my name is emarie (or em) and i am 19. my pronouns are she/her. this is my first time writing on tumblr so any help is appreciated!
i mainly write fluff, smut and angst for schlatt, the group, until dawn characters (mostly josh and chris but all are accepted), and slushynoobz (mostly hamzah).
feel free to send in requests! (blurbs/ideas/hc/etc.)
scuffed list of rules for my blog:
- minors dni pls!
- things i won’t write (it’s subject to change): incest, feces play/piss play, and extremely dark themes (cnc is accepted)
- no hate or disrespect toward anyone or anything is tolerated on here (no i won’t entertain you it will be deleted).
Summary: Movie night with Josh turns into a lot more than just jumpscares and popcorn.
Warnings: Smut (18+ mdni), oral (f. receiving), teasing, domestic fluff, slow undressing, dirty talk, kissing, soft!Josh but also a little cheeky hehe
The lights are low, the only glow coming from the TV screen and the warm fairy lights strung around the living room. The opening credits of some old slasher flick flicker across the screen in oversaturated reds and greens, and Josh’s arm is already draped over your shoulders like he owns the place. Which—technically—he does. But right now, he seems more invested in claiming you than in following the plot.
You’re tucked under a fuzzy blanket, your feet tangled with his on the couch. He smells like fresh laundry and weed and whatever cologne he swiped on earlier—something spicy, warm, a little sexy. His fingers brush up and down your arm in these slow, idle strokes, just enough to give you chills.
Halfway through the first big scare—some ridiculous jump-cut of a masked killer with a chainsaw—Josh gasps dramatically and yanks you into him.
“Oh nooo,” he whispers in your ear, clutching you like a damsel. “Protect me.”
You snort into his hoodie. “You’re so annoying.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing his face into your hair, “you’re still here. Watching ‘Chainsaw Cheerleaders IV’ with me. What does that say about you?”
You tilt your head to look up at him. “That I have terrible taste.”
“In movies?” he grins, sliding his hand to your thigh. “Or in men?”
“Both.”
He laughs, warm and smug, before leaning in to kiss you. It starts playful, teasing. His lips are soft and a little minty from the gum he’d been chewing earlier, and he kisses like he talks—cheeky, confident, kind of like he’s daring you to lose control first.
The movie continues in the background, loud and absurd, but the only thing you’re really aware of is Josh. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. One of your legs ends up draped across his lap, and that’s when you feel him—half hard already, shifting beneath you like he can’t quite decide if he wants to pull you closer or make some dumb quip about it.
“Mmm, popcorn and makeouts,” he murmurs against your lips. “My two favorite food groups.”
“You’re so gross.”
“You’re literally grinding on me right now. Who’s gross?”
“Still you.”
His hands move to your waist, coaxing you into his lap properly. You straddle him, your thighs on either side of his hips, chest to chest. His hoodie rides up a bit, exposing a strip of his stomach, and you slide your hands under the fabric instinctively.
Josh moans softly, exaggerated. “God, this is so much better than jump scares.”
You laugh, kissing down the side of his neck, and he tips his head to give you more access, breath hitching when your teeth scrape gently at his pulse.
Somewhere behind you, the final girl screams. Josh just groans, wraps his arms tight around your waist, and nuzzles into your collarbone.
“You’re distracting me from this masterpiece,” he whispers, voice low and teasing.
“Oh no,” you say dryly. “Whatever will you do?”
He grins, “Guess I’ll just carry you to bed and finish the real feature presentation.”
And before you can answer, he stands—arms secure under your thighs—lifting you like it’s nothing and walking toward his room. You cling to him, half-giggling, half-turned on by the way he makes it seem so easy. He bumps open the door with his shoulder and drops you onto the mattress with a bounce, crawling up after you with that mischievous glint in his eyes.
He kisses you again, slower now, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt. He peels it off over your head and tosses it aside like it’s in the way of the scene he’s been dying to shoot.
“You know…” he whispers, brushing his lips over your collarbone as his fingers toy with the waistband of your shorts, “in the movie… this is usually when someone dies.”
“Lucky me,” you breathe, arching into his touch.
“Oh, baby,” he smirks, dragging your shorts and panties down your legs, kissing every inch he exposes, “you’re about to feel very alive.”
His mouth finds your thighs first—slow, open-mouthed kisses that make your stomach clench. He nudges them apart and lies between them like he’s settling in for his favorite part.
His tongue flicks between your folds, gentle at first—just teasing, slow enough to make you squirm. He moans softly like he’s really tasting you, not just going through the motions. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you in place even as your thighs try to close around his head.
You groan. “Josh—oh my god—”
He chuckles darkly and sucks your clit, just once, and your hips jolt up into his face. He latches on, tongue swirling, and you lose your grip on everything except the heat building inside you. He doesn’t stop—not when you cry out, not when your hands claw the sheets, not even when your whole body arches and tightens as the orgasm crashes through you.
You’re still catching your breath when he climbs back up, face smug and shining with the proof of what he just did. He kisses you like it’s his favorite dessert, and you taste yourself on his lips.
“I should fake being scared more often,” he whispers.
You wrap your arms around him, dizzy and giddy.
“Next movie night,” you murmur, “we’re watching a rom-com.”
Josh grins, nose brushing yours. “Only if I still get to go down on you during the romantic montage.”
You pull him into another kiss, giggling into his mouth.
Just a late night hot thot here about Chris being a total DILF!!!
He’d rock his dad bod💅🏼 he’s already so big and beefy😵💫
Yk his girl teases him so bad, loving that flustered awkward face of his whenever she calls him daddy. He only becomes more of a switch in bed after this cause like being whiny and developing a breeding kink…
He’s absolutely mortified when he overhears his bby girl’s friends start calling him one tho
#new anon🫶🏼
✮ DILF! Chris Headcanons ✮
May I present to you; Christopher “DILF” Hartley 🥵
Warnings: use of “daddy” (bc he is one), breeding k!nk, mdni 18+, switch!chris
★ the dad bod is top-tier! he’s still got his muscles—just wrapped in a layer of comfort, he’s built, but he will still finish off a plate of your kid’s abandoned Dino nuggets. A true sleeper build, looks squishy, but flexes and your panties basically poof off of your body. He’s still getting all the groceries in one trip and carrying a car seat with a baby in it like it’s nothing:
★ Calling him daddy is so fun because no matter how many times you do it he still gets flustered, cheeks get pink and he starts stuttering in that classic Chris way.
You’re handing him his dinner, perfectly plated, kissing his cheek “Here you go, daddy” you purr.
He stiffens, the tips of his ears turning pink and his brain malfunctioning as he stutters a “th-thank you, sweetheart.” Pushing his glasses up nervously, chewing thoughtfully.
★ Oh and in bed?? He’s so whiny. He’s also the biggest switch ever! that’s so real. He can go from pounding you into the mattress and sweetly teasing you to whining under you as you ride him, begging you to give him permission to cum like a polite but desperate thing.
★ But even if he’s being more subby he’s still got the breeding k!nk. Literally begging to fill you up:
“P-please—please baby can I?—can I come inside?? I’m so c-close—fuck I can’t hold it anymore, honey”
“Need to fill you—make sure you’re gonna give me another baby—”
“You will right, angel?? You’ll let me put another baby in you??”
★ Occasionally (often) says things like:
“Do you want another one? Because I swear to god, you keep looking at me like that and I will give you one.”
★ The Dilf comment from your friend makes him blush, but he’s secretly really prideful about it, he loves praise and attention and hearing that he’s hot never gets old, even if he turns red as a tomato when anyone refers to him as a dilf 🤭
“Did you hear what she said? I’m a DILF, babe. am I allowed to feel kinda honored? like should I… put that on a mug? Should I be dressing hotter??”
Later, you catch him flexing in the mirror while brushing his teeth, whispering:
“DILF. Damn right.”
<3
A/N: I love this anon! You guys are feeding my delusions 😵💫😵💫Sorry if you were looking for a full-fledged blurb, there was just a lot of points to hit so it was better for a more headcanon-type response!
You were cute, bubbly, shamelessly touchy, and downright obsessed with him. Always pawing at him, rubbing against him, whining when he left the room too long.
At first, he thought it was just a personality quirk… until you showed up wearing a collar and climbed into his lap, tail wagging in your eyes.
You’re always in heat, basically.
You’re constantly teasing him: crawling into his lap, licking at his neck, grinding your hips while fake-pouting.
If he ignores you, you just get needier. Whining, biting his hoodie sleeve, tugging on his hand until he does something.
The collar drives him crazy.
It’s tight, snug, black leather with a little silver tag that says “Chris’.”
You love when he tugs on it—especially mid-argument or while he’s got you bent over.
He uses it like a handle. Like a leash. Like a threat.
“You keep acting like a fucking mutt in heat, and I’m gonna treat you like one.”
Chris is obsessed with manhandling you.
He’ll throw you over the couch, flip you onto your stomach, drag you into his lap without warning.
You squeal every time. He grins every time.
If you act too bratty? He pins you down with one hand on your back and mutters, “Down, girl.”
He loves keeping you on your knees, tugging your collar like a leash as he fucks your mouth or bending you over and fucking you from behind while he wraps the leash around his wrist.
He’ll groan, “That’s it, take it, good fucking girl,” while you’re crying into the mattress.
You beg like it’s a full-time job.
He snaps when you beg, all fucked-out and teary-eyed.
He’ll slap your ass, grab your face, and say, “You want me to fuck you stupid again, huh? Can’t go a day without my cock?”
Spoiler: You do want that. And more.
Post-sex, he’s soft and smug.
He wraps you in his hoodie and kisses your collarbone.
He’ll whisper, “You’re such a good girl for me,” while stroking your thighs.
And he always makes sure you’re okay. Aftercare is mandatory—even if you’re drooling and in bliss.
Summary: A science museum date with Chris Hartley turns unexpectedly flirty when his nerdy charm proves way too hard to resist.
Warnings: Fluff, light make-out, mild language, nerdy flirting, self-indulgent as a science nerd myself
Chris wasn’t exactly sprinting ahead, but he definitely had a bit of a bounce in his step as the two of you entered the science museum. His eyes scanned every exhibit like he was trying to absorb the entire place at once.
“Oh my God—they’ve got a full-scale Voyager replica,” he said, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. “Come on, you have to see this.”
You followed him toward the glass case, already smiling at how effortlessly animated he was. He wasn’t rambling, exactly—but he talked fast when he was excited, and he was definitely excited. “That gold disc up there?” he said, pointing. “It’s literally a message in a bottle for aliens. Music, greetings, directions to Earth. And like… whale sounds. We really just launched our weird little mixtape into space.”
You laughed, and he turned toward you, clearly pleased with himself.
“Tell me that’s not cool,” he said.
“It’s definitely cool. A little dramatic.”
“Yeah, well, we were shooting our shot,” he said with a shrug, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. “Can’t blame us for trying to be cosmic flirts.”
You rolled your eyes, still grinning, and let him pull you into the next room. Every few steps, he paused to point something out—a tectonic display, a mineral wall, a fossilized jaw that looked like it belonged to a prehistoric nightmare. And every time, he had a quick fact or a comment, delivered with a charming blend of curiosity and goofiness that somehow never felt like showing off.
“Fun fact,” he said, kneeling in front of a trilobite exhibit, “these guys had compound eyes, like flies. They were basically little armored sea bugs with laser vision.”
You crossed your arms, watching him with amusement. “You rehearsing for a TED Talk?”
He looked up at you, grinning. “Maybe. You listening?”
“Honestly? Yeah. Against all odds, I am.”
He stood, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Don’t act surprised. I’m fascinating.”
“You’re something,” you teased. “I just haven’t figured out what yet.”
“Keep investigating. That’s science, baby.”
By the time you reached the mineral wing, he was mid-sentence about geode formations when something in your chest just snapped—in a good way. You stepped a little closer. “Okay, not to interrupt your lecture, Professor, but I really want to kiss you right now.”
Chris blinked, thrown off for just a second. Then he leaned in slightly, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
You tugged him by the sleeve toward a quiet hallway between exhibits. “Yeah.”
He let you back him against the wall without hesitation, and the second your lips were on his, he kissed you back like he meant it—hands sliding to your waist, body warm against yours, breath catching just a little like he hadn’t expected you to actually go for it. But when you pulled back, he was already chasing your mouth again before stopping himself, flushed and breathless.
“I was literally talking about sediment layers,” he said, laughing under his breath. “You’re just out here ambushing me.”
“You loved it.”
“Obviously.” He smoothed a hand through his hair. “You’re really gonna make me associate geodes with kissing you now. Every time I see one, I’m gonna be like, ‘Oh yeah. That’s when they made out with me in a hallway.’”
“Sounds like positive reinforcement to me.”
Chris gave a quiet groan and pulled you back in for one more quick kiss, smiling against your mouth.
Later, you found him near the museum’s kids’ section—holding court, essentially, crouched next to a group of elementary schoolers and a plastic model of a human skull.
He hadn’t planned this. Someone must’ve asked him for help, and he—naturally—stepped in.
“Okay, so this right here is the mandible,” he said, pointing at the lower jaw. “Helps you talk, chew, and make weird faces at your friends when the teacher’s not looking.”
A few kids giggled. One of them raised their hand and asked if he was a real scientist. Chris grinned. “Nah, I just know a lot of random stuff and talk too much. Works out sometimes.”
You watched from the side with your arms folded, heart doing that stupid flip-flop thing as he answered their questions with patience and humor, slipping into that easy, confident rhythm he got when he wasn’t trying too hard.
When he noticed you watching, he gave you a tiny wink—and then immediately messed up the part name he was saying, stuttering through “zygomatic” like it was a tongue twister. You tried not to laugh.
Later, up on the rooftop garden as the sun dipped below the skyline, he leaned against the railing beside you, sipping his drink.
“So?” he asked. “On a scale of ‘mildly entertaining’ to ‘please never take me anywhere again,’ how’d I do?”
You turned toward him, the breeze brushing hair across your face. “Honestly? I’d let you drag me through ten more museums if it means I get to kiss you in quiet hallways.”
