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college age schlatt i beg đ like the proper nerdy computer science college student everyone seems to forget he was
âďšâŚËâ¡ đ¤ * no recursion without return â.ŕłŕż*:シ âŽ
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.
â°ďšâĄâËŕš *â§ďšâŚ ŕŁŞ Ë â
ďšâ⌠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 âĄ
it starts with a room that smells like dry-erase markers and burnt coffee.
tuesday afternoon, 3:15 pm. youâre ten minutes early to the cs buildingâs third-floor labâmostly because the alternative was sitting through another insufferably slow dining hall lunch, and partly because you werenât sure if youâd find the place at all.
the whiteboard has a half-erased doodle of a mushroom in glasses. someoneâs 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 classâbut you're also not thriving. cs230: data structures and algorithms. itâs mandatory for your minor, and youâve been putting it off for two semesters too long.
the professor announced last week that office hours would be staffed by the departmentâs âstem peer guides.â you hadnât planned on going.
but then the last lab nearly made you cry in the library bathroom.
so here you are.
youâre still tugging your laptop out of your bag when the door creaks.
he walks in backwardsâwearing a hoodie that probably cost too much and socks with cartoon ducks on them, juggling two coffees and a laptop under one arm.
âheyâsorry,â he says, turning around and freezing when he spots you. âdidnât think anyone was gonna show up.â
he sets the coffees down. his glasses slide a little down his nose when he tilts his head.
âyou here for cs230?â
you nod. âyeah.â
he blinks. then smilesâjust a little. you catch the beginnings of smile lines.
âiâm schlatt,â he says. âstem guide. i did the class last year.â
you raise an eyebrow. âand survived?â
âbarely.â he slides into the chair across from you and cracks open his laptop. âwhat are we working on?â
you pause. heâs surprisingly cute for someone who clearly color-codes his life. his keyboard has custom caps. his notesâwhen he turns the screen to show youâare annotated with little pixel cats.
you try not to show your amusement. âi think i broke my brain trying to write a recursive function.â
schlatt huffs a laugh. âyou and everyone else.â
he takes a sip of his coffee, then pushes the other cup toward you.
âextra,â he says. âin 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.â
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.
âthanks,â you murmur.
âno problem,â he says, already pulling up the assignment prompt on his screen. âletâs untangle some loops.â
â§â§â§
youâre twenty minutes in and already rethinking your life choices.
not because schlattâs bad at explaining things. actually, the opposite.
heâs good. really good.
heâs got the kind of brain that makes metaphors on the flyâcomparing recursive functions to russian nesting dolls, stack overflows to a laundry chair thatâs reached critical mass, and call stacks to cabinets held open in sequence.
âokay,â he says, spinning the whiteboard toward you, âso imagine you're opening those russian dollsâyou know, the ones that keep getting smaller?â
you nod, watching as he draws a series of half-circles nestled inside each other.
âeach 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 valuesâto actually finishâis to reach the smallest one.â
âthe base case,â you murmur, tapping the smallest doll heâs drawn.
his smile quirks. âexactly. once you hit that, you start putting them all back together. one by one, returning values up the chain.â
you tilt your head. âso recursionâs not about jumping aroundâit's about going in and then back out in the same order.â
âbingo.â
he pivots to his laptop and pulls up a short recursive function on the screen. you lean in.
âokay, next partâthis,â he gestures at the lines of indented code, âis the call stack. think of it like trying to put dishes away.â
ââŚdishes?â
he nods, animated now. âyou 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.â
you raise an eyebrow. âsounds like how my roommate loads the dishwasher.â
he grins. âright? but the point is, each open cabinet is a function waiting to finish. they canât finish until the one they just called returns. so when you hit your base case, you finally start closing those cabinets, in reverse order.â
you stare at the screen, tracing the indents with your eyes.
âso,â you start slowly, âthe top function keeps waitingâholding its cabinet door openâuntil the one it just called is done. and that oneâs waiting for the one it called. like a long hallway of open doors.â
âyes!â schlatt nearly bounces in his chair. âand that hallway is your stack. it fills from the bottom upâevery time you go deeper. but if thereâs no base caseâor itâs too far down?â
âthen the hallway gets too crowded.â
you glance up at him. âand the stack⌠overflows?â
he throws both hands up, mock-dramatic. âyou get it!â
you laughâreally laughâand shake your head. âit actually makes sense. which is annoying. because i was ready to just declare defeat and become a barista.â
he nudges his coffee toward you. ânah. baristas donât use call stacks.â
you take a sip, smiling into the lid. âhonestly? if youâd used metaphors in the lab handout, i mightâve passed the last quiz.â
âmetaphors are how i survive,â he says, then lowers his voice in mock-conspiracy. âthey trick your brain into thinking youâre doing storytelling, not math.â
you grin. âyou are such a dork.â
âthank you,â he says, deadpan. âthatâs the highest compliment in this lab.â
you roll your eyesâbut youâre still smiling.
