blindboxaddict

[blindboxaddict]

Somethin’ Stupid

Pairing: Jschlatt (Jay) x fem!reader

Word count: ~1.5k

Warnings: Emotional repression, heavy yearning, late-night vulnerability, missed signals, slow burn, mutual pining, self-sabotage, fear of ruining friendship, bad timing, almost-confessions, soft resolution, Schlatt being hopelessly in love and awful at handling it, fluff

Summary: You fell first. He fell harder. Neither of you noticed the other was falling—until it was almost too late to say anything at all.

A/N: IT WONT LET ME REPLY TO THE SUBMISSION BUT THIS IS FOR 🐠 ANON!!! I might be stealing some more songs from that list for inspo but I knew I ABSOLUTELYYYYY needed to do somethin stupid first.

You always end up here.

Half-drunk on the living room floor, back pressed against the couch, your cheek resting against the scratchy fabric, listening to Jay ramble about something half-relevant while an old record hums in the corner.

Tonight, it’s Sinatra. Of course it is. Something about the way he croons makes the air feel heavier than usual. Like the room is holding its breath. Like you are.

Jay’s on the couch behind you, sprawled sideways, a half-finished beer perched on the windowsill and one arm slung over his forehead.

Your legs are tangled in a throw blanket. You’ve been nursing a glass of red wine for the last hour. You’re not even tipsy anymore, just tired. Slow. Warm in that way that makes you too honest.

You don’t look at him when you speak.

“Do you ever think we missed it?”

His voice is soft, a little hoarse from laughing earlier. “Missed what?”

“I don’t know. A moment. A chance. Something we didn’t notice at the time.”

He shifts. You hear the fabric of the couch sigh beneath him.

“You mean like… us?”

Your throat catches.

You swallow. “Do you?”

There’s a pause. Too long. The kind that makes your stomach curl.

Then he laughs. It’s not mocking, but it’s distant.

“Nah,” he says. “We’re good.”

You nod, eyes fixed on the dark window across the room.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re good.”

⸻

You fell in love with him two falls ago. Somewhere between long walks back from corner bodegas and laughing until you cried over diner pancakes at 2 a.m.

He wasn’t trying to be anything. He was just himself. Stupid and tall and warm and sharp where it mattered. A little reckless, a little tired. A little too good at making you feel like the center of the universe when you were with him.

He made you forget to be careful.

That’s where you messed up.

⸻

He calls you “dude” when he doesn’t want to say your name. You figured that out months ago.

It started after a night where your hand brushed his and neither of you moved away. He made a joke. You laughed. But something had shifted.

He said “dude” three times in the next five minutes.

You didn’t bring it up.

Neither did he.

⸻

Sometimes he touches you like it’s accidental. Like his fingers didn’t mean to brush your wrist. Like his knee didn’t mean to knock into yours when you both reached for the remote.

You let it happen every time.

You don’t want to know if it means nothing.

⸻

You’re sitting on his kitchen counter one night in February. He’s cooking something half-frozen and awful. The overhead light flickers.

“You ever think we should’ve hooked up just to get it out of the way?” he asks, casually, like he’s asking if you want hot sauce.

You go still.

He’s not looking at you. He’s stirring something.

You laugh. “You’d never survive.”

That makes him glance at you, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What, you think you’d ruin me?”

“I know I would.”

He nods once slowly and lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He says it like a joke.

He says it like it doesn’t mean anything.

But your cheeks burn for the rest of the night.

⸻

There’s a girl on his Instagram story the next weekend. Someone you don’t know. Someone with rings on every finger and a high laugh that cuts through the room even with the volume low.

You don’t ask.

He doesn’t bring it up.

But he notices when your replies start coming slower. When you stop double-texting. When you say “I’m tired” instead of “come over.”

He doesn’t ask either.

And that’s the worst part.

⸻

You dream about kissing him sometimes. It’s never dramatic. Never fireworks or slow fades.

Just quiet. Familiar. A moment in the kitchen or in the passenger seat of his car.

Once, in the dream, he kissed you and whispered “finally.”

You woke up crying.

⸻

You go out together one night in late March. Some rooftop thing his friend dragged him to. You come because you said yes before thinking about it.

He’s in a black t-shirt. Hair slicked back. Beer in hand. Talking to people you don’t know.

You’re wearing lipstick for the first time in weeks.

He notices.

Doesn’t say anything.

But you catch him glancing. Once. Twice.

Later, some guy you don’t care about asks for your number.

Jay is on the other side of the deck. He doesn’t see it.

You think about telling him.

You don’t.

⸻

You’re in his apartment again in April.

He puts a record on without asking. Sinatra again. He’s halfway through an edit and says he just wants background noise.

But you know better.

He always puts this record on when he wants to feel something but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

You sit on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

You smile faintly. “I won’t.”

A beat.

Then: “Jay.”

He hums in reply.

You open your mouth.

Then close it.

He looks at you.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a second. Then goes back to his screen.

The song keeps playing.

You almost said it.

