#schlatt x reader

[layersoffruiticecreametc]

google show me jschlatt whimper tier list 🔍

[evitttaa]

jschlatt x reader and is a part of the live show? maybe they do like a bit and sort of interview each other with slight pda? thanks!!

Interview

The lights were already hot when you walked out.

The crowd noise hit first.

A rolling wave of cheers and laughter that filled the theater the second the stage manager waved you on. You kept your expression easy, the way you’d practiced, and headed for the two chairs set up under the bright overheads.

Schlatt was already there, leaning back like he owned the place, mic in hand, grinning at the audience.

He looked over as you approached and the grin shifted into something smaller. More private.

“There she is,” he said into the mic, voice warm and rough around the edges. “Told you she’d show up. Pay up, whoever bet against it.”

A few people in the front row laughed. You dropped into the chair beside him, close enough that your knees almost touched.

The heat from the lights settled on your shoulders. Somewhere out in the dark a phone camera flashed.

Schlatt tilted the mic toward you without looking away from the crowd.

“Alright, so usual deal tonight”

“we’re flipping the script. She’s interviewing me, I’m interviewing her, and none of it’s rehearsed. Which means it’s gonna be a disaster. You’re welcome.”

More laughter.

He turned to you fully then, one arm draped over the back of his chair so that his fingers ended up resting just behind your shoulder.

Casual. Easy. The kind of touch that looked friendly from the audience and felt deliberate up close.

“You nervous?” he asked, quieter, though the mic still caught it.

“Of you? Never.”

“Dangerous answer.” He faced the crowd again. “She’s lying. She’s terrified. Look at her.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already smiling. The audience ate it up.

The bit started simple. You asked him the first question.

Something light about the tour, about the worst city so far, about whether he still stood by that one terrible take from three years ago.

He answered the way he always did: half-honest, half-performance, leaning into the mic and then leaning back again so that his shoulder brushed yours.

Every time he made the crowd laugh he glanced at you like he was checking you were laughing too.

Then it was his turn.

He shifted in his chair, closer now, the arm behind you settling more firmly. His knee pressed lightly against yours.

“Okay, serious question,” he said, eyes on you instead of the audience. “On a scale of one to ten, how often do you regret agreeing to do these with me?”

“Seven.”

“Only seven?”

“It fluctuates.”

He laughed, low and real, and the sound went straight into the mic. The crowd reacted instantly. His thumb moved once against the back of your shoulder.

Small enough that the cameras might not catch it, clear enough that you felt it.

You kept the questions going. He kept answering. The longer it went, the more the space between the chairs disappeared.

At one point he reached over to steal your water bottle, took a sip, and handed it back without comment. At another he leaned in while you were talking and muttered something only you could hear that made you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking.

The audience noticed. Of course they did. Someone near the front yelled “just kiss already” and Schlatt only raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered.

“We’re working,” he told them. “Be patient.”

But when he turned back to you his eyes were softer, and his hand, still resting behind your shoulder, gave the lightest squeeze.

You finished the bit the way you always did: him asking one last stupid question, you giving one last deadpan answer, both of you dissolving into the kind of laughter that felt a little too fond for a stage.

The lights were still blinding. The crowd was still loud. Schlatt’s knee was still pressed against yours like it belonged there.

When the stage manager finally waved for the end of the segment, Schlatt stood first and offered you a hand up. You took it. He didn’t let go right away.

Just long enough for the audience to see, just long enough for it to feel like a promise instead of a performance.

“Good job,” he said under his breath as you walked off together, still hand-in-hand for three full steps before he released you.

You glanced sideways at him.

“You too.”

He smiled, small and private, the stage lights fading behind you both

[evitttaa]

Loud

Inspired by that one edit- the baseball player you met through the film student (ted) you bumped into at a party. Female pov (Chuckleish sandwich college au)

“Come on! Come out! You wouldn’t regret it!” Ted shouted as he stood in your dorm doorway.

“But.. I just.. ugh!” You groaned, falling back onto your twin sized bed.

“I have to like.. get ready, get a top out—”

“I don’t care! You’re coming.” He groaned, coming down to the end of your bed where your feet hung off, grabbing your ankles and gently pulling them.

“Fine!”

—

You were walking into the party, Ted by your side. The music blaring, some 2010s rap song, the lights off, replaced with some cheap multicoloured LED lights that threw shifting colours across the walls and the sticky floor. The air already smelled like cheap beer, perfume, and too many bodies packed into a house that wasn’t meant to hold this many people.

“My friend, Johnathan, he’s coming today. You’ll love him. He’s great.”

“Would I? Or would I just like him because he’s your friend?”

He shrugged, walking on like the answer didn’t matter.

The living room was packed. People were shouting over the music, red cups everywhere, someone already dancing on a coffee table that looked like it was one bad step away from collapsing. Ted steered you through the crowd with a hand on your shoulder, nodding at people he knew, stopping every few seconds to clap someone on the back or lean in to yell something you couldn’t hear.

You were still half-annoyed you’d let him drag you out when he suddenly lifted a hand and called out.

“Johnny! Over here!”

A tall guy near the kitchen doorway turned.