Chris ducked his head with a small laugh. “Wow. Weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten—and definitely top three.”
“You’re weird. That’s the appeal.”
He looked over at you, a little soft around the edges now. “Yeah? So, uh… you wanna come over? I’ve got a telescope. And maybe some leftover facts you haven’t heard yet.”
You stepped in close, brushing his hand with yours. “Only if I’m allowed to interrupt you again.”
He smiled, eyes crinkling. “I’m kinda hoping you do.”
warnings: hinting to sex, aftercare, reader is lowk evil, supporting women’s rights and wrongs
prev fic
“You keep staring” you mumble as you lay your head back with your eyes closed. “It’s hard not too.” Chris whispered, looking up at you from his position. After weeks of “enjoying each other’s company” Chris realized that aftercare was another way to get closer to you. “What does that mean?” You look down, furrowing your brows and pull yourself back. “I-I’m just saying you look really nice! Like really nice…” Chris replied, throwing his hands up in defense. “I’m just playing, Chris. Quit acting so nervous around me!” You sigh, putting your feet back into his lap, causing him to resume his foot massage. “Y-you know, I think you look your most gorgeous right now.” Chris says, obviously nervous.
“Right now, as in, when we’re done fucking?” You smile, looking down at Chris’s ruin state, “explain.” “W-well, you look your most natural, not saying you don’t look good ‘not natural’! But, you look so authentic, It’s beautiful in some way…” Chris rambles, trying to explain his thought process. “You look so relaxed, like i took the world off your shoulders…” be smiles before kissing you legs. “You have a way with those sweet words you speak to me… you know if you wanted round two, you just could have asked?” You smirk, grabbing Chris’s jaw before pulling him into a passionate kiss.
It had been a month since you first slept with Chris. Didn’t know that once you fucked him, you couldn’t go back. When you and Chris had sex, he always prioritized your satisfaction before his own. It’s pathetic to admit but this was a first when it came to sexual experience, it was new to you for a man to care about your need that much. After a week of complete sexual pleasure, Chris was starting to understand more and more on how to properly please you. At first he genuinely couldn’t handle all that, you felt sadistic watching him try to keep up with you.
“I’m just telling the truth!” Chris replied, pulling out of the kiss. “It’s crazy to think about a month ago i didn’t even entertain myself with the idea of being with you… i-is that what we’re doing? W-what are we?” Chris pulls back on his knees in front of you. “It’s simple, we’re just two collage kids experimenting, no need to label anything!” You reply, sitting back down on the bed. “What if i wanted it to be something? Is that bad? Like I totally understand if you don’t reciprocate, but i just need you to know how i feel about you. I’m ready to commit myself for this relationship…” he looks up, giving a pleasing look.
“I can’t believe you’re pulling the ‘what are we’ card immediately after rearranging my guts, Chris.” You sigh, pulling Chris into your bed. “I-I just don’t know how to act… you’ve put me in a state of pure euphoria, multiple times at that. Sorry for falling in love after you took my virginity!” Chris responded, hiding his face in your neck. The idea of Chris being your boyfriend left you feeling something you’ve never felt. Another part of you felt like having Chris as a lover, it felt like an extra responsibility. It sounds wrong, but in a way, having Chris as your boyfriend would lower your social status.
You left really bad thinking about thinking so low about Chris, it was true in some way. The entire reason you went to college was to network with people, your father originally wanted you to start working for the company he owned right out of high school but was persuaded into letting you seek higher education. You planned on finding a trust fund baby as a husband, maybe become a stay-at-home-wife. You aren’t ready on thinking about Chris as a husband yet. I mean yea, he’s smart, will probably get a good job after school, knows how, is at least learning how to take care of you, and is completely devoted to you. But still, there was something missing. Chris felt like an extension of you, like he didn’t care about how he truly felt, only thought or did anything that would keep you into him.
“You’re thinking about something…” Chris said, pulling you out of your daze. “Just about us” you responded, snugging into his grasp. He looked up, giving you a kiss on your palm. “We don’t need to worry about how to identify our relationship…” you stated before falling into a state of slumber in Chris’s arms.
Okie I have a request for a josh and Chris meeting the reader in highschool for the first time and they became friends through like comic books or like the newest game that came out because they are nerds just for fun
If you don't want to do this it's Okie
Issue #1: First Encounter
Parings: Chris x gn!reader, Josh x gn!reader (either platonic or flirty 😏 you decide) (no prank au)
Warnings: cheesy banter bc it’s fun! Okay? sue me.
Summary: you go to the comic book shop in search of a back issue, what you find are new friends in the shape of two dorks that come as a package deal; Chris and Josh. It seems you’ve been adopted as the third wheel in their bromance whether you like it or not.
A/N: hiii I love this! My two favorite boys 🥹 I hope it’s okay they’re in college in this, I know you requested high school but I prefer to write about them as adults :) (dating a lot of (only) nerds and having a base knowledge on comic books came in handy for this ask!)
You’re halfway through flipping through the back issues, elbow-deep in plastic sleeves and crossovers, when someone bumps into the end of the display with a soft thud.
“Ah, crap—sorry. I didn’t think anyone was back here.”
You look up to find a tall guy with glasses and a beanie, shoulders hunched like he’s startled himself as much as you. He’s wearing a Watchmen hoodie, already slightly pilled at the cuffs. Definitely a regular.
You give him a quick once-over and shrug. “It’s fine. no casualties”
He gives a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Cool. That’s… good. Uh, I wasn’t, like, creeping or anything, I just—” He gestures vaguely at the boxes. “I’m on a mission.”
“Let me guess: Green Lantern?” You smirk.
His face lights up, almost embarrassingly so. “Rebirth! Yes! You get it”
Before you could respond, another guy steps around the corner—leaner, with that kind of practiced casualness that probably made him popular without trying. He takes one look at the two of you and raises an eyebrow.
“Chris, are you harassing strangers in the wild again?” he asks, smirking. “Can’t take you anywhere” he teases him.
Chris makes a noise that was half protest, half panic. “What?! No! I just bumped the shelf! I wasn’t—th-they were already here!”
“Relax, man, I’m messing with you,” the new guy says, shooting you a quick, easy smile before he sticks out a hand. “Josh. That’s Chris. He’s harmless. Socially clumsy, but harmless.”
You hesitate a second before shaking his hand.
Josh’s eyes wander to your bag when he lets go of your hand. “I like the Moon Knight patch. Taste.”
Chris nods quickly like he was just now noticing. “Oh—yeah, that’s awesome. Moon Knight’s underrated. like, so many people just watched the show and bailed, but if you actually read—sorry, I’m rambling”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do you guys do this often? Corner people in the back issues section?”
“Corner?” Josh repeats, mock offended. “No, this is mutual proximity. We’re just friendly.”
Chris looks like he wants to crawl into a long box and close the lid. “we—we’re not trying to be weird. I swear. We just—uh, like comics. And your patch’s cool, that’s all”
You glance between them. Both clearly nerds, but in wildly different flavors. Josh had the confidence of someone who knew he could talk his way into or out of anything. Chris looked like this was the most intense social interaction he’d had all week. Maybe month. But neither of them gave you that creepy gut feeling. Just… harmless dorks. Maybe even kind of funny, in a secondhand embarrassment kind of way.
You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You two always come as a set?”
“Unfortunately,” Chris mutters under his breath.
Josh ignored him. “Usually. Trivia nights, midnight releases, occasional accidental arson in the microwave when someone tries to reheat pizza on foil…” Josh gives Chris a pointed look.
“That was one time,” Chris mumbles, visibly dying.
You tilt your head. “There’s trivia?”
Josh perked up. “Yeah—The Kettle Café, Thursday nights. Comics, movies, all the nerdy stuff. We bombed last week because someone forgot the name of Thor’s Second Hammer.”
“It’s called Stormbreaker, and I had brain fog,” Chris shoots back.
You look down at the issue in your hands. You had fully intended to be in and out of this place in under ten minutes. But now you had two dorks standing in front of you; one melting, one grinning—and for some reason, you weren’t quite ready to bolt.
Josh raised his brows. “You should come, we could use someone who actually reads Moon Knight”
you considered. “If it turns out to be just the two of you playing against each other and quoting The Big Bang Theory for two hours, I’m walking out”
Chris looked genuinely disgusted. “We quote Firefly, actually.”
Josh grinned. “So that’s a maybe?”
You sigh, “It’s a ‘give me the address and I’ll think about it’”
Josh pulls a sharpie out of his jacket pocket like he does this sort of thing often. “that’s a victory”
As he scribbles the address on a receipt from his pocket and hands it to you, you catch Chris looking down at his shoes, trying not to smile too obviously.
You tuck the receipt into your bag. “Alright, nerds. Enjoy your Rebirth… don’t burn anything down”
Chris gives an awkward little salute, “No promises”
Summary: When Schlatt refuses to leave his desk for bed, the reader takes matters into their own hands—giving him a late-night distraction.
Warnings: Suggestive content (mdni 18+), smutty toward the end but nothing explicitly said, kinda brat!reader yum
The soft glow of the monitor lit up Schlatt’s face in the otherwise dark room, casting sharp shadows under his eyes and across his jaw. His headset was pushed back behind his ears, one hand on the mouse, the other rubbing tired circles into his temple. The late hour clung to the air like dust—still, heavy, and quiet, save for the occasional sharp click-click of editing cuts and his muttered cursing. You leaned against the doorframe in one of his old hoodies, the hem brushing your thighs and your arms crossed over your chest. “You said ‘five more minutes’ an hour ago.”
“I meant it an hour ago,” he shot back, voice gruff. “Now it’s critical. The transitions are outta whack, and the audio is peakin’. It’s a mess, toots.”
“Toots,” you echoed, brows raising as you pushed off the frame and padded over to him barefoot. “You’re a mess. It’s almost 2 a.m. and you’re still yelling at Adobe Premiere like it owes you rent.”
He didn’t look at you, just dragged the timeline across with a frustrated grunt. “Maybe if it did, it’d work right.”
You rolled your eyes but your expression softened as you slipped behind him, arms wrapping lazily over his shoulders. “Come to bed. Please?”
“Mmhm,” he muttered, leaning into the warmth of you pressed against his back but not budging. “Just—gimme a sec.”
You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “You’re really gonna make me drag you away from this desk?”
He finally glanced over, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You threatening me, sweetheart?” You were already sliding down, slow and teasing, until your knees pressed into the carpet beneath his desk. His chair creaked as he turned slightly, wide-eyed now. “Wait, you—babe—?”
You gave him a slow smile, hands bracing on his thighs. “If you won’t come to bed, I’ll just have to give you a reason to want to finish up.”
He swore under his breath, voice low and gravelly. “Jesus Christ…”
You reached up and tugged gently at his waistband. “Keep editing. Pretend I’m not here.”
“Oh yeah, real easy,” he muttered, face already flushed as he stared at the screen and tried to act like he wasn’t completely unraveling. His voice cracked when he tried to speak again. “This is a violation of workplace conduct, y’know that?”
“Good thing we’re not at work.”
He huffed, biting back a groan, and let his head drop back against the chair. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”
“You better. Now shut up and finish your video.”
And he tried—he really did—but that night, the only thing he managed to finish was you.
Summary: Josh’s terrible wingman tactics backfire, but Chris still ends up with the reader—and Josh proudly takes the credit.
Warnings: Goofy and silly angst, fluff, happy ending (ofc), mutual pining, josh being himself
Chris regretted telling Josh within ten minutes.
He hadn’t even meant to confess. It just slipped out one night after too many beers and a horror movie that somehow ended up with you curled next to Chris on the couch, knees brushing, laughing into your blanket like you didn’t even realize how easy it was to ruin him. “They’re awesome,” Chris had said quietly when you’d gone to the kitchen for snacks, eyes still on the spot you’d been sitting.
Josh had raised a brow. “Oh? Awesome in a ‘cool friend’ way or a ‘please make out with me by the fire’ way?”
Chris had blushed so hard he’d nearly swallowed his tongue. “Shut up.”
And just like that, the damage was done.
Josh declared himself “the wingman of the century,” which immediately filled Chris with dread. Josh’s idea of subtlety was about as refined as a foghorn. Or a marching band. Or a foghorn in a marching band.
The next morning, Chris realized he was right to worry. You were sitting on the porch with your tea, hair messy from sleep, hoodie half-zipped in the chilly air. It was a perfectly normal, calm moment. And then Josh came flying out of the cabin like he was about to give a TED Talk.
“Hey, Y/N!” he said, loud and obnoxiously chipper. “Did you know that Chris is really good at making breakfast? Like, shockingly good. You should definitely eat something he makes today. Just, like…random suggestion.”
You blinked, spoon halfway to your mouth. “Okay?” Josh turned and made intense eye contact with Chris through the glass door like he expected a medal. Chris mouthed what the hell are you doing and tried not to die of embarrassment.
Later that afternoon, Josh cornered you in the hallway outside the guest rooms. “Hey,” he said casually. “We’re gonna do some board games later. You should sit next to Chris. He’s, like…weirdly competitive. It’s cute.”
“…Thanks?”
He paused, then added, “You smell nice, by the way. Not related. Just being friendly.”
You gave him a polite smile and walked away slowly like he might explode if provoked.
When Chris found out, he put his head in his hands. “You’re not helping.”
Josh grinned. “I am absolutely helping.”
Chris glared. “You told them to sit next to me and then complimented their smell.”
Josh shrugged. “I’m playing the long game.”
The long game, it turned out, included casually announcing random Chris facts at dinner like some kind of walking dating profile. “You know, Chris got a scholarship for robotics,” Josh said over spaghetti, unprompted.
Chris dropped his fork.
“He also volunteers at the animal shelter sometimes,” Josh continued.
You raised your eyebrows, amused. “That’s actually really cute.”
Chris looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “Please stop talking.”
Josh ignored him. “Also, I’m pretty sure he’s read Pride and Prejudice like three times.”
Chris pointed his fork. “You promised you’d never tell anyone that!”
Josh beamed. “I lied.”