⸻

You don’t talk for the rest of the night.

You sit in the glow of his desk lamp while he finishes editing. The light paints him in soft gold, jaw set, fingers moving with that twitchy rhythm he gets when he’s trying not to think too hard.

You say you’re tired. He offers you the couch.

You curl up in his hoodie, the one that smells like him. The one he pretends not to notice you borrow every time.

The apartment goes quiet except for the low, steady scratch of the record looping back.

And then you hear it.

His footsteps. Bare feet against wood floors.

You keep your eyes closed.

You feel him standing there.

You feel him hesitate.

Then retreat.

The door to his room clicks shut like a sigh.

And you cry. Just a little.

Just enough to feel it.

⸻

You stop texting first.

He doesn’t say anything about it.

But you know he notices. He always notices.

You still see him. Still hang out. Still fall asleep on opposite ends of the couch like nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

He doesn’t ask who’s texting you when your phone buzzes. Doesn’t knock his knee into yours under the table. Doesn’t ask you to stay when you say you should go.

You wonder if this is what letting go looks like.

You wonder if he’s doing it too.

⸻

Your friends ask if you’re okay.

You say yeah. Of course. You’re just tired. Just busy.

You lie with your teeth clenched and your throat full.

You stopped waiting for him to say it. That’s what hurts the most.

Not that he didn’t love you.

But that he never wanted to.

⸻

It’s raining the night it happens.

Of course it is.

You didn’t plan to go to his place. You’d both been quiet for weeks. Distant in that way where the silences feel sharp.

But he texts.

you up?

And you don’t think. You just go.

When he opens the door, he looks wrecked. Not sad, not sick, just raw. Like he hasn’t slept right in days. Like he’s been trying not to say something for too long and it’s burning a hole in his throat.

“You okay?” you ask.

He steps aside.

You follow him in.

⸻

You sit on the bed. Same spot you always sit. You pick at a loose thread in the comforter.

Jay sits across from you on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up.

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then:

“I miss you,” he says.

Your stomach flips.

“I’m right here.”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not. Not like before.”

You look away.

“I know it’s my fault,” he says. “I pulled away. I thought I was protecting something. But I think I just killed it slower.”

You don’t speak.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he murmurs. “But I ruined it anyway.”

You blink hard. Your throat aches.

Jay’s voice is quiet. “I’m in love with you.”

It breaks.

Not loudly. Not with ceremony.

Just a soft unraveling, like a thread finally giving way.

You press your palms to your eyes.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You’re late.”

He lifts his head.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long it started to feel like part of my routine.”

Jay laughs—cracked, breathless. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He looks down at his hands.

You walk over before you can stop yourself.

Sit on the floor in front of him.

Your knees knock.

He looks up.

You lean in.

And kiss him.

It’s not perfect. Your teeth knock. His hand trembles when it lands on your jaw.

But it’s real.

It’s quiet.

It’s long overdue.

⸻

You fall asleep beside him that night, curled into his side, still in your jeans.

His arm stays around your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

⸻

In the morning, everything feels different.

But not bad.

He makes you coffee without asking how you take it. You scroll through your phone like you’re not watching him from the corner of your eye.

He kisses your forehead, and it feels easy. Familiar.

Like this is what it was always supposed to be.

Divider by @uzmacchiato

[blindboxaddict]

he’s so boyfriend i’m gonna be sick 🥲🥲

new from phin’s insta @/phinttv <3

[blindboxaddict]

he’s so boyfriend i’m gonna be sick 🥲🥲

new from phin’s insta @/phinttv <3

[blindboxaddict]

𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍'𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎

jschlatt x artist!reader

summary: a quiet dinner reveals the growing distance between you and schlatt, where absence speaks louder than words. in the silence, something begins to shift.

notes: AFAB reader, no use of y/n (for now), not beta read

warnings: angst, no comfort, one-sidedness, schlatt being a dick

word count: 814

a/n: i was supposed to write the first chapter for "you, across the hudson river" but i got distracted. this song is one of my favorites and i've been in an angsty mood lately so i decided to write a jschlatt fanfic with it instead. this will be relatively short so it should only be around 3-4 parts. i hope you enjoy!

and maybe sorry in advance for what's about to come

it didn't start with fury, but with something small. a silence too long, and a plate too cold.

dinner had been prepared with a quiet hopefulness, the kind she had almost forgotten how to feel. carbonara: one of his favorites. crisped pancetta, golden yolk stirred just right, parmesan grated so finely it vanished into the sauce like snow. the candles were lit. not for romance, but as a kind of ritual. a reminder that intention still lived in this space. she plated both servings, her motions careful. loving, with what little love she has left. the table was set. she sat. she waited. 

and waited.

the wine in her glass remained untouched and gradually warmed down. the food cooled beneath flickering light. somewhere down the hall, he was laughing: headset on, voice rising through the cracked door in bursts of charming bravado. it was a voice she hadn’t heard directed at her in days. he was on a call with another game or meal prep or whatever company or business it is, trying to secure a deal. not that she cared enough to know, anyway.

she glanced at the clock. then again. the silence around her thickened. it was not a dramatic silence, not the kind that demands attention. no, this silence was patient. seasoned. it knew its way around the room. it had visited before.

eventually, she rose. not abruptly, not angrily. just with resignation, as though she had known all along she’d have to. she padded to the office door and knocked lightly, her knuckles barely grazing the wood.

