benzendrine-nosebleed - Tumblr blog

benzendrine-nosebleed · 1 month ago

Note

Absolutely SCREAMING, jaw dropped, heart palpitations, gatekeep worthy, but also screaming this from the mountain tops

hii, can i request a something smutty with roommate!schlatt who catches reader getting off and ends up ‘helping’ her finish? maybe with some soft dom energy like the dynamic you wrote in Let Me Handle It (so good so good by the way). thank you so much!!

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * quietly handled with care ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮

imagine: thin walls, a breathless moan, and a man who knows exactly how to help.

╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the anon who wanted a roommate!schlatt with soft dom energy and a little voyeurism tension...this one spiraled and i'm not sorry ♡ thank you for the inspiration—you’re feeding the entire house.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · masturbation (f!solo) · accidental eavesdropping · soft dom!schlatt · oral f!receiving

don’t be shy next time. ask for help. (｡•́︿•̀｡)

✧✧✧

he hears it on a wednesday night.

the kind of night where the ceiling fan clicks every third rotation and the hallway light flickers like a damn horror movie. the kind of night where he’s half-dozing on top of the sheets, hoodie rucked up, laptop dead beside him, and nothing on his mind except whether or not he remembered to switch the laundry.

and then he hears it.

a sound. quiet. barely anything. he wouldn’t have caught it if the apartment weren’t so still.

at first, he thinks it’s the pipes again. the ones that whine when the shower's running too hot.

but then it comes again.

not a whine. a gasp.

breathy. soft. feminine.

his eyes snap open.

the wall between your bedrooms is thin—plaster and old studs, with a vent that makes it even worse. schlatt’s had the misfortune of overhearing plenty: your 3am tiktoks, your poorly timed blender use, your endless zoom calls with your headset turned all the way up.

but this isn’t that.

he holds his breath.

there’s another sound—quiet, but distinct. the creak of your mattress shifting. bare skin against cotton sheets. a shaky little exhale.

he sits up slowly, spine straightening like a wire being pulled taut.

you’re—oh, fuck.

you’re touching yourself.

you think he’s asleep. or out. or—fuck, he doesn’t even know. but you’re clearly not trying to be heard. you’re quiet. whisper-soft. every sound you make is like it’s been smothered in a pillow.

which makes the next one even worse.

you whimper.

god, it’s so fucking soft he almost misses it. just a tiny, desperate little sound from the back of your throat—one that makes the blood rush to his cock like a floodgate just gave out.

he stares at the wall like it might crumble if he looks hard enough.

he shouldn’t be listening. this is wrong. creepy. the exact kind of thing that would make you slap him across the face if you ever found out.

but he can’t move.

not when you let out another sigh. not when the rhythm of the creaking shifts—just slightly—like your hips are starting to move in time with your fingers.

he shifts under the covers, pressing the heel of his palm against the front of his sweats.

hard. already. throbbing, even.

you don’t know he can hear you.

or maybe you do.

maybe you left your bedroom door a little open. maybe you’re doing it with your head turned toward the wall—toward his wall. maybe you’re biting your wrist to keep from being louder.

he can picture it now. too easily.

you, tangled in blankets. one hand between your thighs. maybe grinding against your palm because you’re too shy to use your fingers directly. maybe you’re rubbing tight circles over your clit with one hand and clutching a pillow with the other, fighting not to make noise. fighting to keep it a secret.

but the best part—the part that undoes him—is that you’re losing.

because the next sound out of you isn’t a sigh.

it’s a whisper.

barely audible. but he hears it.

his name.

not a cry. not a moan. just a soft, strained, “schlatt…” like you’re scolding yourself for even saying it. like you didn’t mean to.

he exhales through his teeth. his hand slips under his waistband before he can think better of it.

this is bad.

this is so bad.

but he strokes himself anyway. slow. deliberate. palm dragging over the tip with just enough pressure to make his thighs twitch. he doesn’t take his eyes off the wall.

the sounds are fading now—your breaths shallow, your movements more erratic. you’re close.

and schlatt is losing his fucking mind.

he fists his cock harder, biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. you’ve gone breathless on the other side—little sounds spilling out like you can’t hold them in anymore.

then it happens.

a broken gasp.

your bed creaks one last time, and then—

silence.

you came. you actually fucking came. and he came with you, hot and sudden, spilling into his hand with a stifled groan and a sharp jerk of his hips.

the aftershocks roll through him like waves. he pants through them, chest rising and falling, sweat already starting to cool on his neck.

eventually, he wipes his hand off on the inside of his hoodie and stares at the ceiling.

holy shit.

he doesn’t sleep much after that.