The thing was…none of it worked. Not the “accidental” seating arrangements. Not the weirdly specific compliments. Not even the night Josh tried to leave the two of you alone in the living room by fake-yawning and declaring, “Wow, I’m so tired at 8:45 PM. Guess I’ll just leave you two lovebirds alone.”
It just made things awkward. It made Chris awkward—more than usual. He felt like you were starting to notice, and not in a good way. Like every time you looked at him, you were seeing Josh’s weird matchmaking schemes hovering in the air like a bad smell. You were being nice about it, but Chris hated the idea that you might think he was sending Josh as some kind of messenger. Or worse—that you’d think he wasn’t brave enough to just talk to you himself. Which, okay, he wasn’t, but it was still humiliating. But, it all came to a head one evening on the deck.
You and Chris were outside while the others cleaned up from dinner. It was quiet, chilly. You were wrapped in your favorite blanket, and Chris was nursing a cup of cocoa like it might give him courage. After a long silence, you finally said, “So…is Josh your PR manager now?”
Chris choked on his drink. “What?”
You looked at him, eyes gentle but teasing. “He’s been dropping ‘fun facts’ about you like he’s trying to get me to sign up for a dating service.”
Chris flushed. “Oh my god.”
You smiled. “It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Just…confusing.”
He let out a long sigh. “I didn’t ask him to be so dramatic. I mentioned something, and he took off running with it like he was in a romantic comedy.”
Your voice was soft. “You mentioned…what?”
Chris stared at the dark trees for a moment. Then he looked at you. “That I like you,” he said quietly. “And I didn’t know how to tell you. So instead of being a normal person, I panicked. And Josh, being Josh, thought he could ‘help’ by announcing my entire personality to the group like a carnival barker.” You were quiet for a second. Chris braced himself for the most polite rejection of his life.
But instead, you smiled.
“I was wondering if you liked me,” you said. “And then Josh got involved and I wasn’t sure if I was imagining things or if you were just too shy to actually say it.”
“I was definitely too shy,” Chris admitted. “I’ve had a crush on you since you made fun of my NASA socks two winters ago.”
“I loved those socks,” you said, laughing.
Chris smiled, nervous. “So… is this where I ask if you maybe like me back, or am I too late and you’ve signed a lifelong contract with Josh instead?”
You leaned a little closer. “No contracts. No Josh.”
Chris grinned. “Thank god.”
And when you kissed him, it was warm and careful, like you’d both been holding your breath for weeks.
Inside the cabin, Josh watched through the kitchen window with a handful of popcorn and a smug expression. “Finally,” he said aloud to no one. “My plan worked.”
Sam rolled her eyes behind him. “You’re delusional.”
Josh threw a piece of popcorn in her direction. “I’m a visionary.”
Summary: After Beth and Hannah go missing, Josh spirals into guilt and grief. The reader offers him quiet comfort, helping him feel seen and less alone in his unraveling.
Warning: Angst (comfort fic), grieving and processing, psychological trauma/stress, mentions of death (Hannah and Beth)
It had been weeks since they vanished.
The snow still sat heavy on the mountaintop, like it hadn’t noticed the absence. The world moved on. That’s what it does. But Josh?
Josh was stuck in the moment they screamed.
You’d been at the lodge that night, just downstairs. You’d heard the shouting, the laughter, the cruelty—though not loud enough to know the whole truth. You weren’t part of the prank, but you were part of the silence that followed it. You blamed yourself for that. Not as much as Josh blamed himself, though.
No one could compete with that kind of self-hatred.
You found him one evening on the floor of his room, sitting against the bed frame. His hoodie was twisted like he’d yanked it halfway off before giving up. His hair was a mess. Eyes bloodshot.
“Josh,” you said quietly. He didn’t look up.
You crouched down and reached a hand toward his arm, but he flinched. “They’re dead,” he said, voice raw, like every word cut. “I know everyone’s pretending they might be out there, but come on. They’re dead. And it’s because of me.”
You didn’t argue. You couldn’t lie to him. But you didn’t move away, either. He glanced at you with a bitterness you almost mistook for anger. “I passed out. Passed out. They needed me and I was too drunk to even know they were gone until morning.”
“Josh…” you whispered, barely able to speak around the tightness in your chest. “You couldn’t have known. You didn’t plan any of this.”
“I might as well have,” he muttered. “I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve protected them. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re a big brother, right?”
You wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That it was a horrible accident. That no one could’ve predicted where it would end. But he’d heard all of that already—from his parents, from Chris, from the cops, from therapists. It didn’t reach him anymore. So you said the only thing that came to your heart, “You loved them.”
His eyes locked onto yours, wide and wet. “What?”
“You loved them,” you repeated. “So much that it’s eating you alive. That doesn’t make you weak, Josh. That makes you human.”
His lips quivered, like he was trying not to fall apart. “It doesn’t matter. They’re still gone.”
“I know.” You sat down beside him on the floor. “But you’re not.” There was a long pause. The silence between you was thick, but not empty.
“I keep hearing Hannah’s voice in my sleep,” he finally admitted, soft and broken. “Sometimes she’s calling for me. Sometimes she’s blaming me. I—I wake up and I don’t know what’s real anymore.” You leaned your head against his shoulder. Slowly, he let it happen.
“Then when that happens,” you said, “you call me. Even if it’s the middle of the night. I’ll answer. We’ll figure out what’s real together.”
Josh closed his eyes. You felt him trembling beside you, but he wasn’t pushing you away.
“You might,” you said honestly, because you knew what kind of damage this could do to a person. “But you won’t be alone. I’ll be here. Even if you fall apart.”
Another beat of silence.
Then—he leaned into you. Not much. But enough to feel like a piece of him still wanted to be held together. His head dropped onto your shoulder, and he let out a breath that sounded like surrender.
“Thank you,” he murmured. You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him in close. He didn’t resist. His breathing evened out, slow and shaky, like the start of something fragile but healing.
That night, you stayed like that until he finally slept. Not peacefully. Not perfectly.
Warnings: pregnancy, fluffy fluffff, Chris being cheesy and in lovvveee <3
A/N: here is the little part two! I hope you enjoy, I really love this idea, like it’s one of my favorite daydream scenarios 🥰
You hear the front door open, then shut gently behind him.
“Baaaabe?” He calls, his voice is sleepy, worn out. “Is it too early to say I’m ready for death? Because if one more guy on my dev team says ‘just push it live and fix it later,’ I’m gonna scream into the void—”
He walks around the corner of the hallway into the living room, backpack slung over one shoulder, shirt a little rumpled, glasses sliding down his nose.
His eyes land on you and he freezes. You’re standing there, waiting, holding the plastic test stick in your hands.
You say nothing at first, you just hold it out with both hands. As if you’re offering him a gift you’re shy to give him.
Chris stares at you, squints and then walks closer. slowly, skeptical, analyzing.
You watch the moment his eyes focus on the tiny digital screen.
One word: Pregnant.
And he just stops completely.
“Wait-waitwaitwait. wait.” His backpack slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a low thud, fuck his laptop I guess??
His shirt sleeves are all bunched up, his mouth opens, then closes—then opens again.
“Is that—? Are you—?? Is this real?!” He sputters.
You nod, eyes wide and bright. “I didn’t want to wait. I took it like twenty minutes ago.”
He makes a small sound, like a broken exhale and a squeak mixed together.
Then starts laughing—but the kind of laugh that’s overwhelmed in the best way.
“Holy shit, I made a person. I made a person with you. I’m—I’m—oh my god, you’re pregnant???”
You nod again. “Yeah. You did it.”
“I did it?! we did it!! oh God—do you feel okay? Are you gonna throw up? Should I make toast?! Toast is safe when you’re nauseous—fuck, you’re pregnant—” He walks in a circle, literally. like turns a full 360 degrees and grabs his own face.
“I need to sit down—but also stand up…but also hug you—maybe at the same time???” He’s rambling.
You step forward and wrap your arms around him, and he immediately pulls you in, holding you tight—but gentle, reverent, like he’s worried about squeezing you too hard.
“You’re sure?” he mumbles into your hair. “like really sure?”
You nod against his chest.
“I triple-checked. This is the third test and then I googled the chances of three false-positive tests—.”
He laughs, weakly, “that’s my girl.”
He pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks, eyes a little glassy now.
“I’m going to be a dad….” he says, voice cracking a little. “I’m going to teach them so many things…like how to ride a bike and tie their shoes and that the prequel trilogy is severely over-hated—oh my god—can I…?” he asks, nodding toward your tummy.
You lift your shirt just a little and guide his hand there. He lays his palm over your stomach, like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever touched.
There’s no bump yet of course. Just soft, warm skin, but he touches you like he can feel the future under his fingertips.
“There’s a person in there,” he whispers. “half me, half you. Oh my god.” He swallows hard, rubbing slow, tiny circles with his thumb. “I know it’s probably like… a lentil right now. A jelly bean, but I swear I can feel them.”
You grin. “You’re petting my stomach like I’m an egg incubator.”
“You are. My favorite one…I’m gonna talk to them through your belly button.”
“I don’t think they have ears yet?” you point out with a giggle.
“Well they might be able to sense my aura, you don’t know…” he gives a half-shrug, smirking.
You start laughing, and he just smiles at you like he could live in that sound forever.
His hand stays on your stomach, comfortable now. Protective.
You sniff a laugh. “Are you crying?”
“I’m not crying. My eyes are just really watery from all my… winter allergies...”
You both dissolve into laughter, holding each other in the middle of the living room—just two dorks who made a baby and are now so stupidly in love they don’t know what to do with themselves.
Chris pulls you even closer and murmurs against your temple: “this kid’s gonna be really lucky, y’know? Because their mom is you.”
And then, very quietly, he whispers, “We’re having a baby,”
like he still can’t believe it’s real.
like he’ll be saying it every day, over and over, until the moment he’s holding them in his arms.
college age schlatt i beg 🙏 like the proper nerdy computer science college student everyone seems to forget he was
╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * no recursion without return ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮
imagine: hot engineering nerd meets cute cs nerd. she needs help passing a required class. he needs someone who actually listens. one tutoring session turns into two... and then they build something together.
╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊
﹒₊✦ a/n: college schlatt is real, actually. nerds deserve romance too. i'm so so sorry if this is inaccurate,,, i am an english writing major (who used to be in biochem) so take everything stem-talk in this with the biggest grain of salt ♡
it starts with a room that smells like dry-erase markers and burnt coffee.
tuesday afternoon, 3:15 pm. you’re ten minutes early to the cs building’s third-floor lab—mostly because the alternative was sitting through another insufferably slow dining hall lunch, and partly because you weren’t sure if you’d find the place at all.
the whiteboard has a half-erased doodle of a mushroom in glasses. someone’s labeled it fungi with a minor in comp sci.
you snort, drop your bag onto the table, and slide into the nearest swivel chair.
you're not exactly struggling in the class—but you're also not thriving. cs230: data structures and algorithms. it’s mandatory for your minor, and you’ve been putting it off for two semesters too long.
the professor announced last week that office hours would be staffed by the department’s “stem peer guides.” you hadn’t planned on going.
but then the last lab nearly made you cry in the library bathroom.
so here you are.
you’re still tugging your laptop out of your bag when the door creaks.
he walks in backwards—wearing a hoodie that probably cost too much and socks with cartoon ducks on them, juggling two coffees and a laptop under one arm.
“hey—sorry,” he says, turning around and freezing when he spots you. “didn’t think anyone was gonna show up.”
he sets the coffees down. his glasses slide a little down his nose when he tilts his head.
“you here for cs230?”
you nod. “yeah.”
he blinks. then smiles—just a little. you catch the beginnings of smile lines.
“i’m schlatt,” he says. “stem guide. i did the class last year.”
you raise an eyebrow. “and survived?”
“barely.” he slides into the chair across from you and cracks open his laptop. “what are we working on?”
you pause. he’s surprisingly cute for someone who clearly color-codes his life. his keyboard has custom caps. his notes—when he turns the screen to show you—are annotated with little pixel cats.
you try not to show your amusement. “i think i broke my brain trying to write a recursive function.”
schlatt huffs a laugh. “you and everyone else.”
he takes a sip of his coffee, then pushes the other cup toward you.
“extra,” he says. “in case you need brain fuel. also because i got nervous and ordered two by accident and i couldn't tell them i didn't want the other one.”
you accept it without thinking. warm. lightly sweet. you usually take yours iced, but it's cold in this room, so you'll take it.
“thanks,” you murmur.
“no problem,” he says, already pulling up the assignment prompt on his screen. “let’s untangle some loops.”
✧✧✧
you’re twenty minutes in and already rethinking your life choices.
not because schlatt’s bad at explaining things. actually, the opposite.
he’s good. really good.
he’s got the kind of brain that makes metaphors on the fly—comparing recursive functions to russian nesting dolls, stack overflows to a laundry chair that’s reached critical mass, and call stacks to cabinets held open in sequence.
“okay,” he says, spinning the whiteboard toward you, “so imagine you're opening those russian dolls—you know, the ones that keep getting smaller?”
you nod, watching as he draws a series of half-circles nestled inside each other.
“each function call is like opening another doll. every time the function calls itself, it goes one layer deeper. but the only way to start returning values—to actually finish—is to reach the smallest one.”
“the base case,” you murmur, tapping the smallest doll he’s drawn.
his smile quirks. “exactly. once you hit that, you start putting them all back together. one by one, returning values up the chain.”
you tilt your head. “so recursion’s not about jumping around—it's about going in and then back out in the same order.”
“bingo.”
he pivots to his laptop and pulls up a short recursive function on the screen. you lean in.
“okay, next part—this,” he gestures at the lines of indented code, “is the call stack. think of it like trying to put dishes away.”
“…dishes?”
he nods, animated now. “you open a cabinet to put a plate in. then you grab another plate, but instead of closing the first cabinet, you open a second one. and a third. and a fourth. you keep opening cabinets without shutting the old ones.”
you raise an eyebrow. “sounds like how my roommate loads the dishwasher.”
he grins. “right? but the point is, each open cabinet is a function waiting to finish. they can’t finish until the one they just called returns. so when you hit your base case, you finally start closing those cabinets, in reverse order.”
you stare at the screen, tracing the indents with your eyes.