â§â§â§
you hadnât meant to invite him.
it just slipped outâsomewhere between scribbling return values and teasing him for his handwritingâyour mouth said, âhey, iâm grabbing food after this. you want to come?â like it was the most normal thing in the world.
he blinked. just once.
then shrugged and said, âsure,â like he wasnât surprised either.
now youâre sitting across from him at a corner table in the dining hall. your trayâs got a slice of pizza and a sad salad. his has a sandwich, two cookies, and three chocolate milks.
âyou know,â you say, chewing thoughtfully, âfor someone who talks like a grad student, you eat like a middle schooler.â
he takes a sip of one of the chocolate milks. âmiddle schoolers are onto something.â
you snort. then pause. then blurt it outâbecause youâve been thinking about it since the cs homework started, and he feels safe, in a quiet, weird way:
âokay, donât judge me, but iâve been working on this stupid little side project where iâm trying to build a low-power prosthetic hand using recycled printer motors.â
you nod. âyeah, iâve been salvaging parts from the e-waste lab and retrofitting them. itâs dumb and janky and probably not functional, butââ
âthatâs so sick,â he says, with total sincerity. âlikeâyouâre making that from scratch?â
you sit up a little straighter. âwell, not the whole thing. iâm using an arduino as the controller right now, because i suck at microprocessors and writing drivers from zero is hell. but iâve been wiring it to flex sensors, and iâm experimenting with these homebrew 3d-printed phalangesââ
you donât 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 politelyâbut engaged. interested. like he wants to hear it all. like youâre 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 âwrist articulation via recycled watch gearsâ and finally look up.
his eyes are warm.
âyou know,â he says, grinning, âi think you just activated my stem side quest.â
you blink. âwhat?â
âi wanna help,â he says. âi mean, if youâll let me. iâve never coded a servo system, but⌠iâm a fast learner. and i think itâs badass.â
you donât say anything.
not right away.
because your chest feels kind of full. your face feels warm. and for once, your brain doesnât immediately try to shrink you back down.
instead, you nod. just once. âokay.â
he smiles at you over his chocolate milk.
and you think, shit, maybe office hours werenât the highlight of the week after all.
â§â§â§
the next few weeks settle into a rhythm.
it starts with tutoring.
once a week turns into twice. then three times. not because youâre struggling (anymore), but because heâs⌠kind of fun to talk to. at least when heâs 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 youâjust steals one with a smirk and keeps talking.
you start getting better. grades creeping up. error logs shrinking. you donât dread opening your ide anymore. the code starts making senseânot just his, but yours.
one afternoon, you casually mention a project idea youâd been playing withâsomething stupid, just for fun. something to do with hardware integration. you expect him to laugh.
he doesnât.
he spins his laptop around and starts mapping out a database schema like heâs been waiting for you to say it.
thatâs 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 pokĂŠmon 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 tangentsâabout conductive thread, or how weird the i2c protocol isâand instead of zoning out, he asks questions. good ones. thoughtful ones. he doesnât just tolerate your rants; he builds on them.
and okay, maybe you start noticing things.
like how he mumbles to himself when heâs focused. or how his hands are always warm. or how he smiles at youânot in a big, charming way, but in a quiet, earned one. like youâre the only one who gets to see this side of him.
itâs nothing serious. just⌠a shift.
you brush it off.
but your codeâs never looked cleaner.
and your heartâs never beat louder.
â§â§â§
it happens by accident.
youâre 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.
thereâs a group of studentsâthree of them, maybe fourâleaning in. cs majors, you recognize them. theyâre the type who ask three questions per lecture and answer five more that werenât theirs. big voices. bragging energy.
you canât hear everything, but you donât need to. the body languageâs loud enough.
schlattâs sitting off-center. not really in the circle. elbows tucked in, voice low, like heâs trying to contribute. like he wants to. but theyâre talking over him. dismissing. one of them even laughsânot the good kind. the kind youâve felt in your spine before.
and you watch it happen:
the way schlattâs mouth tugs tight at the corner. the way he adjusts his sleeve, like itâll 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 didnât matter.
they keep talking.
he goes quiet.
youâre frozen in place, coffee sweating through your fingers, because it clicks.
heâs like you.
he is you.
all that time you thought he was the confident oneâthe one who belonged. the one who was already part of something. but heâs not. not really. not when it comes to this. not when it comes to them.
heâs just better at hiding it.
better at laughing it off.
but the look in his eyes, right thenâsmall and a little tiredâthatâs 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 itâs 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 donât know what youâre going to say.
but youâre not about to leave him sitting alone in a conversation that doesnât want him.
not when you know what that feels like.
so you walk over.
