#Study Table With Chair For Student | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shelovesosa · 8 days ago

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DON’T BE FOOLED BY THE PINK

PAIRING: PopularBF!Satoru X Meangirl!reader

SUMMARY!! Y/N is the undisputed queen of the school — captain of the cheerleading team, untouchable, and fiercely protective of her spot at the top. Then she shows up: the quiet new girl, sister to one of Satoru’s closest friends, and instantly wrapped in the basketball captain’s attention. But this isn’t your typical “new girl steals the spotlight” story.

(Mean girls collection masterlist here!)

East Kinsen University’s courtyard was loud with first-week energy — new students darting between buildings, upperclassmen lounging in clusters like they owned the place. And in a way, you did.

Your legs crossed as you sat on the concrete ledge outside the gym, black sunglasses shielding your eyes from the early fall sun. People walked by and either greeted you or looked away too quickly. Your reputation had that effect.

You were Y/N. Captain of the cheer squad. Satoru Gojo’s girlfriend. Pretty, well-dressed, impossible to ignore. People either wanted to be you or wanted to see you trip.

You didn’t care either way.

You took a slow sip from your iced coffee and glanced at your phone. He was late. Again.

When Satoru finally showed up, he was in his usual post-practice look — basketball shorts slung low on his hips, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, hair damp and messy from the gym. He wore that same loose grin he always had when he saw you.

“You're not slick,” you muttered, eyebrows raised. “Fifteen minutes?”

He leaned down, kissed your cheek. “Technical meeting ran over. Coach wants to murder Kaito for slacking on defense.”

“Again?”

“Every day.”

You smiled despite yourself. Then your gaze flicked past him.

Trailing behind him, slightly hunched, was a girl you didn’t recognize.

Wavy dark hair, headphones in, a stack of books clutched to her chest like a shield. She wore a plain long-sleeve top and jeans, the kind of outfit that made her easy to miss.

But Satoru was walking with her.

He turned and gestured lazily. “Yo, Y/N — this is Yui. She’s Daichi’s little sister. First year. He asked me to show her around since he’s got classes all day.”

You took your sunglasses off slowly.

Daichi was one of Satoru’s closest friends. A solid guy. Chill, never talked much. You knew him mostly through late-night study groups and group hangouts at the courts.

Yui blinked like she hadn’t expected you to even look at her.

You didn’t smile. You nodded.

“Hi,” she said softly, voice nearly drowned out by the noise of a passing skateboard.

Satoru nudged her shoulder with casual ease. “She’s a little shy. But she’s cool.”

You gave her a once-over. The oversized backpack, the nervous posture, the way she avoided your eyes. Not a threat. Yet.

That afternoon, you ended up at the dining hall with Satoru’s usual crew — Daichi, Ren, Kaito, and Satoru. You weren’t always there, but today you felt like being visible.

Yui tagged along, of course. Satoru pulled out a chair next to him. You were about to sit down when she sat there instead.

You watched her blink in slow realization.

“Oh—sorry,” she murmured, half-standing.

“It’s fine,” you said before Satoru could speak, sitting on his other side instead. You glanced across the table at Kaito, who watched the whole thing happen with unreadable eyes. He quickly looked away when you caught him.

Halfway through lunch, someone asked how Yui liked her classes.

“They’re okay,” she said. “I’m still figuring everything out.”

“She’s in one of my psych lectures,” Satoru added, casually. “Professor’s a lunatic. Screamed about pigeons today.”

“She’s passionate,” Yui said with a small laugh.

You stared at her. You weren’t used to other girls laughing with your boyfriend.

By the end of the meal, it was clear: she wasn’t trying. She wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t competing.

And that’s what made it worse. She didn’t have to try. She was already in the room. At the table. In Satoru’s words. Laughing at his jokes. And no one noticed the shift. Except you.

It started with a laugh. That was all. Not yours — hers.

It was in the student union lounge, Thursday afternoon, when you heard it. You were across the room, near the coffee counter with Ren and Daichi, scrolling through your phone while they argued about fantasy league picks. Satoru had said he’d be “five minutes.”

He was ten.

And when you looked up, he was there — across the room, slouched over the vending machine with Yui beside him. She had her hair tied in a low, messy knot and was holding a can of green tea. Something he said made her laugh. A soft one. Quiet. But familiar.

It wasn’t flirtatious. Just… familiar.

You watched as he bumped her shoulder lightly, like he’d known her longer than two days. You saw how she looked up at him — not like she wanted him, but like she trusted him already.

That was worse.

Friday afternoon, you passed the quad on your way to class and spotted Satoru sprawled on the grass with Kaito, Daichi, and Yui.

No one invited you. You weren’t mad. You were just... watching.

Yui sat cross-legged, sketching something in a small spiral notebook. You recognized the style — fine pen lines, heavy shading. She was talented. You could admit that. Quietly.

You didn’t stop to say hi.

Saturday night was when the first crack showed.

You were at Satoru’s place. His roommate was out, the lights low, your jacket on the floor, and your legs draped over his lap. You weren’t fighting. But something was off.

He was scrolling through his messages absently, the glow of his screen lighting up his face.

You leaned in to kiss him. He kissed you back — quick, distracted.

“Who’s texting?” you asked casually.

He didn’t flinch. “Daichi.”

A beat of silence. Then you saw the edge of a photo — something black and white, drawn in ink. You blinked.

“Is that one of Yui’s sketches?”

He looked up at you, surprised. “Yeah. She showed me earlier and I told her to send it. It’s of the court. Cool, right?”

You stared at him.

“She drew the basketball court?”

“She said it helped her focus. It’s kind of sick.”

You smiled tightly. “Yeah. Sick.”

Monday, you sat at your usual table in the campus café — the long one by the window. Satoru had just come back from the gym, towel over his shoulders, hair damp. You were halfway through a protein bar when he slid into the seat across from you.

You expected him to kiss you hello. He didn’t. He was texting.

You leaned forward. “You good?”

“Huh?” He looked up. “Yeah. Just — Yui left her psych notebook in the gym. I told her I’d drop it off.”

Of course he did. You took a sip of your drink and looked away.

The worst part was how quiet it all was. No one was flirting. No one was lying. It wasn’t that kind of story. But you still felt it — this silent invasion of space. Your space. Your people. Your boyfriend.

And every time you said something about it, it sounded ridiculous. Satoru wasn’t doing anything wrong. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t happening.

That night, you got a DM on Instagram.

From Kaito.

She’s not doing it on purpose, you know. But I still don’t like it either.

You stared at the message.

Then you closed the app.

You didn’t realize the group hang was happening until it was already halfway underway.

Daichi sent a lazy text in the guys’ chat about grabbing food after evening classes, and somehow that had turned into a full table reservation at Yuu’s Ramen Bar downtown. You weren't even in the chat — Satoru texted you separately, told you the plans like you were being added to something instead of hosting it.

The first subtle shift.

You met them outside the restaurant. The weather was cooling, breeze tugging at your cropped jacket. You looked good. You always looked good — perfect makeup, clean lines, skirt just high enough to remind everyone you were her. You used to walk in and own the room.

But tonight, the room had already shifted. They were standing around, waiting for the last of the group. Daichi, Kaito, Ren, Satoru… and Yui.

She was wearing a dark sweater and plaid skirt, sleeves too long, hair tied with a ribbon. She looked like she didn’t mean to be there. That’s what made her presence so hard to challenge.

“Hey,” she greeted, voice quiet.

“Hey,” you said flatly, brushing past her to Satoru’s side.

He leaned down, gave you a quick kiss to the temple. “Glad you made it.”

You tried not to glance at Yui, but you felt her eyes on you.

Inside, the table was long. You sat between Satoru and Ren, across from Daichi and Yui.

You didn’t know who made the seating call, but it irritated you.

Yui ended up next to Daichi, but she kept glancing at Satoru across the table. You saw it. You weren’t going to mention it. Not yet.

The boys were loud, laughing over miso bowls and fried gyoza. You tried to stay in it — laughed when Kaito told a story about freshman year, played with Satoru’s fingers under the table.

But at one point, Daichi asked, “Yui, did you tell them what club you’re thinking of joining?”

“Oh,” she said, straightening. “The art society.”

Kaito nodded. “That fits. You still sketching campus buildings and people and all that?”

Yui flushed a little. “Yeah. I just don’t know if I’m good enough to—”

“Don’t say that,” Satoru interrupted, casual but direct. “That drawing of the old gym? That was sick.”

You blinked.

She smiled. “You remembered that?”

You cut in before he could answer. “Satoru has the memory of a goldfish. Don’t give him that much credit.”

A few chuckles. But Yui looked down. Her smile faded just slightly.

Later, when the check came and everyone was getting up, Yui accidentally bumped into your shoulder while grabbing her coat.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

You turned slowly. “It’s fine.”

She hesitated. “I hope I’m not… making anything weird.”

You gave her a long look.

“No,” you said. “You’re not that important.”

Her face dropped. She didn’t reply.

When you and Satoru left, he was quiet. Too quiet.

“Something wrong?” you asked, half-daring him to say it.

He ran a hand through his hair. “You didn’t have to say that to her.”

“Say what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

You stopped walking. “Why are you defending her?”

He paused. “I’m not. I’m just saying… it wasn’t necessary.”

You smiled, cold. “Neither is her sitting with you every day.”

That silenced him.

Back in your dorm room, you took off your earrings with slow, careful movements.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Ren.

You good? Looked a little tense tonight.

You typed, deleted, then typed again.

Do I look crazy to you?

Three dots. Then:

No. Just different.

You stared at the screen until it dimmed.

Monday mornings had a rhythm.

You walked into the student lounge and the table by the windows was always yours. Satoru, Kaito, Ren, Daichi, and you. You brought coffee sometimes. Other days, snacks. You filled the silence, kept the conversation up when the boys were too tired from weekend games.

You were the glue. You always were.

But this Monday was off. You entered the lounge and saw them first. Kaito half-laughing. Satoru leaning back with his ankle crossed over his knee. And Yui — sitting in your chair, holding a takeout tray of coffee cups and paper bags.

“—I just figured everyone could use a pick-me-up,” she was saying, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “The bakery near the art building opens early.”

Daichi held up his croissant like a toast. “This slaps.”

You stopped. Your seat was taken. Not just physically — but replaced.

Satoru spotted you and smiled. “Hey, babe. She brought pastries.”

You forced a smile and sat next to Kaito instead. A space over.

He didn’t say anything, but when he slid you one of the coffees she brought, you noticed he’d passed over one that didn’t have lipstick on the lid.

Small mercy.

By Wednesday, people in your program were talking about Yui’s art.

There was a bulletin board near the design wing, and she’d put up a charcoal sketch of a girl sitting alone on the library steps. It was beautiful, you’d admit. It also looked eerily like you — same posture, same boots.

People stopped to compliment it. Someone even said, “You know, she’s so refreshing. Like… real. She’s not trying to impress anyone.”

As if that was something to praise. As if trying hard made you fake. As if you trying at all was the problem.

That afternoon, you sat on the bleachers watching basketball practice. You always did — the cheer squad usually finished an hour earlier, and you liked seeing Satoru move, command, lead.

You were halfway through tying your jacket around your waist when you spotted her.

Yui.

Sitting in the far corner of the bleachers. Alone. Sketchbook in her lap, legs tucked under her.

You didn’t walk over. But you kept glancing that way, waiting for her to leave.

She didn’t. She waited until he waved. At her.

You saw it clearly. The lift of his arm between drills. The way her posture straightened when she noticed.

Your stomach turned.

That night, you left the group chat. Quietly. No drama. No goodbye.

But they noticed. Daichi messaged you, then Ren. You ignored both. Only Kaito sent the right thing.

Wanna talk? No judgment.

You didn’t reply for hours.

But eventually, you did.

She’s replacing me.

His typing bubble appeared. Then paused. Then started again.

No. She’s just… being included.

You stared at that sentence.

Then:

But I see you. I haven’t forgotten.

You blinked at that.

It was nothing. And everything.

Thursday, Satoru walked with you to class. You held his hand loosely. You didn’t say much. He did.

“You’ve been off lately.”

“Have I?”

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

You looked up. “Do you like her?”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

“Yui. Do you like her?”

“No. She’s Daichi’s sister. She’s a kid.”

“She’s only two years younger than us.”

He looked frustrated now. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m observant.”

He pulled away just slightly. “Can’t you just let people in without turning it into a threat?”

You stopped walking.

“I used to be your person,” you said quietly. “Not a threat. Not a chore. Just… your person.”

He didn’t have an answer for that. And that hurt more than anything.

It started with a seat. Again.

Friday morning, your first free period, the guys had taken the usual corner table outside the cafeteria. It was barely 10 a.m., and already warm. You were running late — hair still damp from your shower, your slides too loud on the concrete path.

You rounded the corner, expecting the usual: the boys eating loud and fast, Satoru teasing Daichi about his midterms, Kaito flipping through his notes, and an empty spot beside your boyfriend.

But the seat wasn’t empty. Yui was already there. Right next to Satoru.

They weren’t doing anything, not exactly. But her elbow was close enough to his that your heart clenched. He leaned toward her mid-sentence, laughing softly at something she said. She wasn’t flustered this time — her voice was calm, steady.

She wasn’t trying anymore. She had already arrived. You walked slower.

When you reached the table, Kaito was the only one who stood slightly, sliding a chair toward you. You caught his eyes. He didn’t smile, but he gave you that quiet look — the one that said, Yeah. I saw it too.

You sat across from Satoru. He greeted you with a casual, “Hey, babe,” like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Later, while walking to class, Kaito caught up with you.

“She’s louder now,” he said casually.

You looked at him sideways. “What?”

“Yui. Used to whisper everything. Now she interrupts Daichi when he talks.”

You raised a brow. “Why are you telling me that?”

Kaito shrugged. “Just proving I’m paying attention.”

You didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t look away either.

That afternoon, you found out they had planned a night out — ramen and karaoke. A group thing.

You found out by accident.

Daichi had posted a dumb video on his story: Ren badly lip-syncing to some anime opening while the camera panned across the private karaoke room. There was Satoru. There was Daichi. Kaito. Ren.

And Yui. Laughing on the couch, your drink in her hand. The one you always ordered.

No one had texted you.

You were alone in your dorm, eating crackers with peanut butter, phone glowing in the dark.

You didn’t cry. You called Kaito. He picked up on the second ring.

“You saw?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled. “I wasn’t in the mood to go either. But I had to show up.”

“Why?”

“Because someone has to keep her from turning into you.”

The silence was loud.

You didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then quietly: “What’s wrong with being me?”

“Nothing,” he said. “But they forget what it took for you to get here. She just walked in.”

The next day, Yui approached you.

You were at the vending machine near the back stairwell, alone between classes. She came around the corner with her sketchpad pressed to her chest.

She didn’t look nervous. She looked… ready.

“Hey,” she said.

You turned, slow. “Hi.”

She didn’t fidget. “I just wanted to clear the air. I know it’s weird that I’m around your friends all the time now.”

You smiled. Not kindly. “Oh, now you notice?”

Yui looked away for a second, then met your gaze again. “I didn’t mean to step on anything.”

“But you didn’t stop either.”

Her throat moved in a swallow. “I didn’t think I had to. I thought… maybe there was enough room for more than one girl at the table.”

You tilted your head. “That’s cute. But it’s not about room. It’s about roles. I had mine.”

“And now I’m threatening it?”

“You’re not threatening it,” you said, voice sharp. “You’ve already replaced it.”

For a moment, you thought she’d say sorry. But she didn’t.

Instead, she said, “Maybe you just stopped wanting it.”

That stopped you cold. She walked off without another word.

Satoru wasn’t oblivious. He just didn’t want to admit how bad it had gotten.

It was easier to think you were just being dramatic. That your tension with Yui would settle. That things would click back into place if he just gave it time.

But he wasn’t stupid.

He saw the way you started dressing up more for morning classes again — lashes perfect, lip gloss slick, hair curled even when it rained.

He noticed how you kept your phone face-down around him, and how Kaito always seemed to look at him like he knew something he didn’t.

The final nudge came on a Thursday.

Yui had been tagging along to lunch with the group. Again. She wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore — cracking jokes with Daichi, handing Ren her apple juice like they’d grown up together.

Satoru was halfway through his rice bowl when you walked up to the table, dropped your bag beside him, and smiled — big, bright, the kind of smile you used when cameras were around or when you were pissed.

“Hey, baby,” you said sweetly, sliding into his lap like it was nothing.

Everyone froze. Even Yui.

He blinked. “Hey.”

You wrapped your arm around his neck and leaned in like you’d missed him all morning. You hadn’t. You’d ignored three of his texts.

Yui looked down at her tray.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, brushing your fingers through Satoru’s hair like it was routine. “Cheer practice ran over. You didn’t wait for me?”

He hesitated. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

You smiled with your teeth. “I’m always coming.”

After lunch, Satoru caught up with Kaito on the walk to class.

“She’s starting to play games,” he muttered.

Kaito gave him a dry look. “You mean she’s acting like your girlfriend again?”

Satoru frowned. “It’s not about that.”

“It is to her.”

He didn’t respond.

At practice that evening, Yui showed up again.

She claimed she was waiting for Daichi — said she just wanted to sketch from the sidelines until his shift ended.

Satoru didn’t believe her.

She sat quietly, legs crossed on the bleachers, sketchpad on her knees. The first ten minutes, she didn’t look at him at all.

The next ten, she did. And the next.

He wasn’t sure when it started, but he found himself thinking about it even when he was running drills.

Not her, exactly. But the way you’d looked at her during lunch. Like a challenge. Like you were done playing nice.

And for the first time in weeks, that version of you — sharp, high-maintenance, territorial — made him feel something warm under his skin.

It reminded him why he’d fallen for you in the first place.

You didn’t go quiet. You never faded out. You fought for what was yours.

Later that night, he showed up at your dorm without warning.

You opened the door in a robe, eye masks under your eyes, music playing low behind you.

“Do you want something?” you asked, not stepping aside.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just— We haven’t talked.”

“That’s new.”

He gave you a look. “You’ve been acting like I’m the enemy.”

“Because you’re not on my side.”

A beat of silence.

Then, softer: “I’m just stuck in the middle.”

“Then move.”

You crossed your arms. He looked at you — really looked. Messy bun. No makeup. Annoyed as hell.

Beautiful anyway.

“Don’t make this a war,” he said.

You tilted your head. “Then stop handing her ammo.”

The silence between you stretched. Not hostile — worse. Tense in a way only people who used to love each other could feel.

When you finally turned to look at him, he looked tired. No teasing smile. No cocky charm. Just Satoru. Raw, undecided.

“You don’t see what it’s like,” you said, voice lower now. “Sitting there every day like I’m some relic while she slides into my spot.”

He frowned. “You think that’s what’s happening?”

“No, Satoru. I know that’s what’s happening.”

“She’s not—”

“Don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to laugh in your face.”

His jaw clenched.

You leaned back in your chair, legs crossed under your robe. “She’s sweet. Quiet. Harmless, right? I know the game. I used to play it.”

“She’s not playing a game.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m losing?”

That silenced him. You watched him, eyes softening just enough to let the truth peek out.

“You don’t look at me the same anymore.”

He didn’t answer. And that was the answer.

You stood up slowly, walking to the mini fridge to grab a bottle of water. Twisting the cap off, you kept your back to him.

“I used to be the only girl you’d skip class for. Remember that? We’d lie in bed all morning, then I’d wear your sweatshirt to practice just to make it obvious.”

“I remember,” he said quietly.

You turned back around, arms folded loosely around your waist. “Now I feel like I’m fighting a war no one told me we were in.”

Satoru finally stepped forward, voice lower. “You think I don’t care about you anymore?”

“I think you’re tired of me. And you’re too cowardly to admit it.”

He flinched at that — not dramatically, but you saw the way his throat tensed.

Then, softly: “You’re wrong.”

“Prove it.”

That hung there, heavy and cold.

He looked at you — really looked. Wet lashes. Bare skin. Red mouth. Sad eyes that still somehow sparkled when they stared him down.

“I miss us,” he said.

You blinked.

He stepped closer, hesitantly brushing your wrist with his fingers. “But you’ve got this armor on now. Like I’m the enemy.”

“You started this war,” you whispered.

“I didn’t think I’d have to choose.”

You swallowed. “But you do.”

He nodded once. You held his gaze a second longer, then turned back to your bed and sat down, curling your knees up beneath you.

Satoru hesitated.

Then slowly, quietly, he joined you — sitting on the floor in front of your bed, leaning back against the frame.

No one spoke. The music still played quietly from your phone speaker, some old Japanese R&B playlist looping in the background.