“babe?”

he didn’t answer. or maybe he didn’t hear. or maybe, worse, he did and chose not to.

she opened the door a crack. he was hunched over the second monitor, headset crooked on his messy hair, laughter bubbling up at something someone said on the other end of the call. his fingers flew over his keyboard. the glow of the screen turned the sharp planes of his face into something unfamiliar.

“i made dinner,” she said. not quite entering or staying.

nothing. not even a glance.

she stood there for a moment, just one moment longer than she should have. and then quietly closed the door.

by the time he came out of his office, forty minutes had passed. she hadn’t moved. the pasta sat uneaten. her wine glass reflected the candle’s dwindling flame. her eyes were fixed on the plate like it was a painting she couldn’t quite interpret.

“you didn’t eat?” he asked.

“i wasn’t hungry anymore.”

he sighed, slipping into the seat across from her. “could’ve just said you weren’t feeling it.”

that was the moment. not loud. not dramatic. but something shifted.

she looked up, her voice as thin as thread. “i cooked for two hours. you didn’t even notice.”

he blinked. “i didn’t mean to ignore you. i was on a call with the twitch rep—this shit is important.”

she nodded slowly. not in understanding or forgiveness. just to stop herself from crying.

“right. everything’s important. except me.”

he shoved his plate slightly forward, annoyance starting to edge into his voice. “god, are you seriously doing this right now?”

“i know you’re busy,” she said, each word deliberate. “but it’s always like this. i’m not asking for much—”

“you’re always asking for more.”

the air thickened. he stiffened.

“it’s not fair,” he said, almost incredulous. “i’m busy for us. i’m not just playing around. i’m building something here. you think i want to be glued to this shit 24/7?”

she swallowed. the words hurt, but not because they were harsh. because they were so familiar. she had heard them before, like a lullaby to soothe her into staying in this relationship.

“i never asked you to do it alone,” she said. “i just wanted you to show up.”

“i’m always showing up,” he snapped. “i work my ass off so you don’t have to worry about anything.”

“i’m not worried about bills,” she replied. “i’m worried about coming home to someone who doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

he let out a bitter laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “why do you always make it about needing attention? what? you want me to stop working just so you feel loved enough?”

“no,” she said. her voice didn’t shake now. “i want to feel like i matter.”

the silence that followed was a new kind: less cruel, more surgical. it cut with precision. she picked up her fork and twirled it through the now-cold pasta, pretending to eat. her hands trembled, barely. her eyes burned, quietly.

he didn’t say anything else.

she stopped talking after that, because pleading for affection is a kind of performance. she was tired of auditioning for a role she was never going to be cast in. 

as dinner went on, she quietly folded into herself, like fog settling over a still lake.

[blindboxaddict]

Schlatt is the typa man to yearn no one can convince me otherwise

[blindboxaddict]

Is there any chance you could make a jschlatt x streamer reader 1shot where she admits she has a small thing for jschlatt on her stream because her viewers asked if she had a crush on any streamers she watches and jschlatt happens to be watching her stream because hes a fan of her🤭 i think its such a nice fic concept :))

Crush

sfw

fem!reader x schlatt

basically the submission hehe

" chat, i am not smashing tommyinit, he's a child! " you roll your eyes as drag the photo of tommy at the 'pass' side

you've been playing smash or pass with your twitch chat for a few minutes now, ' but he's 20 now ' ' he's a grown man ' ' he's a grown man with a husband and a girlfriend ' your chat spams

" well... during my time, he was a child, " you reply, dramatically rolling your eyes as you lean back your seat, talking about your dsmp phase

" but in all seriousness, id still pass him, he's literally like my little brother chat, dont be weird " you chuckle as you scroll to the next option, wilbur fucking soot, you pause, staring dead into the camera

before dragging the thing's photo out of the frame, you let the silence sink in as you glance at your twitch chat

poggerina; o7

y/n4lyfersmwa; mb guys he got out of his leash

bhielatkiffy; WHY IS THE BRIGHTON BITER THERE 😦😦😦😦

you read as you chuckle, " ... anyways.. " you added, scrolling down as a tts donation caught your attention,

y/nsfavkitten donated $15, ' hello y/nn, just wondering if you had any small crush on an old dsmp member? ' the tts reads out

as you shift on your seat, " a small crush? " you repeat, before chuckling, " well.. if you donate another 100 ill tell you " you play it off as a joke

and continue on with the game, you put charlie in smash, ted in smash, jack in pass ( banter ), niki in smash, until the donator actually donated a $100, taking you in surprise