“so,” you start slowly, “the top function keeps waiting—holding its cabinet door open—until the one it just called is done. and that one’s waiting for the one it called. like a long hallway of open doors.”
“yes!” schlatt nearly bounces in his chair. “and that hallway is your stack. it fills from the bottom up—every time you go deeper. but if there’s no base case—or it’s too far down?”
“then the hallway gets too crowded.”
you glance up at him. “and the stack… overflows?”
he throws both hands up, mock-dramatic. “you get it!”
you laugh—really laugh—and shake your head. “it actually makes sense. which is annoying. because i was ready to just declare defeat and become a barista.”
he nudges his coffee toward you. “nah. baristas don’t use call stacks.”
you take a sip, smiling into the lid. “honestly? if you’d used metaphors in the lab handout, i might’ve passed the last quiz.”
“metaphors are how i survive,” he says, then lowers his voice in mock-conspiracy. “they trick your brain into thinking you’re doing storytelling, not math.”
you grin. “you are such a dork.”
“thank you,” he says, deadpan. “that’s the highest compliment in this lab.”
you roll your eyes—but you’re still smiling.
✧✧✧
you hadn’t meant to invite him.
it just slipped out—somewhere between scribbling return values and teasing him for his handwriting—your mouth said, “hey, i’m grabbing food after this. you want to come?” like it was the most normal thing in the world.
he blinked. just once.
then shrugged and said, “sure,” like he wasn’t surprised either.
now you’re sitting across from him at a corner table in the dining hall. your tray’s got a slice of pizza and a sad salad. his has a sandwich, two cookies, and three chocolate milks.
“you know,” you say, chewing thoughtfully, “for someone who talks like a grad student, you eat like a middle schooler.”
he takes a sip of one of the chocolate milks. “middle schoolers are onto something.”
you snort. then pause. then blurt it out—because you’ve been thinking about it since the cs homework started, and he feels safe, in a quiet, weird way:
“okay, don’t judge me, but i’ve been working on this stupid little side project where i’m trying to build a low-power prosthetic hand using recycled printer motors.”
schlatt looks up, mid-bite. “wait. seriously?”
you nod. “yeah, i’ve been salvaging parts from the e-waste lab and retrofitting them. it’s dumb and janky and probably not functional, but—”
“that’s so sick,” he says, with total sincerity. “like—you’re making that from scratch?”
you sit up a little straighter. “well, not the whole thing. i’m using an arduino as the controller right now, because i suck at microprocessors and writing drivers from zero is hell. but i’ve been wiring it to flex sensors, and i’m experimenting with these homebrew 3d-printed phalanges—”
you don’t stop.
not once you get going.
you talk with your hands, gesturing wildly, pulling up half-broken images on your phone, sketching quick shapes on your napkin with a pen in the side-pocket of your backpack.
and the whole time? schlatt just watches.
listens.
not just politely—but engaged. interested. like he wants to hear it all. like you’re not over-explaining, or rambling, or going on too long about a niche thing that keeps your brain lit up at 3am.
you pause somewhere around “wrist articulation via recycled watch gears” and finally look up.
his eyes are warm.
“you know,” he says, grinning, “i think you just activated my stem side quest.”
you blink. “what?”
“i wanna help,” he says. “i mean, if you’ll let me. i’ve never coded a servo system, but… i’m a fast learner. and i think it’s badass.”
you don’t say anything.
not right away.
because your chest feels kind of full. your face feels warm. and for once, your brain doesn’t immediately try to shrink you back down.
instead, you nod. just once. “okay.”
he smiles at you over his chocolate milk.
and you think, shit, maybe office hours weren’t the highlight of the week after all.
✧✧✧
the next few weeks settle into a rhythm.
it starts with tutoring.
once a week turns into twice. then three times. not because you’re struggling (anymore), but because he’s… kind of fun to talk to. at least when he’s not roasting your variable names or trying to explain recursion using empty cereal boxes.
he sits across from you at the library table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, laptop screen smudged from how often he drags his fingers across it to point something out. sometimes he forgets to eat. you learn to pack granola bars in your pencil pouch. he never says thank you—just steals one with a smirk and keeps talking.
you start getting better. grades creeping up. error logs shrinking. you don’t dread opening your ide anymore. the code starts making sense—not just his, but yours.
one afternoon, you casually mention a project idea you’d been playing with—something stupid, just for fun. something to do with hardware integration. you expect him to laugh.
he doesn’t.
he spins his laptop around and starts mapping out a database schema like he’s been waiting for you to say it.
that’s how the side project starts.
lunches get longer. office hours get later. one day you bring your soldering kit to the library, and he lights up like you just handed him a rare pokémon card. the whole table smells like burnt plastic for an hour. no one complains. but no one sits near you either.
you nerd out hard. unapologetically. you find yourself going on tangents—about conductive thread, or how weird the i2c protocol is—and instead of zoning out, he asks questions. good ones. thoughtful ones. he doesn’t just tolerate your rants; he builds on them.
and okay, maybe you start noticing things.
like how he mumbles to himself when he’s focused. or how his hands are always warm. or how he smiles at you—not in a big, charming way, but in a quiet, earned one. like you’re the only one who gets to see this side of him.
it’s nothing serious. just… a shift.
you brush it off.
but your code’s never looked cleaner.
and your heart’s never beat louder.
✧✧✧
it happens by accident.
you’re heading toward the back patio of the student union, iced coffee in one hand, a stack of circuits notes in the other, when you spot him.
schlatt.
at one of the outdoor tables.
not alone.
there’s a group of students—three of them, maybe four—leaning in. cs majors, you recognize them. they’re the type who ask three questions per lecture and answer five more that weren’t theirs. big voices. bragging energy.
you can’t hear everything, but you don’t need to. the body language’s loud enough.
schlatt’s sitting off-center. not really in the circle. elbows tucked in, voice low, like he’s trying to contribute. like he wants to. but they’re talking over him. dismissing. one of them even laughs—not the good kind. the kind you’ve felt in your spine before.
and you watch it happen:
the way schlatt’s mouth tugs tight at the corner. the way he adjusts his sleeve, like it’ll make him smaller. the way he tries one more time to speak, then gives up halfway through the sentence and shrugs it off, pretending it didn’t matter.
they keep talking.
he goes quiet.
you’re frozen in place, coffee sweating through your fingers, because it clicks.
he’s like you.
he is you.
all that time you thought he was the confident one—the one who belonged. the one who was already part of something. but he’s not. not really. not when it comes to this. not when it comes to them.
he’s just better at hiding it.
better at laughing it off.
but the look in his eyes, right then—small and a little tired—that’s a look you know too well.
no one talks about what it feels like when your brain lights up for something and everyone else treats it like a joke.
no one talks about what it’s like to be too much in the wrong direction.
and suddenly, all your late-night rambling about microcontrollers and e-textiles feels different.
because he listened. not just because he was polite. but because he got it. you don't think you've ever felt so fully understood until him.
you take a step forward. you don’t know what you’re going to say.
but you’re not about to leave him sitting alone in a conversation that doesn’t want him.
not when you know what that feels like.
so you walk over.
“hey, there you are,” you say, nudging your knuckles gently against schlatt’s shoulder. “i was looking for you.”
he turns, surprised—then relieved. “oh—hey y/n.”
“sorry,” one of the students says, hesitant. “uh, are we… interrupting something?”
“nah,” you say, easy. “just didn’t want to miss my favorite stem guide.”
schlatt’s ears go a little pink.
you glance at the table—some kind of project group, you think. their laptops are open, notebooks out, but their conversation’s turned awkward now. the vibe’s off. not hostile—just… cliquey.
“you guys working on something for fundamentals?” you ask, glancing at their notes.
“uh, yeah,” one mutters. “trying to figure out the recursion stuff.”
you smile. “then you’re in luck. this guy’s a recursion whisperer.”
schlatt huffs a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“i’m serious,” you say, looking at him now. “you explained it to me with like…those russian dolls. made it make sense in ten minutes.”
“you remember the russian dolls?”
“obviously,” you grin. “changed my life.”
he smiles, a little shy, but brighter now.
you turn to the group. “anyway, sorry to interrupt. i just wanted to steal him for a bit. we’re working on something together—well, more like, he’s doing the hard part and i’m nodding along and pretending to contribute.”
they chuckle. the tension eases.
“good luck, though,” you add, friendly. “you’ve got a good one here.”
you tap the back of his hand.
“ready, genius?”
he nods. stands up. follows you without question.
and once you’re a few steps away, you glance over and say, casually but soft:
“for the record? you’re way too smart to sit through that kind of conversation, with those kinds of people, and not say anything.”
his voice is quiet. “didn’t think they really wanted my advice…or any of my input, for that matter.”
"sucks for them," you bump his arm. “i do.”
he looks at you.
and smiles.
“you’re different,” he says.
you shrug. “nah. i just don’t have the patience for people who don’t know a good brain when they’re sitting next to one.”
he laughs under his breath—bashful, but warm.
“besides,” you add, nudging him again, “you’re the only guy on campus who’s ever made me care about code.”
“flattered,” he says, with a little bow of his head. “high praise.”
“it is,” you nod. “don’t let that go to your head, though.”
“too late.”
you both laugh.
and as you walk side-by-side down the hallway, something feels… lighter.
✧✧✧
the lab is mostly empty—just the hum of old fluorescents overhead and the rhythmic click of schlatt’s keyboard echoing off the cinderblock walls.
you’re both hunched over the prototype, wires splayed like spaghetti across the table, your laptop screen casting a pale blue glow over your notes. it’s late. not late-late, but late enough that you’ve lost track of time in that delicious, focus-hazed kind of way.
“okay,” you murmur, “i think that’s the last adjustment on the sensor matrix. wanna try running the loop again?”
schlatt doesn’t answer right away—he’s rereading your code, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open like he’s working through it out loud in his head.
you wait.
he presses enter.
the terminal blinks once more.
and then—
nothing.
the servo doesn’t twitch. the sensor reads null. everything is still.
you groan, letting your head thunk forward onto the table. “are you kidding me?”
“hang on,” schlatt mutters, already scrolling. “it’s not a full crash. there’s something—it’s just not hitting the output loop.”
“i swear,” you grumble, face still mashed into your notes, “if this is another semicolon issue, i’m throwing myself into a ditch.”
“nah,” he says, voice calm, reassuring. “it’s not your code.”
you lift your head just enough to side-eye him. “it’s not yours either, huh?”
he doesn’t answer right away.
instead, he reaches for the breadboard, fingers quick and precise as he repositions a single wire—green to yellow. it’s such a small shift you almost miss it.
“that,” he says, “was plugged into the wrong pin.”
you blink.
he presses enter again.
and this time, the prototype moves.
just a little—just a careful curl of synthetic fingers, one joint at a time, like a hesitant wave from a ghost hand.
your jaw drops.
schlatt stares too. for once, he’s quiet.
“…did we—?”
“yeah,” he breathes. “we did.”
you let out a half-laugh, half-squeak. “dude—”
you turn to him without thinking.
and he’s already looking at you.
and before your brain catches up with your body, you’re reaching out—arms around his shoulders, heart in your throat.
he stiffens for a second. then melts into it.
his arms curl around your waist, tentative at first, then tighter. his cheek brushes your temple.
“holy shit,” you whisper, still breathless. “we did it.”
“we really fucking did it.”
the hug lasts longer than it needs to. it shifts. softens. becomes something else.
your hands curl in the fabric of his hoodie. his thumb rubs slow circles at your back.
neither of you move to pull away.
but eventually—awkwardly—you both realize you probably should.
you shift first, just a little, arms loosening. schlatt mirrors you a second later, like he’s waiting for permission.
and then—
your foot bumps a loose cable under the table.
you stumble, just a half step, enough to make you grip his hoodie tighter out of instinct.
he catches you by the elbow—quick, steady—but in doing so, he knocks into the edge of the desk.
a pen clatters to the floor. your hip bangs against the chair. both of you freeze.
then, in perfect harmony:
“sorry—”
“sorry—”
you look at each other.
he’s flushed to the tips of his ears.
you’re no better.
his hand’s still on your elbow. yours is still in the front pocket of his hoodie. neither of you seems to know what to do with yourselves now.
“…so,” you say, trying to laugh it off, “we’re, uh—officially engineers now, right? or, mad scientists? mad engineers? built something that works and almost died doing it.”
“sounds about right,” he mumbles, eyes not quite meeting yours.
you step back fully, brushing imaginary lint off your sleeves. he clears his throat and bends to pick up the pen—just a little too quickly.
“we should, uh…” he gestures vaguely at the wires. “log this. before we forget what we changed.”
“yeah,” you nod. “documentation. good. yep. very sexy.”
he snorts.
and the tension cracks just enough for both of you to breathe again.
✧✧✧
friday lunch.
same table.
you’re there first, as usual—tray to the left, elbow room cleared, and your little “project napkin” tucked just out of sight beneath your phone.
it’s not schematics, not exactly. more like an outline of “natural” movements. lean angles. average post-meal proximity. potential trigger phrases that could ease the moment into something more than just eye contact and banter.
it’s stupid. it’s excessive. it’s so you.
but it’s not like you’ve kissed him yet.
and it’s not like you haven’t thought about it. a lot.
he slides into the seat across from you—slightly out of breath, hoodie slightly askew.
“hey,” he says. “sorry, i ran into a professor who wouldn’t stop talking about his cat’s gut biome.”
you snort. “sounds riveting.”
“almost kissed him out of pity.”
you choke on a bite of salad. “what?”
“nothing,” he mumbles, sipping chocolate milk. “just—brain fried. bad sleep. lots of… thinking.”
you nod. you get that.
you were up half the night replaying yesterday’s hug on a loop. you hadn’t meant to squeeze him that tight. hadn’t meant to say “good job, genius” like that. hadn’t meant for your fingers to linger on his hoodie hem when you stepped back.
but he hadn’t pulled away.
so.
so.
you both eat in silence for a minute. your foot brushes his under the table. once. twice.
neither of you moves.
finally, you say it. quiet. almost like a confession.