He was easy to spot even in the low, coloured light — broad shoulders, a navy blue Yankee cap, a simple black t-shirt that fit like it had been washed a hundred times. He had the kind of posture that made it obvious he spent most of his time moving, not sitting. When he saw Ted he grinned, the expression quick and genuine, and started cutting through the crowd toward you both.

Up close he was even taller. Dark eyes, a bit of stubble, the easy confidence of someone who was used to being noticed without trying.

“Ted,” he said, pulling your friend into a one-armed hug and clapping him hard on the back. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“I always show. Eventually.” Ted pulled back and gestured at you. “This is Y/N. She’s the one I keep telling you about. The one who actually understands my film projects instead of just nodding.”

Johnathan’s gaze shifted to you. It was steady, curious, a little amused.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was lower than you expected, a little rough around the edges from talking over music all night. “Nice to finally put a face to the name. Ted makes it sound like you’re the only person on campus who can stand him for more than ten minutes.”

You felt the corner of your mouth lift despite yourself.

“That’s not far from the truth,” you said.

He laughed, short, real and the sound cut through the noise of the party better than it should have.

Ted was already getting pulled into another conversation by someone with a camera around their neck. He waved a hand vaguely between you and Johnathan like he was introducing two people who could handle themselves, then disappeared into the crowd.

Just like that, it was the two of you.

Johnathan tilted his head slightly, studying you under the shifting pink and blue lights.

“So,” he said, “film student friend of Ted’s. What’s your actual major, or are you stuck in the same chaotic editing caves he lives in?”

The music thumped on. Someone behind you spilled a drink and cursed. The cheap LED lights kept cycling through colours, painting the side of his face in brief flashes of green, then purple, then red.

You answered him, and he listened like he actually cared what you said.

And for the first time since Ted had dragged you out of your dorm, you didn’t completely regret coming.

You naturally drift up near the kitchen first, because that was where the drinks were.

Obviously.

Johnathan poured something into two red cups without asking what you wanted, then handed one to you with a small shrug.

“It’s whatever’s left in the fridge. Don’t expect it to taste good.”

It didn’t. It was cold and vaguely fruity and burned a little on the way down. You made a face. He laughed under his breath, the sound almost lost under the music, and took a sip of his own.

The conversation stayed easy. He asked about your classes, about how you actually met Ted, about why you’d let yourself get dragged to a party you clearly hadn’t planned on attending.

You told him the truth, that Ted was impossible to say no to once he started pulling on your ankles like a child. Johnathan grinned like he could picture it perfectly.

“Sounds about right,” he said. “He’s been the same since freshman year. I roomed with him for a semester. Worst decision of my life. He edited a short film at three in the morning with the lights on and the speakers blasting. I almost killed him.”

You found yourself smiling more than you meant to.

People kept interrupting. Someone from the baseball team clapped Johnathan on the shoulder and tried to pull him into a drinking game.

A girl Ted knew hugged you too tightly and yelled something about your hair. Every time the crowd pulled at one of you, you both somehow drifted back to the same spot, leaning against the counter, or later against the wall near the stairs, still talking like the rest of the party was just background noise.

The lights kept cycling. Pink. Blue. Green. The music shifted from one 2010s track to another, the bass heavy enough that you felt it in your ribs. At some point Johnathan’s shoulder ended up resting lightly against yours. Neither of you moved away.

Later, when the living room got too loud and too full, he tilted his head toward the back door.

“Come on. Need air.”

You followed him out onto the small wooden deck. The night was cooler than the house, the air damp and carrying the faint smell of wet grass and someone’s cigarette from further down the yard.

The music was still loud, but muffled now, thumping through the walls like a distant heartbeat. A string of cheap fairy lights hung above the deck, half of them burnt out, casting a soft, uneven glow.

Johnathan leaned his forearms on the railing and looked out at the dark yard. You stood beside him, close enough that your elbows almost touched.

“Better,” he said.

“Yeah.”

For a while you just stood there, listening to the party spill out through the open windows. Laughter. Someone shouting the lyrics. The occasional crash of a cup hitting the floor. Johnathan glanced sideways at you, the fairy lights catching in his eyes.

“You’re quieter than Ted made you sound,” he said.

“He’s dramatic.”

“He is.” A pause. “I like it, though. The quiet. Makes it easier to actually hear you.”

You looked at him. He was already looking at you. The moment stretched, not heavy, just aware. The kind of awareness that made the rest of the night feel different.

Inside, someone turned the music up even louder. A cheer went up. Johnathan exhaled a soft laugh and shook his head.

“We should probably go back in before Ted sends a search party.”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved right away.

When you finally did, his hand brushed the small of your back as he guided you through the narrow doorway. It was light, casual, gone almost as soon as you felt it. But you noticed. And from the way his eyes flicked to yours when you glanced up, he knew you’d noticed too.

The rest of the night blurred in the best way.

You stayed near each other without really discussing it. When the baseball team started a loud game of beer pong, Johnathan declined and stayed talking to you instead.

When Ted reappeared long enough to throw an arm around both your shoulders and declare that you were “his two favourite people,” Johnathan only rolled his eyes and let it happen.

At some point you ended up on the worn-out couch in the corner, thighs pressed together from the lack of space, still trading stories while the party moved around you like water.

His voice got lower the later it got. Yours did too. The space between your faces felt smaller every time you leaned in to hear each other over the music.

Once, when you laughed at something he said, his eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before he looked away again, jaw shifting like he was stopping himself from saying something.

