#how to annotate for university

[sandramiksaauthor]

How to Annotate Texts and Books for University (12 Ways)

[puppydog-princess]

oooooooo i fucked up i should have gone to bed but i just got sucked up reading my book

[lady-gravity-129]

Alright, I'm home from work. Time to watch Wemmbu.

My notes/reactions will finally reach 100 pages with this vid trust me

[victory-cookies]

a few chapters into the great gatsby and it pains me to admit that it’s good and I’m enjoying it

[iris-qt]

Are we getting more of theo whom has a staring problem

The Boy Who Folded First

-> Part Ⅰ - The Boy Who Stares

You’re halfway through outlining your Arithmancy essay, peacefully nestled into your usual spot in the library (the cozy alcove by the window that smells faintly of dust and lavender polish) when you hear the faintest sound of someone… hesitating.

It’s the sound of feet shuffling. A bag being adjusted. A breath being held.

You glance up, expecting Madam Pince or maybe a first-year in crisis.

Instead, you get Theodore Nott, frozen like a deer caught mid-scheme, holding a stack of books and trying very hard not to look like he’s here for you.

He is.

You blink. He nods. It’s weirdly formal, like you’re about to conduct business negotiations.

Then, very carefully, he slides into the chair across from you. He places his books on the table with reverent precision. Doesn’t say a word.

You go back to your essay. Or try to.

It’s been twenty seconds. He has not opened a single book. He has, however, started watching you with the expression of someone seeing a rainbow for the first time.

You glance up.

He quickly looks away. Opens the wrong end of a book. Realizes it. Flips it. Doesn’t read it.

You pretend to focus, but your quill slips. “Theo.”

His eyes flick up, startled. “Yes?”

“You’re not even pretending to study.”

He freezes. Then, slowly he flips a page in the upside-down book and says, “I am.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Your book is in Latin.”

“It’s a universal language,” he replies, far too quickly.

You try not to smile. “Are you here to read or stare?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he rests his chin on his hand, looks at you, and says, very softly, but with complete sincerity

“Both.”

Cue the butterflies. Stupid, ridiculous, flapping butterflies.

Your face warms before you can stop it. “That’s not very productive.”

He leans in slightly, his voice just a whisper above the quiet: “It is for me.”

Silence. Except for your heartbeat, which is now doing some kind of interpretive dance in your ribcage.

You look away, biting the inside of your cheek. “You’re very weird, Theodore Nott.”

He gives you the softest, smallest smile, one that tugs at just one corner of his mouth like it’s shy about being there.

“I know,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “You make me that way.”

You drop your quill.

And for once, he doesn’t panic. He just picks it up, sets it gently in front of you, and goes back to flipping pages in his very, very upside-down Latin book.

And you, utterly doomed, go back to pretending you’re not falling for the boy who stares.

…

You don’t expect to find anything strange in your Arithmancy notes the next day.

You really don’t.

You sit down in the library like always, armed with a steaming cup of tea and the vague hope that numbers will one day make sense.

You flip open your notebook.

And there it is.

A folded piece of parchment tucked right between your notes on logarithmic spell sequencing and wand length correlations. Neat. Crisp. Very much not yours.

You pause. Pick it up. Look around suspiciously, like the paper might explode or insult your handwriting. No one seems to notice.

Your name is written on the front in tight, slanted script. Theodore’s script. Oh dear.

You unfold it carefully.

And you gasp.

Because it’s not a note. It’s a letter. A dramatic, charming, deeply earnest letter, written with the kind of emotional intensity that could only come from someone who once stared at you in class for thirteen entire minutes and forgot how to blink.

To the girl who doesn’t know she’s being watched, I should clarify: not in a terrifying way. Hopefully. Just… in a “you exist like sunlight through old stained glass and it’s very distracting” way. You sit there, every day, with your quiet focus and your ridiculous pens and your little crease between your eyebrows when you're thinking too hard. I’ve watched the way you annotate like you're solving a mystery. I’ve watched the way you smile to yourself when you get something right. I’ve watched the way you make silence feel like a conversation. And I’m utterly, irrevocably— (Ridiculously, foolishly, sincerely) —smitten. You make it very hard to concentrate. You make it very easy to feel seventeen and doomed and soft all at once. I’ve rewritten this five times. Probably because I’m terrified. You’re very smart. I’m mostly composed of sarcasm and dramatic eye contact. But if you’ll have me, even just for a walk by the lake, or a shared study table, or something unspeakably wild like holding hands, I’d very much like that. —Theo (P.S. I know you saw me walk into a door. I’m trying to block that memory out. Please let me have this.)

You stare at the letter for a full minute, brain short-circuiting, heart doing small backflips.

And just as you’re about to burst into tiny flustered sparkles, you hear the soft scrape of a chair.

You look up.

Theodore Nott is standing there.

He looks like he wants to flee the country.

“Hi,” he says, voice unusually hoarse. “So. You found it.”

You hold up the letter with both hands like it’s Exhibit A in a very dramatic trial. “You left me a love confession in my Arithmancy notebook.”

His ears go red. “You weren’t supposed to find it until after exams. I was buying time to work on…bravery.”

You raise an eyebrow, suppressing a giddy smile. “You rewrote it five times.”

“I panicked,” he says solemnly. “And I was out of parchment.”

You try to hold back your smile, but it breaks through anyway, soft, real.

“I’d very much like that walk by the lake,” you say.

Theodore’s eyes go wide. Then soft. Then stunned.

“You would?”

You nod. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

You grin. “You have to stop pretending your upside-down French book is useful.”

He groans. “I knew you noticed.”

And just like that, the boy who stares officially becomes the boy who blushes, babbles, and very gently takes your hand like it might be the most important thing he’s ever held.

Spoiler: it is.

A/N: manifesting this, big thank you to everyone for all the love :)

[annabelle--cane]

"the magnus protocol had a whole ARG beforehand? what?"

yes! it did!

"oh so I need to have participated in this whole big thing to actually understand the podcast?"

not at all! from the official post-mortem put out by RQ, "while the ARG was not something that was necessary to participate in to understand the magnus protocol, it was designed to contain a wealth of background story and context that would enrich any player's listening experience."

"a wealth of background context that would enrich my listening experience 👀👀👀 how can I learn about this?"

SO glad you asked. sadly, many of the materials made for the arg have been taken down since the game ended 😔 (ex., the official OIAR, magnus institute, and bonzoland websites. (edit ii: I found partial wayback machine captures! see below) though @strangehauntsuk is still up!), so we're a bit low on primary sources, but in terms of learning about what happened:

for a starting point, I would really recommend this video by @pinkelotjeart

it's super accessible, it was made in real time as the game progressed and follows the solving and revelation of clues as they happened, it hits all the major points of the mystery and moments of community insanity while eliding some of the nitty gritty puzzle grinding, 10/10 would recommend.

here's the official summary put out by RQ, and I'd recommend reading through this once you've already gotten a basic handle on the flow of the story and the basic connections between major clues and events. it's got some fun behind-the-scenes info and lays out the thought process behind the puzzles in simple terms

here's the full masterdoc of all puzzles and resolutions put together in the statement remains discord server. masterdoc my absolute BELOVED, masterdoc my bethrothed, masterdoc my soul mate. I'd recommend this as a second port of call after the above video as it either contains all details about the puzzles or links to other expanded docs that do.

here's the narrative summary doc that lays out all the plot and lore discovered in three pages of plain prose. if you just want to get to the good bits as fast as you can and get blasted directly in the face by contextless lore bombs, this is the doc for you. if you don't want to start with the video, I'd say this is another good entry point.

once you've got the lay of the land, some of the game materials that I found particularly interesting include:

the in-universe east germany expat usenet forum, with all content translated into english. most of it is irrelevant space filler with occasional extremely sus lore, but I still found it fun to read through. love to soak in some fictional forum drama.

chdb.xlsx, the spreadsheet of the names of all the children the protocol 'verse magnus institute was studying/experimenting on. EDIT: here is a version of the sheet without any annotations and with all of the names in their original order, kudos to @theboombutton for catching that the commonly shared copy had the order swapped around.

klaus.xls, a (very corrupted) spreadsheet with what looks like the classifications of a bunch of old OIAR cases.

EDIT: have a few more saved materials from the game that I forgot to include.

an in-universe audio ad to apply to the OIAR that ran before archives episodes and kicked off the whole game.

an in-universe video ad to apply to the OIAR, this one is an official upload that's still up from the game itself. you can subscribe to the OIAR's official youtube channel today, if you so chose.

the robo-voicemail greeting from the OIAR's phone line.

EDIT II:

here is a wayback machine capture of the OIAR's official website.

here is a wayback machine capture of the bonzoland website.

(pretty sure both of the above captures just archived the home pages, though I haven't tried clicking all of the links. I'd say they're still worth looking at, the home pages give a good window into the vibes.)

once you start poking around in these documents, you'll find a bunch of links to others with further information, the materials I've included here just contain what I feel to be the most relevant details to getting a broad feel for the whole game. once again, huge shout out to the statement remains server, I was barely in there as the ARG was in progress and only ducked my head in every so often to find links like these. true mvps of the fandom.

[ternwithatmblr]

gonna be real on main for a sec

I fucking HATE AI. Viscerally.

Seriously it used to not be that bad but the last year or two? Infuriating. I GET ACCUSED OF BEING AI ALL THE TIME.

My papers for university get flagged as AI generated and automatically graded as a zero. My online posts on other websites get comments saying stuff like “this is ai generated” or “you forgot an em dash”. Like IM SORRY I CAN WRITE AT MY AGE LEVEL WHEN I CHOOSE TO. SORRY I KNOW HOW TO USE AN EM DASH. MY BAD. LEMME JUST HAVE EVERY SENTENCE BE A RUN ON. LEMME NOT CAPITALIZE ANYTHING.

I had to go to my criminal law professor and show him my printed, highlighted, annotated references for my paper. I had to turn track changes on in Word just to prove I wrote my own papers. Online I get accused of being AI for no other reason than commenting on a post with proper grammar and spelling. I WILL THROW MYSELF OFF A CLIFF ISTG.

My Instagram account that I regularly post and comment on has been flagged as a bot and temp banned. TWICE.

WHY DON’T I PASS THE TURING TEST???!!!!

[spicynova]

nerdy!soobin would definitely put you in this predicament :)

pairing: college nerd!soobin x college reader

cws: 1.7k words, mostly fluff, study sessions with soobin!, slightly suggestive towards the middle & the end lol, soobin calls reader pet names ( lovey, love, baby, pretty girl ), he’s kinda strict w/ reader ( only cause he wants you to do well ).

a/n: heavily inspired by soobin’s 2024 dazed korea photoshoot (specifically the photo above) :)

… ꨄ

you were just munching on some of the chocolate covered pretzels you found in the junk food stash of the kitchen cabinet when you stopped altogether in your tracks once you saw your boyfriend.

you didn’t even realize when he got home since you were busy going through some study material and annotating notes for finals week, heavily engrossed on nothing but the thought of passing these last exams with flying colors.

maybe that’s the reason why you weren’t aware of his presence or the fact that he didn’t make it known. you know he could do this because he’s done it before, not wanting to interrupt your intense focus on studying.

because he knows the minute you know of his presence, you would want a 30 minute break that ends up being however long your night was until you both fall asleep into the next day.

you took a quick snack break but you didn’t think you would see him at all. has time really passed that quick?

upon seeing you as well, his eyes peel away from the tv screen to your face and immediately his lips widen into a soft smile.

“hey, pretty girl.” he mumbles loud enough to reach you from across the living room. “didn’t wanna interrupt your scholar activities.”

and after scanning his entire frame in a doubt take, you can say for once that you’re truly happy he decided to do that.

he would’ve definitely distracted you with this look he got going on and you might even combust because of the nonchalant vibe of his current position.

he looks good. great even.

the kind of good that your brain kinda of short circuits everytime you realize his existence.

there he laid in all his glory;

sprawled over your couch with a huge, dark blue university hoodie that looks great enough to steal and a white tee bunched up underneath, arms crossed over his stomach and hood over his fluffy black locks, comfortably tucked right underneath his jawline. he wore his usual straight khaki cargo pants, legs spread wide apart with one foot hanging off the edge of the couch.

what you couldn’t rip your eyes away from was his exposed abdomen, slightly revealed underneath the shirt and hoodie. it must’ve rode upwards from any movement before, but now you’re just ogling at how his features were accentuated perfectly by just something this natural yet particular.

something about your silence and straight stare made him move a bit and now you’re realizing the small grin mixing in with his smile, snapping yourself out from your thoughts by rapidly blinking your rounded eyes— as if that was going to do anything.

