warnings → mentions of sex, jschlatt babying sick reader :p
summary → y/n tries to push through a stream while sick, but schlatt has other plans.
You’d been sick the entire stream.
Not deathly sick, just enough to make everything feel heavy. Your head hurt, your throat burned, and every time you laughed you regretted it.
But chat had been nice today, donations were good, and you kept saying you’d end after “one more game.”
At this point even you knew you looked miserable.
“You sound awful mama” one dono read.
“Oh I’m okay! thank you so much for the dono sydney” you said, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as you queued up.
after losing yet another round you leaned back in your chair with a groan.
“Okay, maybe I should get off.”
The chat instantly flooded with people begging you for one more round, saying you can’t end on a loss.
You stared at the monitor for a second, already giving in with a soft sigh.
“…Okay maybe one mor-“
Your bedroom door opened.
You glanced over to your boyfriend schlatt, confused by how sudden he had pushed open the door.
He walked over next to your desk and pressed the back of his hand against your forehead.
He paused, feeling how hot your skin was.
You looked up at him in confusion.
Without a word, he reached over and said “bye chat” before clicking your mouse, and ending the stream.
The monitor went quiet.
“Wha-“
“C’mon.”
Before you could argue, he leaned down and picked you up out of the chair.
“Schlatt-“ you gasped automatically, grabbing onto his shirt.
“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” he said quietly. “Your fever’s gettin worse.”
You opened your mouth to complain, but honestly you were too tired to try.
Instead you just let your head fall against his shoulder with a sigh while he carried you down the hall.
The bedroom was dim except for the lamp beside the bed.
He set you down carefully against the pillows before walking over to the closet.
You watched him through half-open eyes while he grabbed one of your oversized shirts and a pair of sleep shorts.
“I can do it” you said quietly, your voice a little rough from being sick.
“Arms” he muttered softly, ignoring your words completely as he sat down beside you with the clothes in his lap.
You sighed but lifted your arms anyway, too tired to actually fight him on it.
“You’re treating me like a child” you said while he pulled the oversized shirt over your head carefully.
“Oh, you don’t want me to baby you? You usually like that” he said dryly, trying not to smile.
The shirt fell past your hands once he fixed it properly on you.
“Oh fuck you” you muttered, though a small smile still grew on your face.
“Trust me baby, I would love to, as soon as you’re feeling better yeah?” he replied.
“Jerk” you whispered under your breath as he grabbed your sleep shorts from the nightstand.
“I heard that” he said while kneeling in front of you, looking up at you as he carefully slid the shorts up your bare legs before moving them back under the covers properly.
“You were supposed to” you said, squinting down at him sleepily before curling deeper into the bed, looking at him with a dazy expression.
Schlatt brushed your hair back from your forehead again before pressing the back of his hand there for a second.
“Jesus” he muttered. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m okay” you mumbled with a small reassuring smile.
He pulled the blanket up over you properly.
“You should’ve ended stream hours ago.”
“I know.”
“And stop reading chat when they tell you to keep going when you’re clearly tired, especially when you’re sick”
“They were being nice.”
“They were enabling you.”
That made you smile a little.
Schlatt looked at you for a second before reaching over to turn the lamp off.
The room went darker instantly.
Then the mattress dipped beside you.
You barely had enough energy to react before he pulled you against his chest, pressing a kiss to your head.
“Get some sleep toots” he muttered.
You nodded against him, already half asleep.
“I love you” you whispered sleepily.
“I love you more” he whispered back, smiling softly against your hair.
author’s note: thinking about making a jschlatt taglist reply with “💌” if you want to be added! :p I like writing cute little one shots like these!
how ted includes you in his videos as your partner !!
you and ted were lazing around on the couch—sitting next to each other, scrolling through your respective for you pages like parallel playing toddlers—when he got a call from schlatt.
"a trip to japan?" ted chirped. "sure!" you stared at him until he mustered, "actually... let me check with the boss."
from across the couch, you let out a snort. "you guys are crazy." that was enough of a yes for him. yay!
however, ted's trip came with a list of things you required him to do while there. "you have to get me souvenirs. can you go to a trinket store? ooh, or a stationary store?"
"sure, honey!" he pressed a kiss to your cheek. you liked this video better than most because you got to laze around at home, which mostly consisted of you waking up at 1pm and ordering takeout every day. heaven.
every day he tried to sneak in a phone call with you, sending you every photo he took. when he got home you were absolutely drowned in gifts, which was the best!
your least favorite video of his was that dumb, stupid "living like a morning routine influencer for a week". it drove you absolutely insane.
first, the waking up at 3am was absolutely excruciating. every time he woke up at that insane hour, the bed would creak and wake you up as well. it made you want to punch him.
the only good part was knowing you could fall back asleep and tease him about the fact you could take warm showers and wake up at 11am. oh, and that ted would make breakfast, though often times it was burnt and barely edible.
ted insisted you do the ice water part of the video with him, shoving your face in freezing cold water that makes you scream.
to combat all your complaints, ted decided to turn being a boyfriend into content! his recent uploads looked something like "hanging out with my partner challenge" or "baking with my partner"...
I haven't written smut in YEARSSSSSS but i wanted to give u a lil treat <3 <3 <3
✴︎MINORS DO NOT INTERACT✴︎
wc: 3.5k
warnings: fem!reader, language, smut (obviously) -munch!schlatt, fingering, tiny bit of size k!nk
You thought about the price of the room the elevator ride up to it. Four thousand dollars. You made a mental list of things that would change your life for that price. Down payment on a car. Brand new PC tower and fixtures. Rent for the next three months. Hell, a trip to the doctors office for that back pain you’ve had for years. And yet, that was how much one singular night’s stay in this particular room cost. You watched as the elevator doors opened, and followed behind the two taller men you were with.
The younger of the two lead the way, explaining the amenities and trying to reason with the price. Trevor, the slightly older of the two, had a video camera at the ready and was nodding as the first man, Schlatt, stopped in front of the door to the room and swiped a card.
“You two are about to feel so fucking poor.” He joked, pushing the door open and inviting you and Trevor inside.
You weren't quite sure why Schlatt had invited you on this trip with him, but you prayed that by the time your visit was over, you’d have an answer.
For the past few months, the two of you had been growing closer as friends. It started with him asking for help editing clips from a trucking sim stream to create shorts. He wanted outside eyes to pick the best moments without the bias of what he considered funny, so you made the drive to his place and let him teach you the basics of his editing software. You’d bantered back and forth with each other while splicing scenes together to make clips. Schlatt had filmed a handful of video intros while you edited, and you couldn’t help but sneak glances at him anytime he turned his persona on. It’s kinda hot, you thought, watching a man who always spoke politely and softly to you one-on-one flip a switch and become a loud and boisterous asshole.
You would shiver anytime he stood behind you, hands on the back of the chair you were in as he checked to see your progress. You swore to yourself, vowing to push any feelings down and away, and not let them interfere with your growing friendship.
Enjoying the work you had done, Schlatt invited you back several more times to edit more shorts for his channels. You thoroughly liked spending time with him like this, parallel playing in comfortable silence. Occasionally, he would put his hands on your shoulders and squeeze as if giving a shoulder massage or gentle pat on the back, which was always unexpected but never not appreciated.
The editing and clipping lead to him asking you to help with filming, going over the basics of camera operation and teaching you how to get his good side. Filming lead to you helping him out with various projects, having gained enough trust from him to voice ideas and opinions that you thought would improve the project or make it flop. Often he would place a gentle hand on the small of your back while walking around a location with you, leaning down close to your face to better hear you. It would make your heart race anytime you felt his breath close to your cheek, and anytime a hand ghosted over your hip you thought you would explode.
Pretty soon after, you had become his shadow, following Schlatt everywhere he went, and with time, you noticed more confident and intentional touches from Schlatt. He’d wrap an arm around your shoulder while watching a movie on his couch or reach out to hold your hand while walking. Every touch felt electric, and every time you hung out you felt tension grow.
