beside you matters more than all the parties in Charleston. I decided that your rare smiles and your dry humor and the way you look at me like I'm capable of everything I put my mind to…that all of that matters more than propriety or expectations or what my family wants for me."
His expression furrows with disappointment and fear. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that unless you really, truly mean them."
"I'm staying, J. I don't want to lie to you anymore."
"For how long?" He moves closer, and there's something almost desperate in his eyes now. "Until you get homesick again? Until winter comes and you remember that Charleston doesn't have blizzards? Until—"
You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down and kiss him.
For a heartbeat he doesn't respond, frozen in surprise. Then something breaks in him and he's kissing you back, hard and hungry and desperate. His hands come up to cup your face, angling you for better access, and he kisses you like he's starving for it.
When you finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead is pressed against yours.
"I'm staying," you say again, quieter now. "Not for a few weeks. Not temporarily. I'm staying because this is where I want to be. Because you're who I want."
"Your family—"
"Will adjust. Or they won't. But I'm not leaving you again. Not if I can help it."
He pulls back to look at you, searching your face. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"You'd really give up Charleston? Your whole life there?"
"I'm not giving it up. I'm trading it for something better." You touch his chin, feel the rough stubble under your fingertips.
He closes his eyes like the words hurt. "You know what you're signing up for? This life? It's not easy. It's not—"
"I know. I've been doing it for months."
"A few months isn't a good enough trial for a lifetime of living out here."
"Then give me a lifetime to prove it."
The words hang in the air between you, weighted with meaning. You see it settle in him. How it eases his anger and churns it until it turns into a dimly lit hope.
"You're going to drive me crazy," he says quietly.
"Probably."
"You're stubborn and reckless and you push me—"
"I know."
"And I—" He stops, swallows hard. "Christ, I missed you. These two weeks, I couldn't... every morning I'd look up expecting to see you and you weren't there and it felt like—"
You kiss him again, softer this time. "I'm here now."
"Yeah." His arms come around you, pulling you close. "You're here now."
You stand there for a long moment, just holding each other. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear cattle lowing. The wind rustles through the grass.
This is home. Not the house or the land, but this - his arms around you, the solid weight of him, the way he's holding you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"We should get you back," he says eventually, though he doesn't loosen his grip. "It'll be dark soon."
"In a minute."
"In a minute," he agrees.
But when he pulls back to look at you again, there's something different in his expression. Something you've only seen from him once before.
"What?" you ask.
"I spent two weeks trying not to think about you," he says quietly. "About what I said to you before you left. About how you looked in that room, in your wet chemise, looking at me—"
"Looking at you like I wanted to cross the room and take you for myself?"
His jaw clenches. "Yeah. Like that."
"I did want that. I do want that."
"But I know your father—"
"Isn't here. Won't be here for another week or so."
"Martha—"
"Knows how to mind her business. She did tell me where to find you. I think she knew my feelings for you long before even I did." You slide your hands up his chest, feel his heart pounding. "And I'm tired of restraint, J. Tired of all the reasons we shouldn't do what I know I want to do. Aren't you?"
For a moment he just looks at you, and you can see the war in his expression. Then something shifts, resolves.
"Yeah," he says roughly. "I'm fucking tired of it, too..."
Then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, more demanding. His hands slide down to your waist, gripping hard enough that you can feel the pressure even through your dress. You make a sound against his mouth and he responds with a low groan, walking you backward until your back hits the fence post.
"We can't do this here," he mutters against your lips. "Middle of the pasture where anyone might be able to—"
"Then take me somewhere we can."
He pulls back, his eyes dark and intense. That fear is still gripping onto him tightly. "You sure?"
"I don't want to go back. I don't want to pretend." You reach up to cup his face. "I want you. All of you. Everything you've been holding back."
For another heartbeat he just stares at you. Then he steps back and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.
"Come on."
✧✧✧
He leads you to where the horses are grazing, helps you mount Beatrice even though you don't need the help, then swings up onto his own horse. You ride back toward the ranch in the gathering dusk, and every second feels charged with anticipation.
By the time you reach the barn, the sun has set and the sky is deepening to purple. J dismounts and comes to help you down, his hands on your waist, and when your feet touch the ground he doesn't let go.
"Last chance," he says quietly. "We can stop now. Go back to how things were."
"Mm." You lean into him. "Now why would I ever want that when I could have you instead?"
Something in his expression eases. Then, he puts two fingers to his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle - two short bursts, then a long one.
In the distance, you see Marcus and Tommy look up. Tommy grins and waves. Marcus just shakes his head, but even from here you can see he's smiling. They gather their tools and head off in the opposite direction, toward the far fence line.
"What was that?" you ask.
"Signal," J whispers concisely. He walks over to his horse - the big black gelding, Dante - and swings up into the saddle in one smooth motion. Then he reaches down for you. "Come on."
"I can ride Beatrice—"
"Not putting you on a different horse. I know how much you like coddling her, but she's a good girl. She brought you to me, didn't she?" His eyes are dark, intense. "You're riding back with me."
The possessiveness in his voice makes heat pool low in your belly. You take his hand and he pulls you up like you weigh nothing, settling you in front of him in the saddle. Your legs dangle on one side, and you have to twist slightly to keep your balance, but his arm comes around your waist, holding you firmly against his chest.
"Got you," he murmurs against your ear. "Not letting go."
The ride back feels twice as long as it should. You're hyperaware of every point of contact - his chest against your back, his arm around your waist, his thighs bracketing yours. You can feel the heat of him even through your clothes, feel the steady rhythm of his breathing.
When Dante shifts beneath you, adjusting his gait, you're pressed even closer. You can feel the hard length of J against your hip, evidence of exactly what he's been thinking about.
"Stop squirming," he says, his voice strained.
"I'm not squirming."
"You are." His arm tightens around you. "And if you keep doing it, I'm not gonna make it back to the barn."
"Maybe I don't want you to."
He makes a low sound in his throat - half groan, half growl. "Don't tempt me. I've got just enough control left to do this proper, in private. Semi-private, at that."
The threat (or promise?) makes you shiver. "Would you take me now if I begged, J?"
"Right now? Yeah. I would." His hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard. "Been waiting too long. Want you too much."
You turn your head to look at him and find his face inches from yours, his jaw tight with restraint, his eyes burning.
"Then hurry," you whisper. "Before I get impatient."
He makes that sound again and makes a clicking sound that urges Dante faster. The handsome black beauty responds immediately, moving from a walk to a trot, and the motion bounces you against J's chest. His arm tightens, holding you secure, and you can feel his heart pounding as fast as yours.
✧✧✧
By the time you reach the barn, the sun has set completely and the sky is deep purple edging to black. J dismounts and reaches up for you, his hands spanning your waist, and when your feet touch the ground he doesn't let go immediately.
"Last chance," he says quietly. "We can stop now. Go back to how things were."
"I don't want how things were." You lean into him, feeling the solid strength of him, the heat. "I want how things could be."
Something in his expression breaks open - raw want mixed with something that looks almost like relief. Like he'd been afraid you'd change your mind.
"Alright then." His voice has gone rough, gravelly. "Get inside. I'll put Dante away."
"I can help—"
"No." His hand slides to your lower back, half-smacking your butt through your skirts, urging you toward the barn. "You go in. I'll be right behind you."
You slip inside while he leads Dante to his stall. The barn is dim and quiet, just the soft sounds of horses settling for the night. You hear J murmuring to the gelding - low, soothing words you can't quite make out (maybe a 'thanks buddy, you're the best wing-horse ever') - then the sound of tack being removed, hooves shifting in straw.
When he appears a moment later, his eyes find you immediately in the dimness. He doesn't say anything, just takes your hand and leads you toward the tack room in the back.
It's small and private, smelling of leather and saddle soap and oil - smelling like him. He lights a lantern with hands that aren't quite steady, and in the golden glow you can see exactly how affected he is. The tension in his shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his jaw is clenched tight.
"Come here," he says, and it's not a request.
You cross the small space and then his mouth is on yours, needy and demanding. His hands are in your hair immediately, scattering pins across the floor, destroying the careful style until your hair falls loose around your shoulders.