“hi, baby,” you spoke softly and slightly muffled with the pretzel in your mouth, trying so hard to keep your voice neutral as you pad closer towards him on the couch. his arms stood crossed over his chest as his eyes racked over your entire frame once you got closer, uncrossing only when you reached a distance enough for him to wrap a hand around your midriff.

his palm is searing hot against your bare skin- probably from being tucked into his body heat for long or probably because your overheating self in general.

“i’m almost done,” you murmur, feeling him rub the side of your waist in a gentle manner, something he does to soothe or comfort as if it was his first instinct. it’s your favorite combo; the gentle touches and his round eyes peering up at you through his messy bangs. “just taking a snack break..”

“yeah?” his low voice was just as soft as he looked, just as comforting yet heavy as his gaze. there’s something there in his dark irises, something twinkling as his long fingers curl around the dip of your waist. “and how’s that going for you, hm?”

he adjusts his head higher on the crook of the back cushion and arm rest to face you directly, waiting for his answer with a soft smile.

he must know what he’s doing to you.

the natural lighting that pours into your house and surrounds your boyfriend in this beautiful glow was definitely sent by the glowing gods exactly for him; shaping his chiseled jawline and facial features perfectly by shadowing his harsh lines and highlighting his soft plumped edges.

“uhmm…” you quickly seat yourself, which happened to be the space between his waist and the edge of the cushion, legs curling and tucking your knees into his body as he rests his arm over your pressed thighs underneath his armpit. “it’s going okay. i just have to study the muscles chapter for anatomy and then i should be done for today..”

you nod as you bite into another piece of the pretzel — to keep yourself from not losing it completely as you meet his gaze. the way he actually listens, paying full attention and even nodding softly after each sentence..

“oh? sounds like you’ve gotten far,” he hums. “i’m very proud of you, lovey.” his hand runs down the side of your upper thigh out of comfort and affection, your other hand falling on top of his.

he always has to be touching you somehow. to show his love language in some way.

“mhmm, thank you, soobie.” you murmur with a pause, before you offer him a pretzel too. he nods and opens his pouty lips for you to feed it to him, letting his tongue engulf the treat before he closed his mouth.

“mmnn, they’re good..” he spoke in between chews, shifting to rest his other arm behind his head. the movement makes his shirt and hoodie tug up higher and you might just be going more insane.

He kept his eyes on you the entire time, observing your movements and mannerisms that began to slacken. He assessed how you snuggled closer to the couch to prevent yourself from falling off.

or maybe cause he knows you’re starting to fall prey to your procrastination and wanting more of his warmth like always. this is how it always goes.

at least that’s what he thinks; he doesn’t know that you’re busy shifting and squirming closer because of your desire to quell the familiar warmth that rises from deep within your body upon seeing him.

this natural, this casual, all for you and waiting for you.

you stay in silence, letting your eyes trail over his outfit, admiring his beauty.

“baby,” his tone suggests that he knows what you’re doing, set as a gentle warning as his hand reaches over the slightest to pat your rounded butt. “cmon, go do your last thirty minutes and then we can cuddle. promise.”

“but-“ you already begin to whine in defense and in attempt on having him give in. nerdy soobin never lets you miss any studying because he knows how important it is.

“go. it’s not like i’m going anywhere,” he drawls out in such a lazy tone, folded arm behind his head shifting as he gets more comfortable on the couch. “i’ll be right here when you come back.”

something in you wants to just tell him how you truly feel, why you’ve been ogling him for so long but another thing lets you know that he knows why as well. the tiny grin smile on his lips, the narrowed look on his face, the slightly raised eyebrows — it all gives off that drowsy look he’s portraying, but with glint of mischief.

“soobie,” a soft whine falls from your pout, hand reaching up to tug on his hoodie strings and fingers twirling the material. “i’m tired..” you tried, you really did.

he knew you were tired; you must’ve started since early because of how you look. you didn’t even try slipping off your bedtime clothes before you got to work, his smile widening as he took the beauty in front of him.

“i know baby, but another 30 minutes wouldn’t hurt after studying all evening.” he supplies, still patting your butt lightly. “c’mon, think of me as your good reward for being a great scholar, yeah?”

“but what if i want my good reward now?” it might be a bit cheesy and even soobin knows it, his bunny nose scrunching in slight digust. once you push and shove him, his grimace turns into a bright smile as he giggles, holding your hands away from hitting him. “soobin…”

“noooo,” he drawls out in a rasp, his fluffy hair falling over his eyes as he shakes you from his hold on your hands. “come back after your thirty, you thirsty animal.”

okay, so he did know.

“but i only want cuddles-“

“mhm, yeah. you don’t think i can tell the differences of what faces means what already?” he supplies, twisting his neck to eye you once again. he’s so sassy.

there’s no point in denying it either.

“okay, but you expected me to act this way so i don’t wanna hear it..” you huff, rolling your eyes as your lower lip curls further down once he pulled you closer to lean over his stomach. “you knew what you were doing putting this on.”

“what, my regular clothes?” he scoffs back in an incredulous tone, hands letting go of yours to wrap around your body and pull you closer. “you shouldn’t be talking?”

now it’s your turn to squint your eyes at him, highly confused about his comment and he sees this, but doesn’t add on. instead, he pulls away abruptly and pushes you into a standing position despite your loud whines.

“go, i won’t say it again,” he softly reprimands, chuckling at the way you slouch your posture and turning you away from him. “i’ll be waiting here for you, like a good boy..”

he gives your butt one last pat before you’re huffing. he hums, snacking on the last pretzel you gave him and watching you trudge back.

“i might give you more than just cuddles if you study for an hour..” he finally calls out, and you’re immediately running back to your room to do exactly that.

curse him. you can hear him laughing at the sound of you running.

“have fun!!”

————- ꨄ

a/n: there’s a part 2 to this post … lmk if you want me to post it :) tehhehehhehhhhhh

[fligniuz]

sex for homework

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ you ask your cute tutor to help you study for your math final.

word count: 5.5k • part of my study buddies series (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; dumbification if U squint; praise; oral (m! receiving); pre calc lol

notes : crossposting my shit to tumblr and starting with arguably one of my greatest uses of free will in history. title frommm:

You have a bit of a dilemma.

Well, it would be more accurate to say that you had a dilemma, have had one for quite a while now—your current grievances are merely extensions of a constant, one raging, blood-thirsty, borderline psychopathic problem of a class. MTH121, Concepts & Applications, is the only remaining mathematics credit required for your degree, and, coincidentally, absolutely no one told you that that’s really just a fancy name for pre-calculus. Because the universe hates you.

Your final is tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. If that wasn’t bad enough, your brain has utterly fucked you; months spent poring over formulas and right triangles amounts to nothing in the moment, every relevant fragment of knowledge completely foreign to your burnt out, sleep deprived, caffeine ridden psyche. So here you sit, “studying”, armed with just your textbook and Khan Academy tutorials.

Is it too late to switch majors? Yes, you decide, massaging your temples as you take another glance at your notes. A mass of numbers, variables, and scribbled matrices clogs the pages, complete with your near ineligible annotations, details added in the heat of a lecture. You never knew there could be so many different types of numbers. Solve for x. 5 + 2x to the 2nd power = 8x. Factor x3 - 3x to the 2nd power - 4x + 12. Find the vertex of the function f(x) = x to the 2nd power + 4x + 3. Determine the value of x if the sum of the following sequence converges to 5. How any of this is relevant to your future non-mathematics degree is beyond you.

What the hell is a vertex again? And what does it matter? You’d rather be sleeping, or drunk. Whatever.

You have one saving grace. Since your freshman year you’ve been employing a little cheat-sheet, your one-way ticket to having math explained to you in a language understood by plebeians like yourself: one Luigi Mangione, a friend of a friend of a friend, possibly the smartest guy you know (and you’re far from the only person to voice that opinion). Your self-appointed tutor—and unfortunately for you, probably the most appetizing of any of the frat guys you’ve met in college, to put it chastely. The actual knowledge is just a bonus, really, because unlike other tutors you’ve worked with Luigi seems to actually care; he wants you to walk away from him with a solid understanding of the material, rather than a temporary knowledge that gets your homework done but is absent from your memory by the time of your exams. And it’s hard to write off the fact that he’s easy on the eyes.

…Pretty damn hard, actually. Because—in all honesty—you’re really into Luigi. Another thing that’s hard to do is get your math homework done when you’re busy fucking yourself with your fingers, like you tend to do after your time with him, thinking about his cock, his hands, the way he would fill you, pin you down underneath him, smirk at you and tell you dirty things like that’s my girl, that’s my good fucking girl, that’s it, give it to me, show me how pretty you look when you come all over me like this…

Great. At this pace, you’ll never get anything done.

Your phone buzzes.

About an hour ago, you sent him a photo of your current predicament: your laptop and notebook open, and you sitting criss-crossed in front of it, an exaggerated pout on your lips. A few moments later, you sent another, this time of your middle finger pointed directly at your professor’s official portrait. Now, he responds:

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : Smh

Who studies the night before their final?? Dummy

You smile, replying:

i do :(

help pls :((

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : You poor thing

And then:

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : Come over. In like 15

We’ll work it out together

Score. He adds:

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : And I better not hear any complaining when I make you actually do the math

Your crush feels elementary, like you’ve got the hots for the nerdy jock on the playground that’s miles out of your league and that every girl on planet Earth is fighting tooth and nail for. You respond:

no promises :P

You pray to your lucky stars that you can study as nonchalantly as humanly possible.

You told him you wouldn’t complain, and you’ve tried, you really have. But dividing radicals is fucking stupid and useless and the more you look at your paper the more these numbers and symbols really start to look all the same to you, just scribbles, meaningless scribbles of made-up concepts that have nothing to do with your career prospects whatsoever. Who gives a flying fuck about solving equations with these weird ass numbers that normal people don’t even use?

You must be thinking out loud, because Luigi laughs next to you on the couch. He is laughing at your frustration. What an emotionally supportive tutor. You groan and thread your fingers through your hair, massaging your temples.

Still smiling just slightly, he starts to gather up your things. “Alright, look, how about we take a break?” He glances over at you, still holding your head in your hands. “Yeah, let’s take a break for a minute.”

He gets up from the couch, disappears into the kitchen for just a moment. Comes back with a glass of orange juice. For you. You try not to think about how pathetic it is that the most romantic gesture a man has done for you in the past three years is bring you juice. Instead you watch him, sipping slowly—no pulp, he knows you so well—and peeking through your eyelashes as he scuttles around his dorm, just the two of you alone together, while he throws some laundry into a basket and absentmindedly closes doors of unoccupied rooms. You have never noticed how defined his calves are before, nor how his curls bounce just slightly when he walks fast or how his shorts sag on his hips just right, just enough for you to get a peek of his V-line and the waistband of his boxers when he raises his arms to stretch—

Nonchalant. Demure. Mindful. You are failing so hard at the one thing you’ve forbidden yourself from doing: staring at him until your eyes are practically burning holes in his clothes and he’s melting into the floor. Not entirely your fault. He should’ve known to dress modestly around you. Around anybody, for that matter.

Luigi comes to sit by you now. As you tuck your hair behind your ears you can feel his arm move to rest along the back of the couch, almost around you, but not quite.

“Hi,” you say, propping your head up on your arm.

He smiles at you. You can’t even look him in the eye. “Did you think more about your radicals?”

“Don’t remind me,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “No. I didn’t.”

“Well, what were you thinking about?”

You swallow the conspiratorial intuition that he has to be fucking with you. Maybe he sees it on your face. Can smell it on you. Something.

“I was trying to think of some things I’d rather be doing,” you offer. “Instead of math.”

Your heart feels three beats faster all of a sudden, and when did he get so close to you? Your thighs are touching, his knee brushing against yours. “And what did you come up with?” he asks.

Oh, fuck. He’s definitely fucking with you. Right? He has that goddamn smirk on his face, that one that makes your insides twist with a feeling reserved only for boys who look at you just like this, like you’re busted, like he knows exactly what you’ve been thinking about every second you’ve spent sitting next to him doing algebra. You want to kiss it right off of him.

“Nothing,” you lie, sitting up straight and trying to pretend like you really are interested in your studies. “Here, will you show me how to do it again?”

He calls your name. He doesn’t even have to ask for you to look at him; the tone of his voice and the tilt of his head makes his intentions entirely clear. When your eyes meet his he inches closer, and all you can manage to do is stare at his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, stern and warm enough to boil.

If he truly knew what he was asking for he wouldn’t be asking at all, you think. Not unless he was prepared for whatever your fervent need has in store for him. Embarrassment feels bright red and prickly on your skin. “I shouldn’t say.”

”But I think you should,” he whispers.