The moment that had changed everything for you was during a trip to the grocery store. Schlatt had asked you to accompany him and help pick out ingredients for meal prepping. You had taken a few nutrition and health classes and he thought you’d be able to help him put together healthy meals. You joked with him the ride there about his tendency to latch onto junk food, and decided to be a little bold and make a comment about semen.
“I bet your cum tastes like battery acid,” your statement caught him and yourself off guard. He scoffed and glanced over at you, taking his right hand off the steering wheel. “You eat like shit, you need to eat some pineapple or something.” His hand came to rest on your left knee as you finished your sentence, electricity shooting through your body. He gave a devious smirk to you.
“Oh?” He says pulling into the parking lot. He removes his hand to put the car in park, but then places it back on your leg, this time on your thigh, inching closer to your core. “Well, I bet you taste pretty sweet.” Your eyes were wide as saucers as a blush washed over your face. You shifted your gaze to your hands placed in your lap. Schlatt lifted the hand resting on your thigh before bringing it back down with a soft slap. The sensation shocked you and made you jump, but at the same time turned you on just a tiiiiiiny bit.
“C’mon, I wanna get this over with as fast as possible.”
That was two weeks ago, and since then the teasing only grew more and more common.
You watched as Schlatt set his bags down by the hotel’s door, snapping back to reality.
As Schlatt turned various lights on you couldn’t help but stare at everything in awe. The entry area was huge, with a large table and chairs, and you were envious at how spacious it was. You ran a finger along the hardwood as you followed your friends further into the suite, eyes darting between the expensive looking art on the walls and the wall-mounted television displaying a slideshow of the hotel’s garden.
“Holy shit, look at this bed,” you heard Schlatt call out, turning your attention towards him. He sat down on the edge and bounced a few times, laughing. “Shits not even against the wall and barely squeaks.” He continues laughing as he stands up and beckons Trevor to follow him into the closet and bathroom behind the false wall.
You stayed behind, feet planted in the bedroom and mind racing with naughty thoughts.
“Maybe tonight’s the night.” You mumbled to yourself, shaking your head to rid of the impure images stirring up.
Your small group finished your self guided tour around the room, and Trevor and Schlatt began setting up to film. You separated yourself from the boys, deciding to settle down on one of the soft couches and give your legs a break.
You watched Trevor follow Schlatt around, zooming in on various features that only a rich asshole would think to have. Who the fuck needs a flashlight in a closet? Fucking yuppies.
The filming concluded with the boys clinking together cans of beer, showing off the view from the balcony. You had excused yourself to the hall to make a phone call, checking in with your best friend to let them know you safely made it to the hotel. You knocked on the door, hoping one of the boys would hear you, only to be surprised that Trevor had opened it, his bags in hand.
“Oh! Are you not staying with us? I thought Jay said the three of us would share the room.” You stared up at him with a quizzical look, confused about this deviation from the plan you were informed of. Trevor gave you a sheepish grin, motioning for you to enter the room.
“Nah, I’m staying down the street,” you switch spots with him, you now holding the door open for the man. “Try not to have too much fun. We’ve got an early day with the boys tomorrow.” Trevor winked at you before walking down the hall to the elevator. You let the door shut behind you as you made your way back over to the couch you previously occupied. Schlatt was now sitting there, one leg resting on the table in front of it, phone pulled close to his face as he typed away. You cleared your throat and plopped down next to him.
“Why’d Trevor leave?” You asked him, plopping yourself down next to the man. He looked up from his phone to smile at you, locking the device and setting it on the arm of the couch.
“Oh, he didn’t wanna share a room. Somethin’ ‘bout missin’ his girl, probably gonna jack off on FaceTime with ‘er.” You laughed, a little caught off guard by his response, but also a little distracted by the arm that had come up around your shoulders. The touch made you shiver.
“‘Ya wanna watch a movie or somethin’ doll?” Jay asks. You nod and he brings the remote up, scanning through the channels. The nickname caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stick up. Pet names had been new between you two, and every time he used one, you had to fight the urge to climb onto his lap and shove your tongue down his throat. You crossed one leg over the other and squeezed them tight together, an attempt at self control.
He settles on some shitty 90’s action flick that doesn’t hold your attention. Maybe this was intentional, you thought, pressing yourself closer into his side. You don’t notice the way his breath hitches in his throat at your movement, but you do notice when the arm around your shoulders slinks down, hand now gently resting at your hip. You try to focus on the film playing out, but the tension between you and the man next to you is much more distracting.
About ten minutes in, you feel Schlatt shift. You subtly try to glance over at him, only to be distracted by the growing problem in his lap that he is trying to cover with a pillow. You pretend to not notice what he’s attempting to fix and instead bring a hand up to place on a chest, only to have the large hand on your hip squeeze gently.
“Oh.” Schlatt whispered, and you could feel his heart rate pick up pace under your palm. You swallowed a growing lump in your throat and said a silent prayer before speaking up yourself.
“Is this okay?” You whisper back at him, too nervous to bring your eyes up to his. You feel him nod, his eyes not leaving the television screen, and melt a little more into his side. Your mind was racing, trying to think of something sly to say when he cleared his throat.
“Um… can we… uuhhh…” you look up at him and notice how red his cheeks and ears had gotten, not helping your own growing desire to see this man flustered and falling apart. You took a deep breath and put on a brave face.
“Can we what, Jay?” You ask, hand boldly coming up to rest on his cheek, pulling his attention to you instead of the screen. His eyes flicked from your eyes to lips, then back to your eyes. Okay, maybe we are getting somewhere.
“Would it be weird if we, uhh….” He trailed off, bringing his left hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Cuddled? I guess?” His voice was quiet, almost mouse like. You couldn’t help but giggle at him, motioning for him to move.
“I’d be more that fine with that, Jay.” Your words came out more seductive that you had intended, but as he readjusted himself and the pillow slipped off his lap, you couldn’t help but notice the way his… not-so-little friend twitched.
Once he was settled, you clambered back over to him, tucking yourself into his side. His arm came to rest around you once more, hand placed halfway between your hip and ass.
The two of you returned your eyes back to the television, but it was clear that neither were paying attention to whatever the hell this film was.
About twenty minutes after switching positions, you noticed Schlatt’s hand slowly pushing the hem of your shirt up, fingers ghosting over the skin of your stomach. You squeezed your legs together tightly, crossing your ankles, and couldn’t help but let out a gasp as one of his digits traced over a particular sensitive patch of skin. Your heart began pounding inside your chest, and you started thinking of ways to excuse yourself to go take care of your now soaked panties. You felt Schlatt’s hand rub back over your hip and squeeze, only adding to your problem.
C’mon, you’re a big girl. You can only do this two ways, you thought. Obviously there’s some sort of attraction here if he’s trying to hide his boner and you’re wetter than the fucking sea. Either get up and take a cold shower, possibly making things awkward between you guys, or man the fuck up and make a move, which could also possibly make things awkward between you. You understood that the logical side of you would probably be the better bet and make this less awkward that it needed to be, but the horny side was shouting over the logical, winning this yelling match. It’s been months since anyone’s touched you, and you’ve always wondered what he was like in bed anyways. Grow a pair and make the fucking move. You swallowed hard, kicking your plan into action.
“Schlatt,” your voice wavered nervously.
“Yeah?” His sounded much the same. Now or never.
“Can I…” you trailed off, finding the strength to speak your peace. You sat up, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face, turning to make eye contact with him. This is it, bitch. “Can I… can I try something?” You notice the way his pupils widen and Adam’s apple bob at your words, waiting for a response. He nods, eyes not leaving yours.
Letting your body take control, you swing a leg over his hips, straddling the man before leaning down to whisper in his ear.
“You can stop me at any point,” you flick your tongue over his earlobe, eliciting a small moan from the man, only fueling you. “I won’t be offended.” You feel two large hands latch onto your hips as you begin to place wet kisses down his neck, facial hair tickling your nose. You work your way across his neck, left to right, letting your hands wander under his tee-shirt, slowly pushing the fabric up towards his shoulders. You feel one of his hands leave your hip, and you pull his shirt up a bit as if asking him to take it off. He removes the other hand and obliges, returning them back to your body. You push back a bit to drink this new view in, taking a finger to trace over the patches of hair covering his chest before latching your lips to his collarbone. You continue to work your lips and tongue across his body, only stopping when you feel a hand shake through your hair, tugging it into a makeshift ponytail. You stop, eyes shooting up to his.