You didn’t call him on it.

You just stayed.

By the time the sky outside started turning a pale, early grey and the party had thinned to the last stubborn stragglers, you and Johnathan were still on that couch. Ted had disappeared upstairs with someone an hour ago.

The music had been turned down to something slower and quieter. The cheap LED lights kept cycling through their colours, softer now in the thinning crowd.

Johnathan’s arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind you. Not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. Your knee had been resting against his for so long you couldn’t remember when it started.

He looked tired in a good way. Cap still on backwards, voice rough from talking all night, eyes softer than they’d been when he first walked over.

“I should get you home,” he said eventually. “Before Ted wakes up and realises he abandoned you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

The words sat between you for a second. It was simple, honest.

You nodded.

When you stood, your legs were stiff from sitting so long. Johnathan’s hand settled briefly on your waist to steady you, then fell away again. The touch lingered in your mind longer than it lasted.

Outside, the air was cool and quiet. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the sky had that thin, silvery colour that meant morning was close. Johnathan walked you back toward campus without rushing, hands in his pockets, shoulder almost brushing yours with every step.

Neither of you said much.

You didn’t need to.

Something had already started shifting, quiet and steady, somewhere between the loud music and the soft fairy lights and the way he’d looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

By the time your dorm building came into view, the sky was lighter. Johnathan stopped at the bottom of the steps, rocking back on his heels once.

“Hey,” he said.

You turned.

He hesitated, then gave a small, almost shy half-smile.

The first one that didn’t look completely confident.

“I’m glad Ted dragged you out tonight.”

You felt the same smile pull at your own mouth.

“Yeah,” you said. “Me too.”

He waited until you were inside before he turned and walked away, hands still in his pockets, the early morning quiet settling around him.

You watched him go for a second longer than you needed to.

Then you went upstairs, still tasting cheap vodka and rain-slick night air, already knowing this wasn’t going to be the last time you saw him

[jschljess]

ive been really bored lately and ive been coming across alot of smplive content.. anyone have any suggestions on where i can watch it? 😋

[sharksndjasnd]

Request

Does anyone have or could anyone write a male reader x Schlatt or a male reader x ted fic smut or no smut idc hell a hot one could be a guy x Schlatt x ted too

[evitttaa]

in the latest video schlatt said he loves paying money for hotels so PPLEASE A HOTEL FIC I BEG you dont have to ofc but i love the idea

Nights in

You sat at a Japanese bar, side by side. Him sipping a beer while you had some Japanese vodka drink that was stronger than it looked.

The place was narrow and warm, wood-panelled walls polished smooth by years of elbows and quiet conversations. Soft yellow light from the low-hanging lamps reflected off the rows of bottles behind the counter, turning the glass amber and gold.

Outside, Tokyo neon bled across the wet street in long, smeared streaks of pink and electric blue. Rain tapped lightly against the front window in an uneven rhythm.

The air smelled like citrus peel, cold beer, cigars and the faint sweet smoke of something grilling further down the counter. Ice clinked gently whenever someone stirred a drink.

Low music played from speakers you couldn’t see. Old japanese jazz, quiet enough that you could still hear the soft hiss of the rain and the occasional low murmur of Japanese from the other end of the bar.

Schlatt’s knee was pressed against yours under the counter, warm and familiar. He turned his glass slowly in his hands, watching the condensation run down the side in thin clear lines. The condensation had already left a dark ring on the wooden countertop.

“You know what I still love?” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the soft background noise.

You glanced at him. The low light caught the edge of his profile, the familiar shape of his mouth.

“What?”

“Paying for hotels.” A small, crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“The stupidly expensive ones. Big beds. Rain showers. Robes that actually fit.”

His eyes flicked to yours, soft in the warm light.

“Feels good knowing I can shut the door and have the whole place to ourselves for the night.”

You took another sip of your drink. The vodka was cold and sharp, cutting through the warmth of the bar.

“Is that your way of saying you’re done sharing me with the group chat for the evening?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound almost lost under the music.

“Pretty much.”

He set his glass down, pulled out his phone, and typed with one hand. The screen glowed pale blue against his face for a few seconds. Then he locked it and looked at you properly.

“Penthouse suite. Ten minutes away. View of the whole city. Already booked.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You booked it while we were sitting here?”

“I booked it while we were still at the venue.”

His thumb stroked once along the side of your knee under the counter, casual and familiar.

“Figured you’d say yes.”

You finished the rest of your drink in one swallow. The glass was cold against your fingers. “Then what are we still doing here?”

Schlatt’s smile was slow. He left a neat stack of notes on the counter without waiting for the bill, hand settling on the small of your back as he guided you out.

The touch was light but sure. The moment the door opened the temperature dropped. Cool night air and the clean smell of rain washed over you both.

The street was glossy under the neon, reflecting everything in soft, broken colours. Your shoes made quiet wet sounds against the pavement as you walked.

The hotel lobby was all pale stone and quiet lighting. The elevator ride up to the top floor was nearly silent except for the soft mechanical hum and the occasional muted ding of passing floors.

Schlatt’s shoulder stayed pressed against yours the whole way. Through the small elevator window the city dropped away in layers of light.

The suite door clicked shut behind you with a soft, expensive sound.