" oh my fucking god, y/nsfavkitten, i was just joking " you chuckle, " should i give you a refund? " you offer, not thinking it'd be serious

y/nsfavkitten: nononono but can you answer my last question? :3

you pause sighing out, before nodding, " for you y/nsfavkitten, fine, i did have a small crush, like a veryyy small crush on someone there " you confess as you can see your chat speeds up

akh1rah_1r: WHO

y/nluvsme: WHO???

jojosiwayouscareme: HELP WHO??

numberoneschlaggot: no way dont tell me you liked dream

" ewww " you squirm, chuckling as you shake your head, " ... i used to have a thing for schlatt " you confess

mitskimybeloved: AHH I CALLED IT

immacomebacklikeaboomerang: ship

renranram : Y/N X SCHLATT CANON FR

you groan out, as you chuckle, " guys dont make it weird " you mumble, a faint blush on your cheek as you shifted on your seat

meanwhile schlatt on the other hand wanted to do backflips, like genuinely, he was like a monkey getting excited over a piece banana

and he thought, why not shoot his shot,

@.jschlatt • 1 minute

same i ship it too, @.y/n'swebbie

↳ 11 ⇆ 9 ♡ 201

as you saw the tweet, your face turned redder like a tomato, chuckling like a teenage girl seeing abs for the first time

" chat, this is all your fault "

[blindboxaddict]

jschlatt

ᯓ★ series:

you, across the hudson river lover, you should've come over

[blindboxaddict]

𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙪𝙙𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧

prologue

[blindboxaddict]

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙪𝙙𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧: 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

summary: you stream. you edit. you overthink. sometimes people send cursed tts messages, and sometimes they send you an invite that changes everything.

word count: around 1.1k

notes: y/u/n = your username

a/n: hi everyone! this chapter basically gives you a little bit on who y/n is supposed to be. i'm writing chapter 1 right now so it should be out by tomorrow. stay tuned!

recently, there’s been a noticeable rise in interest around long form content. 

some say platforms like youtube, twitch, and other entertainment platforms are experiencing a so-called “renaissance era”. others jokingly refer to this revival as a “recession indicator” … for reasons that are obvious as they are unfortunate. 

still, a few rising stars have started to emerge in the world of content creation, slowly solidifying their presence as future greats. 

one of those rising stars is you. 

you began, almost absentmindedly, by uploading a few video essays. something to fill the hours between college lectures and late-night study sessions. youtube had always been in the back of your mind, something you’d wanted to try but never quite made time for. you’d spent years watching your favorite creators be their weird, wacky, entirely authentic selves. and people loved them for it. why not you?

you were introverted, sure, but also distinctly chaotic when the mood struck; especially around friends, or when left alone with your own thoughts too long. so you decided to document the chaos. not for fame, not for clout, but simply because it looked fun.

you made a vlog learning how to box. you filmed yourself rambling about how good interstellar is. you tried popin' cookin’ candy sushi and nearly gagged. whatever felt right, you uploaded.

people noticed. a modest audience formed. some even asked if you might consider streaming. and so, with a shrug, a pc from ebay, and some secondhand peripherals, you did.

fans would send in the most ridiculous text-to-speech messages, half of them cursed, all of them hilarious. sometimes, during your roblox streams, they'd sneak in just to stream snipe you. no matter how hard you tried to keep a straight face, it always got a laugh out of you. 

streaming, chaotic as it was, helped you connect even more deeply with your audience. it turned viewers into a community.

eventually, you created separate youtube channels, each tailored to the kind of content you’d upload. your following expanded. your income did, too. you upgraded your setup, invested in better gear, and found yourself creating with more intention, more vision.

soon enough, you were earning more than you ever imagined possible, for someone who once saw a corporate job as an inevitability. you were grateful, keenly aware of how merciless the job market had become. 

despite your success, you never quite felt the pull to leave new jersey, your home state. yes, it’s dense. yes, the highways are enough to test anyone’s patience. yes, people tend to be loud and obnoxious. but still, there’s a strange comfort in it all. nostalgia, perhaps. or the quiet pull of home. or maybe just inertia wrapped in sentimentality.

you’ve since settled into a quiet, sunlit apartment in jersey city. from your office window, the new york skyline stretches in the distance. close enough to admire, far enough to keep your peace.

plenty of creators migrate to the city, chasing the dream: community, clout, the chaos of it all. some fall in love with the noise, the grind, the myth of it. they chase the romantic notion of “making it” in the city. and yet, for you, new york always felt more like a stage than a home.

you visited enough times to know the best bodega sandwiches and which subway lines to avoid after dark. you laughed with friends, collaborated with other creators, and even let yourself pretend for a moment that it could be yours too. but the city never quite let you in. or maybe you never really knocked.

it’s not that you disliked new york. you could enjoy it in short doses. but as for calling it home? not quite. it felt like a place you were meant to pass through, not settle in. you preferred the view from across the river.

as you're lost in your own thoughts, your phone buzzes. the familiar discord icon lights up your lock screen. it’s a message from weston koury, one half of sinjin drowning and one of your closest content creator friends.