“i, uh… may have tried to engineer a perfect kiss scenario today.”
he freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth.
“...engineer?”
you nod, cheeks warm. “like… ran a few simulations in my head. built a model. set parameters. i was…probably gonna initiate if you laughed three or more times by the end of lunch.”
his jaw drops. “are you serious?”
“extremely.”
he blinks. “because i wrote a whole conditional loop for this.”
“…what?”
he fumbles in his hoodie pocket and pulls out a sticky note. it reads:
python:
if eyes_hold >= 3.5 and cafeteria_noise == low:
lean_in()
you stare at it.
then back at him.
and burst out laughing. “we’re so stupid.”
“no,” he says, laughing too. “we’re scientists.”
“why can’t we just communicate like normal people?”
“who needs normal?”
he’s still smiling.
you are too.
and this time?
there’s no plan. no diagram. no if/then logic.
you just… lean in. and he meets you halfway.
your noses bump. just slightly. your knees knock beneath the table. it’s clumsy at first—uncoordinated, like every group project you’ve ever had to rescue last-minute.
but then his hand grazes your wrist. your mouth fits against his like it already knew how. like maybe, all along, this wasn’t something to calculate.
it just needed to happen.
and suddenly, none of it feels theoretical. not the way his lips press softly, then more certainly. not the quiet exhale he lets out when you shift just a little closer. not the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie like you’ve done it a hundred times.
no flowchart could’ve planned this.
it’s instinct. it’s connection. it's human.
it’s easy.
you pull back first. slow. breath caught somewhere behind your grin.
but before you can say anything—
he leans back in. less hesitant this time.
his hand cradles the side of your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw. his mouth meets yours like a spark catching on dry kindling—familiar, but heady. deliberate. like he’s trying to commit it to memory. like he’s making up for every time he could’ve kissed you and didn’t.
your heart stutters. your fingers grip the edge of the table.
he tastes like chocolate milk and lip balm and something stupidly addictive.
when you part again—barely—you stay close, noses brushing, breath mingling.
“you’re gonna break my brain,” he whispers.
you grin. “then i guess i'll be the one to tutor you.”
You wore thick eyeliner, darker lipstick, and combat boots, making most people nervous to even look at you wrong. Chris, meanwhile, was soft-spoken and sweet, all sweaters and glasses and gentle smiles.
Whenever the two of you walked into a room together, people saw it as some kind of alternative-girl-wins-the-nerdy-boy trope. And you didn’t bother correcting them. They thought you were the one pushing Chris up against walls. That you called the shots, called him names, and pulled his hair.
But if they saw you now—tucked under Chris’s body, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and teary from nothing but the way he looked at you—they’d be stunned silent.
“Lemme guess,” Chris murmured against your ear, voice smooth and dark as honey, “everyone at the bar still thinks you’re the one pinning me down at night?”
You whimpered—whimpered—and clung tighter to his shirt. His body hovered over yours, one knee nudging your legs further apart, his hand gripping your jaw with just enough pressure to make you squirm. “You didn’t correct them,” he said. Not judging. Just amused. Pleased.
“Didn’t want to,” you breathed, cheeks hot. “They don’t need to know…”
Chris grinned, and it wasn’t innocent. “That’s right,” he said. “They don’t. ‘Cause they don’t get this part of you.” He kissed your neck—slow and messy—while his hand slid under your skirt, fingers dragging up your thigh. “They don’t get to see how you fall apart the second I touch you.”
You whimpered again. He hadn’t even done anything yet and you were already melting.
“Chris—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “You want me to take care of you tonight?”
You nodded fast, already breathless. “Please. I need you—need it so bad—”
He pushed your panties aside and slid his fingers through your slick folds, groaning low into your skin. “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked.” You gasped, legs trembling.
Chris moved slow, knowing exactly what he was doing. The contrast between your dark, confident exterior and the way you shook under his hands? He loved it. The fact that you, with your sharp eyeliner and sharp tongue, became this soft, needy thing for him?
That was his favorite secret.
He lined himself up and eased into you, burying himself slowly, watching your mouth fall open and your fingers claw at the sheets. “Feels good?” he whispered.
You nodded, barely able to speak. “You can take it,” he murmured, deep and reassuring. “You always do.”
His hips rocked into you, slow and deliberate, pushing deeper every time. You moaned—high, desperate, nothing like the snarky tone people usually heard from you—and Chris caught your wrist, pinning it above your head.
“You gonna let me have you like this?” he asked. “All of you?”
“Y-yes,” you cried, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. “Chris, I—fuck—please—”
“That’s my girl.”
He kissed you hard then, swallowing your moans, his rhythm steady, possessive, intimate. His name spilled from your lips again and again, until you came so hard your whole body arched off the bed.
Chris didn’t stop. He kept going, working you through it, praising you between groans and kisses. When he finally came, it was with your name on his lips and your thighs trembling beneath him.
He collapsed onto you, chest heaving, both of you breathless in the aftermath.
You reached up, lazily dragging your nails through his hair. “Still think it’s funny they all think I’m the boss.”
Chris chuckled, kissing your shoulder. “They can keep thinking it.”
You smiled, content and aching and completely ruined.
“Only one who needs to know the truth is you.”
And you did. You knew exactly who owned you when the door shut.
Summary: When Chris agrees to go on a date to try and move on from you—his best friend and the person he thinks he can’t have—you’re left spiraling, confused, and bitter. But when he shows up at your door after the date, something finally breaks.
You’d never thought of yourself as the jealous type.
Really, you hadn’t. You’d always prided yourself on being the chill one. The friend who wasn’t needy or clingy or overdramatic about things that didn’t concern them. Especially when it came to Chris. He was your best friend. That wasn’t just a label, it was a whole identity. You were the one who shared playlists with him and stayed up late gaming or making fun of horror movies. You were the person he texted when he was bored in class, and the one who brought him coffee when he stayed up too late coding some dumb project.
And that was supposed to be enough. It had been enough… until he told you about the date.
You’d tried so hard not to flinch when he brought it up, that casual little shrug of his like he was pretending not to care either:
“Josh thinks I should try dating again. Some girl from his psych class.”
“Oh. Cool,” you’d said, keeping your eyes on your phone even as your stomach sank.
“Yeah. He says she’s funny.”
“Well, you like funny.”
“I guess.”
That was the end of the conversation. But it had been the beginning of something bitter blooming in your chest. Something sharp and aching that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried to distract yourself.
Now, hours later, you were curled on your couch in one of Chris’s old sweatshirts, the sleeves tugged down over your hands, the blanket around you doing very little to keep you from feeling cold. Your laptop screen glowed weakly from across the room, paused on a movie you weren’t really watching, and your phone sat next to you—silent. No texts. No “wish me luck” or “this is terrible” messages. Not even a post-date meme. Just… silence.
And god, you missed him right now. Even though he technically wasn’t gone. You just hated knowing he was somewhere else with someone else, letting them see parts of him you’d come to believe were just for you. You pressed your face into the blanket and breathed in slowly, trying not to cry like some heartbroken teenager.
So when the knock came—soft but sure—you actually jumped.
Your heart stumbled over itself in your chest. It was past midnight. You scrambled up from the couch, wrapping the blanket tighter around you, and padded barefoot to the door. When you looked through the peephole, your heart did another awkward, panicked somersault.
Chris.
He stood there looking disheveled and out of place, like he didn’t know if he should be there. His shirt was wrinkled, the top button undone, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it. He looked tired—his usual spark dulled—but his eyes still carried something you couldn’t quite name.
You opened the door slowly, confused and off-balance. “…Hey.”
“…Hi.” His voice was quiet, scratchy like he hadn’t spoken much since the date. “Can I come in?”
You nodded, stepping aside. He walked in like he always did—without hesitation, like this was home. But tonight felt different. He didn’t drop his keys on the counter or joke about your terrible taste in snacks. He stood still in the center of the room, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to sit.
You pulled the blanket tighter around you and crossed your arms, trying to keep your voice steady. “How was your date?”
Chris let out a short laugh—dry and almost angry. “Fucking awful.”
You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right. “…What?”
He turned toward you, looking like he didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “She didn’t get a single joke. I made a pun and she looked at me like I asked her to explain string theory. Just dead silence.”
You couldn’t help the small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips. “Wow. Brutal.”
“Right?” he said, but there wasn’t much humor in his voice. “And she hates horror movies. And video games. And sci-fi. She said she only watches reality dating shows and listens to, like, country-pop covers of rap songs.”
You were still trying to keep up when he looked at you with something raw in his eyes.
“But it wasn’t just that,” he said, stepping closer. “The whole night, I kept thinking about you.”
You froze, breath caught in your throat.
“She wasn’t you,” he said, voice almost breaking. “Every time I said something dumb, I waited for your laugh. Every time she didn’t get a reference, I thought about how you would’ve thrown it right back. I even looked at the dessert menu and thought, ‘They’d pick the stupidest-looking thing just to take a picture of it.’”
He ran a hand through his hair again, eyes flicking to yours. “I only went out with her because I thought maybe it would help me get over you. Because I was so fucking sure you didn’t feel the same.”
Your breath left your lungs in a soft, trembling exhale. “…Chris.”
“I didn’t want to tell you. Josh said I should just get it out of my system, that I needed to stop pining like a loser. But I couldn’t. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He stepped closer again, so close now you could feel the warmth of him radiating off his skin.
“I’m tired of pretending this isn’t tearing me apart,” he said, voice low and real. “Do you feel the same?”
Your chest felt so full it hurt. “Of course I do.”
The relief on his face was instant, overwhelming. His hands were on your waist before you could blink, pulling you into him like he’d been holding back for months. Maybe years.
You melted into him, arms winding around his neck as your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your heart finally slowing because he was here. He smelled like the outside and faint cologne—but underneath that, he just smelled like Chris.
He buried his face in your hair and whispered, “I’m such an idiot.”
You smiled against his shoulder. “You are. But you’re my idiot.”
He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes glassy, like he still couldn’t believe it.
“Is this real?” he asked, voice barely a breath.
You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the curve of his cheek. “Only if you kiss me.”
He didn’t hesitate. His mouth found yours like it had been waiting for permission—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, years of hidden feelings unraveling between your lips. The kiss tasted like months of unsaid things, of late-night sleepovers and “accidental” hand brushes and all the things you were too afraid to say.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, still breathing heavy. “I never want to date anyone else,” he said softly. “Ever.”
You grinned, your thumb still tracing his cheek. “Good. Because if Josh sets you up again, I’ll kill him.”
Chris huffed out a real laugh this time. “Deal.”
A/N: literally took me like double the time to write this cause im so tired rn my fingers aren’t working ok bye
I am begging on my hands and knees for you to write a Chris fic inspired by this picture (it’s so him) 🙏 -@hartleychristopher (had to send this from my main!)
chris slowly going stupid for reader is my kink
Warnings: Suggestive content (mdni 18+), heavy makeout sessions, lipstick kink?, sub!Chris, Chris being totally pussywhipped and dumb on affection, clothes stay on (mostly)
You’re sitting cross-legged on Chris’s bed, surrounded by an army of lipstick tubes—reds, pinks, plums, and one too-bold black. He’s on the edge of the bed like a very nervous, very obedient assistant, glasses slipping a little down his nose as he watches you unscrew another tube. “This one’s called Red Temptation,” you say with a dramatic little flourish.
Chris, the sweet nerd that he is, is already flushed. “You’re seriously gonna try all of these?” he asks, trying not to stare at your lips. Keyword: trying.
You lean in, applying the bold red carefully. “You offered to help me test them.”
He blinks. “I thought you meant like, uh, blotting them on paper or something.”
“Oh no,” you say, settling yourself between his knees. “We’re testing if they’re kiss-proof. Obviously.” Chris makes a choked sound as your hands cradle his jaw. “I mean it’s science, we gotta be thorough,” you teased. Your lips press against his, soft but firm, and he freezes for half a second before melting like putty. The kiss is chaste, mostly, but enough to leave a perfectly shaped print on the corner of his mouth.
You pull back, tilt your head.
“Fail. Definitely not kiss-proof.”
Chris stares at you, dazed, before looking to the little mirror you hand him. He touches the red mark with two fingers like he doesn’t believe it’s real. “Oh.”
And then you’re back at it. One after the other. With each new color, you scoot a little closer, kiss him a little longer, until he’s practically sinking into the mattress, shirt collar tugged crooked, neck peppered in half-smeared shades of berry and wine. “Okay, this one’s a matte nude—claims to be longwear. Let’s give it a real stress test,” you murmur, straddling his lap now like it’s the most natural thing.
Chris makes a sound that can only be described as a whimper. Your kiss this time is deeper—his hands twitch like he wants to grab your hips but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Your tongue teases just enough to make his breath catch, and when you finally break away, he’s panting, glasses askew, eyes wide and glassy.
“That one might be kiss-proof,” you hum, inspecting your handiwork. “Mostly.” There’s a faint line of it on the underside of his jaw where you’d bitten him lightly.
Chris just nods. Or tries to. “Mm-hm.”
You tilt your head, watching him come undone in slow motion. His cheeks are flushed deep pink, lips bitten and wet, and his neck and chest are a mosaic of lipstick smudges. There’s one right above his collarbone where you dragged your mouth while he made the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard from him.
“Color overload yet?” you tease, brushing a thumb across his lower lip.
Chris exhales shakily. “No. I mean—uh. Yes? Wait, no. I can handle more. I think. Maybe. Yeah—”
“You’re going dumb on me, aren’t you?” you say, smirking, cupping his warm, pink-stained face in your hands.
His eyes flutter, lips parted. “Kinda?”
You grin and reward him with another kiss, slower, deeper, until he’s groaning into your mouth. He clutches the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.
“Good boy,” you whisper when you pull back, his whole body shuddering under you.
He lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a whine. You kiss the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck, again and again until there’s more lipstick on him than your own lips.
Eventually, he’s a breathless mess, slumped against you, panting like he just ran a marathon. “I, uh. I don’t think any of them passed,” he mutters, dumb smile plastered on his flushed face.