Oh. Oh. All bets are off, now. This has officially progressed from studying to “studying”.

Luigi lets you lead, his hand settling on the small of your back as you come a little closer to kiss him, properly. You hear him giggle before your lips meet; the curve of his smile against you is unmistakable, casting sparks through your body and down your thighs. He tastes like spearmint. You learn quickly that he is a fantastic kisser, and his tongue finds yours with curious excitement when your breathing starts to pick up. Without question, he claims the expanse of you, drinking in your essence, licking, biting. Those irresistible curls demand attention, and so you thread your fingers through his hair, your hand sweeping from behind his ear to the nape of his neck. Luigi shivers under your touch, exhaling softly against you.

When the fingers of his left hand raise to grasp your leg, you stop kissing him only to swing your body over his lap so that you’re straddling him. Luigi breathes in deep then, like his nervous system collectively seizes at the feeling of you so close. To give him room to breathe you stop short of settling all your weight onto him. Lips meeting once more, his hands greet your hips; his touch is warm, and timid, like you’re made of sand, like you might collapse and dissolve into immeasurable particles between his fingers.

He groans into your mouth. Murmurs your name. “This isn’t very productive,” he quips.

“Intellectually, no,” you agree, nails brushing the back of his neck. He has goosebumps. A ghost of a smile dancing on your lips, you slowly lower yourself down onto his lap; there are two layers of clothes between your bare skin but he is impossibly warm against you. “But what about physically?”

Luigi smiles, and fuck, he is too fucking beautiful. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

And so you kiss him again and again and again, your heart doing backflips inside your chest when his big hands glide lower, and lower, thumb toying with the waistband of your skirt, and lower still, until he’s gripping your ass. You can’t help but nuzzle against the growing stiffness underneath you, poking between your thighs—and you definitely can’t help but love the way he grinds back, hips meeting yours with just as much enthusiasm. Fuck. About an hour ago you were working through polynomials and linear equations, and now the dreamiest guy you’ve ever met is hard for you, holding you in his lap. You might as well thank your professor.

When Luigi sucks at your bottom lip for a few euphoric moments, you make the most pathetic sound into his mouth, and he growls, his hands suddenly coming up to grasp your hips and hold them steady. “Was this your plan all along?” he rasps, his lips moving swiftly to the side of your face, your jaw, the junction between your neck and shoulder.

Sharp teeth graze skin and you whimper. “What do you mean?”

“What, now you’re playing coy?” Luigi finds the pulse point in your throat and bites, softly at first, then harder when your fingers curl into the hair at the back of his head. “You didn’t want to study. You called me because you wanted to get fucked, because you knew I’d want to touch you just like this, didn’t you?”

This boy is out of his mind. First he practically eye-fucks you while schooling you about imaginary numbers, and then he “scolds” you like he’s disappointed in your lack of interest in algebra, like he’s mad that you can’t resist him for being so damn gorgeous. That half-hearted meanness in his tone leaves butterflies in your stomach, in no way helped by the feeling of his tongue sliding over your collarbone.

“No,” you mutter. It’s not completely a lie. You really did need his help with the math, which he is really good at…but you can’t deny that you were really hoping you two would end up like this, with him kissing your neck all over until you’re speckled with purple and pink. You don’t even care about the obvious evidence of him on your skin—you want his entire dorm hall to know just how well-acquainted the two of you are by the time he’s done with you. The thought of everyone knowing you’re his makes you weak.

Luigi is kissing you again, slowly and deeply, one hand coming up to cup your breast through your shirt. His touch is too much and not enough simultaneously, your need overwhelming, and your hips are searching desperately for friction, rolling against him eagerly. So much for nonchalance.

He grasps your chin, firm but not at all painful, and flashes you that pretty smile, tutting, “I don’t believe you.”

Your mind is far too preoccupied with thoughts of his touch in other places to try to formulate a witty rebut. You opt instead to kiss him harder and sneak a hand between your bodies, tracing over his chest, down his carefully crafted abdomen, and then over the front of his shorts, groping his hard cock through polyester. Luigi groans into your mouth. He is big, almost intimidating, and imagining him inside of you has your body feeling hot all over.

As you palm the outline of his length through his trousers, his hands make their way underneath your sweater, the sudden warmth of him jolting through your torso. You look up at him through your lashes and he smirks.

“Do you want to sit on it?” he asks you, entirely stoic despite the weight of his words.

You kiss him, still squeezing his cock. “Can I put it in my mouth first?”

Fuck. You have him wrapped around your finger. How could he possibly say no when you ask so sweetly? Luigi is instantly pulling down his shorts for you, the rustle of fabric making your head spin. He’s left in just his boxers and a sweater that you quickly help him shrug off, too. Once you have him undressed, he takes a moment to survey you, your cheeks flushed, eyes lidded, hair tousled from his hands. You feel a surge of confidence now that you have his full attention and so you pull your top up and over your head, smiling when he reaches behind you to help you with your bra. He has it and your skirt off in just a few seconds, leaving your combined clothes to pile up next to the couch.

You shift so that you’re kneeling on the floor in front of him, wearing only your panties, watching him watching you. He is grinning, his cock standing proud, and you know you must be blushing by the way his teeth flash from under the curve of his lips. You feel gooey and hot in the pit of your stomach. Swallowing your shyness, you reach forward to take him in your hand. He’s already sticky at the tip, precum glistening on his slit, and so you begin to stroke him, starting at the head of his dick and spreading slick down his shaft. His cock is probably the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen, at the very least a runner-up for his face: tan and thick, his girth evenly distributed, and big enough to have you feeling your heartbeat between your legs. There is a prominent vein along the underside of him, ending at his frenulum. He pulses with each movement of your hand.

Once he’s as wet as you like, you come closer to tease him with your tongue, licking up the base, tracing his vein, passing over his slit. Luigi groans—“fuuuuuck, baby,”—and threads his fingers into your hair, tugging hard.

“Don’t be a fucking tease,” he rasps. “You asked for this. Show me what that mouth can do.”

Your lips are halfway wrapped around the head of him and when you moan at his words it vibrates through him, his abs flexing deliciously. You move further down, then, mouth closed around his length, applying light pressure on your way back up. He’s too big to take all of him at once and so your left hand grasps the length you can’t reach, pumping gently. You start a subtle, easy rhythm, evenly paced and obviously satisfying enough to have Luigi panting and swearing above you: your mouth starts at his tip, sucking gently, then gliding lower, until you can feel him in the back of your throat and you’re nearly gagging on him—and then you move upward again, cheeks hollowing around him, finally reaching the head of him once more. Rinse and repeat. It is organized. Formulaic. Your process leaves you practically drooling on his cock, spit collecting at the base where you are stroking him. Fuck. You haven’t pleased a guy like this in quite a while, and under any other circumstances you’d probably feel a bit insecure about your work; but it’s difficult to justify any doubts you might have, what with the noises coming from above you:

“Oh, fuck, yes, baby, yes, just like that, fuck yes,” Luigi moans, fingers knotted tightly in your hair. “Oh my god, your mouth…”

You slip your free hand into your panties, middle and ring finger rubbing your clit.

As your ministrations intensify, his reactions do, too. You can feel his thighs and hips tensing in an effort not to fuck into your throat. But you made a promise to yourself; you want to take the entirety of his length in your mouth before all of this is over, and so you move your left hand down to his balls, kneading him and carefully lowering your face until your nose is pressed into the curly hairs of his groin, his cock as deep as it can reach. And Luigi keens, head thrown back against the couch, one hand in your hair and the other gripping the armrest tight. You can feel him twitching in your throat.

There are a few blissful moments of you sucking him just like this, sinking him deep into your throat and pinching your lips around his tip, and you almost wish the two of you were recording because the sounds he makes are top tier jerk material for at least the next few months. He’d be a natural on camera. You want to commit every second of this to your memory.

When he goes quiet for a moment you open your eyes to look at him. You find him staring down at you, mouth agape. “Are you touching yourself?” he asks.

It’s difficult to answer with his dick in your mouth, so you settle for moaning around him again, eyes fluttering shut.

“Holy fuck,” he grunts, his voice sweeter than sugar.

You could sit here sucking him off for the rest of your life—you could die with his dick in your mouth—but you regrettably begin to feel your jaw aching, knowing full well that keeping this up will have you hurting. Not that you really mind. When you begin to sputter and tear up around him, he grabs both sides of your face and pulls your mouth off of his cock. You are crying, just a little, crocodile tears streaming down your cheeks, your throat raw.

Luigi looks down at you sweetly. “Oh, baby,” he coos, wiping your wet face dry with his thumbs. “That’s my perfect girl. So good to me. Come here.”

He welcomes you back onto his lap with open arms and a smile. He is warm, so warm and soft against you, you could fall asleep just like this. But he is kissing you now, so slowly that you feel dizzy, and so you ground yourself, fingers embracing his curls. His hands move to your hips, grasping the waistband of your panties, teasing you, rubbing the fabric against your heat. When he finally has them off his fingers are instantly examining you, collecting your slick, slipping through your folds.

“Let’s see about a little reward for you, hm?” he whispers, capturing your lips with his.

You kiss him eagerly and arch your back so that your thighs spread wide enough for his fingers to enter you with ease—not that it would be difficult without, considering that you’re so wet you can hear him touching you, even over the sound of your blood rushing in your ears. Two long digits move inside of you, stretching you, massaging that spot that makes your knees buckle and your eyes cross, plus a few more that you never knew existed. His touch feels so good, just how you imagined, and you have to lean forward into the crook of his neck to keep yourself upright, your teeth sinking into a firm shoulder. Luigi makes a gruff sound, almost a chuckle, and his cock jumps at your whiny, choked noises when he adds a third finger into your pussy.

“So needy, aren’t you?” he teases. “Have you been thinking about this, gorgeous? About sucking my cock and taking my fingers like this?”

You nod, because of course you have. In that exact order. Who wouldn’t?

Luigi smiles at you, soft and adoring. You make a curious sound and his fingers depart from you, lingering at your entrance until you grind down into his lap. Your cunt brushes against him, raw, hungry, slathering his cock with your slick.

“I want you,” you whine, grabbing his face and kissing him again. “I want all of you.”

“Yeah, baby?” His hands are guiding your hips, moving you slowly against him. “Tell me about it.”

Well, you would, if your brain weren’t short-circuiting at the moment. His fault. You mumble into his ear, something about infinity, something about the way you hug your pillow at night and all the times you’ve fucked yourself stupid thinking about this very image of you and him together like this. But there are countless words for your endless feelings, words you would preach to him from high places if your body had the agency to; your attraction to him is primal, but neatly arranged, layered, wrapped up with variables galore and multiplying with each moment you spend in his presence. A mess, no doubt about it, but one you can control, a tangle to unravel, an equation to solve. Nothing less. You aren’t sure of how this ends but you know that you need him, bad, more than you knew was possible before.

You crash into him, mouths colliding, everything that you left unsaid spilling into your embrace. Words are hard. Kissing Luigi and grinding your warm, throbbing cunt against him takes much less brainpower.

He is speaking to you when you pull away: “Baby, just a second, wait right here, let me get something.” Gently you are pushed from his lap and he disappears into his room momentarily, leaving you waiting, alone, aching for him, until he rounds the corner again with a familiar foil packet, finding his way back to the couch and sweeping you on top of him once more.

“Hi. Sorry.” And now he is fully yours.

You whine and wiggle against him the second the condom is on.

“Shh,” Luigi whispers, “I got you, ‘s okay, gorgeous. Gonna take good care of you, yeah? Don’t you worry. Gonna give you just what you need, baby.”

The tip of his cock is pressing into you, then, slowly easing himself inside, and fuck, he fits just right, fills you up perfectly, has you seeing stars already. The sound you make when he bottoms out is a hop, skip, and a jump away from pornographic. Luigi purrs underneath you.

“Oh, I know, baby, I know.” His hand slides down to grip your ass, spreading you, and from this angle you can feel just how much he stretches you out. And then, as he begins to roll his hips: “My sweet girl, working so hard, can’t even think for yourself, can you, beautiful? That’s okay, baby. I can do all the thinking for you, you just sit back and let me work it out for you, yeah? Don’t think. Just let me please this pussy.”