✧✧✧

you’re quiet the next morning.

too quiet.

you pass him in the kitchen in a sweatshirt that’s way too big—maybe his, maybe not—and don’t even glance at him as you grab your coffee. no teasing. no yawning and leaning against the counter like you usually do. no offhand comment about his stupid cereal.

just a mumbled “morning,” and the clink of your mug.

schlatt watches you like he’s trying to decode a message you didn’t leave.

his brain, unfortunately, is doing cartwheels.

she doesn’t know. she can’t know. there’s no way. the walls are thin, sure, but you were so quiet. almost too quiet. like you were hiding it. like you knew.

and the worst part is? he’s not even sure which scenario is worse.

if you didn’t know—then he’s a creep who got off to something he wasn’t supposed to hear. and if you did know?

then you moaned his name on purpose.

you sit at the table with your legs crossed, scrolling on your phone like it’s nothing. but he sees it—the little tremble in your fingers when you bring the mug to your lips. the way your eyes don’t quite meet his when he walks by.

you're avoiding him.

which means one of two things: you’re embarrassed. or you’re trying not to make it obvious you did it again.

either way, schlatt's fucked.

he doesn’t say anything. just stirs sugar into his coffee with more force than necessary and tries not to stare at the curve of your bare thigh beneath the hem of your sweatshirt.

✧✧✧

it happens again two nights later.

this time, he's waiting for it.

not intentionally. he tells himself he's just up late gaming. he tells himself he's not checking the time because he remembers what time it happened before. he tells himself he's not listening.

but when he hears the first breathy sound—so faint it could be the wind—he's already half-hard.

you’re doing it again. you have to be.

he doesn’t get off this time. doesn’t even touch himself. just lies in bed and listens, eyes wide, heart pounding, sweat beading on his temples like he’s running a fucking fever.

he imagines your fingers sliding lower. your lips parted. your legs shaking. the little choked sounds you make when you’re trying too hard to be quiet.

and worst of all?

he imagines your eyes fluttering shut while you moan his name.

again.

✧✧✧

by friday, it’s driving him insane.

you keep avoiding his eyes. keep disappearing into your room early. he hears the lock click at least three times that night.

like you're afraid of slipping up.

like you know he knows.

but it’s not enough. the silence is worse now. it's calculated.

you’re hiding from him.

and fuck, maybe he deserves it.

but maybe—just maybe—you want him to say something.

so when he passes your door late that night and hears the faintest rustle of sheets, he stops walking.

his hand hovers over the wood.

the hallway’s quiet. tense. he hears you shift again—so soft, so careful.

and then that same tiny gasp he remembers.

like you’re trying not to breathe too loud.

like you think you’re alone.

he knocks.

sharp. sudden. not hard, but enough to make you freeze.

silence.

then: "y-yeah?"

your voice is breathless.

he almost groans.

“you okay in there?”

a pause. “…just laying down. coughing...think i'm kind of sick or something...”

“you sound kinda outta breath, sweetheart.”

the silence is louder now.

he pictures you curled under the blankets, blinking at the ceiling with your hand still between your thighs.

he almost says more.

almost asks if you need help.

almost asks if you were thinking about him again.

but instead, he leans in—just a little—and lets his voice go quiet:

"…you know i can hear you, right?"

✧✧✧

you freeze.

his voice is low. too low. almost gentle.

“…you know i can hear you, right?”

the words settle over you like smoke—slow, suffocating. you’re still under the covers, heart hammering in your throat, fingers still slick between your thighs, breath caught somewhere halfway to a moan.

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

he knows. oh god—he knows.

and then you hear him move.

a soft thud against the frame. a slow, quiet exhale.

“i’ve been tryin’ to be polite about it. figured maybe it was just a one-time thing. figured maybe you didn’t realize how thin the walls are.”

you close your eyes, face burning. humiliation coils low in your stomach.

your breath stutters. “…i didn’t—”

“but then you said my name.”