“Sweetheart,” his voice is raspy, almost lost. For a moment you’re worried you’ve crossed a line. “This isn’t very fair t’me. Wanna change that?” He tugs up the hem of your shirt as if asking for permission, only for you to whip it over your head before he can do it himself. Before the shirt hits the floor, his hands are grabbing at your chest and you have to thank yourself for not wearing a bra today. He pulls you forward, latching his own lips to your neck now, kissing and licking his way to your nipples while pushing your breasts together. You can’t help but moan as he sucks on the tissue, hands exploring your tits. He pulls his mouth off with a “pop”.
“You have no fuckin’ idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this,” He lets go of your chest, hands snaking down to your thighs. He hoists you up off of his lap briefly before standing himself, now carrying you further into the room. “You’re like a fucking succubus, y’know?” With a few strides, he’s throwing you down onto the bed before reaching down to unzip his shorts. As soon as he undoes the button, you reach out to stop him.
“Wait- can I do that?” Before he can respond, you’re sliding off the bed and sinking down to your knees, hands grabbing at the skin above his knees. You lean forward, eyes locking directly with his, and take the zipper between your teeth, tugging the metal down. His eyes roll back and he moans, as a hand once again grabs ahold of your hair, tugging it back.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me.” He mutters, stepping out of the shorts and letting them drop to the floor after pulling your hair, guiding you away to let the garment fall. Before he could get another word in, your hands latch onto the elastic of his boxers as you lick your lips. He tugs on your hair again, pulling you back.
“If I remember correctly, you said my cum probably tastes like battery acid, and yet here you are, desperately begging for my dick,” he sounds smug and has a smirk painting his lips, which is doing nothing but turning you on even more. He pulls you up, still by the hair, before letting go of it and shoving you down on the bed by your shoulders. “I don’t think that’s very fair that you get to make fun of me then try and make me cum, princess. I’ve been starving all day, let me have dessert first, yeah?”
He has one hand fondling your breasts as the other tugs down your leggings, the cold air of the room sending a tingle to your core via the soaked lace thong now exposed to him. He tosses the article of clothing behind him and crouches down to kneel between your legs, whistling at the view.
“Did you wear these for me?” He talks down to you while slipping a finger under the waistband, snapping the elastic against your skin before leaning down to press a kiss to your hip. You whine and buck your hips up, anything to feel some sort of relief. Schlatt chuckles at you, and it sounds pitiful.
“Please, Jay, please.” You whine again, writhing.
“Please, what, doll?” He teases, hot breath hovering by your belly button.
“Please just tou-“ you cut yourself off with a moan, feeling the man in front of you lick a stripe up your slit, facial hair tickling your thighs. Your hands latch onto the thick strands of his hair, pulling him back down to your pussy. You feel him move the thin lace with his teeth before his tongue makes direct contact with your clit. He hums into you, dragging his tongue through your folds before pursing his lips around your clit once again.
You can’t help it when your legs wrap around his head, and from the groans coming from the larger man, he didn’t mind one bit. He brought arm up to hold you down, resting it across your lower stomach, while snaking his other hand between your legs, teasing at your labia before slipping inside you.
“Fuck,” you moaned, throwing your head back. Never in a million years did you think this would become a reality. You had always assumed Schlatt would rather be on the receiving end of head, but here in this moment, you wanted to thank any past lovers of his for teaching him how to use his mouth for something other than snarky comments. “Jay, I- I’m-“ you moaned again, eyes shutting tightly as his fingers curled up inside you just so. You've only just started, but with the stress from the past week of travel, you were coming undone in record time.
“Jus’ fuckin’ cum, needa fuckin’ taste you,” he barked out, barely lifting himself off of you to speak. Between the pressure on your stomach, his long fingers reaching spots you’ve never been able to, along with his tongue and lips on your clit, you couldn’t hold on much longer. You felt a familiar pressure building inside of you, causing you to cry out louder than before.
“I’m gonna- I’m go-,” you felt his tongue pick up speed in tandem with his fingers and you let go, shaking as the most intense orgasm you’ve had in a long while rocked your world. You were crying out, tears spilling from your eyes as he continued his magic, working you through the height of it all. You felt him withdraw his fingers and take a deep breath once your own had steadied out, and you were fearful to make eye contact with him. You settled for staring at his soaked shoulder, following it as he stood up and hovered over you.
“I’m so sorry, Jay I should’ve said something bef-“ you were cut off by his lips crashing into yours, the taste and slick of your arousal very present on his lips and mustache. He pulled back and rested his forehead against yours, and you couldn’t help but finally make eye contact with him. His eyes were half lidded and looked awestruck.
“I coulda’ been makin’ ya’ squirt like that for months? Fuck, I’ve been missing out.” He leaned back in to kiss you again, bringing a sticky hand up to your cheek. You pulled back to take a deep breath before sliding your hand down his chest again and clearing your throat.
“So, um… you want me to give you a blowjob now or…?” You trailed off and Schlatt scoffed, moving your hand to the front of his boxers where a cold wet spot had formed.
“I’m not opposed, but you’re gonna have t’ give me like twenty minutes,” you looked up at him confused before he continued with a sheepish grin. “I came in my boxers the second you started tuggin’ on my hair.”
alright chat, how we feeling about this one??? feedback is always appreciated :))))))
pairing: jschlatt x reader
summary: your ex boyfriend is there at the party you're at. luckily for you, his frat brother schlatt has a proposal in mind to get back at him.
genre: fluff (fratboy / fake dating)
The music is loud enough to feel the heavy bass echo loudly in your chest. The air is thick with bodies, sweat and alcohol. You should be used to this, really. The frat scene is something you’re very familiar with, but now, you feel like you’re an observer peeking in.
Across the room, your ex laughs like nothing ever happened. He’s standing very close to a girl you’ve never seen, a girl who looks completely different from you. The sight pulls at your heart strings.
“You’re staring,” a voice cuts in between your somber thoughts, low and unimpressed, pulling you out of the spiral before you can sink any deeper into it.
You look to your left and see Schlatt leaning against the doorway, sleeves pushed up and red solo cup in hand. You’re only familiar with him as both your ex and him live together in the frat house. You’ve seen him in passing, giving a bright smile and getting a silent nod back in response. You don’t think you’ve spoken to him for more than four sentences.
“I’m not staring,” you reply, even though you know you’re not convincing him or yourself.
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been looking at George for the past five minutes.” he scoffs, pushing himself off the wall and making his way closer to you.
“I just zone out sometimes,” you shrug as your fingers tighten around your own red cup. The couple making out on the couch get up to move somewhere else doing god knows what, and you sit to replace them.
“Yeah,” he mutters, dropping onto the couch beside you, close enough that your shoulder brushes his. “I’m sure that’s it.”
You exhale, a mix of a sad self-loathing laugh and sigh, because there’s no point in pretending with him.
“It’s nothing,” you mutter. You try to give a small smile, unconvincing once more.
Schlatt follows your line of sight until it lands on your ex. “He screw you over?” he asks.
Luckily, there’s no judgment in his tone, just blunt curiosity, and that makes it easier to answer. “Yeah,” you admit. “He did.”
Schlatt nods once. “Cool,” he says flatly. “I hate him.”
You let out a real laugh, the sound surprising you more than him. “Isn’t he your brother? Frat solidarity and all that?”
“There’s a million frat brothers, can’t love em all.” he replies easily.
You giggle some more. “Fair enough.”
“What’d he do?”
“Kiss another girl. I don’t know if it’s that girl,” you point to the girl he’s talking to, “or a whole other one.”
“Shit.” He deadpans.
You don’t know what to say after that. There’s silence between you two that’s comfortable despite being practically strangers, the intense noise of the party filling it between you, and then he leans slightly closer.
“You wanna make him jealous?” he asks right next to your ear.
You blink, caught off guard by how close he is to you. “What?” You laugh nervously, pulling away.
“I’m serious,” he continues, nodding toward your ex. “Guy looks way too comfortable for someone who fucked you over.”