It’s like he’s trying to kill you. Every single word he says into your ear shoots straight to your cunt, the mere sound of his voice so near you electrifying. He’s deep, and with your thighs spread wide like this you just have to take advantage of the perfect angle to rub your clit against him. You can’t help but squeal into the crook of his neck each time his hips ram up into you, thighs clapping against your ass; by the way his muscles tense you assume it must take much of his energy, and yet he pounds you like you weigh nothing in his lap, exerting himself like it’s a cakewalk so long as he can watch your face shrivel up with overwhelming delectation. You can tell that he loves it when you tug his hair or bite him, and so you do it every chance you get, just in case your hushed utterances in his ear fail to make your message clear enough:

“Luigi, fuckfuckfuck, oh my god, oh, fuck…”

As he paces himself Luigi wraps his strong arms around you, one caging your waist and the other pulling tight at your hair. Your neck is arched and exposed, leaving him free to smother his love all over you in sharp, uneven hickeys. You needed this, so, so bad, and you tell him exactly that, chanting thank you, thank you, thank you and holding him tight.

“Whatever you want,” he whispers. “You can have whatever you want with me. Anything.” His lips meet yours, fleeting, and then, with the slightest hint of a grin: “You earned this, baby.”

You groan directly into his ear. It’s straight from your dreams, you think, like you’ve been swept from your bed in the midst of the night and dropped right here, in the lap of the sweetest, smartest, most handsome boy you’ve ever so much as looked at, bouncing on his cock while he kisses you like you’ll float away if he lets go. The two of you work together to heighten each other’s inevitable undoing, like a function of sorts; Luigi pushes and you push back, meeting his hips every time, your clit brushing against him just right, and him breaching unknown depths of you, hands roaming, learning you inside and out.

“My sweet girl,” he grabs your face and rests his forehead against yours, driving into you with precision. “This is all yours, baby.”

Sweat starts to gather at his hairline and you can feel him shuddering in your arms. Kissing him, you press down on his toned chest, pinning him against the couch, and Luigi is practically singing for you, little grunts and babys and murmurs of your name traveling through your ears and echoing in your mind. You want this to last forever. His hips slow to a stop when you begin to move on your own; you raise yourself up, resting all your weight on your knees, with him sliding out of your cunt until just the tip is still inside—and then you drop down, letting him sink back into you quickly, slick and smooth, his cock so deep you can nearly feel it in your stomach.

Fuck. You love this. You love the way his hands grip your ass, your thighs, rubbing your back, moaning your name and kissing behind your ear. You love the way he looks at you. The pupils of those dark eyes are blown wide, watching you move, worshipping how your tits bounce, the gyration of your hips, the blush of arousal all over you, your bottom lip wedged between your teeth. The sounds of sex and the shameless way he takes in every feature of your body have you feeling hot and ready to burst. You moan his name, drawn out and raspy.

“Yes,” Luigi groans. “You’re so pretty on top of me.”

Even through the haze of your pleasure you smile at his praise. He is telling you everything, every single thought that passes by in his mind, as if there will be no proof of how good he fucked you once you leave his dorm, as if every word will dissipate into thin air and leave you waiting, unsatisfied, hanging on the edge: “You take it so well, baby, my sweet girl, so perfect, so perfect just for me.”

His big hands are all over you. One cups your breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth, with the other splayed over your hip. You start to feel dizzy, anxious for his attention, a little bit crazy. Close. Luigi must notice the way your eyes screw shut and your pussy squeezes him tight, because his hand moves down your chest, over your stomach, and then to your clit, circling his fingers with purpose. He wishes—almost—that you were beneath him, so that he could replace his hand with his mouth, trace down your body with his lips and bring you to your very edge with his tongue, over and over again, until you’re begging him to stop.

He settles instead for kissing you, hard, slowly, lingering. “You have no fucking idea how bad I’ve been wanting this, baby.”

You nod, moaning, “yes, yes, me too,” your noises pained and rough in your throat.

The way his cock slams into you with each movement of your hips is ruthless, bruising; he’s kissing you so sweetly and you can feel your climax churning in your abdomen, rippling through you. It knocks the air from your lungs. Sex with him hurts so good. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

“Gonna come,” you huff. There are fingernail-sized dents in his skin. “Gonna come for you.”

Luigi nods, whispers, “good girl, such a good girl,” and circles his fingers over your clit as fast as he can manage.

You tense around him at that. You can’t even count how many times you’ve come imagining those very words whispered in your ear by the very man that you’re riding right now.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Yeah? You like that? You like being a good girl for me?”

You nod wildly, and everything feels so real all of a sudden, like you’ve been floating mindlessly in space and you are crashing down into reality. His teeth dig into the sensitive skin of your neck and his hips start to pump again and by the time he’s meeting your thrusts you’ve had enough, thighs shaking, and he starts moaning into your ear so that you know he’s right there with you, and fuck, he’s really trying to kill you—

Your orgasm hits you like a truck. A 5’11, dark haired and brown eyed muscle truck that looks at you like you are the only good thing left in the world.

For a moment there is only your deep panting and his equally spent breaths as the both of you rest, his hand tracing gentle patterns on your back, yours combing through his sweat-soaked curls. The dorm is quiet, calm, almost with an air of innocence, completely unswayed by the heady aftermath of what the two of you just did right there on the couch. You lean back and look into his eyes, brooding and trained entirely on you. And he has that stupid grin on his face, the one that gives both of you away for good, the one that screams we’re not the only ones who know what we’ve been up to.

You want to kiss it right off of his beautiful, beautiful face. But right now you just sigh, lean into his shoulder, and let him hold you tight. Tonight you will walk back to your dorm, all the way on the other side of campus, where your roommates will be waiting for you, likely getting ready for bed. You will walk inside and they will watch you without a clue as to whose hands have been on you, whose name has been on your lips, whose cock has been buried to the hilt inside of you for the past hour. Your legs will be aching—you are sure of it.

Your roommates will ask you, “how’d it go?”, completely unaware of what your wobbly smile really means, how you really spent your time with your cute tutor.

And you will respond, “oh, great,” with a barely masked giggle. “I’m gonna ace my test tomorrow.”

^ dividers by cafekitsune

[venmondiese]

ONE MISSING POINT

-ˋˏ| summary: Failing the class just for one point, and you ask Michael Gavey his help to pass the exam. Tutoring isn't his strenght, neither is yours.

✧ | Pairing: Michael Gavey x reader

✧ | word count: 2.8k

✧ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, public masturbation (m receiving), humilliation, Michael is a virgin and he doesn't last long.

It was practically a tradition that Mr. Bynes posted the results of the class in the (most important) headboard in the whole university, and people practically crowded around the single paper sheet searching for their grades and to see if they were at risk of failing the course entirely. If so, they had to do the mandatory exam which was by no means friendly. 

He isn’t as worried as people around him, trying to make his way in the crowd to see the paper. He had to awkwardly pass through some people crying over it before he could see the paper. 

He approved it all. He expected it, of course, since he always participated and was one of the few who understood something the professor said. Sure, he didn’t have straight 100%, but nothing lower than 80%, which was really good upon seeing some people had more than one 0. 

It was a relief, but again, expected. He shrugs and goes on with his life as he walks away, thinking of going to his dorm and annotating his grades to later on calculate his final average score. 

“Michael! Michael Gavey” a voice calls him, as he sets his feet on the grass. He turns around, seeing you walking closer to him, as quickly as you could. 

“Ehm… yes” he says, awkwardly, looking at you. 

You shared calculus and some other classes, and you were good. Not bright, exceptional or anything, but good. And you were so much better at other things, more social and bold things he doesn’t dare to do. 

“Hi… how did you do?” You ask, slightly out of breath as you try to be polite. 

“Ehm… fine, I guess” he doesn’t get why you talk to him now.

“You passed?” You ask tentatively. “I… I saw your grades, and it was awesome, really impressive…” You hesitate before adding “I am sorry, I know… it’s weird, but… You were like one of the few people who actually passed.”

Michael shrugs. as he nods. “I guess so.”

“And you see…” You say taking his arm to interlock it with hers, as you and your friends did when walking together. It was so womanly, he felt weird. Or maybe everyone did it and he didn’t know…? “I had good grades, I did well in that essay that everyone hated… But I had one test in which I got 40%, because I transferred badly one of the gross numbers, and before you ask, I did calculate it… But since I transferred it wrong, the final value was wrong”

“Ah…” he says, not sure what to say “That sucks”

It didn’t suck. To him, it was like a stupid mistake easily avoidable. 

“Well, I was one point away from pass the course, and I explained this to the professor but… didn’t listen, you know him, he said that one point is missing, so I have to give the exam, and I need like 20%, but still..., and now I desperately come to you to beg you to please help me and tutor me” she says, as she turns to look at him. 

He blinks. He didn’t do tutorings on his free time. He did them for extra money, for credits or whatever reason. 

“Please Mikey!” You say, grabbing his hands. “Please please please, I only needed one more point to pass the class, I know about the subject, and it was a silly mistake. You don't even have to teach me from zero, only... go over the things we studied and that... please!”

He isn’t willing to do this. He doesn’t want to do this, yet he is weak. After all, he is a man. And he isn’t blind, you are pretty. Like out-of-his-league pretty. And you are prettier closer.

“Fine…”

You lean to kiss his cheek with a smile, and you nod. “It’s a date then. Tomorrow in the library? Could it be at four?”

He blinks a few times, trying to process the whole thing. He was supposed to finish the semester quickly, and… now he is caught up trying to teach you so you don’t fail a course, all because his mind betrays him. 

So, he tries to do the whole ordeal as smoothly and quickly as possible. He doesn’t want to do this but whatever. At least you are not dumb on the matter, you know something. He has heard some of the answers you give in the classes, and they weren’t as bad as one would hope. 

He’s sitting at one of the study desks, right beside a large shelf, and the library was with a few other students, concentrated in their own thing. He brought his notes with him, even if it was illegible. He tries not to be impatient, as he checks the clock on his wrist. 

“Sorry for being late, I– I got caught in something and…” You say, and you were breathing a bit heavily. 

“No big deal…” he stutters, as his gaze darts down to your blouse. Logically, since summer was getting closer and closer, you wouldn’t be wearing a sweater, but he didn’t expect… Well, he didn’t know what he expected. 

Why was he being so weak around you?

“Sit, I have my notes to show you…” He says, and so you take a seat by his side as you curiously lean to check his notes. Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, he was very neat in his handwriting, even if they looked like the handwriting of someone in the 1700s.

You are not such a bad learner, and he was rather enjoying teaching you after some time. You actually heard him, as he explained in depth how to have the correct answer for all, as he tries to address everything.  You asked good questions, and pointed at the mistakes he had given you, to see if you could identify them in an exercise. 

As close as you were, Michael could smell how your perfume was nice. It smelled sweet, but not so much that he would like to throw up. Besides, everytime you stared at him, he could feel a bit uneasy, since he got a bit nervous. Your gaze was deep, and he didn’t know what it meant. 

Clearing his throat, he writes a new problem for you to solve. He had done a lot when studying, so he copied one of his. He hopes that focusing on the study will help him to distract himself from the weird feelings around you. 

“Here, try this one” he says, handing the notebook to you. It is complex, but doable. 

He manages to explain really well, as he gets into the theme and all. You do the work, and slide it over for him to check it. 

“You have a girlfriend, Mikey?” You ask softly. 

He looks at you, before turning back to check the answer. “Eh… no” he mutters, trying not to be ashamed. 

You were actually great, you are very tidy when unfolding the exercise and actually took in his advice, he can see it. Yet, you make the same mistake, you took the gross value as the final one. 

He made a circle, and he was ready to explain. 

“He-Oh” he gasps, feeling your hand on his thigh. He was frozen. 

Maybe it fell onto it. Maybe it was by mistake, it was surely by mistake, there was no way it was intentional. And surely it was a mistake how you caressed his inner thigh so… slowly. 

“Oh, did I get it wrong?” You ask, looking at him as if you didn’t have your hand at his thigh.  

He felt his head doing a short circuit, as if trying to understand what this meant. Was he imagining things? He surely must be. 

“Y-Yes, here… here you took the gross value…” he mutters pathetically, he was confused, he didn’t know what was happening. He wasn’t complaining, at all, but what does that mean?

What did it mean that you had your hand on his thigh? Surely, it was something… reasonable. 

“I’ll re-do it” you say, taking the notebook. And you didn’t take your hand away. 

He was frozen. This can't be happening. He's supposed to be helping you with your studies, not... not whatever this is. And yet, his body is betraying him, his skin tingling under your touch, his pants beginning to feel uncomfortably tight. 

He grips on the edge of the table, looking at the ceiling of the library. Suddenly, he is very aware of his surroundings, looking around as if everyone knew that your hand was sliding up as you did the exercise. Women surely can multitask…

“Eh, well, now… we can use the formula… you-you know it” he says, his throat feeling dry as he tries not to whimper. 

“Yeah, yeah. Like the rosary.” You say with a confident nod.

“Yeah… so, what’s the next step?” He prompts you, as your hand is higher and higher, and he is starting to lose his mind. 