For a moment neither of you moved. The penthouse was quiet in the way only high floors ever managed. Thick glass muting the city below into a distant, constant hush.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Tokyo stretched out in every direction: wet streets gleaming under neon, towers stacked with light, the occasional slow sweep of a distant helicopter’s beacon. Rain traced thin, uneven paths down the glass, catching the colours and turning them liquid.

The air inside smelled clean and faintly floral.

The kind of subtle scent hotels paid too much for. Fresh linen. Cool marble. A hint of something woody from the diffuser near the entrance.

Your shoes sank slightly into the thick carpet as you stepped further in. It was soft enough that it felt almost wrong to walk on it in street clothes.

Schlatt moved first. He tossed his cap onto a low armchair by the window, then shrugged off his hoodie and draped it over the back.

Without the extra layer he looked smaller somehow, more ordinary, the black t-shirt underneath clinging slightly from the residual damp of the rain. He walked over to the window and stood there for a few seconds, hands in his pockets, just looking.

“Never gets old,” he said quietly.

You joined him. The glass was cool when you stood close to it. Below, the city moved in near silence. Tiny headlights sliding along the elevated expressways, the soft red glow of taillights, the occasional train sliding between buildings like a string of pearls.

A low roll of thunder somewhere far off made the window vibrate almost imperceptibly under your fingertips.

Behind you the suite opened up in layers. A wide living area with low, dark furniture. A long dining table that looked like it had never been used.

Soft, recessed lighting that kept everything in warm amber rather than harsh white. The bed was visible through an open doorway. Massive, perfectly made, white sheets turned down at the corners with hotel precision.

A carafe of water sat on the nightstand beside two heavy glasses. Everything was arranged to look untouched and expensive.

Schlatt turned away from the view and walked further in, running a hand along the back of the couch as he passed.

The leather was cool and smooth. He stopped at the minibar, opened it just to look, then closed it again without taking anything. The soft thud of the door sounded loud in the quiet.

You could still hear the rain.

It was lighter now, more of a mist than a proper fall, but it kept the windows in constant soft motion. Every so often a gust pushed against the glass and the whole pane hummed faintly.

Somewhere deep in the building a heating system clicked on with a low, distant whir.

Schlatt came back to stand beside you at the window. His shoulder brushed yours. Warm, familiar. Neither of you spoke for a while. The city kept glittering.

The rain kept sliding down the glass in thin, silver lines. The suite around you stayed perfectly still, holding the night like it had been designed for exactly this kind of quiet.

After a few minutes he exhaled, soft and content.

“Worth every yen,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You didn’t disagree.

[ineffectualintellectual]

Somewhere in the City pt.6

| Schlatt x Fem!Reader|

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4- Part 5 - Ongoing

Summary: Nighttime has the fascinating ability to revealing the truth of one's character. After kissing Schlatt, you weren't sure if you could hide from your true feelings anymore.

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: angst, repeated mentions of alcohol use, inner turmoil, Insta stalking, miscommunication, redemption arc, cliff hanger rpf, 18+ minors dni

divider cred: @uzmacchiato ✦ masterlist

Time lolls unto itself. So you thought, so you felt. Thinkers of the past have come to a variety of elegant arguments regarding the nature of time, but none have been as simple as yours. Regardless of whichever theorist one is inclined to agree with, one thing is self evident: time is felt subjectively. For some it's measured by the number of songs on a commute. For others, like Schlatt, it's felt in the glaring absent glass of a phone screen. Broken only by notifications he couldn't care less about even if he tried; time clung to fingerprint smudges.

It's been a few months since you've last seen Schlatt. Months since that fateful night in his apartment where you stormed off in the middle of the night in a New York City winter. In the time since then, you've tried to blot out this memory until it became a tender smudge. The arsenal was simple: work, whiskey and worse lovers. Work was your daytime escape. With a newly expanded (and better paid) role, every billable hour was an excuse to avoid the tangle of emotions that threatened to entrap you. Whiskey and "whores" were your nighttime comforts. Every so often you'd go out on a date with a charming prospect. If they were particularly dazzling, you'd let them stick around for a few weeks even if the end result was always the same. Each failed Tinder match fizzled into the next. Your resolve never faltered. The distractions shielded you from the very ugly possibility that a potentially beautiful love has been ruined through your own failures. Worse, through your own failures on your most profitable skill — your rhetoric. You don't exactly recall much of Schlatt's apartment, nor his expressions when you made mincemeat of his heart. But you did remember every word you spoke. Every shoddy argument, every withheld word of affection. 

Schlatt had the courage to remember what you wouldn't. Every detail of those final five minutes were seared into his mind. The lingering perfume of your hair as you walked out of the apartment. The heavy thud of the front door closing. The clean sheets of the bed he didn't dare to sleep in that night. Memories whose pain were routinely consummated with the help of his Japanese whiskey. Schlatt waited for you on the couch that night alongside the Cats™. Midnight beckoned him to hope; dawn rose to tether him back to reality: you were really gone. You didn't do him the courtesy of leaving behind a shirt to trash. Every single trace of evidence of your time spent together was collected. Even the stupid fucking wrappers of the gas station honey packets. 