“don’t you dare try to lie...more than you've already been doing.”

his tone shifts—just a little. not angry. not mocking. just… firm. steady. warm enough to make you squirm and sharp enough to make your thighs clench.

you press your palms to your face.

“you think i didn't hear it before? those breathy little whimpers you tried to bite back? you think i don’t know what it means when your bed squeaks just once and then everything goes still?”

he huffs a soft laugh on the other side of the door.

“you really thought i wouldn’t notice?”

you don’t say anything. you’re too busy trying not to drown in the floor.

“stop.”

“let me ask you this,” he says slowly. “when you grind against your hand every night… do you wish it was my fingers fucking into you? or is this week just a special occasion?”

“can’t.”

he knocks again, this time softer. more of a tap.

“let me in.”

your breath hitches. “no.”

“sweetheart.”

you shake your head. he can't see you, but you can feel his eyes in the shadows, like he might crawl out from under your bed instead of being right outside.

“you really gonna leave me out here, hard as fuck, after all those little sounds you’ve been makin’ all week? after you moaned my name? after you rubbed your pretty little pussy to the thought of me, what, four nights in a row now?”

you whimper. it slips out before you can stop it.

he hums. the edge of a laugh.

another pause. the handle jiggles gently.

“i think your body knows what it wants, y/n...even if your mind is struggling to catch up.”

“last chance, baby.”

you hesitate. last chance before he breaks the door down? or last chance before he leaves you alone? your brain scrambles at the thought, and it gets you sitting up.

and then, trembling, you crawl to the edge of your bed and unlock the door.

it creaks open an inch. then two.

then he’s there.

his eyes flick down.

schlatt—tall, tousled, bare-faced, light blue t-shirt hanging loosely, sweats riding low on his hips. he looks down at you with something dark and heady in his gaze. something restrained. barely.

your thighs. bare.

your face. flushed.

your hand, still wet.

“jesus,” he mutters. “so this is how you look when your roommate comes to check on you? didn't even wipe your hand on a towel or nothin'?”

you can’t look at him. you start to pull the blanket up.

he steps forward, slow and deliberate, and sits on the edge of your bed. doesn’t wait for permission. doesn’t ask. he leans back on one hand, close enough that his knee brushes yours.

“don’t hide from me now,” he says. “not after all that.”

you swallow. “i didn’t mean for you to hear—”

“bullshit.”

he turns to face you, eyes sharp now.

“you wanted to get caught.”

you open your mouth. no words come out.

he leans in.

“you liked thinking i was on the other side of that wall, didn’t you? liked the idea of me listening. stroking my cock to the sound of your needy little gasps. how you were basically calling for me...”

you whimper again, thighs clenching.

he grins.

“you’re probably soaked...”

you try to pull away—he catches your wrist.

“sweetheart,” he murmurs. “you really wanna finish alone again?”

then brings your hand near his mouth, taking a still wet finger in his mouth, humming a satisfied sound at the taste. your eyes are wide, barely able to blink or look anywhere else as he sucks the rest of your slightly salty fingers clean.

your lips part.

you can’t breathe.

slowly, you shake your head.

he watches your face—eyes flicking down to your lips as they part, then back up. his voice is low, warm, steady.

“that’s what i thought.”

you don’t even realize you’re trembling until his thumb brushes across the inside of your wrist, slow and soothing.

“lay back,” he murmurs.

you hesitate.

his hand rises—cupping your jaw now, thumb ghosting the edge of your cheek.

“c’mon, baby,” he whispers. “since you were calling for me, you must have wanted me here…so let me fuck you, the way you've been fantasizing.”

and that’s all it takes.

you sink back against the mattress, limbs loose, thighs still pressed together like you’re afraid to move. but schlatt’s already shifting, pushing your legs apart with one hand, kneeling between them on the mattress like he belongs there.

like this is exactly where he was always meant to be.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you are drippin’.”

you make a tiny sound. embarrassed.

he grins, slow and wolfish, but his voice stays soft.

“don’t get all shy on me now. you were doing so good without me. makin’ those pretty little noises through the wall. thinkin’ about me while you rubbed yourself raw.”

you whimper, face burning. his fingers ghost along your inner thigh—light, teasing, like he’s testing your limits.

“were you imagining me watching?” he asks. “or touching?”

you don’t answer.

he leans over you, his nose brushing your jaw.

“or did you want me to hear how needy you are?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “so i’d come here help you.”

your hips jerk up before you can stop them.

he chuckles.

