emarie-writes

[emarie-writes]

Aftercare with Nerd!Chris

warnings: hinting to sex, aftercare, reader is lowk evil, supporting women’s rights and wrongs

prev fic

“You keep staring” you mumble as you lay your head back with your eyes closed. “It’s hard not too.” Chris whispered, looking up at you from his position. After weeks of “enjoying each other’s company” Chris realized that aftercare was another way to get closer to you. “What does that mean?” You look down, furrowing your brows and pull yourself back. “I-I’m just saying you look really nice! Like really nice…” Chris replied, throwing his hands up in defense. “I’m just playing, Chris. Quit acting so nervous around me!” You sigh, putting your feet back into his lap, causing him to resume his foot massage. “Y-you know, I think you look your most gorgeous right now.” Chris says, obviously nervous.

“Right now, as in, when we’re done fucking?” You smile, looking down at Chris’s ruin state, “explain.” “W-well, you look your most natural, not saying you don’t look good ‘not natural’! But, you look so authentic, It’s beautiful in some way…” Chris rambles, trying to explain his thought process. “You look so relaxed, like i took the world off your shoulders…” be smiles before kissing you legs. “You have a way with those sweet words you speak to me… you know if you wanted round two, you just could have asked?” You smirk, grabbing Chris’s jaw before pulling him into a passionate kiss.

It had been a month since you first slept with Chris. Didn’t know that once you fucked him, you couldn’t go back. When you and Chris had sex, he always prioritized your satisfaction before his own. It’s pathetic to admit but this was a first when it came to sexual experience, it was new to you for a man to care about your need that much. After a week of complete sexual pleasure, Chris was starting to understand more and more on how to properly please you. At first he genuinely couldn’t handle all that, you felt sadistic watching him try to keep up with you.

“I’m just telling the truth!” Chris replied, pulling out of the kiss. “It’s crazy to think about a month ago i didn’t even entertain myself with the idea of being with you… i-is that what we’re doing? W-what are we?” Chris pulls back on his knees in front of you. “It’s simple, we’re just two collage kids experimenting, no need to label anything!” You reply, sitting back down on the bed. “What if i wanted it to be something? Is that bad? Like I totally understand if you don’t reciprocate, but i just need you to know how i feel about you. I’m ready to commit myself for this relationship…” he looks up, giving a pleasing look.

“I can’t believe you’re pulling the ‘what are we’ card immediately after rearranging my guts, Chris.” You sigh, pulling Chris into your bed. “I-I just don’t know how to act… you’ve put me in a state of pure euphoria, multiple times at that. Sorry for falling in love after you took my virginity!” Chris responded, hiding his face in your neck. The idea of Chris being your boyfriend left you feeling something you’ve never felt. Another part of you felt like having Chris as a lover, it felt like an extra responsibility. It sounds wrong, but in a way, having Chris as your boyfriend would lower your social status.

You left really bad thinking about thinking so low about Chris, it was true in some way. The entire reason you went to college was to network with people, your father originally wanted you to start working for the company he owned right out of high school but was persuaded into letting you seek higher education. You planned on finding a trust fund baby as a husband, maybe become a stay-at-home-wife. You aren’t ready on thinking about Chris as a husband yet. I mean yea, he’s smart, will probably get a good job after school, knows how, is at least learning how to take care of you, and is completely devoted to you. But still, there was something missing. Chris felt like an extension of you, like he didn’t care about how he truly felt, only thought or did anything that would keep you into him.

“You’re thinking about something…” Chris said, pulling you out of your daze. “Just about us” you responded, snugging into his grasp. He looked up, giving you a kiss on your palm. “We don’t need to worry about how to identify our relationship…” you stated before falling into a state of slumber in Chris’s arms.

[emarie-writes]

Okie I have a request for a josh and Chris meeting the reader in highschool for the first time and they became friends through like comic books or like the newest game that came out because they are nerds just for fun

If you don't want to do this it's Okie

Issue #1: First Encounter

Parings: Chris x gn!reader, Josh x gn!reader (either platonic or flirty 😏 you decide) (no prank au)

Warnings: cheesy banter bc it’s fun! Okay? sue me.

Summary: you go to the comic book shop in search of a back issue, what you find are new friends in the shape of two dorks that come as a package deal; Chris and Josh. It seems you’ve been adopted as the third wheel in their bromance whether you like it or not.

A/N: hiii I love this! My two favorite boys 🥹 I hope it’s okay they’re in college in this, I know you requested high school but I prefer to write about them as adults :) (dating a lot of (only) nerds and having a base knowledge on comic books came in handy for this ask!)

You’re halfway through flipping through the back issues, elbow-deep in plastic sleeves and crossovers, when someone bumps into the end of the display with a soft thud.

“Ah, crap—sorry. I didn’t think anyone was back here.”

You look up to find a tall guy with glasses and a beanie, shoulders hunched like he’s startled himself as much as you. He’s wearing a Watchmen hoodie, already slightly pilled at the cuffs. Definitely a regular.

You give him a quick once-over and shrug. “It’s fine. no casualties”

He gives a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Cool. That’s… good. Uh, I wasn’t, like, creeping or anything, I just—” He gestures vaguely at the boxes. “I’m on a mission.”

“Let me guess: Green Lantern?” You smirk.

His face lights up, almost embarrassingly so. “Rebirth! Yes! You get it”

Before you could respond, another guy steps around the corner—leaner, with that kind of practiced casualness that probably made him popular without trying. He takes one look at the two of you and raises an eyebrow.

“Chris, are you harassing strangers in the wild again?” he asks, smirking. “Can’t take you anywhere” he teases him.

Chris makes a noise that was half protest, half panic. “What?! No! I just bumped the shelf! I wasn’t—th-they were already here!”

“Relax, man, I’m messing with you,” the new guy says, shooting you a quick, easy smile before he sticks out a hand. “Josh. That’s Chris. He’s harmless. Socially clumsy, but harmless.”

You hesitate a second before shaking his hand.

Josh’s eyes wander to your bag when he lets go of your hand. “I like the Moon Knight patch. Taste.”

Chris nods quickly like he was just now noticing. “Oh—yeah, that’s awesome. Moon Knight’s underrated. like, so many people just watched the show and bailed, but if you actually read—sorry, I’m rambling”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you guys do this often? Corner people in the back issues section?”

“Corner?” Josh repeats, mock offended. “No, this is mutual proximity. We’re just friendly.”

Chris looks like he wants to crawl into a long box and close the lid. “we—we’re not trying to be weird. I swear. We just—uh, like comics. And your patch’s cool, that’s all”

You glance between them. Both clearly nerds, but in wildly different flavors. Josh had the confidence of someone who knew he could talk his way into or out of anything. Chris looked like this was the most intense social interaction he’d had all week. Maybe month. But neither of them gave you that creepy gut feeling. Just… harmless dorks. Maybe even kind of funny, in a secondhand embarrassment kind of way.

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You two always come as a set?”

“Unfortunately,” Chris mutters under his breath.

Josh ignored him. “Usually. Trivia nights, midnight releases, occasional accidental arson in the microwave when someone tries to reheat pizza on foil…” Josh gives Chris a pointed look.

“That was one time,” Chris mumbles, visibly dying.

You tilt your head. “There’s trivia?”

Josh perked up. “Yeah—The Kettle Café, Thursday nights. Comics, movies, all the nerdy stuff. We bombed last week because someone forgot the name of Thor’s Second Hammer.”

“It’s called Stormbreaker, and I had brain fog,” Chris shoots back.

You look down at the issue in your hands. You had fully intended to be in and out of this place in under ten minutes. But now you had two dorks standing in front of you; one melting, one grinning—and for some reason, you weren’t quite ready to bolt.

Josh raised his brows. “You should come, we could use someone who actually reads Moon Knight”

you considered. “If it turns out to be just the two of you playing against each other and quoting The Big Bang Theory for two hours, I’m walking out”

Chris looked genuinely disgusted. “We quote Firefly, actually.”

Josh grinned. “So that’s a maybe?”

You sigh, “It’s a ‘give me the address and I’ll think about it’”

Josh pulls a sharpie out of his jacket pocket like he does this sort of thing often. “that’s a victory”

As he scribbles the address on a receipt from his pocket and hands it to you, you catch Chris looking down at his shoes, trying not to smile too obviously.

You tuck the receipt into your bag. “Alright, nerds. Enjoy your Rebirth… don’t burn anything down”

Chris gives an awkward little salute, “No promises”

taglist: @fritzhardt @avwade69 @maiiuelle @avrells @fordthegamelord819 @xoxocher @sweetcalebb @z0mb1epuzzy @dnpo1son

Wanna join my taglist? Click here!

[emarie-writes]

Five More Minutes

JSchlatt x GN!Reader

Summary: When Schlatt refuses to leave his desk for bed, the reader takes matters into their own hands—giving him a late-night distraction.

Warnings: Suggestive content (mdni 18+), smutty toward the end but nothing explicitly said, kinda brat!reader yum

The soft glow of the monitor lit up Schlatt’s face in the otherwise dark room, casting sharp shadows under his eyes and across his jaw. His headset was pushed back behind his ears, one hand on the mouse, the other rubbing tired circles into his temple. The late hour clung to the air like dust—still, heavy, and quiet, save for the occasional sharp click-click of editing cuts and his muttered cursing. You leaned against the doorframe in one of his old hoodies, the hem brushing your thighs and your arms crossed over your chest. “You said ‘five more minutes’ an hour ago.”

“I meant it an hour ago,” he shot back, voice gruff. “Now it’s critical. The transitions are outta whack, and the audio is peakin’. It’s a mess, toots.”

“Toots,” you echoed, brows raising as you pushed off the frame and padded over to him barefoot. “You’re a mess. It’s almost 2 a.m. and you’re still yelling at Adobe Premiere like it owes you rent.”

He didn’t look at you, just dragged the timeline across with a frustrated grunt. “Maybe if it did, it’d work right.”

You rolled your eyes but your expression softened as you slipped behind him, arms wrapping lazily over his shoulders. “Come to bed. Please?”

“Mmhm,” he muttered, leaning into the warmth of you pressed against his back but not budging. “Just—gimme a sec.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “You’re really gonna make me drag you away from this desk?”

He finally glanced over, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You threatening me, sweetheart?” You were already sliding down, slow and teasing, until your knees pressed into the carpet beneath his desk. His chair creaked as he turned slightly, wide-eyed now. “Wait, you—babe—?”

You gave him a slow smile, hands bracing on his thighs. “If you won’t come to bed, I’ll just have to give you a reason to want to finish up.”

He swore under his breath, voice low and gravelly. “Jesus Christ…”

You reached up and tugged gently at his waistband. “Keep editing. Pretend I’m not here.”

“Oh yeah, real easy,” he muttered, face already flushed as he stared at the screen and tried to act like he wasn’t completely unraveling. His voice cracked when he tried to speak again. “This is a violation of workplace conduct, y’know that?”

“Good thing we’re not at work.”

He huffed, biting back a groan, and let his head drop back against the chair. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

“You better. Now shut up and finish your video.”

And he tried—he really did—but that night, the only thing he managed to finish was you.

[emarie-writes]

(Not-so) Hired Help

Chris Hartley x GN!Reader

Summary: Josh’s terrible wingman tactics backfire, but Chris still ends up with the reader—and Josh proudly takes the credit.

Warnings: Goofy and silly angst, fluff, happy ending (ofc), mutual pining, josh being himself

Chris regretted telling Josh within ten minutes.

He hadn’t even meant to confess. It just slipped out one night after too many beers and a horror movie that somehow ended up with you curled next to Chris on the couch, knees brushing, laughing into your blanket like you didn’t even realize how easy it was to ruin him. “They’re awesome,” Chris had said quietly when you’d gone to the kitchen for snacks, eyes still on the spot you’d been sitting.

Josh had raised a brow. “Oh? Awesome in a ‘cool friend’ way or a ‘please make out with me by the fire’ way?”

Chris had blushed so hard he’d nearly swallowed his tongue. “Shut up.”

And just like that, the damage was done.

Josh declared himself “the wingman of the century,” which immediately filled Chris with dread. Josh’s idea of subtlety was about as refined as a foghorn. Or a marching band. Or a foghorn in a marching band.

The next morning, Chris realized he was right to worry. You were sitting on the porch with your tea, hair messy from sleep, hoodie half-zipped in the chilly air. It was a perfectly normal, calm moment. And then Josh came flying out of the cabin like he was about to give a TED Talk.

“Hey, Y/N!” he said, loud and obnoxiously chipper. “Did you know that Chris is really good at making breakfast? Like, shockingly good. You should definitely eat something he makes today. Just, like…random suggestion.”

You blinked, spoon halfway to your mouth. “Okay?” Josh turned and made intense eye contact with Chris through the glass door like he expected a medal. Chris mouthed what the hell are you doing and tried not to die of embarrassment.

Later that afternoon, Josh cornered you in the hallway outside the guest rooms. “Hey,” he said casually. “We’re gonna do some board games later. You should sit next to Chris. He’s, like…weirdly competitive. It’s cute.”

“…Thanks?”

He paused, then added, “You smell nice, by the way. Not related. Just being friendly.”

You gave him a polite smile and walked away slowly like he might explode if provoked.

When Chris found out, he put his head in his hands. “You’re not helping.”

Josh grinned. “I am absolutely helping.”

Chris glared. “You told them to sit next to me and then complimented their smell.”

Josh shrugged. “I’m playing the long game.”

The long game, it turned out, included casually announcing random Chris facts at dinner like some kind of walking dating profile. “You know, Chris got a scholarship for robotics,” Josh said over spaghetti, unprompted.

Chris dropped his fork.

“He also volunteers at the animal shelter sometimes,” Josh continued.

You raised your eyebrows, amused. “That’s actually really cute.”

Chris looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “Please stop talking.”

Josh ignored him. “Also, I’m pretty sure he’s read Pride and Prejudice like three times.”

Chris pointed his fork. “You promised you’d never tell anyone that!”

Josh beamed. “I lied.”

The thing was…none of it worked. Not the “accidental” seating arrangements. Not the weirdly specific compliments. Not even the night Josh tried to leave the two of you alone in the living room by fake-yawning and declaring, “Wow, I’m so tired at 8:45 PM. Guess I’ll just leave you two lovebirds alone.”

It just made things awkward. It made Chris awkward—more than usual. He felt like you were starting to notice, and not in a good way. Like every time you looked at him, you were seeing Josh’s weird matchmaking schemes hovering in the air like a bad smell. You were being nice about it, but Chris hated the idea that you might think he was sending Josh as some kind of messenger. Or worse—that you’d think he wasn’t brave enough to just talk to you himself. Which, okay, he wasn’t, but it was still humiliating. But, it all came to a head one evening on the deck.

You and Chris were outside while the others cleaned up from dinner. It was quiet, chilly. You were wrapped in your favorite blanket, and Chris was nursing a cup of cocoa like it might give him courage. After a long silence, you finally said, “So…is Josh your PR manager now?”

Chris choked on his drink. “What?”

You looked at him, eyes gentle but teasing. “He’s been dropping ‘fun facts’ about you like he’s trying to get me to sign up for a dating service.”

Chris flushed. “Oh my god.”

You smiled. “It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Just…confusing.”

He let out a long sigh. “I didn’t ask him to be so dramatic. I mentioned something, and he took off running with it like he was in a romantic comedy.”

Your voice was soft. “You mentioned…what?”

Chris stared at the dark trees for a moment. Then he looked at you. “That I like you,” he said quietly. “And I didn’t know how to tell you. So instead of being a normal person, I panicked. And Josh, being Josh, thought he could ‘help’ by announcing my entire personality to the group like a carnival barker.” You were quiet for a second. Chris braced himself for the most polite rejection of his life.

But instead, you smiled.

“I was wondering if you liked me,” you said. “And then Josh got involved and I wasn’t sure if I was imagining things or if you were just too shy to actually say it.”

“I was definitely too shy,” Chris admitted. “I’ve had a crush on you since you made fun of my NASA socks two winters ago.”

“I loved those socks,” you said, laughing.

Chris smiled, nervous. “So… is this where I ask if you maybe like me back, or am I too late and you’ve signed a lifelong contract with Josh instead?”

You leaned a little closer. “No contracts. No Josh.”

Chris grinned. “Thank god.”

And when you kissed him, it was warm and careful, like you’d both been holding your breath for weeks.

Inside the cabin, Josh watched through the kitchen window with a handful of popcorn and a smug expression. “Finally,” he said aloud to no one. “My plan worked.”

Sam rolled her eyes behind him. “You’re delusional.”

Josh threw a piece of popcorn in her direction. “I’m a visionary.”

[emarie-writes]

Fractured

Josh Washington x GN!Reader

Summary: After Beth and Hannah go missing, Josh spirals into guilt and grief. The reader offers him quiet comfort, helping him feel seen and less alone in his unraveling.

Warning: Angst (comfort fic), grieving and processing, psychological trauma/stress, mentions of death (Hannah and Beth)

It had been weeks since they vanished.

The snow still sat heavy on the mountaintop, like it hadn’t noticed the absence. The world moved on. That’s what it does. But Josh?

Josh was stuck in the moment they screamed.

You’d been at the lodge that night, just downstairs. You’d heard the shouting, the laughter, the cruelty—though not loud enough to know the whole truth. You weren’t part of the prank, but you were part of the silence that followed it. You blamed yourself for that. Not as much as Josh blamed himself, though.

No one could compete with that kind of self-hatred.

You found him one evening on the floor of his room, sitting against the bed frame. His hoodie was twisted like he’d yanked it halfway off before giving up. His hair was a mess. Eyes bloodshot.

“Josh,” you said quietly. He didn’t look up.

You crouched down and reached a hand toward his arm, but he flinched. “They’re dead,” he said, voice raw, like every word cut. “I know everyone’s pretending they might be out there, but come on. They’re dead. And it’s because of me.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t lie to him. But you didn’t move away, either. He glanced at you with a bitterness you almost mistook for anger. “I passed out. Passed out. They needed me and I was too drunk to even know they were gone until morning.”

“Josh…” you whispered, barely able to speak around the tightness in your chest. “You couldn’t have known. You didn’t plan any of this.”

“I might as well have,” he muttered. “I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve protected them. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re a big brother, right?”

You wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That it was a horrible accident. That no one could’ve predicted where it would end. But he’d heard all of that already—from his parents, from Chris, from the cops, from therapists. It didn’t reach him anymore. So you said the only thing that came to your heart, “You loved them.”

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and wet. “What?”

“You loved them,” you repeated. “So much that it’s eating you alive. That doesn’t make you weak, Josh. That makes you human.”

His lips quivered, like he was trying not to fall apart. “It doesn’t matter. They’re still gone.”

“I know.” You sat down beside him on the floor. “But you’re not.” There was a long pause. The silence between you was thick, but not empty.

“I keep hearing Hannah’s voice in my sleep,” he finally admitted, soft and broken. “Sometimes she’s calling for me. Sometimes she’s blaming me. I—I wake up and I don’t know what’s real anymore.” You leaned your head against his shoulder. Slowly, he let it happen.

“Then when that happens,” you said, “you call me. Even if it’s the middle of the night. I’ll answer. We’ll figure out what’s real together.”

Josh closed his eyes. You felt him trembling beside you, but he wasn’t pushing you away.

“I’m scared I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “Like, really lose it.”

“You might,” you said honestly, because you knew what kind of damage this could do to a person. “But you won’t be alone. I’ll be here. Even if you fall apart.”

Another beat of silence.

Then—he leaned into you. Not much. But enough to feel like a piece of him still wanted to be held together. His head dropped onto your shoulder, and he let out a breath that sounded like surrender.

“Thank you,” he murmured. You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him in close. He didn’t resist. His breathing evened out, slow and shaky, like the start of something fragile but healing.

That night, you stayed like that until he finally slept. Not peacefully. Not perfectly.

But for once, without screaming.

[emarie-writes]

smiling at my phone like a maniac

Juno pt. 2

Pt. 1

Pairing: long-term bf!chris x fem!reader

Summary: telling Chris you’re pregnant!

Warnings: pregnancy, fluffy fluffff, Chris being cheesy and in lovvveee <3

A/N: here is the little part two! I hope you enjoy, I really love this idea, like it’s one of my favorite daydream scenarios 🥰

You hear the front door open, then shut gently behind him.

“Baaaabe?” He calls, his voice is sleepy, worn out. “Is it too early to say I’m ready for death? Because if one more guy on my dev team says ‘just push it live and fix it later,’ I’m gonna scream into the void—”

He walks around the corner of the hallway into the living room, backpack slung over one shoulder, shirt a little rumpled, glasses sliding down his nose.

His eyes land on you and he freezes. You’re standing there, waiting, holding the plastic test stick in your hands.

You say nothing at first, you just hold it out with both hands. As if you’re offering him a gift you’re shy to give him.

Chris stares at you, squints and then walks closer. slowly, skeptical, analyzing.

You watch the moment his eyes focus on the tiny digital screen.

One word: Pregnant.

And he just stops completely.

“Wait-waitwaitwait. wait.” His backpack slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a low thud, fuck his laptop I guess??

His shirt sleeves are all bunched up, his mouth opens, then closes—then opens again.

“Is that—? Are you—?? Is this real?!” He sputters.

You nod, eyes wide and bright. “I didn’t want to wait. I took it like twenty minutes ago.”

He makes a small sound, like a broken exhale and a squeak mixed together.

Then starts laughing—but the kind of laugh that’s overwhelmed in the best way.

“Holy shit, I made a person. I made a person with you. I’m—I’m—oh my god, you’re pregnant???”

You nod again. “Yeah. You did it.”

“I did it?! we did it!! oh God—do you feel okay? Are you gonna throw up? Should I make toast?! Toast is safe when you’re nauseous—fuck, you’re pregnant—” He walks in a circle, literally. like turns a full 360 degrees and grabs his own face.

“I need to sit down—but also stand up…but also hug you—maybe at the same time???” He’s rambling.

You step forward and wrap your arms around him, and he immediately pulls you in, holding you tight—but gentle, reverent, like he’s worried about squeezing you too hard.

“You’re sure?” he mumbles into your hair. “like really sure?”

You nod against his chest.

“I triple-checked. This is the third test and then I googled the chances of three false-positive tests—.”

He laughs, weakly, “that’s my girl.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks, eyes a little glassy now.

“I’m going to be a dad….” he says, voice cracking a little. “I’m going to teach them so many things…like how to ride a bike and tie their shoes and that the prequel trilogy is severely over-hated—oh my god—can I…?” he asks, nodding toward your tummy.

You lift your shirt just a little and guide his hand there. He lays his palm over your stomach, like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever touched.

There’s no bump yet of course. Just soft, warm skin, but he touches you like he can feel the future under his fingertips.

“There’s a person in there,” he whispers. “half me, half you. Oh my god.” He swallows hard, rubbing slow, tiny circles with his thumb. “I know it’s probably like… a lentil right now. A jelly bean, but I swear I can feel them.”

You grin. “You’re petting my stomach like I’m an egg incubator.”

“You are. My favorite one…I’m gonna talk to them through your belly button.”

“I don’t think they have ears yet?” you point out with a giggle.

“Well they might be able to sense my aura, you don’t know…” he gives a half-shrug, smirking.

You start laughing, and he just smiles at you like he could live in that sound forever.

His hand stays on your stomach, comfortable now. Protective.

You sniff a laugh. “Are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. My eyes are just really watery from all my… winter allergies...”

You both dissolve into laughter, holding each other in the middle of the living room—just two dorks who made a baby and are now so stupidly in love they don’t know what to do with themselves.

Chris pulls you even closer and murmurs against your temple: “this kid’s gonna be really lucky, y’know? Because their mom is you.”

And then, very quietly, he whispers, “We’re having a baby,”

like he still can’t believe it’s real.

like he’ll be saying it every day, over and over, until the moment he’s holding them in his arms.

<3

Chris taglist: @fritzhardt @avwade69 @maiiuelle @avrells @fordthegamelord819 @xoxocher @sweetcalebb @z0mb1epuzzy @dnpo1son

Wanna join my taglist? Click here!

[emarie-writes]

well yes!

college age schlatt i beg 🙏 like the proper nerdy computer science college student everyone seems to forget he was

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * no recursion without return ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: hot engineering nerd meets cute cs nerd. she needs help passing a required class. he needs someone who actually listens. one tutoring session turns into two... and then they build something together. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: college schlatt is real, actually. nerds deserve romance too. i'm so so sorry if this is inaccurate,,, i am an english writing major (who used to be in biochem) so take everything stem-talk in this with the biggest grain of salt ♡

warnings: academic setting · lots of stem talk (cs + engineering) · mutual nerd crushes · slow-burn vibes · tutoring sessions · project bonding · lab flirting · light insecurity · soft & earned first kisses

✧✧✧

it starts with a room that smells like dry-erase markers and burnt coffee.

tuesday afternoon, 3:15 pm. you’re ten minutes early to the cs building’s third-floor lab—mostly because the alternative was sitting through another insufferably slow dining hall lunch, and partly because you weren’t sure if you’d find the place at all.

the whiteboard has a half-erased doodle of a mushroom in glasses. someone’s labeled it fungi with a minor in comp sci.

you snort, drop your bag onto the table, and slide into the nearest swivel chair.

you're not exactly struggling in the class—but you're also not thriving. cs230: data structures and algorithms. it’s mandatory for your minor, and you’ve been putting it off for two semesters too long.

the professor announced last week that office hours would be staffed by the department’s “stem peer guides.” you hadn’t planned on going.

but then the last lab nearly made you cry in the library bathroom.

so here you are.

you’re still tugging your laptop out of your bag when the door creaks.

he walks in backwards—wearing a hoodie that probably cost too much and socks with cartoon ducks on them, juggling two coffees and a laptop under one arm.

“hey—sorry,” he says, turning around and freezing when he spots you. “didn’t think anyone was gonna show up.”

he sets the coffees down. his glasses slide a little down his nose when he tilts his head.

“you here for cs230?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he blinks. then smiles—just a little. you catch the beginnings of smile lines.

“i’m schlatt,” he says. “stem guide. i did the class last year.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and survived?”

“barely.” he slides into the chair across from you and cracks open his laptop. “what are we working on?”

you pause. he’s surprisingly cute for someone who clearly color-codes his life. his keyboard has custom caps. his notes—when he turns the screen to show you—are annotated with little pixel cats.

you try not to show your amusement. “i think i broke my brain trying to write a recursive function.”

schlatt huffs a laugh. “you and everyone else.”

he takes a sip of his coffee, then pushes the other cup toward you.

“extra,” he says. “in case you need brain fuel. also because i got nervous and ordered two by accident and i couldn't tell them i didn't want the other one.”

you accept it without thinking. warm. lightly sweet. you usually take yours iced, but it's cold in this room, so you'll take it.

“thanks,” you murmur.

“no problem,” he says, already pulling up the assignment prompt on his screen. “let’s untangle some loops.”

✧✧✧

you’re twenty minutes in and already rethinking your life choices.

not because schlatt’s bad at explaining things. actually, the opposite.

he’s good. really good.

he’s got the kind of brain that makes metaphors on the fly—comparing recursive functions to russian nesting dolls, stack overflows to a laundry chair that’s reached critical mass, and call stacks to cabinets held open in sequence.

“okay,” he says, spinning the whiteboard toward you, “so imagine you're opening those russian dolls—you know, the ones that keep getting smaller?”

you nod, watching as he draws a series of half-circles nestled inside each other.

“each function call is like opening another doll. every time the function calls itself, it goes one layer deeper. but the only way to start returning values—to actually finish—is to reach the smallest one.”

“the base case,” you murmur, tapping the smallest doll he’s drawn.

his smile quirks. “exactly. once you hit that, you start putting them all back together. one by one, returning values up the chain.”

you tilt your head. “so recursion’s not about jumping around—it's about going in and then back out in the same order.”

“bingo.”

he pivots to his laptop and pulls up a short recursive function on the screen. you lean in.

“okay, next part—this,” he gestures at the lines of indented code, “is the call stack. think of it like trying to put dishes away.”

“…dishes?”

he nods, animated now. “you open a cabinet to put a plate in. then you grab another plate, but instead of closing the first cabinet, you open a second one. and a third. and a fourth. you keep opening cabinets without shutting the old ones.”

you raise an eyebrow. “sounds like how my roommate loads the dishwasher.”

he grins. “right? but the point is, each open cabinet is a function waiting to finish. they can’t finish until the one they just called returns. so when you hit your base case, you finally start closing those cabinets, in reverse order.”

you stare at the screen, tracing the indents with your eyes.

“so,” you start slowly, “the top function keeps waiting—holding its cabinet door open—until the one it just called is done. and that one’s waiting for the one it called. like a long hallway of open doors.”

“yes!” schlatt nearly bounces in his chair. “and that hallway is your stack. it fills from the bottom up—every time you go deeper. but if there’s no base case—or it’s too far down?”

“then the hallway gets too crowded.”

you glance up at him. “and the stack… overflows?”

he throws both hands up, mock-dramatic. “you get it!”

you laugh—really laugh—and shake your head. “it actually makes sense. which is annoying. because i was ready to just declare defeat and become a barista.”

he nudges his coffee toward you. “nah. baristas don’t use call stacks.”

you take a sip, smiling into the lid. “honestly? if you’d used metaphors in the lab handout, i might’ve passed the last quiz.”

“metaphors are how i survive,” he says, then lowers his voice in mock-conspiracy. “they trick your brain into thinking you’re doing storytelling, not math.”

you grin. “you are such a dork.”

“thank you,” he says, deadpan. “that’s the highest compliment in this lab.”

you roll your eyes—but you’re still smiling.

✧✧✧

you hadn’t meant to invite him.

it just slipped out—somewhere between scribbling return values and teasing him for his handwriting—your mouth said, “hey, i’m grabbing food after this. you want to come?” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

he blinked. just once.

then shrugged and said, “sure,” like he wasn’t surprised either.

now you’re sitting across from him at a corner table in the dining hall. your tray’s got a slice of pizza and a sad salad. his has a sandwich, two cookies, and three chocolate milks.

“you know,” you say, chewing thoughtfully, “for someone who talks like a grad student, you eat like a middle schooler.”

he takes a sip of one of the chocolate milks. “middle schoolers are onto something.”

you snort. then pause. then blurt it out—because you’ve been thinking about it since the cs homework started, and he feels safe, in a quiet, weird way:

“okay, don’t judge me, but i’ve been working on this stupid little side project where i’m trying to build a low-power prosthetic hand using recycled printer motors.”

schlatt looks up, mid-bite. “wait. seriously?”

you nod. “yeah, i’ve been salvaging parts from the e-waste lab and retrofitting them. it’s dumb and janky and probably not functional, but—”

“that’s so sick,” he says, with total sincerity. “like—you’re making that from scratch?”

you sit up a little straighter. “well, not the whole thing. i’m using an arduino as the controller right now, because i suck at microprocessors and writing drivers from zero is hell. but i’ve been wiring it to flex sensors, and i’m experimenting with these homebrew 3d-printed phalanges—”

you don’t stop.

not once you get going.

you talk with your hands, gesturing wildly, pulling up half-broken images on your phone, sketching quick shapes on your napkin with a pen in the side-pocket of your backpack.

and the whole time? schlatt just watches.

listens.

not just politely—but engaged. interested. like he wants to hear it all. like you’re not over-explaining, or rambling, or going on too long about a niche thing that keeps your brain lit up at 3am.

you pause somewhere around “wrist articulation via recycled watch gears” and finally look up.

his eyes are warm.

“you know,” he says, grinning, “i think you just activated my stem side quest.”

you blink. “what?”

“i wanna help,” he says. “i mean, if you’ll let me. i’ve never coded a servo system, but… i’m a fast learner. and i think it’s badass.”

you don’t say anything.

not right away.

because your chest feels kind of full. your face feels warm. and for once, your brain doesn’t immediately try to shrink you back down.

instead, you nod. just once. “okay.”

he smiles at you over his chocolate milk.

and you think, shit, maybe office hours weren’t the highlight of the week after all.

✧✧✧

the next few weeks settle into a rhythm.

it starts with tutoring.

once a week turns into twice. then three times. not because you’re struggling (anymore), but because he’s… kind of fun to talk to. at least when he’s not roasting your variable names or trying to explain recursion using empty cereal boxes.

he sits across from you at the library table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, laptop screen smudged from how often he drags his fingers across it to point something out. sometimes he forgets to eat. you learn to pack granola bars in your pencil pouch. he never says thank you—just steals one with a smirk and keeps talking.

you start getting better. grades creeping up. error logs shrinking. you don’t dread opening your ide anymore. the code starts making sense—not just his, but yours.

one afternoon, you casually mention a project idea you’d been playing with—something stupid, just for fun. something to do with hardware integration. you expect him to laugh.

he doesn’t.

he spins his laptop around and starts mapping out a database schema like he’s been waiting for you to say it.

that’s how the side project starts.

lunches get longer. office hours get later. one day you bring your soldering kit to the library, and he lights up like you just handed him a rare pokémon card. the whole table smells like burnt plastic for an hour. no one complains. but no one sits near you either.

you nerd out hard. unapologetically. you find yourself going on tangents—about conductive thread, or how weird the i2c protocol is—and instead of zoning out, he asks questions. good ones. thoughtful ones. he doesn’t just tolerate your rants; he builds on them.

and okay, maybe you start noticing things.

like how he mumbles to himself when he’s focused. or how his hands are always warm. or how he smiles at you—not in a big, charming way, but in a quiet, earned one. like you’re the only one who gets to see this side of him.

it’s nothing serious. just… a shift.

you brush it off.

but your code’s never looked cleaner.

and your heart’s never beat louder.

✧✧✧

it happens by accident.

you’re heading toward the back patio of the student union, iced coffee in one hand, a stack of circuits notes in the other, when you spot him.

schlatt.

at one of the outdoor tables.

not alone.

there’s a group of students—three of them, maybe four—leaning in. cs majors, you recognize them. they’re the type who ask three questions per lecture and answer five more that weren’t theirs. big voices. bragging energy.

you can’t hear everything, but you don’t need to. the body language’s loud enough.

schlatt’s sitting off-center. not really in the circle. elbows tucked in, voice low, like he’s trying to contribute. like he wants to. but they’re talking over him. dismissing. one of them even laughs—not the good kind. the kind you’ve felt in your spine before.

and you watch it happen:

the way schlatt’s mouth tugs tight at the corner. the way he adjusts his sleeve, like it’ll make him smaller. the way he tries one more time to speak, then gives up halfway through the sentence and shrugs it off, pretending it didn’t matter.

they keep talking.

he goes quiet.

you’re frozen in place, coffee sweating through your fingers, because it clicks.

he’s like you.

he is you.

all that time you thought he was the confident one—the one who belonged. the one who was already part of something. but he’s not. not really. not when it comes to this. not when it comes to them.

he’s just better at hiding it.

better at laughing it off.

but the look in his eyes, right then—small and a little tired—that’s a look you know too well.

no one talks about what it feels like when your brain lights up for something and everyone else treats it like a joke.

no one talks about what it’s like to be too much in the wrong direction.

and suddenly, all your late-night rambling about microcontrollers and e-textiles feels different.

because he listened. not just because he was polite. but because he got it. you don't think you've ever felt so fully understood until him.

you take a step forward. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you’re not about to leave him sitting alone in a conversation that doesn’t want him.

not when you know what that feels like.

so you walk over.

“hey, there you are,” you say, nudging your knuckles gently against schlatt’s shoulder. “i was looking for you.”

he turns, surprised—then relieved. “oh—hey y/n.”

“sorry,” one of the students says, hesitant. “uh, are we… interrupting something?”

“nah,” you say, easy. “just didn’t want to miss my favorite stem guide.”

schlatt’s ears go a little pink.

you glance at the table—some kind of project group, you think. their laptops are open, notebooks out, but their conversation’s turned awkward now. the vibe’s off. not hostile—just… cliquey.

“you guys working on something for fundamentals?” you ask, glancing at their notes.

“uh, yeah,” one mutters. “trying to figure out the recursion stuff.”

you smile. “then you’re in luck. this guy’s a recursion whisperer.”

schlatt huffs a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i’m serious,” you say, looking at him now. “you explained it to me with like…those russian dolls. made it make sense in ten minutes.”

“you remember the russian dolls?”

“obviously,” you grin. “changed my life.”

he smiles, a little shy, but brighter now.

you turn to the group. “anyway, sorry to interrupt. i just wanted to steal him for a bit. we’re working on something together—well, more like, he’s doing the hard part and i’m nodding along and pretending to contribute.”

they chuckle. the tension eases.

“good luck, though,” you add, friendly. “you’ve got a good one here.”

you tap the back of his hand.

“ready, genius?”

he nods. stands up. follows you without question.

and once you’re a few steps away, you glance over and say, casually but soft:

“for the record? you’re way too smart to sit through that kind of conversation, with those kinds of people, and not say anything.”

his voice is quiet. “didn’t think they really wanted my advice…or any of my input, for that matter.”

"sucks for them," you bump his arm. “i do.”

he looks at you.

and smiles.

“you’re different,” he says.

you shrug. “nah. i just don’t have the patience for people who don’t know a good brain when they’re sitting next to one.”

he laughs under his breath—bashful, but warm.

“besides,” you add, nudging him again, “you’re the only guy on campus who’s ever made me care about code.”

“flattered,” he says, with a little bow of his head. “high praise.”

“it is,” you nod. “don’t let that go to your head, though.”

“too late.”

you both laugh.

and as you walk side-by-side down the hallway, something feels… lighter.

✧✧✧

the lab is mostly empty—just the hum of old fluorescents overhead and the rhythmic click of schlatt’s keyboard echoing off the cinderblock walls.

you’re both hunched over the prototype, wires splayed like spaghetti across the table, your laptop screen casting a pale blue glow over your notes. it’s late. not late-late, but late enough that you’ve lost track of time in that delicious, focus-hazed kind of way.

“okay,” you murmur, “i think that’s the last adjustment on the sensor matrix. wanna try running the loop again?”

schlatt doesn’t answer right away—he’s rereading your code, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open like he’s working through it out loud in his head.

you wait.

he presses enter.

the terminal blinks once more.

and then—

nothing.

the servo doesn’t twitch. the sensor reads null. everything is still.

you groan, letting your head thunk forward onto the table. “are you kidding me?”

“hang on,” schlatt mutters, already scrolling. “it’s not a full crash. there’s something—it’s just not hitting the output loop.”

“i swear,” you grumble, face still mashed into your notes, “if this is another semicolon issue, i’m throwing myself into a ditch.”

“nah,” he says, voice calm, reassuring. “it’s not your code.”

you lift your head just enough to side-eye him. “it’s not yours either, huh?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

instead, he reaches for the breadboard, fingers quick and precise as he repositions a single wire—green to yellow. it’s such a small shift you almost miss it.

“that,” he says, “was plugged into the wrong pin.”

you blink.

he presses enter again.

and this time, the prototype moves.

just a little—just a careful curl of synthetic fingers, one joint at a time, like a hesitant wave from a ghost hand.

your jaw drops.

schlatt stares too. for once, he’s quiet.

“…did we—?”

“yeah,” he breathes. “we did.”

you let out a half-laugh, half-squeak. “dude—”

you turn to him without thinking.

and he’s already looking at you.

and before your brain catches up with your body, you’re reaching out—arms around his shoulders, heart in your throat.

he stiffens for a second. then melts into it.

his arms curl around your waist, tentative at first, then tighter. his cheek brushes your temple.

“holy shit,” you whisper, still breathless. “we did it.”

“we really fucking did it.”

the hug lasts longer than it needs to. it shifts. softens. becomes something else.

your hands curl in the fabric of his hoodie. his thumb rubs slow circles at your back.

neither of you move to pull away.

but eventually—awkwardly—you both realize you probably should.

you shift first, just a little, arms loosening. schlatt mirrors you a second later, like he’s waiting for permission.

and then—

your foot bumps a loose cable under the table.

you stumble, just a half step, enough to make you grip his hoodie tighter out of instinct.

he catches you by the elbow—quick, steady—but in doing so, he knocks into the edge of the desk.

a pen clatters to the floor. your hip bangs against the chair. both of you freeze.

then, in perfect harmony:

“sorry—”

“sorry—”

you look at each other.

he’s flushed to the tips of his ears.

you’re no better.

his hand’s still on your elbow. yours is still in the front pocket of his hoodie. neither of you seems to know what to do with yourselves now.

“…so,” you say, trying to laugh it off, “we’re, uh—officially engineers now, right? or, mad scientists? mad engineers? built something that works and almost died doing it.”

“sounds about right,” he mumbles, eyes not quite meeting yours.

you step back fully, brushing imaginary lint off your sleeves. he clears his throat and bends to pick up the pen—just a little too quickly.

“we should, uh…” he gestures vaguely at the wires. “log this. before we forget what we changed.”

“yeah,” you nod. “documentation. good. yep. very sexy.”

he snorts.

and the tension cracks just enough for both of you to breathe again.

✧✧✧

friday lunch.

same table.

you’re there first, as usual—tray to the left, elbow room cleared, and your little “project napkin” tucked just out of sight beneath your phone.

it’s not schematics, not exactly. more like an outline of “natural” movements. lean angles. average post-meal proximity. potential trigger phrases that could ease the moment into something more than just eye contact and banter.

it’s stupid. it’s excessive. it’s so you.

but it’s not like you’ve kissed him yet.

and it’s not like you haven’t thought about it. a lot.

he slides into the seat across from you—slightly out of breath, hoodie slightly askew.

“hey,” he says. “sorry, i ran into a professor who wouldn’t stop talking about his cat’s gut biome.”

you snort. “sounds riveting.”

“almost kissed him out of pity.”

you choke on a bite of salad. “what?”

“nothing,” he mumbles, sipping chocolate milk. “just—brain fried. bad sleep. lots of… thinking.”

you nod. you get that.

you were up half the night replaying yesterday’s hug on a loop. you hadn’t meant to squeeze him that tight. hadn’t meant to say “good job, genius” like that. hadn’t meant for your fingers to linger on his hoodie hem when you stepped back.

but he hadn’t pulled away.

so.

so.

you both eat in silence for a minute. your foot brushes his under the table. once. twice.

neither of you moves.

finally, you say it. quiet. almost like a confession.

“i, uh… may have tried to engineer a perfect kiss scenario today.”

he freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

“...engineer?”

you nod, cheeks warm. “like… ran a few simulations in my head. built a model. set parameters. i was…probably gonna initiate if you laughed three or more times by the end of lunch.”

his jaw drops. “are you serious?”

“extremely.”

he blinks. “because i wrote a whole conditional loop for this.”

“…what?”

he fumbles in his hoodie pocket and pulls out a sticky note. it reads:

python: if eyes_hold >= 3.5 and cafeteria_noise == low: lean_in()

you stare at it.

then back at him.

and burst out laughing. “we’re so stupid.”

“no,” he says, laughing too. “we’re scientists.”

“why can’t we just communicate like normal people?”

“who needs normal?”

he’s still smiling.

you are too.

and this time?

there’s no plan. no diagram. no if/then logic.

you just… lean in. and he meets you halfway.

your noses bump. just slightly. your knees knock beneath the table. it’s clumsy at first—uncoordinated, like every group project you’ve ever had to rescue last-minute.

but then his hand grazes your wrist. your mouth fits against his like it already knew how. like maybe, all along, this wasn’t something to calculate.

it just needed to happen.

and suddenly, none of it feels theoretical. not the way his lips press softly, then more certainly. not the quiet exhale he lets out when you shift just a little closer. not the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie like you’ve done it a hundred times.

no flowchart could’ve planned this.

it’s instinct. it’s connection. it's human.

it’s easy.

you pull back first. slow. breath caught somewhere behind your grin.

but before you can say anything—

he leans back in. less hesitant this time.

his hand cradles the side of your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw. his mouth meets yours like a spark catching on dry kindling—familiar, but heady. deliberate. like he’s trying to commit it to memory. like he’s making up for every time he could’ve kissed you and didn’t.

your heart stutters. your fingers grip the edge of the table.

he tastes like chocolate milk and lip balm and something stupidly addictive.

when you part again—barely—you stay close, noses brushing, breath mingling.

“you’re gonna break my brain,” he whispers.

you grin. “then i guess i'll be the one to tutor you.”

his laugh is low and warm and very, very fond.

“deal.”

[emarie-writes]

Secret!Dom!Chris x Alternative!reader who looks scary but is super submissive and whimpery for Chris at the slightest touch.

She gets all melty from just his hand on her waist :)?

- 🥥

i love this trope so much

Warnings: Smut (mdni 18+), AFAB!reader, established relationship, dom/sub dynamics, soft dom!Chris, light restraint (wrist pinning), praise kink, possessive language, alt!reader

Everyone assumed you were the one in charge.

You wore thick eyeliner, darker lipstick, and combat boots, making most people nervous to even look at you wrong. Chris, meanwhile, was soft-spoken and sweet, all sweaters and glasses and gentle smiles.

Whenever the two of you walked into a room together, people saw it as some kind of alternative-girl-wins-the-nerdy-boy trope. And you didn’t bother correcting them. They thought you were the one pushing Chris up against walls. That you called the shots, called him names, and pulled his hair.

But if they saw you now—tucked under Chris’s body, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and teary from nothing but the way he looked at you—they’d be stunned silent.

“Lemme guess,” Chris murmured against your ear, voice smooth and dark as honey, “everyone at the bar still thinks you’re the one pinning me down at night?”

You whimpered—whimpered—and clung tighter to his shirt. His body hovered over yours, one knee nudging your legs further apart, his hand gripping your jaw with just enough pressure to make you squirm. “You didn’t correct them,” he said. Not judging. Just amused. Pleased.

“Didn’t want to,” you breathed, cheeks hot. “They don’t need to know…”

Chris grinned, and it wasn’t innocent. “That’s right,” he said. “They don’t. ‘Cause they don’t get this part of you.” He kissed your neck—slow and messy—while his hand slid under your skirt, fingers dragging up your thigh. “They don’t get to see how you fall apart the second I touch you.”

You whimpered again. He hadn’t even done anything yet and you were already melting.

“Chris—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “You want me to take care of you tonight?”

You nodded fast, already breathless. “Please. I need you—need it so bad—”

He pushed your panties aside and slid his fingers through your slick folds, groaning low into your skin. “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked.” You gasped, legs trembling.

Chris moved slow, knowing exactly what he was doing. The contrast between your dark, confident exterior and the way you shook under his hands? He loved it. The fact that you, with your sharp eyeliner and sharp tongue, became this soft, needy thing for him?

That was his favorite secret.

He lined himself up and eased into you, burying himself slowly, watching your mouth fall open and your fingers claw at the sheets. “Feels good?” he whispered.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “You can take it,” he murmured, deep and reassuring. “You always do.”

His hips rocked into you, slow and deliberate, pushing deeper every time. You moaned—high, desperate, nothing like the snarky tone people usually heard from you—and Chris caught your wrist, pinning it above your head.

“You gonna let me have you like this?” he asked. “All of you?”

“Y-yes,” you cried, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. “Chris, I—fuck—please—”

“That’s my girl.”

He kissed you hard then, swallowing your moans, his rhythm steady, possessive, intimate. His name spilled from your lips again and again, until you came so hard your whole body arched off the bed.

Chris didn’t stop. He kept going, working you through it, praising you between groans and kisses. When he finally came, it was with your name on his lips and your thighs trembling beneath him.

He collapsed onto you, chest heaving, both of you breathless in the aftermath.

You reached up, lazily dragging your nails through his hair. “Still think it’s funny they all think I’m the boss.”

Chris chuckled, kissing your shoulder. “They can keep thinking it.”

You smiled, content and aching and completely ruined.

“Only one who needs to know the truth is you.”

And you did. You knew exactly who owned you when the door shut.

[emarie-writes]

Only you

Chris Hartley x GN!reader

Summary: When Chris agrees to go on a date to try and move on from you—his best friend and the girl he thinks he can’t have—you’re left spiraling, confused, and bitter. But when he shows up at your door after the date, something finally breaks.

Warnings: (Slight) angst to fluff, jealousy, emotional angst, mutual pining, swearing, crying, late-night visit, emotional confession, kissing, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers

You’d never thought of yourself as the jealous type.

Really, you hadn’t. You’d always prided yourself on being the chill one. The friend who wasn’t needy or clingy or overdramatic about things that didn’t concern her. Especially when it came to Chris. He was your best friend. That wasn’t just a label, it was a whole identity. You were the one who shared playlists with him and stayed up late gaming or making fun of horror movies. You were the person he texted when he was bored in class, and the one who brought him coffee when he stayed up too late coding some dumb project.

And that was supposed to be enough. It had been enough… until he told you about the date.

You’d tried so hard not to flinch when he brought it up, that casual little shrug of his like he was pretending not to care either:

“Josh thinks I should try dating again. Some girl from his psych class.”

“Oh. Cool,” you’d said, keeping your eyes on your phone even as your stomach sank.

“Yeah. He says she’s funny.”

“Well, you like funny.”

“I guess.”

That was the end of the conversation. But it had been the beginning of something bitter blooming in your chest. Something sharp and aching that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried to distract yourself.

Now, hours later, you were curled on your couch in one of Chris’s old sweatshirts, the sleeves tugged down over your hands, the blanket around you doing very little to keep you from feeling cold. Your laptop screen glowed weakly from across the room, paused on a movie you weren’t really watching, and your phone sat next to you—silent. No texts. No “wish me luck” or “this is terrible” messages. Not even a post-date meme. Just… silence.

And god, you missed him right now. Even though he technically wasn’t gone. You just hated knowing he was somewhere else with someone else, letting them see parts of him you’d come to believe were just for you. You pressed your face into the blanket and breathed in slowly, trying not to cry like some heartbroken teenager.

So when the knock came—soft but sure—you actually jumped.

Your heart stumbled over itself in your chest. It was past midnight. You scrambled up from the couch, wrapping the blanket tighter around you, and padded barefoot to the door. When you looked through the peephole, your heart did another awkward, panicked somersault.

Chris.

He stood there looking disheveled and out of place, like he didn’t know if he should be there. His shirt was wrinkled, the top button undone, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it. He looked tired—his usual spark dulled—but his eyes still carried something you couldn’t quite name.

You opened the door slowly, confused and off-balance. “…Hey.”

“…Hi.” His voice was quiet, scratchy like he hadn’t spoken much since the date. “Can I come in?”

You nodded, stepping aside. He walked in like he always did—without hesitation, like this was home. But tonight felt different. He didn’t drop his keys on the counter or joke about your terrible taste in snacks. He stood still in the center of the room, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to sit.

You pulled the blanket tighter around you and crossed your arms, trying to keep your voice steady. “How was your date?”

Chris let out a short laugh—dry and almost angry. “Fucking awful.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right. “…What?”

He turned toward you, looking like he didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “She didn’t get a single joke. I made a pun and she looked at me like I asked her to explain string theory. Just dead silence.”

You couldn’t help the small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips. “Wow. Brutal.”

“Right?” he said, but there wasn’t much humor in his voice. “And she hates horror movies. And video games. And sci-fi. She said she only watches reality dating shows and listens to, like, country-pop covers of rap songs.”

You were still trying to keep up when he looked at you with something raw in his eyes.

“But it wasn’t just that,” he said, stepping closer. “The whole night, I kept thinking about you.”

You froze, breath caught in your throat.

“She wasn’t you,” he said, voice almost breaking. “Every time I said something dumb, I waited for your laugh. Every time she didn’t get a reference, I thought about how you would’ve thrown it right back. I even looked at the dessert menu and thought, ‘She’d pick the stupidest-looking thing just to take a picture of it.’”

He ran a hand through his hair again, eyes flicking to yours. “I only went out with her because I thought maybe it would help me get over you. Because I was so fucking sure you didn’t feel the same.”

Your breath left your lungs in a soft, trembling exhale. “…Chris.”

“I didn’t want to tell you. Josh said I should just get it out of my system, that I needed to stop pining like a loser. But I couldn’t. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He stepped closer again, so close now you could feel the warmth of him radiating off his skin.

“I’m tired of pretending this isn’t tearing me apart,” he said, voice low and real. “Do you feel the same?”

Your chest felt so full it hurt. “Of course I do.”

The relief on his face was instant, overwhelming. His hands were on your waist before you could blink, pulling you into him like he’d been holding back for months. Maybe years.

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck as your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your heart finally slowing because he was here. He smelled like the outside and faint cologne—but underneath that, he just smelled like Chris.

He buried his face in your hair and whispered, “I’m such an idiot.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “You are. But you’re my idiot.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes glassy, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“Is this real?” he asked, voice barely a breath.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the curve of his cheek. “Only if you kiss me.”

He didn’t hesitate. His mouth found yours like it had been waiting for permission—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, years of hidden feelings unraveling between your lips. The kiss tasted like months of unsaid things, of late-night sleepovers and “accidental” hand brushes and all the things you were too afraid to say.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, still breathing heavy. “I never want to date anyone else,” he said softly. “Ever.”

You grinned, your thumb still tracing his cheek. “Good. Because if Josh sets you up again, I’ll kill him.”

Chris huffed out a real laugh this time. “Deal.”

A/N: literally took me like double the time to write this cause im so tired rn my fingers aren’t working ok bye

[emarie-writes]

I am begging on my hands and knees for you to write a Chris fic inspired by this picture (it’s so him) 🙏 -@hartleychristopher (had to send this from my main!)

chris slowly going stupid for reader is my kink

Warnings: Suggestive content (mdni 18+), heavy makeout sessions, lipstick kink?, sub!Chris, Chris being totally pussywhipped and dumb on affection, clothes stay on (mostly)

You’re sitting cross-legged on Chris’s bed, surrounded by an army of lipstick tubes—reds, pinks, plums, and one too-bold black. He’s on the edge of the bed like a very nervous, very obedient assistant, glasses slipping a little down his nose as he watches you unscrew another tube. “This one’s called Red Temptation,” you say with a dramatic little flourish.

Chris, the sweet nerd that he is, is already flushed. “You’re seriously gonna try all of these?” he asks, trying not to stare at your lips. Keyword: trying.

You lean in, applying the bold red carefully. “You offered to help me test them.”

He blinks. “I thought you meant like, uh, blotting them on paper or something.”

“Oh no,” you say, settling yourself between his knees. “We’re testing if they’re kiss-proof. Obviously.” Chris makes a choked sound as your hands cradle his jaw. “I mean it’s science, we gotta be thorough,” you teased. Your lips press against his, soft but firm, and he freezes for half a second before melting like putty. The kiss is chaste, mostly, but enough to leave a perfectly shaped print on the corner of his mouth.

You pull back, tilt your head.

“Fail. Definitely not kiss-proof.”

Chris stares at you, dazed, before looking to the little mirror you hand him. He touches the red mark with two fingers like he doesn’t believe it’s real. “Oh.”

And then you’re back at it. One after the other. With each new color, you scoot a little closer, kiss him a little longer, until he’s practically sinking into the mattress, shirt collar tugged crooked, neck peppered in half-smeared shades of berry and wine. “Okay, this one’s a matte nude—claims to be longwear. Let’s give it a real stress test,” you murmur, straddling his lap now like it’s the most natural thing.

Chris makes a sound that can only be described as a whimper. Your kiss this time is deeper—his hands twitch like he wants to grab your hips but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Your tongue teases just enough to make his breath catch, and when you finally break away, he’s panting, glasses askew, eyes wide and glassy.

“That one might be kiss-proof,” you hum, inspecting your handiwork. “Mostly.” There’s a faint line of it on the underside of his jaw where you’d bitten him lightly.

Chris just nods. Or tries to. “Mm-hm.”

You tilt your head, watching him come undone in slow motion. His cheeks are flushed deep pink, lips bitten and wet, and his neck and chest are a mosaic of lipstick smudges. There’s one right above his collarbone where you dragged your mouth while he made the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard from him.

“Color overload yet?” you tease, brushing a thumb across his lower lip.

Chris exhales shakily. “No. I mean—uh. Yes? Wait, no. I can handle more. I think. Maybe. Yeah—”

“You’re going dumb on me, aren’t you?” you say, smirking, cupping his warm, pink-stained face in your hands.

His eyes flutter, lips parted. “Kinda?”

You grin and reward him with another kiss, slower, deeper, until he’s groaning into your mouth. He clutches the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

“Good boy,” you whisper when you pull back, his whole body shuddering under you.

He lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a whine. You kiss the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck, again and again until there’s more lipstick on him than your own lips.

Eventually, he’s a breathless mess, slumped against you, panting like he just ran a marathon. “I, uh. I don’t think any of them passed,” he mutters, dumb smile plastered on his flushed face.

You lean down and kiss his temple. “Lucky for you, I still have ten more tubes to go.”

Chris blinks up at you, lipstick-stained and blissed out. “Please,” he whispers.

God, you’ve ruined him. And you’re not even done yet.

[emarie-writes]

(s)creaming

Imagine, if you will, virgin gf whos just so fucking horny for Schlatt, girl is down BAD, for this man so much so that Schlatt has to be like “woah hey let’s slow down okay dont wanna hurt yourself toots” (Toots🤤🤤) and has to like pin (gently but still pinning) you down and talk to you in that like (idk what to call it) like “gentle parent” (???) voice so you don’t hurt yourself cause hes just so BIG and he could also probably potentially hurt a partner who HAS had sex before cause of his size so his partner whose never had sex? Oh hes terrified he might tear you in half of he isn’t careful.

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * baby’s first time ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: third date. a movie. a kiss. a girl too far gone to think straight—and a man trying his hardest not to ruin her. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: inspired by a not-so-little ask about a virgin reader down bad for schlatt ♡ i may have wandered into tenderness territory, and,,, i'm not sorry!!

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · virgin reader · size kink · dom/sub dynamics (soft) · thigh riding · fingering · handjob · creampie · aftercare

enjoy, ma luvs ♡

✧✧✧

the door clicks open, and schlatt steps aside like he’s done this a hundred times before.

“welcome to casa de big guy,” he says dryly. “wipe your feet, don’t judge the furniture, and if anything smells like axe body spray, it wasn’t me.”

you laugh, stepping inside. “real strong opening. totally reassuring.”

his place is… honestly, kind of nice. not in a curated, architectural digest way. just warm. lived in. the couch is stupidly big, the rug doesn’t match, and there’s an open bottle of something expensive on the kitchen counter. but it feels like him.

he closes the door behind you. “you want a drink?”

you nod. “water’s fine.”

“boring,” he says, already heading to the kitchen. “love that.”

you roll your eyes and tug off your shoes. he’s still in his button-up from dinner, sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. the chain at his neck catches the light when he moves, and your brain short-circuits just a little.

you perch on the edge of the couch. try not to look like you’re imagining things you absolutely shouldn’t be imagining this early into a relationship.

he brings you a bottle of water and flops down beside you like gravity owes him something.

“so,” he says, stretching out with one arm behind you, “movie or mario kart?”

you glance at him. “you’re letting me choose?”

“no,” he says. “just seeing what you’d pick before i put on something i like.”

you scoff. “you’re the worst.”

he grins—wide and smug. “yeah, but i’ve got surround sound.”

you snatch the remote before he can reach for it.

“put on something you like,” you say innocently. “let me see what kind of freak you really are.”

he gives you a look. the kind that makes your stomach flip.

“careful,” he says, leaning back, spreading his legs just slightly. “you might find out.”

you raise a brow. “oh no. not—i mean, your taste.”

schlatt laughs, low and lazy. “you think i’ve got bad taste, toots?”

“i think you have questionable judgment and a subscription to every streaming service but HBO.”

“jealousy’s ugly on you,” he mutters, shifting closer, one hand sliding behind your neck like it’s nothing. “good thing you look cute in everything else.”

your breath catches.

that look in his eyes—just amused enough to be dangerous—makes it hard to think.

he leans in slow, gives you enough time to pull away.

but you don’t.

he leans in, and when those lips meet yours—it’s not just a peck. it’s hungry. it’s claiming. it’s everything you’ve been craving since date one.

your fingers tangle in his shirt. his hand cups your jaw. every nerve in your body jumps.

you press closer, breath colliding, wanting it to go further—but just as you're about to lose control, he pulls back.

with the most smug ass smile you've ever encountered.

you’re blinking, breath caught, body still hot.

he taps your water bottle like he’s reminding you to hydrate. “told you i’ve got taste.”

you stare at him, deflated and fired up all at once.

he picks up the remote again. turns the volume up. settles back.

“so,” he says. "movie."

✧✧✧

you’re nestled into the corner of the couch now, tucked under his arm, legs draped over his lap like you’ve done this a hundred times.

the movie plays—low volume, muted light, something with a plot you’re not following.

you’re too focused on the way his thumb brushes the inside of your arm. the occasional squeeze at your waist. the weight of him beneath you.

you’re warm. a little sleepy. a lot horny.

and without realizing it, you start to move.

just the tiniest roll of your hips. back into his thigh.

barely anything.

but the friction makes your breath hitch.

you do it again.

and again.

you don’t even know you’re doing it until he shifts slightly beneath you—just enough to make you freeze.

“…you good, toots?”

your eyes snap open. “what?”

he tilts his head down, chin brushing your temple. his voice is low, soft. amused.

“you keep grinding on my leg like you’re trying to make coffee or something."

you go completely still.

a beat passes. then another.

and then—humiliated—you bury your face in his chest with a groan.

“oh my god. i wasn’t—i didn’t mean to—”

his hand rubs your back slowly. “i know.”

you peek up at him, mortified. “please tell me you’re not mad.”

“mad?” he huffs a laugh and grabs the remote, clicking the movie off. “sweetheart, i’m flattered.”

he sets the remote aside, then shifts so he can face you more fully. one arm still around your waist. the other rubbing your thigh—gentle, slow.

“but listen,” he murmurs. “i gotta be honest with you, alright?”

your stomach flips.

“yeah?” you ask, quiet.

his gaze drops—thigh, hand, then back to you.

“i’ve been doing this a long time,” he says, voice low and even. “you haven’t. i know that.”

you go a little rigid in his lap. “did i… say that?”

he huffs a laugh—low and knowing. “you didn’t have to.”

“okay, well—” you sit up straighter, shrug like it’s no big deal. “i mean, i’m not completely inexperienced—”

“no?”

“i’ve done stuff.”

“stuff.”

“yes, stuff.”

he tilts his head. “like?”

you blink. “like—like things.”

he’s smiling now. “specific things?”

“god, why are you interrogating me—”

“because you keep lying, sweetheart,” he says, gently. “and you’re really, really bad at it.”

you sputter. “i’m not—i’m not lying—”

“you moaned when i kissed your neck. Once. and your whole body went stiff the second my hand hit your thigh.” he leans in, eyes dark. “you haven’t done anything.”

you go silent.

he softens. “that’s not a problem. it’s just a fact.”

you glance away—embarrassed.

“...i didn’t want to seem totally clueless.”

“baby. i like you clueless.” he cups your jaw, tilts your face back to his. “i’m not tryna scare you off. i just—look, i’m a big guy. and i can be rough without meaning to. so if we’re gonna do this—if you ever wanna go there—i gotta know it’s not just because you’re all worked up and desperate for it. i gotta know it’s you. choosing it.”

you blink.

heart hammering.

because this is not what you expected.

he smiles a little at your expression. “that surprise you?”

you nod slowly. “i just—i didn’t think you’d care.”

his brow lifts. “toots,” he mutters. “you think i’m gonna risk splitting you in half just so i can blow my load five minutes faster?”

your face burns.

but you laugh, burying your face in his chest again.

he wraps both arms around you now. holding you close.

“tell me what you want, baby,” he says, voice lower now. slower. “not what you think i wanna hear. what you want.”

you swallow.

“i don’t know,” you whisper. “i just… i wanna feel you.”

he hums.

and you feel it—in his chest, under your hands.

“yeah?” he says softly. “you think you’re ready for that?”

you nod, but it’s hesitant. you’re still tucked close. still trembling a little.

he pulls back just enough to look at you.

his eyes are soft, but there’s heat behind them. serious heat.

“you ever ridden a thigh before?”

you blink. “ridden a… what?”

his lips twitch. “that’s a no.”

“i didn’t say no,” you protest, even as your brain scrambles for anything close. “i just—I mean, it’s not exactly common—”

“it is when you know what you’re doing.”

you stare at him. “and you just… sit on it?”

he chuckles. “no, baby. you grind.”

your mouth goes dry. “oh.”

he raises a brow, watching the realization hit you. “still wanna try?”

your throat’s dry. your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.

you nod.

“yeah,” you whisper. “okay.”

his smile is small. quiet. something between gentle and dangerous.

“attagirl.” he shifts beneath you, spreading his legs a little wider, patting his thigh. “c’mon, sweetheart. right here.”

you crawl over hesitantly, face burning, nerves crawling under your skin. the second your knees settle on either side of his leg, you realize just how big he really is.

your core is barely brushing his thigh.

you’re not even fully seated and you already feel stretched—high up, slightly off balance, comically small on top of him.

“is this… okay?” you ask quietly, looking down at him. “like—am i doing it right?”

he smiles—lazy, warm, and just a little crooked. his hands settle lightly on your hips.

“you’re perfect,” he says, thumbs stroking circles into your skin. “we’ll get you there.”

you start to move—tentative, cautious, rocking your hips forward just a little. the friction is barely there, but it already lights something up in your belly.

you shift again, trying to roll your hips in a smoother motion.

“…is this how you do it?” you ask. “i feel like i’m not…”

schlatt cuts you off with a quiet hum, and his hands tighten just slightly.

“hey. you don’t gotta know how,” he murmurs. “that’s what i’m here for.”

he lifts his thigh just a little under you, adjusting the pressure, guiding you forward with a slow tug at your hips.

“try that.”

you gasp. the contact is better. more direct.

“oh—oh, okay…”

you keep going. a little clumsier than you’d like. shifting, huffing, trying not to grind down too hard.

you look at him again. “sorry—i’m just—i don’t wanna mess it up.”

he chuckles under his breath, voice low and thick.

“baby, you’re not gonna break anything,” he says.

“but—you're so—i mean, your leg is—”

he tilts his head, smirking.

“what? big?”

you nod, mortified. “yeah. that.”

his voice dips even lower. “you ever stop to think what the rest of me might do to you if we’re not careful?”

your breath catches. you can’t answer.

he leans forward, mouth brushing your ear.

“trust me, toots,” he whispers. “you’re doin’ just fine.”

you’re trying—god, you’re trying—but every shift of your hips feels clumsy. your thighs are already shaking, and you can’t tell if it’s from the effort or the nerves or the fact that his hands haven’t left your waist since he put you there.

“i—i don’t know if i’m doing this right,” you mumble. “it feels good, but it’s not—like—how it’s supposed to be, right?”

schlatt’s eyes narrow slightly. not annoyed—just watching. reading you.

he shifts under you again, thigh flexing between your legs, dragging right where you need it.

“sweetheart,” he says, voice low and slow, “look at me.”

you do. hesitant. flushed. bottom lip caught between your teeth.

his hand cups your jaw gently—thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, just enough to make you still.

“you’re not here to perform,” he murmurs. “you’re here to feel. and feel good. got it?”

you nod, barely breathing.

“good girl.”

your breath hitches.

“you feel how wet you are right now?” he asks, one hand sliding from your waist to between your legs—pressing you down harder onto his thigh. you gasp. your hands clench at his shoulders.

“that’s what i care about,” he mutters. “not rhythm. not looking cute. just you, soaking my leg like it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel good.”

you whimper, and he grins, a flash of teeth.

“yeah, that’s better,” he says. “that’s my girl.”

your hips start moving again. this time instinctively. not polished. not graceful. just needy.

“you hear those sounds you’re making?” he breathes, eyes locked on you. “you think i give a fuck how ‘right’ your hips are moving when you’re whimpering like that on my leg?”

your eyes flutter closed, head tipping back, and he grabs your waist again, guiding you now—gentle but firm.

“don’t stop now, baby,” he murmurs. “you’re doin’ perfect. get what you need from me.”

you’re getting there.

fast.

too fast.

your hips are stuttering now—small, frantic rolls, thighs trembling as you grind down hard enough that the seam of your underwear is soaked through.

and still, his hands stay on you. firm. supportive. in charge.

“you gonna come like this?” he asks, voice a rough whisper against your ear. “just from my thigh?”

you nod—desperate, whimpering.

“i—i think so—feels so good—”

“you poor little thing,” he mutters, teeth brushing your cheek. “you wanna come that bad? just like that? just from rubbing yourself on me?”

your breath hitches. your hands claw at his shirt.

and then—

he stops you.

big hands wrapping tight around your waist, lifting you off his thigh before you can fall over that edge.

you whine—loudly—hips twitching, eyes wide, clit pulsing and unsatisfied.

“wha—why—?! schlatt—”

“uh-uh,” he cuts you off, voice calm but firm. “i felt you getting close. didn’t say you could come, did i?”

you shake your head, nearly crying with frustration.

he shifts you in his lap, laying you back gently against the cushions, kneeling between your legs now. and you feel it—how big he is, crouched over you, gaze dark, hands trailing slow up your thighs.

“you know what your problem is, baby?”

you shake your head, still breathing hard.

“you’re too busy thinking about what it’d be like to ride me,” he murmurs, hand sliding between your legs again. “aren’t you?”

your eyes go wide.

he chuckles—dark and amused.

“you were fuckin’ fantasizing. thinking about how good i’d feel inside you. weren’t you?”

you nod helplessly.

“yeah. that’s what i thought.” he hums. “bet you got a whole little movie going in your head, me on top of you. me inside you. ruining that tight little pussy before you even know what to do with it.”

you squirm under his gaze, but he’s already tugging at the tie around your waist. undoing your dress like it’s a gift he’s taking his sweet time unwrapping.

✧✧✧

“you don’t even know what you’re asking for, do you?”

you shake your head, breath shaky. “i just—i want to feel you.”

his expression softens—but only slightly.

“you will,” he says. “but you’re gonna feel my fingers first.”

he pulls your panties aside, thick fingers brushing through your soaked folds. you gasp—hips lifting instinctively.

“you’re so wet, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “all from my thigh? from grinding like a needy little thing?”

you nod, helpless.

he slips one finger in—slowly. carefully.

you moan—high and shocked, head tipping back.

“god, you’re tight,” he breathes. “clenching already and it’s just one.”

his free hand presses gently on your belly, keeping you grounded.

“this okay?” he asks. “want me to keep going?”

you nod frantically. “please, sir—”

he smiles at that. then adds a second finger.

you cry out, legs twitching as he stretches you open—slow, steady, mercilessly gentle.

he leans in close, voice right at your ear.

“you feel stretched?” he murmurs, voice low.

you nod, lips parted, struggling to stay still.

“mm.” he smirks. “and that’s just two fingers, toots.”

his other hand trails down your thigh, thumb stroking your skin like a reward. like praise. but his tone stays calm, clinical, almost condescending.

“you’re squeezin’ so tight, i can barely move,” he says. “and you were thinkin’ you could take my cock?”

you moan again—helpless, humiliated.

he chuckles softly. “gonna hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not even close. maybe if you were able to take four...”

his fingers press in deeper, curling just right—and you jolt, crying out, hands gripping the cushions like lifelines.

“shit—okay—okay—”

“you feel that?” he breathes. “that’s what a fraction of me feels like.”

you blink up at him, glassy-eyed. his shirt’s still buttoned, collar open. he hasn’t even rolled his sleeves down. meanwhile, you’re wrecked—basically naked, needy, completely undone.

he leans in, mouth at your ear.

“you’re not takin’ my cock, baby. you’re takin’ my fingers, and barely that.”

you whimper, shame heating your skin.

“and you’re doin’ your best, you are,” he soothes, voice soft now—mockingly tender. “but if i tried to fuck you tonight? you’d cry just from the tip.”

your hips twitch. you hate how wet you are from that—how your cunt clenches around his fingers like it agrees.

he feels it.

“ohhh,” he breathes, grinning. “you like that idea?”

you try to look away.

his hand grabs your jaw—gentle, but firm—and turns you back to face him.

“don’t look away now,” he murmurs. “you just squeezed around my fingers like that was the best fuckin’ thing you ever heard.”

you swallow hard, lips parted, heart slamming in your chest.

“you like the idea of crying on it, don’t you?” he presses, voice low. “sittin’ in my lap, all cockdrunk and teary, beggin’ me not to put the rest in?”

you whimper.

and that makes him grin. slow. cruel.

“jesus. you been thinkin’ about that for a while, haven’t you?”

you nod—helpless.

“how long?”

you blink, trying to gather words—but you can’t.

so he curls his fingers just right, and you gasp—back arching, thighs twitching.

“c’mon, toots,” he says, soft and coaxing. “use that mouth. tell me.”

you breathe, high and shaky. “since… our first date.”

that stuns him for a second. his brows lift—just a flicker of disbelief.

“first date?” he echoes, lips twitching. “we split a pizza and you were already thinkin’ about gettin’ split open?”

you cover your face, humiliated. “i didn’t know it’d be like this.”

he pulls your hand away—still grinning, still wrecking you with just the look in his eyes.

“like what?”

“big,” you whisper. “so big.”

his grin deepens, fingers dragging slow and deep, hitting a spot that makes your hips jerk.

“haven’t even shown you yet,” he murmurs. “but you’ve been thinkin’ about it—how wide you’d have to stretch. how it’d feel when i finally push in. that right?”

you nod, eyes wet, lips trembling. “mm-hm.”

he leans in—voice low, coaxing, wrecked.

“and now you know,” he breathes. “now you really know what you’re beggin’ for.”

then his thumb finds your clit again—circling firm, slow, devastating—and your whole body locks up.

“go on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “come for me. just like this. just from my fingers.”

you shatter—body seizing, legs shaking, hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto. his wrist. the couch. the air. your cry breaks in your throat.

he groans low, thumb easing up, fingers still deep, drawing it out as long as he can.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “good girl. there you go.”

and then, slowly, finally, he slips his fingers out.

you whimper at the loss.

he brings them to his mouth.

licks them clean.

eyes never leaving yours.

you swallow hard, flushed and shaking and so far gone—but when he starts reaching for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, you blink.

“…what are you doing?”

he tilts his head, amused. “trying to wrap you up before you fall asleep sittin’ in your own afterglow.”

you frown—confused, needy, offended. “you’re just… done?”

schlatt pauses, blanket still half-unfolded. “i mean—yeah?” he says, hesitant. “was kinda hopin’ to get you cozy again…maybe finish the movie, head to bed…”

you stare at him, lips parted. “but i don’t want to sleep.”

his brow furrows. “toots…”

“no, i’m serious.” you sit up, pulling your shirt down as best you can—not that it helps, considering your whole body’s still humming from his fingers. “i don’t want to stop. not yet.”

“you just came so hard i thought you forgot your name,” he says, voice rough but not unkind. “i figured you’d wanna—”

“i didn’t come here to nap on your couch,” you say, more force behind your words now. “i came here because i like you. because i trust you. and because i knew if you touched me—really touched me—it was gonna feel this good.”

he doesn’t speak.

so you go on, cheeks burning:

“i’ve been wanting you for weeks, schlatt. but if you’re not into it—if you think i’m just some wide-eyed virgin who can’t handle you—then say that. but don’t sit there and act like you don’t want me when you’ve got a goddamn tent in your jeans.”

that makes him snort—actually snort—but the sound is low and almost pained.

he rubs the back of his neck, looking away for a beat before meeting your eyes again.

“fuck, toots,” he mutters. “it’s not that i don’t want you. jesus. believe me, i do. i’m dying over here.”

“then what?” you ask, quieter now.

his jaw ticks. “i’m tryin’ not to be the asshole who rushes a girl into something she’ll regret. especially one who’s never done it before. especially you.”

you sit still for a moment. swallow hard. then:

“i’m not rushing. i’m asking. and i’m not trying to jump straight into sex. i just… i wanna see you. i wanna touch you. i wanna make you feel good, too.”

his breath hitches.

you shift closer. rest a hand over his. “let me?”

he stares at you—searching. maybe for fear, maybe for hesitation?

but he finds neither.

“…alright,” he says, voice lower than before. “we’ll take it slow."

you nod.

and then?

he leans back on the couch and spreads his thighs—just a little.

“then c’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “you wanted to touch?”

you nod again—heart pounding.

“be gentle with it, now,” he adds, undoing his jeans. “he’s not used to sweet girls with tiny little hands.”

schlatt undoes his jeans slow, deliberate—like he’s still giving you time to change your mind.

you don’t.

can’t.

not with the way your mouth’s gone dry and your thighs are already pressing together again.

he shoves the denim down his thighs and leans back, boxers tented—massively—the outline of him enough to make your breath catch.

and then, finally, he tugs the waistband down.

you suck in a breath.

jesus.

he’s huge.

long and heavy, flushed dark at the tip, veined and thick and impossibly real. he’s hard—painfully hard—and lying against his stomach like he knows damn well you’re staring.

and you are.

because your mind’s blank.

wiped.

replaced with the single, earth-shattering thought:

there’s no way that’s fitting inside me.

but you want to try.

and then?

you notice it.

a glint of silver.

pierced—through the underside of the head. a smooth, shining barbell catching the soft lamp light, nestled against all that flushed skin like it belongs there.

your thighs press tighter.

“holy shit,” you whisper.

he raises a brow, cocky but cautious. “too much?”

you shake your head violently.

“no. no, i just—” you blink, still stunned. “it’s just… bigger than i thought. and the piercing…”

he smirks. “didn’t peg you for the kind who’d like that.”

you lick your lips. “i didn’t know i liked it.”

he lets out a low, breathless chuckle. “fuck, you’re cute.”

you reach out—hesitant at first—until your fingers brush against his length, and he exhales hard through his nose.

“careful,” he mutters. “he’s shy.”

you glance up, wide-eyed.

he’s already watching you, his gaze dark and steady, one arm thrown over the back of the couch like he’s trying to look casual—but the flex of his thigh beneath your knee gives him away.

you wrap your hand around him, featherlight.

his breath catches. “a little tighter, baby.”

you squeeze—barely.

he groans. “yeah. just like that.”

you pump once, twice, awkward and unsure. “am i…?”

“you’re doin’ so good,” he says, voice rough. “just keep goin’. nice and slow.”

you bite your lip and keep your eyes on your hand, watching the way his skin shifts, how your fingers don’t quite close all the way around.

god, he’s thick.

he guides you gently—fingers curling over yours, setting the pace, the rhythm.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “easy, yeah? keep your hand right there—good girl.”

the praise makes your stomach flutter.

you pump again, smoother now. his hips twitch—just a little—and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“try twisting your wrist a little at the top,” he says, almost too calmly. “not too much. just—fuck, yeah, like that.”

you look up at him again, half-proud, half-hungry.

his jaw’s tight. he’s breathing hard. and the muscle in his thigh jumps every time you give him a firmer stroke.

you’re learning fast.

another slow pump and there it is—a bead of slick, glistening at the tip.

you blink.

then, without thinking, you lean in and press a kitten lick to it—light, curious, reverent.

he chokes.

“jesus—fuck, baby—”

you flinch back. “sorry! i didn’t—was that—?”

he huffs a breath, eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying to reset the entire planet.

“no, that was—shit, that was perfect. you’re so fucking perfect.”

you glance down again.

still curious.

still hungry.

you lean in—and this time, you press your tongue flat to the base and drag it all the way up. slow. careful. lingering at the tip with another kitten lick, like it’s instinct.

he bucks.

actually bucks.

“fuck, baby—!”

you sit back again, blinking up at him, lips slick, proud and a little uncertain.

“…did i mess up?”

he stares at you like you’ve just reinvented sex. like he can’t decide if he’s terrified or in love.

then you do it again.

same motion.

same wide eyes looking up at him.

his hand shoots out—grabs the base of his cock like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it all over your pretty, determined face.

“okay,” he rasps. “okay, that’s enough.”

you pout. “why?”

he looks wrecked. cheeks flushed, hair mussed, thighs tensed like steel under you.

“because if you do that one more fucking time,” he growls, “i’m gonna come so hard i black out, and that’s not how i wanna finish this date.”

you blink. then slowly smile.

“…so i’m good at it?”

“sweetheart,” he huffs, tugging you into his lap again, “you’re a goddamn menace.”

he tucks you into his lap like muscle memory—your bare thighs stretched over denim, your flushed face resting against his shoulder.

his cock is still hard, still leaking, still angry at the denial.

you squirm once and feel it press against your stomach.

“…can i try?” you whisper, voice small but sure.

he stills.

“...try what, baby?”

you don’t look at him. “…taking you. at least a little.”

he goes quiet. one long beat. then another.

“you sure?” he asks finally—low, serious.

you nod. “i just… wanna see. i wanna try. i know it might not go all the way, but—”

“but you want to know how it feels,” he finishes for you, voice gentling. “you wanna feel us.”

you nod again.

he sighs like he’s aging a decade on the spot, but you catch the way his arms tighten around your waist—like he’s already imagining it.

“…we’re goin’ slow,” he warns.

“okay.”

“and the second it’s too much, you tell me.”

“okay.”

he looks at you for a moment—long and steady—like he’s memorizing the curve of your face.

then: “all right, sweetheart.”

you sit up.

and he leans back.

cock thick and flushed, resting against his stomach like it’s just waiting for you.

you swing a leg over, settling above him, shaky hands bracing on his chest.

“you’re gonna guide it,” he murmurs. “take your time.”

you reach down, wrap your hand around him again—he twitches in your grip—and you line him up to your entrance, already slick and fluttering and so ready.

your breath catches.

his hands come up to your hips.

“i got you,” he whispers. “don’t rush. just—go as far as you can handle, baby.”

you nod, eyes fluttering.

and slowly—so slowly—you start to sink.

the head presses in and it’s already a stretch.

you gasp.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he grits out. “jesus, you feel like a vice.”

you whimper. but don’t stop.

“an inch more, maybe,” he murmurs, watching your face. “that’s it.”

you exhale shakily.

but you want more.

your thighs tremble as you inch lower, one centimeter at a time, cunt pulling him in greedily even as your body resists.

“good girl,” he whispers, voice raw. “just like that. that’s it, sweetheart. you’re doin’ perfect.”

you make it about halfway before your body stalls and the pressure inside you starts to burn.

it’s too much.

but also—not enough.

you brace your hands on his chest, panting, thighs trembling, walls clutching him like you’re scared to let go.

“shit, baby,” he grits, hands hovering like he’s torn between helping you up or holding you down. “you—you can stop now. that’s already so much—”

you nod. you try.

you lift your hips—just barely—

but the friction is molten.

you gasp—then drop right back down with a helpless cry.

his groan punches out of him, ragged and low. your eyes fly to his.

wide. stunned. wrecked.

you grind again. shallow. experimental.

both of you moan.

“oh,” you whisper.

“fuck me,” he breathes. “do that again.”

you do.

rocking in slow, shaky circles—just halfway down, just where it feels good.

his fingers dig into your hips like anchors, his chest rising hard beneath your palms.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “you’re riding just the tip—”

“not the tip,” you pant, biting down on your lip. “i got halfway.”

he huffs a breathless laugh, brushing a hand through his hair as he looks at you—flushed, trembling, perfect.

“yeah, baby,” he says, voice rough. “you fuckin’ did. and you feel unreal.”

his hands slide lower—settling on your hips again, firm but steady. “slow it down a sec,” he murmurs, coaxing your movement into something smaller. “not just back and forth—try…rollin’ your hips. yeah, like that.”

you follow his guidance, circling your hips slowly, shallowly, and your breath stutters out at the way it drags him inside you.

“feel that?” he asks—low, careful, watching your face. “better?”

you nod, a little dazed. “s’good,” you whisper. “i—i didn’t know it could feel like this…”

“mm,” he hums, guiding you through another slow grind. “it’s different for everyone. different positions, different angles. but this—this one’s good for you, huh?”

“yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, it’s—fuck, schlatt—”

his eyes flutter shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “legs okay?” he murmurs. “you need a break?”

they’re shaking, but not in pain. you shift a little and shake your head a bit, side to side. “just tired.”

you whimper. your head tips back, mouth falling open, cunt fluttering around him with every slow drag of your hips.

“can’t think, can you?” he murmurs, voice a gravelly purr. “too full to think. you like bein’ dumb on my cock, sweetheart?”

you nod. frantic this time. you do.

he chuckles—hoarse, wrecked.

“you’re so fuckin’ tight like this,” he groans. “fuck—every time you move, i feel your pussy pulling at me.”

you try to answer, but it comes out a whine.

“drunk on it already?” he teases, and his hand slides down—rubbing slow circles over your clit. “and i’m not even all the way in.”

that makes your whole body twitch. you bite your lip. squirm a little.

“i—maybe i can—”

“no,” he says gently, pressing his thumb a little firmer. “you don’t have to, baby. half’s already fuckin’ killin’ me.”

but it’s too late.

your body’s greedy.

you grind down again—slow, thoughtless, dizzy—and your hips roll just right, angling perfectly, and suddenly you slip.

lower.

deeper.

your eyes snap open.

he gasps—loud, choked, shocked.

you freeze.

and the second he’s all the way in—buried to the base—you scream.

not loud, but ragged. guttural. like the air’s been punched from your lungs and replaced with heat and pressure and the overwhelming stretch of being full.

you’re shaking. writhing. every nerve ending flaring at once. your hands claw at his chest. you can’t breathe. can’t think.

“oh my fuck, baby—” schlatt grits out, voice wrecked, hands flying to your hips like he’s trying to steady himself before he loses all control.

your body clenches around him on instinct—so tight, so wet, so goddamn full of him it’s like your body doesn’t know whether to panic or come.

“i didn’t mean to—” you gasp, tears in your eyes, head spinning. “i just—it just slipped—”

“i know, i know,” he breathes, voice wild, thumb brushing your hip like it might calm you down—even as his grip twitches, even as every muscle in his body begs him to move.

but he doesn’t.

not yet.

because when he looks down—it’s right there.

the base of his cock flushed dark, your folds swollen and stretched taut around him, a slick, shiny ring where your body’s clinging like it doesn’t want to let him go. like you were built for this.

he groans, deep and guttural. “jesus christ.”

you blink down at him, dazed. “what?”

“look at this,” he mutters, dragging his eyes down to where your bodies are still locked. “look at this. you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

his hand slides between your thighs—spreads you open just enough that you both get a better view.

your breath stutters.

because fuck, it’s obscene.

the size difference, the way he fills you, how swollen and stretched and stuffed you are—it’s so much. too much.

and still, your cunt clenches around him again like it wants more.

he grabs your hips—rough now, greedy—and starts grinding into you, slow but deep, like he wants to feel every inch of your walls wrapped around him, stretching, clenching, taking.

“oh, my fuck, baby—” he hisses, watching where he disappears inside you. “it fits. it fits. i can feel your cunt choking on it. look at how tight you are—look at how deep i am—fuck—”

he laughs under his breath. wrecked.

your hips twitch at his words.

you’re still panting. flushed and sensitive and wide-eyed. “i didn’t mean to take all of it—i just—i wanted more—”

“i know,” he says again, gentler now. “but all of me? on your first time?”

his head drops. his forehead rests against yours.

“fuck, you’re unreal.”

then he pulls back just an inch—slow, cautious, like he’s testing the water—and your body on top of his.

his jaw clenches. his hands twitch against your hips like he's holding back something barely contained. he drops his forehead against yours again—like he’s trying to ground himself in your skin instead of the way you feel wrapped around him.

you whimper softly, body twitching with aftershocks, and that’s when he really looks at you.

eyes wild.

lips parted.

hair a mess.

his gaze drops between your bodies—where he’s still buried, where he can feel you throbbing around him, leaking down his length—and something shifts.

he exhales.

rough. shaky. dangerous.

like he’s one wrong move from losing control all over again.

“baby—” he murmurs, voice low and fraying. “i need to—”

he cuts himself off. swallows. you watch his jaw clench.

then softer, almost pleading:

“can i take over?”

you blink up at him, dazed and glowing, still fogged with the kind of high that leaves your soul floating.

“…please,” you whisper.

“fuck yes,” he growls—and then you’re weightless.

in one swift movement, he slips out and flips you onto your back, spreading your legs with zero hesitation. the air hits your slick skin and you shiver—but he’s already there, lining himself up, kissing your knee like it’s the last gentle thing he’s got in him.

and then—

he thrusts in again. deep. hard.

the new angle makes you see stars.

his piercing brushes right there—a heavy, deliberate drag against your cervix that makes you gasp, body seizing up around him.

“there it is,” he growls, watching your face twist with pleasure-shock. “you feel that, baby? you feel me all the way up there?”

you can’t answer. your mouth is open, soundless, tears pricking at your lashes from the intensity.

he grabs your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you down onto him like he’s got something to prove.

like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out.

“fuck—this pussy—i knew it was good, but goddamn.”

you sob out something close to his name, and he loses it.

he leans over you, caging you in with his forearms, his hips slamming into yours with loud, wet slaps that echo off the room.

“taking me so fuckin’ good,” he pants, voice right in your ear. “letting me ruin you, sweetheart. letting me fuck you dumb on your first time.”

“say it,” he demands again, voice shredded. “say it’s mine.”

and then—without thinking, without breathing, without even realizing what you’re about to say—

you choke out:

“it's already yours.”

his whole body jerks.

he stills—deep inside you, cock twitching, throbbing, fighting for control he doesn’t have.

his eyes snap open. meet yours.

and something in both of you just breaks.

the tension snaps like a wire under pressure—and you both come together.

you sob. your body locks around him. your vision goes white at the edges.

he groans—deep, animal, like he’s never felt anything like this before—and spills inside you, hips grinding down to push every drop as far in as it’ll go.

neither of you move. not at first.

just panting. shaking. stunned.

and then, slowly—so slowly—he pulls back just enough to watch it happen.

his cock slips out, wet and swollen and trembling, and a thick string of cum follows, dripping out of you in slow, obscene globs.

he watches it—entranced. then looks at you again. hair wild. eyes glassy. body still trembling with aftershocks.

he exhales, rough and ragged, like he’s trying to catch up with himself.

“shit,” he mutters. “okay. hang on, baby.”

he moves fast—but gentle. stands, tucks himself back into his boxers with one hand, and disappears down the hallway. you blink, dazed, and only just register the sound of running water.

when he returns, he’s got a warm, damp washcloth. his brows are drawn, focused—his expression all quiet care and no teasing for once.

“lift your hips for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kneeling beside you again.

you do. barely.

he takes over—one hand cradling your thigh, the other so gentle as he wipes between your legs. cleaning you. soothing you. making sure you’re okay.

“think i might’ve overdone it, huh?” he murmurs. “first time and i go feral like a fuckin’ animal…”

you shake your head, still hazy. “was perfect.”

he exhales—almost a laugh, almost a sigh—and kisses your knee.

“lift your arms,” he says next, reaching behind for the throw blanket. “we’re not sleeping on the couch. not after what we just did to it.”

you comply, sluggish and boneless. he bundles you up in the blanket like a little caterpillar in a cocoon, one arm wrapping under your legs, the other steady at your back.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, grinning to himself as he picks you up. “third date and i’ve already fucked up your ability to walk. great impression, schlatt.”

“you’re doing amazing,” you mumble into his neck, eyes heavy, lips smiling.

his condo’s quiet except for the shuffle of his steps, low muttering as he opens the door to his bedroom with his shoulder. it’s clean—cool gray sheets, big comforter, scuffed dresser with tiny tower of hats, an empty glass on the nightstand, his cologne still hanging in the air.

he sets you on the edge of the bed, then disappears into the closet.

“don’t even think about crashing in that dress,” he calls, rummaging.

you blink, foggy. “but it's...pretty comfy.”

“it’s not sleepwear, toots. catch.”

he tosses a shirt—soft, black, oversized. you tug it on with wobbly arms, his shirt swallowing your frame, no panties in sight, letting it fall down past your thighs. schlatt turns back around once you’re changed, holding out a water bottle and two pills.

“advil,” he says. “preventative. i know it’s gonna hit you in the morning.”

you swallow them, obedient, and let him help you into bed. the mattress is warm from the sheets, and you sink in immediately.

he joins you a beat later—still in his sweats, shirt rucked up slightly—and pulls the blanket over both of you. his arm slides around your waist. his other hand rests over your stomach, fingers grazing against your skin, almost tickling you.

his voice is quieter now. lower. honest.

“…you okay?”

you nod into his shoulder. “mhm.”

“wasn’t too much?”

“you asked. every time.”

a pause. then, softly:

“i’m really glad it was you.”

his fingers flex against your side. he presses a kiss to your temple.

“i know it’s only been three dates,” he murmurs, “but i really fucking like you.”

your breath catches. you tilt your head to meet his eyes.

they’re softer than you’ve ever seen them. tired. awed.

“i wanna be your boyfriend,” he says simply. “if you’ll have me.”

your chest swells. you smile.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i want that. i'd really, really like that.”

he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. “jesus. okay. okay, good.” he buries his face in your hair, arms tightening around you. “best third date i’ve ever had.”

you huff a sleepy laugh. “me too.”

the rest of the night settles around you in warmth and softness and the steady thump of his heartbeat, echoing against your back.

[emarie-writes]

No Pressure

Josh Washington x GN!Reader

Summary: At his own party, Josh’s confident act fades when he admits he’s a virgin—only for the reader to lead him through a passionate, awkwardly sweet first time.

Warnings: Smut (mdni 18+), virgin!Josh, first time, teasing, experienced!reader, praise kink, alcohol mention, vulnerability

The Washington lodge was alive tonight—pulsing music, red solo cups, and the hum of laughter ricocheting off log walls. Josh stood in the center of it all, his signature smirk in place like armor, greeting guests and making offhanded jokes that bordered on flirtatious.

You caught him watching you more than once. You weren’t new to his parties, but tonight was different. Maybe it was the way his gaze lingered longer. Maybe it was the way he gravitated toward you, that practiced charm of his cracking just a little when you smiled back. “So,” he drawled, leaning casually against the kitchen island like a guy in a teen drama. “You here to flirt with me or steal my liquor?”

You arched a brow. “Can’t it be both?”

He choked on his sip of beer and laughed, “Touché.”

The flirting built like pressure behind a dam—smirks, close whispers, his hand resting just a little too low on your back when he guided you through the crowd. And eventually, predictably, he murmured in your ear, “Wanna ditch this for somewhere quieter?”

You said yes.

His bedroom was dimly lit, warm from the fire crackling low in the fireplace. He kicked the door shut behind you, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. Josh tried to play it cool—shrugging off his jacket and tossing it carelessly aside, fingers combing through his hair in that way you were sure he practiced in the mirror. “So, uh… you comfortable? I can put something on. Music. Or, like, Netflix.”

You stepped into his space, toeing off your shoes. “You nervous, Washington?”

His laugh was breathy, nervous. “Pfft. What? No. No way. Just—uh, checking in.”

You took a step closer. “You seem a little stiff.”

“Well, you’re kinda hot and standing real close, so—yeah. I’m doing my best here.”

The kiss came suddenly, both of you leaning in at once. It was heated, a little clumsy, all teeth and lips at first until it settled into something slower. His hands found your waist, your hips, gripping you like he was afraid to pull you too close too fast. When your fingers started tugging at the hem of his shirt, Josh tensed. You pulled back slightly, blinking. “Hey. You okay?”

He licked his lips, looking at you with wide eyes, no smirk in sight. “Yeah. Yeah, I just… okay, full honesty moment?” His hands dropped to his sides. “I’ve never actually done this before. Like. Not all the way.”

You paused, your expression softening. “You mean you’re a virgin?”

Josh winced like you’d said a dirty word. “Kinda ruins the whole ‘smooth party guy’ image, huh?”

You smiled—warm, reassuring—and cupped his face gently. “Josh, that doesn’t ruin anything. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching, hopeful. “You’re not, like, turned off or weirded out?”

“Not even a little. You’re hot, you’re sweet, and you’re clearly trying your best.” You let your voice drop into something teasing. “I think that’s kind of adorable, actually.”

He groaned softly. “God, don’t say adorable when I’m trying to get laid.”

You leaned in, kissing him again. Slower this time. Deeper. “Let me help you, Josh.”

Clothes were shed with fumbling hands, his nerves showing every time your fingertips brushed his bare skin. He watched you like you were magic, eyes wide and dark with wonder as you guided him to the bed. You settled astride his lap, kissing down his neck, letting your hands wander with purpose. “Tell me if anything feels too fast, okay?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. Yeah. I’m good. Just… wow.” Your fingers danced along his chest, your hips grinding slow against the tent in his boxers. His breath hitched, hands gripping your thighs like you were keeping him grounded.

“You feel good, baby,” you whispered into his ear, delighting in the way he shivered under you.

Josh let out a low, unsteady moan. “Holy shit. This is, like, already the best night of my life.”

You laughed against his skin, your fingers sliding beneath his waistband. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he groaned. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this. About you.”

You paused, genuinely surprised. “Me?”

He flushed, avoiding your eyes. “I may have had a thing for you since, like, the first time you came to one of my parties.”

You bit your lip, feeling your heart warm even through the haze of arousal. “Then let’s make it count.”

You guided him slowly, easing him inside you with gentle words and reassuring touches. Josh’s head fell back, a strangled sound escaping his throat, “Oh my God—” You moved carefully, watching every twitch of his brow, every hitch of his breath. He was clearly overwhelmed, trying desperately to hold back, his hands shaking as they gripped your hips. “I-I’m not gonna last,” he gasped, biting down hard on his lip.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, stroking his cheek. “Just feel it. Let go.” And he did—his body going taut beneath you, hips jerking up helplessly as he came with a guttural, needy sound. His arms wrapped tight around you, burying his face in your shoulder as he trembled. You held him through it, pressing soft kisses to his hair. “You did good, Josh.”

He laughed breathlessly. “Jesus. I lasted, like… negative three seconds.”

You grinned. “That just means we’ve got time to practice.”

Josh looked up at you with flushed cheeks and something shy in his smile. “You’d… want to do this again?”

You leaned in close, brushing your nose against his. “I’d be honored to be your sex tutor, Washington.”

He snorted. “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” You laughed, curling up against his chest.

[emarie-writes]

FUCKKK I love ur shit sm.. thinking about virgin Chris with an experienced reader.. thinking about him lasting like 10 seconds and being so desperate to get you there too.. thinking about him cumming in his SWEATS??? UGH FJGHDHFHDBD

-😛

your mind is too powerful

Warnings: Smut (mdni 18+), virgin!nerdy!Chris x experienced!GN!reader, first time, soft dom/sub dynamic, clothed orgasm, dry humping, teasing

Chris was really trying to keep it together.

His laptop sat open on the floor between you, his notes perfectly color-coded, and the textbook was cracked to the exact chapter you were “supposed” to be reviewing. But you? You were sprawled across his bed, swinging your socked foot back and forth in the air, chin in your hand, and absolutely not paying attention.

Not to the notes, anyway.

“Okay,” he mumbled, adjusting his glasses and refusing to look at your legs, “so the medulla oblongata is responsible for autonomic functions like—uh, like breathing and heart rate.” You made a soft little hum like you were listening. You weren’t.

Instead, you tilted your head and smiled at him. “Say ‘oblongata’ again.”

Chris blinked, flushed. “What?”

“You sound hot when you get all science-y. Say it again,” you teased, rolling onto your stomach, ass up just enough to make him glance and immediately regret it.

He sputtered. “It’s not—it’s not even that impressive. I’m literally just reading from the—”

You let out a dramatic sigh and dropped your pen onto the bed. “Ugh, Chris, I’m bored.”

He sat up straighter, trying to recover. “W-we can take a break if you want—”

“Oh, I want,” you grinned, dragging your eyes down his torso. “You’ve been sitting there fidgeting in those sweats for like ten minutes. You’re so obvious.” His face burned.

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Chris.” You leaned forward, propping your chin on your hand. “You’ve been hard since I took my hoodie off, babe. And you think I’m the one not paying attention?”

He let out a choked sound, thighs tensing where he sat cross-legged. “It’s not—I wasn’t trying to—shit—” You were already crawling over, slow and smug, watching him panic. You swung a leg over his lap and settled there like you belonged, grinning down at the visible bulge pressing up against the soft fabric of his sweats.

“Is this why you wanted to study with me? You wanted to show off how big your brain is?” You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Too bad all I can think about is how fucking cute you sound when you’re trying not to moan.” He actually whimpered. His hands hovered at your hips like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I—I don’t know if I’m gonna last long if you—”

You rocked down just once, slow and firm, dragging along the length of him through his pants. “Oh, I know,” you purred, grinding again just to hear him gasp. “You’re already so worked up. You probably wanted me to ride you stupid while you spouted off neuroscience facts. That it?”

Chris could barely breathe, fingers digging into your thighs like he was trying not to fall apart. “God, I—I can’t—”

“Can’t what, baby?” you mocked sweetly. “Can’t keep up? Can’t help but cum in your sweats like a desperate little virgin?”

That broke him.

His hips jerked up into you once, twice, and then he was gone — panting and moaning as he came hard in his pants, clinging to you, thighs trembling, whole body flushed.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded, totally dazed. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

You laughed softly, brushing his sweaty curls from his forehead. “That was pathetic,” you teased, but your voice was low and warm, your hand still stroking through his hair. “Soaked your sweats and I didn’t even touch your dick.”

He groaned and buried his face in your shoulder. But then, muffled, “Wait—wait, don’t go. I can still—I wanna help you finish too. Please. Just… give me another shot.”

You raised a brow, smirking. “Well, now that you’ve made a mess of yourself… guess you better earn it.” And the way he nodded, breathless and ready to try again with flushed cheeks and wet pants?

Yeah. He’d definitely study a lot harder next time.

[emarie-writes]

“I Let You Win, Toots”

JSchlatt x GN!Reader

Summary: Schlatt takes you on a first date to an arcade, pretending to be bad at games while secretly letting you win—and calling you “toots” like it’s a love language.

Warnings: Pure and utter fluff, first date, overly obnoxious use of the word “toots” (self-indulgent sorry), schlatt being schlatt

You weren’t sure what you expected when Schlatt texted you,

“Arcade? Tonight? 7pm. Bring quarters and your dignity, toots.”

But now you were standing in front a slightly outdated but charming little arcade with buzzing neon lights, the faint smell of popcorn, and distant sounds of old-school game music. And there he was. Leaning casually against a claw machine, sipping a Coke, and watching someone lose at Dance Dance Revolution like it was a personal tragedy.

He grinned when he saw you. “Hey, toots. Lookin’ cute. You ready to lose at everything?”

You gave him a mock glare. “Wow. Not even a hello?”

He sipped his drink. “Hello. Now prepare yourself for emotional damage.”

Despite all his talk, the first thing he did was swipe his card to pay for both of you. He made a face when you noticed. “Don’t read into it. I’m just a gentleman. A dangerously handsome one.”

“Dangerous is one word for it.”

The two of you started at the basketball hoop game. You made two shots. He made eight in a row, easy, barely even trying. Then he missed the next three on purpose, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. You narrowed your eyes. “Did you just let me catch up?”

He shrugged innocently. “What? Me? No. I just… got distracted by your form. You shoot like a Muppet, it’s mesmerizing.”

“Wow. Romance is alive.”

At skee-ball, he kept a straight face as he lobbed the ball directly into the 10-point zone, over and over again. “Oops… My aim’s bad when I’m in love.”

“You’re so annoying,” you said, trying to hide a smile.

“But you’re smilin’, so I’m doin’ something right.”

Eventually, you made your way to the claw machine. He cracked his knuckles dramatically and said, “Alright, time to win you a stupid stuffed animal you’ll pretend not to care about.”

“I will name it after you if it’s ugly.”

“Flattering.”

A few tries later, he handed you a lopsided duck plushie and bowed like he’d just performed open-heart surgery. “For you, toots. A prize for second place.”

“Second? I literally beat you at Mario Kart.”

He smirked. “Yeah, because I let you. But I’ll take the L if it means you’ll smile like that again.” You blinked at him, caught a little off guard. But he was already turning away, pretending to examine a change machine like he hadn’t just been sweet.

Later, you both sat at a booth with slushies and greasy fries. The neon lights painted his face pink and blue, and for once, he was quiet—just sipping, leaning back, looking at you like you were more interesting than anything else around.

“So,” he said finally. “This was… fun.”

You smiled. “It really was.”

He looked at you, smirking like always, but there was something softer behind it this time. “Hey, toots. I’d lose a hundred more games if it meant hangin’ out with you again.”

You bumped his shoulder gently. “You’re kind of a sap.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I got a reputation to protect.”

[emarie-writes]

nerd!chris x brat!reader truther

More of nerd!Chris x reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, brat!reader x nerdy!Chris, collage au, oral sex, receiving and giving, porn WITH plot, literally like my third fic

It’s been a few weeks of Chris doing your work and your grades have sky rocketed, he even helped with classes the two of you don’t share. It’s crazy to think that after almost a month of him routinely visiting your room every Sunday night he still gets nervous even thinking about you. Just when your relationship is purely business he hoped for something more. You obviously thought he was adorable. However, your sorority sisters started talking after the second visit. By the time the third week came, it was the longest lasting “relationship” you’ve been through in the time they’ve knew you.

“I can’t believe you’re still entertaining him!” Your sister said, walking into your room after his latest visit. “Yea, isn’t he Josh’s best friend? Is that why you’re talking to him?” Another sister walked into the room picking up the monthly Vogue magazine from your coffee table. “I’m already acquainted with josh, why would i use him for that?” You bark back, feeling immediately defensive for some reason. “So, you admit you’re using him for something?” She smirks looking up from her magazine. “He doesn’t look like he’s felt the touch of a woman in his life, I bet he’s a freak!” Your other friend says giggling to herself as she buff out her nails on your bed.

“You guys think that lowly of me that i would use some random guy for my own satisfaction and kick him out within the same hour!” You give a gross look to both of the girls. “There are girls on this floor that do ten times worse than that. Don’t worry, we aren’t judging.” Your sister said putting her hand up in defense. “I mean, I don’t judge you too, without the acne and glasses and… geeky personality, he’s ripped!” Your friend said, setting down the magazine. “Oh, my god! Can we not talk about him? Don’t you guys have anything better to do?” You responded with an aggressive amount of defensive tone, leading to the girls to leave your room.

Your latest visit was at his dorm, from the scholarships and grants he received from his academic activities he was given a single room. You wanted to see him, that scared the shit out of you. “I-I um, wasn’t expecting you.” Chris says opening the door for you to come in. “I know, i guess it’s a surprise.” You say, looking around the dorm. Posters and action figures littered the room, if you couldn’t tell by his looks already, Chris was a total nerd. “Sorry for the mess I wasn’t expecting company…” Chris basically whispered into the air, pulling you out of a trance. “Yea… i realized id have to come to your place if to do what I’m about to do.” You say looking up at his taller frame before pulling him into a deep kiss. “O-oh, my god…” Chris whimpers as you shove him into his gaming chair. You bent down onto your knees, pulling the waist of his basketball shorts, looking up at him, eyelash extensions ticking your eyelids while biting your lip. God you knew what you were doing, Chris felt paralyzed by pure lust in that moment.

“Can I?” You ask, pulling down his shorts, palming his bulge. “Y-yes, god yes!” He choked out, his throat tightening out of arousal. “So needy…” you give a mischief smile pulling down his boxers. “Oh, lord…” you whisper, admiring his large cock. “W-what? Is something wrong?” Chris whispers back, feeling insecure. “It’s massive, Chris! How could you walk around with this monster?!” You replied, stroking his length, causing him to whimper at the sudden contact. “So sensitive and needy…” you whisper while kissing the base of his cock. “W-wait!” He squirmed under your touch, blushing by the affection. “I’ve never done something like this…”. “Don’t worry… I’ll make you feel good…” you whisper, holding eye contact while licking his tip.

It wasn’t like you were the most experienced person, you’ve had a couple of lovers. Small flings, nothing significant. But right now you felt like the most powerful woman alive with Chris under your complete control. “Do not cum until i tell you to.” You demand as you move his hand to make a make-shift pony tail. “Yes ma’am…” Chris whimpered as you started to bob your head on his cock. “Holy mother of pearl!” Chris grits his teeth as his heads hits the back of the chair. He begins pushing down your head and thrusting into your mouth, you can tell he was close. “So big, yet so fast…” as tease as you slowly stroke him, “I’m not in the mood for the teasing!” He groans in a deep voice as he pushes your head against his dick. “I’m not in the mood for you to cum before i let you.” You retort back, squeezing his lengths causing him to let out a soft moan.

Chris left frustrated by the lake of relief, he needed to release, preferably on your face. “Please-please-please let me cum” he pleads while involuntarily thrusting into your touch. You were left aroused by the begging, with a weak willpower, you gave in. As you engulfed his long hard cock in your mouth, you began bobbing your head in a steady pace, trying to get him to last as long as possible. While you were sucking off Chris, you began rubbing your clit, god you were so wet it was pathetic. You didn’t know someone like Chris could get you so worked up, you’d been thinking about him since you found out he’s been stealing his panties. You felt uneasy giving someone like Chris so much power over you, it almost left natural. The longer you lasted, the more aggressive his hands got. Chris was basically smothering you with his dick, no complaints on your part.

“Holy shit.” Chris gasped after releasing himself in your throat. Before you even had the chance to swallow, Chris grabbed you by the waist and effortlessly threw you onto his bed. “Please let me repay you…” Chris begged, barely making a whisper. “You doing my homework is repaying me…” you whispered into his ear as his hands roamed all over your body. “Please… don’t ruin the moment” Chris begged as he started to take off your low-rise jeans. “I’ve imagined this moment months ago…” Chris gasped as he lowered his head to kiss your clothed clit. “I’ve never done this before…” he looked down as he pulled off your dainty underwear, throwing them on the floor for his personal collection.

You can tell Chris was a virgin, he worshipped your body like it was the only other on earth. He lacked technique but made up with passion. Chris acted like a man who’s been starved and only craved the sweetness of your pussy to satisfy him. He treated your heat like it had the cure he needed to survive. While his nose was assaulting you clit, his tongue was drinking up your delicious nectar of your cum. “Holy shit, Chris…” you whine as your legs involuntarily close, causing him he use his bulky muscles to keep them open. “I’m close!” Your mouth hangs open as the back of your thighs find Chris’s shoulders, your sweet release clings to his face. As Chris slurps up your release he keeps going, it’s impossible to let go of your heavenly goodness. “Chris!” You whine, pushing his head away from your pussy.

“S-sorry” he pulls himself way, wiping you slick from his face. “That was nice…” he muttered softly, admiring the mess you made. You were left legs shaking, hair and makeup a mess, and panting. “This is payment for putting up with my work…” you whisper in-between gasps. “I wouldn’t mind if we kept this up.” You reply to yourself, trying not to sound like that was purely transactional. Chris’s face lit up upon hearing your proposition. “I’d like that” he said, wiping your tears.

ok but like this is my second post about brat!reader x nerdy!Chris, if you have any suggestions please don’t be afraid to ask!

[emarie-writes]

gnawing at my iron bars

too many people pussy out and put their afab characters on the pill 😔 I want some REAL unprotected sex . Would he wanna be a father?

Pairing: long-term bf!chris x fem!afab!reader.

Summary: your boyfriend is always sweet and respectful, but the thought of him getting you pregnant kinda turns his big, smart brain into possessive, feral mush.

Warnings: breeding k!nk, pregnancy k!nk(?), possessive!chris, but also still dorky, sweet, rambling!chris, unprotected p in v (duh), SMUT! 18+

A/N: bless you for this ask, this is my ovulation daydream AGGH!! Please let this beefy dork video game character get me pregnant plssss. I am so obsessed with this idea! (I also just now realized you never specified this was a request for Chris but I think since he’s the only person I’ve written about (so far 👀) it’s safe to assume… hehe)

You two are in your shared apartment, Chris arrived home from work a little while ago and he hasn’t been able to keep his hands off of you since he got through the door.

You’re in his lap, straddling him. You’ve been kissing for so long at this point his glasses are foggy, his nice work-shirt is almost all the way unbuttoned, his hair is a mess. You’re in just your panties and a t-shirt—his t-shirt—and you can feel how hard he is already, just from making out. He’s gripping your hips like he’s trying not to move, his hands twitch when you shift your weight.

“You okay?” you ask, breathless.

He nods quickly “Y-yeah, I’m good—great—totally good.”

But he’s blushing like crazy, and when you move your hips against him again, he gasps.

Something’s different tonight. Like he’s holding something back.

You tilt your head, teasing. “You’re thinking something.”

“I’m always thinking something,” he mutters, biting his lip.

“You’re thinking something filthy.” You muse.

“I’m always thinking something filthy.” He tries his best to give you a cheeky grin, but he’s too nervous for it to look normal.

You lean in close, whispering right against his ear. “Wanna tell me what it is?”

And he breaks.

One hand fists the back of your shirt, the other grabs your thigh, tight, desperate.

“I can’t stop thinking about—” he chokes a little, his voice rough, “fuck, I want to put a baby in you.”

The words leave his mouth and he immediately hides his face in your neck.

“God, that sounded way less insane in my head.” He groans.

But you shiver, grinding against him deliberately now. “No, say it again.” You breathe.

He jerks his hips up involuntarily, a breathless moan escaping him, “Don’t tease me.”

You lean back just enough to look at him. “Chris. I want you to say it.”

And now his hands are shaking, but he does, his voice wrecked, eyes dark and full of awe like he can’t believe you’re letting him talk like this. He pushes his glasses up on his nose.

“I think about it all the time,” he confesses, “how it would feel, being inside you, filling you up, knowing I might actually…” He swallows hard, trying to find the words, “claim you… like that.”

He looks tortured, horny and soft and helpless with want.

“Wanna see your tummy grow… Know it’s mine. Watch you get round and flushed and full with my baby.”

He shudders when you moan at that, raspy and needy.

“You’d be so perfect,” he whispers. “fucking glowing. I’d never stop touching you.”

You tug his shirt off in one go, the last button popping off and skipping on the hardwood floor. You kiss him so hard he forgets how to breathe. His hands are everywhere now, like he doesn’t know where he wants to touch you the most; under your shirt, over your stomach, squeezing your tits, trembling like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of what could be.

“Chris, please” you beg him through a shaky whine.

“N-now?” He stutters nervously

“Now. Right now” you breathe.

He gets your panties off like he’s trying to beat a high score, gets his pants down enough to free himself, his hard cock springs free and you line him up with your dripping cunt and start to sink down onto him. His eyes go wide, his hands grip your waist for dear life as your body takes every inch of him.

He thrusts up into you with a deep, shaking breath, and murmurs against your neck:

“Gonna fill you up. gonna give you every drop until I’ve got nothing left.”he gasps, he squeezes his eyes shut, head tipped back against the cushion. “You feel—fuck, you feel so good like this.”

You’re flushed, panting, the stretch and pressure of him filling you is already overwhelming, but his words and his voice are making it so much worse—or better.

“You okay?” you whisper, even though you’re both trembling.

He nods, eyes fluttering open behind the frames of his glasses, glassy and completely blown-out.

“I’m more than okay. I just…” He groans, breath catching as you roll your hips. “I think I might pass out.”

You smile, fingers in his hair, tugging lightly. “Yeah? What’s doing you in?”

“You,” he says, instantly. “Sitting on me—t-taking me. Letting me talk like this, letting me think about you getting pregnant with me still inside you—”

You moan, louder now, and his hips snap up involuntarily, deeper, and you both cry out.

“Chris—”

“I can’t stop picturing it,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “You in my shirt, swollen and round, yelling at me for eating the rest of the ice cream, so I go out and buy you seven thousand tubs—”

“Chris—“ You clutch at his shoulders, your nails biting in to the smattering of freckles on top of them. “That’s too much ice cream.” you breathe a small laugh in between a moan.

“Anything you w-want” he moans.

He’s completely gone now. One hand cups your stomach, like he’s already imagining it round and full, the other pressing into your lower back to keep you close.

“You’d be so full,” he whispers, thrusting up into you now, shallow but hard, the wet sound filling the room. “So beautiful. So mine. I’d take care of you like you were glass, then fuck you again once you could take it.”

Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him, and his moan is broken.

“You close?” you gasp.

“I—fuck—I won’t last,” he pants. “Not if you keep looking at me like that. Not when I’m this deep, thinking about you… glowing.”

You lean forward, kiss his cheek, his jaw, his ear.

“Then cum in me, Chris,” you whisper into his ear. “Give me everything—fill me up.”

He snaps.

With a strangled moan, he buries himself as deep as he can, trembling under you, holding you so tight he might leave marks.

“Oh my God,” he cries. “I’m cumming—I’m fucking cumming—God, yes, take it, take all of it—” he cries.

You feel him cum inside you, hot and overwhelming and so much, his whole body shuddering beneath you as he fills you, voice shaking as he keeps whispering:

“That’s it, that’s my girl—t-take it. Let me put a baby in you. Let me keep you.”

You ride it out together, bodies tangled, skin sticky, breaths uneven.

He’s shaking when you both finally still, his forehead against your chest, strong arms wrapped around you like he’s never going to let go.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs as if you weren’t already his. His voice is quiet and hoarse and so in love: “I’m never letting anyone else touch you. Ever.”

You kiss the top of his head, still catching your breath. “You’re stuck with me now, Hartley.”

“Good,” he whispers. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

<3

Another A/N: I am so obsessed with this idea I may have already written a short part two of Chris finding out reader is pregnant 🥹 let me know if I should post that!

Chris taglist: @fritzhardt @avwade69 @maiiuelle @avrells @fordthegamelord819 @xoxocher @sweetcalebb @z0mb1epuzzy

Wanna join my taglist? Click here!

[emarie-writes]

Chris being a total masochist in bed???? Like you’re riding him and he’s actively trying to get you to choke him and pull his hair and bite his neck🤤🤤 he might not even ask, he’s just messily grabbing at you and trying to wordlessly guide you to do what he wants until you have to stop and ask him to communicate

-😛

(Ugh this is so dirty I’m so sorry)

omg don’t ever apologize for what i just read i am barking like a dog on all fours rn

Warnings: Smut (mdni 18+), GN!dom!reader, masochistic Chris, choking, hair pulling, neck biting, begging, praise, consensual roughness

You weren’t even sure how it escalated like this.

One second, you were curled up in his lap—straddling him lazily, fingers buried in his hair while his lips pressed warm, wet kisses to your collarbone. Then he shifted underneath you, hips twitching up just a little too desperately, hands gripping your thighs like he needed to anchor himself. And now you were grinding down on him slowly, his back pressed into the pillows, his flushed face caught between pleasure and need. His mouth fell open like he wanted to say something—but nothing came out.

“Chris,” you muttered breathlessly, rolling your hips again, slow and deliberate. “You’re really quiet tonight.”

He moaned in response, a soft, choked sound that seemed to slip out before he could catch it. His hands slid up to your waist, then to your ribs, then—his fingers twitched and reached toward your shoulders, like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like he wanted something from you but didn’t want to ask.

You paused. “What are you doing?”

“I…” he huffed, cheeks flushed deeper now. He shifted under you again, breath catching as you clenched around him. He didn’t meet your eyes, just reached up and—gently, insistently—guided your hand toward his throat.

Oh.

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

He nodded faintly, lip caught between his teeth, eyes wide and pleading like it physically hurt not to have what he wanted. You curled your fingers just a little around his neck, testing the pressure. His hips jerked up hard in response and he gasped—actually gasped—like he’d been holding it back this whole time. His head tilted into your hand, inviting, begging.

“God, Chris…” you muttered, shocked and turned on beyond belief. “You really should’ve just said something.”

“I—I didn’t know if you’d—fuck—if you’d want to—”

“I do. But you need to tell me next time, baby,” you said lowly, leaning in close enough for your lips to brush his ear. “You don’t get what you want just by squirming like that. You have to ask.”

He whimpered. No shame, no hesitation now. Just pure need. “Please—please choke me. I want it, I want—need it—”

You tightened your hand around his throat a bit more, making sure to watch his eyes, his breathing. His pupils blew wide, mouth falling open in a silent moan as you started moving again—riding him harder now, your free hand sliding up into his hair and yanking back. He groaned, loud and hoarse, hips stuttering. “F-fuck—”

“Yeah?” you teased, panting against his neck. “This what you wanted, huh? Wanted to be used like this?” He nodded frantically, every movement laced with desperation. His nails bit into your waist, not hard enough to leave marks—just grounding himself, chasing the friction.

“God, look at you,” you murmured, eyes flicking to his flushed chest, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. “You like this way too much.”

“Harder,” he breathed. “Bite me. Please, just—do it.”

You didn’t need convincing. You leaned in and sank your teeth into the side of his neck, not gently. He yelled—not out of pain, but from the overwhelming mix of sensation, bucking up into you so hard you nearly lost your rhythm. Your hand tightened once more around his throat, the other gripping his hair and tugging again, forcing his head back to expose more of his neck for your teeth.

“You’re a mess,” you whispered into his skin, still biting, still riding. “You love this, don’t you?”

He nodded, completely gone. “Love it, love it—fuck, don’t stop, please—”

You didn’t. You fucked him through it—his whole body shaking underneath you, thighs trembling, barely coherent except to beg for more. And when he finally came, it was with a broken, gasped cry, your name tangled in it like prayer. You stayed there, breath heaving, body slick against his.

After a long moment, he blinked up at you, dazed, the faintest grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “…I think I blacked out a little,” he admitted hoarsely.

You chuckled, brushing the sweaty hair from his forehead. “That’s because you’re a freak.”

“Your freak,” he murmured smugly.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, smirking. “Damn right.”