Schlatt considered breaking the ice with you when he arrived in Los Angeles a few days later. In retrospect, the excuse he savored the most (especially while drinking) was the filming schedule. The extra days of setback made everyone work harder, stay later. After 10 hours on set, Schlatt could barely stomach talking to Ted, Tucker and the other producers. Throwing you into that mix was a recipe for a disaster that would've been better off avoided. But, if he hit enough bottles, Schlatt could be man enough to admit that he was too scared. Of what you would or wouldn't say and of what he could and couldn't admit to you in person. If you shot him one guilty look, he'd be done for. He'd admit with no shame that he's cried over you, that he's fairly certain a large percentage of his body craves your proximity. No such meeting occurred. He came to LA as quietly as he left.

The weather's begun to thaw. Springtime on the West Coast is a breath of fresh air with warnings to follow. The wildflowers on the highways will have started to bloom. A blurry flurry of pollinated blues, pinks and oranges. Summertime with the famous devilish Santa Ana winds was just around the corner. Before LA became even crazier, your friends finally decided to end your endless cycle of hopeful pitying and forced you to take a long weekend off. The plan was simple: exposure therapy.

"Remind me, how is this trip supposed to help me process my emotions?"

"By changing your subconscious associations with New York."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at her, which prompted your friend to throw an expensive airport M&M your way. The only reason why you even agreed to this trip is because your friends made you an offer you couldn't refuse. They scored a good price on an AirBnB and offered to cover your plane ticket. Besides, even if New York was ultimately Schlatt's city, surely it was big enough to hide you for a moment of catharsis?

"Exactly. Plus, there's like 8 million people there. What's the odds you'll bump into him there?"

Whatever emotion you might've felt regarding the situation was hard to parse based off of the only information Schlatt was given. Ted reported that you were too busy working on the back end to pop by set. That one morsel of information, however innocuous it might've seemed to Ted, encouraged Schlatt into a hobby he's long looked down upon. Insta-stalking. Schlatt's long considered the behavior reserved exclusively for bitter ex-girlfriends and teenage girls. However, in light of the absence of updates in the growing blankness of your absence, it became his favorite guilty pleasure. Your feed was beautifully curated. Posts upon posts of working diligently alongside overpriced bee pollen lattes at sunny cafes or of watching the Sopranos with your cat. None of what you shared online quite captured the idyllic picture he still had of you. These glimmers of his memory, however unrealistic they may be, meshed all too well into the facets of your life he desperately peered into every Saturday night after one too many whiskeys. You were living happily without him in a big city of your own. Despite the heartache, he was still quite proud of you.

That was until one of his self indulgent doom scrolling nights exposed a very recent dirty development. Fact: You were in New York again. With friends. Smiling in an Insta story, fingers spread delicately across a skinny wine glass. Radiant as always. 

Another fact: you were in his city again. Without telling him.

A sober Schlatt wouldn't have been so upset. It was reasonable to assume that you probably felt weird about reaching out, considering the state you left him in.

The phone only rung once before you answered.

"…um Hello?"

"Where are you?" Schlatt's tone was gruff, firm. You've never heard him like this before.

"Why do you care?"

"Why do you think?"

Taking in a deep breath, you allowed the words you wanted to say dissolve on your tongue for a moment into something more refined. They had to be just right because this time would be different. 

"For your information, I'm staying in the Upper East Side."

There was a small laugh on the other side of the line. A sweet, nearly forgotten melody.

"'Course you are. Park Avenue Princess."

The tension let up to allow a few minutes of idle silence. Neither of you dared to hang up.

"I moved into another apartment." Schlatt blinked, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. "Queens."

"Is that wh-"

"You should come over."

Schlatt said it like he was ripping off a Band-Aid. His liquid courage was beginning to wane, plus small talk was never his forte.

"…Now?"

"Yeah. If you want."

The Uber scooped you up within twenty minutes. You arrived to his address within the hour. As you bid the driver farewell, you spotted Schlatt waiting for you atop the staircase of his brownstone apartment. Within all the harshness of the winter that followed your absence, you never expected him to look at you so softly. Heart fluttering like the fall leaves that were once here the last time you were in the City, you made your way up the steps to face whatever fate had reserved for your previous cruelties. 

[evitttaa]

your writing is so good i have to request something:

schlatt and ted’s little sister? they meet for the first time in la and it’s an instant attraction but obviously nothing can be done about it because ted is super protective. they stay and touch and begin sneaking around behind ted’s back and like are so crazy for each other but then ted finds out?!

you’re amazing! <3

Brothers best friend

Ted: Come to New York! It’s not a far flight from Boston

Ted: It’s an hour! I’ll pay!

Y/n: Fine. I’ll fly out

Your bag was packed an hour later and you were on a flight to JFK in three. You don’t question your brother.

Ted was waiting at arrivals in a black hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, grinning the second he spotted you, tucking his phone away in his pocket. He pulled you into a tight hug when you reached him that lifted you off the ground for a second.

“There’s my favourite headache,” he said into your hair, gently patting your back as he squeezed you.

“You’re paying for dinner for the next three nights,” you mumbled against his shoulder. His shoulder bone digging into your chin.

“Deal.”

He took your suitcase and led the way out toward the parking garage. That was when you saw him.

Schlatt was leaning against a black car a few feet away, phone in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans. Dark hoodie, familiar black Yankees cap, the same lazy posture you’d seen a hundred times in Ted’s Instagram close friends stories. He looked up when Ted called his name.