funny enough, you first met him (and his sister, kalynn) on omegle while you were both filming, just messing around. they recognized you. you recognized them. you hit it off instantly and chatted until the timer ran out. it didn’t make the final cut of the video, but you'd exchanged socials and contact information.

since then, you've popped up in each other’s videos, tweets, posts, whatever; and somehow, it just stuck. what started as a random online encounter turned into one of your favorite creator friendships.

wes10: heyyyy Sistar. Are you ready for the roblox video today?? :p

y/u/n: yuh

what games r we playing

wes10: probably dti! and a bunch of other games

also i hope you don’t mind but there’s gonna be some strangers

the message made you nervous. you’ve never done particularly well with meeting new people, especially not when it’s unplanned, and unpredictable. 

granted, meeting weston and kalynn was spontaneous too, but that felt different. there was a shared purpose then: being silly for the sake of content. you were both in on it.

this time, it’s just strangers and the vague promise of “fun.” and truthfully, you weren’t sure what to expect.

y/u/n: ermmmmmm oka. like who

wes10: uhhh you know ted nivison and schlatt? chuckle sammy

you’d recently had ted’s barbie marathon video playing in the background while editing; his chaotic commentary on every single barbie movie ever made. 

and at some point, you looked up schlatt out of curiosity, and it hit you: the cat adoption video.

you’d watched it years ago. you clicked on it purely because you’re a sucker for cats.

and just like that, your nerves softened. if nothing else, they seemed like the kind of people who wouldn’t make you work too hard to keep up. people you could maybe, just maybe, get along with.

y/u/n: yeah they ring a bell idk what chuckle sammy is tho

it’s cool they can join

wes10: As a cucumber?? :D

y/u/n: sure

wes10: OKAY BYEE SEE YOU IN ABIT!!! AN D KALYNN SAYS SHE MISSES YOU

y/u/n: awee :’) i miss her too :D

you do wish weston had given you a proper heads up. a bit of mental prep would’ve gone a long way, especially considering how much new social situations tend to rattle you.

but, to his credit, he probably assumed you’d be fine. and maybe, annoyingly, you were. because despite the nerves and the initial unease, you knew this was how connections were formed. not through meticulously planned introductions, but through moments like these: unfiltered, unexpected, awkward in all the right ways.

and honestly? you could use a few more people in your corner.

next chapter

[blindboxaddict]

this is so cute what the hell

[blindboxaddict]

welcome! :)

directory

about me:

hi! i’m sel

age: 22

she/they pronouns

infp-t

interests (besides jschlatt… and blind boxes):

tlou 1 and 2, rdr2, pop punk/punk music, art, chainsaw man, pc building, scott pilgrim, jjk, green day, mcr, 90s/00s dance music, funkyfrogbait

notes:

18+ blog only! minors dni.

this blog will be filled to the brim with self-indulgent hcs and fics. if you’re not into that, i understand. but keep the hate comments to yourself (though i accept constructive criticism).

i will not write things that involve scat, piss, incest/step-siblings, large age gaps. will update as i go.

will write with mostly AFAB in mind and will try to be as racially ambiguous as i possibly can. but if you’d like to request male/gender neutral i can :)

[blindboxaddict]

I found this song a bit ago London by badflower, and I think it would make such a cute schlatt fic bc it fits him so well 🫣

The quiet life

Pairing: Jschlatt (John) × fem!reader

NSFW 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word count: ~ 3.7k

Warnings: Slow burn, intense yearning, domestic daydreaming, emotionally intimate smut, friends-to-lovers, sharing a bed, soft boy feelings, whispered confessions, Schlatt being painfully in love, aftercare, cuddling, slight language, eventual smut

Summary: You’re just friends. The trip was just supposed to be to about making content. But now you’re playing house in a too-small LA apartment, pretending not to notice how close you’ve gotten. But Schlatt does notice—constantly. You wear his shirt, make him laugh in your kitchen, fall asleep inches away like it means nothing. And he? He’s rewriting his entire future around you.

A/N: Omg first of all, this song is going on my playlist IMMEDIATELY!! also I really really hope this is the vibe you were hoping for. I leaned heavvvyyyy into yearning schlatt, because men don’t yearn enough nowadays smh. Hope you like it anon! Also what do we prefer for schlatt, I’ve seen people use John and Jay for him but idk what I like better?

He wasn’t supposed to stay this long.

Originally it was just a weekend thing, shoot a few videos, film a podcast episode, catch up with his other friends in LA. But then you’d offered your couch. Then you’d started inviting him to late-night drive-thrus and mid-day coffee runs and content brainstorming on your apartment floor in pajama pants and a clay face mask.

And suddenly it was ten days later and his return flight had been “pushed” three times.

No one questioned it. Not even you.

You were used to people overstaying in LA. But you weren’t used to how soft he looked when he watched you talk. Or maybe you were. Maybe you just didn’t care.