âhey, there you are,â you say, nudging your knuckles gently against schlattâs shoulder. âi was looking for you.â
he turns, surprisedâthen relieved. âohâhey y/n.â
âsorry,â one of the students says, hesitant. âuh, are we⌠interrupting something?â
ânah,â you say, easy. âjust didnât want to miss my favorite stem guide.â
schlattâs ears go a little pink.
you glance at the tableâsome kind of project group, you think. their laptops are open, notebooks out, but their conversationâs turned awkward now. the vibeâs off. not hostileâjust⌠cliquey.
âyou guys working on something for fundamentals?â you ask, glancing at their notes.
âuh, yeah,â one mutters. âtrying to figure out the recursion stuff.â
you smile. âthen youâre in luck. this guyâs a recursion whisperer.â
schlatt huffs a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
âiâm serious,â you say, looking at him now. âyou explained it to me with likeâŚthose russian dolls. made it make sense in ten minutes.â
âyou remember the russian dolls?â
âobviously,â you grin. âchanged my life.â
he smiles, a little shy, but brighter now.
you turn to the group. âanyway, sorry to interrupt. i just wanted to steal him for a bit. weâre working on something togetherâwell, more like, heâs doing the hard part and iâm nodding along and pretending to contribute.â
they chuckle. the tension eases.
âgood luck, though,â you add, friendly. âyouâve got a good one here.â
you tap the back of his hand.
âready, genius?â
he nods. stands up. follows you without question.
and once youâre a few steps away, you glance over and say, casually but soft:
âfor the record? youâre way too smart to sit through that kind of conversation, with those kinds of people, and not say anything.â
his voice is quiet. âdidnât think they really wanted my adviceâŚor any of my input, for that matter.â
"sucks for them," you bump his arm. âi do.â
he looks at you.
and smiles.
âyouâre different,â he says.
you shrug. ânah. i just donât have the patience for people who donât know a good brain when theyâre sitting next to one.â
he laughs under his breathâbashful, but warm.
âbesides,â you add, nudging him again, âyouâre the only guy on campus whoâs ever made me care about code.â
âflattered,â he says, with a little bow of his head. âhigh praise.â
âit is,â you nod. âdonât let that go to your head, though.â
âtoo late.â
you both laugh.
and as you walk side-by-side down the hallway, something feels⌠lighter.
â§â§â§
the lab is mostly emptyâjust the hum of old fluorescents overhead and the rhythmic click of schlattâs keyboard echoing off the cinderblock walls.
youâre both hunched over the prototype, wires splayed like spaghetti across the table, your laptop screen casting a pale blue glow over your notes. itâs late. not late-late, but late enough that youâve lost track of time in that delicious, focus-hazed kind of way.
âokay,â you murmur, âi think thatâs the last adjustment on the sensor matrix. wanna try running the loop again?â
schlatt doesnât answer right awayâheâs rereading your code, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open like heâs working through it out loud in his head.
you wait.
he presses enter.
the terminal blinks once more.
and thenâ
nothing.
the servo doesnât twitch. the sensor reads null. everything is still.
you groan, letting your head thunk forward onto the table. âare you kidding me?â
âhang on,â schlatt mutters, already scrolling. âitâs not a full crash. thereâs somethingâitâs just not hitting the output loop.â
âi swear,â you grumble, face still mashed into your notes, âif this is another semicolon issue, iâm throwing myself into a ditch.â
ânah,â he says, voice calm, reassuring. âitâs not your code.â
you lift your head just enough to side-eye him. âitâs not yours either, huh?â
he doesnât answer right away.
instead, he reaches for the breadboard, fingers quick and precise as he repositions a single wireâgreen to yellow. itâs such a small shift you almost miss it.
âthat,â he says, âwas plugged into the wrong pin.â
you blink.
he presses enter again.
and this time, the prototype moves.
just a littleâjust 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, heâs quiet.