You lean down and kiss his temple. “Lucky for you, I still have ten more tubes to go.”
Chris blinks up at you, lipstick-stained and blissed out. “Please,” he whispers.
God, you’ve ruined him. And you’re not even done yet.
Imagine, if you will, virgin gf whos just so fucking horny for Schlatt, girl is down BAD, for this man so much so that Schlatt has to be like “woah hey let’s slow down okay dont wanna hurt yourself toots” (Toots🤤🤤) and has to like pin (gently but still pinning) you down and talk to you in that like (idk what to call it) like “gentle parent” (???) voice so you don’t hurt yourself cause hes just so BIG and he could also probably potentially hurt a partner who HAS had sex before cause of his size so his partner whose never had sex? Oh hes terrified he might tear you in half of he isn’t careful.
╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * baby’s first time ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮
imagine: third date. a movie. a kiss. a girl too far gone to think straight—and a man trying his hardest not to ruin her.
╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊
﹒₊✦ a/n: inspired by a not-so-little ask about a virgin reader down bad for schlatt ♡ i may have wandered into tenderness territory, and,,, i'm not sorry!!
the door clicks open, and schlatt steps aside like he’s done this a hundred times before.
“welcome to casa de big guy,” he says dryly. “wipe your feet, don’t judge the furniture, and if anything smells like axe body spray, it wasn’t me.”
you laugh, stepping inside. “real strong opening. totally reassuring.”
his place is… honestly, kind of nice. not in a curated, architectural digest way. just warm. lived in. the couch is stupidly big, the rug doesn’t match, and there’s an open bottle of something expensive on the kitchen counter. but it feels like him.
he closes the door behind you. “you want a drink?”
you nod. “water’s fine.”
“boring,” he says, already heading to the kitchen. “love that.”
you roll your eyes and tug off your shoes. he’s still in his button-up from dinner, sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. the chain at his neck catches the light when he moves, and your brain short-circuits just a little.
you perch on the edge of the couch. try not to look like you’re imagining things you absolutely shouldn’t be imagining this early into a relationship.
he brings you a bottle of water and flops down beside you like gravity owes him something.
“so,” he says, stretching out with one arm behind you, “movie or mario kart?”
you glance at him. “you’re letting me choose?”
“no,” he says. “just seeing what you’d pick before i put on something i like.”
you scoff. “you’re the worst.”
he grins—wide and smug. “yeah, but i’ve got surround sound.”
you snatch the remote before he can reach for it.
“put on something you like,” you say innocently. “let me see what kind of freak you really are.”
he gives you a look. the kind that makes your stomach flip.
“careful,” he says, leaning back, spreading his legs just slightly. “you might find out.”
you raise a brow. “oh no. not—i mean, your taste.”
schlatt laughs, low and lazy. “you think i’ve got bad taste, toots?”
“i think you have questionable judgment and a subscription to every streaming service but HBO.”
“jealousy’s ugly on you,” he mutters, shifting closer, one hand sliding behind your neck like it’s nothing. “good thing you look cute in everything else.”
your breath catches.
that look in his eyes—just amused enough to be dangerous—makes it hard to think.
he leans in slow, gives you enough time to pull away.
but you don’t.
he leans in, and when those lips meet yours—it’s not just a peck. it’s hungry. it’s claiming. it’s everything you’ve been craving since date one.
your fingers tangle in his shirt. his hand cups your jaw. every nerve in your body jumps.
you press closer, breath colliding, wanting it to go further—but just as you're about to lose control, he pulls back.
with the most smug ass smile you've ever encountered.
you’re blinking, breath caught, body still hot.
he taps your water bottle like he’s reminding you to hydrate. “told you i’ve got taste.”
you stare at him, deflated and fired up all at once.
he picks up the remote again. turns the volume up. settles back.
“so,” he says. "movie."
✧✧✧
you’re nestled into the corner of the couch now, tucked under his arm, legs draped over his lap like you’ve done this a hundred times.
the movie plays—low volume, muted light, something with a plot you’re not following.
you’re too focused on the way his thumb brushes the inside of your arm. the occasional squeeze at your waist. the weight of him beneath you.
you’re warm. a little sleepy. a lot horny.
and without realizing it, you start to move.
just the tiniest roll of your hips. back into his thigh.
barely anything.
but the friction makes your breath hitch.
you do it again.
and again.
you don’t even know you’re doing it until he shifts slightly beneath you—just enough to make you freeze.
“…you good, toots?”
your eyes snap open. “what?”
he tilts his head down, chin brushing your temple. his voice is low, soft. amused.
“you keep grinding on my leg like you’re trying to make coffee or something."
you go completely still.
a beat passes. then another.
and then—humiliated—you bury your face in his chest with a groan.
“oh my god. i wasn’t—i didn’t mean to—”
his hand rubs your back slowly. “i know.”
you peek up at him, mortified. “please tell me you’re not mad.”
“mad?” he huffs a laugh and grabs the remote, clicking the movie off. “sweetheart, i’m flattered.”
he sets the remote aside, then shifts so he can face you more fully. one arm still around your waist. the other rubbing your thigh—gentle, slow.
“but listen,” he murmurs. “i gotta be honest with you, alright?”
your stomach flips.
“yeah?” you ask, quiet.
his gaze drops—thigh, hand, then back to you.
“i’ve been doing this a long time,” he says, voice low and even. “you haven’t. i know that.”
you go a little rigid in his lap. “did i… say that?”
he huffs a laugh—low and knowing. “you didn’t have to.”
“okay, well—” you sit up straighter, shrug like it’s no big deal. “i mean, i’m not completely inexperienced—”
“no?”
“i’ve done stuff.”
“stuff.”
“yes, stuff.”
he tilts his head. “like?”
you blink. “like—like things.”
he’s smiling now. “specific things?”
“god, why are you interrogating me—”
“because you keep lying, sweetheart,” he says, gently. “and you’re really, really bad at it.”
you sputter. “i’m not—i’m not lying—”
“you moaned when i kissed your neck. Once. and your whole body went stiff the second my hand hit your thigh.” he leans in, eyes dark. “you haven’t done anything.”
you go silent.
he softens. “that’s not a problem. it’s just a fact.”
you glance away—embarrassed.
“...i didn’t want to seem totally clueless.”
“baby. i like you clueless.” he cups your jaw, tilts your face back to his. “i’m not tryna scare you off. i just—look, i’m a big guy. and i can be rough without meaning to. so if we’re gonna do this—if you ever wanna go there—i gotta know it’s not just because you’re all worked up and desperate for it. i gotta know it’s you. choosing it.”
you blink.
heart hammering.
because this is not what you expected.
he smiles a little at your expression. “that surprise you?”
you nod slowly. “i just—i didn’t think you’d care.”
his brow lifts. “toots,” he mutters. “you think i’m gonna risk splitting you in half just so i can blow my load five minutes faster?”
your face burns.
but you laugh, burying your face in his chest again.
he wraps both arms around you now. holding you close.
“tell me what you want, baby,” he says, voice lower now. slower. “not what you think i wanna hear. what you want.”
you swallow.
“i don’t know,” you whisper. “i just… i wanna feel you.”
he hums.
and you feel it—in his chest, under your hands.
“yeah?” he says softly. “you think you’re ready for that?”
you nod, but it’s hesitant. you’re still tucked close. still trembling a little.
he pulls back just enough to look at you.
his eyes are soft, but there’s heat behind them. serious heat.
“you ever ridden a thigh before?”
you blink. “ridden a… what?”
his lips twitch. “that’s a no.”
“i didn’t say no,” you protest, even as your brain scrambles for anything close. “i just—I mean, it’s not exactly common—”
“it is when you know what you’re doing.”
you stare at him. “and you just… sit on it?”
he chuckles. “no, baby. you grind.”
your mouth goes dry. “oh.”
he raises a brow, watching the realization hit you. “still wanna try?”
your throat’s dry. your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.
you nod.
“yeah,” you whisper. “okay.”
his smile is small. quiet. something between gentle and dangerous.
“attagirl.” he shifts beneath you, spreading his legs a little wider, patting his thigh. “c’mon, sweetheart. right here.”
you crawl over hesitantly, face burning, nerves crawling under your skin. the second your knees settle on either side of his leg, you realize just how big he really is.
your core is barely brushing his thigh.
you’re not even fully seated and you already feel stretched—high up, slightly off balance, comically small on top of him.
“is this… okay?” you ask quietly, looking down at him. “like—am i doing it right?”
he smiles—lazy, warm, and just a little crooked. his hands settle lightly on your hips.
“you’re perfect,” he says, thumbs stroking circles into your skin. “we’ll get you there.”
you start to move—tentative, cautious, rocking your hips forward just a little. the friction is barely there, but it already lights something up in your belly.
you shift again, trying to roll your hips in a smoother motion.
“…is this how you do it?” you ask. “i feel like i’m not…”
schlatt cuts you off with a quiet hum, and his hands tighten just slightly.
“hey. you don’t gotta know how,” he murmurs. “that’s what i’m here for.”
he lifts his thigh just a little under you, adjusting the pressure, guiding you forward with a slow tug at your hips.
“try that.”
you gasp. the contact is better. more direct.
“oh—oh, okay…”
you keep going. a little clumsier than you’d like. shifting, huffing, trying not to grind down too hard.
you look at him again. “sorry—i’m just—i don’t wanna mess it up.”
he chuckles under his breath, voice low and thick.
“baby, you’re not gonna break anything,” he says.
“but—you're so—i mean, your leg is—”
he tilts his head, smirking.
“what? big?”
you nod, mortified. “yeah. that.”
his voice dips even lower. “you ever stop to think what the rest of me might do to you if we’re not careful?”
your breath catches. you can’t answer.
he leans forward, mouth brushing your ear.
“trust me, toots,” he whispers. “you’re doin’ just fine.”
you’re trying—god, you’re trying—but every shift of your hips feels clumsy. your thighs are already shaking, and you can’t tell if it’s from the effort or the nerves or the fact that his hands haven’t left your waist since he put you there.
“i—i don’t know if i’m doing this right,” you mumble. “it feels good, but it’s not—like—how it’s supposed to be, right?”
schlatt’s eyes narrow slightly. not annoyed—just watching. reading you.
he shifts under you again, thigh flexing between your legs, dragging right where you need it.
“sweetheart,” he says, voice low and slow, “look at me.”
you do. hesitant. flushed. bottom lip caught between your teeth.
his hand cups your jaw gently—thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, just enough to make you still.
“you’re not here to perform,” he murmurs. “you’re here to feel. and feel good. got it?”
you nod, barely breathing.
“good girl.”
your breath hitches.
“you feel how wet you are right now?” he asks, one hand sliding from your waist to between your legs—pressing you down harder onto his thigh. you gasp. your hands clench at his shoulders.
“that’s what i care about,” he mutters. “not rhythm. not looking cute. just you, soaking my leg like it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel good.”
you whimper, and he grins, a flash of teeth.
“yeah, that’s better,” he says. “that’s my girl.”
your hips start moving again. this time instinctively. not polished. not graceful. just needy.
“you hear those sounds you’re making?” he breathes, eyes locked on you. “you think i give a fuck how ‘right’ your hips are moving when you’re whimpering like that on my leg?”
your eyes flutter closed, head tipping back, and he grabs your waist again, guiding you now—gentle but firm.
“don’t stop now, baby,” he murmurs. “you’re doin’ perfect. get what you need from me.”
you’re getting there.
fast.
too fast.
your hips are stuttering now—small, frantic rolls, thighs trembling as you grind down hard enough that the seam of your underwear is soaked through.
and still, his hands stay on you. firm. supportive. in charge.
“you gonna come like this?” he asks, voice a rough whisper against your ear. “just from my thigh?”
you nod—desperate, whimpering.
“i—i think so—feels so good—”
“you poor little thing,” he mutters, teeth brushing your cheek. “you wanna come that bad? just like that? just from rubbing yourself on me?”
your breath hitches. your hands claw at his shirt.
and then—
he stops you.
big hands wrapping tight around your waist, lifting you off his thigh before you can fall over that edge.
you whine—loudly—hips twitching, eyes wide, clit pulsing and unsatisfied.
“wha—why—?! schlatt—”
“uh-uh,” he cuts you off, voice calm but firm. “i felt you getting close. didn’t say you could come, did i?”
you shake your head, nearly crying with frustration.
he shifts you in his lap, laying you back gently against the cushions, kneeling between your legs now. and you feel it—how big he is, crouched over you, gaze dark, hands trailing slow up your thighs.
“you know what your problem is, baby?”
you shake your head, still breathing hard.
“you’re too busy thinking about what it’d be like to ride me,” he murmurs, hand sliding between your legs again. “aren’t you?”
your eyes go wide.
he chuckles—dark and amused.
“you were fuckin’ fantasizing. thinking about how good i’d feel inside you. weren’t you?”
you nod helplessly.
“yeah. that’s what i thought.” he hums. “bet you got a whole little movie going in your head, me on top of you. me inside you. ruining that tight little pussy before you even know what to do with it.”
you squirm under his gaze, but he’s already tugging at the tie around your waist. undoing your dress like it’s a gift he’s taking his sweet time unwrapping.
✧✧✧
“you don’t even know what you’re asking for, do you?”
you shake your head, breath shaky. “i just—i want to feel you.”
his expression softens—but only slightly.
“you will,” he says. “but you’re gonna feel my fingers first.”
he pulls your panties aside, thick fingers brushing through your soaked folds. you gasp—hips lifting instinctively.
“you’re so wet, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “all from my thigh? from grinding like a needy little thing?”
you nod, helpless.
he slips one finger in—slowly. carefully.
you moan—high and shocked, head tipping back.
“god, you’re tight,” he breathes. “clenching already and it’s just one.”
his free hand presses gently on your belly, keeping you grounded.
“this okay?” he asks. “want me to keep going?”
you nod frantically. “please, sir—”
he smiles at that. then adds a second finger.
you cry out, legs twitching as he stretches you open—slow, steady, mercilessly gentle.
he leans in close, voice right at your ear.