He sat on your balcony now, pretending to scroll through his phone. You were inside, fixing your hair for some shoot you’d roped him into, humming a song under your breath he couldn’t place.

The sun was setting in that cliché LA way, rosy and fake and too warm for February. He hated this city. The traffic, the people, the way everyone was always looking past you, scanning for someone more important. He hated the fake smiles and overpriced restaurants and the rooftop bars that charged $40 for a drink he didn’t even like.

But he’d never been more comfortable anywhere than he was on your couch, in your too-small apartment, with your laugh echoing through the paper-thin walls.

He stared at the skyline, but all he saw was a different view.

Something quieter. Pine trees instead of palm. A kettle on the stove instead of a ring light in the corner. You with your hair tucked into a hoodie, his hoodie. Cold tile under his feet in a creaky kitchen. A radio playing something old. Your voice calling to him from the next room.

A life where none of this mattered, numbers, views, subscribers. Just you and him and a porch light that buzzed when it rained.

He could see it so clearly it made his chest ache.

“Yo,” your voice called from behind him, snapping the fantasy clean in half. “Ready to film?”

He blinked, startled. Looked up.

You were in cutoff shorts and a tank top, hair clipped up, cheeks flushed from rushing around. You were glowing in the warm light, realer than anything he could’ve imagined.

“Yeah,” he said, voice scratchy. “Let’s do it.”

You walked past him onto the balcony, brushing your fingers across his arm as you passed, totally unthinking. Totally unaware.

He sat there for another second, pretending it didn’t wreck him.

Filming took longer than it should’ve. It always did when he was with you.

You kept going off-script, cracking jokes that made him snort mid-sentence. Your camera overheated. You lost the mic pack for twenty minutes and blamed him like he’d eaten it. He didn’t even fight you on it. He would’ve gladly swallowed it whole if it meant hearing you laugh like that again.

Now the sun had long set and your apartment buzzed under the weight of warm LED strips and half-broken lamps. You were cleaning up the kitchen, barefoot in a pair of plaid pajama shorts, your tank top swapped for his old t-shirt, something he’d left behind on his last visit that you never gave back.

He leaned against the counter and watched you move around, sipping from the same water bottle he’d been using all day.

You handed him a plate to dry.

“Bet you didn’t think you’d be doing dishes in my apartment when you booked that flight,” you said, side-eyeing him with a smirk.

He shrugged, trying to keep his voice casual. “Could be worse.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re here enough. I should start charging rent.”

He wanted to say, Yeah, well you should just move in with me.

But he just chuckled and took another plate.

The two of you worked in sync, like you’d done this a hundred times. Like this was normal. Like you were just two people at home after a long day, worn out, comfortable, quietly tangled in each other’s orbit.

And that’s when it hit him again.

You weren’t his.

You didn’t belong to him. You weren’t building that life with him, not really. This was temporary. A glitch. A shared moment that wouldn’t mean the same thing to you as it did to him.

To you, it was probably just a fun week with a friend.

But to him, it felt like a preview of something he’d never be brave enough to ask for.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and glanced over.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“You’re looking at me weird,” you said, laughing softly. “You okay?”

He forced a shrug. “Just tired.”

You eyed him for a second longer than normal. Like maybe you didn’t fully buy it. Like maybe you were starting to feel it too, whatever this was. But then you looked away and stretched, your shirt riding up slightly as you did.

He looked away fast. Took a breath. Let it sit.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you stayed.”

And just like that, he was ruined again.

It was just past midnight when you padded into the living room, rubbing your eyes and clutching the edge of a blanket around your shoulders. Your voice was soft and half-asleep.

“Hey,” you mumbled, stopping in the doorway.

Schlatt was on the couch, curled uncomfortably with a throw pillow under his head and a YouTube video paused on his phone screen. He looked up at you, trying to blink himself more awake.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded, then hesitated. “I feel like a dick.”

He blinked. “Why?”

You came in a little further, chewing your cheek. “Because you’ve been sleeping on this stupid couch for like… a week and a half now. And it sucks.”

He sat up slightly, one elbow propped on the armrest. “I’ve had worse.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not the point. My bed’s a queen. And I don’t move around. You’re gonna wake up with permanent scoliosis if you stay on that thing.”

He opened his mouth to say something clever. Something to diffuse the way his chest suddenly got tight. But then you said it:

“Just come sleep in my bed.”

And he felt his brain short-circuit.

You said it like it was no big deal. Like it was a logical, normal thing. You were doing him a favor. Being nice. There was no hidden meaning in your voice, just sleepy kindness, the way you’d speak to any friend who looked like they were starting to fuse with your furniture.

But he wasn’t just any friend. Not in his head.

“You sure?” he asked, forcing a smile. “I snore. And sprawl.”

You gave him a look. “So do I. You’ll fit right in.”

He didn’t move right away. Just sat there, watching you yawn and pull your blanket tighter around yourself. You looked so soft like this. Bare-faced. Hair mussed. Half-asleep in the doorway like a scene out of a movie he wasn’t supposed to star in.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah. Alright.”