“That’s not your problem,” you point out, even though your gaze flicks back across the room.
“No, it’s not.” he agrees. “But it could be my entertainment.”
You shake your head, a small smile pulling at your lips. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re considering it,” he smirks, like he already knows what you’ll say.
You hesitate, because he’s right, and you hate that he’s right, because part of you wants your ex to look over and feel the way you feel right now, instead of acting like you never mattered.
“How would that even work?” you look back at him.
Schlatt’s mouth tilts into a grin that is far too confident. “We fake date.”
You stare at him, waiting for him to take it back.
“That’s your plan?” you ask. “What is this, To All the Boys I've Loved Before?”
He rolls his eyes, “It’s a good plan.”
“It’s a terrible plan,” you counter.
“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “But it’ll work.”
You look back at your ex again, at the way he still hasn’t even glanced in your direction, and that fuels you with just enough anger to make your decision.
“Okay,” you agree.
Schlatt’s grin appears immediately. You hate that he knew you would say yes all along.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you repeat, exhaling slowly. “But if this turns into a disaster, I’m blaming you for all of it.”
“Deal,” he says without hesitation.
Before you can second guess yourself, his hand finds yours, fingers warm as they lace together.
And after that first move, it’s easy. It feels almost natural.
Schlatt keeps you close without asking, his hand settles heavy at your waist, and he talks to you like you’ve known each other for years, leaning in just enough to make everything more, well, romantic.
You match his actions and energy, laughing at his comments, nudging his shoulder, letting your fingers graze against his arm just long enough to sell it.
It works faster than you expect. Your ex notices.
You see it in the way his expression shifts when he finally looks over. Your eyes catch one another and you find a sick joy in seeing the confusion flickering across his face. For the first time all night, he’s paying attention.
Schlatt notices too, of course he does, and his thumb presses lightly against your side, turning your attention back to him.
“See that?” he murmurs under his breath. “That’s what we’re going for.”
You nod, your heart beating faster than it should. You blame it on the fact that your ex has his eyes on you, not the fact that Schlatt’s been glued to you all night. That you can feel his strong, firm arms around you. That you realize how funny and smart he really is.
It’s your ex not him, you remind yourself. Right?
—
And the act doesn’t end when the party does.
The next morning, you wake up to a text from him that makes you smile before you can stop yourself.
Schlatt: did we break up overnight or are we still doing this
You stare at your phone for a second, then type back.
You: depends. you still annoying?
Schlatt: always
You laugh out loud, the sound echoing in your room.
—
Schlatt starts showing up outside your classes, leaning against the wall, and you fall into step beside him. He slows his pace to match yours, walking you across campus.
You sit together for lunch, joking around and talking about anything and everything, and he shows up to your tutoring sessions with an expression that shows he would rather be anywhere else, even though he never leaves early.
The tutoring part was your suggestion. After his eagerness to help you out with your ex, you offered to help him out in another way. Through teaching him the ups and downs of English Literature.
“You’re late,” you scold him one afternoon, but your bright smile gives you away as you look up from your notes.
“Yeah, I know,” he puts his hands up in surrender.
“Do you want to pass this class or not?” you squint, tilting your head slightly.
“Not really,” he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair.
You grin. “Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”
He looks at you for a second too long. “Unlucky,” he finally mutters.
—
You feel when something’s different. You can’t put your exact finger on it, but something between you two changes.
You start texting about deeper things, more personal things. You learn about his secret hobby of filmmaking and gaming, how he wishes to pursue it as a real job. You tell him your secrets, how you felt inferior during your relationship with George, how you wish to move all the way across the country and live a new life.
Schlatt promises to take you to the East Coast himself. You take it as a joke.
He lets you in on small parts of his day. Texting a photo of a bunny on campus, sharing a new movie he watched that he thinks you’ll enjoy. You respond eagerly without questioning it, without stopping to ask yourself when the act started to fade and everything started to feel real.
What drives you even more crazy is how he acts around you in real life.
Your tutoring sessions end, your books are packed away, and the conversation that could end as you both leave stretches just a little longer each time, until you realize he’s not in any rush to leave, that he stays seated across from you when there is no reason to, watching you as you talk about something unrelated. Slowly, he starts to let you ramble freely, not responding in sarcasm but genuine interest.
You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You tell yourself this is still part of what you agreed to, even when there is no one around to see it.
But then, there are the small moments that just feel special.
The way his hand finds yours without hesitation, not in crowded rooms where eyes might be on you, but in empty hallways and late walks back to your dorm, where there’s nothing to prove and no one to convince. The way his fingers lace with yours like it’s his instinct, and when you glance at him, expecting a joke or a comment to follow, there’s nothing from him, just the same unreadable expression he always has. The way he spends all night at your dorm, studying and fooling around before leaving.
You don’t bring it up. You let it happen, because part of you doesn’t want to risk breaking whatever this is by trying to define it.
Schlatt notices too. He’s always paid attention to the little things. The way you share intimate thoughts with him, the way you look at him now. He knows there’s something brewing.
It unsettles him more than he wants to admit, because this wasn’t supposed to be anything big. This was supposed to be controlled, something he could walk away from whenever he wanted, something that existed for a small joke and nothing more. Something to piss off a semi annoying frat brother he’ll never see again after graduating.
So he reminds himself that this is fake. You are not his.
None of it sticks.
—
You’re sitting in the campus café alone for once, your laptop open in front of you with a book resting beside it. You’re completely absorbed in annotating a passage that you keep rereading to attempt to fully understand it, your pen moving quickly as you write in the margins.
You hear your name from a voice you recognize instantly, one that pulls you out of your focus completely.
You look up, and your ex is already standing there.
Your initial reaction is a firm downturn of your lips, but you smooth it over quickly, forcing your expression into a polite and composed look because you refuse to let him see anything else.
“Hey,” he says, like this is normal, like there is nothing complicated about showing up uninvited at your table. “Can I sit?”
You hesitate for a brief moment, your fingers pausing against the page, before you nod.
“Sure,” you say, closing your book slightly as he takes the seat across from you.
Across the cafe, Schlatt has already seen enough. You told him you were going there to study a bit. He was stopping by to distract you for a bit, let you have a well-deserved break cause he knew you needed it.
He notices the way your posture shifts the second your ex sits down, the way your expression becomes mellow.
From where he stands, he notices the way your ex leans forward, the way you stay seated, the way neither of you makes any move to end the conversation. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that this is exactly what this arrangement was meant for, that you were never his to begin with, but the longer he watches, the less convincing those thoughts feel.
“I heard you’ve been… busy,” your ex hesitates, leaning back slightly as he studies you.
You glance at him, confused. “What does that mean?”
“You and Schlatt,” he shrugs. Schlatt’s name sounds strange coming from his mouth.
“What about it?” you shrug back. It’s none of his business, you think.
“The brothers tease him that he’s always over at yours. Ted said he’s been sleeping over,” he replies, his lips pursed tightly, “is that true?”
You let out a small breath, shaking your head as you close your laptop. You don’t feel like studying there anymore. “You don’t really get to have an opinion on that.”
“I’m just saying,” he trails off, his voice lower now, “you guys don’t exactly make sense.”
“We don’t have to make sense to you,” you furrow your brows.
“Is it real?” your ex asks.
You hesitate, caught off guard by the question. It isn’t. You know it isn’t, but you know you want it to be.
Your inner conflict is interrupted when your ex huffs a laugh, “That’s what I thought.”
Your brows knit together closer. “What does that mean?”
“It means Schlatt wouldn’t be with someone like you,” he says, standing up slowly, expression monotone as if he hasn’t said anything cruel. “It just didn’t make sense. To me, to his friends.”
The words pierce at you like swords, as he leaves you sitting there wounded.
You sit where you are, staring at the empty space across from you, thoughts tangled and you don’t have the energy to try to decipher them. You don’t even notice Schlatt approaching until he’s already in front of you, taking the seat your ex just left behind.
“Hey,” he says.
You look up immediately, relief flashing across your face before you can stop it. “Hi.”
“Everything good?” he asks. His tone is strained.