“Schlatt!”

And the world did something stupid.

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse jumped. For half a second you forgot how to walk normally.

Ted didn’t notice.

“Y/N, this is Schlatt. Schlatt, my little sister. Be nice.”

Schlatt’s eyes flicked over you once, quick and unreadable, before he pushed off the car and offered a hand.

“Hey,” he said. Voice lower in person. Rougher.

“You look different from the last photos I saw of you”

You shook his hand. His palm was warm, a little rough, and he held on half a second longer than necessary.

“Hi.”

“Yeah I guess I do”

That was it. But something in the air between you already felt charged, like the second before lightning hits.

Ted kept talking the whole drive into the city, pointing out places, making plans for the week. You sat in the back seat and tried not to stare at the side of Schlatt’s face in the rear-view mirror. Every time he glanced up and caught your eyes, he looked away first.

You told yourself it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

“He’s keeping an eye on the road”

That night Ted took you both out for dinner. Schlatt sat across from you. Every time your knees brushed under the table, neither of you moved away. When he passed you the salt, his fingers grazed yours and lingered. When you laughed at something Ted said, you felt Schlatt watching your mouth, and yours watching his.

Ted was oblivious.

Later, back at the hotel they were booking for the week, the three of you ended up on the couch with a movie neither of you were watching. Ted fell asleep halfway through, head tipped back, soft snores already starting.

The second he was out, the tension snapped tight.

Schlatt looked at you over the top of Ted’s head. You looked back. Neither of you spoke. The only light came from the TV, painting everything blue and soft.

He mouthed

“You good?”

You nodded once.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again. Then lower, to where your tank top had slipped slightly off one shoulder. You watched his throat work as he swallowed.

You should have gone to your room.

Instead you stayed.

When Ted shifted in his sleep, Schlatt’s hand found yours on the couch cushion between you. Just his pinky hooking around yours at first. Then his whole hand, warm and careful, thumb stroking once over your knuckles like he couldn’t help it.

You didn’t pull away.

That was the first night.

The first of many.

The next few days were an exercise in restraint.

Ted had planned the whole week: dinners, a comedy show, a day trip out of the city, late nights at the apartment with the rest of the guys rotating in and out. You were never alone with Schlatt for longer than a few minutes. Ted made sure of it without even realising he was doing it.

Whenever someone new showed up and you smiled a little too long, Ted would throw an arm around your shoulders and say, loud enough for the room to hear:

“Don’t even think about it. I’ll kill you.”

Everyone laughed. Schlatt laughed too. But his eyes flicked to yours for half a second, something tight and private passing between you before he looked away.

You started collecting moments like secrets.

In the kitchen one morning while Ted was in the shower, Schlatt reached past you for a mug. His chest brushed your back. He didn’t move away immediately. You felt the warmth of him, the faint smell of his cologne, the way his breath hit your shoulder when he spoke low enough that only you could hear.

“Sleep okay?”

“Fine,” you whispered.

His hand settled on the counter beside yours, pinky barely touching. The water was still running. Neither of you moved until the pipes creaked and Ted’s footsteps headed toward the bathroom door. Schlatt stepped back like nothing had happened, already pouring coffee.

Another night, walking back from dinner, Ted was ahead with one of the other guys. You and Schlatt fell a few steps behind. The sidewalk was crowded. His hand found the small of your back for three full seconds as he steered you around a group of tourists, thumb stroking once before he dropped it. When you glanced up he was already looking forward again, jaw tight, like he was angry at himself for doing it.

Ted glanced back once and grinned.

“You two bonding? Careful, Schlatt, she’s off-limits. I’ll actually kill you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Schlatt said, voice easy. “You’ve mentioned it.”

But later that night, when Ted went out for more drinks and left the two of you on the fire escape with a shared cigarette neither of you really wanted, the air felt different.

Schlatt passed it to you. Your fingers overlapped. He didn’t let go right away.

“He’s not kidding, you know,” he said quietly, eyes on the street below. “About the protective thing.”

“I know.”

“Doesn’t stop me from thinking about it every five minutes.”

You looked at him. He was already looking at you. The city light caught the edge of his face, the curve of his mouth.

“Thinking about what?” you asked, even though you knew.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he reached out and brushed his thumb once across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, like he was testing how far he could push before the universe noticed. Then he dropped his hand and looked away, jaw flexing.

Inside, Ted’s key turned in the lock.

You both straightened like teenagers caught doing something worse than they actually had.

Ted walked out onto the fire escape, took one look at the two of you, and smirked.

“What are you two whispering about out here? Do I need to start making threats again?”

“Just smoking,” you said, voice steadier than you felt.

“Uh-huh.” He ruffled your hair the way he’d done since you were twelve. “Anyone else looks at you too long this week and I swear to God.”

Schlatt exhaled smoke through his nose and didn’t say anything.

But when Ted turned to go back inside, Schlatt’s hand found yours in the dark for one brief, reckless second. His fingers sliding between yours, squeezing once, hard before he let go and followed your brother in like nothing had happened.

You stayed on the fire escape a little longer, pulse still racing, the ghost of his touch burning against your palm.

It was only day four.

You were already in so much trouble

You kissed two nights later.

Ted had dragged the whole group to a crowded bar in the East Village. Too many people, too much noise, the kind of place where it was easy to lose track of someone for a few minutes.