"Been wanting to do that," he mutters against your lips. "See it down. See it...messy."
You pull at his shirt, trying to get it untucked, needing to feel his skin. He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head, buttons popping as it goes up and over, and then you're finally, finally touching him.
He's all hard muscle and warm skin, still damp with the day's sweat. There's dark hair across his chest, scars marking his ribs and shoulder. He smells like work and leather and salt, and instead of being off-putting it makes something in you clench with want.
"Your turn," he says roughly, his hands already reaching for the buttons down the back of your dress.
He works them open with surprising dexterity - you'd think hands that big, that work-roughened, would fumble. But he's methodical, focused, each button sliding free easily. When he gets to the last one, he peels the bodice forward and down your arms.
The sleeves catch at your wrists and he works the cuff buttons free too, patient despite the hunger in his eyes. The dress falls in a puddle around your feet and you step out of it.
"Keep going," you say, and your voice comes out breathier than intended. "But I want you to hear something while you work."
His eyes flick to yours, dark and questioning, but his hands move to the tapes of your petticoats. "Yeah?"
"I've been thinking," you continue as the petticoats fall away, pooling at your feet. "About what everyone in Charleston would say if they could see me right now."
His hands pause on the laces of your corset. "And what would they say?"
"They'd be horrified." You can feel your cheeks heating but you push on. "Their perfectly bred lady, alone in a barn with a ranch hand. Letting him undress her. Wanting him to."
He makes a low sound and his fingers resume working the laces, faster now.
"Elizabeth would faint if she knew I was thinking about you during all those parties. That while James Morrison was asking to court me, I was imagining your hands on me instead of his."
"Christ," he mutters.
"My mother would die if she knew what I let you say to me that night. What I said back." The corset loosens and you take a full breath. "What I did to myself after you left, thinking about your voice telling me all those filthy things."
His breathing has gone harsh, his jaw tight.
"And if they knew what I was about to let you do to me..." You meet his eyes. "What I'm going to beg you to do to me. They'd call me ruined. Scandalous. Unfit for polite society."
He grabs the neckline of your chemise with both hands and rips.
The fabric tears with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. You gasp - from shock more than anything - as the ruined garment falls away, leaving you bare from the waist up.
"Good," he says roughly, his eyes traveling over your exposed skin like he wants to devour you. "Let them call you whatever they want. You're mine now. Don't give a damn what Charleston thinks about it." He reaches for your drawers, fingers finding the drawstring. "And I'm about to ruin you for any of those soft-handed gentlemen anyway."
He doesn't untie the drawstring so much as yank it, breaking the ribbon. The drawers slide down your hips and you step out of them, and then you're completely bare.
For a moment he just looks at you, and the intensity of his gaze makes you feel like a lone lamb near the edge of the woods, where the hungry wolf waits impatiently to feed. You feel your stomach drop—fear and lust swirling into a devious concoction that only made the space between your legs more slick.
"You were saying something," he says, his voice gone gravelly. "About being ruined. About what you're gonna beg me to do."
"I—" Your mind has gone blank, all your provocative words scattered by the reality of him looking at you like that. "I want—"
"Want me to ruin you?" His hand slides up your side, rough calluses catching on your smooth skin. "Make it so you can't ever go back to those proper Charleston boys?"
"Yes."
"Want me to touch you places a lady's not supposed to be touched?" He bends his head and drags his lips across your collarbone, down to your breast. "Do things to you that'd make your mother clutch her pearls?"
"Yes—!"
He takes your nipple in his mouth and your words dissolve into a gasp. His hand is on your other breast, thumb circling, and the dual sensation makes your knees weak.
"What else?" he asks against your skin. "What else you want me to do that'd scandalize all of Charleston?"
"Everything," you manage. "Every improper, indecent thing you can think of. I want you to—" You gasp as his teeth scrape against sensitive skin. "I want you to make me forget I was ever a proper lady."
"You are mine," he says roughly, straightening up. "And I'm gonna make sure you remember that. Make sure when you're walking around this ranch tomorrow, you know exactly who you belong to." His hands go to his belt, working it free. "Now stop talking about Charleston and let me show you what it means to be a ranch hand's woman. Well, we'll see if you can handle it, first."
There's something in his tone - careful, measured - that makes you remember this is your first time. That he knows that and is being thoughtful about it even though you can see the effort it's taking him to go slow.
"I can handle it," you say.
"Maybe." He works his belt free, then the buttons of his trousers. "But we're gonna make sure."
He pushes his trousers and drawers down in one motion and then he's as naked as you are, and—
Oh.
He's big everywhere, just like you'd suspected. Thick and hard and flushed dark with want. The sight of him makes something flutter in your belly - nervousness mixed with anticipation.
He sees your expression and something softens in his face. "Hey." He cups your jaw, tilting your face up to his. "We'll go slow. I'll make it good for you."
"...I know."
"And if it's too much, if you need me to stop—"
"I'll tell you." You press closer, feeling the hard length of him against your belly. "...I trust you."
His eyes close briefly, let the words warm him up. Then he's pulling you down to the pile of saddle blankets in the corner, making a nest of them before settling with his back against the wall.
"Come here," he says, patting his thigh.
You move to straddle his lap but he catches your hips, redirecting you. "Not yet. Here first." He guides you to sit between his spread thighs, your back to his chest. "Need to get you ready."
You can feel him hard and hot against your lower back. His arms come around you, one hand splaying across your stomach, holding you against him, while the other slides down between your thighs.
"Spread your legs," he murmurs against your ear. "Let me touch you."
You do, and his hand slides lower. One thick finger slides through your folds, testing, and you both make a sound when he finds how wet you already are.
"Good girl," he says roughly. "Already so wet for me."
He circles that sensitive bundle of nerves and you gasp, your hips jerking. His other arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Easy now. Just gonna touch you a bit. Get you nice and ready."
His finger slides lower, circling your entrance, and then he's pushing in slowly. The intrusion feels strange at first, foreign, but not bad. He works it in and out a few times, patient and methodical.
"That's it," he says. "Nice and easy. You're doing real good."
There's something about his tone - low and soothing, almost like he's gentling a skittish horse - that should probably be insulting but instead just makes you hotter. Like he's coaxing you, working you up to something bigger.
He adds a second finger and the stretch is more pronounced now. You make a small sound and his arm tightens around you.
"Shh, I got you. Just breathe through it." He works his fingers deeper, spreading them slightly. "Gotta stretch you out or I'll hurt you when I get inside."
The words make you clench around his fingers and he makes an approving sound. "You like that? Like thinking about me inside you?"
"Yes," you gasp.
"Gonna feel so good," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "So tight around me. Been thinking about it for months. How you'd feel. How you'd sound."
His fingers curl inside you, finding a spot that makes you cry out. He makes that clicking sound with his tongue - the same sound he uses with the horses when they do something right - and does it again.
"There it is," he says with satisfaction. "That's the spot."
He works you methodically, his fingers inside you while his thumb circles that sensitive spot, and you can feel pleasure building fast and sharp. Your hips are moving now, riding his hand, and he makes encouraging sounds.
"That's it. Take what you need. Feels so good, right darlin'? Gettin' yourself ready for me?"
"Y-yes! J, I'm—I'm going to—"
"Go ahead," he says. "Want to feel you come on my fingers first. Get you nice and relaxed."
The orgasm hits hard, clenching around his fingers, and he works you through it with steady pressure until you're gasping and trembling.
"Good," he says roughly. "So good for me. Think you can take more?"
"Yes. Please."
He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss. But then he's shifting you, turning you to face him, and lifting you easily into his lap.
From this position you can feel him right there, thick and hard and pressing against you. The height difference is even more pronounced like this - he's so much bigger than you, broad and solid, and you feel almost delicate in comparison.
"You sure about this?" he asks, his hands on your hips. "Once we do this, that's it. You're mine. No returns."
"I'm already yours," you tell him. "Have been since that night in the rain."
Something in his expression cracks open. Then he's lifting you slightly, positioning you over him. You can feel the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and your breath catches.
"Easy now," he murmurs. "Nice and slow. You're in control here. Take as much or as little as you can handle."