ââŚdid weâ?â
âyeah,â he breathes. âwe did.â
you let out a half-laugh, half-squeak. âdudeââ
you turn to him without thinking.
and heâs already looking at you.
and before your brain catches up with your body, youâre reaching outâarms 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.
âholy shit,â you whisper, still breathless. âwe did it.â
âwe really fucking did it.â
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 eventuallyâawkwardlyâyou both realize you probably should.
you shift first, just a little, arms loosening. schlatt mirrors you a second later, like heâs waiting for permission.
and thenâ
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 elbowâquick, steadyâbut 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:
âsorryââ
âsorryââ
you look at each other.
heâs flushed to the tips of his ears.
youâre no better.
his handâs 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.
ââŚso,â you say, trying to laugh it off, âweâre, uhâofficially engineers now, right? or, mad scientists? mad engineers? built something that works and almost died doing it.â
âsounds about right,â 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 penâjust a little too quickly.
âwe should, uhâŚâ he gestures vaguely at the wires. âlog this. before we forget what we changed.â
âyeah,â you nod. âdocumentation. good. yep. very sexy.â
he snorts.
and the tension cracks just enough for both of you to breathe again.
â§â§â§
friday lunch.
same table.
youâre there first, as usualâtray to the left, elbow room cleared, and your little âproject napkinâ tucked just out of sight beneath your phone.
itâs not schematics, not exactly. more like an outline of ânaturalâ movements. lean angles. average post-meal proximity. potential trigger phrases that could ease the moment into something more than just eye contact and banter.
itâs stupid. itâs excessive. itâs so you.
but itâs not like youâve kissed him yet.
and itâs not like you havenât thought about it. a lot.
he slides into the seat across from youâslightly out of breath, hoodie slightly askew.
âhey,â he says. âsorry, i ran into a professor who wouldnât stop talking about his catâs gut biome.â
you snort. âsounds riveting.â
âalmost kissed him out of pity.â
you choke on a bite of salad. âwhat?â
ânothing,â he mumbles, sipping chocolate milk. âjustâbrain fried. bad sleep. lots of⌠thinking.â
you nod. you get that.
you were up half the night replaying yesterdayâs hug on a loop. you hadnât meant to squeeze him that tight. hadnât meant to say âgood job, geniusâ like that. hadnât meant for your fingers to linger on his hoodie hem when you stepped back.
but he hadnât pulled away.
so.
so.
you both eat in silence for a minute. your foot brushes his under the table. once. twice.
neither of you moves.
finally, you say it. quiet. almost like a confession.
âi, uh⌠may have tried to engineer a perfect kiss scenario today.â
he freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth.
â...engineer?â
you nod, cheeks warm. âlike⌠ran a few simulations in my head. built a model. set parameters. i wasâŚprobably gonna initiate if you laughed three or more times by the end of lunch.â
his jaw drops. âare you serious?â
âextremely.â
he blinks. âbecause i wrote a whole conditional loop for this.â
ââŚwhat?â
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. âweâre so stupid.â
âno,â he says, laughing too. âweâre scientists.â
âwhy canât we just communicate like normal people?â
âwho needs normal?â
heâs still smiling.
you are too.
and this time?
thereâs 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. itâs clumsy at firstâuncoordinated, like every group project youâve 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 wasnât 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 youâve done it a hundred times.
no flowchart couldâve planned this.
itâs instinct. itâs connection. it's human.
itâs easy.
you pull back first. slow. breath caught somewhere behind your grin.
but before you can say anythingâ
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 kindlingâfamiliar, but heady. deliberate. like heâs trying to commit it to memory. like heâs making up for every time he couldâve kissed you and didnât.
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 againâbarelyâyou stay close, noses brushing, breath mingling.
âyouâre gonna break my brain,â he whispers.
you grin. âthen i guess i'll be the one to tutor you.â
i love fics with the cocky Jschlattâ˘ď¸ persona but fics that focus on Actual schlatt (i.e. huge softie and an even bigger nerd) will always be superior in my heart
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iâve decided the vghs watchparty streams r literally my favorite schlatt streams in the world ⌠heâs such a nerd & heâs cheesing so hard the whole way through like hfhdhshsh
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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âWhen the lambs is lost in the mountain, he said. They is cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf.â - Cormac McCarthy, âBlood Meridian, or, the Evening Redness in the Westâ (1985)
âWhen the Fox hears the Rabbit scream he comes a-runnin', but not to help.â - Thomas Harris, âThe Silence of the Lambsâ (1988)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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