You’d gone looking for the bathroom and taken a wrong turn down a narrow back hallway that smelled like beer and old wood. The music was muffled here. The only light came from a red exit sign at the far end.

You almost walked straight into him.

Schlatt was coming the other way, head down, scrolling on his phone. He looked up just in time to stop short. For a second the two of you just stood there, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.

“Lost?” he asked, voice low.

“Maybe.”

He glanced past your shoulder toward the main room, checking. Then his eyes came back to yours. Something in his expression had gone sharp and intentional.

“Ted’s at the bar,” he said quietly. “He’s ordering another round. We’ve got maybe two minutes.”

You didn’t ask what for.

He stepped forward, backing you gently against the wall. One hand came up to the side of your neck, thumb resting just under your jaw. You felt the slight tremor in his fingers, like he was still trying to talk himself out of it even as he did it.

“This is a bad idea,” he murmured.

“I know.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was months of stolen glances and almost-touches finally snapping. His mouth was warm and a little rough, tasting like whiskey and the mint he’d been chewing earlier.

You made a small sound against his lips and his other hand found your waist, pulling you in until there was no space left. The kiss deepened fast, tongues sliding, teeth catching, the kind of desperate that came from knowing you could be caught any second. His thumb stroked the side of your throat.

You fisted your hands in the front of his hoodie and kissed him back harder.

A burst of laughter from the main room made you both freeze.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You could still feel the shape of his mouth on yours.

He stepped away first, jaw tight, already putting distance back between you like it might undo what had just happened. You fixed your hair with shaking fingers. Neither of you spoke.

When you walked back into the main room thirty seconds apart, Ted was still at the bar, completely oblivious, waving you over with a grin.

“There you are. Thought someone kidnapped you.”

Schlatt laughed on cue, easy and normal, and took the drink Ted handed him like nothing in the world had changed.

But every time his eyes met yours across the table after that, the air felt different.

The Uber happened the next night.

Ted had insisted on going to some rooftop thing across town. By the time you all spilled out onto the sidewalk it was past one and raining lightly.

Ted claimed the front seat of the Uber the second it pulled up, already talking to the driver about the best route. That left you and Schlatt in the back.

The second the door shut, the atmosphere shifted.

Ted was still chatting away up front, half-turned toward the driver. The partition wasn’t fully closed. Any sudden movement and he’d see.

Schlatt didn’t care.

The second the car pulled into traffic his hand found your thigh, high and possessive, fingers spreading over denim.

You looked at him.

He was already looking at you, eyes dark in the passing streetlights. Without a word he leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, but no less hungry. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been thinking about the hallway all day.

You tasted rain on his lips, felt the warm slide of his tongue, the way his hand tightened on your thigh when you kissed him back.

Ted laughed at something the driver said.

Neither of you stopped.

Schlatt’s hand slid higher, thumb stroking the inner seam of your jeans. You bit his lower lip to keep from making a sound. He exhaled hard through his nose and kissed you deeper, angling his body so that from the front it just looked like he was leaning toward the window.

His other hand came up to cup the side of your face, fingers sliding into your hair, holding you there while he licked into your mouth like he had all the time in the world and none at all.

The car hit a red light.

Ted glanced back.

You and Schlatt were already apart, both looking out opposite windows like nothing had happened. Your mouth was still tingling. His hand was still on your thigh, hidden by the angle of his body, squeezing once, hard, before he finally let go.

Ted turned back around, still talking.

Schlatt didn’t look at you for the rest of the ride.

But when the car stopped and Ted got out first, Schlatt’s voice was low enough that only you could hear it as he held the door.

“Next time I’m not stopping.”

You believed him.

It was the last night of the trip.

Ted had rented a big Airbnb for a “proper goodbye hang.” Open-plan living room, too many people, music loud enough that conversations happened in pockets. You’d been careful all week. Too careful. The hallway kiss and the Uber had only made the wanting worse. Every time Schlatt looked at you now it felt like a countdown.

Around midnight he caught your eye from across the room and tilted his head toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. No smile. Just a question.

You waited sixty seconds, then followed.

The second bedroom at the end of the hall was dark and empty. The moment the door clicked shut behind you he was on you.

Mouth crashing into yours, hands already under your shirt, backing you against the wall hard enough that a framed print rattled. You kissed him like you’d been starving. He tasted like the beer he’d been drinking and something darker, something that had been building since the night you met.

His hands were everywhere.

Your waist, your thighs, sliding up under your bra to palm your bare skin. You yanked his hoodie up and he broke the kiss only long enough to drag it over his head and toss it aside before his mouth was back on yours, hungrier.

“We shouldn’t,” he muttered against your lips, even as he lifted you so your legs wrapped around his waist.

“I know.”

He carried you to the bed and followed you down, hips settling between your thighs, the hard line of him pressing exactly where you needed it. The music from the living room thumped through the walls, loud enough to cover the sounds you were making.

His hand slid into your jeans, fingers finding you already wet, and he groaned into your neck like it physically hurt him.

“Fuck, baby—”

You were so focused on the heat of his mouth and the way his fingers moved that neither of you heard the footsteps in the hall.

The door opened.

Light spilled in from the hallway.

Ted stood there, one hand still on the doorknob, face blank with shock for half a second before it twisted into something colder.