“Yeah,” you reassure him quickly. “Yeah, he just came out of nowhere.”
Schlatt nods once, then looks past your shoulder out the window.
“It didn’t look like nothing,” he pushes.
You frown. “It wasn’t anything.”
“You stayed,” he says, but it sounds more of a question than anything.
The comment catches you off guard. “What was I supposed to do, just tell him to leave?”
“I don’t know,” he replies, his tone sharpens. “You could’ve.”
It sounds accusatory. Like you did something wrong.
“Why are you acting like this?”
Schlatt sits there, right in front of you. He’s studying you, and you feel the weight of his gaze on you. You hold eye contact for a moment, waiting for him to say what you hope he’ll say.
You hope that he feels the same as you, that he wants this to be real.
Instead, he looks away. Your blood runs cold.
“It just didn’t look like you needed me,” he says, finally.
“What?” you squint. He’s not making any sense to you.
He waves his hands around, like the answer should be obvious. “You seemed fine.”
And you feel stupid. Schlatt’s referring to the bet. Of course, now that he’s seen you with your ex, he’s done with you. You want to explain everything to him, explain that your ex isn’t jealous, that even if he was, you only want Schlatt. You only want him.
“That’s not-” you start, but he’s already pushing his chair back.
“This was kind of the point, right?” he shrugs, his voice flat. “You don’t need me anymore.”
“That’s not true,” you say, more quickly this time. You just want him to listen.
He steps back, and you feel the distance between you two in every way possible. You get up quickly and hold his wrist, making him pause. “Just stop. Okay? I don’t want to make a scene, but will you please just stay and hear me out?”
Schlatt looks at you, at your desperate, pleading eyes. He can’t say no.
You sigh in relief as he sits back down across from you. “Thank you.” You whisper.
He doesn’t say anything at all - which unsettles you deeply, but at least it gives you a chance to explain. “Listen, I think I’ve been trying to pretend this was all just a game, like you wanted. And it’s been really hard.”
Schlatt opens his mouth to speak, but you glare, threatening him to try. He puts his hands up in surrender and lets you keep going.
“At some point, I guess,” Why was it so hard for you to just say it?
“I guess I felt like this was real. Like you and me are real.” You look down at your notebook, scared. “And I didn’t hate it,” Shrugging, your cheeks rush with heat, “in fact, I really liked it.”
You muster up the courage to look into his eyes. Schlatt looks so small in front you, his cheeks matching yours and his usually big stature seeming meek for once. “I like you. More than just friends. More than whatever this is. And I don’t care about my ex or this stupid act. I just care about you. I’d like to be with you, if you’d let me.”
You trail off, letting your confession sit. You admire how Schlatt looks, flustered and shy. It’s a side of him you’ve never seen before, and you want to cherish it forever.
“It’s not a stupid act.” He finally says. “It hasn’t been an act for me for a while now.”
Beaming, you giggle, “Really?”
“Really.”
“So,” you draw out, “are we dating now?”
He scoffs, “What, are we in middle school?”
“Oh,” you exclaim, “God forbid a girl wants some clarification."
Schlatt finally smiles back at you, “Yes, we’re dating.”
He starts to get back up, packing up your highlighters and pens into your pencil case. “Now, let’s go. Enough studying. I’m taking you out on a real date.”
song: adorn by miguel
ok im not like 100% in love with this, this was supposed to be 2 parts but honestly just wanted it to be one
i also envisioned lunch club schlatt while writing this but let ur imagination do ur thing idc
Sometimes Schlatt gets into a very particular mood. He loves you, god, he loves you so much but sometimes, what he needs is to fuck you like he hates you. Sometimes he needs it dirty and rough, and sometimes it's cold and calculated.
But damn, if it isn't the best sex you've had.
It's the kind of sex where he doesn't wait, where he wastes no time in getting your bottom half accessible to him so that he can thrust into you, making you take the entirety of his cock in one smooth stroke. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, instead, he smirks at the way your breath leaves your body as he immediately pulls out and thrusts back into you so hard that your body jostles with the force.
For a second, the pleasure-pain is so intense you are physically unable of making any noise. You're left staring up at him, mouth dropped open on a moan that is stuck in your throat, eyes rolling back when he spreads your legs wider to get a deeper angle.
With every deep thrust, he knocks the wind out of your body, you can't catch your breath and you're left pleading with him to give you a break.
"Jay." you gasp, "Fuck- baby, I can't-“
"Shut up an' take it" he growls in your ear, pushing your legs further back against your chest, hips drilling into you, "Be a good girl, and take it for me."
His lips smash against yours, and you whine against him, hands digging into his shoulder blades and down his back, no doubt leaving red marks in their wake.
"Fuck," you moan, nearly screaming when his hand comes to rub harshly at your clit, " can't." you whine.
"Thought you were my good girl?" Schlatt says, voice low and deep and impressively steady for the brutal pace he's keeping, "Don't you wanna be my good girl?"
"Yes," you whine, long, drawn-out and needy, "Wanna be good."
"well" he hisses, biting down on your bottom lip roughly, "then shut up, and fucking take it."
And take it you do, because you are nothing if not his good girl.
Summary: You and your long time friend J have never been anything more than friends. When your car fails to start in your garage though, you don't know who else to call. Annoyed, he comes. While working in your engine bay, you realized there's an attraction to him that you never quite felt before.
18+!! SMUT!!!
WC: 5,119
The engine clicked once.
Then again.
Then nothing.
You glared through the windshield for a solid five seconds, as if starring-down the dashboard could resurrect the ignition.
“…Really?”
You jabbed the key one more time.
Click.
Nada.
Your forehead thumped the steering wheel with a muffled groan.
“Bullshit.”
Before hope officially packed its bags, your phone was in your palm. You scrolled through two names. Only one mattered at the moment.
It rang twice.
“What's broken?” J complained on the second ring—no fuss, no hello.
You let out a theatrical sigh. “Wow. Super concerned, huh?”
“If you’re calling on a Tuesday afternoon, something is broken.”
“…My feelings.”
He exhaled.
“The car,” you mumbled.
“There it is.”
“I haven’t even started-”
“You don’t have to.”
“I… do.”
“Okay, fine—you’ll say it won’t start.”
“It won’t—”
“You’ll admit you already tried twice.”
“...”
“You’ll blame the battery.”
“...”
“And you’re wrong.”
You peered at the lifeless dash. “I’m not in the business of denying you to be right, unfortunately.”
“I know.”
“So…?”
“So?”
“…Can you come over?”
A long pause. You could see him pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I was literally about to eat.”
“I have a frozen pizza?”
He scoffed. “Not exactly.”
“I’ll pay you in mockery.”
“That’s my currency.”
“Fine. Please?”
“Resorting to begging! Nice. Give me twenty.”
You could practically see the smile plastered on his face.
Twenty-eight minutes later, his car pulled in. You swung open the garage door before he’d even open his car door.
“You’re late.” you nagged.
He squinted down at his watch, raising it closer to his face. “Eight minutes—had to grab the part I’m ninety percent sure you need.”
“…You bought a part without seeing the crime scene?”
“I know your car’s drama.”
“You’re scarily confident.”
“I’ve been your mechanic-slash-counselor for six years.”
“That feels dramatic.”
He shot you his trademark eyebrow lift.
“You rang me because your wipers sounded… aggressive.”
“They did!”
“They sounded like wipers.”
“They sounded… homicidal.”
He shook his head, mumbling something like “unbelievable”, or even “whatever,” and you couldn’t help but smile.
The banter, the ease, him striding in like the place was his second home—felt achingly familiar.
He set down his toolbox with a decisive thunk. “Pop the hood.”
You tugged the latch; metal clanked and he then vanished into the engine bay.
“You still haven’t changed your oil, have you?”
“I was planning—”
“When?”
“I dislike your tone.”
“My tone promotes preventative maintenance.”
You leaned against the garage wall, watching him uncover engine secrets. His sleeves rode up to reveal sinewy forearms streaked and blotted with oil. He threaded a wrench onto a bolt while his other hand leveraged itself on the engine block.