“you feel stretched?” he murmurs, voice low.
you nod, lips parted, struggling to stay still.
“mm.” he smirks. “and that’s just two fingers, toots.”
his other hand trails down your thigh, thumb stroking your skin like a reward. like praise. but his tone stays calm, clinical, almost condescending.
“you’re squeezin’ so tight, i can barely move,” he says. “and you were thinkin’ you could take my cock?”
you moan again—helpless, humiliated.
he chuckles softly. “gonna hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not even close. maybe if you were able to take four...”
his fingers press in deeper, curling just right—and you jolt, crying out, hands gripping the cushions like lifelines.
“shit—okay—okay—”
“you feel that?” he breathes. “that’s what a fraction of me feels like.”
you blink up at him, glassy-eyed. his shirt’s still buttoned, collar open. he hasn’t even rolled his sleeves down. meanwhile, you’re wrecked—basically naked, needy, completely undone.
he leans in, mouth at your ear.
“you’re not takin’ my cock, baby. you’re takin’ my fingers, and barely that.”
you whimper, shame heating your skin.
“and you’re doin’ your best, you are,” he soothes, voice soft now—mockingly tender. “but if i tried to fuck you tonight? you’d cry just from the tip.”
your hips twitch. you hate how wet you are from that—how your cunt clenches around his fingers like it agrees.
he feels it.
“ohhh,” he breathes, grinning. “you like that idea?”
you try to look away.
his hand grabs your jaw—gentle, but firm—and turns you back to face him.
“don’t look away now,” he murmurs. “you just squeezed around my fingers like that was the best fuckin’ thing you ever heard.”
you swallow hard, lips parted, heart slamming in your chest.
“you like the idea of crying on it, don’t you?” he presses, voice low. “sittin’ in my lap, all cockdrunk and teary, beggin’ me not to put the rest in?”
you whimper.
and that makes him grin. slow. cruel.
“jesus. you been thinkin’ about that for a while, haven’t you?”
you nod—helpless.
“how long?”
you blink, trying to gather words—but you can’t.
so he curls his fingers just right, and you gasp—back arching, thighs twitching.
“c’mon, toots,” he says, soft and coaxing. “use that mouth. tell me.”
you breathe, high and shaky. “since… our first date.”
that stuns him for a second. his brows lift—just a flicker of disbelief.
“first date?” he echoes, lips twitching. “we split a pizza and you were already thinkin’ about gettin’ split open?”
you cover your face, humiliated. “i didn’t know it’d be like this.”
he pulls your hand away—still grinning, still wrecking you with just the look in his eyes.
“like what?”
“big,” you whisper. “so big.”
his grin deepens, fingers dragging slow and deep, hitting a spot that makes your hips jerk.
“haven’t even shown you yet,” he murmurs. “but you’ve been thinkin’ about it—how wide you’d have to stretch. how it’d feel when i finally push in. that right?”
you nod, eyes wet, lips trembling. “mm-hm.”
he leans in—voice low, coaxing, wrecked.
“and now you know,” he breathes. “now you really know what you’re beggin’ for.”
then his thumb finds your clit again—circling firm, slow, devastating—and your whole body locks up.
“go on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “come for me. just like this. just from my fingers.”
you shatter—body seizing, legs shaking, hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto. his wrist. the couch. the air. your cry breaks in your throat.
he groans low, thumb easing up, fingers still deep, drawing it out as long as he can.
“that’s it,” he whispers. “good girl. there you go.”
and then, slowly, finally, he slips his fingers out.
you whimper at the loss.
he brings them to his mouth.
licks them clean.
eyes never leaving yours.
you swallow hard, flushed and shaking and so far gone—but when he starts reaching for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, you blink.
“…what are you doing?”
he tilts his head, amused. “trying to wrap you up before you fall asleep sittin’ in your own afterglow.”
you frown—confused, needy, offended. “you’re just… done?”
schlatt pauses, blanket still half-unfolded. “i mean—yeah?” he says, hesitant. “was kinda hopin’ to get you cozy again…maybe finish the movie, head to bed…”
you stare at him, lips parted. “but i don’t want to sleep.”
his brow furrows. “toots…”
“no, i’m serious.” you sit up, pulling your shirt down as best you can—not that it helps, considering your whole body’s still humming from his fingers. “i don’t want to stop. not yet.”
“you just came so hard i thought you forgot your name,” he says, voice rough but not unkind. “i figured you’d wanna—”
“i didn’t come here to nap on your couch,” you say, more force behind your words now. “i came here because i like you. because i trust you. and because i knew if you touched me—really touched me—it was gonna feel this good.”
he doesn’t speak.
so you go on, cheeks burning:
“i’ve been wanting you for weeks, schlatt. but if you’re not into it—if you think i’m just some wide-eyed virgin who can’t handle you—then say that. but don’t sit there and act like you don’t want me when you’ve got a goddamn tent in your jeans.”
that makes him snort—actually snort—but the sound is low and almost pained.
he rubs the back of his neck, looking away for a beat before meeting your eyes again.
“fuck, toots,” he mutters. “it’s not that i don’t want you. jesus. believe me, i do. i’m dying over here.”
“then what?” you ask, quieter now.
his jaw ticks. “i’m tryin’ not to be the asshole who rushes a girl into something she’ll regret. especially one who’s never done it before. especially you.”
you sit still for a moment. swallow hard. then:
“i’m not rushing. i’m asking. and i’m not trying to jump straight into sex. i just… i wanna see you. i wanna touch you. i wanna make you feel good, too.”
his breath hitches.
you shift closer. rest a hand over his. “let me?”
he stares at you—searching. maybe for fear, maybe for hesitation?
but he finds neither.
“…alright,” he says, voice lower than before. “we’ll take it slow."
you nod.
and then?
he leans back on the couch and spreads his thighs—just a little.
“then c’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “you wanted to touch?”
you nod again—heart pounding.
“be gentle with it, now,” he adds, undoing his jeans. “he’s not used to sweet girls with tiny little hands.”
schlatt undoes his jeans slow, deliberate—like he’s still giving you time to change your mind.
you don’t.
can’t.
not with the way your mouth’s gone dry and your thighs are already pressing together again.
he shoves the denim down his thighs and leans back, boxers tented—massively—the outline of him enough to make your breath catch.
and then, finally, he tugs the waistband down.
you suck in a breath.
jesus.
he’s huge.
long and heavy, flushed dark at the tip, veined and thick and impossibly real. he’s hard—painfully hard—and lying against his stomach like he knows damn well you’re staring.
and you are.
because your mind’s blank.
wiped.
replaced with the single, earth-shattering thought:
there’s no way that’s fitting inside me.
but you want to try.
and then?
you notice it.
a glint of silver.
pierced—through the underside of the head. a smooth, shining barbell catching the soft lamp light, nestled against all that flushed skin like it belongs there.
your thighs press tighter.
“holy shit,” you whisper.
he raises a brow, cocky but cautious. “too much?”
you shake your head violently.
“no. no, i just—” you blink, still stunned. “it’s just… bigger than i thought. and the piercing…”
he smirks. “didn’t peg you for the kind who’d like that.”
you lick your lips. “i didn’t know i liked it.”
he lets out a low, breathless chuckle. “fuck, you’re cute.”
you reach out—hesitant at first—until your fingers brush against his length, and he exhales hard through his nose.
“careful,” he mutters. “he’s shy.”
you glance up, wide-eyed.
he’s already watching you, his gaze dark and steady, one arm thrown over the back of the couch like he’s trying to look casual—but the flex of his thigh beneath your knee gives him away.
you wrap your hand around him, featherlight.
his breath catches. “a little tighter, baby.”
you squeeze—barely.
he groans. “yeah. just like that.”
you pump once, twice, awkward and unsure. “am i…?”
“you’re doin’ so good,” he says, voice rough. “just keep goin’. nice and slow.”
you bite your lip and keep your eyes on your hand, watching the way his skin shifts, how your fingers don’t quite close all the way around.
god, he’s thick.
he guides you gently—fingers curling over yours, setting the pace, the rhythm.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “easy, yeah? keep your hand right there—good girl.”
the praise makes your stomach flutter.
you pump again, smoother now. his hips twitch—just a little—and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“try twisting your wrist a little at the top,” he says, almost too calmly. “not too much. just—fuck, yeah, like that.”
you look up at him again, half-proud, half-hungry.
his jaw’s tight. he’s breathing hard. and the muscle in his thigh jumps every time you give him a firmer stroke.
you’re learning fast.
another slow pump and there it is—a bead of slick, glistening at the tip.
you blink.
then, without thinking, you lean in and press a kitten lick to it—light, curious, reverent.
he chokes.
“jesus—fuck, baby—”
you flinch back. “sorry! i didn’t—was that—?”
he huffs a breath, eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying to reset the entire planet.
“no, that was—shit, that was perfect. you’re so fucking perfect.”
you glance down again.
still curious.
still hungry.
you lean in—and this time, you press your tongue flat to the base and drag it all the way up. slow. careful. lingering at the tip with another kitten lick, like it’s instinct.
he bucks.
actually bucks.
“fuck, baby—!”
you sit back again, blinking up at him, lips slick, proud and a little uncertain.
“…did i mess up?”
he stares at you like you’ve just reinvented sex. like he can’t decide if he’s terrified or in love.
then you do it again.
same motion.
same wide eyes looking up at him.
his hand shoots out—grabs the base of his cock like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it all over your pretty, determined face.
“okay,” he rasps. “okay, that’s enough.”
you pout. “why?”
he looks wrecked. cheeks flushed, hair mussed, thighs tensed like steel under you.
“because if you do that one more fucking time,” he growls, “i’m gonna come so hard i black out, and that’s not how i wanna finish this date.”
you blink. then slowly smile.
“…so i’m good at it?”
“sweetheart,” he huffs, tugging you into his lap again, “you’re a goddamn menace.”
he tucks you into his lap like muscle memory—your bare thighs stretched over denim, your flushed face resting against his shoulder.
his cock is still hard, still leaking, still angry at the denial.
you squirm once and feel it press against your stomach.
“…can i try?” you whisper, voice small but sure.
he stills.
“...try what, baby?”
you don’t look at him. “…taking you. at least a little.”
he goes quiet. one long beat. then another.
“you sure?” he asks finally—low, serious.
you nod. “i just… wanna see. i wanna try. i know it might not go all the way, but—”
“but you want to know how it feels,” he finishes for you, voice gentling. “you wanna feel us.”
you nod again.
he sighs like he’s aging a decade on the spot, but you catch the way his arms tighten around your waist—like he’s already imagining it.
“…we’re goin’ slow,” he warns.
“okay.”
“and the second it’s too much, you tell me.”
“okay.”
he looks at you for a moment—long and steady—like he’s memorizing the curve of your face.
then: “all right, sweetheart.”
you sit up.
and he leans back.
cock thick and flushed, resting against his stomach like it’s just waiting for you.
you swing a leg over, settling above him, shaky hands bracing on his chest.
“you’re gonna guide it,” he murmurs. “take your time.”
you reach down, wrap your hand around him again—he twitches in your grip—and you line him up to your entrance, already slick and fluttering and so ready.
your breath catches.
his hands come up to your hips.
“i got you,” he whispers. “don’t rush. just—go as far as you can handle, baby.”
you nod, eyes fluttering.
and slowly—so slowly—you start to sink.
the head presses in and it’s already a stretch.
you gasp.
“fuck, you’re tight,” he grits out. “jesus, you feel like a vice.”
you whimper. but don’t stop.
“an inch more, maybe,” he murmurs, watching your face. “that’s it.”
you exhale shakily.
but you want more.
your thighs tremble as you inch lower, one centimeter at a time, cunt pulling him in greedily even as your body resists.
“good girl,” he whispers, voice raw. “just like that. that’s it, sweetheart. you’re doin’ perfect.”
you make it about halfway before your body stalls and the pressure inside you starts to burn.
it’s too much.
but also—not enough.
you brace your hands on his chest, panting, thighs trembling, walls clutching him like you’re scared to let go.
“shit, baby,” he grits, hands hovering like he’s torn between helping you up or holding you down. “you—you can stop now. that’s already so much—”
you nod. you try.
you lift your hips—just barely—
but the friction is molten.
you gasp—then drop right back down with a helpless cry.
his groan punches out of him, ragged and low. your eyes fly to his.
wide. stunned. wrecked.
you grind again. shallow. experimental.
both of you moan.
“oh,” you whisper.
“fuck me,” he breathes. “do that again.”
you do.
rocking in slow, shaky circles—just halfway down, just where it feels good.
his fingers dig into your hips like anchors, his chest rising hard beneath your palms.
“jesus christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “you’re riding just the tip—”
“not the tip,” you pant, biting down on your lip. “i got halfway.”
he huffs a breathless laugh, brushing a hand through his hair as he looks at you—flushed, trembling, perfect.
“yeah, baby,” he says, voice rough. “you fuckin’ did. and you feel unreal.”
his hands slide lower—settling on your hips again, firm but steady. “slow it down a sec,” he murmurs, coaxing your movement into something smaller. “not just back and forth—try…rollin’ your hips. yeah, like that.”
you follow his guidance, circling your hips slowly, shallowly, and your breath stutters out at the way it drags him inside you.
“feel that?” he asks—low, careful, watching your face. “better?”
you nod, a little dazed. “s’good,” you whisper. “i—i didn’t know it could feel like this…”
“mm,” he hums, guiding you through another slow grind. “it’s different for everyone. different positions, different angles. but this—this one’s good for you, huh?”
“yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, it’s—fuck, schlatt—”
his eyes flutter shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “legs okay?” he murmurs. “you need a break?”
they’re shaking, but not in pain. you shift a little and shake your head a bit, side to side. “just tired.”
you whimper. your head tips back, mouth falling open, cunt fluttering around him with every slow drag of your hips.
“can’t think, can you?” he murmurs, voice a gravelly purr. “too full to think. you like bein’ dumb on my cock, sweetheart?”
you nod. frantic this time. you do.
he chuckles—hoarse, wrecked.