“Replace the values, a… with this, and b…” your hand brushes higher and he lets out a little whimper, thinking you were about to stroke his cock… yet it doesn’t happen. It’s a pathetic sound he emits, and he gets red after it. “With this…”

He sees you replace the values, rewriting the formula, ready to be used.

“Right?” You ask, with one of your sweet smiles as if you didn’t know what was happening. 

“Eh, yeah… yeah, that…” he says, trying not to sound that pleased, even if he starts to feel the arousal pool on his stomach.

He starts to feel himself straining against his pants. It was painfully arousing, and he tried to play it cool. He didn’t want for you to notice, as you caressed his inner thigh.

“I… I need a break” he says suddenly, looking at you. 

You look at him a bit pouty even, as he grips on the edge of the seat trying to breathe in and breathe out. “But I am learning” you say to him “I really am”

You were driving him insane. He didn’t even know if he should address the elephant in the room. Maybe he’ll say something about it, and you’ll stop, be disgusted and leave. 

But he tries to keep inside his whimpers, since the library was the worst place ever to do this. Everyone quiet and it’s open for anyone to see. 

“I think… I..” He hesitates, falling to being able to finish a sentence. He moans softly, feeling your hand brush against his notorious erection, and he can’t bear it anymore. “Ah, please…” 

Michael was blushing, embarrassed of it all as he tries not to move his hips to follow the touch of your hand, since it isn’t where he really needs. How could he be so weak? His cock wasn’t even being touched now, but he felt so dizzy already. Maybe it was because, okay, he had never been with anyone else, but it was… embarrassingly little time to be so… needy. 

When he feels your hand on the tent of his pants, he whimpers, the sound too loud and filthy that his left hand goes instantly to his mouth, covering it to mute himself before he does another embarrassing thing that gives them away. 

“Y-You.. You have to stop” Michael murmurs, the words muffled against his palm as he looks at you, glasses sliding through his nose slightly. He was so flustered, he looked cute. 

“Why?” You ask in a pout, not wanting to. 

“I can’t– I need…” He tries to say, to make a coherent thought as your hand moves to follow the shape of his erection. It sends shivers on his spine and he practically melts on the seat as his eyes are rolled back in pleasure. How could it feel so good? “I… I… We can’t…”

He seems so confused with his own thoughts. “We can…” You murmur, looking around as nobody was actually watching them. “If you really want me to stop… I’ll stop”

Michael doesn’t want you to stop. He really didn’t. But he didn’t want to get caught, it would be embarrassing. 

“We are in public” he says, his eyes searching yours. 

“Yes, I know” you say, not stopping the strokes on his cock above his clothes “But look at how much you like it” 

He’s already made a small, wet patch at the front of his pants. Oh, god, he thinks. He looked away, it felt embarrassing, his face feeling hotter as embarrassment creeped into his gut alongside pleasure. 

He liked it, but he was trembling with a mixture of emotions, and he didn’t know what to think. He was so close too…

“Please…” He begs senselessly, he doesn’t even know why he is begging. “I don’t wanna make a mess…”

Your hand touches him with the clothes in between, but the fabric of his light brown pants was thin, and it felt almost delicious. He would hump your hand if you two weren’t in a library. 

“You are making a mess…” You coax him softly, as he tenses his shoulder and falls slightly against yours, as his body was trembling with arousal. 

“I don’t wanna stain my pants” He murmurs embarrassed, in a little voice as he feels his balls tighten up as your hand insists on the head of his cock, stroking it through the fabric.

“It’s hot” you murmur back to him, and your hand is on the wet patch “And when you cum, I’ll feel it here”

He can’t form a proper sentence as he feels you hand caressing his dick, he felt the wetness on the tip of his cock, and even if it was so unlike him, he found himself so aroused. He is on the verge of cumming on his pants, just from the touch of a woman. Damn, you aren’t even touching his cock directly. 

He felt like a teen, needy and so hormonal. He wasn’t like this fromages ago, and he finds himself leaning on you, his forehead against your shoulder as he whimpers softly, his hips searching your touch as he is close. 

The thought of cumming in his pants, making a mess was both humiliating and arousing, as his body tense with each stroke. “I can't… i… I'm going to…” 

His hand goes to cover his own mouth as he reaches his peak, a strangled moan coming from his throat and his hand muffles the whimpers he lets out. He can feel his cock spurting cum into his underwear and trousers. He doesn’t want to call attention, but he cums so hard, his body basically slumps back in his seat as he feels his balls tighten with each rope of cum that his cock leaks. 

You are awfully quiet afterwards, moving your hand away as you clean it and he tries to gain his breath, feeling dizzy already and so pleased. He wants to hide his face in shame, and the other wants to beg you to do it again. 

“I’m sorry” he murmurs.

“Don’t be” you whisper back to him, looking at his wet spot on his crotch. “To me, it was amazing. You definitely made one of my fantasies come true”

He blushes, he feels very self conscious all of the sudden, and he makes sure no one in the library paid attention to them and what they were doing. He moves slightly as if trying to cover up the wet patch on his jeans. 

“You enjoyed it?” You ask him, not pushing him too hard.

“Yeah…” He admits, slightly embarrassed but also very much pleased. 

You look at the forgotten notebooks, and then to him, as he accommodates on the seat and moves his hair slightly as if that would make him go unnoticed by everyone else.

“If it is worth anything, your tutoring did help me tons” you say, taking your notebooks together to save them in your pack. 

He is glad that he could help. Maybe this was your way of repaying? He couldn’t know or decipher it. He takes his things and saves them up in his bag as well. He wanted to go to his dorm and take a shower, and put on pajamas and think about this. 

“I’m not great with words…” He starts, his tone hesitant but trying to overcome it. “But… Thank you. I really… Hm. It was cool”

You smirk, nodding slightly as you appreciate his words. 

“A bit riské” you tease him playfully.

“Yeah…” he chuckles softly, scratching the back of his neck. “I am a mess”

As he adjust the glasses on his nose, you hum, “Well, nobody really cares but you and me”

“I can’t believe we did… that… in here…” He mumbles, dumb founded. “And I was… so… I completely lost it…”

“Do girls usually make you… lose it?” you ask in a whisper. “Or do you last longer, and I happen to have magical hands?”

He blushes to the blunt question, looking anywhere but to your face as he avoids answering. “Well, um…” he doesn’t want to admit his lack of any experiences with girls “Girls don’t…. touch me like that” he says in a whisper. “So I can’t say…”

You didn’t judge, looking at him, and you nodded.

“Well, next time we’ll see”

Next time. He looks at you with eyes slightly wide, as he tries not to stutter his words. “Next time?”

“Obviously” You say smiling to him. “If I pass the exam, we are doing it without the pants” You say smugly “And… more”

He was so lucky you missed one point to pass the course. 

[lampridius]

heya! >.< may i request anaxa/dr ratio tutoring honor student reader? (because while they may be good at academics, theyre VERY forgetful and cant seem to connect the dots sometimes) (like- lets say the reader is well informed on how the economy works but still asks why a government cant just print more money to solve poverty lol) thank you! :3

⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･ 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘬𝘢𝘪: ꒱ 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘭 ✴ ───────── ❝ 𝙩𝙪𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 ❞ －𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘴 ．．• ♡︎

─ .✦ 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀: anaxa, dr. ratio ──── .✦ 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 ──── .✦ 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨:

he’s perched on the armrest of your study chair, eyes skimming your notes upside-down, one hand fiddling with a stylus while his chin rests on his other hand with a smirk like this is a show. because to him - it is.

you’re explaining supply chains and inflation with ease, hands gesturing wildly like you’re presenting to an entire board of economists, and anaxa’s mostly impressed… until you pause mid-sentence and go:

"wait, but if people are starving, couldn’t the government just, like… print more money?"

the silence is immediate.

anaxa looks at you, expression frozen mid-bite, popcorn hovering inches from his mouth. then he blinks - once, twice - and laughs so hard he actually chokes.

“you're serious, aren't you?” he coughs between laughs. “you just gave a flawless breakdown of bond yields and still said that like a talking dromas putting on a show.”

he’s not mocking you - he’s delighted. he finds it genuinely fascinating that someone so brilliant can also be… well, you. he tousles your hair, “you’re like a walking academic paradox. dangerous with a thesis, but i bet you’d lose a debate to a vending machine.”

then, in a much softer voice, he adds, “but alas, don’t worry. you have me. i’ll keep you from accidentally joining a pyramid scheme next time.”

he doesn’t mind repeating things, or helping you connect the dots. in fact, he likes it. it gives him an excuse to hang out with you and feel just a little smarter for once.

you don’t mean to frustrate him. you’re actually one of the few people he’s intellectually impressed by - until you open your mouth and ask something like:

"wait, but if debt’s just a number, can’t a country just erase it?"

dr. ratio sets his pen down very, very slowly. his eyes narrow like you’ve personally offended the concept of logic. he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and stares at you as if trying to determine whether this is some sort of social experiment or an elaborate joke.

“…are you… testing me?” he finally asks. “because i refuse to believe someone who wrote this” -he gestures at your annotated essay with perfect citations and an original thesis- “also believes inflation can be fixed by… monetary fairy dust.”

you stare at him innocently. “i mean… conceptually?”

he exhales. long. pained. somewhere between annoyed and baffled.

and then he sighs again, picks up the pen, and begins to draw a graph. again. patiently. carefully. this is the fifth time he’s explained macroeconomic consequences to you this week. but there’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth - frustrated, but fond.

“you are a brilliant disaster,” he mutters. “and i have no idea how your brain works. but fine. if i must protect the universe from your potential podcast on why we should all have infinite money, so be it.”

he’ll never admit it out loud, but he’s secretly charmed by how much you care - by how hard you try to understand, even when your brain takes little detours into “what if we made coins edible?”

he corrects you. he scolds you. but he never leaves.

and despite the occasional exasperation, he always shows up to the next tutoring session - pen in hand, notes ready, and maybe (just maybe) a little softer each time.

[harkness-pet]

chaos makes the muse - pt. 1

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW, powerbottom!agatha, sub!reader, manipulation, praise kink, toxic relationship

Plot: you are a literature major at university, you write poems and your muse is your slightly unhinged mean roommate Agatha. you fall… in love and into a toxic relationship.

Author’s note: reader and agatha both have issues. and i have a weakness for mean agatha, ok, so take from it what you will.

also, title is a quote by Atticus so credit to him.

MEN AND MINORS DNI!

Agatha has been your roommate for a few weeks now. You first saw her when you moved in, she was sprawled across the window seat in your shared dorm room, cigarette between two fingers, her boots still muddy. 

Agatha Harkness, her blue eyes, darker smudges beneath them, and a smile that makes your toes curl.

She is a history major, but she doesn’t study much. Instead, she reads banned biographies, keeps stacks of yellowed newspapers under her bed, and has an entire wall dedicated to postcards from war zones. When you asked about them once, she said: “There is just something so beautiful about letters people write before their whole world collapses.”

That is Agatha. Mysterious. Cruel. Distant. And you want her like a fool.

You started writing poems about her in the third week. Just scraps in your notebook, hidden beneath annotations for Virginia Woolf. Lines about the way her lips curl when she smirks. The blue of her veins under translucent wrists. The sound she makes when she yawns.

Your mouth, a gun disguised as grace I’d step into the trigger gladly.

You don’t know she’s found them, not at first. She’s never said anything. But things have changed.

One evening she hands you a crumpled ball of her laundry and says, “You’re good at folding. And I’ve seen how you stare at my shirts.” She winks. You laugh, awkward and half-mortified because you have never once looked at her shirts because of wrinkles. But you do it. 

After that, it keeps growing. Small things at first. Her essays. Her bed. Her coffee, black with a sugar cube. She’s started calling you "darling" in a tone soaked in irony, but every time she brushes past you and lets her fingers graze yours and says it, you feel something tighten in your chest.

You tell yourself it is affection. Love, maybe. Literature has taught you to see signs where there are none.

But Agatha knows exactly what she is doing.

She’d leave notes on your pillow.

“The way you made my bed? Almost erotic. Almost.”

Or she'd whisper praise in the middle of the night when you pretend to be asleep, but she knows you’re not: “You’d ruin yourself for me, wouldn’t you?”

You would. You are.

~~~ You skip your lectures to help with her presentations and homework and essays. And sometimes she gives you things. A kiss on the temple. A cigarette she’s already taken a drag from. Once, her ring, slipped onto your finger with the words: “A possession for my possession.”

You’ve stopped writing poetry for class. You’ve only written about her.

The intimacy becomes poisoned. Sweet and sickly. One night, you find her asleep in your bed, arms wrapped around your pillow. You don’t wake her. You stay on the floor and cry softly, unsure if you are lucky or pathetic.

She starts calling you “poet.”

When you ask her if she’s ever read your work, she shrugs and says: “You make me sound like God. I like that.”

You know then.

She’s read everything.

She knows everything.

But she never gives you what you want. Not really. Just enough to keep you hungry.

One day, you snap. You tell her she is cruel.

She looks at you, eyes soft for once, like maybe she’s going to drop the act.

Instead, she smiles and says, “And yet, you’re still writing poems, aren’t you?”

You are. 

~~~

One evening, you come back from a late lecture to find Agatha sitting at your desk, legs crossed, one hand holding a book of your poetry like it is a joke, the other painting her lips red.

Your lipstick.

She doesn’t look up. “You write about my mouth so much, I thought I’d make it worth it.”

You stand frozen, watching her lean in toward the mirror, her movements slow, deliberate. The red bleeds over the edges of her lips slightly. She doesn’t fix it. She looks at you through the mirror instead.

“What would you do,” she murmurs, “if I told you to kiss it off?”

You can’t answer. You can’t breathe.

She gets up and passes you, the scent of her skin brushing over you.

“Your turn to do the dishes, darling.”

You do them. Your hands shake the whole time.

~~~

She wears it without warning. A black dress that clings to her ribs like she is starved and wants everyone to know it. Low back. Slit up the thigh. No bra.

“Where are you going?” you ask, heart clawing up your throat.

“Nowhere. Just wanted to see if you’d beg me to stay.”

She leans against your bedpost, arms crossed, watching you try not to stare. Your hands tremble against the pages of Plath.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Then write about it.”

That night, you leave a poem on her pillow.

Then it changes again. The way you work, or maybe it has always supposed to evolved into this. 

~~~ You are both drunk on cheap vodka, celebrating midterms that you both miraculously passed. Miraculously being a key word since she didn’t study and your mind hasn’t held space for anything other than Agatha for months.

She is lying on her bed, one leg dangling, eyes hazy.

“Come here.”

Her voice is thick and low. Not soft. Commanding.

You crawl onto her bed. She doesn’t move, but her fingers reach up and slide into your hair like she is testing how tightly you’d let her grip.

“Why do you let me do this to you?” she whispers.

“Because I love you,” you say without hesitation because you do. You desperately do. 

Her laughter is soft and kind of cruel. She pulls you down by the neck until your faces are inches apart.

“No, you don’t. You love the idea of drowning.”

And then she kisses you.

Not a sweet kiss. Not tender. It is teeth and tongue and the thrill of being devoured. You clung to her shirt like it is the only thing keeping you from floating away.

When she pulls back, her lips are swollen, her lipstick smudged across both your mouths.

“Now cook some dinner for us,” she says.

You do it with shaking hands and her fingers playing with your hair while she stands behind you at the small kitchen counter.

~~~

One night you come home really late. You stayed out with a friend trying to prove yourself that you can exist without her. That you can breathe without waiting for her attention.

She is waiting for you.

Lights off. Room lit only by the glow of a cigarette. She sits in your chair, arms crossed, one leg bouncing.

“Who was he?”

“He was no one,” you say, immediately. 

“He touched your wrist.”

“You’re not my—”

She is in front of you before you can finish, grabbing your chin, hard. Her nails bite into your skin.

“Don’t ever let anyone touch what belongs to me.”

Your breath catches. Her eyes are wild, dark, almost glassy. There is a moment when you think she might slap you.

Instead, she kisses you again. Harder. Rougher.

And that night she doesn’t leave you hoping for more, she slowly drags you into her bed, tears at your clothing until you’re bare in front of her, inspects your whole body with her hands, with her mouth, and finally, makes you fully hers. 

Later, you are tangled in the sheets, breaths heavy, the air thick with cigarette smoke and sex and sweat. You can feel her shivering underneath you, not from cold, but from the aftermath of your touch. This realisation makes you write ten more poems in your mind. 

Her fingers curl in your hair like she is trying to control it, trying to control you. But there is something different in her eyes tonight and for the first time you wonder if she’s as dependent on you as you are on her. 

“Touch me,” she whispers, voice sharp, raw.

You don’t ask for further clarification. You don’t need to. You begin to learn every angle of her body, the way she responds to certain touches, to certain words.

You trail your fingertips down her neck, over the curve of her collarbone. Agatha’s skin is so pale, so perfect in its stillness, and it feels like something sacred to trace the lines of her body with your hands. Her breath catches every time you touch her.

“What do you love about this?” she asks suddenly, her voice almost a command.

You pause, looking down at her, not sure if you should answer. But you see the flicker of something in her eyes, a plea disguised as arrogance.

“Tell me.”

So you do. 

“I love the curve of your neck. The way it trembles when I touch it.”

Her lips part, a barely audible sigh slipping from them.

“Good pet,” she murmurs.

You continue, your fingertips tracing lower, the heat of her skin making you dizzy with want. 

“I love the way your shoulders move when you’re restless, like you want to hide, but still want to be seen.” You kiss her shoulder. 

She shifts beneath you. “What else?” It doesn’t sound like a command anymore, it sounds like she’s begging. 

You let your hand slide further down, over the swell of her breast. You can feel her heartbeat quickening beneath your touch.

“I love your breasts,” you whisper. “The way your skin feels soft, but your nipples get hard just from a single brush of my fingertips.” 

She moans softly, her breath hitching as your fingers graze over her nipple. You softly pinch it and then roll your palm over it to soothe it. 

You move lower, savoring the intimacy, the heat between you.

“I love your waist,” you murmur. “It’s small, but sensual at the same time.” 

Agatha’s fingers tighten in your hair again, pulling you closer.

“You make me crazy,” she says in a voice so low you can’t even be sure she says it. But the way she closes her eyes when you kiss her stomach and bite at her hips confirms your hearing is correct.

You let your hands continue their exploration, slowly moving to her completely soaked center. 

“What do you love about this part?” she asks and actually whimpers when you softly blow on her exposed folds. 

“I love how you completely control me,” you say and push your fingers inside, your mouth on her, sucking, licking, grazing your teeth against her.

Her chest rises and falls faster now, and she looks at your with eyes so wild that you might come from the look alone. But you focus on her and as she comes into your mouth, you’re sure you’re in heaven.  

~~~

She has stopped asking you to do things. You just do them. 

Her coffee waits on the windowsill every morning, her laundry is folded, her lipstick in the right drawer, her essays typed. You know her references, her handwriting, the way she likes her arguments structured. 

Sometimes she praises you. Just enough.

“You’re a good girl,” she whispers into your ear while you’re sitting at her desk, slouched over a paper she needs you to write. 

“So smart, it’s tragic you’re mine,” she growls between your thighs when she makes you recite a poem you’ve written about her while she fucks you. 

Each compliment is a hook and you cling to them. Replay them. Need them like a fix.

And she knows.

One night she turns to you in bed, traces a line down your rib with her fingernail and says: “Tell me what I am to you.”

“Everything.”

“No. Try again. Use your words, little poet.”

You swallow.

“You’re a religion.”

She smiles, pleased.

“Then pray.”

[cottonlemonade]

Dating You For A Bet [Part 2]

word count: 1756 || avg. reading time: 8 mins.

pairing: University AU!Matsukawa x chubby!Reader

genre: angst

warnings: bullying

[part 1]

The following days were miserable. Between dodging Matsukawa lurking outside your dorm and having to see him in most of your seminars and lectures it was hard to pretend that you didn’t care, much to the delight of the fellow students who apparently had nothing better to do or collectively lost their WiFi and were starved for entertainment. They threw glances between the two of you as if following a tennis match, although you were stubbornly pretending to follow the lesson while Issei just listlessly stared at his closed book.

He had tried to talk to you after lectures, during lunch, or when he ran into you at the convenience store but to no avail. You remained strong, frequently reminding yourself that everything from your first kiss to the first time sleeping together was solely done to win a bet. A bet! To him, you were nothing more than some easily manipulated, naive girl from a country he probably didn’t even know how to spell. The three crumpled notes from that day were still at the bottom of your trash can, unread, and now buried under more paper scraps, gum wrappers, and empty juice boxes. Your roommate hadn’t noticed or questioned why you didn’t leave in the evenings anymore to go on dates. Chances were that she had read about the whole thing online.

You were tired of it all. The initial burst of energy you felt, fueled by nothing but spite, had finally ebbed away and at this point, Christmas was drawing nearer and nearer and you ran on fumes. Having tried to deep dive into homework and assignments had left you fatigued and vulnerable, so it came to no surprise that a month after the break up you couldn’t take it anymore. You had figured that the other students would eventually move on to the next shiny thing but not so. A small group of boys and girls stood in front of the library with coffee cups steaming in their hands. You braced yourself inwardly. You just wanted to quickly return a book and then you’d be on your way again. When you approached them they interrupted their conversation to very obviously look you up and down as if judging your post-break-up fashion choices.

“I just knew there had to be a reason for him dating her.”, one of them said, deliberately loud enough for you to hear.

“Oh my god, I know right? I can’t believe she fell for it. I mean, what would someone like him ever see in someone like her.”, another piped up.

“Honestly kudos to him, I dunno if I could have gotten it up with her in bed.” They laughed.

You stopped on your way up the stairs. Matsukawa stood in front of you just coming out of the building, a tattered, well-annotated book in hand and his bag half-hearted slung over his shoulder.

The group of friends gasped quietly and hushed each other, waiting.

“Y/n…”, Issei said softly, then snapped at the others, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?!”

They laughed again but hurried inside.

“Y/-“

He couldn’t even finish the word. You had already turned around and walked away. And he would have let you get the space you needed if he didn’t see you cry. Readjusting his bag he slowly made his way down the steps and followed you, a couple of meters behind.

Whenever you missed your family he had tried to bring a bit of home to you with a traditional dish he knew you loved - that he usually messed up - or by watching a Disney movie in your native language while snuggling up on his bed under a blanket. But what had helped you most of all when you were upset was always a simple hug. And he never let go first. He made sure that you knew he would hold you as long as you needed. When you first told him you loved him he was wracked with guilt. He had since come to realize how messed up the whole thing was and tried to get out of it. He lied when his friends asked him if he had completed the bet but his roommate had only patted him on the back and accused him of being modest. And he, Issei, had forced a smile and accepted the money feeling like the most disgusting person in the world. The money still sat untouched in his sock drawer. He didn’t want to use it. He felt ashamed of himself but whenever he spent time with you he was weirdly glad that he agreed to the bet. Otherwise, who knows if he would have walked up to you as he had. Privately, to make himself feel better, he thought, of course he would have.

He would have noticed eventually how amazing you were.

He would have eventually seen how much you two had in common, that in all actuality you were his dream girl.

He would have. Eventually. Wouldn’t he?

Probably not, he had to admit. Ever since puberty hit him like a truck he walked around with a newfound level of confidence. This must have been what it was like for Oikawa back then - girls doing a double take and smiling when they saw him, little admiring love notes tucked quickly into his workbook when he wasn’t looking. All the attention slowly rose to his head and he became arrogant, leading to agreeing to a bet he would have punched his friends for in high school.

Hands in his pockets and breath forming little clouds in front of him, Issei’s heart broke all over again when he caught a small sound from you like a sniffle or a sob. As if on reflex his hand slid into the front of his bag to check for tissues, then remembered you probably wouldn’t accept them.

You finally came to a halt at a bench near your dorm. You spun around and stared at him icily through red puffy eyes.

“Stop following me. You know this is creepy, right?”

“I prefer to see it as romantic.”

You scoffed. “It’s only romantic if feelings are reciprocated.”

He swallowed hard. “… I deserved that.” Then he reached into his bag and retrieved a water bottle, walked a little closer, and held it out.

“Here, drink something. I can see you squinting like you do when you’re about to get a massive headache, come on.”

You had a retort ready to launch but your head was starting to pound from the crying so with a scowl you took it and gulped down a few sips.

“None of this makes what you did okay.”, you said, unwavering.

He nodded. “I know. - Can I hold you anyway? Just til you stop crying.”

His question made new tears well in your eyes and he closed the gap between you. Before he hugged you, he hesitated in case you would kick and scream if he did. When you only continued to cry he wrapped his arms around you. At first, it was like hugging a mannequin. Then he felt you shiver and sob harder and he squeezed you tighter.

This, the warmth of him, smell of him, soothing murmurs in your ear, made it all too easy to forget for a moment why he wasn’t yours anymore.

You subconsciously grabbed onto his jacket and he started slowly swaying from side to side. He missed you so damn much. His eyes began to sting.

And on reflex like he always had, he pressed his lips against your temple, then against your cheek, then your lips. You stiffened for a moment, then returned the kiss. With his heart swelling in his chest, he cupped your cheeks to wipe away the tears, but you were already pushing him away.

“No! You can’t just… this is not okay. You hurt me! You … you broke my heart! I feel embarrassed! And pathetic. And betrayed! Don't you understand?!”

His vision blurred and he lowered his head to stare at your shoes again to hide that he started crying as well. He just nodded at first, then took a shallow breath to calm down a little.

“I know.”, he said, his voice thick and raspy. He cleared his throat, “What I did was horrible. And immature. And there is no way I can take it back. But I do love you.”

“Tch.”

“So much. I don’t want to be without you.”

“Would you give me another chance?”, you asked suddenly.

He looked up. “What?”

“If you were in my shoes. If I did to you what you did to me. Could you just get over that? Imagine if someone way out of your league started flirting with you because they thought it was funny. Because they wanted to see if they could make you fall in love. For fun.”

“That’s not… I’m so so sorry, Y/n.”

“Stop saying that!”

“I don’t know what else to do! Please, tell me, I’ll do anything!”

“There is nothing you can do! I told you it’s over!”

“I refuse to believe that! Let me show you how much I love you! I know that some part of you still loves me, too. And I know you’ll forgive me eventually because you’re a much better person than I am.”

“I think you severely underestimate just how petty I can be and how much I love holding grudges.”, you retorted and the smallest smile twitched on his lips.

There was a pause in which his expression turned gentler again and he used the sleeve of his jacket to mop up the tears gathering on his chin. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Actually show me that you’re sorry? - And find better friends.”

“Done.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”, he said firmly, “You’ll see.”

“Hm hm.”, you said doubtfully and held out the bottle to him, “Thanks for the water. I should get going.”

“Book club tonight, right?”, he asked. It was still set as a permanent reminder in his phone’s calendar so that he’d come to pick you up afterward to walk you to your dorm.

“Actually… I have a date.”

You waited for a moment before you dared to look at him again. His face had fallen and he seemed at a loss for words. When you brushed past him you half expected him to grab your hand again, to try to talk you out of it. But nothing. He stood exactly where you left him and so you went inside.

tags because I genuinely appreciate all your comments and reblogs: @samoankpoper21 @garouaddict @gojoscloset @multi-fandom-fanfic @crazyyanderefangirlfan

[part 3]

[renthony]

Obviously you shouldn't write in library books or books that you otherwise don't own, but I never understood the "oh my god, don't write in, highlight, fold, or dog-ear any pages in your books, ever, or you're defacing them" mindset.

One of my favorite things in the world is borrowing paperbacks from my wife's collection and seeing all her little annotations. Notes in the margins of used university textbooks have helped me understand complex passages, and given me a connection to students struggling to understand the same things I did. Highlights in novels from the used bookstore have made me stop and really appreciate a passage I might have otherwise glossed right over. Marginalia and annotations in historical texts are a goldmine of information and humanity.

What people prefer for their personal collection is totally valid, but I hate how writing in books gets treated like inherent vandalism. It's just another one of those ways the physical paper of the book gets held as more sacred than the information and the connections made with the book's contents.

[liliesformingi]

"much love, laufey" - a mini series by @liliesformingi. view series masterlist, and outline here.

3. 'valentine' - yunho x reader “i tell him he's pretty too, can i say that?”

author's note: bring me 900 million jeong yunhos right now.

People raised their eyebrows at you for rooming with a guy. “And you don’t have feelings for him?” they’d ask, over and over.

But Yunho wasn’t just a guy, he was your friend. Supportive, protective, kind. He was a comfortable presence, something familiar.

Yunho was studying sports science and physiology at university, but also wrote lyrics on the side. You knew he loved physiology and understanding the human body, but music was what he truly loved, what he spent ungodly hours working at and obsessing over.  But it’s not stable enough, he’d sigh, stretching his arms before returning to the essay on human development he’d been procrastinating for the past week.

You were studying psychology, but also took art history classes on the side. Yunho knew art was something you desperately wanted to pursue, but it was the same as it was for him. You took the smart route. Not necessarily the easy one, or the one you liked. You did what you needed to, securing your futures.

Both of you were scared of risking something, messing stuff up.

He’d bring you an iced coffee when he knew you’d forgotten to drink one while studying.

You’d make his preworkout for him to take before he went to the gym.

He’d go out and buy things for you when it was that time of month and you couldn’t get out of bed.

You’d blow dry his hair late at night when he was too tired to do it himself, insisting he’d get sick if he went to bed with damp hair.

He’d comfort you after each failed date, after each guy ghosted you or simply told you “You’re not what I want.”

Basically, you two were cosy.

It had been a quiet day. Both of you had upcoming exams, not for another few weeks, but close enough that it felt real, and both of you had fears of not doing enough. So if that meant going through notes for hours and revising on the sofa while he sat at the dining table, tapping his pen along to whatever he was listening to with his headphones while occasionally annotating a diagram, so be it.

Eventually, you were bored, hungry and worn out. 

Yunho had dark circles under his eyes, and you were struggling to retain your gaze on the harsh light of your laptop, but both of you refused to give up. Until you checked your phone and realised it was 3pm, and you were yet to have lunch, let alone breakfast.

“Oh, shit,” you mumbled, standing up and stretching before you made your way into the kitchen. You automatically pulled out two bowls and ripped open a packet of yours and his favourite ramen, setting the water to boil while you chopped vegetables and stirred the soup. 

You set the steaming bowl in front of him along with a pair of chopsticks and a spoon. He looked up gratefully, taking his headphones off and shoving his work aside. “Thank you, angel, I’m sorry, I could’ve made myself something-”

“Don’t worry, Yun, it’s fine,” you sat down opposite him, beginning to eat your food. You slurped noodles and yawned, occasionally exchanging the odd comment about work or school. You asked him about his music projects he was working on, and he started off on a vivid explanation about this amazing website of free music samples he’d found. You watched him happily, resting your chin in your hands.

“Sorry, I’ve been talking for a while,” Yunho chuckled. “How’s stuff with you? Got a psych exam coming up, yeah?”

“Mhmm. I just . . . my head’s in it, but my heart kinda isn’t. And it’s a lot of work. I’m tired all the time,” you yawned and stretched. “And my shoulders hurt like hell from sitting so awkwardly for hours.”

Yunho tilted his head a little. “C’mere.”

You stood up and winced slightly, waddling over towards him. He stood up, gesturing for you to sit in his place. You sat down, rolling your neck. He started pressing his hands into your shoulders, upper arms and neck; each movement releasing the pent up tension and stress from your body.

“Feel a bit better?”

“Mm, feels nice, Yun,” you sighed, leaning your head back and looking up at him.

Yunho didn’t know what came over him in that moment. Hands still resting on your shoulders, he leant down, and kissed your forehead.

You gasped a little, body startling. “Yunho, what the fuck?”

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped, immediately redacting his hands from your shoulders. “I don’t know why the hell I did that. Actually, no, I do know, and that’s the problem.”

“Yun-”

“No, let me talk. Please. I like you. Not even like, maybe love, I don’t know. And it hurts, knowing you probably don’t feel the same way and it hurts seeing you go on those dates and get hurt. It hurts seeing you hurt yourself by overwhelming yourself with schoolwork. So maybe I should just go. Maybe that would help.”

“Yunho, shut up.”

He looked a little hurt at that, raising an eyebrow.

“Let me talk,” you replied, eyes sparkling and cheeks a little pink. “I like you too, maybe love. I don’t know either. You just . . . surprised me. But I want you . . . I want you to do that again. But not on the forehead. On the lips. Do it properly, please.”

Yunho walked back over, leaning down and placing a hand on your cheek.

“That I can do,” he smiled.

taglist: @zelinkcrossing @hyunjiiza @zenlackszen @kur0kki @peskybirdysya @nujeskz @jessxxxfwd @xuchiya @bee-gremlin @radblizzardpizzas-blog @matchahintonagar @diekleinesuesse@xh01bri @lunaryoongie @jaehyunluvbot @k1xiara @cloudy-lilly @sunnysidesins @lveegsoi@arcvillie @flqwrlvr @huachengsbestie01 @subby-men-forever @lezleeferguson-120 @mrsminseochoi@alyssajavenss @0sunshinecryptid0@silveritydreams @moonlitarcade| send an ask, dm or comment to be added :)

[magic-shop-stories]

lazy morning sex bts headcanons please i beg of you 😭

💌 Reply:

hiiii, there 💜 THANK YOU for this request (and for your patience! life’s been a too much lately (well actually just uni assignments and exams) 😭). I hope these headcanons hit the vibe you wanted - if not feel free to reach out again and say the word... ANY FEEDBACK HERE IS GOLD!!! full disclosure: I’m still finding my footing with writing explicit stuff (my anxiety is like pls no explicit, so i tried to focus on the vibes... I mean it's not like I can't write it, but I am a bit afraid to share publicly) – c –💜

BTS x Lazy Morning Intimacy Headcanons 

↳ BTS x f!reader

Pairings: OT7 x fl!Reader (Romantic) Rating: PG-13 (T) Genre: fluff, romance, domestic slice-of-life Warnings: None (mild implied intimacy, affectionate touching, kisses, cuddling, non-explicit)

KIM NAMJOON

= Slow, Thoughtful, and Deeply Connected

MOOD

quiet, rain-soaked mornings

the kind where time feels suspended

gray light filters through linen curtains

world outside hums softly

his energy is unhurried/ reverent

isn’t about urgency

it’s about presence

savors the intimacy like a rare first edition

turning each moment into a page to be annotated

HOW IT STARTS

you stir awake

the weight of his arm draped over your waist

his chest pressed gently against your back

his lips brush the nape of your neck

= warm and lingering

“Good morning, universe.” 

murmurs, voice sleep-rough and soft

hand trails down your arm

fingers intertwining with yours

“Don’t move yet. Just… let me be here.”

PACE

deliberate and unhurried

takes his time mapping your skin with his fingertips

= as if memorizing every freckle/ every curve

his touches are purposeful

thumb grazing your hipbone

palm splayed over your ribcage

his breath steady against your shoulder

believes in process/ the beauty of unfolding

TOUCH

Hands

calloused from writing

gentle in their exploration

traces the dip of your spine like it’s a stanza he’s trying to decipher

Lips

presses kisses to your shoulder blades, your temples, pulse point of your wrist

= each one a quiet affirmation

Forehead

rests his against yours

eyes closed

breathing synced

“This… this is my religion...” 

deep whispers

SOUNDS

rustle of sheets

= when he shifts to cradle your face in his hands

low, content hum

= when you card your fingers through his hair

“Feels like… home...” 

his voice barely audible

soft, fragmented phrases in Korean and English

“You’re so… god, you’re perfect… 어떻게 이렇게 아름다워…”

THINGS HE SAYS

Poetic Praise

“Your skin tastes like stardust. Did you know that?”

Gentle Teasing

“You’re stealing all the blankets. Again. Should’ve written a clause in our contract.”

Raw Honesty

“I don’t know how I got so lucky. To have this… to have you.”

AFTERCARE

brings you a steaming mug of honey-lemon tea

a book of Mary Oliver poems

reads aloud while you curl into his side

his free hand stroking your hair

drapes his oversized hoodie over your shoulders

kissing your forehead

“Wear this. It’s… softer with you in it.”

opens the window to let in the rain-scented air

“Today’s agenda: Nothing. Just… us.”

note: would 100% accidentally knock over a lamp mid-moment, laugh into your neck, and whisper, “Priorities.”

KIM SEOKJIN (JIN)

= Playful, Affectionate, and Full of Laughter

MOOD

golden, sunlit morning

air feels like a warm hug

Jin’s energy is bright and mischievous

blending tenderness with his signature humor

it isn’t just intimacy

it’s a celebration

= a chance to laugh, tease

remind you why he’s Worldwide Handsome (inside and out)

HOW IT STARTS

you wake to the sound of him humming

his fingers softly drumming a rhythm on your hip

pokes your cheek, before you can open your eyes

“Yah, sleeping beauty! Rise and shine... or I’ll start without you.” 

his grin is audible as he nuzzles your ear

breath tickling your skin

“Just kidding. Oppa’s too nice to leave you behind.”

PACE

leisurely but lively

no rush

he’s here to enjoy the moment

= like a chef savoring his favorite dish

alternates between playful teasing and sudden sincerity

keeping you on your toes

one minute he’s blowing raspberries on your shoulder

next he’s cupping your face like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen

TOUCH

Hands

warm and confident

tracing idle patterns on your back

tousling your hair

“Softest human ever. Are you sure you’re not a cloud?”

Lips

plants exaggerated, smacking kisses on your nose, forehead, cheeks

“Stamp of approval. Now you’re officially perfect.”

Cuddles

pulls you into his chest

rocking you slightly like you’re dancing to a song only he hears

“Shh, just let me admire my masterpiece.”

SOUNDS

deep, rumbling laugh when you squirm away

“Where you going? I’m the main event!”

playful whispers

“Admit it... you married me for my looks.”

fake gasps of offense

“You’re blushing? After all this time? Yah, I still got it!”

THINGS HE SAYS

Affectionate Teasing

“You’re lucky I’m so patient. Anyone else would’ve given up on your snoring.”

Unexpected Sweetness

“You’re my favorite place to be. Even better than... ahh nervermind."

AFTERCARE

whips up a gourmet breakfast with way too many heart-shaped garnishes

“Fuel for round two! Hypothetically.” 

winks as he feeds you a strawberry

drapes you in silk robe

insisting it’s “VIP loungewear” 

“You’re rocking my look. Almost as good as me.”

turns on a reality show

narrating the drama in a silly voice until you’re crying-laughing

“See? Oppa’s a whole package.”

MIN YOONGI (SUGA)

= Quiet, Grounded, and Unapologetically Tender

MOOD

hazy, gray morning

world feels muted

room is dim

curtains half-drawn

only the faint hum of the city waking up outside

his energy is calm and deliberate

no rush, no grand gestures

it’s about existing together (in stillness)

time bends

HOW IT STARTS

wakes before you

he often does, but doesn’t move

just watches the rise and fall of your shoulders

his arm slung loosely over your waist

when you finally stir, he tugs you closer

his nose brushing the back of your neck

“Too early...” 

he grumbles

voice gravelly with sleep

“Stay.” 

hand slips under your shirt

palm warm against your stomach

he is anchoring you to him

PACE

slow

almost lazy

intentional

he’s not one for theatrics

movements are measured

= like the steady click of a metronome

kisses the curve of your shoulder, the dip behind your ear

each touch is a quiet promise

he rolls you onto your back

a hand cradling your head

thumb brushing your cheekbone

“Easy...”

murmurs, more to himself than to you

TOUCH

Hands

slightly rough from guitar strings

but his fingertips are still moving gentle

tracing the line of your jaw, your collarbone, the inside of your wrist

= like he’s mapping a song only he knows

Lips

soft

lingering presses rather than urgency

kisses like he’s savoring something rare

the corner of your mouth, the pulse at your throat, the scars you once told him about

Body

prefers closeness without suffocation

his leg hooks over yours

he is pulling you into his warmth

tho leaves room to breathe

“You’re freezing...”

his smile/smirk betrays him

SOUNDS

the creak of the mattress as he shifts

his exhale

= a low hum against your skin

rare, breathy laugh when you tickle his ribs

“Yah. Focus.”

murmurs in a mix of Korean and sleep-slurred English

“좋아… just like that… perfect.”

THINGS HE SAYS

Dry Affection

“You’re hogging the sheets. Again.”

he’s the one who stole them

Blunt Honesty

“This... you... this is the only thing I’d wake up early for.”

Unexpected Softness

“Stay. Please.” 

request, not a demand

AFTERCARE

rolls onto his back

arm still draped over you

staring at the ceiling

“Coffee?” 

already knows the answer

returns with two mugs

black decaf for him

too much cream for you

sits cross-legged on the bed

shoulders brushing

no need to fill the silence

he’ll tug you into his studio

letting you nap on the couch while he works

“Don’t snore...” 

unseriously warns you

click of his mouse slows when your breathing evens out

note: would fall back asleep mid-cuddle. “Five more minutes” turning into two hours

JUNG HOSEOK (J-HOPE)

= Bright, Playful, and Overflowing with Love

MOOD

sunlit and joyful

= like the first day of spring

his energy is contagious

warm, giggly

infused with a tenderness that makes even lazy moments feel vibrant

turns intimacy into a dance

every touch is a step

every laugh a rhythm

HOW IT STARTS

you wake to the sound of him humming under his breath

his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder

you shift?

he grins and pokes your cheek

“Jagiya, you’re finally up! Took you long enough.”

pulls you into a bear hug

nuzzling your neck like an overgrown puppy

“Missed you. Even though you were right here.”

PACE

mix of playful energy and lingering sweetness

he’s all about connection

switching between peppering your face with kisses and slowing down

savoring the way you sigh when he brushes his lips over your collarbone

his hands never stay still

roaming from your waist to your hair

= like he’s trying to memorize you through touch

TOUCH

Hands

warm and always moving

squeezing your hips

threading through your hair

linking your fingers together

“Your hands are so tiny. Cute.”

Lips

leaves a trail of quick, smiling kisses from your jaw to your fingertips

“One for each hour I waited for you to wake up.”

Cuddling Position

pulls you on top of him

your head resting on his chest

“Listen... my heart’s beating just for you.”

SOUNDS

bright, breathy laughter when you tickle his sides

“Yah! Cheater!”

soft, sing-song praises in Korean

“이뻐… 너무 이뻐…” (“Pretty… so pretty…”)

occasional giggle-snort when you tease him

“Stop making me laugh... this is serious...”

THINGS HE SAYS

Playful Banter

“You’re stealing all the blankets again. Again! Should I start calling you ‘Thief’?”

Affectionate

“You’re doing amazing, baby...”

Unexpected Sincerity

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you… but I’ll spend forever trying to.”

EXTRA: SHOWER MOMENT

tugs you into the shower

claiming it’s to “wash off the sleep and sweat” 

anything but lazy

hands you the loofah

eyes sparkling

you rinse his hair?

he leans into your touch

suddenly quiet

“This… this is the good stuff.”

AFTERCARE

wraps you in his fluffiest towel

dances around the kitchen making honey-butter toast.

“Fuel for round two! Or… y’know, nap time.”

plays “cozy DJ”

curates a playlist of acoustic BTS tracks and slow jams

sways with you in the living room

chin on your head

“We’re owning this lazy day, yeah?”

PARK JIMIN

= Softness, Fire, and Endless Devotion

MOOD

golden, sunlit morning where the air feels like honey

slow and sweet

his energy is a blend of soft affection and simmering intensity

like a dance between a lullaby and a crescendo

thrives on connection

making every touch a conversation

every glance is a promise

HOW IT STARTS

you wake to his fingertips tracing idle patterns on your bare shoulder

his breath warm against your ear

“Jagiya...” 

murmurs, voice still husky with sleep

“You’re too pretty to be real.”

lips brush the curve of your jaw, achingly slow

as if he’s savoring the first taste of sunlight

PACE

deliberate push-and-pull

softness that melts into fervent urgency

ebbs back into something achingly gentle

starts with languid kisses

hands cupping your face like you’re something fragile

when you arch into him, he matches your hunger

fingers tangling in your hair

breath hitching

slows again just as quickly 

“Shh, we have all day...” 

whispering against your collarbone

TOUCH

Hands

start as feather-light caresses

thumb grazing your cheek

palm skimming your waist

later grips your hip with possessive gentleness

grounding you

“Right here. Stay with me.”

Lips

alternates between tender pecks and deep, lingering kisses that leave you breathless

bites his own lip to stifle a grin when you shiver

“Like that, jagiya?”

Forehead

presses his to yours during quieter moments

eyes locked on yours

“You’re my favorite sight.” 

voice trembling

SOUNDS

rustle of sheets as he pulls you closer

fabric pooling around his waist

soft, breathy laughs when you tease him

“Yah, who said you could be this cute and this annoying?”

whispers that blur Korean and English

“I’ve got you… 넌 내 것이라서… don’t ever let go.”

THINGS HE SAYS

Sweet Affirmations

“You’re everything. Every damn thing.”

Playful Demands

“Look at me. I want to see you... all of you.”

Raw Vulnerability

“I don’t know how to love you quietly. You make me… burn.”

AFTERCARE

draws a bath strewn with rose petals

insisting on washing your hair himself

“Let me take care of you.” 

fingers massage your scalp until you’re boneless against him

feeds you strawberries dipped in chocolate

licking sweetness off your thumb

“Breakfast of champions”

smirks

wraps you in his favorite silk robe

nuzzling your neck as you both doze

“Stay. The world can wait.”

KIM TAEHYUNG (V)

= Whimsical, Romantic, and Unapologetically Artistic

MOOD

golden, sunlit morning

air smells like fresh coffee/cocoa and distant rain

room feels like a vintage film set

soft velvet throws, polaroids strung on the wall, record spinning Billie Holiday in the corner

his energy is a mix of playful mischief and soul-deep romance

= as if every moment is a scene he’s directing just for you

HOW IT STARTS

you wake to the faint scratch of a charcoal pencil and the warmth of his gaze

he’s already propped on one elbow

sketching you in his leather-bound journal

sunlight gilding the edges of his bedhead

catches you watching

he grins, all boxy and bright

“Don’t move. You’re perfect like this.” 

tho tosses the sketchbook aside

crawling closer

“Actually... do move. Come here.”

PACE

unpredictable and sweetly meandering

one second he’s tracing the shell of your ear with a feather-light touch

next he’s rolling you both into a cocoon of blankets

laughing when you yelp

he’s in no rush

kisses your knuckles, your knees, curve of your ankle

= as if every inch of you deserves a soliloquy

TOUCH

Hands

artist’s hands

ink-stained and tender

skims your collarbone like he’s sketching it

laces his fingers with yours, squeezing gently

Lips

alternates between soft pecks and playful nips

“You taste like yesterday’s wine. My wine.”

Forehead

presses his to yours, eyes crinkling

“You’re my favorite dream.”

SOUNDS

crackle of vinyl in the background

saxophone notes weaving through his whispers

his low, raspy laugh when you tickle his sides

“Yah... this is a serious moment!”

it’s not...

half-sung lyrics in Korean

voice still gravelly with sleep

THINGS HE SAYS

Dramatic Flair

“If I painted you right now, I’d call it ‘Chaos and Honey’. Or maybe ‘The Day Time Forgot’.”

Playful Teasing

“You’re stealing all the good pillows. Again. Should I write a song about it?”

Raw Honesty

“I didn’t know love could feel like… this. Like a song I can’t stop humming.”

AFTERCARE

wraps you in his hoodie

makes hot chocolate with heart-shaped foam

serving them on a vintage tray with strawberries

“Breakfast fit for… us.”

dances with you barefoot

his palm warm on your lower back

“No one’s watching. Just the ghosts of jazz legends. They approve.”

JEON JUNGKOOK (JUNGKOOK)

= Sweetly Enthusiastic, Playful, and Tenderly Protective

MOOD

rainy morning, after a thunderstorm

his energy is a mix of boyish eagerness and soft reverence

= like he’s discovered something precious and wants to cherish it slowly

his touches are warm

his laughter bright

his affection spills over in whispered jagiyas

shy smiles turning into smirks

HOW IT STARTS

you wake to his arm curled possessively around your waist

his nose buried in your hair

you shift?

he mumbles sleepily

“Jagiya… five more minutes.”

his hand slides up to cradle your jaw

thumb brushing your cheekbone

nuzzles your shoulder

lips grazing the edge of your tank top strap

“Missed you, even though you were right here.”

voice still raspy from sleep

PACE

playful push-and-pull between patience and passion

he’s eager but careful

= like he’s savoring a favorite dessert

lets the moment stretch

lingering kisses, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip

then pulling you closer with a quiet growl

“You’re too pretty. Can’t help it.”

TOUCH

Hands

strong but gentle

calloused from the gym

tho tender as they skate over your skin

lets you trace his tattoos

he shivers under your fingertips

“You’re the only one who gets to touch them.”

Lips/Bites

presses open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone

nibbling just enough to make you gasp

“Sorry, jagiya… couldn’t resist.” 

teeth graze your earlobe, playful and warm

Forehead

rests his against yours

eyes dark and sincere

“You’re everything.” 

breathes heavily

SOUNDS

soft, breathy laughter when you tickle his sides

“Yah... play nice.”

whispers

“Jagiya, you feel so good… perfect.”

rustle of sheets as he shifts to hover over you

his tattoos catching the sunlight

THINGS HE SAYS

Sweet Nonsense

“How are you real? Like… how?”

Playful Demands

“Call me oppa again. Please.” [tho I'm 50:50 abt this]

he’ll pout if you tease him

Raw Honesty

“I used to dream about mornings like this. Now I don’t have to.”

AFTERCARE

makes you banana pancakes shirtless

flexing just enough to make you laugh

“What? Gotta maintain the view for my jagiya.”

wraps you in his black hoodie

sleeves drowning your hands

“Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.”

puts on a live later

subtly wearing the same hoodie

ARMY notices

“No, I’m not blushing! It’s… hot in here!”