J never cared about looking good, or at least never acted like he did: patient, precise, occasionally annoying in his skill. You’d seen this scene in countless rewinds: moving boxes, tightening shelves you swore were lopsided, a rain-soaked tire swap after your ill-timed pothole encounter.
And while you never took note of it before, at this moment, he did look quite handsome. His facial hair grown in neatly, his curly brown hair hanging over but also sticking to his forehead…
You snapped out of whatever was holding your gaze,
“Found it.” he grunted.
You came back to reality and still, couldn't help but to notice how his brows stitched closer together when he worked. How he pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, smudging grease near his hairline without a second thought. How he just looked good. Doing something that objectively would make anyone else look bad.
Unfair. Entirely unfair.
“When are you going to stop pretending to help?” he asked, once again breaking whatever trance you seemed to be under.
You startled. “What?”
“You’ve been hovering for five minutes.”
“I’m supervising.”
He snorted. “Really?”
“I’m boosting morale.”
“Mhm.” He reached blindly. “Pass me the ten-millimeter.”
You peered into the toolbox. “…Which one’s ten?”
“The one labeled ten.”
“You have labels?”
He finally surfaced, blinked at the box, then at you. “…You were never going to help.”
“Had excellent intentions.”
“You had no intentions.”
You laughed, and he paused—just long enough to register it. Then he dove back in, the garage suddenly softer around the edges.
You frowned, blinking twice. Maybe it was the summer heat. Maybe too many solitary evenings. Or maybe—just maybe—that half-smile he’d flashed earlier wasn’t the same old grin.
And for the first time in years, you didn’t mind if he dawdled fixing the car. It didn’t feel like a headache to have reached out to him.
J ducked back under the hood before either of you could acknowledge the moment.
"Start it."
"Already?"
"I'm checking something."
You slid into the driver's seat, twisting the key just enough for the dash to light up.
"Not all the way," he called.
"I know how to start a car."
"I'm aware."
"...That sounded condescending."
"It was."
You frowned toward the windshield.
"You know, there are mechanics with better bedside manners."
"There are also mechanics who charge by the hour."
"...Fair."
A second later, he rapped twice against the fender.
"Now."
The engine groaned.
Coughed.
Then settled into a low, steady rumble.
You grinned despite yourself.
"I knew you could do it," you whispered, patting the steering wheel.
J leaned into the open driver's window.
"You congratulating the car?"
"It needs positive reinforcement."
"It needs regular maintenance."
"You always ruin the magic."
"I keep reality employed."
You laughed, reaching to shut the engine off.
When you climbed back out into the garage, he was wiping his hands on an old shop towel.
"There."
"That's it?"
"For today."
"'For today?'"
He tossed the rag carelessly into the corner.
"You've got a battery that's about done for, your serpentine belt looks older than both of us, and I don't want to know when those spark plugs were changed."
"...You're speaking another language."
"I'm speaking 'your car is held together by hope.'"
"I prefer optimism."
"You would."
He stepped around the front of the car, bending to collect a socket that had rolled beneath the tire.
You caught yourself watching him again.
It was ridiculous.
You’ d known him for years— study sessions that bled into midnight, caffeine-fueled brunches, helping each other haul boxes, movie nights that always devolved into arguments. You’ d seen him in grungy hoodies, button-downs, half- asleep on road trips, plastered in drywall dust. Nothing had ever felt like this. None of it had ever...
So why now?
The sleeves of his faded gray sweatshirt were stretched slightly around his forearms from reaching into the engine. A smudge of grease crossed one of his wrists. There was another near his jaw now—he must've brushed his face without realizing it.
"You've got something," you said.
"Hm?"
You pointed toward your own cheek.
"Grease."
He swiped at the wrong side of his face.
"The other side."
He tried again.
"No."
He frowned.
"Seriously?"
"It's... higher."
He made another unsuccessful attempt.
"Oh, for—"
You stepped closer before you thought better of it.
"Hold still."
He did.
Without question.
The garage suddenly felt very quiet.
You reached up, your fingertips brushing lightly against the warmth of his jaw as you wiped away the streak with your thumb.
His skin was warmer than you expected.
Rougher, too—his stubble catching against your fingertips.
"There."
Your hand lingered for just a fraction of a second before you pulled it away.
Neither of you moved.
J looked at you with an expression you couldn't quite place.
Not surprised.
Just... still.
"...Thanks," he said quietly.
"Yeah."
Your voice came out softer than you intended.
You cleared your throat and took a step back.
"So..." you said, gesturing vaguely toward the car. "You're some kind of hero now."
That seemed to break whatever spell had settled between you.
He looked down, huffing a laugh.
"I changed a battery cable."
"Don't be modest."
"I'm begging you not to make this weird."
"Too late."
He looked back up.
"Was that your plan all along?"
"What?"
"Get me over here, lull me into a false sense of security, then compliment my automotive prowess."
You smiled, trying to ignore the fact that your heart was still beating just a little too fast.
"I haven't complimented you once."
"No?"
"No."
"You called me a hero."
"I was clearly joking."
"Ouch."
He clutched dramatically at his chest.
"I don't know if I can recover from that."
"You'll survive."
He smiled—a slow, easy smile that reached his eyes this time.
"I probably will."
For reasons you couldn't explain, that smile lingered with you long after he looked away.
And for the first time since he'd pulled into your driveway, you found yourself wondering whether fixing the car had been the easiest part of his afternoon. Or whether the two of you had accidentally started tinkering with something a lot more complicated.
"Well," he said, dusting his palms together. "You're officially mobile again."
You looked down at the dark streaks of grease across his hands, then at the smudge still lingering along the inside of his forearm.
"...You know," you said, "you don't have to leave looking like that."
He glanced at himself.
"I've driven home worse."
"I don't doubt that."
He shrugged.
"It'll wash off."
"Eventually."
He smiled. "Eventually."
You hesitated for only a second.
"...You can use my shower."
His eyebrows lifted just slightly.
"I have clean towels."
"You don't have to—"
"I know."
He studied you for a moment, as though deciding whether to argue.
Then he looked down at his hands again.
"I am kind of covered in engine grease."
"You are, c’mon”
You led him through the garage door and into the kitchen.
The familiar scent of coffee and whatever candle you'd burned that morning lingered in the air. J had been in your house countless times before, but today he paused just inside the doorway while you kicked off your shoes.
"Bathroom's upstairs," you said. "Second door on the left."
He nodded, “I remember.”
"I can grab you a towel."
"And... maybe a shirt?" he asked, looking down at himself. "This one’s kinda nasty and sweaty and greasy now.”
You blinked.
"I probably have something."
"You probably?"
"I mean..." You opened the hall closet. "I own approximately zero men's clothes."
"I would've been concerned if you did."
You rolled your eyes.
"My brother left a bunch of stuff here after helping me paint."
You disappeared upstairs, leaving him leaning against the kitchen island.
A minute later you returned carrying a faded university sweatshirt and a pair of gray sweatpants.
"You’re taller, they might be kinda short."
"I've survived worse."
"You say that about everything."
"I have."
He accepted the clothes, your fingers brushing briefly as you handed them over.
It was nothing.
Barely a second.
Still...
Something about it made you acutely aware of how close he was standing.
"Thanks," he said, quieter this time.
You nodded.
"Bathroom's stocked."
"Got it." he rolled his eyes.
He started toward the stairs, then stopped halfway up.
"...Try not to diagnose your car again while I'm gone."
You folded your arms.
"I was remarkably accurate."
"You told me the battery had 'bad vibes.'"
"It did."
"It had corrosion."
"Same thing."
He laughed, shaking his head as he disappeared upstairs.
A moment later you heard the bathroom door close.
Then the shower.
You stood alone in your kitchen, staring at absolutely nothing.
"...Get it together," you muttered to yourself.
This was J.
Your oldest friend.
The guy who knew you'd failed your driver's test the first time because you cried after parallel parking.
The guy who'd driven three hours to help you move without complaining once.
The guy who still sent you pictures of Jambo because he knew they made bad days better.
Nothing had changed.
Except...
Something had.
You opened the freezer and pulled out the frozen pizza you'd promised him over the phone.
"If he's saving my car," you mumbled, preheating the oven, "the least I can do is feed him."
