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.
╭﹐✦˚₊· 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 don’t really ship bloodymary but there’s definitely something there. they’re two sides of the same coin. comic hope and cosmic horror. they’ve experienced things no one ever should and yet through grace and rocky and the hail mary there is hope. simons just some guy who showed up covered in blood convinced he’s hallucinating and also half transformed into an alien eel creature. grace is like what the heck sure. hello new roommate :)
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