You lower yourself slowly and the stretch is immediate and intense. He's so much bigger than his fingers, and for a moment you're not sure you can do this.
"Breathe," he says, his hands steadying you. "Just breathe through it. You can take it."
You sink down another inch and have to stop, panting. It burns, the stretch almost too much, but underneath it is something else. Something that makes you want more even as you're overwhelmed.
"That's it," he's saying, his voice strained. "Doing so good. Taking me so well."
His hands are on your hips, helping support your weight but letting you set the pace. You can see the effort it's taking him to stay still, to let you adjust - the tension in his jaw, the way his muscles are rigid with restraint, the way his breathing has gone harsh and ragged.
"Can't believe how tight you are," he grits out. "How good you feel."
You sink down further, then a bit more, until finally - finally - you're fully seated. You feel impossibly full, stretched around him, split open on him. For a moment you can't breathe, can't think, can only feel.
"Alright?" he manages, and his voice is wrecked.
"Yeah. Just—give me a second."
He holds perfectly still, and you can feel him trembling with the effort. His hands are tight on your hips, his eyes locked on where you're joined, and there's something almost reverent in his expression. Like he can't quite believe this is happening.
Slowly, the burn fades. You shift experimentally and the movement sends sparks through you - good sparks, pleasure sparks.
"Oh," you breathe.
"Yeah?" His hands flex on your hips. "Feel good?"
"Yeah. Really good."
"Think you can move? Or you need more time?"
"I can move." You rise up slightly, feeling the drag of him against your walls, then sink back down. "Oh, God."
"That's it," he says roughly. "Ride me. Set the pace. Take what you need."
You start to move, finding a rhythm. It's awkward at first - you're not sure what to do, how to angle yourself - but he guides you with his hands, helping you find what feels good.
His eyes are locked on you - on your face, your chest, but especially where your bodies are joined. Then he reaches over and grabs his hat from where it fell, settling it on your head.
"There," he says, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Now you look like you belong to a cowboy."
The hat's too big, slipping down slightly, and you have to tilt your head back to see him properly. Something about it - wearing his hat while you ride him, while he watches you with those dark, hungry eyes - makes you feel bold. Claimed.
"Save a horse," you manage breathlessly, and he groans out a weak laugh.
"There you go," he murmurs when you find an angle that makes you both gasp. "Right there. Just like that."
You move faster, more confidently, and his hands tighten on your hips. You can see him starting to lose that iron control - his jaw clenched, his breathing harsh, his eyes going dark and unfocused.
"Christ," he grits out. "Not gonna last. Feel too good."
"I don't want you to last." You clench around him deliberately and he groans. "I want you to lose control. Want you to stop being so darn careful and just—"
His control snaps. His hands tighten on your hips and he takes over, driving up into you hard and fast. The change in intensity makes you cry out, your hands clutching at his shoulders for balance.
"Like this?" he growls. "This what you want? Want me to fuck you hard?"
"Yes—God, yes—"
He shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you with every single thrust. The pleasure builds sharp and fast, winding you tighter and higher with each movement. One of his hands slides between your bodies, his thumb finding that sensitive spot, and the dual sensation makes you see stars.
"Come for me," he demands. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
The combination of his thumb circling, his cock driving deep, the raw possession in his voice - it's too much. You come hard, clenching around him, and the sensation must push him over too because he's following with a hoarse shout, burying himself deep and holding there.
You feel him pulse inside you, feel the heat of him filling you, marking you from the inside. The intimacy of it is overwhelming.
For a long moment neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, sweating, trembling. His arms come around you, pulling you against his chest, and you can hear his heart thundering.
"Jesus Christ," he finally manages, his voice wrecked. "That was—"
"Yeah."
He pulls back to look at you, and there's wonder in his expression mixed with satisfaction and something that might be possessiveness. His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with surprising gentleness.
"You alright? Wasn't too rough?"
"It was perfect." You touch his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble. "Exactly what I needed."
"Good." His arms tighten around you briefly, then he's shifting, easing you off his lap. You whimper at the loss, feeling empty, but he just gives you that dark look. "Because I'm not done with you yet. That was just to take the edge off."
"There's more?"
"Darlin'," he says with a rough laugh, standing and pulling you up with him, "we're just getting started. I got two weeks of wanting to make up for."
He's still half-hard already, you notice, and the sight makes something clench low in your belly.
"Turn around," he says, his voice dropping back to that commanding tone.
"What—"
"Turn around. Face the wall. Hands on it."
You do as he says, your heart starting to pound again. He takes the hat off your head carefully, almost reverently, and hangs it on a hook beside you - a reminder of what you just did, of how you looked wearing it while riding him.
You hear him moving behind you, the sound of rope being pulled from where it hangs on the wall. Then his hands are on your wrists, and you feel the rough hemp wrapping around them.
"This alright?" he asks, pausing. "Can stop if you want."
"Don't stop…it's okay. Not as rough as I thought it was going to be." you breathe.
He ties your wrists together with practiced efficiency - not tight enough to hurt, but secure enough that you couldn't free yourself easily. Then he's guiding your bound hands up over your head, looping the rope through a hook on the wall that normally holds bridles. Your arms are stretched above you, and you're on your toes slightly to stay comfortable.
"Christ," he mutters behind you. "Look at you like this."
His hands slide down your sides, over your hips, squeezing. You're completely exposed like this, unable to cover yourself, unable to do anything but take whatever he wants to give.
"You remember what I said that night?" His voice is rough, close to your ear. "About taking you until you felt it with every step?"
"Yes," you manage.
"Good." His hand slides between your thighs from behind, finding you still wet and sensitive. "Because that's exactly what I'm about to do."
He works two fingers into you and you gasp, still tender from before but your body responding immediately. He's relentless, working you with the same methodical focus he brings to everything, and within minutes you're panting, pressing back against his hand, whimpering for more like an animal in heat.
"That's it," he says. "Get yourself ready for me again."
When he withdraws his fingers, you hear him spit - and then feel the wetness as he spreads it over himself. The crude intimacy of it makes you shudder.
"Spread your legs wider," he commands. "Arch your back."
You do, and then he's right there, the blunt head of him pressing against you from behind. This angle feels different, more intense somehow. He pushes in slowly and you feel every inch, the stretch even more pronounced in this position.
"Fuck," he groans as he sinks in deep. "Feel even tighter like this."
He doesn't give you as much time to adjust this time - just starts moving with those long, deep strokes that make you gasp. His hands are on your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks, using the leverage to pull you back onto him with each thrust.
"Been wanting to do this," he's saying roughly. "Bend you over and take you like this. See your hands tied, see you helpless for me."
The rope bites into your wrists with each movement, grounding you, reminding you that you're at his mercy. And God help you, you love it. Love being under his control, love the way he's taking what he wants, love the filthy sounds filling the small room.
One of his hands leaves your hip and you feel it slide around to your front, finding that sensitive spot. The angle combined with his fingers makes the pleasure sharp and immediate.
"Come for me again," he demands. "Want to feel you squeeze my cock."
You're so sensitive from the first time that it doesn't take long. The orgasm builds fast and crashes over you hard, and you bite your lip to keep from screaming.
"That's it," he groans. "Fuck, that's it—"
His rhythm falters and then he's following you over with a deep groan, pressing deep and holding there. You feel him pulse inside you again, marking you again, and something about it - the possessiveness, the claiming - makes you clench around him.
For a long moment he just stays there, pressed against your back, both of you breathing hard. Then his hands are gentle as they reach up to untie the rope, carefully working the knot free and lowering your arms.
You sag back against him, truly feeling like you would not be able to walk properly, and he holds you up easily in response, turning you to face him and lifting you like you weigh nothing. He carries you back to the saddle blankets and settles down with you in his lap, both of you still naked and not caring.
"You're dangerous," he mutters after a moment, his voice rough but fond.
"Me?! You're the one who just tied me up…"
"Yeah, and you loved every second of it." His hand slides up your spine. "Could feel how wet it made you."
You can't deny that, so you just nestle closer. You can feel the evidence of what you've done - the ache between your thighs, the tenderness, the wetness. Tomorrow you really will feel every step.