By the time the pizza was in, the sound of the shower had stopped.
A few minutes later you heard footsteps on the stairs.
"Is something burning?" J joked before he even reached the bottom.
You looked up.
And promptly forgot what you were doing.
The sweatshirt was a little snug across his shoulders, the sleeves pushed casually to his forearms. The gray sweatpants sat low on his hips, clearly a bit short, exposing a sliver of his ankles.
His hair was still damp from the shower, darker than before, curled up in a way that was the most attractive thing you’d ever seen.
He scrubbed a towel through it as he walked into the kitchen.
"What?"
You realized you were staring.
"Oh."
You blinked quickly.
"Nothing."
His eyes narrowed with unmistakable amusement.
"...You hesitated."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I was..."
You searched desperately for something believable.
"...Trying to decide whether gray is your color."
"And?"
You looked him over once more before you could stop yourself.
"It'll do."
A slow grin spread across his face.
"'It'll do?'"
"I'm trying not to inflate your ego."
"I appreciate your restraint."
"You shouldn't."
He leaned one hip against the counter, crossing his arms.
"I don't think you've looked at me that hard in... ever."
Heat climbed into your cheeks before you could stop it.
"I was evaluating the fit."
"Mhm."
"I thought the pants might be short."
"And?"
"I was checking. They are."
His grin only widened.
"For science?"
"...Exactly."
He laughed—a warm, genuine laugh that filled the kitchen.
"You are a terrible liar."
"I know."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The oven timer clicked softly in the background.
Somewhere outside, a lawnmower hummed down the street.
Ordinary sounds.
Ordinary afternoon.
And yet, standing there with damp hair and your brother's old sweatshirt, J suddenly didn't feel like just your oldest friend.
He looked at you with a softness you couldn't remember seeing before.
Not because it wasn't there.
Because you'd never thought to look for it.
The smile faded from J's face.
Not completely.
Just enough that it became something quieter.
More certain.
He pushed himself off the counter, taking a slow step toward you.
You didn't realize you were holding your breath until he stopped an arm's length away.
"So..." he said, studying you with that same infuriatingly calm expression he always wore when he already knew the answer to a question.
"What?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended.
"You've been looking at me differently all afternoon."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
A corner of his mouth lifted.
"Sure."
"I don't."
"You've been staring."
"I have not."
"You have."
"I was—"
"Supervising?" he supplied.
You let out a reluctant laugh, dropping your gaze to the floor.
"I hate that you remember everything."
"I don't remember everything."
"No?"
"No." He paused. "Just the things that matter."
Your eyes met his again.
The teasing had disappeared.
He wasn't smirking anymore.
He was simply looking at you.
The kitchen suddenly felt much smaller.
Then, with a confidence that somehow felt more honest than cocky, he tipped his head just slightly.
"Can I ask you something?"
You nodded.
His eyes stayed locked on yours.
"Do you want to kiss me?"
The question landed between you without fanfare.
No grin.
No challenge.
Just quiet certainty.
Your heart gave one hard, unmistakable thud.
"You really just asked me that?"
"I did."
"And you're awfully confident."
His mouth curved into the faintest smile.
"I wouldn't have asked if I thought the answer was no."
You didn't answer.
There wasn't anything left to say.
You reached for the front of his sweatshirt, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric.
He looked down for the briefest second before his eyes found yours again.
Then, at the exact same moment, you both closed the distance.
The kiss wasn't tentative.
It was the kind that had been waiting far longer than either of you had realized.
Months.
Years, maybe.
It landed with equal parts surprise and inevitability.
His hand found the side of your face as yours slid to the back of his neck, and for a moment the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. The frozen pizza in the oven, the open toolbox in the garage, the afternoon sunlight spilling across the kitchen floor—all of it faded beneath the rush of finally giving in to something neither of you had known was quietly growing between you.
You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly your back landed with a soft thud against the counter, the edge catching you just above your hips. J's hands were everywhere—cautious, then certain, then everywhere again. He bracketed you with his palms, each resting heavy on your denim-covered thighs until, almost absentmindedly, his thumbs stroked slow, incremental circles along the bare skin showing above your waistband.
He pressed close enough that you felt his ribs expand with every inhale, his breath hot against your jaw, your throat. Each pass of his hands traced the imprint of his fingers onto your skin, memory ready to bloom into bruise if you let him stay long enough.
You weren’t conscious of when your legs unlocked, only that he stepped confidently between them, filling every remaining inch and then some. When your knees bracketed his hips, he met your gaze—steady, deliberate, faintest hint of cocky self-awareness in the curve of his smile.
Still, he hesitated, just for a tick, as his hands slid to your waist and tugged you the final, stubborn centimeter closer. It might’ve been a question. Or just an apology for all the months spent pretending you didn’t want exactly this.
You must have made some kind of involuntary noise—something between a plead and a curse—because he smiled wider, and then kissed you again, harder this time. More urgent. The way people do when they've got years to make up for and only a handful of Tuesday afternoons to spend on it.
Your hands found the hem of the sweatshirt and went under, searching for real skin, a relic from an old hunger you’d long since quit naming. He was warm and solid and just as you remembered from every accidental touch, magnified by a thousand.
There was nothing tentative about him now. He gripped your hips so the bones pressed against his hands, and you realized his thumbs were hooked in your belt loops, anchoring you to the moment. You tightened your legs around his waist, half-daring him, half-daring yourself, and when he responded by pressing closer, you experienced a short, static burst of gratitude for every misfiring car battery and homicidal wiper that had ever existed.
For a while you just let yourself enjoy the pure, chemical idiocy of being wanted back. The universe, through some cruel and circuitous logic, had delivered J to your kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon, smelling like shampoo and engine grease, and you couldn’t think of a single place he belonged more.
The oven timer chimed, shrill and insistent, the universe’s way of reminding you that outside your kitchen was a world where this kind of thing didn’t happen unless you both allowed it to.
But neither of you moved. Not right away. You just rested there, breathing the same air, his hand absently tracing the shallow arc of your hipbone as though trying to etch the shape of it into his own memory.
He leaned back into you, pure hunger and lust in his eyes. His lips swollen and sweet. Without breaking, you blindly reach for the oven. The pizza was already burned, and you didn’t need the incessant beep of the timer to remind you. Only one thing mattered right now, and it was relearning J and the rough shape of him.
He pulled back just far enough to speak, his voice rough-edged and lower than you've ever heard it.
"Pizza’s burnt."
You didn't move. Couldn't. Not with his hands still on you.
"Dont care"
He smiled against your jaw, lips grazing the soft skin there.
"You'll be hungry later."
"I'm hungry now."
The words came out before you could think about them, and the second they left your mouth, something shifted in the air between you. His fingers tightened on your hips—not hard, just enough to let you know he'd heard.
"You sure about that?" he asked, pulling back to look at you.
You were. Down to the bone.
"Been sure longer than I want to admit."
He exhaled through his nose, almost like a laugh, but not quite.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He studied you, and for a second you thought he might pull away—might do the responsible thing, the friend thing, the thing that preserved six years of whatever this had been before today.
Then his hand slid from your hip to the inside of your thigh, his palm warm and deliberate, and your breath caught in a way that left no room for misinterpretation.
"Tell me," he said, his thumb tracing a slow line upward. "Tell me when you first thought about this."
"Thought about what?"
He pressed his hand higher, his fingers curling slightly.
"Don't play dumb. You're terrible at it."
You swallowed, your head tipping back against the cabinet.
"...Last summer."
His hand stilled.
"Last summer?"
"Your birthday. You were—" You closed your eyes. "You were leaning against my car and your sleeves were rolled up and I thought—"
"You thought what?"
"I thought I was losing my mind."
He laughed—a real one, warm and surprised.
"You didn't say a word."
"You think I was going to walk up to my best friend and say, 'Hey, by the way, your forearms are doing something to me'?"
"I would've appreciated the honesty."
"You would've made fun of me."
"For the rest of your life."
"Exactly."
His hand resumed its path, fingers slipping beneath the edge of your shorts, and the sound you made was embarrassingly close to a whimper.