“What the fuck.”

Everything stopped.

Schlatt froze above you, hand still inside your jeans. You were breathing hard, shirt pushed up, lipstick smeared.

There was no version of this that looked innocent.

Ted’s voice came out low and dangerous.

“Get the fuck off my sister.”

Schlatt moved immediately, pulling his hand free, sitting back, already reaching for his hoodie like distance might fix it. You yanked your shirt down, heart slamming so hard you felt it in your throat.

Ted didn’t look at you. He looked at Schlatt.

“I told you,” he said, quiet in a way that was worse than yelling. “I fucking told you she was off-limits. And you.. what? Waited until I was in the other room so you could sneak her in here like some random girl from the bar?”

“Ted—” Schlatt started.

“Don’t.” Ted’s hands were fists at his sides. “Don’t say a single fucking word to me right now.”

He finally looked at you. The disappointment in his face hit harder than anger.

“Get your stuff.”

“Ted, it’s not—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” His voice cracked on the last word. “Not from you. Not tonight.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. The music and laughter from the living room felt suddenly too loud, too normal, like the rest of the world hadn’t just tilted.

Schlatt sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie in his hands, staring at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t.” Your voice came out shaky. “We both did this.”

From the living room you heard Ted’s voice, sharp and final, telling someone they were heading out. Keys jingled. The front door opened.

You looked at Schlatt. He looked back. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked scared, not of Ted, but of what this might have just cost.

You stood on unsteady legs, fixed your clothes as best you could, and walked out of the room.

And just like that, the week was over.

The silence lasted three days.

Ted barely spoke to you on the flight back to Boston. He didn’t look at you on the ride back to your parents.

He didn’t speak to you the first day.

The second day he answered with one-word replies.

By the third you showed up at his bedroom door, heart in your throat, and found him on the bed in the same hoodie he’d worn all week, staring at a muted TV.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“I’m still pissed,” he said by way of greeting.

“I know.”

You sat on the opposite end of the bed, leaving space. For a long time neither of you spoke. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Finally Ted exhaled and dragged a hand down his face.

“He’s my best friend, Y/N. And you’re my little sister. Do you get how fucked that feels on my end?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

“I do.”

“I kept making those jokes about killing anyone who looked at you and I thought I was being funny. Protective big brother shit. I didn’t think it would actually be him.”

He shook his head.

“I walked in and saw his hand down your jeans and for a second I genuinely wanted to hit him.”

You swallowed. “Are you still going to?”

“No.” He looked at you then, really looked. “But only because he called me yesterday.”

That surprised you.

Ted kept going, voice quieter.

“He didn’t make excuses. Didn’t try to downplay it. Just said he knew he’d crossed a line, that he cared about you, and that if I wanted him out of my life he’d understand. Then he told me he’d wait however long it took for me to not hate him for it.”

Ted huffed a humourless laugh. “Asshole even apologised for the jokes I’d made. Said he should’ve taken them more seriously.”

You waited.

Ted stared at the TV for another long moment before speaking again.

“I’ve known him for years. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. And I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him either. That’s the part that sucks the most. Because I can’t even pretend it’s just some fling.”

He turned to face you fully.

“I’m not gonna pretend I’m fine with it overnight. It’s gonna be weird for a while. Watching you two together is gonna make me want to bleach my brain sometimes. But…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable.

“You’re an adult. He’s an adult. And if this is actually something real, I’m not gonna be the reason it doesn’t happen.”

Your throat felt tight. “Ted—”

“I’m serious.” He held your gaze. “Just… don’t sneak around behind my back again. If you’re gonna do this, do it where I can at least pretend I’m okay with it. And if he ever hurts you, I will kill him. That’s not a joke.”

A small, watery laugh escaped you. “Deal.”

Ted reached over and tugged you into a rough side-hug, the same way he had since you were kids.

“I love you, idiot,” he muttered into your hair.

“Love you too.”

When you left his room an hour later, the weight on your chest had shifted into something lighter.

You texted Schlatt the second you left.

Y/N: He wants to talk to you. Properly. Not over text.

Schlatt: Yeah?

Y/N: Yeah. I think it’s gonna be okay.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Schlatt: Can I see you after?

Y/N: Yes.

Later that week, Schlatt showed up at your bedroom door with coffee and a nervous expression you’d never seen on him before. You didn’t need to ask how the talk with Ted had gone. The fact that he was standing on your doorstep instead of avoiding you said enough.

He stepped inside, set the coffees down, and looked at you like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

“So,” he said quietly. “Your brother didn’t kill me.”

“Not yet.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. Then it faded into something more serious.

“I’m not going to hide this,” he said. “Not from him. Not from anyone. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it for real.”

You stepped closer, sliding your hands up his chest to rest over his heart. It was beating fast.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m done sneaking around too.”

He kissed you then. Slow and certain, no more borrowed time, no more listening for footsteps. Just the two of you, finally allowed to want each other out in the open.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice was soft.

“Your brother’s still gonna make those jokes sometimes, you know.”

“I know.”

“And I’m still gonna hate them.”

You smiled. “I know that too.”

Schlatt’s hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking gentle arcs through your shirt.

“Worth it,” he murmured, and kissed you again.

“Can you not make out next door?!” You heard the scream from Ted