"Should probably get you back to the house," he says eventually, though his arms tighten around you. "It's full dark now. Martha will worry."
"Let her worry," you murmur against his chest. "I'm not ready to move yet."
"No?"
"No. I just got you back. I want to stay here a little longer. And with my father gone from the house, I am in charge. So…you have to listen to me."
He chuckles, his arms tightening around you. "Can't say no to that."
So, you stay there wrapped up in each other and saddle blankets and the smell of leather and sex, while the night deepens into midnight blues and silver outside.
Eventually you'll have to face reality - Martha's knowing looks, your father's eventual return, trying to explain your love of this cowboy to your mother, building a life together in the open when your parents do end up going back to the city without you.
But that'll all be problems to tackle come morning.
If you're planning to eat good soon please think of your neighbors as well. Please help ease Palestinian hunger by donating to Ele Elna Elak (an organization that's been the most effective in providing clean water n food)
but just because it's my birthday...that doesn't mean that i stop the grind lolol
i'm using your amazing poll responses to help me clean up the nsfw transmasc!reader fic, and the sfw male!reader series is still being drafted, but you can see a sneak peak of it in the masterlist lolol
also maybe a super-indulgent sfw birthday fic i was working on a while ago might be released today,,,, if i finish enough of it,,,,,,
anyway, as always, thank you very much for your support and interaction!! you guys are all sweetie pies and i'm passing you all digital hugs and kisses bc it's my birthday and i want everyone to have an awesome week (￣^￣)ゞ
okay guys i need help with these transmasc!reader nsfw fics !!
i'm trying to do research on what people enjoy reading, but it's a little difficult because there's a lot of different ways to go about it.
so, preferences. how do we like these to be?? he/him reader? he/they? they them??
how to refer to anatomy?? nicknames/pet names?? femboys?? boypussy??? should i just not write about PiV at all??
also, this is just a poll for preference, but i will hopefully be able to write about all different types - but i want to know what most people identify with. and please, please, please leave comments !! i really want to do good research before writing something that might be insensitive.
what is your preference for how your transmasc!reader is written?
previous chapter? | next chapter? | back to the masterlist?
content warnings:
class tension / resentment
emotional conflict + jealousy-adjacent tension
“this is temporary” angst
sexually explicit content (MDNI !!)
a/n:
i literally...am in love with this chapter...supa dupa FREAKED out !!
enjoyyy ⸜( *ˊᵕˋ* )⸝
✧✧✧
You've been at the ranch for six weeks when your mother announces there's to be a social in town.
"A fundraiser for the new church," she says over breakfast, her tone suggesting this is a matter of great importance. "All the prominent families will be attending. We've been invited to sit at the head table, given your father's position."
Your father looks up from his eggs. "Position?"
"As one of the largest landowners in the county, dear." Your mother dabs at her mouth with her napkin, but there's still a bit of grease on the side of her mouth. "We have a certain... obligation to the community."
You catch the look that passes between them - your father uncomfortable with the attention, your mother determined to establish the family's place in local society. It's the same dynamic that played out in Charleston. Which must mean…
"When is it?" you ask, already dreading the answer.
"Saturday evening. We'll need to leave by four to arrive in time." Your mother turns her appraising eye on you. "You'll wear your rose silk dress, I think. Perhaps the cerulean, if it still fits. And we'll need to do something with your hands."
You glance down at your hands, currently wrapped around a coffee cup. They're not the hands you left Charleston with - the nails are short and practical now, the skin slightly rough despite the gloves you wear for ranch work. There's a healing blister on your thumb from learning to rope last week, and a thin scar across your palm from a mishap with a fence post.
"They're fine," you say.
"They're a scandal," your mother corrects. "What will people think?"
"That I actually work," you mutter, but not quite loud enough for her to hear.
After handing your breakfast dishes to Martha, you head out to the barn as usual. The summer heat has settled in for real now, thick and heavy even in the early morning. You've learned to move slower in it, to seek shade under the leafy Sycamore when you get the chance. You've learned a lot of things.
J is already there, of course. He's always there first, no matter how early you arrive. Today he's in the corral with one of the younger horses, a bay mare named Penny who's still getting used to the saddle. He's working her on a lead line, his voice low and steady as he walks her in circles.
You lean against the fence and watch. This is something else you've learned - patience. The way J works with the horses, never rushing, never forcing. His voice is so quiet and he just whispers and tuts at them, and suddenly—apparently—he's speaking horse.
He glances over and nods in acknowledgment, but doesn't stop what he's doing. You've learned this too - how to read his moods by the set of his shoulders, the tone of his voice when he greets you.
This morning he seems... tense. More than usual.
When he finally brings Penny back to the fence, he's sweating through his shirt despite the early hour. He pulls off his hat and wipes his forehead with his sleeve, and you try very hard not to notice the way the damp fabric clings to his chest.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning." You gesture to Penny. "She's coming along."
"Yeah. Should be ready to ride in another week or so." He reaches out to stroke the mare's neck, and hilariously bends her neck to lean into it. "You want to work with the yearlings today? Need to get them used to being handled."
It's not really a question, but you nod anyway. This is just how it seems to work now - he tells you what needs doing, you do it. Somewhere along the way, you've stopped resenting the orders and started appreciating the trust implicit in them. He's still a bastard, but…you can see just enough of the true him past that dusty, calloused exterior not to care all the time.
You work through the morning in comfortable near-silence, broken only by instructions and the occasional comment. It's only when you're taking a water break in the shade of the barn that he speaks again.
"Heard your mother talking about some social in town."
You grimace. "Unfortunately."
"You don't want to go?"
"I'd rather muck out stalls for twelve hours straight." You take a long drink of water, then add, "But apparently we have 'obligations to the community' now."
Something flickers across his face - amusement, maybe, or something more complicated. "Must be hard," he says, and there's an edge to his voice. "Having to put on a fancy dress and make small talk for a few hours."
You look at him sharply. "I didn't mean—"
"No, I'm sure you didn't." He stands, brushing dust off his pants. "Some of us don't get to complain about social obligations. We're too busy working."
The words sting, partly because they're unfair and partly because they're not entirely wrong. You have been complaining. And while you work hard here, you also get to go back to a comfortable house, comfortable bed, meals you don't have to cook yourself.
"That's not fair," you say quietly.
He looks at you for a long moment, something warring in his expression. Then he sighs. "No. It's not. Sorry." He picks up his hat from where he'd set it down. "It's just... forget it."
"No, what?" You stand too, facing him. "If you have something to say, say it."
For a moment you think he won't. Then: "You talk about this place like it's a prison sentence. Like you're just waiting out your time until you can go back to your real life." His jaw tightens. "And maybe that's true. Maybe you are just biding your time. But some of us... this is our real life. This is all we've got. All we're gonna get."
The words hang in the air between you, heavy with things unsaid.
"I don't think of it as a prison," you say, though even as you say it, you're not sure it's entirely true. "I'm trying. I'm learning."
"I know you are." His voice is quieter now. "You work hard. Harder than I expected. But that doesn't change the fact that you're leaving. Eventually."
"My father hasn't decided—"
"He will. Men like your father always do. Once he figures out how to manage this place from Charleston, or finds someone to buy it, you'll be gone." He looks away, toward the distant horizon. "And that's fine. That's how it should be. I just... I don't want to forget that."
"Forget what?"
"That this is temporary." He meets your eyes again.
There's something in the way he says it that makes your chest tight. Like he's not just talking about your presence at the ranch.
"J—"
"Anyway." He settles his hat back on his head, the brim shadowing his face. "You should hop to it. Those yearlings aren't going to gentle themselves."
And just like that, the moment is over. You drag your shoes through the dirt, pouting a bit as you turn away. This is temporary. This is temporary.
✧✧✧
Saturday arrives too quickly.
You spend the afternoon getting ready, letting your mother fuss over your hair and dress. The rose silk does look beautiful, you have to admit - fitted bodice with delicate lace at the sleeves and neckline, full skirts that rustle slightly when you move. Your mother has somehow managed to do something with your hands too, some miracle cream that's softened the roughness if not entirely erased it.
When you look in the mirror, you barely recognize yourself. This is who you were in Charleston - polished, proper, decorative. It feels like an costume now, after weeks in split skirts and simple blouses.
Your mother smiles approvingly. "There. Now you look like yourself again."
The words sit uncomfortably. You're not sure this is yourself anymore. You're not sure who yourself is these days.
The ride into town takes nearly an hour. The town itself is small but growing - a main street with shops and businesses, a handful of churches, a town hall that serves double duty for social functions when you pull all the chairs away. Tonight it's decorated with bunting and lanterns, and there are already several carriages pulled up outside.
Your father helps you and your mother down, and you can immediately feel eyes turning your way. The new family, the big landowners from back East. You know how to handle this attention - have been trained for it your whole life. You smile graciously, accept introductions, make appropriate small talk.
But it feels hollow in a way it never did before.
You're speaking with the mayor's wife - a pleasant woman who wants to know all about Charleston - when you see him.
J is standing near the entrance, looking profoundly uncomfortable in what must be his Sunday best - clean trousers, a pressed shirt, a vest that looks slightly too small across his shoulders. His hair has been combed back, and he's shaved, and without his usual work clothes and hat, he looks... different. Younger, maybe. It's a little funny how weird it is to look at him without dirt on his face.
Your mother follows your gaze and makes a small sound of disapproval. "I suppose they had to invite the help," she murmurs. "Though I don't see why—"
"He's the foreman," you interrupt, more sharply than you intend. "He runs the entire ranch."
"Yes, dear, but—" Your mother stops as a distinguished-looking couple approaches, and her professional smile slides back into place. "Mr. and Mrs. Patterson! How lovely to see you."
You make your excuses and drift toward the refreshment table, very deliberately not looking at J even though you're acutely aware of exactly where he is in the room.
You're pouring yourself punch when a voice beside you says, "Didn't expect to see you here."
You turn to find Tommy, the young ranch hand, grinning at you. He's cleaned up too, though he looks considerably more comfortable about it than J does.
"Obligations to the community," you say wryly. "You?"
"Same, I guess. Plus the food's better than bunkhouse fare." He glances across the room. "Boss looks like he'd rather be anywhere else."
You follow his gaze despite yourself. J is being cornered by an older gentleman — one of the cattle buyers, you think — and his expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the tension in his shoulders. He's riding the line between running away and sinking into the floor.
"He doesn't like these things?" you ask, trying to sound casual.
"Hates them. But your father asked him to come, something about meeting potential buyers." Tommy takes a drink of his own punch, then adds, "He's good at ranch work. Not so good at the fancy talking that goes with it. That's what your grandpa was for."
You watch J for another moment. The older gentleman is talking expansively, gesturing with his hands, and J is nodding politely but you can see he's lost the thread of the conversation. When the man mentions something about "prime stock" and "market advantages," J's eyes glaze over slightly.
Without really thinking about it, you start walking over.
"Mr. Mobley," you say warmly, inserting yourself into the conversation with practiced ease. "I was just telling your wife how much we're hoping to learn about the local markets. Father and I are still quite new to all this."
Mobley's eyes light up. "Miss—!"
"Please, call me by my first name." You interrupt, smiling graciously. "I understand you're one of the largest buyers in the county?"
And just like that, you've shifted the conversation. You ask intelligent questions - things you've picked up from listening to your father and J talk over the past weeks - and Mobley responds enthusiastically. You compliment his business acumen. You mention having heard good things about his operation. All the small social graces that were drilled into you from childhood, deployed in service of... what, exactly?
J is staring at you with an expression you can't quite read.
After several minutes, Mobley excuses himself to get another drink, and you're left standing there with J in the awkward silence.
"You didn't have to do that," he says finally.
"Do what?"
"Rescue me. I was handling it."
"You looked like you wanted to jump out the window."
His mouth twitches slightly. "Yeah, well. These things aren't really my..." He gestures vaguely at the room, the well-dressed people, the social niceties happening all around you.
"I know," you say quietly. And you do know. Just like he knows that ranch work isn't really your natural habitat, you know that this world - your world - isn't his.
He's looking at you with that intense focus that makes your skin feel too tight. "You look different," he says.
"Different bad or different good?"
"Just... different." His eyes travel over your dress, your carefully arranged hair, and something in his expression shutters. "Like the first day you came to the ranch. You look like you belong here."
It doesn't sound like a compliment.
"J—"
But your father is approaching, a broad smile on his face. "There you both are! Mr. Patterson was just telling me he'd love to see our operation. J, perhaps we could arrange a tour next week?"
"Of course, sir," J says, his tone professionally neutral. "Just let me know when."
"Excellent, excellent." Your father claps him on the shoulder with a familiarity that makes J tense slightly. "You're doing wonderful work out there. Simply wonderful. And I hear you've been teaching my daughter as well?"
"She's been helping out best she can, yes sir."
"Well, it's good for her to understand the business." Your father beams at you. "Though I don't expect she'll need to know too much of the practical side. Once we get proper management in place—"
"Proper management?" The word escapes before you can stop it.
"Well yes, dear. We can't manage a ranch from Charleston, obviously. But we can hire people to run it for us." He says this like it's the most reasonable thing in the world. "We'll keep it in the family, of course, but there's no need for us to stay out here indefinitely."
The words hit you harder than they should. You've known this was temporary. Known you'd be going back eventually. But hearing it stated so plainly, in front of J...
You glance at him and find his expression carefully blank. But you can see the tightness around his eyes, the set of his jaw.
"If you'll excuse me," he says. "I should speak with the other buyers. Make sure they know we're open for business."
He walks away before either of you can respond, disappearing into the crowd.
"Good man," your father says approvingly. "Bit rough around the edges, but he knows his business."
You don't trust yourself to respond.
✧✧✧
The evening drags on. You smile and chat and dance when asked. You let the mayor's son - a bland young man named Brady - lead you through a waltz. You accept compliments on your dress, your manners, your charm.
And through it all, you're aware of J across the room. He stays mostly on the periphery, speaking when spoken to but not seeking out conversation. Several times you catch him watching you, but he always looks away when your eyes meet.
It's nearly nine when you finally manage to extract yourself from a conversation with a group of local ladies who want to know everything about Charleston fashion. You slip outside onto the town hall steps, grateful for the cool evening air.
You've only been there a minute when the door opens behind you.
"Escaping?" J's voice, low and slightly amused.
You turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, his vest unbuttoned now, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks more like himself this way, less constrained.
"Just needed some air," you say. "You?"
"Same." He comes to stand beside you, not quite touching but close enough that you're aware of his warmth. "You're good at this."
"At what?"
"All of it. The talking, the smiling, the making people like you." He's quiet for a moment. "It's like watching someone speak a language I never learned."
There's no bitterness in his voice, just statement of fact. But it stings anyway.
"It's not that different from working with horses," you mutter. "You just have to figure out what they want to hear. The tone, a laugh, throw in a few waves of your hand."
"Is that what you were doing with Mobley? Telling him what he wanted to hear?"
"I was helping."
"By lying?"
You turn to face him fully. "I wasn't lying. I do want to learn about local markets. I am interested in his operation."
"But you don't really care." It's not a question. "Because in a year, maybe two, you'll be back in Charleston and none of this will matter."
"My father said—"
"I heard what your father said." His voice is still quiet, but there's an edge to it now. "Hire management, run it from a distance. Very practical. Very sensible."
"You make it sound like a bad thing."
"It's not a bad thing. It's just..." He stops, jaw working like he's trying to find the right words. "It's just a reminder, I guess. That this is temporary for you. All of it."
"You keep saying that! What do you want me to say?" The words come out sharper than you intend. "That I'm going to stay here forever? That I'm going to give up everything I've ever known because I've spent a few weeks learning to saddle a horse?"
"No." He looks away. "No, I don't expect that."
"Then what?"
"I don't know." He runs a hand through his hair, destroying whatever order had been imposed on it earlier. "I don't know what I want. I just... Christ, this would be so much easier if you were still the spoiled city girl who showed up six weeks ago."
The admission hangs between you, raw and honest.
"I could say the same thing," you say quietly. "This would be easier if you were still just the insufferable foreman."
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. Want, yes, but also frustration and resignation and something that might be sadness.
"We're a pack of fools," he says.
"Probably."
"This can't go anywhere."
"I know."
"You're leaving."
"I know."
"So we should just..." He makes a vague gesture. "Keep our distance. Keep it professional."
"Yes," you agree. "We should."
Neither of you move.
The door behind you opens and laughter spills out. You step apart quickly, putting a respectable distance between you, just as Brady — the mayor's son — emerges.
"There you are!" he says cheerfully, oblivious to the tension. "I've been looking everywhere. They're starting another waltz. You promised me another dance, remember?"
You don't remember promising any such thing, but you paste on a smile. "Of course."
You let him lead you back inside, but you glance back at J. He's still standing there on the steps, watching you go with that same unreadable expression.
And somehow it feels like you're leaving more behind than just the cool evening air.
✧✧✧
The next few days are strained.
J is polite but distant. He gives you tasks and instructions but doesn't linger to chat. When your hands brush reaching for the same tool, he pulls away like he's been burned. The easy camaraderie you'd built over the past weeks has been replaced by something careful and brittle. Temporary.
You tell yourself this is better. Safer. But it doesn't feel better.
You're mucking out stalls on Tuesday morning - a task you can do efficiently now, still with a bit of strain, but much better than your first time - when Martha appears in the barn doorway.
"Got something for you," she says, holding out an envelope. "Came in yesterday's post."
You wipe your hands on your skirts and take it. The handwriting is familiar - your friend Elizabeth from Charleston. You haven't heard from her in weeks.
"Thank you," you tell Martha, and she nods and heads back to the house.
You settle on a hay bale and open the letter.
Dearest friend,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I can't imagine life on a ranch is anything but dreadfully dull. We all miss you terribly! The Ashford ball last week was quite the affair - everyone who is anyone was there. Thomas Ashford asked after you, actually. I think he's still carrying a torch!
Speaking of which, Mother heard the most interesting gossip. Apparently James Morrison has ended his engagement to the Keller girl. Quite the scandal! Everyone says he's looking to court someone new for the season. I mentioned you might be returning soon and he seemed quite interested...
The letter goes on, full of gossip and news from a world that feels increasingly distant. Elizabeth talks about parties and engagements, about who's courting whom, about the new dress shop on King Street. She mentions that your absence has been noted, that people are asking when you'll return.
Do hurry back, she writes in closing. We miss you dreadfully, and there's a whole season of events you're missing!
You fold the letter slowly and sit there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
This is your life. Or it was. Or it will be again.
Parties and suitors and carefully orchestrated social events. A life where the biggest concern is whether your dress is fashionable enough, whether you've been properly introduced to the right people. A life where you never sweat or ache or get dirt under your nails.
A life where you never have to wake up before dawn or learn the intricacies of fence repair or watch the sun rise over the prairie while standing in a barn that smells of hay and horses and hard work.
A life without J.
The thought comes unbidden, and you immediately try to push it away. J is the foreman. A cowboy. J is only teaching you—dealing with you—because you insisted. Because you were stubborn. J is...
J is standing in the barn entrance, watching you.
"You alright?" he asks.
"Fine." You fold the letter and tuck it into your pocket. "Just news from home."
Something flickers across his face. "Good news?"
"My friend wants me to come back for the social season. Apparently I'm missing all the important parties."
"Sounds terrible," he says, but there's no humor in it.
"J—"
"I should tell you something." He walks closer, then seems to think better of it and stops several feet away. "About why I've been... why I agreed to teach you."
"You don't have to—"
"Your grandfather asked me to." The words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them in. "Before he died. He wrote me a letter, asked me to look after this place and to look after you specifically. To teach you about ranching, to help you understand why he loved it."
You process this slowly. "So this whole time... you've just been fulfilling an obligation?"
"At first, yeah." He meets your eyes. "I didn't want to. Thought you'd be gone in a week and I'd be wasting my time. But then you..." He stops, jaw working. "You stayed. You learned. You worked harder than you had to...harder than I ever thought you would. And somewhere along the way it stopped being an obligation and started being..."
"What?" you prompt when he doesn't continue.
"Complicated," he finishes. "Started being complicated."
You should feel hurt, you think. Should feel betrayed that all his patience, all his teaching, was just him keeping a promise. But all you feel is tired.
"So what now?" you ask.
"Now we finish what we started. I teach you everything I can before you leave. I keep my promise to your grandfather." His voice is carefully neutral. "And when you go back to Charleston and your parties and your suitable suitors, at least you'll understand why he loved this place."
"And if I don't want to go back?"
The question escapes before you can stop it, and J's expression wrinkles.
"Don't," he says quietly. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not fair." There's real pain in his voice now. "Because you know you're leaving. Maybe not today, maybe not next month, but eventually. Your father's going to hire management, and you're all going to go back to your real lives. And that's fine - that's how it should be. But don't... don't make me hope for something that's not going to happen."
The words hit you like a physical blow. Because he's right. You know he's right. You are leaving, eventually. And asking him to hope otherwise, to want something more, is cruel.
"I'm sorry," you say quietly.
"Yeah." He picks up a bridle from where it's hanging, examining it like he's never seen it before. "Me too."
He walks away then, leaving you alone in the barn with your letter from Elizabeth and your complicated, messy feelings.
That night at dinner, your mother announces that she's planning to return to Charleston for a month.
"Just to check on the house, see to some affairs," she says. "Your father will stay here, of course. But I thought..." She looks at you hopefully. "Perhaps you'd like to come with me? See your friends, attend some events?"
Your father looks up from his meal. "That's a wonderful idea. You've been working so hard here, dear. You deserve a break."
A break. As if this whole thing has been some kind of hardship you need to recover from, and not an amazing experience that has allowed you to feel more independent and self sufficient than ever.
You open your mouth to refuse, but then you catch sight of your hands on the table. Rough, callused, with that persistent dirt under the nails. You think of Elizabeth's letter, of parties and suitors and the life that's waiting for you. You think of J saying don't make me hope for something that's not going to happen.
"Yes," you hear yourself say. "Yes, I'd like that."
Your mother beams. Your father nods approvingly.
And you ignore the way your chest feels tight.
✧✧✧
The next morning, J is already in the barn when you arrive. This is normal. What's not normal is the way he stops what he's doing when he sees you, his expression careful.
"Heard you're going back East," he says.
News travels fast. You nod. "Just for a month. My mother needs company for the journey."
"That's good." He doesn't sound like he thinks it's good. "Probably do you some good to see your friends. Remember what your real life is like."
There's something pointed in the way he says real life, like this - the ranch, the work, him - isn't real. Like it's just been an interlude, a temporary diversion before you return to what actually matters.
Maybe he's right.
"J—"
"You should make the most of it." He picks up a curry brush and moves to one of the horses, dismissing you. "Enjoy your parties. Your suitable suitors. Whatever it is you Charleston types do for fun."
The words sting, intentionally or not. "Is that what you think of me? Still? After everything?"
"I think you're someone who belongs in ballrooms, not barns." He doesn't look at you, focusing on the horse. "And there's nothing wrong with that. Everyone should be where they belong."
"And where do I belong, exactly?"
"Not here." Now he does look at you, and there's something raw in his expression. "You're good at this, I'll give you that. You work hard, you've learned fast. But this isn't your life. It never was going to be. Better to accept that now before..." He stops himself.
"Before what?"
"Before it gets harder to leave," he finishes quietly.
You stand there for a long moment, wanting to argue, to tell him he's wrong. But the words won't come. Because maybe he's not wrong. Maybe you don't belong here. Maybe you've just been playing at ranch life, and it's time to stop pretending.
"Fine," you say finally. "I'll be gone in three days. I'm sure you'll manage without me."
"I'm sure I will."
You turn to leave, but his voice stops you.
"Hey."
You look back.
He's still holding the curry brush, but he's not looking at the horse anymore. He's looking at you, and there's something in his eyes that makes your throat tight.