"And now?" he asked, his voice dropping another register.
"Now what?"
"Now are you still losing your mind?"
You opened your eyes. He was watching you with an expression that was half amusement, half something far more dangerous.
"You know I am."
"I want to hear it."
"You're insufferable."
"I know." His fingers pressed deeper, sliding along the seam of you through your underwear, and your hips bucked forward involuntarily. "Say it."
You bit your lip.
"Fine." You dragged your hands up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the thin fabric. "I've been losing my mind over you for over a year. I thought about you every time I laid in bed. I thought about you when you fixed my shelf and I had to sit in the other room because I couldn't—"
"Couldn't what?"
You grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him closer, your mouth an inch from his.
"Couldn't stop staring at your hands."
Something dark and hungry flickered across his face.
"My hands."
"Your hands, your arms, the way you—"
His mouth crashed into yours before you could finish, swallowing whatever else you were going to say. The kiss was nothing like the first one. It was messy and desperate and his teeth caught your lower lip on the way down, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.
He used the opening to slip his tongue against yours, and you moaned into his mouth without shame.
"You have no idea," he murmured against your lips, "how many times I almost lost it in your garage."
"Yeah?"
"Every time you leaned over the engine bay."
"I was supervising."
"You were bending over."
"You noticed?"
"I'm a mechanic, not blind."
You laughed, and he kissed the sound out of you, one hand sliding up under your shirt while the other worked the button of your shorts.
"You're going to ruin my brother's sweatshirt," you mumbled between kisses.
"It was already ruined."
"It was clean."
"It's about to get messier."
You pulled back just far enough to look at him.
"Is that a promise?"
"Count on it."
His fingers hooked into your waistband and tugged, and you lifted your hips without hesitation, letting him peel your shorts and underwear down your legs in one fluid motion. They pooled somewhere near your ankles, and you kicked them off without caring where they landed.
The counter was cold against your bare skin, and you hissed at the contact.
"Cold?"
"A little."
He reached behind you, one hand pressing flat against the marble while the other slid up your inner thigh.
"Better?"
"Getting there."
His thumb found you, and you arched into his touch.
"Getting where?"
"J."
"Answer me."
"You know where."
"I want to hear it."
You grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him closer, your lips brushing his ear.
"Right here. You. Me. This kitchen. Right now."
Something in him snapped.
You felt it in the way his body went taut, in the way his breath stuttered against your skin.
"You're killing me."
"You started it."
"I did."
He kissed you again, slower this time, deliberate, while his fingers circled you with agonizing patience. You rolled your hips against his hand, chasing the pressure, and he rewarded you with a firmer touch that made your vision blur at the edges.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
"You."
"Be specific."
You groaned, dropping your head back.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
"I want you inside me."
His fingers stilled.
"You sure?"
You grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand harder against you.
"Do I seem unsure?"
He studied you for a moment—searching, you realized, for any flicker of hesitation. Finding none, he reached for the waistband of the sweatpants.
"These are your brother's," he said, pausing.
"And?"
"Seems wrong."
"We can burn them after."
He laughed, low and warm, and pushed the fabric down just enough. You reached for him, wrapping your fingers around him, and he exhaled sharply through his teeth.
"Been a while?" you asked, stroking slowly.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make jokes right now."
"I'm not joking. I'm asking."
He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts.
"Too long."
"How long?"
"Since I started thinking about you."
Your chest tightened.
"...Same."
He kissed you—soft, almost reverent—before pulling back just enough to position himself.
"Still sure?" he asked one more time.
You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer.
The first push was slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust to the stretch. You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, and he paused, his jaw clenched.
"You good?"
You nodded, unable to form words.
He sank deeper, and the sound that escaped you was raw and unfiltered. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and he pressed his lips to your throat, murmuring something you couldn't quite catch against your pulse point.
When he was fully seated, he stilled, both of you breathing hard in the quiet kitchen.
"Look at me," he said.
You forced your eyes open.
He was watching you with an expression that stripped away every defense you'd ever built. No smirk. No bravado. Just open, aching want.
He kissed you, and then he started to move.
The first thrust drew a moan from somewhere deep in your chest. The second pulled one from him. By the third, you'd found a rhythm that felt less like discovery and more like remembering something you'd always known.
His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, holding you steady, and each stroke sent sparks cascading up your spine. You clung to his shoulders, then his neck, then his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan against your collarbone.
"You feel—" he started, then lost the thought when you clenched around him.
"Finish that sentence."
"You feel like everything I've been pretending I didn't want."
The words hit you harder than anything physical could have. You pulled his face to yours and kissed him with everything you had—every unspoken thing, every Tuesday afternoon spent pretending, every silent want that had accumulated like dust in the corners of your friendship.
His pace quickened, and the counter catching beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you registered that this was going to be expensive to replace if it broke and you didn't care even a little.
"J—"
"I know."
He shifted the angle, and your back arched off the counter, a strangled cry tearing from your throat.
"There?"
"Right there—don't stop—"
He didn't. His hand slid between you, his thumb finding the exact spot that made your vision white out, and you shattered.
The orgasm rolled through you in waves, pulling him deeper with each contraction, and you heard him say your name—not your full name, not the nickname he'd used for years, but the shortened version that only existed in moments like this—before he followed you over the edge.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a lawnmower that hadn't stopped all afternoon.
You became aware, slowly, of the marble biting into your lower back. Of the sweat cooling on your skin. Of J's heartbeat thudding against your chest, rapid and steady.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
His hair was a disaster. His lips were swollen. There was a smear of your lipstick at the corner of his mouth that you hadn't noticed through it all.
He looked thoroughly, devastatingly ruined.
You reached up and wiped the lipstick away with your thumb.
You ran your fingers through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
He kissed you—soft, lingering, nothing like the frantic energy of minutes ago.
Then he straightened, helping you sit up on the counter, and you became acutely aware of the fact that you were half-naked in your kitchen while wearing one sock.
"Is this going to be weird now?," you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.
He glanced down at the counter, then at the garage door, then back at you.
"No. Just promise to call only me when your car breaks again."
You rolled your eyes and he laughed.
“And I hope it does soon.” He reassured.
His arms wrapped around you, holding you there against the counter like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. You could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing, feel the warmth of his skin through the borrowed sweatshirt, and something about it made your chest ache in the best possible way.
rewatching this sleep deprived video where schlatt keeps talking about tits so i will actually post this thing i wrote when i saw it initially
@light-blue-lace hey im posting it after weeks
nsfw under the cut, minors dni, 18+ only.
so one day you’re just chilling on the couch doing nothing when schlatt randomly asks you:
"can i see your tits?"
you're a bit surprised at how blunt he was being. "uh... why?"
"because."
"uh..."
"please?"
"um, okay." you lift your shirt, thankful you weren't wearing a bra. he looks at them for about 30 seconds, humming in approval and touching them for a bit. after he's done, he removes his hands and you put the shirt back down.
"thanks toots."
"uh huh, no problem..." you're a little confused but frankly quite aroused. like... he's seen them MANY times before. but there was something about him having the urge to see them in a normal mundane setting that was exciting. and him having that same reaction every time.
then he starts to do it more often.
always just straight up asking to see your tits and you always say yes, lifting your shirt and letting him see them.
then you start to walk around the house with smaller and tighter shirts that really show them off and he just loves it.
then one day you spice it up even more and just. walk around shirtless.
and he’s got his hands on them for hours. he just loves how pretty your tits are.
one of them is slightly bigger than the other and he just is absolutely fixated. loves them so much.
sitting on his lap as he edits and they're just in his face and he keeps getting distracted but he doesn't even care 'cause he "just wanted to see some fuckin' titties today."
also sending so many pics of them while he’s away and him saving every single one of them to use for... later...
bonus: so he's recording a drawing game (gartic, skribbl, etc.) for sleep deprived and one of the prompts is just. tits.
so he leaves the room to ask you if he can use yours as a reference (of course you say yes, you know it's just an excuse for him to see them but you don't even care).
the drawing turns out like really good and the boys are like WHOAAAA.....
one of them was like "what was your reference ain't no way you did that from memory" and he just straight up says:
