#JSCHLATT | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

slattlicker · 2 days ago

Note

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.

#vuewrites #jschlatt #schlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt x reader #jschlatt headcanons #schlatt headcanons #jschlatt imagines #schlatt imagines #jschlatt x you #schlatt x you

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slattlicker · 1 day ago

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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—”

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.

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.”

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