"For what it's worth," he says. "I'm glad you stayed as long as you did. You proved me wrong about a lot of things."
It's not a declaration. It's not a plea for you to stay. It's just... honest. With a touch of sentimental. And somehow that makes it worse.
"For what it's worth," you echo, "I'm glad you were insufferable about it. Made me want to prove you wrong."
His mouth quirks in something that's almost a smile. "Worked out well, then."
"Yeah."
You hold his gaze for another moment, memorizing the details - the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the scar above his eyebrow, the way his hair falls across his forehead when he's not wearing his hat. Then you turn and walk away, back toward the house, back toward your real life.
Behind you, you hear him resume working, the rhythmic sound of the brush against the horse's coat. Normal ranch sounds. The soundtrack to a life you're leaving behind.
Three days.
You have three days to remember that Charleston is home, that this was always temporary, that J was right when he said you don't belong here.
Three days to stop wishing things could be different.
✧✧✧
Tomorrow.
The word sits heavy in your chest as you work on the fence line, checking posts that don't really need checking. Tomorrow you'll pack your trunk. Tomorrow you'll put on a traveling dress and gloves and a hat. Tomorrow you'll get in the carriage and ride to the train station and leave all of this behind.
Just for a month, your mother said. Just to visit, to remember what civilization feels like.
But standing here in the Texas heat, sweat trickling down your spine, hands rough from work, you strangely…don't want civilization. You don't want Charleston's carefully manicured gardens and polite conversation and the weight of a hundred unspoken rules about what a lady should and shouldn't do.
You want this. The endless sky, the smell of prairie grass, the solid satisfaction of work well done. You want early mornings in the barn and aching muscles and J's rare, grudging nods of approval when you do something right.
You want J.
The thought comes unbidden, like it has a hundred times over the past few days. Ever since that conversation in the barn, since he told you this was temporary and you need to remember that, you haven't been able to think about much else.
The wind picks up suddenly, carrying with it the smell of rain. You look up and your breath catches.
The sky to the west has gone black. Not the blue-black of evening but the greenish-black of a storm, roiling clouds moving fast across the prairie. You've seen summer storms in Charleston - gentle afternoon showers that cool the air and make everything smell green. But this... this is something else entirely. This is violent and vast and coming straight for you.
Thunder rumbles, still distant but getting closer.
You should head back. You're at least twenty minutes from the house on foot, and that storm is moving fast. But you stand there for another moment, watching it come, feeling the temperature drop as the wind picks up.
There's something about it that feels appropriate. Like the weather is matching your internal state - all churning chaos and barely contained violence.
Another crack of thunder, closer now.
You start walking, then jogging. The wind is really whipping now, strong enough that you have to hold onto your hat. The grass is bending flat, and in the distance you can see the rain - a gray sheet moving across the land like a curtain being drawn.
You're not going to make it.
The first drops hit when you're still ten minutes from the barn - fat and heavy, more like being pelted than rained on. Within seconds it becomes a downpour. You can barely see five feet in front of you. Your clothes are soaked through almost immediately, the fabric clinging to your skin, heavy and cold.
You run.
By the time you reach the barn, you're drenched and gasping. Your boots squelch with every step. Your blouse is plastered to your body, your split skirt dragging with the weight of absorbed water. You're shivering despite the fact that minutes ago you were sweating in the heat.
The barn is empty. The horses are in their stalls, shifting nervously at the storm, but there are no ranch hands. They must have all taken shelter when they saw it coming - smarter than you, apparently.
You stand there dripping on the barn floor, trying to catch your breath. Water runs down your face, your neck. Your braid has come half undone, wet tendrils of hair sticking to your cheeks.
You should stay here until the worst passes. But the house has dry clothes, a fire, warmth. And Martha will worry if you don't come back.
You make a run for it.
The yard between the barn and house has turned to mud. You slip twice, catching yourself on shaking legs. The rain is so heavy you can barely breathe through it, and the wind is strong enough that you have to lean into it to make progress.
When you finally stumble through the back door into the kitchen, you're a disaster. There's mud on your boots, your skirt. You're dripping all over Martha's clean floor. You're shaking so hard your teeth are chattering.
Martha looks up from where she's closing the windows and makes a noise of distress. "Lord have mercy, child! You're soaked clear through!"
"I'm s-sorry," you manage through chattering teeth. "About the f-floor."
"Never mind the floor." She's already moving toward you, hands fluttering. "Upstairs with you right now. Out of those wet things before you catch your death."
You don't argue. You peel off your boots - a struggle with how swollen the leather has gotten - and pad upstairs in your stockinged feet, leaving wet footprints on every step.
Your warm room feels like a sanctuary. You close the door and lean against it for a moment, still shivering. Outside, the storm rages - rain hammering against the window, wind howling, thunder so loud it rattles the glass.
Tomorrow you're supposed to leave all this. Return to a place where storms are gentler, where everything is controlled and predictable and safe. Maybe it would be better for you to just leave…maybe J was right. Forget about him. Forget about Martha, the ranch, the horses, the garden and the whole damn town.
You start undressing with numb fingers. Your blouse first, the buttons slippery and difficult. It hits the floor with a wet slap. Your skirt next, the fabric so heavy with water you have to shimmy out of it. Petticoats, stockings. Everything is soaked.
You're down to just your chemise and drawers when there's a knock at your door.
"Come in," you call, thinking it's Martha with towels or maybe dry clothes.
The door opens.
J stands there, a cup of something steaming in his hands, and the world seems to slow down.
He's wet. Not as soaked as you were, but wet - his shirt damp and clinging to his shoulders and chest, his hair mussed and dripping slightly at the ends. There's water beaded on his throat, his collarbones. He must have gotten caught coming back from wherever he'd been working.
And you're standing there in nothing but a thin cotton chemise that's still damp enough to be transparent, your drawers, your loosened corset. You can see the exact moment he realizes what he's walked in on - his eyes going wide, his whole body going rigid.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moves.
You should cover yourself. Should grab something, say something, break this terrible, wonderful tension. But you can't seem to make yourself do any of those things.
His eyes are traveling over you - you can feel it like a physical touch. Down your throat to where your chemise clings to your breasts, showing the shape of them, the peaks of your nipples hard from cold and something else entirely. Down further to your waist, your hips, your thighs visible through the thin fabric.
When his eyes meet yours again, they're dark. Hungry.
"I—" His voice comes out rough, strained. He clears his throat. "Martha asked me to bring you tea. Said you'd catch cold."
The cup in his hands is shaking slightly. You watch a drop of water slide down his temple, follow the line of his jaw, disappear into his collar.
"That's kind of her," you manage, and you're surprised your voice works at all.
He takes a single step into the room - just far enough to set the cup down on the small table by the door. His hands are unsteady. You can see his chest rising and falling with his breathing, faster than normal.
"I should—" He stops, swallows hard. "I should go."
But he doesn't move. He's staring at you again, and there's something almost pained in his expression. Like looking at you hurts. But also like not looking would hurt worse.
"You're wet," you say, and the observation sounds absurd even as you make it.
"Storm caught me in the north pasture." His voice is still rough. "Came back to check that everyone made it in safe."
"Everyone's safe?"
"Yeah. Everyone's..." He trails off, his eyes dropping again to your body. You watch his jaw clench, the tendon in his neck standing out. "Christ, you need to put something on."
"Why?" The word comes out breathier than you intended.
"Because—" He stops himself, dragging a hand through his wet hair. "Because I'm trying real hard to be decent here and you're not in the right state of dress."
"Maybe I don't want you to be decent."
The words hang in the air between you. You can see the moment they hit him - the way his whole body tenses, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Don't," he says, but there's no strength behind it. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?" You take a step toward him. Not close, but closer. "You've been avoiding me for days. Ever since I said I was leaving. Is this what you were afraid of? Being alone with me?"
"Yes." The admission is immediate, honest. Such a big guy scared of being alone with you? You want to laugh. "Yeah, this is exactly what I was afraid of."
"Because you don't trust yourself?"
"Because I don't trust either of us." His eyes are locked on yours now, intense and dark. "You're leaving tomorrow. This—" he gestures between you, "—whatever this is, it can't happen."
"That's what you keep saying." You're close enough now that you could touch him if you reached out. You don't. Not yet. "But you're still here. You could have left the tea and gone. Could have run the second you saw... this." You gesture at yourself, at your state of undress.
"I should have." His voice has dropped lower, rougher. "I should have turned right around and walked out. That's what I meant to do. What I should do right now."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because you're standing there looking like every thought I've tried not to have for the past month or so," he says quietly. "And I'm only human."
Your heart is pounding so hard you think he must be able to hear it. "What thoughts?"
"Don't ask me that."
"Why not?"
"Because if I start telling you, I won't stop. And we'll both have to live with knowing what can't happen."
Outside, thunder crashes close enough to shake the house. The lamp flickers.
"Maybe I want to know," you say. "Maybe I want something to take with me tomorrow."
His jaw clenches again. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably." You take another small step. Still not touching, but close enough now that you can smell him - rain and leather and something warmer, earthier. "Tell me anyway."
He looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the exact second his control fractures.
"Alright," he says, his voice dropping even lower. "You want to know? Fine."
He stays where he is, but his eyes... his eyes are touching you everywhere his hands can't. "If you weren't leaving tomorrow," he starts slowly, "if this wasn't the worst possible timing, if I didn't have to watch you get on that train and pretend it doesn't feel like losing something..."
He pauses, his breathing harsh. "I'd cross this room. I'd finish unlacing that corset for you since I can see you're struggling with it. Been watching you struggle with those damn laces for weeks now, wanting to do it myself."
Your breath catches.
"I'd kiss you. Not quick like before. I'd take my time with it. Kiss you 'til you forgot about Charleston, 'til the only thing you could think about was me and what I was doing to you."
The room feels too hot despite your damp chemise. Despite the storm raging outside.
"I'd lay you down on that bed." He nods toward it without taking his eyes off you. "And I'd finally get to see all of you. Not just glimpses when you're reaching for something or bent over working. All of you."
"J—" His name comes out almost like a plea.
"I'd touch you everywhere. Learn every inch of you. That spot on your throat where your pulse is beating so hard right now. Your breasts - Christ, I can see them through that chemise, see how hard your nipples are. I'd use my mouth there, my teeth."
You're gripping the bedpost now, your knees weak.
"I'd kiss down your body. Take my time with it. And when I got between your thighs..." He stops, his breathing ragged now. "Lord, the things I'd do to you there. I'd use my mouth and my tongue and I wouldn't stop until you were shaking, until you were begging, until you came so hard you'd be feeling it for days."
Your whole body is thrumming with want. But he's still by the door, still holding himself back with what must be enormous effort.
"And then," he continues, his voice almost a growl now, "when you were still trembling and sensitive, I'd finally be inside you. I'd go slow at first - let you adjust, let you feel every inch of me. But you wouldn't want slow for long, would you?"
You shake your head mutely.
"No. You'd want it hard. Want me to make you feel it. Want me to take you like I've been lying awake thinking about - hard enough that you'd feel it with every step the next day, that you'd think of me every time you sat down, every time you moved."
The possessiveness in his voice makes something low in your belly tighten almost painfully.
"I'd make you come again. And again. 'Til you were wrung out and exhausted and so full of me you couldn't forget it even if you tried." His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, white-knuckled with the effort of holding himself back. "That's what I'd do. If you weren't leaving. If this wasn't absolutely impossible."
The silence after he stops is deafening. Just your harsh breathing and his and the rain hammering at the window.
You're trembling, but not from cold anymore. Your skin feels like it's on fire. Between your thighs you're achingly, acutely aware of exactly what his words have done to you.
And maybe it's the storm, or maybe it's because you're leaving tomorrow anyway so what does it matter, or maybe it's just that you're tired of restraint - but something in you snaps.
"And what if," you say quietly, "I wanted to do more than just imagine?"
His eyes flash dangerously. "Stop."
"What if I wanted to know what your hands feel like on me?" You slide one hand up your own side, over your ribs, and watch his eyes track the movement. "Whether they'd be gentle or rough?"
"Christ—"
"What if I wanted to know what you taste like?" You touch your own throat where your pulse is racing. "What you'd sound like when you're inside me?"
"You need to stop talking." His voice is strained almost to breaking.
"Why?" You're being deliberately provocative now, and you both know it. Testing the limits of his control. "You got to tell me what you'd do. It's only fair I get to tell you what I want. My family is rich, Schlatt…I always get what I want. So why don't you give me—"
"—This isn't fair. This isn't—" He stops, jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump.
"I want your mouth on me," you continue, emboldened by the way he's staring at you now - like he's barely holding himself back. "Everywhere. I want to know if your stubble would scrape against my inner thighs when you put your mouth there like you said."
He makes a sound low in his throat, almost a groan.
"I want to feel you inside me. Want to know if you'd fill me as completely as I think you would. If you'd really take me hard like you said or if you'd lose control and just—"
"Stop." His voice cracks on the word. "You need to stop right now."
"Make me."
The words hang in the air like a challenge. You watch something flare in his eyes - want and anger and desperation all mixed together.
"Don't," he says, but he's taken a step toward you before he can stop himself. "Don't push me."
"Why not?" You're breathing hard now, your heart pounding. Will he? Won't he? "What are you afraid is going to happen?"
"I'm afraid I'm going to cross this room," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm afraid I'm going to do every single thing I just described. I'm afraid I'm going to take you apart until you're crying and then do it again just to hear the sounds you make. That's what I'm afraid of."
"That sounds fun."
"It's not." He sounds almost angry now. "You think you want it now, but tomorrow when you're getting on that train, when you're going back to your real life, you'll regret it. And I'll have broken my promise to your grandfather and betrayed the trust he put in me."
"I don't care about the promise—"
"Well I do!" The words burst out of him. "I care because he was the only person who ever believed I could be more than just some drifter's son. Because he gave me a home when I'd never had one. Because he asked me to look after you and I said yes, and that means something to me even if it doesn't mean anything to you."
The anger in his voice cuts through your haze of want. You can see it now - the guilt he's carrying, the sense of obligation. This isn't just about wanting you. It's about betraying someone who mattered to him.
"J—"
"You're leaving tomorrow," he says again, quieter now but no less intense. "You're going back to Charleston and your parties and eventually some suitable man is going to court you and marry you and give you the life you're supposed to have. And that's how it should be. But if I do this - if we do this - I'm always going to wonder if I took something from you that you can't get back. If I ruined you for that life."
"What if I don't want that life anymore?"
"You will," he says with bitter certainty. "Once you're back there, once you remember what your real world is like, you will. And I'll be here, and this will have been..." He gestures helplessly. "A mistake. Something you regret."
You open your mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand.
"I need to go," he says. "I need to leave right now before I do something we'll both regret."
"J, wait—"
But he's already backing toward the door. His hand finds the doorknob, grips it like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
"When you're in Charleston," he says, and his voice has gone rough again, "when you're dancing with those suitable men and going to your fancy parties... you remember this. You remember that there's a man back here in Texas who wanted you so bad it felt like dying to walk away. Who wanted you and didn't take you because he's trying - God help him, he's trying - to do right by you."
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that feels too final.
You stand there for a long moment, trembling, your skin too hot and too tight. Between your thighs you're painfully aware of the ache his words left behind - want unfulfilled, desire with nowhere to go.
You cross to the door and lock it with shaking hands. Then you lean back against it and slide down to sit on the floor, drawing your knees up. Take the tea—still warm—and downing it in one go.
Tomorrow you're leaving. Tomorrow you'll put on your traveling clothes and get on a train and go back to Charleston like none of this happened.
But tonight...
Tonight you let your hand slide beneath your damp chemise, between your thighs, and you think about everything he said. Every word. Every impossible promise. You think about his hands and his mouth and the way he'd looked at you like he was starving.
You think about the restraint it took for him to walk away. The way his voice had cracked when he told you to stop. The guilt and want and desperate control all warring in his expression.
And when you come - biting your lip hard enough to taste blood to stay quiet - it's his name in your head, his voice describing what he'd do to you, his face you're imagining above you.