“you’re so fuckin’ tight like this,” he groans. “fuck—every time you move, i feel your pussy pulling at me.”
you try to answer, but it comes out a whine.
“drunk on it already?” he teases, and his hand slides down—rubbing slow circles over your clit. “and i’m not even all the way in.”
that makes your whole body twitch. you bite your lip. squirm a little.
“i—maybe i can—”
“no,” he says gently, pressing his thumb a little firmer. “you don’t have to, baby. half’s already fuckin’ killin’ me.”
but it’s too late.
your body’s greedy.
you grind down again—slow, thoughtless, dizzy—and your hips roll just right, angling perfectly, and suddenly you slip.
lower.
deeper.
your eyes snap open.
he gasps—loud, choked, shocked.
you freeze.
and the second he’s all the way in—buried to the base—you scream.
not loud, but ragged. guttural. like the air’s been punched from your lungs and replaced with heat and pressure and the overwhelming stretch of being full.
you’re shaking. writhing. every nerve ending flaring at once. your hands claw at his chest. you can’t breathe. can’t think.
“oh my fuck, baby—” schlatt grits out, voice wrecked, hands flying to your hips like he’s trying to steady himself before he loses all control.
your body clenches around him on instinct—so tight, so wet, so goddamn full of him it’s like your body doesn’t know whether to panic or come.
“i didn’t mean to—” you gasp, tears in your eyes, head spinning. “i just—it just slipped—”
“i know, i know,” he breathes, voice wild, thumb brushing your hip like it might calm you down—even as his grip twitches, even as every muscle in his body begs him to move.
but he doesn’t.
not yet.
because when he looks down—it’s right there.
the base of his cock flushed dark, your folds swollen and stretched taut around him, a slick, shiny ring where your body’s clinging like it doesn’t want to let him go. like you were built for this.
he groans, deep and guttural. “jesus christ.”
you blink down at him, dazed. “what?”
“look at this,” he mutters, dragging his eyes down to where your bodies are still locked. “look at this. you’re fuckin’ made for me.”
his hand slides between your thighs—spreads you open just enough that you both get a better view.
your breath stutters.
because fuck, it’s obscene.
the size difference, the way he fills you, how swollen and stretched and stuffed you are—it’s so much. too much.
and still, your cunt clenches around him again like it wants more.
he grabs your hips—rough now, greedy—and starts grinding into you, slow but deep, like he wants to feel every inch of your walls wrapped around him, stretching, clenching, taking.
“oh, my fuck, baby—” he hisses, watching where he disappears inside you. “it fits. it fits. i can feel your cunt choking on it. look at how tight you are—look at how deep i am—fuck—”
he laughs under his breath. wrecked.
your hips twitch at his words.
you’re still panting. flushed and sensitive and wide-eyed. “i didn’t mean to take all of it—i just—i wanted more—”
“i know,” he says again, gentler now. “but all of me? on your first time?”
his head drops. his forehead rests against yours.
“fuck, you’re unreal.”
then he pulls back just an inch—slow, cautious, like he’s testing the water—and your body on top of his.
his jaw clenches. his hands twitch against your hips like he's holding back something barely contained. he drops his forehead against yours again—like he’s trying to ground himself in your skin instead of the way you feel wrapped around him.
you whimper softly, body twitching with aftershocks, and that’s when he really looks at you.
eyes wild.
lips parted.
hair a mess.
his gaze drops between your bodies—where he’s still buried, where he can feel you throbbing around him, leaking down his length—and something shifts.
he exhales.
rough. shaky. dangerous.
like he’s one wrong move from losing control all over again.
“baby—” he murmurs, voice low and fraying. “i need to—”
he cuts himself off. swallows. you watch his jaw clench.
then softer, almost pleading:
“can i take over?”
you blink up at him, dazed and glowing, still fogged with the kind of high that leaves your soul floating.
“…please,” you whisper.
“fuck yes,” he growls—and then you’re weightless.
in one swift movement, he slips out and flips you onto your back, spreading your legs with zero hesitation. the air hits your slick skin and you shiver—but he’s already there, lining himself up, kissing your knee like it’s the last gentle thing he’s got in him.
and then—
he thrusts in again. deep. hard.
the new angle makes you see stars.
his piercing brushes right there—a heavy, deliberate drag against your cervix that makes you gasp, body seizing up around him.
“there it is,” he growls, watching your face twist with pleasure-shock. “you feel that, baby? you feel me all the way up there?”
you can’t answer. your mouth is open, soundless, tears pricking at your lashes from the intensity.
he grabs your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you down onto him like he’s got something to prove.
like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out.
“fuck—this pussy—i knew it was good, but goddamn.”
you sob out something close to his name, and he loses it.
he leans over you, caging you in with his forearms, his hips slamming into yours with loud, wet slaps that echo off the room.
“taking me so fuckin’ good,” he pants, voice right in your ear. “letting me ruin you, sweetheart. letting me fuck you dumb on your first time.”
“say it,” he demands again, voice shredded. “say it’s mine.”
and then—without thinking, without breathing, without even realizing what you’re about to say—
you choke out:
“it's already yours.”
his whole body jerks.
he stills—deep inside you, cock twitching, throbbing, fighting for control he doesn’t have.
his eyes snap open. meet yours.
and something in both of you just breaks.
the tension snaps like a wire under pressure—and you both come together.
you sob. your body locks around him. your vision goes white at the edges.
he groans—deep, animal, like he’s never felt anything like this before—and spills inside you, hips grinding down to push every drop as far in as it’ll go.
neither of you move. not at first.
just panting. shaking. stunned.
and then, slowly—so slowly—he pulls back just enough to watch it happen.
his cock slips out, wet and swollen and trembling, and a thick string of cum follows, dripping out of you in slow, obscene globs.
he watches it—entranced. then looks at you again. hair wild. eyes glassy. body still trembling with aftershocks.
he exhales, rough and ragged, like he’s trying to catch up with himself.
“shit,” he mutters. “okay. hang on, baby.”
he moves fast—but gentle. stands, tucks himself back into his boxers with one hand, and disappears down the hallway. you blink, dazed, and only just register the sound of running water.
when he returns, he’s got a warm, damp washcloth. his brows are drawn, focused—his expression all quiet care and no teasing for once.
“lift your hips for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kneeling beside you again.
you do. barely.
he takes over—one hand cradling your thigh, the other so gentle as he wipes between your legs. cleaning you. soothing you. making sure you’re okay.
“think i might’ve overdone it, huh?” he murmurs. “first time and i go feral like a fuckin’ animal…”
you shake your head, still hazy. “was perfect.”
he exhales—almost a laugh, almost a sigh—and kisses your knee.
“lift your arms,” he says next, reaching behind for the throw blanket. “we’re not sleeping on the couch. not after what we just did to it.”
you comply, sluggish and boneless. he bundles you up in the blanket like a little caterpillar in a cocoon, one arm wrapping under your legs, the other steady at your back.
“jesus christ,” he mutters, grinning to himself as he picks you up. “third date and i’ve already fucked up your ability to walk. great impression, schlatt.”
“you’re doing amazing,” you mumble into his neck, eyes heavy, lips smiling.
his condo’s quiet except for the shuffle of his steps, low muttering as he opens the door to his bedroom with his shoulder. it’s clean—cool gray sheets, big comforter, scuffed dresser with tiny tower of hats, an empty glass on the nightstand, his cologne still hanging in the air.
he sets you on the edge of the bed, then disappears into the closet.
“don’t even think about crashing in that dress,” he calls, rummaging.
you blink, foggy. “but it's...pretty comfy.”
“it’s not sleepwear, toots. catch.”
he tosses a shirt—soft, black, oversized. you tug it on with wobbly arms, his shirt swallowing your frame, no panties in sight, letting it fall down past your thighs. schlatt turns back around once you’re changed, holding out a water bottle and two pills.
“advil,” he says. “preventative. i know it’s gonna hit you in the morning.”
you swallow them, obedient, and let him help you into bed. the mattress is warm from the sheets, and you sink in immediately.
he joins you a beat later—still in his sweats, shirt rucked up slightly—and pulls the blanket over both of you. his arm slides around your waist. his other hand rests over your stomach, fingers grazing against your skin, almost tickling you.
his voice is quieter now. lower. honest.
“…you okay?”
you nod into his shoulder. “mhm.”
“wasn’t too much?”
“you asked. every time.”
a pause. then, softly:
“i’m really glad it was you.”
his fingers flex against your side. he presses a kiss to your temple.
“i know it’s only been three dates,” he murmurs, “but i really fucking like you.”
your breath catches. you tilt your head to meet his eyes.
they’re softer than you’ve ever seen them. tired. awed.
“i wanna be your boyfriend,” he says simply. “if you’ll have me.”
your chest swells. you smile.
“yeah,” you whisper. “i want that. i'd really, really like that.”
he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. “jesus. okay. okay, good.” he buries his face in your hair, arms tightening around you. “best third date i’ve ever had.”
you huff a sleepy laugh. “me too.”
the rest of the night settles around you in warmth and softness and the steady thump of his heartbeat, echoing against your back.
Summary: At his own party, Josh’s confident act fades when he admits he’s a virgin—only for the reader to lead him through a passionate, awkwardly sweet first time.
Warnings: Smut (mdni 18+), virgin!Josh, first time, teasing, experienced!reader, praise kink, alcohol mention, vulnerability
The Washington lodge was alive tonight—pulsing music, red solo cups, and the hum of laughter ricocheting off log walls. Josh stood in the center of it all, his signature smirk in place like armor, greeting guests and making offhanded jokes that bordered on flirtatious.
You caught him watching you more than once. You weren’t new to his parties, but tonight was different. Maybe it was the way his gaze lingered longer. Maybe it was the way he gravitated toward you, that practiced charm of his cracking just a little when you smiled back. “So,” he drawled, leaning casually against the kitchen island like a guy in a teen drama. “You here to flirt with me or steal my liquor?”
You arched a brow. “Can’t it be both?”
He choked on his sip of beer and laughed, “Touché.”
The flirting built like pressure behind a dam—smirks, close whispers, his hand resting just a little too low on your back when he guided you through the crowd. And eventually, predictably, he murmured in your ear, “Wanna ditch this for somewhere quieter?”
You said yes.
His bedroom was dimly lit, warm from the fire crackling low in the fireplace. He kicked the door shut behind you, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. Josh tried to play it cool—shrugging off his jacket and tossing it carelessly aside, fingers combing through his hair in that way you were sure he practiced in the mirror. “So, uh… you comfortable? I can put something on. Music. Or, like, Netflix.”
You stepped into his space, toeing off your shoes. “You nervous, Washington?”
His laugh was breathy, nervous. “Pfft. What? No. No way. Just—uh, checking in.”
You took a step closer. “You seem a little stiff.”
“Well, you’re kinda hot and standing real close, so—yeah. I’m doing my best here.”
The kiss came suddenly, both of you leaning in at once. It was heated, a little clumsy, all teeth and lips at first until it settled into something slower. His hands found your waist, your hips, gripping you like he was afraid to pull you too close too fast. When your fingers started tugging at the hem of his shirt, Josh tensed. You pulled back slightly, blinking. “Hey. You okay?”
He licked his lips, looking at you with wide eyes, no smirk in sight. “Yeah. Yeah, I just… okay, full honesty moment?” His hands dropped to his sides. “I’ve never actually done this before. Like. Not all the way.”
You paused, your expression softening. “You mean you’re a virgin?”
Josh winced like you’d said a dirty word. “Kinda ruins the whole ‘smooth party guy’ image, huh?”
You smiled—warm, reassuring—and cupped his face gently. “Josh, that doesn’t ruin anything. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
His eyes flicked to yours, searching, hopeful. “You’re not, like, turned off or weirded out?”
“Not even a little. You’re hot, you’re sweet, and you’re clearly trying your best.” You let your voice drop into something teasing. “I think that’s kind of adorable, actually.”
He groaned softly. “God, don’t say adorable when I’m trying to get laid.”
You leaned in, kissing him again. Slower this time. Deeper. “Let me help you, Josh.”
Clothes were shed with fumbling hands, his nerves showing every time your fingertips brushed his bare skin. He watched you like you were magic, eyes wide and dark with wonder as you guided him to the bed. You settled astride his lap, kissing down his neck, letting your hands wander with purpose. “Tell me if anything feels too fast, okay?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. Yeah. I’m good. Just… wow.” Your fingers danced along his chest, your hips grinding slow against the tent in his boxers. His breath hitched, hands gripping your thighs like you were keeping him grounded.
“You feel good, baby,” you whispered into his ear, delighting in the way he shivered under you.
Josh let out a low, unsteady moan. “Holy shit. This is, like, already the best night of my life.”
You laughed against his skin, your fingers sliding beneath his waistband. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m serious,” he groaned. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this. About you.”
You paused, genuinely surprised. “Me?”
He flushed, avoiding your eyes. “I may have had a thing for you since, like, the first time you came to one of my parties.”
You bit your lip, feeling your heart warm even through the haze of arousal. “Then let’s make it count.”
You guided him slowly, easing him inside you with gentle words and reassuring touches. Josh’s head fell back, a strangled sound escaping his throat, “Oh my God—” You moved carefully, watching every twitch of his brow, every hitch of his breath. He was clearly overwhelmed, trying desperately to hold back, his hands shaking as they gripped your hips. “I-I’m not gonna last,” he gasped, biting down hard on his lip.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, stroking his cheek. “Just feel it. Let go.” And he did—his body going taut beneath you, hips jerking up helplessly as he came with a guttural, needy sound. His arms wrapped tight around you, burying his face in your shoulder as he trembled. You held him through it, pressing soft kisses to his hair. “You did good, Josh.”
He laughed breathlessly. “Jesus. I lasted, like… negative three seconds.”
You grinned. “That just means we’ve got time to practice.”
Josh looked up at you with flushed cheeks and something shy in his smile. “You’d… want to do this again?”
You leaned in close, brushing your nose against his. “I’d be honored to be your sex tutor, Washington.”
He snorted. “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” You laughed, curling up against his chest.