You didn’t wait for him to follow, just turned and walked back down the hall.

He stared after you for a second, running a hand over his face like maybe that would help clear his head. It didn’t.

When he finally stood, grabbed his charger, and followed you to your room, he already knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not really. Not with you a few inches away, breathing slow and steady beside him, wrapped in that same damn blanket.

You lifted the covers without a word when he walked in. He slid into the space next to you, careful not to touch. Careful not to think too hard about how close this felt to the life he kept dreaming about.

The room was dark and quiet except for your fan humming in the corner. You were already drifting off when you murmured:

“Now you won’t have a broken back.”

He swallowed.

“So generous of you.”

He teased but inside, he was screaming.

Because this, laying next to you, watching the soft shape of your shoulder in the dark, breathing in your shampoo, this was the closest he’d ever been to that other life.

The one where you weren’t just letting him sleep in your bed.

The one where it was his bed too.

He layed there for hours, wide awake. The fan hummed quietly in the corner, stirring the warm air in slow, lazy circles.

Schlatt lay perfectly still. Not asleep. Not even close.

He was hyper-aware of everything: your breathing, the slight shift of the mattress every time you moved, the faint scent of your shampoo lingering in the pillows. His body was tense, coiled in a way that left his back sore and his thoughts louder than they’d ever been.

You hadn’t touched. You were respectful. Friends. Two people sharing a bed to avoid a shitty couch.

But still, he was in your bed.

You sighed beside him, kicking off the covers. “Fuck, it’s hot.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t dare.

You must’ve assumed he was asleep, because a moment later, he felt you shift, slow and quiet, like you were trying not to wake him. He felt the blanket rustle, the mattress dip behind him, and then the unmistakable tug of fabric sliding down your legs.

He nearly stopped breathing.

You slipped off your pajama shorts, nothing too scandalous, just something soft and loose. But now all that was left between you was his t-shirt and your underwear, and you had no idea he was awake and losing his mind.

He wanted to roll over. Just to look. Just to see you in that soft, sleepy state. But he stayed frozen.

Until you moved again.

This time, you rolled closer.

Not all the way. Not pressed against him. But enough that your knee brushed his under the blankets, and you didn’t pull back. You just settled there, warm and bare-legged and totally oblivious to the way you were unraveling him piece by piece.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

“Y’know I’m awake, right?” he muttered, voice low and gravelly.

You went still.

For a second, there was nothing but the fan and the thudding in his chest.

“…How long have you been awake?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“Since you kicked me in your sleep,” he lied. “Like, an hour ago.”

You exhaled, a quiet laugh. “Well, shit.”

He finally turned to face you.

And there you were, hair messy, face flushed, blanket pooled at your waist. His shirt hung off your shoulder, and the hem just barely covered where it needed to. Your legs were bare in the moonlight cutting through the blinds, crossed loosely like you had no idea how badly you were fucking him up just by existing.

“You could’ve said something,” you said softly.

He blinked. “And said what?”

“I dunno.” You shifted, propping yourself on your elbow. “Just that you were awake.”

He didn’t reply, he just swallowed. His throat was dry.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and something in your face softened.

“What are you thinking now?”

He hesitated, fingers curling in the sheets between you. Then:

“That I wanna kiss you,” he said, voice barely there. “But I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

You didn’t move for a moment. Just looked at him, blinking slow, the air thick between you. Then you leaned in.

“Then don’t fuck it up,” you whispered.

And that was it.

He kissed you slow, like he had all the time in the world to make up for. Your lips were soft, warm, a little unsure at first until you sighed into it, your hand sliding up to cup his jaw.

The sheets shifted as you moved closer, your leg sliding over his hip, pulling him in. His hand found your waist, then your thigh, gripping like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

When your hips rolled against his, he gasped against your mouth.

“Wait,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, eyes dark and heavy. “I’ve been sure.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt on your body. He found your skin, soft and warm and his, and you shivered at his touch.

Everything slowed. Every movement was careful. Reverent.

He pulled the shirt up, and you let him. He pushed the blanket down, and you reached for him with shaking hands.

There was no rush. Just heat and breath and quiet moans pressed into each other’s mouths, like you were afraid to break the spell. He touched you like he’d imagined a hundred times but never dared. You arched into him like you’d been waiting for this just as long.

“John,” you breathed.

And he nearly lost it.

Because this—this moment, this warmth, this body beneath his, was real. Not a fantasy. Not a dream he’d take home and replay in his shitty bed in New York while he jerked off. This was happening.

And it was better than anything he ever imagined. You felt the way he trembled when you whispered his name.

“John,” you said again, slower this time, like it meant something heavier.

It did.

He looked up at you, eyes wide and glassy in the dark, his mouth slightly open like he couldn’t believe this was real. His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing so gently you almost shivered from it.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

You leaned forward, your lips barely grazing his. “John.”