“you wanted this...so tell me. tell me, doll...”

"i-i wanted you...to hear me..."

he smiles, then dips down—and licks a stripe up your inner thigh.

you gasp. your hands fly to his hair.

he drags his tongue slow. teasing. purposeful.

“now that i had a taste of you, i'm gonna help myself to more...gonna make you cum on my mouth,” he mutters, almost to himself. “til you can’t even say my name anymore.”

he eats you out like he’s starving.

you arch. you writhe. you cry out.

broad tongue, steady rhythm, lips tight around your clit. his hands press into your thighs, holding them open like they're the doors to ambrosia. every sound he makes—every low hum, every soft groan when you twitch under him—is pure sin.

“that’s it,” he rasps between licks. “let it out, baby. let me hear you this time.”

your hands tangle in his hair. you’re soaked. shaking. moaning loud enough for everyone in the building to know his name now.

he doesn’t let up. not when your thighs start to tremble. not when you try to twist away. not even when you start to beg.

“s-schlatt—i—it’s too much—!”

he grins against your cunt.

“too bad.”

he wraps an arm under your hips and pulls you even closer. tongue flicking faster now, lips sealed tight around your clit as you shatter against him.

you cum hard.

loud, desperate, fingers clawing at his shoulders, his hoodie, anything you can reach. you sob through it—half-wrecked, half-relieved—as the tension snaps and everything pours out at once.

he keeps going. slows down only when your legs twitch. only when you gasp and push at his chest, teary-eyed and boneless.

only then does he finally pull back, lips wet, beard damp, smug and satisfied.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, kissing the inside of your thigh. “you taste so fucking sweet, baby...”

you’re still gasping. still reeling.

and then he crawls up the bed—slow, like you’re breakable. like he just watched you fall apart and wants to hold all the pieces.

he settles beside you. one big hand cups your cheek. his thumb brushes a tear from your lashes.

“hey,” he says softly. “you with me?”

you nod, barely. you blink up at him, dazed and ruined.

he smiles.

“good girl.”

you make a noise—half whimper, half laugh—and bury your face in his chest.

“don’t do that again,” he says against your hair. “don’t hide from me like that. next time you need help, you ask. got it?”

you nod.

“use your mouth. not like you don't know how to.”

“…i’ll ask you for help.”

“see? it's that easy…what else are roommates for?”

#big guy #schlatt x reader #schlatt smut #blue collar girl rambling blah blah blah

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benzendrine-nosebleed · 3 months ago

Note

I'M A FUCKING WRECK 😭 THIS IS SO GOOD

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

The quiet life

Pairing: Jschlatt (John) × fem!reader

NSFW 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word count: ~ 3.7k

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

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

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

He wasn’t supposed to stay this long.

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

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

No one questioned it. Not even you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked, startled. Looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You handed him a plate to dry.

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

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

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

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

But he just chuckled and took another plate.

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

And that’s when it hit him again.

You weren’t his.

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Huh?”

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

He forced a shrug. “Just tired.”

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

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

“Hey,” you said, suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you stayed.”

And just like that, he was ruined again.

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

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

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

“Everything okay?”

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

He blinked. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

“Just come sleep in my bed.”

And he felt his brain short-circuit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now you won’t have a broken back.”

He swallowed.

“So generous of you.”

He teased but inside, he was screaming.

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

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

The one where it was his bed too.

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

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

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

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

But still, he was in your bed.

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

He didn’t answer. Didn’t dare.

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

He nearly stopped breathing.

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

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

Until you moved again.

This time, you rolled closer.

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

He couldn’t do this anymore.

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

You went still.

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

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

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

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

He finally turned to face you.

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

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

He blinked. “And said what?”

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

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

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

“What are you thinking now?”

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything slowed. Every movement was careful. Reverent.

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

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

“John,” you breathed.

And he nearly lost it.

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

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

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

It did.

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

“Say it again,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take it off,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you spoke for a while.

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

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

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

“John?” you whispered.

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

Then, barely louder than a breath:

“Move back.”

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

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

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

You exhaled, shaky.

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

His voice cracked.

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

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

So much hope it hurt.

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

He kissed your palm.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

And then, slowly, you nodded. Just once.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

#big guy #schlatt x reader #THE YEARNING #literally in fucking shambles

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