He groaned, low and wrecked, like the sound was ripped straight out of his chest. Then he kissed you hard, deeper this time, desperate. His hands roamed your body, worshipful but greedy, like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“You’re so—fuck, you’re soft,” he breathed into your neck, dragging his mouth down to your collarbone. “Been thinking about this for so long. You have no idea.”

You whimpered softly as his hand slipped between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear.

“I thought about this,” he said, voice hoarse and honest, “when you laughed in that shitty parking garage. When you passed me a drink and didn’t look away. When you wore my shirt and didn’t give it back. Every time you got close and didn’t mean to.”

You gasped when he pressed his fingers against the fabric, slow, patient pressure, teasing you through the damp cotton.

“I kept thinking—if I just had you once,” he continued, kissing up your jaw, “just once—maybe I could get it out of my system.”

He dragged your underwear down your thighs. You helped him, lifting your hips slightly, and he tossed them aside like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

“But now I’m here,” he whispered, running two fingers up your slit, slow and reverent, “and I know I’m never gonna want anything else.”

You whimpered, breath stuttering as he circled your clit in lazy, feather-light movements.

“Please,” you said, not even sure what you were asking for, just more.

He kissed your knee, your thigh, your hipbone. “I got you,” he murmured. “Just let me take care of you.”

He slipped two fingers inside, slow and gentle, curling them just right as your back arched. His thumb pressed against your clit again and again, and your legs trembled as you reached up to bury your hands in his hair.

Your breath hitched. “I’m—fuck—don’t stop.”

“Not going anywhere,” he said, voice thick. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You came with a soft cry, body shuddering, legs tightening around his wrist. He didn’t stop until you were gasping, until it was too much.

He kissed you again, deeper now, slower, letting you catch your breath. Your hand fumbled for his waistband, pulling at it clumsily.

“Take it off,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered shut for a second. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, okay.”

He kicked his sweats off, crawled back over you, and lined himself up slowly, like he wanted to savor this, not just take it.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said.

You just wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging him down until your mouths met again. “I want you.”

He pushed in slowly, both of you moaning at the stretch, the warmth, the relief of finally having each other. He buried his face in your neck as he bottomed out, whispering your name like a prayer.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You feel like—fuck.”

You rolled your hips, and he moved with you, slow at first, long and deep, dragging it out like he never wanted it to end. His hands gripped your waist, your thigh, your hands, anywhere he could touch, he did. He needed to feel all of you. Needed to memorize this.

“Look at me,” he whispered, pulling back slightly. “Let me see you.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and open, and the look in your eyes almost undid him.

“Christ,” he whispered. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

You pulled him in again, kissed him like you’d always been his, and when you clenched around him, he cursed into your mouth.

It was soft. Hot. Messy. You didn’t hold back. You said his name again and again like it belonged to you. And when you came a second time, with your nails dug into his back and your body arched into his, he followed, whispering something wrecked and quiet into your skin, something you didn’t catch, but felt deep in your bones.

After, he didn’t move. He just stayed there, buried inside you, your hands tangled in his hair, breathing in your scent like he wasn’t ever going to get enough. He hadn’t pulled out yet. Didn’t want to.

Your fingers traced slow, lazy lines along his spine. His lips were at your throat, soft and reverent, kissing gently between shaky exhales. His whole body was trembling, not from exertion, but from something quieter. Something that had been building for days. Weeks. Maybe longer.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Just the hum of the fan. His heartbeat against your chest. The warmth of his skin slick against yours.

Finally, he shifted, pulled out slowly with a soft grunt and kissed your forehead before collapsing beside you, one arm still hooked around your waist. You turned toward him immediately, letting his chest become your pillow. He wrapped both arms around you and pressed his face into your hair.

You didn’t think you’d ever felt him this quiet before.

“John?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled you closer, kissed your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

Then, barely louder than a breath:

“Move back.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wide and full of something that looked almost like fear.

“Move back to New York,” he said again, voice breaking a little. “Please.”

Your mouth parted, but you didn’t say anything yet. Just stared at him.

“I know it’s selfish,” he rushed on, kissing your shoulder, then your temple. “I know you’ve built a life here and it’s not that easy, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t—fuck, if I didn’t feel like I’d fall apart when I go home without you.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

He cupped your cheek, brushing his thumb gently beneath your eye.

“I wanna wake up with you,” he whispered. “Every day. Not on some couch in your living room or a fucking rooftop party, but like—really. In some house where we cook the same dumb breakfast every morning and you wear my hoodie for real.”

You exhaled, shaky.

“I’ve been pretending it’s fine,” he said. “But I can’t do this fake life thing anymore. Not when I know what it feels like to have you like this.”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t want a version of you I get in little doses when I’m lucky. I want you in the quiet. In the boring. I want all of it.”

You searched his face. He looked… open. Scared. Hopeful.

So much hope it hurt.

You touched his jaw. “You really mean that?”

He kissed your palm.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

And then, slowly, you nodded. Just once.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

[blindboxaddict]

I’m gonna say it….Jschlatt does NOT have a gun kink