You reached down, your fingers brushing his shoulder.

Then, slowly — impossibly soft — he leaned in and kissed you.

It was barely even a kiss at first. Just his lips brushing yours, a question wrapped in hesitation. And then your hand slid into his hair, and that was it.

He kissed you again — slower this time, deeper. His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb sweeping just beneath your eye. His lips pressed to yours again, and again, with a hunger that surprised even him — not desperate, but familiar. Like he knew you. Like he had always known this mouth, this rhythm, this exact taste.

You made a soft sound against him, and he moved closer.

Your legs tangled beneath the covers. Your robe loosened slightly at the shoulder, and his hand slid along your waist, warm and steady, not rushing. His fingers gripped the fabric, grounding himself there.

When he pulled back, just a breath away, he kept his forehead resting against yours. His voice was low and hoarse.

“I hate fighting with you.”

You swallowed. “Then stop giving me reasons to.”

“I didn’t know how to handle it,” he admitted. “Everything just got… loud. And she was easy.”

You blinked. “You mean quiet.”

He nodded.

You traced the curve of his ear with your fingertip. “I’m not easy, Satoru.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I never wanted easy.”

He kissed you again — this time slower, like he had all night. You let yourself melt into it, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as his body pressed you gently into the mattress.

It was messy. A little angry. A little sad. But it felt real again. And in that moment — it was enough to stay.

It started with the hallway.

Friday morning. Eighth period break. You were always a little late walking to the cafeteria — part intentional, part habit. You liked people watching you enter.

But today, there was no act. You were calm.

You wore your school sweatshirt slouched off one shoulder and a miniskirt paired with knee-high socks. Hair half-up, gloss shining but simple. Not trying too hard. But you didn’t have to.

You knew he was waiting at the table. Satoru. And this time, he wasn’t looking at the entrance for someone else.

Ren was mid-story when you walked in. Kaito and Jin were arguing about fantasy league stats. Daichi had his head down texting.

Satoru was staring at his drink — until the second you stepped in.

His head lifted instinctively. His eyes followed you, slow, steady, like they didn’t want to blink and miss the moment. And you?

You walked right over to the table, slid into the seat next to him, and draped your arm along the back of his chair like it belonged there.

“Missed me?” you said casually.

He looked at you, smiled. A real one. “Always.”

Across the table, Yui watched quietly. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Her lunch tray was still untouched. Her water bottle had a tight grip around it. Her drawing pad sat unopened in her lap. She kept glancing from you to Satoru like trying to make sense of the math.

But the numbers weren’t adding up. You were back in your seat. And Satoru didn’t even hesitate.

He nudged your leg under the table. You looked over, caught him staring — warm and distracted. You rolled your eyes but didn’t move your leg.

You laughed at one of Ren’s jokes. You stole a fry from Daichi’s plate. You whispered something in Satoru’s ear and made him chuckle mid-sip.

And all the while, Yui sat three spots down, pretending not to notice. But she noticed. Everyone did.

Especially when, just before the bell rang, Satoru reached over and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear like it was nothing.

In the hallway after, you could feel her catching up. The rubber soles of her sneakers too soft to be loud — but you were trained to feel eyes.

“Y/N?”

You stopped, turned.

Yui stood there with her sketchpad hugged tight to her chest.

Her voice was calm. Careful. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just crossed your arms, tilted your head.

Satoru glanced back from where he stood ahead — waiting, watching — but you waved him off.

He nodded slowly and kept walking.

When it was just the two of you, you finally spoke.

“What’s up?”

Yui hesitated, her grip tightening around her notebook.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

You smiled. “But you did.”

“I was just trying to make friends.”

“And you picked my boyfriend?”

Her expression shifted slightly — not angry, not even defensive. Just… confused. Hurt, maybe.

“I didn’t think it would matter. You barely looked at him lately.”

That landed sharper than she probably meant.

But you didn’t flinch. You stepped forward, slow, deliberate — just enough to have to look down into her eyes.

“Here’s the thing,” you said softly. “You don’t have to understand what we are. You just have to remember that we are.”

And with that, you turned and walked away.

Leaving her in the hall with her sketchbook and a stomach full of silence.

The sun was setting behind the gym building, casting long golden shadows across the basketball courts. Practice had ended late. Satoru was walking toward the locker rooms, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair messy, shirt slightly damp with sweat. His jersey clung to his back, and his steps were slow — tired but calm.

Until he heard her voice.

“Satoru!”

He turned.

Yui stood a few feet away, hands nervously gripping the strap of her messenger bag. Her cheeks were flushed — whether from walking fast or nerves, he wasn’t sure.

“Hey,” he said, adjusting his bag. “Everything okay?”

She hesitated, then stepped closer. “Can we talk?”

He didn’t answer right away. The way she was looking at him made his stomach tighten — it was too open, too expectant.

“Just a minute?”

“…Yeah.”

They walked toward the side of the gym where it was quieter, near the old vending machines. It smelled faintly of rubber mats and Gatorade. A few straggling players shouted from inside, but out here, it was still.

Yui finally turned to him.

“I don’t want to make this harder than it needs to be,” she began, voice low. “But I think I deserve to know what’s going on.”

Satoru blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Her voice faltered. “You and Y/N. Yesterday. Today. Everything’s changed.”

He shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking down to the cracked pavement. “Yeah. We’re figuring things out.”

Yui’s brows pulled together. “But I thought—”

She stopped herself. Satoru looked up at her.

“You thought what?”

“I thought you liked me,” she said softly. “Or at least… I thought there was something.”

He stared at her a moment — not cruelly, not even cold. Just... quiet. Honest.

“Yui,” he said carefully. “I like you. You're sweet. You're easy to talk to.”

Her face lit up with hope.

“But,” he continued, “I was never not with Y/N.”

Yui’s expression froze.

“I thought maybe... we were over,” he admitted. “Things got distant. Complicated. But it wasn’t your job to fill that space.”

“You said you wanted me around,” she whispered.

“I did,” he nodded. “And I meant it. But not like that.”

Silence. A bird chirped somewhere nearby. A basketball thudded in the distance.

“You were just being nice,” she finally said, her voice cracking just a little.

He nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry if I led you on.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

“I wasn’t trying to steal you,” she said suddenly. “I just… felt safe with you.”

He gave her a sad smile.

“That’s the thing, Yui. I’ve never been safe. Not with her. Not with anyone.”

She looked away quickly, trying to blink back the sting in her eyes.

Satoru adjusted his bag, standing taller now.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate,” he said gently. “Someone who chooses you all the way.”

And then — he turned, walking off toward the locker rooms, leaving her alone in the golden light.

The evening air was cool and soft, wrapping around you like a quiet promise.

You found Satoru sitting on the low stone wall outside the school gym, alone except for the fading light and the distant hum of the city.

Without thinking, you slipped beside him, your shoulder brushing his.

He glanced at you, eyes catching the last warmth of the sunset.

For a moment, words failed you both.

Then, slowly, Satoru reached out, his hand warm as it slid to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath hitched.

He looked down at your lips, then back to your eyes — searching. You swallowed.

“Can I?”

His nod was the softest thing. Leaning in, your lips met his.

The kiss was gentle at first, a quiet question hanging between you.

Then it deepened — slow and steady, like two halves finally coming together after too much space.

Your hands found his wrists, fingers curling lightly.

He pulled you a little closer, careful, like you might disappear if he wasn’t.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling.

“I missed this,” he whispered.

“Me too,” you said, voice just as soft.

You stayed like that a moment longer — two people tangled in something honest and new and old all at once. And for the first time in days, the noise around you faded completely.

1K notes · View notes

yoonlyhan · 18 days ago

Text

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ in which first year!gojo satoru grew his hair longer because of you

you were the trio's friend they made during their mission. you don't have any power or anything like them but ever since that mission where they saved you, it was as if you suddenly adopted children.

though life had been fun since you befriended them.

shoko, who either saves you from getting bullied from the other two or the one who you team up with when the other two bullies her.

suguru, who was surely sweet enough to you that you almost miss the way he smirks when he turns away. he's most definitely plotting something to tease you later.

and satoru who... you always caught staring at you. with his wide blue sparkling eyes.

when you would narrow your eyes at him, satoru would just look away while whistling.

you might've think of something else by the way he looks at you but considering he has a history full of jokes and pranks pulled on you... you'd shrug off the thought that satoru might like you.

“my apartment is not a hang out place for the three of you. do you have not practice or missions to do?” you asked while washing the dishes and the other three sat in the dining table.

shoko snickered. “asked these two idiots. i don't need to practice all the time.”

“we escaped but i don't think they'd notice.” suguru responded.

you heard a chair being pushed back. “t'was boring there all the time. studying, getting yelled at, exhausting your self.” satoru repeatedly tsked. “i'm barely surviving.”

“isn't that what students are supposed to do? studying?” you questioned.

you were a student too after all. and you could relate on how barely you were surving school lately.

“all while fighting monsters. so scary, you know?” when you looked back at them, you saw suguru shaking his head with a small smile on his face. “it's fine though.”

satoru nodded. “i agree wholeheartedly.”

you turn back to finally wash the soap off the plates and then you heard shoko's sigh.

“i'm betting that you two won't even last a day at an ordinary school.” shoko pointed as you nod in agreement.

“see, even y/n agrees.” she huffed in satisfaction.

“i mean, it's fun too and i genuinely think what you three are doing is very dangerous for a student but... the amount of time you'll be pouring just for school is just unbearable. the school's strict too, you know.”

you turned off the faucet then you grabbed a clean nearby towel to dry your hands.

“your hair will be asked to keep it short. not that long. even if you tied it up, the teachers will look at you as if you're part of a gang.” you told to suguru then turns to satoru, who was already looking at you. “and no sunglasses.” then to shoko. “and no smoking.”

shoko waves you off with a smirk. “nah, who said i'll smoke at school? i'll survive. satoru won't. and suguru would if...” she leans forward to suguru. “he would cut his hair.”

satoru lets out a snicker as he glances at suguru. “what would i do if i don't recognize him immediately? that'd be troublesome.” he teasingly shake his head while holding his hand in the air, head-level.

suguru elbowed him in response.

“i wouldn't recognize you either if you grow out your hair. you'd probably copy my look.” suguru smiles but a hint of annoyance in his voice can be heard.

“yeah, bet he'd look like an old man.” shoko joins to tease.

satoru eyes widened at them and dramtically placed a hand on his chest. “i will not!”

you blinked then think for a while, trying to vision satoru with longer hair. “i think he'd look cool.” you voice out.

satoru immediately looks at you, really looks at you, then exhale sharply with a spreading grin.

“right! guys, learn how to be kind from y/n. i'd definitely look more awesome with long hair! you two just don't see the vision of—”

satoru didn't shut his mouth for a long time. and he was also giving you puppy eyes with a large grin on his face for the whole week.

but after a few months, you noticed that satoru was actually growing out his hair.

satoru prolly actually grew his hair bcs he finds suguru's long hair cool so he copied him (pls first year!satoru was such a cutie pie) also might be ooc but i just want to write for the cutie pie (⁠＾⁠∇⁠＾⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♪

masterlist ♡

credits to @strangergraphics for the wonderful divider ♡

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bueckets · 3 months ago

Text

Office Hours

Pairing: student-athlete!Paige x tutor!reader

Genre: enemies to flirting to losing your mind, paige is a little shit, slow burn but not really, tension so thick it’s basically a third character, paige is failing bio and somehow it’s your problem, cocky athlete x academically unhinged girl, tutoring sessions turned emotional warfare, dirty shirley temples, smut incoming

Description: Paige Bueckers is failing biology, and you're the unlucky tutor assigned to drag her out of academic disaster. What should be a simple arrangement becomes anything but, thanks to her complete lack of focus, relentless flirtation, and the infuriating way she manages to get under your skin—and into your head.

Between chaotic study sessions, surprise bar encounters, and more sexual tension than should legally exist between two people trying to discuss mitochondria, it’s clear that the real test isn’t the midterm. It’s whether you can make it through the semester without either making out with her—or killing her.

One thing’s for sure: Paige isn’t the only one getting schooled.

WC: 9.6k (and growing)

Notes: im back?

The library is way too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own breathing sound deafening, where every shuffle of paper or tap of a pen echoes like a gunshot. It’s the kind of silence that should be perfect for studying. Should be.

Except Paige Bueckers is sitting across from you, and Paige Bueckers doesn’t give a single shit about studying.

Instead, she’s leaned back in her chair like she’s lounging courtside instead of being one bad test score away from academic probation. She’s got her long legs stretched out beneath the table, sneakers tapping lazily against the floor. Her hoodie—way too oversized for someone whose entire existence is dedicated to agility and precision—is slouching off one shoulder, and she’s twirling a pen between her fingers like she’s dribbling down the court with a shot clock winding down. The sleeves are bunched up just enough to show her forearms, strong and lined with faint muscle from years of training, but the only thing working right now is her mouth.

Grinning. Smirking. Teasing. Doing everything but reading the goddamn textbook in front of her.

“Alright, Paige,” you sigh, pushing your notes toward her for what has to be the third time. “We need to focus. You will fail this class if you don’t start studying.”

Paige doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t move an inch beyond a lazy stretch that makes her hoodie ride up just slightly, flashing the waistband of her shorts. Her smirk deepens like she can feel you noticing.

“Yeah,” she drawls, tilting her head, “but then I’d have to take it again next semester. Which means more quality time with my favorite tutor.”

You stare at her. She stares back. The kind of look that feels like a staredown before tip-off except way less athletic and way more are you seriously this insufferable?

She holds the eye contact, easy as anything, while you struggle to remind yourself that she is only your student, not a professional flirt sent to ruin your life. Her eyes gleam in the dim library lighting, playful and sharp at the same time. Her lashes are unfairly long, brushing against her cheeks when she finally blinks.

Your heart rate picks up. Not from that. From the academic crisis happening right now. Obviously.

“You’re not failing on purpose, right?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

Paige tilts her head, pretending to ponder, lips pursing slightly. “Hmm. No, but if I did, would that be kinda cute?”

You groan dramatically, dragging a hand down your face. “I am this close to committing academic misconduct and just taking the test for you.”

Paige gasps. Actually gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in faux offense. “Wow. I knew med school was intense, but I didn’t realize you were out here ready to commit federal crimes for me.”

“That’s it,” you announce, pushing back from the table. “I’m done. I quit. Find someone else to teach you about mitochondria.”

You barely make it an inch before Paige reaches across the table and hooks two fingers around your wrist, tugging you back down like you weigh nothing. Her grip is firm, all strength and control—like she’s grabbing a rebound, like she’s got her hands on the game ball in overtime. Your pulse jumps again, this time definitely because of that.

Her fingers linger for a second longer than necessary before she releases you. But she’s still watching you, expression softening just slightly around the edges. “C’mon, stay,” she says, voice lower now, like a secret. “I promise I’ll actually pay attention this time.”

You cross your arms. “Oh? And what changed?”

She leans forward this time, elbows on the table, chin propped on one hand. The lighting catches the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw. She’s smiling, but it’s something different now—something slower.

“Figured out that if I fail,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “I won’t have an excuse to see you anymore.”

Your brain does a full system reboot. Error. What the fuck did she just say?

“Wh—Paige.”

She just winks, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip for half a second before her grin spreads, slow and satisfied. “What? That was cute, right?”

You grab your pen and point it at her accusingly. “You are so goddamn lucky you’re good at basketball, because if you had to rely on your brain—”

“I’d still get by,” she interrupts smoothly, shooting finger guns at you. “People tend to go easy on the charming ones.”

Your mouth actually falls open. Not on purpose—just an involuntary reaction to the sheer, unbelievable audacity of this girl. She’s failing biology, hasn’t written down a single note, and still has the goddamn nerve of a mathlete coasting through an easy A.

You snap your jaw shut, you refuse to let her see how flustered you are. You refuse. “Okay, charming one, then explain the process of cellular respiration.”

Paige squints, lips pressing together as she sucks in a breath through her teeth, nose scrunching like she’s really trying to make something shake in that head of hers. “Uh… it’s when cells… respire?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly through your teeth. “We are so, so fucking doomed.”

She just laughs, kicking her feet out beneath the table, accidentally knocking her knee against yours. “Relax,” she says, her grin widening. “You love tutoring me.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” she nods, completely sure of herself. “You totally have a little crush on me.”

You let out a dry, incredulous laugh—one of those sharp, breathy ones, all eyebrows raised and head bobbing. “Yeah, sure.”

She shrugs, tapping a finger against the open page of her biology textbook like she might actually start paying attention. Then, without looking up—

“Nah, I know.”

You blink. Paige blinks back.

The air between you tightens like a taut shoelace, pulling, pulling—dangerously close to snapping. You could be the bigger person here. You could roll your eyes, let it go, return to the noble pursuit of keeping Paige Bueckers from academically imploding.

But something about the way she’s looking at you—too smug, too sure—strikes a competitive nerve in you. And you’re not about to lose anything to her. Not a game, not a staredown, and sure as hell not a battle of wits.

So you shift in your chair, tilting your head, letting your lips curl just slightly. “Oh, you know?”

Paige leans back again, arms crossed, shoulders loose. She’s cocky, sure, but there’s something anticipatory in her gaze—like she knows you’re about to challenge her and she’s thrilled about it.

“Mhm.” She nods, casual as ever. “Crystal clear.”

You hum, feigning thoughtfulness, tapping a finger against the open textbook. “Wow. Must be nice. I thought you struggled with retention, but here you are, remembering things that have literally never been said.”

She gasps. “Rude.”

“You’ll get over it,” you deadpan.

Paige, of course, does not let it go. She tips her chin up, meeting your gaze with something wicked and playful tangled in the blue of her eyes. “Okay, fine. You don’t have a little crush on me.”

You exhale, relieved.

“But you definitely think about me when I’m not around.”

Your breath catches. Paige sees it. Her grin stretches wider, knowing, smug.

Oh, you are not letting her have this.

You scoff, shifting back in your chair, fighting the warmth creeping up your spine. “Paige, you are in my life solely because you can’t pass basic biology. I think about you in the same way people think about a fire alarm that won’t stop beeping.”

“Ah, so constantly?”

You scowl. She beams.

“That’s fair,” Paige shrugs, stretching her arms over her head, and the movement makes her hoodie ride up again, flashing a sliver of tanned stomach. “I am pretty unforgettable. Even when I’m annoying.”

“Especially when you’re annoying,” you mutter.

Paige smirks, but then, as if sensing your growing frustration, she sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes and dragging her textbook closer. “Alright, fine. I’ll study.”

You narrow your eyes. “For real?”

She winks. “Scout’s honor.”

“Paige, you were never a scout.”

“Prove it.”

You sigh but relent, watching as she flips open the book and actually—miraculously—starts reading the page in front of her. You take a sip of your now-cold coffee, reveling in the small victory.

For a blissful forty-five seconds, Paige is silent. Then—

“So, like,” she starts, “mitochondria. That’s the powerhouse of the cell, right?”

You pause. Blink. Lower your coffee. “Yes?”

Paige throws her hands in the air. “Let’s gooo. I’m a genius.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Paige, you have three weeks until your exam. We need to cover way more than that.”

“Okay, okay,” she soothes, putting her hands up in surrender. “Next question.”

You flip to another page, glancing up briefly to make sure she’s paying attention.

She’s not. She’s looking at you.

You pause, caught off guard by the way she’s watching you—not with teasing amusement or lazy smugness, but with something softer. Warmer. Curious.

“Paige,” you warn, shifting uncomfortably.

She blinks, then grins again, but there’s something slightly less sharp about it now. “Nothing, nothing,” she mutters, shaking her head, flipping a page in her book. “Just thinking.”

You hesitate, unsure if you want to ask, what about? But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, turning your attention back to the book. “Okay. Explain the process of osmosis.”

Paige tilts her head dramatically. “Is that, like, when you just chill through life and things come to you naturally?”

“Oh my god, no,” you deadpan.

She grins. “Damn. Thought I was onto something.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “We are so fucked.”

Paige just laughs, bright and easy. “Nah. You’d never let me fail.”

She says it like it’s a fact. Like she knows, without a doubt, that you’d never let hers fall behind. And the worst part is she’s most definitely right.

She twirls her pen between her fingers, spinning it effortlessly like a basketball rolling off the tips of her hands. It’s hypnotizing, actually—the smooth rotations, the lazy way her fingers flick with just enough control to keep it from dropping. She’s been doing this for the last ten minutes, and not once has she even pretended to read the page in front of her.

Meanwhile, you’re hunched over your notes, taking deep, steadying breaths. You tell yourself you won’t let her test your patience today. You won’t get dragged into her game. You won’t—

“Paige,” you say, voice strained.

“Hm?” she replies, still flipping her pen effortlessly.

“Please read.”

Paige hums noncommittally. Turns a page without reading it. You inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. “Paige.”

She finally looks up, resting her chin on her palm, eyes bright with amusement. “What? I’m absorbing information. Through osmosis.”

You close your eyes, count to three. Consider what your life would be like if you had literally any other tutoring assignment.

“You are so lucky you’re athletic,” you mutter, flipping the page back to where she was actually supposed to start reading. “C’mon. Photosynthesis. What do you know?”

Paige stretches her arms behind her head, her hoodie riding up slightly—distractingly—before she drops back down with a smirk, looking at you like she’s about to deliver the most groundbreaking scientific revelation of all time.

“Plants… make food?”

Your eyelid twitches.

“Correct,” you deadpan. “And they do that through—”

“The power of love,” Paige interrupts, placing a hand over her chest. “And sunlight.”

You grip the edge of the table. Consider flipping it over. “Yes. Because that’s what biology is. Disney magic and good vibes.”

Paige grins. “Exactly.”

You open your mouth—probably to unleash a scathing lecture about the sanctity of science—when a shadow hovers at the edge of the table. You glance up—because you always have to glance up when people stop by your study sessions with Paige—and find a girl, probably a freshman, clutching her phone like it’s a sacred artifact.

She shifts on her feet, looking like she’s debating whether she should even speak to Paige. You can already see where this is going.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” the girl says, eyes darting between you and Paige, before ultimately landing—unsurprisingly—on Paige. “Could I, um, get a picture? If that’s okay?”

Paige doesn’t miss a beat. She shifts effortlessly from Slacker Paige to Cool Superstar Paige, flashing an easy grin as she leans back in her chair like she expected this. Like this is as common as someone asking her to pass the salt at dinner.

“Of course,” she says, voice warm, inviting, polished. She stands smoothly, rolling her shoulders back, exuding that same relaxed confidence she has right before sinking a step-back three.

You, meanwhile, remain seated, taking a slow sip of your coffee, already resigned to your fate as Paige Bueckers’ unofficial designated library bodyguard.

It’s routine at this point. The public adoration, the excited stammering, the sheepish thank you so much before they rush off like they just met royalty. And then Paige slides back into her chair, knocking her knee against yours like she doesn’t have an entire fan club scattered across campus.

“Where were we?” she asks casually, flipping her pen again.

You don’t even blink. “You were pretending to study, and I was contemplating my life choices.”

Paige snorts. But before she can respond, another person approaches. You glance up again, already prepared, already so tired. This time, it’s a guy—tall, student-athlete vibes, definitely not looking at you.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly nervous despite the fact that Paige is already smiling at him like they’re old friends. “Could I get a picture real quick?”

Paige grins. “Yeah, of course.”

You take another sip of your coffee. Stare blankly into the abyss. Same process. Paige stands, poses, flashes her million-dollar smile. The guy stammers out a thanks and hurries off.

You exhale. Set your coffee down. “You done?”

Paige barely has time to smirk before two more people shuffle up, practically vibrating with excitement. She notices your unimpressed expression and loses it, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Okay, now it’s funny,” she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Now it’s funny?” you echo flatly.

She grins. “Yeah. You look miserable.”

You scowl. Paige beams. Another five minutes pass before the final wave of admirers disperse, and Paige—finally—sinks back into her chair, looking far too pleased with herself.

“I should start charging,” she jokes.

You arch a brow. “Should I start charging? I’m the one sitting here like an unpaid security detail.”

Paige grins, drumming her fingers against the table. “You could be my manager, you know. We’d be an iconic duo.”

You scoff. “We’re not even an iconic study group.”

“Yet,” she corrects.

You roll your eyes but, reluctantly, glance at the time. The session should go another thirty minutes, but between Paige’s inability to focus and her impromptu meet-and-greet, you’re pretty much out of patience.

“Fine,” you sigh, shutting your book. “We’ll pick this up next time.”

Paige fist-pumps like she just nailed a game-winner. “Let’s go.”

You raise a hand. “But—”

Paige groans.

“You actually have to study next time,” you warn, pointing a finger at her like a parent scolding a child. “No excuses. No distractions. No impromptu fan club meetings.”

Paige nods solemnly. “Of course. One hundred percent. Fully locked in.”

You squint at her. “You’re lying to my face.”

She grins. “Yeah. But I did it really well.”

You let out a slow breath, collecting your things, already knowing that next time will be just as chaotic. But, somehow, you don’t hate the idea.

You barely make it two steps out of the library before Paige falls into step beside you, hands tucked into the front pocket of her hoodie, head tilted toward you like she’s waiting for something. You don’t say anything. Neither does she. But she’s still there, walking at your exact pace, still spinning that damn pen between her fingers like she’s making it her personal mission to erode the last of your patience.

After half a block of this nonsense, you finally huff. “Why are you still here?”

Paige smirks, eyes twinkling. “Wow. I thought we were friends, and you hit me with why are you still here? I think I need to sit down. That was devastating.”

You resist the urge to shove her into a trash can. “You should sit down. With a biology textbook.”

“That,” she sighs dramatically, “sounds like a you problem.”

You groan, but the corners of your lips twitch—just slightly. She glances at you again, side-eyeing, like she’s waiting for you to say something else. You don’t. So, instead, she nudges your arm with her elbow. “You heading back to your dorm?”

“Yep,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Where some people go to actually study.”

Paige grins. “Fun. I was gonna hit the gym.”

You pretend to be shocked. “No way. The gym? You? Unheard of.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. Crazy concept. Gotta keep these knees in top shape so I can keep playing dumb for you in the library.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips do twitch again. When you reach the intersection where you usually part ways, Paige hesitates—just slightly. Her foot taps against the pavement, and she glances at you, like there’s something she wants to say but doesn’t.

But then the crosswalk light changes, and she just flashes her usual grin. “Alright, I’ll see you next time. Can’t wait to waste more of your valuable time.”

You shake your head, already walking away. “You are a waste of my valuable time.”

Paige calls after you, voice dripping with smug amusement. “Admit it! You’d be bored as hell without me!” You don’t respond. Maybe, just maybe, she has a point.

You barely manage to kick the door shut behind you before dropping your bag to the floor, the weight of the entire goddamn week peeling off your shoulders like an old sticker. Your body feels wrecked—like you just played all four quarters of a game you weren’t even supposed to be in. Midterms, tutoring, the endless cycle of pretending you have your shit together when in reality, you’re two missed assignments away from a full-on breakdown.

Your roommate’s bed is empty, the perfectly made sheets an immediate giveaway that she’s already at her boyfriend’s place for the night. Which means the dorm is yours. Finally. A rare and precious occurrence, like a solar eclipse or a professor canceling class with a two-minute email. You grab your laptop from the desk, already knowing exactly how you’re gonna spend the next five hours: Desperate Housewives. Your guilty pleasure. Your lifeline. Your emotional support chaotic suburban drama. You settle onto your bed, wrapping yourself in a blanket cocoon, cracking your knuckles in preparation for an evening of zero responsibilities—when your phone rings.

You groan dramatically, not even bothering to check the screen before answering. “No.”

There’s a pause, then Jordan’s voice comes through, unimpressed. “Bitch, you don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes, I do,” you sigh, rolling onto your back. “And the answer is no.”

“You’re being difficult,” she complains. “Come out with me.”

“No.”

“C’mon. It’s Friday night. You have no excuses.”

“I have the best excuse. I’m too fucking tired.”

Jordan makes an exaggerated scoffing noise. “Tired from what? Sitting across from your little basketball girlfriend and watching her pretend she doesn’t know how to read?”

You freeze. “She’s not my—”

“Uh-huh.”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Jordan.”

“[Redacted],” she mimics in a deep, mocking tone. “Come out. I’ll buy your first drink.”

“You say that like you’re doing me a favor. It’s literally one drink.”

“Okay, and? You’re broke.”

She’s got you there.

“I have plans,” you try again.

“What plans? Watching white women commit crimes in wedge heels?”

You frown. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Because I know you.”

You press your lips together, because yeah. She does.

Jordan senses weakness and pounces. “You never go out anymore,” she whines. “It’s tragic. I’m watching my best friend turn into a sad little academic goblin. When’s the last time you flirted with someone for fun?”

“I—” You pause. And that’s enough for Jordan.

“Oh my god.”

“I don’t need to flirt with random people, Jordan,” you argue.

“Okay, then come to keep me company. Emily’s bringing her crypto bro boyfriend and I need a buffer. You owe me.”

“For what?”

“For being my best friend, dumbass.”

You let out a long, slow exhale. Your bed is so soft. Your show is right there. Your roommate isn’t gonna be back till morning, which means you could fall asleep watching hot moms commit felony-level fraud and no one would judge you. But Jordan is relentless. And also, maybe, just maybe, she’s right.

“Ugh, okay, fine, one drink,” you say finally.

She screeches. “I’LL BE THERE IN TWENTY.”

“Wait, what the— twenty?!”

“You don’t get time to back out, babe. Love you! Bye!”

The call disconnects. You stare at your ceiling for a long moment before groaning into your pillow. Guess you’re going out. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your closet like it personally wronged you.

Twenty minutes. Less than that now. Jordan is on time when it comes to dragging you out of your self-imposed hibernation, so you don’t have the luxury of procrastinating. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you debate your options.

Jeans? Safe. A dress? Too much effort. Skirt? Trying too hard.

You pull open a drawer, fingers brushing over the usual suspects: black tank, oversized tee, hoodie. The same exact shit you wear every day. You tug at the hem of your pajama shirt instead, already debating if you could get away with staying in. Jordan would literally break into your dorm if she had to.

You settle on something in the middle—black jeans that just hug your waist enough to be flattering without suffocating you, a tight long-sleeve that makes your arms look good, and sneakers. Cute but low effort.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror above your desk, and your mind does that thing. That thing where you start thinking in spirals, words layering on top of each other like a too-thick coat of paint. Jordan always looks good when you go out. The hot friend, effortlessly wanted. Guys slip her their numbers, girls compliment her makeup, and you? You’re there. Background noise. The best friend, the safe choice, the one people never approach first.

Your hands move on autopilot, pulling your hair into something presentable, smoothing out wrinkles in your shirt. Your brain moves just as fast, thoughts piling up. When’s the last time someone wanted you? Really, genuinely wanted you?

Not for help on an assignment. Not for a favor. Not as a buffer against some awkward third wheel situation. Your fingers tighten around the mascara wand as you swipe it over your lashes, the thought hitting heavier than it should.

And then there’s her. Paige. Paige, who everyone wants. Paige, whose name alone makes people light up, whose smile makes the world lean in closer. Paige, who has the kind of effortless pull that shouldn’t be real, the kind that isn’t real, except it is—because it’s her.

You imagine what it must be like. To be wanted by everyone. To have people go out of their way just to see you. To be loved by an entire fucking world that doesn’t even know you. To have that kind of pull. You shake your head, dabbing concealer under your eyes, fixing nothing. Paige doesn’t have to think about this. About being ignored. About whether or not someone is really interested or if they just need her for something else. Paige is easy to love.

Your hands are steady as you apply lip gloss, but your thoughts aren’t. Because you know what’s worse? Worse than not being wanted? Feeling like you could be—if only you were someone else. A sharp knock-knock-knock at your door makes you jump, snapping you out of whatever existential spiral you were just sinking into.

You check the time. 7:59. Jordan, always on time when it comes to dragging your ass out of the house.

“Bitch, open up,” she calls through the door, impatience already seeping through her voice. “I know you’re in there, don’t make me break in.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your phone off the bed before opening the door. Jordan doesn’t even wait for an invitation. She just steps in like she owns the place, eyes immediately scanning you up and down.

“Oh, thank god,” she exhales dramatically, throwing herself onto your bed like she just finished a marathon. “For a second, I was scared you were gonna pull some bullshit and answer in sweats.”

“I was considering it.”

“And I would’ve dragged you outside as is.”

She props herself up on her elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You look good, though. Like, sexy but nonchalant. Very ‘I don’t try but I still eat men alive.’”

You snort, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull your sneakers on. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

Jordan flips onto her back, legs kicking lazily. “Hot girl vibes activated. I’m proud.”

You ignore the way that your brain still insists on running her words through some dumb internal filter. Hot but? Sexy but? There’s always a but. Still, you appreciate the compliment.

Jordan rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “Okay, so what’s our game plan?”

You raise a brow. “Game plan?”

She grins. “Are we flirting for fun tonight? Making out with strangers? Taking free drinks and saying thanks but no thanks?”

You scoff, standing to grab your jacket. “You’re doing all of that. I’m drinking one drink, pretending I enjoy being in public, and then leaving.”

Jordan makes a dramatic gagging noise. “You’re so lame, it physically hurts me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You throw on your jacket, checking yourself one last time in the mirror before turning back to her. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Jordan squints. “You know, for someone who never goes out, you could at least try to fake some excitement.”

You sigh, grabbing your phone. “Fine.” You flash her your most half-assed smile. “Yay. Alcohol.”

Jordan stares at you for a long beat. Then she cackles.

“I hate you,” she wheezes, hopping off the bed and slinging an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, grumpy girl. Let’s get you drunk.”

You let her steer you out the door, already bracing for whatever the night has in store.

The bar hums with low conversation, the steady pulse of bass from the speakers vibrating against your ribs. The air is thick—spilled beer, cheap whiskey, the faintest trace of cologne as someone brushes past you. It’s crowded, bodies pressing in too close, the kind of warmth that clings to your skin, dampens the edges of your sleeves.

You plant your elbows on the bar, exhaling slow. Jordan’s already disappeared into the crowd, her voice lilting somewhere behind you, laughing too loud at something she probably doesn’t even find funny. You don’t bother looking back. You just need a drink, something cold in your hand, something to make this whole night feel less like a mistake.

The bartender moves in front of you, nodding once in acknowledgment, and you order—automatic, easy, something you don’t have to think about. While you wait, you glance around, taking in the room.

It’s packed, but that’s expected. The usual Friday night chaos—people gathered in clusters, leaning into one another to be heard over the music. A group near the dartboard erupts in laughter, a guy raises his arms in exaggerated victory, another flips him off good-naturedly. At the other end of the bar, a girl tugs her friend closer, whispering something into her ear, their giggles swallowed by the noise.

And then— a flash of blue. You don’t think anything of it at first. Just a hoodie, nothing more. But then there’s another. And another. A guy walks past, a UConn logo stretched across his chest, the lettering cracked and faded from too many washes. At a nearby table, someone’s peeling the label off their beer bottle, the cuff of their UConn crewneck pushed up to their elbows. A girl at the bar turns her head, revealing the unmistakable emblem stitched into the side of her cap.

Your drink lands in front of you with a soft clink. You reach for it, fingers curling around the condensation-slicked glass, but your eyes are still moving, scanning. Near the pool table, someone slams a cue stick down, shaking their head. “Bro, that was insane.”

“I told you,” another guy laughs, taking a swig of his beer. “They were fucking unstoppable.”

A bartender walks by carrying a tray of shots, and someone calls out, voice sharp with excitement—

“To the Huskies!”

A cheer rises, loud and immediate, glasses raised, grins splitting across faces. Your fingers tighten around your drink. Another voice cuts through—closer, rough around the edges like it’s been shouting for hours. “Bueckers was on fire.”

Your stomach tenses. A television flickers in your periphery, mounted above the bar, the broadcast running highlights on a loop. A flash of white jerseys, a blur of movement, the unmistakable arc of a three-pointer sinking clean through the net.

Your gaze catches on the name emblazoned across the back.

BUECKERS. 5.

Your drink sits untouched in your hand. A hand lands on your shoulder, nails cool against your skin. Jordan’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation, bright, energized.

“There you are,” she says, leaning in so you can hear her. Her breath is warm against your ear, smelling faintly of whatever sugary drink she got roped into first. “Why do you always ditch me the second we get here?”

You lift your glass, taking a slow sip before responding. “I didn’t ditch you. You ran off.”

Jordan grins, squeezing your shoulder before letting go. “Details.”

She slides onto the stool beside you, propping her elbows on the bar, the sheer confidence in her posture making it clear that she’s already in her element. You can tell from the way her shoulders are loose, from the easy way she scans the room—she’s here to enjoy herself. She tugs at the collar of her cropped tank, a calculated movement, and you don’t miss the way a pair of eyes flicker toward her from across the bar.

Of course. It never takes long. The girl is pretty—high cheekbones, sharp jaw, hair spilling in soft waves over her shoulders. She’s nursing a drink in one hand, the other tracing idle patterns into the wood of the bar. She’s been looking, you realize. Long enough for it to mean something. Long enough for it to be deliberate.

And Jordan? She notices. She always notices. You watch as she tilts her head slightly, lips curling at the edges, all slow-building amusement. Not an invitation. Not yet. Just an acknowledgment. I see you seeing me. And just like that, the girl moves.

She slides closer, just one seat between her and Jordan now, her presence a hum of subtle perfume and confidence. You feel the shift immediately, the way the space around them tightens, charged with something unspoken. You take another sip of your drink, eyes flicking between them. Jordan doesn’t look over right away. She lets it build, that delicious tension she thrives on, makes the girl wait for it. And when she finally turns her head—slow, purposeful—it’s a hook.

“Hey,” the girl says, voice smooth, honeyed.

Jordan’s lips part slightly, amused. “Hey yourself.”

There it is. The shift, the moment the conversation has already decided what it’s going to be. The girl twirls the stem of her glass between two fingers, considering. “You’re a little hard to miss.”

Jordan lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

The girl nods, a smile playing at her lips. “Saw you the second I walked in.”

You huff a quiet laugh into your drink. Jordan flicks you a glance, but she doesn’t look away for long. She’s locked in now, her full attention settling on the girl beside her.

“That so?” she murmurs.

The girl leans forward slightly, just enough that Jordan can smell whatever floral-citrus perfume she’s wearing. “Mhm.”

Jordan takes her time responding, letting the moment stretch, her fingers tapping lazily against the bar. “And what’d you think?”

The girl laughs, low and knowing. “I think I liked it.”

Jesus. You shake your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. This is Jordan’s playground, and she’s barely even started. Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts in.

“There you are, finally.”

Emily. And, by default, her crypto bro. You turn just in time to see her sliding in beside you, her expression teetering between fond exasperation and mild relief, like she was worried you wouldn’t actually show. Her boyfriend—god, what’s his name again?—is hovering a step behind her, already half into whatever overpriced IPA he’s nursing.

“Thought you were gonna bail,” Emily says, bumping your arm.

You shake your head. “Almost did.”

She laughs. “Would’ve sent Jordan to physically drag you out of bed.”

“She already threatened to.”

Jordan, not even looking at you, raises a hand and flicks her wrist. “And I would’ve done it with love.”

Emily grins before turning to Jordan, about to say something else—until she sees the girl. And immediately, her expression shifts.

“Oh,” she says, blinking once. Then, lips curving slightly, she leans in, dropping her voice just enough for you to hear. “She’s hot.”

Jordan doesn’t turn her head, but her smirk deepens. “I know.”

The girl doesn’t flinch, unfazed by the blatant cockiness, the sheer Jordan-ness of it all. If anything, she looks more intrigued.

“God, you’re unbearable,” Emily mutters, sipping her drink.

Jordan, at this point, is fully ignoring all of you. She’s gone, deep in the slow back-and-forth of a conversation that’s teetering right on the edge of something. You watch, mildly entertained, as the girl tucks her hair behind her ear, as Jordan lets her gaze flick lower, just for a moment, before meeting her eyes again.

Classic. You’re about to tune them out entirely, return your focus to the drink in your hand, when—

The door swings open.

And just like that, the energy shifts. You don’t see them at first. You feel them. A ripple through the crowd, a flicker of awareness in the way people turn their heads, in the subtle glances exchanged between strangers. The volume dips for half a second—not silence, just a shift, a momentary lapse before everything surges back up again.

Your eyes track toward the entrance—toward the new arrivals pushing through the threshold, stepping into the bar with the ease of people who know they’ll be noticed. White sneakers. Loose sweatpants. Jackets slung over shoulders. And that unmistakable color.

UConn blue.

Jordan is still locked in, her conversation with the pretty girl unfolding in the slow, deliberate way that only happens when both people know exactly what they’re doing. It’s all prolonged eye contact, subtle shifts in body language, the kind of flirting that exists in the pauses as much as in the words. Emily is barely paying attention, absorbed in some argument with her boyfriend about blockchain or whatever the hell it is he does. You’ve stopped listening.

Which means you’re just… there. Third-wheeling at a bar, drink half-finished, barely contributing to the conversation. The worst part is, no one even notices. Jordan, obviously, is in her own world, and Emily is too preoccupied with rolling her eyes at her boyfriend to remember you exist. You take another sip of your drink, letting your eyes wander.

The UConn girls have spread through the bar now, weaving into the crowd like they belong there. You recognize a few faces—players you’ve seen on highlight reels, names you don’t know but should. There’s a looseness to them, an ease, the kind of relaxation that only comes after a win.

You wonder, absently, if Paige is here. Not that it matters. The thought makes you shift slightly, pushing down something vague and uncomfortable. You finish off the last sip of your drink and set the glass down a little too hard, the soft clink barely audible over the noise.

“I need to piss,” you mutter, mostly to no one.

Jordan doesn’t react, too busy letting the girl touch her arm in that slow, lingering way that means she’s definitely coming home with her later. Emily gives a halfhearted wave, her focus still locked on her boyfriend, who is currently explaining something with way too much hand movement.

You slip into the crowd, navigating the maze of bodies with the kind of single-minded determination usually reserved for final exams and finding your phone when it’s on silent. The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floor, thrumming up through your sneakers, settling somewhere in your chest. Every step feels like walking through molasses—people shifting, swaying, arms brushing against yours in that careless way that comes with alcohol and too many bodies packed into one space.

You make it to the hallway leading to the bathrooms and nearly sigh in relief. It’s quieter here—not quiet, but enough that you can hear yourself think. The walls are still pulsing faintly with the music, the distant echo of a chorus threading through the air, but it’s a reprieve from the chaos of the main bar.

And then you see the door. Locked.

Holy fuck, you’re about to piss yourself. You try the handle anyway because maybe the universe will be kind, but no—solid, unmoving. Leaning against the opposite wall, you exhale sharply, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. Fine. You’ll wait. Not a big deal.

Except time starts dragging. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, tapping your fingers against your thigh. One minute passes. Two. You check your phone, even though you just checked your phone.

Okay. You can handle this.

Except—five minutes in, it’s not just uncomfortable. It’s annoying. Who the fuck is in there? Writing a novel? Performing a one-act play? Curing a disease?

You knock once, firm but not aggressive. Just enough to remind whoever is inside that there’s a whole world out here.

No response. Another minute passes. You cross your arms, shifting again, foot tapping against the floor. Seven minutes.

You knock again. Harder this time. “Yo.”

Nothing. Oh, come on. You glance toward the men’s bathroom. It’s right there. Completely open. No line. Just an empty doorway leading to salvation. Wouldn’t be the first time. But before you can talk yourself into it, you knock again. Hard. Impatient. At this point, you’re not even polite about it—you just hit the door. “Hurry up, Jesus Christ.”

The lock clicks. A second later, the door swings open, and out stumbles a couple—disheveled, flushed, and absolutely not here to use the bathroom for its intended purpose. The girl giggles into her boyfriend’s neck, her lipstick half-smeared, while his hands are still gripping her hips like they’re considering going back in for round two.

You don’t even react. You just shove past them, slam the door shut, and finally—finally—relieve yourself. Blessed silence, aside from the muffled bass still thumping through the walls. You take a moment to breathe, running your hands through your hair, shaking off the weird tension that’s been clinging to you all night. You’re fine. It’s fine.

When you step back out, the hallway’s busier—more people filing in, laughing too loud, waiting their turn. You navigate through them, dodging the wobbly, half-drunk girl clinging to her friend’s arm, sidestepping the guy trying way too hard to look casual against the wall. You’re almost back to the main floor when—

A hand catches your wrist. Firm, deliberate. Enough pressure to stop you, but not enough to hurt. Your breath stutters—not from fear, not exactly, but from the sheer certainty in that grip. Like whoever’s holding you already knew they would.

You turn your head. And there she is.

Paige fucking Bueckers.

Loose hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing the lean muscle in her forearms. A chain glinting under the dim bar lights, catching for half a second on the sharp line of her collarbone before disappearing beneath fabric. Her hair is a little messier than usual, like she’s run a hand through it one too many times. And her expression?

Smug. Smug as hell.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, her grip on your wrist still firm, thumb brushing once over your pulse before she finally—leisurely—lets go. “Fancy seeing you here, tutor.”

Her voice is low, teasing. The kind of tone that makes you want to roll your eyes and press your thighs together at the same damn time.

You exhale sharply. “Oh, fuck me.”

Her grin widens instantly, wolfish. “I mean, if you insist—”

You smack her arm, and she laughs. Not just a chuckle, but a full-bodied, head-tilted-back, entirely too pleased with herself kind of laugh. It’s obnoxious. It’s attractive. It’s exactly why you need to get out of this conversation immediately.

But Paige has other plans. She steps closer—just enough that you feel the heat of her body, just enough that the crowd shifts around you, forcing you to stay exactly where you are. Her gaze drops, just for a second, flickering down your outfit before dragging back up, slow, deliberate.

“You clean up nice,” she muses. “Didn’t know you owned anything other than oversized sweatshirts.”

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t know you left the gym.”

She hums, tapping her chin like she’s considering. “True. But, you know, when you drop thirty-six points in a game, you kinda have to celebrate.”

Of course she dropped thirty-six.

“And yet,” you deadpan, “here you are. Bothering me.”

Paige grins, shifting on her feet so she’s even closer, close enough that you can smell her cologne—something crisp, clean, expensive. Unfair.

“C’mon, don’t act so surprised,” she murmurs. “You knew we’d run into each other eventually.”

You raise a brow. “Did I?”

She tilts her head, amused. “Yeah. ‘Cause you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

Your pulse skips. “I have not—”

“Oh, you definitely have,” Paige interrupts, smirking. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you switching up your usual schedule. Skipping our tutoring session on Tuesday.” She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Tragic. Really had me wondering if I did something to offend you.”

God, she’s insufferable. And yet—

“Like you care,” you shoot back.

Her eyes glint, sharp, knowing. “Oh, I do.”

Something thickens in the air between you. Something tangible, humming just beneath the surface of her cocky smirk, her unwavering stare. Her fingers twitch at her side, like she’s considering reaching for you again. You see it happen, the micro-movement, the shift of her weight like she’s deliberating. And then, just as quickly, she exhales, straightening to her full height.

“Well,” she says, her voice dipping into something smoother, softer, “if you’re not avoiding me, then I guess you wouldn’t mind grabbing a drink with me, huh?”

You blink. “What.”

She jerks her chin toward the bar. “Drink. You. Me.”

You hesitate. That same pressure returns, that feeling of everyone wants her, but somehow, right now, she’s locked onto you. Paige watches you, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “What’s wrong, tutor? Afraid you might enjoy my company?”

Your jaw tightens. “I tolerate your company.”

She smirks. “Then come tolerate me at the bar.”

Your mistake wasn’t stopping when she grabbed your wrist. Your mistake was letting her talk. Because now Paige fucking Bueckers is smirking at you like she’s already won something, head tilted, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie like she’s lounging through this entire interaction. You can already feel yourself being pulled into her orbit, and she knows it.

“A drink?” you echo, squinting at her. “You? Drinking?”

Her smirk grows. “Shocking, I know.”

“Lemme guess,” you deadpan. “Protein powder with a splash of vodka? Maybe a nice gatorade-infused tequila?”

Paige gasps—actually gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like you just accused her of a heinous crime. “Wow. You think so little of me.”

“I think exactly the right amount of you.”

She exhales dramatically, shaking her head. “Tragic. Here I am, just a small-town basketball star trying to enjoy a simple, wholesome night out, and my own tutor is out here slandering my good name.”

You raise a brow. “Your good name?”

She nods solemnly. “That’s right. I am, at heart, a simple girl with simple pleasures.” Then, as if to punctuate the absolute bullshit she just said, she throws an arm around your shoulder, leaning in until her lips are a breath away from your ear. “Like dirty Shirley Temples.”

You choke. On nothing. Paige pulls back, just enough to see your reaction, the sharp glint of amusement in her gaze practically sparkling.

“No fucking way,” you manage. “You drink dirty Shirley Temples?”

She grins. “Religiously.”

“That’s—” You blink, at a complete fucking loss. “That’s the most unserious drink you could have possibly chosen.”

Paige winks. “And yet? It goes down smooth.”

“Oh, I bet it does.”

She laughs, full and warm, tilting her head like she’s considering something. “Y’know,” she muses, “I like this side of you.”

You narrow your eyes. “What side?”

Paige drops her voice, lowers it into something silkier, something that slides down your spine in a way that should be illegal. “The one that flirts with me back.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb now,” she murmurs, fingers tapping lazily against the side of your arm like she’s keeping count of your heartbeat. “You’re usually so good at keeping up.”

You hate that she’s right. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to regain some composure. “You are so full of shit.”

Paige hums. “Maybe. But you seem to love it.” And then she winks. A full, obnoxious, Paige Bueckers-grade wink.

Oh, you are not going out like this. You lean in, just barely, watching the way her smirk twitches, the way her fingers still on your arm. “Tell you what,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual, like you’re not insanely aware of how close she is. “I’ll let you buy me a drink—”

Paige perks up. “Yeah?”

“If,” you continue, “you admit that I’ve been absolutely kicking your ass in our tutoring sessions.”

Her lips part. “Oh, hell no.”

You grin. “What’s wrong? Afraid of the truth?”

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head like she’s personally offended. “No fucking way. That’s extortion.”

“That’s accountability.”

She squints at you. “You are so lucky you’re hot.”

Your breath catches. For a split second, you completely malfunction, and Paige fucking sees it.

She grins—huge, like she just sank a game-winner at the buzzer. “Ohhh, that got you, huh?”

You snap back immediately. “Did not.”

“Uh-huh.” She crosses her arms, rocking back on her heels. “You were fully thrown off just now.”

You roll your eyes, trying to pretend like you didn’t just combust internally. “You gonna buy me that drink or what?”

Paige sighs like you’ve personally exhausted her. “Fine,” she relents. “But I’m getting you my favorite.”

You smirk. “A dirty Shirley?”

She grins. “Exactly.”

And with that, she grabs your hand—just for a second, just to tug you toward the bar, just long enough to make your pulse spike before she lets go.

The bar is packed. Bodies pressed together, voices overlapping, the occasional burst of laughter breaking through the thumping bass. Paige moves through it like she owns the place—shoulders loose, hoodie slouched just right, that damn chain flashing under the dim lights. You follow, pretending your eyes aren’t tracking the way her sweatpants sit just low enough on her hips to be distracting.

She leans against the bar, elbow propped up, and tilts her head at you like she’s studying something.

You squint. “What.”

Her lips twitch. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you out.”

“You’ve had months to do that.”

“Yeah, but you keep surprising me.” She drums her fingers against the counter, slow and rhythmic. “Like, for example, I knew you had some bite to you, but tonight? You’re really showing your teeth.”

You cross your arms. “Maybe I’m just extra annoyed by you today.”

Paige hums, tilting her head like she’s considering. Then, before you can react, she leans in—close, warm, too close—and brushes her lips just against the shell of your ear.

“Nah,” she murmurs, voice dipping low. “You like it.”

A slow, rolling shiver spreads down your spine.

Paige pulls back, just far enough to meet your eyes, her smirk lazy and so fucking smug. She knows exactly what she just did. You hate that she’s right. Before you can retaliate, the bartender appears. Paige turns, all casual ease, and grins.

“Two dirty Shirleys,” she says.

The bartender raises a brow but nods, moving to make the drinks. You stare at Paige. She shrugs. “Hey, a deal’s a deal.”

“You actually meant it?”

“Duh,” she says. “What, you think I just flirt for fun?”

Your lips part, because yes, obviously, that’s exactly what you think. Paige sees the way your expression shifts, and her grin deepens. “Aw, babe, don’t tell me you thought I was playing with you.”

You blink. “I—”

She tuts, shaking her head. “See, now I really need you to drink this, ‘cause you need to loosen up.”

The bartender slides the drinks over. Paige pushes one toward you, watching expectantly. You hesitate. Paige lifts hers and clinks the rim of her glass against yours. “C’mon, tutor. Don’t be scared.”

Scared? Oh, that does it. You grab the glass and take a sip, the sweet bite of grenadine and vodka coating your tongue. Paige watches the way your throat moves when you swallow, her lips parting just slightly.

Just like that, the game shifts. You lower the glass, eyes locking with hers.

“Not bad,” you murmur. Then, mirroring her move from earlier, you step in just enough to make her breath hitch, tilting your head slightly like you’re about to say something important—something deep, something meaningful.

And then— you drag your tongue slowly over your bottom lip and the blonde’s eyes darken. You almost laugh, but her hand suddenly brushes against your waist, just a whisper of contact, the heat of her palm radiating through your thin shirt. It’s brief—so brief you could almost pretend it didn’t happen—but the way your skin burns says otherwise.

“Shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, just for you to hear.

You smirk. “Something wrong?”

Her jaw tightens. “Not at all.”

She takes a sip of her own drink, eyes never leaving yours, throat bobbing as she swallows. The moment stretches. Then—Paige exhales sharply, like she’s shaking something off, and grins. “Alright, alright, you win this round,” she admits, nudging your arm with hers. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You tilt your head. “Guess you’ll just have to keep figuring me out.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “God, you’re fun.”

Then, so casually, she hooks a finger into your belt loop and tugs. It’s playful. It’s barely anything. But it’s also everything. Because she doesn’t let go. You swallow. Hard.

Her voice is softer now, but the teasing edge is still there. “I like this side of you.”

You clear your throat, trying desperately to focus on something other than the warmth of her touch. “You said that already.”

Paige smirks. “Yeah. But I really like it.”

Paige is cocky. Too cocky. The kind of cocky that drips off her like it’s stitched into her damn DNA, like she was born knowing how to get under people’s skin, into their heads. And right now, she’s looking at you like she’s already inside yours, like she’s set up shop in the most dangerous corners of your mind and made herself comfortable. She still has her finger hooked in your belt loop. Just resting there, like she belongs there.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, sipping her drink, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of grenadine before it can slide past her lip.

Your jaw clenches. You look down at her grip on your jeans, then back up. Blatantly.

She smirks. “What, this?” She tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make the fabric of your jeans pull against your hip, just enough to remind you she’s right there.

You don’t move. “Let go.”

She hums, tilting her head. “Nah.”

Your fingers twitch around your glass. “Paige.”

She exhales, all mock exasperation, finally—finally—releasing her hold. But before you can celebrate your very minor victory, she leans in, voice dropping to something dangerously smooth. “Relax. You can touch me if you want.”

Your breath catches.

She laughs, tipping her drink toward you in mock salute. “You’re so fun to mess with.”

You narrow your eyes, pulse still skittering from the low, teasing way she said touch me. “You’re insufferable.”

Paige hums. “Maybe, you like it.”

And there it is. The line. The one she’s been waiting to say, the one she’s been circling since the second she grabbed your wrist.

You roll your shoulders, schooling your expression into something neutral. “You’re alright.”

Her brows lift. “‘Alright’? Wow.”

You sip your drink, unfazed. “I mean, you are failing bio.”

Paige scoffs. “Unnecessary.”

“Just saying. I don’t think geniuses need tutors.”

Paige smirks. “Nah, but they do need entertainment. And you, babe—” she tips her chin toward you, eyes gleaming, “—are so fucking entertaining.”

The casual babe nearly stops your brain completely.

You grip your glass tighter. “I should charge you extra.”

“For what? Intellectual stimulation?”

“For being exhausting.”

Paige’s grin widens. “Yet, here you are. Still talking to me.” She takes another slow sip of her drink, eyes locked onto yours over the rim of her glass. Watching you. Like she’s waiting for something.

You shift your weight, feeling entirely too seen, entirely too open under that gaze. Paige notices. Of course she does. Her lips part, her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek like she’s considering something.

Then—before you can react—she leans in.

Your body locks up.

She gets close. Not teasingly close, not almost close—actual close. The kind of close that makes your heart trip over itself, the kind of close that makes your breath catch in the back of your throat.

Her lips hover right there, her breath warm against your jaw. Then, quietly, smugly—obnoxiously:

“Wanna make out?”

You freeze.

She grins. “What? You look like I just asked you to solve a physics problem.”

“Are you serious?”

Paige tilts her head. “Nah, I just like watching you panic.”

She’s so fucking unbearable. You set your glass down with a sharp clink. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I’m funny.”

“You’re a menace.”

She beams. “You don’t seem to mind it.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heat of the bar, or the way Paige is looking at you like she wants something—like she’s daring you—but suddenly, your patience snaps.

You grip the front of her hoodie and pull. She barely has a second to react before your lips crash into hers. Paige groans. A low, gravelly sound that vibrates against your mouth, sending heat shooting straight to your stomach. And fuck, she kisses back.

All cocky, eager pressure, her hands already gripping your waist, her fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your shirt like she wants to feel more.

The bar melts away. The noise, the people, everything—all of it fades because Paige is right here, kissing you like she’s been waiting for you to do this since day one.

You tilt your head, chasing the taste of vodka and cherry on her tongue, and Paige makes this obscene little noise before she presses in, deeper, her teeth grazing just enough to make your knees buckle. You gasp, and she smirks into the kiss, like she knows, like she’s already winning again.

Asshole.

You yank at the waistband of her sweatpants, a little revenge, a little fuck you, and Paige laughs—low, breathless—before biting gently at your bottom lip, sending a full-body shiver down your spine. Your grip on her tightens.

She hums, pleased. “Knew you wanted me.”

You pull back, just barely, panting. “Shut the fuck up.”

Paige grins, lips swollen, eyes gleaming. “Make me.”

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furnitureblogsworld · 1 year ago

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tangerineastronaut · 4 months ago

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bibliophile ⟡ j. yunho

part two

you're stressed...your study buddy has an idea.

Pairing: Yunho x Fem!Student!Reader Genre: Smut - dark twist Requested: Yes/No w.c. 5.8k Warnings: heavy on the smut, semi public sex (ish), mutual pining, food? - THE SUCKER - he does...things with it. Yunho is a FREAK. Reader is desperate for yunho dick (yes YOU, reader) Spoiler warnings are in comments if you need them. A/N: So, this is sort of two requests in one, however I don't want to disappoint anyone so I'll post it solo. I hope it's okay! <3 god deleted my ticket to heaven with this one. Requests: Open (link below)

Requests | WIPs Masterlists: BTS | ATEEZ | GOT7 | Stray Kids

Taglist: @baby-stay92 If you'd like to be added to my taglist, please DM me or click here.

You release a tired sigh and rub your eyes, throwing your pen down. It bounces off of your ridiculously thick textbook and lands on the papers scattered around your study partner.

“Ah ah. No crashing yet, we’ve got three more chapters,” Yunho says with a laugh, tapping you on the end of the nose with his own pen. You pout, making a face at him before dramatically collapsing on the table.

“I give up. You can become a lawyer, I’ll go back to making sandwiches,” you groan, muffled against pages of your future.

“I thought you liked working at the sandwich shop?”

“I did,” you reply, tilting your head to look at him. “But sandwich shops don’t pay me six figures.”

“Then stop whining,” Yunho shrugs. You grumble words unintelligible even to yourself and sit up, fixing your hair. You stretched, yawned, checked your phone for the thousandth time that evening. Finals were next week. Then there was the Bar exam. You were so close to being y/n l/n, attorney at law…but you were beginning to feel nauseous at the mere sight of words on a page.

“Wanna take a break?” Yunho suggests, leaning back to stretch. You avoid looking at the way his sweater rides up, revealing inches of what appears to be a toned belly.

“No,” you mumble, forcing yourself to look away. “If I leave this library…I think I may never return.”

Yunho chuckles and nods, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index fingers. For a few minutes, you both just sit there, enjoying a rare moment of peace. Usually the library is filled with students, exactly like you—stressed, depressed, drowning in student debt and reading assignments.

“Yunho?” you mumble. He hums a response, looking over at you. You swallow. “If I start to cry, will you judge me?”

“Not at all,” he responds. You nod once, feeling tears burning in your eyes.

For the next hour or so, you take turns reading passages and summarizing them, going through various laws and statutes that you could barely comprehend. Your brain felt as if it might explode, and you considered calling it a night, but it was only 10 p.m. and you’d be damned if you gave out before midnight.

“What the hell are these ‘title 16 provisions?’” you scoff, crinkling your nose. “Were these even part of our assignment?”

“Let me see,” Yunho says. He scoots his chair over to your side of the table rather than just moving seats, and you feel your heart leap into your throat. And god, his arm slides over the back of your chair as he leans in to look at the tiny words on your page.

He smells like coffee and the peanut butter granola bar you shared earlier, and this close you can see that he has very light freckles on his cheeks. You kind of want him to never move.

“Ah, no this isn’t part of this assignment but we will have to know it for finals,” he says, words going in one of your ears and out the other. He begins talking about these provisions, but you must be numb to all forms of communication other than Jeong Yunho’s body heat.

“Y/n?”

“Huh?” you mumble, shaking your head. Yunho has a funny look on his face, one brow raised. Oh god. Oh god. He caught you staring like a fucking creep.

“...You good?” he chuckles. You swallow and quickly nod, brushing your hair back so fast you nearly hit him in the face.

“Yep, uh huh,” you mumble. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Oh,” he says as though relieved. “Good. Well, if you need to take a break, let me know.”

He begins to move; you panic and grab his wrist.

“Wait! You didn’t explain this part to me,” you say, pointing at a random section on the page. Yunho sits down again and tilts his head.

“You need me to explain…marital property to you?” he asks, sounding both amused and disbelieving.

Well, if you’re gonna be a bad liar, at least you’ll be persistent.

“Yes,” you nod. “Just like a refresher, you know? My brain is cooked.”

Yunho stares at you for a few seconds, and you feel your cheeks heat up. It feels like he knows something you don’t know, and you don’t like that. So you yank him back into his seat and let go of his wrist, pretending to be very interested in one of the most basic aspects of your degree.

Marital property is boring, even when the hottest guy in your class is explaining it to you. And what’s worse—he knows. You know he knows. He’s explaining basic concepts to you, and then explaining the basics of those basic concepts, all the while keeping a little smirk on his handsome face. You consider caving, thinking of any possible excuse for your behavior. You’re delirious from lack of sleep, that’s actually true. But you were too deep in this to give up now.

“That’s most of it,” Yunho finally says, long fingers splayed over the textbook. They nearly reach from one end of the open book to the other. You shiver. “I guess we should move into parental rights—”

“Yunho,” you begin with a sigh, ready to admit defeat. He smiles innocently, resting his chin in his hand.

“Yeah?”

“I—”

You freeze, having forgotten how to form sentences. Yunho’s still smiling at you, but his free hand is now resting on your thigh. You thanked the gods you’d decided to wear a skirt today.

His palm is large, warm, spanning much of the plush skin there. He’s not gripping it, but it’s still very obviously intentional. You feel your cheeks burn hot; you’re determined to remain unaffected.

“Nevermind,” you mumble. He chuckles and turns back to the page, though he doesn’t move his hand.

You don’t ask him to.

You go back to your respective chapters, thankfully far beyond the basics, but his hand stays right where it is. He even reaches over his other arm to sip his coffee, refusing to move it. Your skin burns in the shape of his fingers; you almost want to push him away simply because your body is reacting to his touch in a way that’s making you feel crazy. You’re practically feverish, just because he’s near you. Pathetic, honestly.

When you sigh and rub your eyes, those long fingers twitch, making you jump. You try to play it off, though you know he’s aware of your reaction, because he does it again. When you don’t react as dramatically, he squeezes gently.

Your knee jerks up so fast it hits the table, causing your belongings to rattle, and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. Yunho chuckles, though doesn’t move his hand. You clear your throat as though everything is normal. As though he’s not currently squeezing your upper thigh.

“Yunho,” you say quietly.

“Hm?” He doesn't bother looking up from his textbook.

“What are we doing?”

He does look up this time.

“Studying,” he says, giving you a sweet smile. You narrow your eyes.

If he was going to do this, then so were you. You were sleep deprived, numb to the world, and horny as hell. So you parted your knees.

Not much, just an inch or so, but very obvious. You didn’t miss the way Yunho’s throat worked as he swallowed, clearly not expecting the reciprocation. You go back to your textbook, but your victory is short lived, however, as his large hand slides further inward.

You’re flustered. But you’re also stubborn. So you drop your pen and look him in the eyes as you open your knees. Yunho’s gaze is steady as he slowly moves his hand, as though expecting you to stop him. You don’t.

Yunho went back to reading and you did the same, just as his pinky brushed the crease of your inner thigh. You knew you were wet, knew he could probably feel the moist heat radiating from your body behind your pink panties, but you chose to be nonchalant. Until he rubbed the back of his knuckle against your panties, over your clit.

The soft moan that escapes you is mortifying.

Yunho quickly clamps a hand over your mouth, laughing breathily as your brows pull together and you shudder. He looks as shocked as you are, though now you’re hazy, focused only on how good it felt, and wanting more.

“Shh,” he chuckles nervously, glancing around despite the fact that you’re the only ones here. “No wonder you act like you’re walking around on thin ice. You’re frustrated as hell, huh?”

“P-Please,” you whimper pitifully against his palm, though it’s muffled. He moves his hand and you grip his wrist, looking up at him. You silently communicate your needs, praying he has mercy and doesn’t force you to say it out loud. Yunho glances around one more time, licking his lips before looking down at you like a fucking steak on a platter.

“If we’re gonna do this, you gotta be quiet for me,” he murmurs. You nod quickly, gasping when he effortlessly yanks your chair closer to him. He adjusts his glasses before lowering his hand to your thighs, gently stroking them.

“Can I touch you?” he asks quietly. You open your mouth, but he presses a finger to your lips. “Quietly.”

“Yes, yes,” you whine. “T-Touch me.”

Yunho bites his lower lip, as though imagining doing much, much more than that. When he rubs your thighs again, your knees fall open and you stifle a moan behind your sleeves. Yunho smiles at the sight of you, slipping his hand between your legs again.

This time, he’s more careful, though it’s much more frustrating for you. You squirm when he strokes either side of your cunt, making a ‘v’ and squeezing your plush pussy lips between them. You moan again, loudly, and Yunho scrambles to cover your mouth.

“Baby, you’ve gotta be—”

“Quiet, I know,” you pout, gripping his wrist. “C-can’t help it…feels good.”

Yunho swallows, letting his fingers brush against you again. You manage to stay quiet this time, but your mouth opens in a silent scream.

“So fucking sensitive,” he murmurs, drawing his hand back. You nearly protest, but he presses his index finger to your clit like a button and you jolt, covering your mouth just in time. Yunho smirks.

“H-Haven’t had sex,” you say, fisting the sleeve of his sweater as he pushes again. “In m-months.”

“Why?” he asks, beginning to rub slow circles against your panties. You feel your wetness spreading beneath them, but you don’t care. You grip the edge of the table and swallow.

“Busy,” you breathe, licking your lips. Yunho’s eyes follow your tongue. You don’t notice.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Y-yeah, yes,” you nod frantically.

Yunho uses the hand between your legs to turn your entire body toward him. You want to mention how attractive that is, but he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to yours.

His kiss is nothing like his touch; there’s nothing dirty or hurried about it. His nose brushes the crease of yours as he tilts your heads to the side, his free hand moving up to cup your cheek. It’s a sweet kiss that makes no sense when his fingers are currently resting against your panties beneath your skirt.

He seems to have forgotten what he was doing amidst your soft kisses, as you break away from his lips to impatiently bounce and whine. Yunho smirks and begins rubbing his middle finger directly over your clit, applying very little pressure. He kisses you again, and you throw your arms around his neck, trying to push your body into his. His knee prevents you from doing so.

“Nng…what are you doing?” you whine, fisting his sweater. “Wanna…wanna be in your lap.”

Your own admission makes your cheeks flush red, but you don’t care. You’re horny and your crush’s hand is between your thighs.

“Not yet, baby,” he mumbles, stealing another lazy kiss. “Wanna keep you like this. I like how desperate you are.”

“I…I’m not desperate,” you mumble. Yunho bites his lower lip and applies more pressure to your clit, you buck your hips and grip his sleeve. He’s laughing, but you don’t care, aching for more of him.

“Desperate,” he hums, pulling you in for another kiss. You don’t understand his obsession with kissing you; wasn’t he as horny as you were? But you kissed him back anyway, because you’ve had a crush on this guy since your freshman year and even the slut hormones clouding your brain couldn’t block that much out. He was a damn good kisser too, taking the lead and hardly giving you time to breathe.

In contrast to his soft mouth, Yunho’s index finger hooks your soaked panties, tugging them to the side. His finger brushes your bare cunt, though he knowingly silences your moans with a kiss.

“What can I do?” he asks once you finally break apart. You’re unwilling to let him go, however, pulling his lips back to yours..

“Don’t care,” you mumble between kisses, body buzzing with need. “Whatever you want.”

“Can I go in here?”

He prods at the needy hole between your folds and you fucking purr, clutching his sweater and pulling him close with a whine.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs. He waits for you to eagerly nod, then brings his fingers to your mouth and taps your lips. “Open.”

You do as he says and he slips his fingers inside. You nearly moan around them as you instinctively suck and lick his digits; they’re long and thick, two of them practically as big as a few hookups you’ve had in the past. Yunho watches, pupils wide as you act like an obedient doll a little too eager to be fingered in a library at midnight.

When he pulls his fingers out, they’re slick and shiny with your drool, and you see him suck in air. You blush, a little embarrassed at how thorough of a job you’ve done. You expect Yunho to go beneath your skirt, but he slides his wet fingers in his mouth, eyes never leaving yours.

It’s the filthiest thing you’ve ever seen, next to the look of pure bliss in his eyes as he sucks your saliva off of his fingers and replaces it with his own. You decide then that you do not want him to finger you.

“Fuck me,” you blurt out.

You barely register what you’ve said, but you’re damn near ready to jump his bones. Yunho blinks in surprise, obviously not having expected that. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth.

“Really?” he asks. He sounds surprised for reasons you don’t understand, but you nod.

“Yeah,” you say, pulling him in for another kiss. “Want you inside me. All of you.”

“Fuck,” Yunho groans. He grabs your face in his hands and kisses you back, harder. Your hands are shaky as they go for his jeans, but then he freezes like you’ve just slapped him.

“What?” you ask, breaking the kiss. Yunho curses and rubs his face with both hands, tilting back in his chair. “What is it, yu?”

“I don’t…fuck. I don’t have a condom.”

He runs a hand through his hair like this is the biggest mistake of the century. You bite your lower lip—the idea of leaving tonight and not getting fucked by him makes you genuinely want to cry.

“We could…you know?” you mumble, face hot. “I mean, I-I’m clean. Obviously, haven’t had sex in god knows when—”

“No,” Yunho says, shaking his head. “I don’t trust myself.”

“Don’t trust yourself to what?” you frown. Yunho looks at you,

“There’s no way I’m gonna be able to make myself pull out once I’m in you,” he murmurs. “We need a condom.”

You swallow. You really shouldn’t push; but you need to hear more.

“How do you know?” you breathe, licking your lips.

“C’mere.”

“What?”

Yunho reaches over, grabbing your wrist. He pulls you into his lap and you gasp, able to feel the rigid line of his cock beneath you. But he grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss again.

“I’ve been thinking about you for so long,” he hums, and you mewl in response, grinding down against him. He kisses you again to stifle what was no doubt a moan.

“Y-Yeah?” you manage to squeak out. Yunho nods.

“Yeah. Not gonna be able to pull out if I’m balls deep in that little cunt with you fucking crying for it like this.”

Fuck. You needed him. To be honest, with or without the condom, but if he felt it was necessary.

“Let’s go get one,” you mumble dizzily. “A c-condom. There’s a convenience store down the street.”

Yunho frowns, looking at the clock on the wall.

“The library will be locked, won’t it? Don’t we have to lock up?”

You lean back in his lap, smiling.

“Yes. But I’ve got a key,” you chime.

The moment you stepped into the store, you immediately regretted it and felt all the horny escape you. Not really, but it was embarrassing as hell, and painfully obvious as to what you were doing here. Yunho didn’t seem to mind, his hand tightly clasping yours as he guided you toward the back.

You had a little trouble finding the condoms—it made you inexplicably happy when Yunho suggested asking the clerk as he didn’t know either, even though your answer was a firm NO—but eventually found the rack next to the sex pills and cold sore cream.

Hot.

Yunho squints, and you cross your arms impatiently. You grab a box and shake it.

“It’s not a shoe store, here,” you mumble, pushing the box into his hand. Yunho glances over the label and smirks, tossing it back on the shelf. You want to ask what the hell is so funny when you’re so fucking wet your panties are sticking to your thighs, but then he finally makes a choice and puts the box in your hands. Oh.

Oh.

XXL. Makes sense.

You make him grab a few more things as though that makes the purchase less shameful. When you go to check out, you look everywhere but at the clerk—until he has the audacity to speak to the man holding your hand, very obviously purchasing condoms so the two of you can go fuck in a library.

“Finals week?” the guy says. Yunho slides his card across the counter and squeezes your hand.

“Finals week,” he nods.

“I just realized we could’ve gone to my apartment,” you say, unlocking the library door. Yunho leaned against the wall, unwrapping the candy he’d apparently decided on last minute. A red round sucker. “It’s only a few minutes away.”

You’d been given a key to the library your second year here, as you were a trusted student who often pulled all nighters—and you lived in the shitty part of campus where the power often went out. You were aware this was a total abuse of that power, but you figured if you showed Yunho to Ms. Lin, she’d understand.

“Yeah, well, my fantasies during puberty weren’t at apartments,” Yunho shrugs, holding the door for you. You head inside and find your table, where you drop the bag of your purchased items. Yunho grabs it, immediately fishing out the box.

“Very boy of you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Let me guess, the hot librarian offers to help you find your dick? Is that part of the dewey decimal system?”

Yunho smiles. “Can we get back to you whining for me to fuck you? I liked that.”

“I was not—”

Your freakishly tall study partner grabs your wrist, tugging you against him. You swallow and look up, lips parted at the sudden contact.

“Not what?” he asks. You blink, but something is suddenly pushing at your lips. You open dumbly, feeling too obedient as you take whatever he’s putting in your mouth apparently. The taste of artificial cherry makes you grimace.

Yunho backs you up to the table, crowding you against it. He cups your face in his hands and kisses your cheek, thumbs brushing below your ears. You realize you’ve been staring at him wordlessly, sucker in your mouth.

“How’s it taste?” he asks.

“Good,” you mumble. It doesn’t taste good, you hate cherry, but if Jeong Yunho puts something in your mouth, you love it, you decide. Cherry is your new favorite flavor.

“I doubted if they sold gags, so,” he chuckles. “This’ll do.”

You frown, but he takes the stick of the sucker before you can respond.

“Open,” he says. You open.

You see his eyes twinkle, almost like he can’t believe how well you’re listening to him. If only he knew you’d do anything he asked.

Rather than pull it out, Yunho rubs the sucker around your mouth. He coats your tongue with the sticky flavor, then the inside of your cheek. By the time he pulls it out, you don’t realize you’re drooling, mouth open for him.

He pops the sucker in his own mouth, just like his fingers, and you shudder. Then he’s slipping his hands beneath your skirt, pushing your panties down your thighs.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly, more curious than concerned. Yunho takes the sucker out and kisses your cheek, then your lips. You can taste it on his tongue, just like yours.

Something sticky and wet prods at your clit and you gasp, but Yunho wraps an arm around your waist and keeps you from pulling away. You squeak helplessly in shock, caught between mind numbing bliss and disbelief. He’s rubbing the bulbous head of the sucker against your clit.

“Shh…figure it’s too risky to eat you out properly,” he hums in your ear, crushing you to his chest. You squirm, though not out of discomfort.

You have no idea how to react, hands gripping his sweater as he holds you in place. The candy feels warm and sticky, sliding through your cunt juices as he teases you with it.

“I wasn’t going to,” he says, voice strained as though he’s doing all he can to hold back. “But I saw it and…well fuck, baby, if I’m honest, I just wanted to see if you were desperate enough to try and fuck yourself on a piece of candy.”

You whine and bury your head against his shoulder, because you fucking are. You are desperate enough to try, because he slides the candy between your lips and you jolt when it brushes your hole.

“F-Fuck, Yunho,” you gasp, nails digging into fabric. You hear him laugh, and it sounds so fucking cocky, like he knew you’d end up like this, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you work yourself to ruin on a piece of candy.

He slides it beneath the hood of your clit, twisting the stick in his fingers. Your knees buckle, but he’s gripping you tight. He works it like a toy, rubbing up and down, focusing on your clit until you’re nearly there before he moves it again. It didn’t feel this big when it was in your mouth, but you’ve never wanted something inside you so bad.

“Oh my god,” you moan, thighs clamping together. It doesn’t stop his hand, or the candy, the rounded tip pushing against your hole. He starts rolling it again, and you gasp as you feel yourself snapping inside, the hot neediness spilling over the edges. You try to warn him, but only manage to squeak.

“Are you…are you cumming on a fucking lollipop?” Yunho asks, voice filled with awe. You nod.

Your ears ring, your vision blurs, and you feel something pushing against your mouth. It’s Yunho’s hand you realize, but you can’t stop, can’t stop shaking and screaming and there’s something wet on your cheeks.

You haven’t had a proper orgasm in months, maybe even a year, and were it not for Yunho holding you up, you’re pretty damn sure you would’ve fainted.

When you open your eyes, Yunho is laughing quietly and hugging you tight, rubbing your back.

“Fuck, are you okay?” he asks, sounding concerned and impressed. You sniff and nod, using the back of your hand to wipe your cheeks. Yunho cups your face and uses his thumbs to clean you up. You were crying.

“I’m sorry, jesus, I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. You realize then that the damn sucker is in his mouth.

You whine, yanking him forward until you’re kissing him. It’s clumsy, but he takes the sucker out and tosses it on the table behind you. You begin working desperately at his jeans, and hear him release a cherry flavored groan.

“Still gonna let me fuck you?” he asks, keeping his lips against yours.

“God yes,” you say in a shaky voice. “P-Please.”

“I can do that,” Yunho breathes. He places a large hand on the softness of your belly, gently pushing you back.

Yunho towers over you, one hand moving to cup your thigh and open you up so he can stand between them. The other goes to his jeans, and you find yourself biting your lip and digging your nails into your palms.

XXL?

“Since you look like you’re about to fucking eat me,” Yunho says with a laugh, “why don’t you do it? Hm? When’s the last time you put a condom on?”

You feel yourself blush at having been caught, but sit up to snatch the box near you.

“Asshole,” you mutter, refusing to give him a proper answer.

Your hands are too shaky to open the box, so you end up ripping it down the side, condoms spilling out. You sigh anyway and grab one, slipping the foil packet between your teeth. You move your hands to his jeans, and realize that for the first time…you’re nervous.

Until now your brain had been sex focused; it still was, but your post orgasm clarity made you realize how fucking desperate you looked. You roughly popped open the button of his jeans.

Yunho was so damn tall that his hips were practically level with your face whilst you were on the short table. This meant that, as soon as you’d tugged his boxers down, you suddenly found yourself face to face with the biggest cock you’ve ever seen.

XXL.

For a moment you were too dumbstruck—why did they bother sculpting the soft dicks when the hard ones could look like…this? All veins and smooth skin and a pink mushroom head that looked perfectly designed for…use. You wanted it in your mouth. But he hadn’t technically put his mouth on you, and you were both in a library, and right now you were starting to get a little shaky at the idea of this thing going anywhere near your neglected pussy, so you swallowed your resolve and took the condom from between your teeth.

Yunho watched as you struggled to tear open the packet, biting your lower lip in frustration. You finally got it open, sighing as you placed the rubber at the tip. He grabbed your hands then, and you paused. Shit. Were you doing this wrong?

“We don’t have to do anything,” he mumbles softly, cupping your chin. “You wanna stop right now? We stop. Not trying to ruin the mood, just want you to know it’s okay.”

You shake your head.

“I’m okay, thanks,” you say quietly. “It’s just…fuck, Yunho.”

He laughs, his little ego having returned just a bit, you wanted to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time. He bites his lower lip and strokes his thumb over yours.

“I’ll be gentle,” he hums. “You can take it for me.”

Fuck. Yes, you absolutely can.

Yunho guides you onto your back, though you settle on your elbows, propped up for him. You watch as he squeezes the rest of the lube from the packet onto his cock, giving a few tugs before nodding at you. You weren’t sure if you were excited or scared, but there were two heartbeats and one was between your legs.

He pushes your legs apart and guides his cock forward. You lick your lips and let your knees fall open, bunching your skirt around your waist, offering yourself to him. Yunho sucks in air through his teeth and curses.

“So fucking pretty,” he hums, supporting his weight on one palm as he brushes his cock against you. You shiver as the cold lube is smeared around your sensitive cunt. “Knew it from the day I saw you freshman year in a skirt just like this one. Thought I was gonna die when you smiled at me.”

“I didn’t know you remembered,” you mumbled. You were so nervous your first day, which wasn’t helped by the hot guy who approached you and asked if you were lost. Apparently you could stop feeling ashamed for having mind fucked him back then.

“Of course I do,” Yunho chuckles, teasing the head of his cock up and down your slit. “So cute, how you blushed when I talked to you. You still do that, you know.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. Yunho laughs, then licks his lips.

“Gonna put it in now. Tell me if it’s too much,” he says. You nod.

The swollen head of his cock catches on your hole, and Yunho uses his weight to lean forward and urge himself inside. It aches a bit, not just from the size but fuck it’s been so long since you’ve had something more than your own fingers in you. Your thoughts go from not so bad to okay damn to holy fuck there’s more? Because he keeps pushing and you keep taking, and you feel every inch of him filling your insides while his body offers more.

“Fuck, baby. Fuck,” Yunho whines, still gripping the base of his cock as he guides it into you. Your head falls back and you curse at nothing; his cock is somehow too big but perfectly sized at the same time and you’ve never felt so god damn full. “Look at you, that needy little cunt is swallowing me babygirl. Keep fucking taking it.”

His words make you dizzy, and you whine when he’s finally fully seated. You feel heavy, pinned to the table, as though you can’t move. You reach down and feel the rigid sides of his cock, shocked to feel just how much is inside you.

“How’s that, beautiful?” Yunho asks. He places both palms on the table, either side of your body, and you tense. If he started thrusting, it would fuck you up.

“Good,” you say, nodding. “Big, but good.”

“Knew you could take it. 'm gonna fuck you now. Stop me if you need to," he murmurs. You can take it.

"I can take it," you nod. He smiles, kissing you once, then twice.

You squeak as Yunho begins fucking you properly, ploughing into you hard and fast, moving with need and instinct rather than reason.

The table shakes with his heavy thrusts, pistoning into you so hard it makes you dizzy. You’re surprised you can take him like this, able to feel every inch of him when he’s seated inside, pressing deliciously on your walls.

Yunho ruts into you like an animal, unfortunately one with a very big cock as he struggles to keep every inch buried inside you. He wasn’t lying about not pulling out, as he refused to do so even when thrusting. You had no room to breathe, no chance for air, as he fucked into you repeatedly while trying to go deeper.

You’re at a loss for words, lips parted, eyes following his expression and movements. He’s desperate in his own way, obviously holding back, though you don’t know from what. You consider encouraging him to let go—until he groans loudly and snaps his hips, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby. So fucking…need you to hold still for me and take it,” he breathes. "Hold still. A-Almost done, fuck, keep taking it so good for me."

You do as he asks without question, clinging to his shoulders, nose to nose with Jeong Yunho as he forces his cock as far as it can go in your body and begins to pump a thin condom full of cum that should be you.

Yunho takes a few moments to breathe, arms shaking where he holds himself up on the table. You run a hand through his damp hair, watching as he moans softly and leans into your touch.

“You okay?” you giggle. He nods, tilting his head to kiss your palm.

“Just…You’re so fucking perfect. Want more of you if you’ll let me, wanna make you feel good every day," he says.

You blink at the surprising tenderness of his words, feeling they were more than sex related. You wanted to ask questions, but right now, you were both sticky with sweat and fucked out on a library table that would need to be wiped down with holy water.

You separated, which left you shuddering from the sudden cold emptiness inside of you. Yunho exhaled sharply, waiting a few moments before removing the condom and tying it off.

You both cleaned up and fixed your clothes as best you could—though you stuffed your panties in your bag because the sticky wetness was a little much.

“Do you want to come over?” you ask, making sure your skirt is covering your ass. “You know. To clean up.”

Yunho smiles, which makes you smile, and then you’re blushing and cursing at yourself. He nods and brushes your cheek with his knuckle.

“Sounds good,” he hums. You beam and gesture for him to follow you. Yunho watches as you collect your things with shaky legs, smiling to himself.

You were so damn pretty. Intelligent. He’d noticed right away that you were someone he was going to want.

He grabbed his own bag and walked past the table, pausing as he stepped on something.

The sucker.

You crinkle your nose when you notice it, too.

“Guess we need to throw that away,” you mumble. He nods, bending down and picking it up. He holds it in his hand for a few seconds.

What a good idea it had been.

He slips it into his pocket, for the memories.

Memories like, your name. Your favorite color. That skirt you wore on your first day. Apartment 2B, where you lived. You like the right side of the bed, don’t you? Yunho likes the left side.

The last man you slept with—11 months, 1 week, and 4 days ago.

Yunho hated that one.

You had waffles for breakfast this morning. You usually have oatmeal. You sleep with a nightlight on.

You’re afraid of the dark.

“You coming?” you ask with a shy smile, pausing at the door. Yunho looks up. You didn’t see him slip the sucker in his pocket. You never notice things like that.

“Yeah,” he says. He follows you out the door and waits for you to lock up. Then, without thinking too much of it, he takes your hand. You don’t pull away. Your hand is small compared to his, and he squeezes it. You squeeze back.

You like hot showers.

You sound so pretty when you moan, especially when you think you’re alone.

Your bathroom window is never locked.

You're never alone.

Yunho has a good memory when it comes to you.

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bontonfurnitureindore · 2 months ago

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Top 7 Benefits of Investing in a Good Study Table and Chair for Students

Introduction

A student’s learning environment plays a major role in shaping their academic success, and one of the most important yet often overlooked elements is the study furniture they use daily. A thoughtfully designed study table and chair not only provide comfort but also support better posture, longer concentration spans, and a healthier study routine. Investing in a good-quality study setup ensures that students have a dedicated space that encourages discipline, minimizes distractions, and boosts productivity. Whether studying for exams, completing assignments, or simply reading, having the right furniture can make a significant difference in their overall performance and well-being.

In this blog, we will explore the top 7 benefits of investing in a good study table and chair for students and why it’s a smart decision for every parent and learner.

1. Improves Posture and Prevents Health Issues

Why It Matters:

A good study chair with proper lumbar support and an ergonomically designed table height ensures students maintain a healthy posture.

Benefits:

Reduces the risk of back, neck, and shoulder pain.

Supports growing bodies during long study hours.

Promotes proper spinal alignment for long-term health.

2. Boosts Concentration and Productivity

Why It Matters:

Comfortable seating and a clutter-free table reduce distractions and mental fatigue.

Benefits:

Students can study longer without discomfort.

Organized spaces improve mental clarity.

Better focus translates into better academic performance.

3. Creates a Dedicated Study Environment

Why It Matters:

A separate, functional Table for Study space mentally prepares students for focused learning.

Benefits:

Builds a strong study habit and routine.

Minimizes procrastination.

Helps students associate the space with growth and achievement.

4. Encourages Better Organization Skills

Why It Matters:

A study table with shelves, drawers, or compartments makes it easier to organize books, stationery, and study materials.

Benefits:

Saves time searching for materials.

Reduces clutter, boosting mental clarity.

Instills responsibility and ownership in students.

5. Enhances Comfort and Reduces Stress

Why It Matters:

Comfort is directly linked to mental relaxation and effective learning.

Benefits:

Comfortable seating lowers anxiety about long study sessions.

Proper posture reduces physical strain and builds confidence.

Stress-free studying improves academic performance.

6. Adapts to Growing Needs

Why It Matters:

High-quality study tables and chairs are often adjustable, allowing them to grow with the student.

Benefits:

Adjustable height ensures continuous ergonomic support.

Avoids frequent furniture replacements, saving money.

Supports changing academic demands, from school years to college.

7. Increases Academic Motivation and Discipline

Why It Matters:

A dedicated, inviting study area motivates students to take their studies seriously.

Benefits:

A visually appealing setup boosts enthusiasm to learn.

Encourages students to feel more professional and responsible.

Strengthens time management and study discipline.

Read More : hich Is the Best Study Table With a Chair for Students in India?

Final Thoughts

Choosing the right Study Table and Chair is more than just a furniture decision — it’s an investment in a student’s comfort, health, and academic journey. A well-designed setup creates a dedicated learning space that promotes focus, encourages better study habits, and supports physical well-being over the long term. Whether for schoolwork, projects, or personal development, the right environment helps students perform their best every day. By investing in good-quality study furniture, parents and students lay the foundation for success, making daily learning not just productive but also enjoyable.

FAQs Related to Student Study Table and Chair :

1. Why is it important to invest in a good study table and chair for students? Ans: A good study table and chair provide the right posture, reduce physical strain, and create a focused environment that improves study habits and academic performance.

2. What features should I look for when buying a study table and chair for students? Ans: Look for ergonomic design, adjustable height, sturdy material, sufficient workspace, and proper back support to ensure comfort and durability.

3. Can a good study table and chair help improve a student’s concentration? Ans: Yes, a well-organized and comfortable study setup minimizes distractions and helps students stay focused for longer periods.

4. How does posture affect a student’s learning experience? Ans: Poor posture can lead to discomfort, fatigue, and even health issues, which negatively impact focus and learning ability over time.

5. Is it better to buy a study table and chair set or separately? Ans: Buying a matched set often ensures that the table and chair are proportionate and ergonomically aligned, offering better comfort and support.

6. What materials are best for study tables and chairs for students? Ans: High-quality wood, engineered wood, or metal frames with cushioned seating are commonly preferred for their durability and comfort.

7. How often should a student’s study table and chair be replaced? Ans: If maintained well, a good study table and chair can last for several years, but they should be replaced if they become unstable or no longer support proper posture.

8. Are adjustable study tables and chairs worth the investment? Ans: Yes, adjustable options grow with the student and adapt to their changing needs, making them a long-term, cost-effective choice.

9. Can a good study environment really improve academic performance? Ans: A dedicated, comfortable, and organized study space has been shown to enhance focus, retention, and overall academic performance.

10. What size study table is ideal for students? Ans: The ideal size depends on the student’s age and needs but generally should offer enough space for books, laptops, and writing materials without feeling cramped.

#study table with chair #buy study table with chair #study table for student #top study table with chair

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chanifesto · 2 months ago

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ᯓᡣ𐭩 smart girl | go hyuntak

pairing: hyuntak x afab!reader (weak hero class 2)

synopsis: a university au in which hyuntak, determined and mighty and ready for anything, turns to mush in your presence. that is, until he has you turning into mush under him.

genre: somewhat of a smutty slowburn

word count: 8.1k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, softdom!hyuntak, making out, grinding, pet names (baby, pretty girl, smart girl) nipple play, oral (f rec.), fingering, piv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it! please!), mentions of STI testing and birth control, just enough consent checks, absolute devotion, your insides are soft, his outsides are hard, gosh he’s such a simp for you, i have never written smut before proceed with caution

reader notes: written with afab!reader in mind. reader has breasts, a vagina, and hair long enough to fall over their shoulder. all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

۶ৎ 𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒 ࿐ i am feverishly starved for this man. it’s only right i dedicate my first post to him. enjoy (at least, i hope you do).

Hyuntak thought his heart was about to ram out of his chest.

He was perfectly serene ten minutes ago, when it was just him, Hu-min, Jun-tae, and Si-eun at a booth in the university cafeteria. Perfectly serene basking in hoarse laughter at Hu-min’s flimsy puns. Perfectly serene, before you padded towards their table alongside Hu-min’s girlfriend, a textbook caged against your chest, the slightest quirk of a smile clutching at the corners of your pretty lips in response to something Hu-min’s girlfriend had whispered to you.

You slid into the bench opposite of him at the other end of the table, quietly greeting the other boys as you slipped your tote off your shoulder. If Hyuntak hadn’t been ambushed by his own nervous system, he would have seen the kind eyes you offered him instead of finding a sudden interest in the nutrition facts of his energy drink.

He was perfectly serene ten minutes ago, before you got there.

And now you sat there, gently scribbling in your agenda, your plush bottom lip softly caught between your teeth, unaware of the fevered anguish you had inflicted upon him.

Hyuntak, who was previously doubled over in laughter, was now pressed against the back of his chair, sweaty palms rubbing ever-so-slightly against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Heat had begun to ghost down the sides of his face to his neck. The last time he was this strung out was for his first basketball tournament, and that was seven years ago. Gosh, the things your presence did to him.

Hyuntak curtly flips over his wrist to check the time on his watch, just as he did thirty seconds ago, and thirty seconds before that.

His chest expands in a quiet huff. He had fifteen minutes before he had to leave for his class, more like twenty since the first ten minutes of the hour are allotted for students to relocate between possible back-to-back classes. Hyuntak always believed he could get to his classes in five—a belief he always proved wrong.

It was the start of a new semester, so it only made sense to depart earlier than he usually would to locate his lecture hall in time for class. This logic was foreign to him, he was never concerned about getting to class on time, just as long as he showed up.

But he had to get away from you.

Had to get away from this feeling you were giving him, the feeling you gave him whenever you came around.

Hyuntak only ever saw you with Hu-min’s girlfriend—your best friend—and that, too, was usually just on campus. You would show up to their group together, and then you would flip open a textbook or write in your agenda or type notes onto your laptop. It seemed like it didn’t matter where you were, you were always studying, always ready to put that pretty brain of yours to work.

And that’s how it typically was. Hyuntak had never exchanged more than a few words with you because you were always studying, but he was slowly charmed by you.

He adored the scrunch of your eyebrows when you were stuck on a practice question, adored the tip of your tongue sticking through your pouting lips whenever you were writing something, adored the way your hair would fall over your shoulder whenever you leaned into your textbooks.

He adored you, but he loathed the feeling you gave him.

The tight chest, the heartbeat on a rampage, it was all so foreign to him. Hyuntak, who was usually so poised, so vigorous, and sometimes a little arrogant, was absolute mush in the palm of your hand.

And you didn’t even know it.

Hyuntak slid his chair back with a crisp screech, pushing himself up into a stiff stance while catching the looks of the acquaintances around him.

“What’s wrong, Gotak? Where are you going?” Hu-min questioned, a reminiscent grin charming his features from what must be the aftermath of a joke Hyuntak was too zoned out to hear, his arm slung over the shoulders of his girlfriend and head hung back to look at Hyuntak’s face.

“I have class.”

It’s an abrupt response accompanied by Hyuntak’s darting eyes at Hu-min before he swiftly leans down and collects the strap of his backpack in a tight grasp.

Hu-min reaches for his phone on the table, tapping the screen. “But you don’t have class for another…”

“Fourteen minutes, I know,” Hyuntak brisky replies, straightening up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. His eyes remain downcast as he shuffles with rapid feet to the side of the table, his hand rushing to grab the back of his chair to push it in.

“So why-”

“I need to find the lecture hall,” Hyuntak spurts out, his eyes bulging at Hu-min against his own will. Hu-min’s eyebrow quirks into a raise, his eyes holding Hyuntak’s in a quiet stare.

“Where is it?”

This is not a voice Hyuntak was expecting to hear. This was the last voice Hyuntak needed to hear.

Hyuntak’s billowing eyes find themselves striking at your figure standing at the other end of the table, your tote hung over your shoulder and textbook gripped within the embrace of your arms once again. When did you even get up? Did you always move so quietly?

“Huh?” The dumb-witted sound clambers out of his throat. Did Hyuntak imagine that? He doesn’t think so, but he hopes so.

“Uh, where is it?” Your voice is quieter when you repeat yourself, almost hesitant, “I was going to look for my lecture hall now, too. I thought, if yours is in the same building, we could walk there together.”

Hyuntak stares at you blankly, eyes still bulging.

Did Hyuntak imagine that?

He had to have. There’s no way you’d pay him any mind, no way you’d want a guy like him around you, walking you to class, beside you and breathing the same air as he walked you to said class. What if your hands brushed on accident? You probably wouldn’t want that, you probably think he has sweaty hands, all calloused from the rough rubber of basketballs and the many years of taekwondo. You probably think his fingers are grimy and his hair is greasy and his teeth are yellow and his breath smells bad and his–

“Or– we don’t have to.”

Your voice is nimble, but it’s enough to stir Hyuntak out of his head. His eyes blink at the sudden impact of mental whiplash.

“We’re probably in different buildings anyway–”

“North building.”

Hyuntak’s breath had entered his lungs but had not returned back out of him. He stood still watching you, waiting for your response, and if you weren’t fast enough, Hyuntak thought he might faint from lack of oxygen.

You gaze at him, and then your plump lips tug into a small smile.

“Me too.”

Hyuntak’s fists were moistened with perspiration, and the cool winter air made no difference to the toasting skin of his face. It definitely didn’t help that you were trotting beside him, your textbook cuddled in your cute arms, your soft hair wisping with each breath of wind.

Hyuntak was determined to stare at anything but you. The trees lining the brick path, the students walking in all sorts of directions, the static dead leaves caught in the corner of a building. What a coincidence that all these things happened to be on the opposite side of him, the side that had no indication of your being.

Your acknowledgement of this was unfortunate for Hyuntak, whether you realized it or not, so when he heard the sound of your mellow voice prick his ears, he couldn’t help the way his shoulders jumped and head snapped.

“Do you not like me?”

You said it with a chuckle, eyes kind but curious, squinting at him, assessing what his body was subconsciously trying to tell you.

His shoulders had dropped but remained strained closer to his midline. His lips had pursed into a clueless pout, eyebrows drawn and stiff, conjuring a faint patch of creases between them. His wide eyes, however, glinted, in awe or fear you did not know. But, they glinted.

And then, Hyuntak eased. Like water, his body flowed into his more natural posture. His fingers flexed in his sweatpant pockets and his eyebrows anchored down. His eyes, faintly glossed, blinked into a squint.

He was an idiot.

“No, I do like you– I mean, I don’t not like you, you’re cool. I just, yeah, I think you’re cool,” he blurts, “Why do you ask?”

His face is blank as he eyes you. Your lips spread out marginally in amusement.

“You’re always laughing around with Hu-min and the others before I show up. Then you get all quiet and distant,” you explained, “It gives me the feeling that you don’t want me around. I thought you just didn’t like me.”

Oh, he was such an idiot.

“I don’t like you?– No, what, why would you think that? That’s absurd.” Hyuntak almost doesn’t feel himself scowling. You watch him, amusement still soaking through your face. “You’re always studying, I’ve barely spoken to you. I barely even know you.”

You gaze with a giggle.

His scowl tightens. “Just– can you– gosh,” he huffs, “What room is your lecture in?”

“One fifty.”

Hyuntak’s scowl simmers. His eyebrows knit together.

“That’s where my lecture is.”

“Linear algebra?” You question.

His features question you in return. “Yeah.”

“Oh, we must be in the same class then.”

Hyuntak feels sweat begin to coat the insides of his fists again. He never expected to see you in any of his classes. He had never seen you in any of them before. And linear algebra? What could you possibly need linear algebra for? You obviously weren’t in his program, so what’s with this?

“Do you need to take it for your program?”

You shake your head. “It’s my elective.”

Of course, you, with your angel face and luscious hair and pretty, big brain, were taking linear algebra as your elective.

“Right, okay,” Hyuntak huffs.

Of course you were.

It had become routine for you and Hyuntak to walk to your shared class together. Hyuntak, who was always five minutes late rather than early, found himself showing up to the lecture hall and waiting for the previous class to finish. And you? You were always right there, right by his side.

As the semester progressed, so did your friendship with Hyuntak. It started with faint encounters—he would ask you simple questions about lecture material during lecture breaks. Soon, the two of you had started doing the assigned practice problems together in the campus library. At first, it was just after class. Then, Hyuntak decided he needed more of your help.

Or perhaps, he just needed more of your time.

Hyuntak was quite competent in mathematics. As quick as you were with solving problems, Hyuntak offered himself as fair competition. He definitely benefited from the wisdom you could bestow upon him, but he most definitely did not leech off of it. No, Hyuntak was quite competent. He just needed more you.

Hyuntak’s nervous system gradually surrendered to him. He found, the more time he spent with you going over questions, he no longer felt a winding in his chest, no longer felt his breath retreat from its post. His hands remained as dry as the Sahara, and he wouldn’t want them any other way.

Eventually, Hyuntak found himself asking you to cafes—wouldn’t it be nice to study with a warm drink?

You had obliged with no hesitation, leaving Hyuntak with a pleasant feeling fogging through his chest and vessels and bones.

He took you to cafes littered across the city, all around the campus exterior. A French cafe, an Italian cafe, he’d even taken you to a cat cafe, one where you were both guaranteed to get the least amount of work done, falling victim to tufts of fur and fluff.

When he learned of your love for reading, Hyuntak took you to a book cafe and watched, no, admired as you browsed through the shelves, grazing the spines of different books with your pretty fingers, eyes wide and marveling.

The only mistake Hyuntak had made was taking you to a cafe that specialized in your favourite drink. He almost didn’t fathom the anguish that smacked him when you moaned in pleasure from your first sip.

“Mmm.”

He couldn’t move a nanometer. He couldn’t swallow the sip he had taken from his own drink. He could only listen to you, hear your ethereal sound reverberate within the walls of his head.

“God, this is so good. Where did you find this place?”

Hyuntak gapes at your plush lips, the gate to all the pretty sounds that could be elicited from the deepest parts of you. He can’t help but let his own lips tingle at the ghost of what yours might feel like against them, what they’d look like wrapped around his tip–

“Hyuntak?”

He thinks he can feel the hot blood that was rushing to his cock freeze in his vessels.

He swallows. “Huh?”

“I said, it tastes so good, where do you keep finding these places?”

Your eyes look so innocent peering at him, so oblivious to the dirty picture Hyuntak had painted of you, of your lips, your sound…

“Oh. I just, I guess I know my way around the city,” he muses, “I like to try new things, new places out.”

“Well, keep trying out new places,” you say. Then, you take another sip, “Mmm, it’s so good, Hyuntak.”

Yeah, taking you here was definitely a mistake.

The semester was nearing an end, and so came the final round of assignments.

A wave of tension had ambushed the entire collegiate crowd. The library was full to the brim with students cramping over assignment materials and lecture content, the hallways of each building were full of chatter either discussing chapter solutions or champagne problems. No one had missed being swallowed by this sea of stress.

You and Hyuntak had succumbed to it fully.

“This question makes no sense,” Hyuntak muttered, slowly swaying himself in a chair in the empty classroom you’d both colonized, staring at the assignment question that lit up his laptop screen, chewing down on his lip and winding a pencil through his long fingers.

You stood before him facing the black board, chalk painting your fingers as you scrutinized the scribbles you had flowered the board with, trying to make sense of the question at hand.

“There was something similar to this in chapter thirteen, but it’s not quite the same...” you murmured.

Hyuntak forces out a heavy huff. You shuffle to face him.

“We can stop now, we’ve put in a good amount of work, and we’re making progress,” you suggested, watching his form swaying, basking atop the chair like he owned the entirety of the university.

He was clad in a tight black t-shirt. You couldn’t help but wonder at his biceps, swoll from crossing his arms. His legs were spread, concealed in black sweats to match. His hair, tousled over his eyes from his veiny hand raking through his strands each time he felt a slap of tension gifted from the assignment question. And his eyes, god his devil eyes, they drank your figure in like red wine.

He sighed, still eying you. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s stop here.”

You nodded and turned to collect your things.

There was a pause, and then, “Would you…”

Your head swiveled to face Hyuntak again, your hand reaching into your tote with your pencil case. “Mhm?”

Hyuntak had stopped swaying, his feet planted against the floor. His biceps, still crossed against his chest, swelled at you. His bottom lip rolled between his teeth.

“Would you wanna come over to mine on Saturday?” His voice is timid, but it doesn’t waver, “We can finish working on the assignment. And, I can make us ramen.”

Hyuntak blurted the last comment in hopes of further persuading you into his humble abode. Luckily for him, it seemed to have worked, and he almost clutched his chest as his heart fluttered to the ring of your giggle.

“Sure, I’ll see you Saturday,” you smile, “Promise you’ll make it good?”

Hyuntak grins and sticks out his pinky.

Saturday had circled around, and Hyuntak was circling around his coffee table, kneeling to, once again, fix the vanilla-scented candle—the one he had bought and lit just for you—before moving it back to its original place, when you knocked at his door.

Hyuntak heaved himself up off his carpeted floor. His heart was steady, his lungs didn’t betray him, and his nose was happily lazing in the scent of warm ramen and vanilla, but he still found himself wiping his hands across the front of his sweatpants as he walked over to the door, his hands scrunching at the soft material before reaching for the knob.

He pulled it open, revealing you on the other side, and he swears he feels his heart stop for a millisecond.

You looked the way you always did, if anything, you were just a little more undone. Bare faced, your delicate hair combed back in a clip. You had worn a flimsy black t-shirt—gosh, no bra?—that fit snug along your torso, and a pair of sweatpants that hung low on your hips. Your tote was slung over your shoulder, and your linear algebra textbook was pressed between your forearms and trunk.

You hoisted your textbook snug against your chest once you took in Hyuntak, his welcoming frame swallowed in one of his favourite blue hoodies.

It takes a second for Hyuntak to find his words before he’s welcoming you into his apartment.

“Hey, come in,” he started, “did you find the place okay?”

You scrambled through the door, giving him a smile. “Yeah, it wasn’t too bad.”

He’s closing the door behind you when you shimmy your feet out of your shoes. “That’s good–”

“I think I figured it out!” You declared, traipsing over to his coffee table in a hurried skip.

He watched you take out your supplies, organizing them across the surface of his coffee table, adoring your grace and need for order.

He feels warm, his lips spread in a closed smile, and he thinks the ramen will just have to wait until you’ve had a chance to giddily fill him in on all your ideas.

He carries himself over to the couch and plops down. You sat with your back turned to him, kneeling in front of the coffee table, laying out the notes you had written up since your last study session.

You’re too far for him to hear all the solutions your incredible brain had come up with, so Hyuntak pats the spot next to him. You turn your head.

“Get up here, let me hear your theories.”

Your eyes gaze into his before traveling down to his hand on the couch. You nod.

Collecting your things and joining him on the couch, you start handing him your notes, reciting the details of the solution you had been working towards. He nods along, listening to you ramble about how chapter thirteen had been conjoined to some topics in chapter fifteen, or at least that’s what he’s able to make out of it.

Hyuntak can’t concentrate with your thigh brushing against his every time you move around to grab another sheet or book or pencil. He’s holding your notebook, reading your writing and little scribbles, but nothing's getting through to him. He can hear your voice—your angel voice—but he’s not comprehending the jumble of letters you're spitting out.

He can hear your voice, and god he wants to comprehend you so bad, but his mind is racing, running away from his conscious morality, and taking him to a tavern that offers nothing but hot, liquid lust.

Hyuntak feels searing blood surging through his body, feels it pool into the rod between his legs. His face is starting to heat up, and he’s afraid of leaving moist fingerprints on your pretty notes. His breath is starting to gallop, his chest raising just a bit higher and falling just a tad deeper. Hyuntak, who had grown to be so cool and calm around you, was now hot and desperate, and instead needed you around him.

Your thigh feels so supple against his, feels so grippable. Hyuntak can’t help but wonder what both of them would feel like pressing into the sides of his face–

“Hyuntak, are you listening?”

You’re looking at him, your eyes kind, pitifully unaware of how Hyuntak had you spread out in his head.

“Huh?” Hyuntak doesn’t think he can conjure any other sound, let alone move any muscle in his body. Your notebook rests in his lap, balancing against the wrath of a hardening cock you were faultlessly oblivious to.

Your lips tug into a mellow frown. “I was telling you how we approached the matrix incorrectly in the beginning. Hold on, maybe I should just show you the textbook chapter I’m referring to.”

You turn towards the coffee table and reach over for the textbook, bending just enough for the dainty lace of your white panties to peak over the band of your sweatpants.

Hyuntak thinks he might cry.

“Y/N…” It comes out as a soft mumble, just audible enough to get your attention, wisping out of his mouth and traveling through the now viscous, honey-like air.

You swivel towards him, the textbook sitting in your lap. The lace of your panties shy back into hiding.

“Mhm?”

You’re gazing at him with those godforsaken prudent angel eyes. His feel so heavy, so full of heat and desire, and he’s staring at you with them, begging you to unravel the things you were doing to his body.

He thinks you need a little help, so he lifts the notebook from his lap, unveiling his aching cock stretching into the tightening fabric of his sweats.

He watches your eyes shift to the subtle action, watches the skin around them spread back, and—fuck, your pupils are dilating?

His breathing has deepened, and his dark eyes droop into begging slits. He needs you so bad, has been needing you all these months, but he doesn’t just need your body.

“These weren’t my intentions,” his voice is so low, so gentle, bordering on a whisper, “please believe me. I’ve liked you for– fuck, I don’t know, a millenia I think.”

His eyes wash all over your face, searching for any indication of a reaction, perhaps even reciprocity. He follows your eyes traveling back up to meet his.

Your gaze is velvety, eyes heavy-lidded and chasmic. You’re staring at his lips, parting with each deep breath he takes.

“Do you like me too?” Hyuntak’s heartbeat hurts. His heart rhythmically hammers against its thoracic confines.

You nod. His heart cramps.

He needs to hear you, has to savour his name rolling off your tongue in a sweet confession.

One of his hands slowly reaches up to the clip imprisoning your hair, unclipping it and letting your hair brush down your neck.

The clip falls from his hand and onto the space on the couch behind you. He snakes his hand past your hair, lets his fingers graze into a delicate hold on the back of your neck. He gently rubs.

“Words, baby.”

You think you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“I like you, too, Hyuntak,” you murmur.

Hyuntak exhales.

“Please, can I kiss you?” It’s a muted whimper.

You pry the textbook and sheets of notes off your lap, pushing them onto the couch beside you, before you lean into Hyuntak, answering him more viscerally than he had calculated.

The hand on your neck is hooking you in, responding to your movement.

The heavy lids of your eyes give up, closing to a shut.

You definitely can’t breathe now, and there’s no point in trying because your lips are molding into the plush pinkness of Hyuntak’s.

It’s such a desperate kiss, you're both moving into the plushness of the other. You think you can taste his hunger on his lips, and you think you might wail because he tastes starved.

Hyuntak swats your notebook onto the couch beside him, fingers gripping into the supple flesh of your neck and slowly grazing down your back. His hand falls to your hip, squeezing it, his other hand clutching your opposite thigh to work you onto his lap.

Your body yields to him. Lips still moving into one another, you let him guide your hips onto his.

You break away, noses grazing, breaths deep. And then, you’re latching back onto each other.

The seconds melt, stretching like honey between your mouths. It’s slow, then urgent, and everything in between. It’s you and Hyuntak pouring months of anticipation and desperation into each other. Your lips are swelling against the other, saliva mixed into a drowsy potion that you both keep lapping at.

Hyuntak’s hands are gripping onto your hips, and you find yourself grinding your heat down into his hardness. He groans, his sound reverberating into you, and grips harder, pushing himself up into you. His body responds to you unconsciously.

Your lips are melting into one another, your hips are joined right where you both needed each other, separated by what you both thought was too much fabric. The leisurely friction heats the slit between your legs. You feel the hard curve of his cock rubbing the moistening patch on your panties into your hole.

Hyuntak’s hands are silking their way into your shirt, rubbing and gripping your bare waist, when he breaks away.

He’s panting, his voice hoarse, nose chafing yours. “Bedroom?”

“Please.”

And then your lips drive back into each other.

You’re wrapping your arms around his neck, his around your waist, when he pushes the two of you into a stand, staggering across his apartment to his bedroom with your body pressed against his. Your hands are feeding into his hair, tugging, luxuriating in the softness of his strands. You feel him moan against your lips.

When you break away, it’s almost painful. You didn’t need to breathe anymore, you just needed his mouth on yours, lips working into yours, sucking your tongue against his.

He lowers you onto his bed, and you finally get to see what had become of him.

His lips are swollen, red and covered in a blend of your spit, parted to let the string of quick, deep breaths flow out of him. His hair is fluffed, strands sticking out to where your hands had been, almost aching, reaching out for your touch again. Dark strands loll over his eyes, his heavy, heavy eyes that crawl over your body, licking, biting, sucking at your supple skin with his leaden gaze.

You’re no different. Your pout has swelled, pink and wet. Your nipples pebble against the material of your shirt, breasts raising with each hallowing breath that flutters past your lips, weeping out for his hands to touch them. You’re leaning back on your hands, your legs spread into brackets fit just for Hyuntak’s frame.

His hands reach back and grab onto his hoodie, pulling it over his head, letting it fall from his pulsing forearm and to the ground.

His golden skin looks so warm to touch, and you think you might reach out to graze your fingers down the ridges of his tight torso, but Hyuntak is already moving.

He’s leaning down into you, his arms caging your waist, warm hand brushing along your lower back. He’s catching your lips in an embrace, softly sucking onto your bottom lip, licking it and letting it swell in his mouth, then pulls away to look at you.

His fingers rub the fabric of your t-shirt between their tips. “Can I take this off?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

There’s a warm glint in his eyes, and then he nods. His hands slide under your shirt, savouring the heat of your waist, before lifting it up and over your head.

There’s an inviting coolness in Hyuntak’s room, and it hits your fiery skin, dousing over the upper half of your body, hardening your nipples even more.

You peek up at Hyuntak.

He’s already gazing at you, eyes soft, smooth like melted milk chocolate, slowly breathing through his nose. Your shirt falls from his hand, onto the blue pool of his hoodie.

Hyuntak is taken by the sight of your half-naked body. He thinks he nearly salivates when his eyes fall over your pretty tits, the most beautiful pair he thinks he’ll ever see. Perfect, simply because they were yours. He can’t help but let his tongue scrape against the roof of his mouth, trying to mimic the way he wants to lave over your hardened nipples.

There’s a genial quirk to his swollen lips. Your cheeks start to flush, heating from the warmth of his gaze, and you feel a wistful smile takeover your features.

Hyuntak leans back down into you. A strong arm curves against your back, the pads of his fingers whisper with the soft hairs prickling across the back of your neck.

He delicately pulls you down against his mattress, and you let him. His forearm rests near your head, keeping him above you as he kisses you again, slow and wet.

His bare torso is so warm against yours. He’s bent over the edge of his bed, grinding down into you again. Your thighs are grazing his flanks, heels pressing into the edge of his bed, hips grinding up to answer his, scavenging for more traction.

Hyuntak’s arm is pressing your body into his, desperately trying to dissolve your beings together. The feeling of your tits rubbing against his chest makes him shiver with anticipation.

His big hand skims down your back, circling lazily over your waist. It climbs higher up, inching closer to your breast, until his palm smoothes over your peak.

You sigh into his mouth, and Hyuntak is urged to give you more, whatever you need, so he can hear more of your ethereal sounds.

He gathers as much of you as he can into the cup of his hand, pressing into your pretty tit, and gives it a soft squeeze. You moan into him, and he bucks his hips harder into you.

His thumb murmurs slowly over your nipple, rubbing a languid circle around it, rousing a whine from the back of your throat.

Hyuntak groans, pulling away from your lips with a pop, and plants an urgent kiss to the corner of your mouth. He kisses down your jaw, mouth open and hot, onto your neck, gently sucking at your skin.

You’re too swept in the feeling of his hot lips loitering down your complexion to realize Hyuntak has a destination in mind.

His tongue flattens over your pebbled nipple, sucking it into his mouth.

“Mmmm.”

Hyuntak sucks harder, swirling his tongue over the tip of your peak. His hand is pushing more of your breast into his mouth.

Your lips vibrate with moans. Your slick is pooling into your panties, splurging within your pussy lips with each grind Hyuntak offers. Your toes curl into the comforter because of how desperately you're pushing your hips into his. One of your hands is clutching at his hard shoulder, the other basking through his hair.

You needed more, god you needed so much more.

You're pulling Hyuntak’s head off your chest, your fingers gripping into his hair. His lips suck off your nipple, leaving it with a sheen of his saliva, a thin sliver of spit being the only thing connecting him to your breast.

He pops off with a moan, eyes shut tight at the feeling of your tugging at him. He opens them, lids shadowing his sight with desire.

Your eyes are pleading, soaking him in. “Need more, Hyune.”

Hyuntak feels your order shoot straight to his throbbing dick, then nods.

And his lips are back on your skin, soft as sin.

“I’ll give it to you, baby, gonna give it to you so good,” he murmurs against you, moving down your body.

His fingers hook into the band of your sweats. “M’gonna make you feel so good.”

You’re up, leaning back against your forearms. You lift your hips to let him tug your sweats off your legs.

He draws them off, kneeling in between your legs on the edge of the bed. His hands skim over your legs, fingers trailing absentmindedly over the expanse of your skin.

You’re an angel beneath him, almost bare on his sheets if not for your white panties, the cute little bow that decorates the waistband inviting Hyuntak to unwrap you. His eyes dance over you, over the wet patch that renders the fabric just under your hole translucent.

Fuck, you were a wet dream, the most beautiful, cinematic wet dream rejuvenated into reality, spread out just for him, soaking just for him. Hyuntak takes in your angel form, and he is wreaked.

You were lying there all pretty, on his bed, and Hyuntak can’t help but think the months of prowling with the torturous feeling your presence gave him was irrefutably worth it.

Hyuntak clasps a hand over one of your ankles, lifting it up to rest on his shoulder, fingers lightly grazing up and down. He grapples with the whimper that threatens to spill out of him.

“Look so pretty, so perfect for me.” He licks his lips. “Been such a smart girl, hm? Need to reward you.”

Hyuntak wants to stand there, idolizing you with parted lips, watching your tits expand with each of your breaths, eyes droop with need, hips twitch with hopelessness. But he has to give you what you need, has to make you feel good.

He itches to make you feel good. He has to, after all, you’d been working so hard this semester.

So, he slowly drops to his knees in front of you and pulls your thighs onto his shoulders.

He can smell your heady wetness through your panties, now lucid from your deprivation. He breathes out against you.

His air cools the patch of slick. It’s a potent sensation that has your back curving off the sheets.

“Take them off, please,” it leaves your lips concealed in a whine.

Hyuntak brushes the tip of his nose against your aching bud, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to the soaked patch.

You’re cunt flutters, trying to clamp down on emptiness. You whimper.

Hyuntak slings his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, dragging them through your legs before they finally clear your feet.

He’s gripping your thighs down into his shoulders, drinking in the sight of you, bare and spread for him.

“Such a pretty cunt… my smart, beautiful girl,” he mumbles, eyes drowning in the sight of your glistening pussy, watching your stickiness pool out of you. He wants to savour you, wants to drag his tongue through you with selfishness and greed until he knows his taste buds will be coated with you for days. He wants to take his time, but you had been so good, so smart, working so hard, and you needed him so badly. The last thing Hyuntak wanted to do was deny you for his own pleasure.

He decides he’ll hold you down and savour you another time, before he crashes into you.

Hyuntak licks a thick strip from your hole to your clit. It’s such a delicious feeling, there’s a moan breaking through your voice box, and your hips are delinquently rolling themselves into his tongue.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, licking once across its surface, and letting it go. His tongue squishes through your folds, driving back to dig the tip into your hole, and doing it all over again like a broken record.

The sounds are filthy, wet with lust. You can hear Hyuntak sucking on your clit, hear his tongue squelch and squish through your slick. Moans and whimpers are clambering out of you, whether you want them to or not.

He’s sucking your bud when you feel the tip of his middle finger flit around the outskirts of your cunt. He can feel your walls clench, trying to suck him in, and he smirks against you at your need.

But he can’t hold back on you, so he lets it sink in, lets you coat his finger with your wetness, lets you squeeze around him, before he pulls it back out and glides it back in with his ring finger.

The stimulation is just right. It feels so good with his fingers slowly pumping into you, his mouth sucking and licking your aching nub. You fall back against the sheets, shutting your eyes and dragging the tips of your toes over Hyuntak’s back. Your hand trails down your front, finding his tousled locks, and you twine your fingers into them.

Hyuntak groans against you, stimulating your clit further. He curls his fingers, digging them deeper into your cunt. He slightly flexes them out when you clench around him, resisting your confines and giving you a larger stretch.

You’re breathing faster, deeper, just as Hyuntak’s fingers are working into you. You feel heat spread through your face, down into your chest and through your limbs. Your hips roll with the wave of Hyuntak’s hands. There’s a coiling at your core that has you moaning for more.

Hyuntak feels you rolling your hips harder against him, feels your thighs starting to squeeze the sides of his face, feels you tugging harder at his hair, and he knows he’s drawing you closer to a release. So he plants his fingers in deep and curls them against the spot that has you gushing, whimpering his name over and over, until finally, you twitch, your cunt clenches, fluttering open and shut, and you're a whining mess above him.

Hyuntak lets his fingers rest in your contracting cunt when he pulls away from your clit. He brings his thumb to gently rub against it, helping you come down from your release.

Hyuntak is wrecked. His lips are parted, coated with your slick that dribbles down his chin. His hair is messed from your hold, spiking out and flatted against his forehead. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, draining in how undone you are.

Your sweet, swollen lips are parted, deep pants escaping through them and making your breasts heave with each breath. You let go of his hair, dragging your hand up to grip onto the sheets near your head.

He watches you, and soon becomes aware of his hips bucking against the side of his bed, trying to catch a release of his own.

He’s so hard it hurts, so wet he’s soaked a small patch of his own through his boxers and into the material of his sweats.

Hyuntak doesn’t think his body has ever been so desperate for someone. He’s desperate for you, the girl who’s been unintentionally tampering with his breathing, setting his heart ablaze with white fire, making his palms sweat up a sixth ocean for the past few months.

And now, Hyuntak thinks he finally has you desperate for him, right where he wants you, leaking onto his sheets and moaning his name.

Hyuntak was the most fortunate idiot in the world.

“Did so good, baby, you look so pretty right now,” he sighs, licking at the taste of you on his lips. You peek open your eyes and take him in.

He slowly pulls his fingers out of you with a squelch, leaving you empty and squeezing onto nothing.

“Wanna taste?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

He brings his fingers to your lips, coats them with your wetness. They part just enough for him to slide them in. You drag your tongue around them, sucking them further into your mouth, and Hyuntak strains to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his head. He thinks he might cum from watching you, feeling you, so he pulls his fingers back, enduring your suction.

They latch off with a pop.

“Want you inside, Hyune. Fuck me, please,” you’re mumbling.

Hyuntak was going to combust. Your words grip onto his paining dick, and he’s bounding onto his feet.

His thumbs slide under the waistband of his boxers, and he pushes them down with his sweats. His cock is springing out, bobbing against his lower stomach, veins pulsing out of his skin. His tip is sticky, glossed over with his precum.

“I have some condoms, Hu-min gave them to me,” he clarifies with a mutter, hoping you don’t get the idea that he's been anticipating sexual encounters, “I’ll grab one–”

“No,” you murmur, “Want you bare.”

Gosh, were you trying to kill him?

He gapes at you. “Are you– are you sure?”

You lazily nod, heaving, back still arched. “I cleared my test, and I’m on birth control.”

He takes a second to process what you said, process the fact that you wanted him bare inside you, then slowly nods, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip. “Okay… okay, I tested negative, too.”

He mounts himself onto the bed, kneeling before you, fingers rubbing over your knees. You’re slowly breathing, looking up at him with your fucked out eyes.

“You’re sure, baby?”

“Yes.”

And then Hyuntak is caging himself over you, sliding his hand up your thigh and hooking it over his hip.

“Wrap your legs around me, pretty girl.” You obey him.

He hoists you closer to his abdomen and shifts you up until your head digs into his pillows. He lowers himself onto his forearms, his fingers looping into your hair, the soft strands that stray over the pillows.

Your gaze is drowsy, reaching out into his eyes and drawing him in. Hyuntak is reeling his head lower, giving into your spell. His lips feather over your own until he’s pressing them down into a kiss far too innocent for your current arrangement.

Your legs, wrapped snug over Hyuntak’s hips, drag him down until the length of his cock rubs into your wettening folds and he’s whining into your mouth.

He pulls back his head. God, he needs to be in you so bad.

He snakes a hand down to line himself against your hole, rubbing his tip against you, making you writhe your hips for more.

“Please, Hyuntak,” you whimper, and that’s enough to do him over.

Hyuntak sinks into you, and you moan in tandem.

Your walls are so hot, so inviting, hugging around him like you never want him to leave. He’s pushing himself in, feeling each of his inches get sucked in by your confines.

He looks into your half-open eyes. “Okay?”

“Mmm, Hyune, feels so good, so full.”

He breathes out a moan, dropping his head into your shoulder. Your reassurance drives all the scorching blood in his body to the only part of him that’s buried in you.

Hyuntak slowly pulls himself back out, dragging his veiny rod against your pulsing walls, before he’s sinking himself back into you, filling you full.

He flattens his hand against your back, curving you into his chest, feeling your tits press into him. Then, he’s grabbing onto your hip so he can really start pounding into you.

The squelch of your pussy around his pumping cock fills the room, your little gasps and broken whimpers serenade the fibres in his ears. His open mouth rests against the base of your neck, wreaked moans sinking into your warm skin. Your hands are in his already unkempt hair, nails digging into his neck and scraping over his upper back.

He’s fucking into you slow, deliberate, letting you feel all his passion, trying to get you to acknowledge the hard times you had given him, or rather, all the times you had gotten him hard. He wasn’t greedy before, but now? Hyuntak believes he has all the right to take you exactly how he wants.

Make you feel the stretch of his cock in your gushing cunt.

Make you whimper and whine over the loving manner with which he pumps himself into you.

He snaps his hips, squeezes onto yours, and grinds his dick deeper into you. His tip grazes your g-spot, and you clench around him, trying to keep him in, trying to make him stay there and rutt into your spot over and over until you’re coming for him all over again. You squeeze your legs around him, attempting to bury him further into you.

But Hyuntak pulls himself out with a groan, pushing against the hold of your cunt and legs. He bucks himself deep inside you again and pulls out with a fastened pace.

He’s so hard, so deep, but he’s still so gentle, so raw. His fingers are wreathing through your hair, the pad of his thumb is circling over your hip bone, and he’s mumbling against the supple skin of your neck.

“Taking me so well, baby, fuck.”

“Feel that? Feel how hard you made me? It’s all for you, just for you.”

“Been getting me so hot and hard for months. Gonna fuck it all into you now, m’gonna make you take it.”

You’re whining at his words, rolling your hips to match his pace.

The hand on your hip is smoothing over your lower stomach, his palm pressing into it when he pounds into your g-spot again. You’re whimpering at the friction of his tip against your sweet spot, gripping whatever part of him you can get your hands on. Then, he’s sliding his hand down, his fingers pushing your swollen clit out from under its hood, and rubbing down into it.

The pressure is enough to make you twitch, chasing your second release. Hyuntak is still rutting himself into you when you feel the coil burst in the depths of your abdomen, you cunt finally giving in and clenching down on his cock again and again and again.

“God, Hyune– nngh.”

Hyuntak’s hot, heavy eyes are pouring into yours when you come undone for him again. He basks in the moans trailing out of your parted mouth, and when he hears you repeating his name, masked in lewd whines, he feels a coiling of his own brewing deep within him.

His abs tighten, arms bulge, hands gripping into your hair. His mouth falls open with groans, and he whimpers your name when the tense string finally tightens and snaps. His hips are worn, bucking into you hopelessly, wretchedly, and his deviled cock is draining your spent pussy walls with his hot seed.

He’s spurting into you, and you're clenching onto him, wrapping your tight walls around him and sucking up each drop he has to offer you.

He fucks his cum deep into you with one more thrust before his hips slow to a stop inside you. He’s still lazily rubbing over your clit, halting with a chuckle when he feels you squirm from overstimulation.

You're both panting, noses rubbing softly, and Hyuntak wants to stay like this forever, with his cock stuffing you and your cunt full of his searing cum. But he knows he can’t, and he can feel himself softening, so he delicately starts to pull himself out of you.

You let out a low mewl in protest, and Hyuntak answers you with a mellow whine of his own.

He twists himself to lay on his side next to you. His eyes wash over you, over your hair sprawled in a sea around your head on his pillows, your plush, still swelling pink lips, your eyes, now soft and kind, squinting at him when you smile up at him.

Hyuntak melts, and knows he’s never seen anything more beautiful. He wants to wrap you up in blankets and kiss you all over your glowing face, but he thinks you’d benefit more from something edible.

So, he smiles back at you and says, “I made ramen, I promised you, didn’t I?”

You giggle, your hands reaching for his neck and pulling him down to your lips.

“Maybe after one more round?” you suggest, mumbling against him, eying him with a playful twinkle.

Hyuntak thinks he feels his blood mockingly rush back into his cock, and he’s a goner.

The ramen will just have to wait. Again.

1K notes · View notes

sakurakuna · 3 months ago

Text

NERD GOJO WHO'S YOUR TA!

synopsis. TA nerd gojo who has a crush on you and gets assigned as your tutor.

content. 18+ explicit content. foul language. public sex. dom/sub undertones. inappropriate relationship. unprotected sex. virginity loss. feminine description used.

note. umm first time posting... enjoy!!

nerdjo, who works as the TA in your chemistry class, and due to your lackluster performance so far in the semester, he gets assigned as your tutor. He's a total nerd whose interests fall outside the typical college student's. Despite that, you still find him to be so cute. He's a little shy and on the quieter side, and his confidence mostly comes through when he's teaching."

nerdjo, who always comes to class early and helps set up labs before the students flock in, is dressed in a sharp white lab coat that pairs well with his shaggy white hair. He always wears his framed glasses, which he constantly has to push up because his head is shoved in some book that you wouldn't even know where to begin to understand.

nerdjo, who didn't even realize that you were no longer listening to his explanation on today's lecture and instead was fantasizing about fucking him in the middle of the dimly lit library that you were studying in. Chemistry was long gone from your mind, and all you could think about was how you desperately craved to see how he’d look as he struggled not cum inside of you.

nerdjo, who only realizes your mind is elsewhere when he glances into your eyes and can tell you didn’t retain a single word he said for the past 20 minutes...at least. He instead notices you're looking at him in a way he can't recall any girl has looked at him before, you were practically staring into his soul with your lust-filled eyes.

nerdjo, who knows it's wrong because he’s your TA but can't help but shamelessly take a glance down at your very low-cut top that pushes the soft skin of your chest together and makes it appear as if you're spilling out of it. He nearly wants to drool at how soft they look under the confines of the fabric and how they would probably fill his hands as he takes your nipples into his—

You caught his wandering eyes shamelessly traveling down your body before quickly lowering his gaze to the book in front of him. You could see his blood rush to his cheeks and create a rosy blush that exposed his embarrassment. His shyness only turned you on even more. Just thinking of being able to ruin your nerdy TA’s innocence made the space between your thighs grow even more wet.

nerdjo, who was now feeling the consequences of his perverted actions and could feel himself growing hard under the table. To try and distract himself, he started rambling on about the lecture again, this time stumbling on his words a concerning amount of times over topics you know he would be able to teach in sleep.

nerdjo, who knew the feelings flooding his body were so wrong. He shouldn't be getting so aroused around one of his students, He shouldn't be noticing how pretty she is, and he really shouldn't be wondering if the color of the bra strap peeking out the side of her top matches her panties! But as much as he tried he just couldn't force the thoughts out of his mind. The once-cold library felt so much warmer, and the space between your chairs didn't feel like enough.

“are you feeling okay? You seem kind of hot,” you asked, playing concerned. You took the opportunity to put your hand on his thigh, causing his leg to almost twitch immediately.

“oh-no m-me? I’m fine!" he stumbles on his words, and your hand continues to brush back and forward his pants, each time subtly getting a little too close to where you shouldn't.

nerdjo, who nearly jumps at the feeling of your getting close to his inner thigh and tries his best to play it off as if you’re not almost massaging his soon-to-be raging bulge in the middle of this empty library right now.

He nervously pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he feels your hand get closer and closer to a place no girl had touched before. He was at a loss for words, barely able to bring himself to protest your actions as his brain was slowly turning to mush the more he felt your touch.

“but you don’t look fine,” you say, feigning worry. You take his cheek in your palm and turn his flustered-horny face to make eye contact with your lust-filled ones.

“I think I know just how to help you though,” you say as you finally move your other hand right on his crotch and begin to massage his painfully hard dick through his pants. He audibly gasps in surprise at your forwardness and can't stop the immediate sigh of pleasure that escapes his lips.

"f-fuck this is so wrong- i-i'm your TA we can't-." He tries to remind you while clearly fighting to hold back his moan and making no actual move to stop your hand.

"But it feels good, doesn't it? you like the way I touch you? You ask while dipping your hand below the waistband of his pants, making the only barrier between you his boxers as you apply even more pressure to his aching cock. You could feel the pre-cum surrounding his tip, already wetting your hand through the fabric. Your voice was so sweet to his ears, paired with the feeling of your hand; it was all too much for him, and he could no longer continue his pathetic fight against you. All he could do was shamelessly nod through his moans.

"You've been such a good boy helping me... It's time you let me help you."

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The once quiet library was now filled with the obscene sounds of gojo's plunging his cock in and out of your poor sopping-wet pussy without holding back in the slightest.

You were the least bit prepared for your nerdy TA's to have so much length and thickness hidden beneath his pants. He was giving you the biggest stretch of your life as he fucked you on the library table with no mercy. It's like his hips had a mind of their own as soon as he sunk into the warmness of your core. And it didn't help that your tight walls were sucking him back in with every stroke, accompanied by squelching sounds of your pussy, driving him even more crazy.

""f-fuckk omggg, this feels so good," he whined as he tilted his head back with his eyes practically glued shut. He couldn't bear to look at you as he felt like he would explode any minute if he made eye contact with you while you were in such an unholy position.

"cmon baby, look at me, look at all the mess you made," you beg him as a loud moan escapes your lips. His dick was hitting places you didn't even know could be reached, and even though there was a slight pain that came with his thickness you found it to be pleasurable.

It made you crave to feel every inch of him inside you, so you lifted your leg onto the table, making his hips press closer into you and giving him a new angle that had him nearly about to shed a tear. He slows down his pace, barely being able to handle the feeling of his fat tip kissing your cervix over and over again. (you couldn't really blame him, it was his first time getting his dick wet.)

"I'm so sorry baby omg m'sorry- if I look I won't last!" he whined apologetically. This position had him stars and the only way to stop himself from filling you up was to try to slow down. He gave you slow but deep strokes that had you feeling every vein of his cock throbbing inside you. He was trying his best not to come quick so he could enjoy the feeling of your pussy longer, he was already so attached. He reached in front of you and took a handful of your chest, squeezing the soft skin of your breast before gently toying with your nipples.

As good as it felt you weren't having any of it. "mm-but don't you want to come inside me?" your question forces his eyes wide open. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, a girl as pretty as you were going to let him cum inside??

"ahh- god, I must dreaming right now." he babbled as his brows scrunched together. 'Such a nerd,' you thought to yourself. Gojo was trying his best not to focus too hard on the feeling of you sucking him in so he could avoid embarrassing himself by cumming on the spot. His movements became more sloppy, which let you know he couldn't hold on for much longer.

"Its not a dream baby- please I need you to fill me up!" you moan out feeling his dick contnously brush against your spot. "I need it all inside me please." you begged while looking into his glossy eyes.

That was his last straw. Without even thinking if you could physically handle it, he quickened his pace, and you nearly choked in surprise at how fast he was fucking you. The library was filled with your sultry sounds harmonizing together. His feverish eyes gazed into yours with desperation. you knew he was close and so were you.

"oh my godd m'cummingg" you cried out to him. your cunt pulsated around his cock, liquid streams gushing out, splashing onto his lower abs and thighs. Your body trembles as your orgasm continues, and he continues to fuck you through it and chase his own. The sight of your orgasm only pushes Gojo completely over the edge.

"baby I'm gonna cumm- baby please, please." he didn't even know what he was begging for at this point. His mind was so far gone that all he could think about was coming inside of you. "It's okay baby let go-"

You could feel his strokes get more and more sloppy and his thighs tremble, his pretty blue eyes rolled back as he finally emptied his aching cum-filled balls into your pussy. You couldn't help but moan as you felt the warmth fill you up. There was so much cum spilling out that it overflowed from within you and traveled down between your legs.

Your bodies succumb to the exhaustion and collapse together on the table. "This must be what heaven feels like," he says breathlessly with only feelings of euphoria running through his brain.

'such a nerd' you smile to yourself.

nerdjo has my heart

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furniturestores-blog · 2 years ago

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iris-qt · 5 months ago

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physical affection

& how the slytherin boys show it

I. MATTHEO RIDDLE

Mattheo Riddle showed love the way he did everything: loud, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore.

“Pumpkin Pookie Pie!” His booming voice rang through the corridor as you buried your face in your hands. He’d been calling you that for weeks, his new favorite way to get under your skin.

Before you could respond, his arm slung around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “What’s wrong? Too shy to admit you love it?” he teased, his grin wicked.

“Too mortified to acknowledge your existence,” you shot back, trying to wriggle free.

He only held on tighter. “Oh no, you’re stuck with me now,” he said, steering you down the hall as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Later that day, you found him perched on the edge of your study table in the library, nudging your quill off balance with his finger.

“Mattheo,” you hissed, grabbing it before it rolled onto the floor. “Some of us are trying to pass.”

“Pass? You’ll ace it,” he said confidently, leaning closer until his face was inches from yours. “I mean, you’ve got me, don’t you?”

“You’re a distraction.”

“And yet,” he quipped, flicking your nose, “you’re smiling.”

You were. Begrudgingly.

Then there were the bear hugs. Merlin, the bear hugs. Mattheo had an uncanny talent for sensing when you were stressed, usually followed by him swooping in and pulling you into a hug that could rival a skull-crushing bludger.

One evening, as you stared blankly at your parchment, trying and failing to organize your thoughts, he came up behind you. Without warning, his arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you clean off your chair.

“Mattheo!” you yelped, flailing.

“Shh,” he said, spinning you around. “This is a medical intervention. You were looking far too tense.”

By the time he set you back down, your frustration had melted into laughter, your cheeks warm as you leaned back into his arms for a moment longer than you’d care to admit.

But there were other moments, too. Quieter ones, where his teasing gave way to something softer.

The common room was nearly empty when he found you curled up on the couch, a book in your lap but your eyes distant. Wordlessly, he sank down beside you, close enough that your knees touched.

You expected a quip or a joke, but instead, his hand reached out, finding yours where it rested on the page. His fingers laced through yours, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles over your knuckles.

The playful grin he always wore was gone, replaced by something calmer. “You’re too brilliant to stress like this,” he murmured, his voice low.

For once, you didn’t argue. His hand in yours felt grounding, his words a quiet reassurance..

II. THEODORE NOTT

Theodore Nott didn’t need grand gestures to show he cared. He was subtle, deliberate, and always knew exactly what you needed without a single word.

Like now, as you struggled to balance a precarious stack of books in the library. “Need a hand?” he asked casually, appearing out of nowhere.

“I’ve got it,” you huffed, shifting the stack.

“You mean, you’re about to drop it,” he corrected, plucking the books from your arms with ease.

“Show off,” you muttered, but the corners of your mouth twitched.

He gave you a small, amused smile as he set the books down on your table. Then, without a word, he reached forward to brush a stray strand of hair out of your face, tucking it gently behind your ear.

“Better,” he murmured before sitting down across from you. It was so casual, so effortless, but your heart still skipped a beat.

Later, in the Great Hall, it was his hand on your lower back guiding you through the bustling crowd of students. It wasn’t pushy or overbearing, it was just enough to let you know he was there, steady and constant.

“Theo, I’m not made of glass” you teased as you sat down, and he leaned against the table beside you.

“No, but you’re terrible at dodging elbows,” he quipped, nodding toward the chaos of the lunch line.

He was right, of course. He always was.

And then there were the little things he did that were so infuriatingly him.

Like the time he stole your quill mid-essay. “Theo!” you snapped, glaring at him.

“You’ve been using it wrong,” he said nonchalantly, twirling it between his fingers like a wand duelist showing off.

“How can you use a quill wrong?”

“You can. You’ve been gripping it like you’re stabbing someone. Here.” He handed it back, his fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary. “Relax your grip, or you’ll snap the nib.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help noticing how much smoother your writing felt afterward.

And then, on a rainy afternoon when you were both sprawled in the common room, you’d been flipping through a book while Theo quietly worked on an Arithmancy chart. Without looking up, he reached out and nudged a mug of tea toward you.

“You’re looking a little pathetic,” he said, his tone completely deadpan.

“Thanks, Theo,” you said dryly, but you took the tea anyway, smiling softly as you sipped it.

It wasn’t until you glanced over later that you noticed his gaze lingering on you, a rare warmth in his usually calm expression.

“What?” you asked, raising a brow.

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Nothing.”

But as his hand reached out to brush against yours once again, you realized that with Theo, even the smallest touch felt like the loudest declaration.

III. LORENZO BERKSHIRE

Lorenzo Berkshire loved quietly and warmly, his affection woven into the small, steady ways he touched you.

Like the way he always grabbed your hand without thinking, his fingers threading through yours as naturally as breathing. It didn’t matter where you were: in the middle of a crowded corridor, walking to Hogsmeade, or, as it happened today, dodging Peeves’ latest chaotic masterpiece of enchanted water balloons.

“Quick!” Lorenzo yanked you behind a suit of armor, his hand gripping yours firmly as water splashed past.

“You could’ve warned me sooner!” you hissed, clutching your soaked sleeve.

“I did warn you,” he said innocently, his grin betraying no remorse. He squeezed your hand before letting go to wring out his own robe. “Besides, you’re lucky I’m here. Imagine if Peeves got you while you were alone.”

“Yeah, I’d never survive without you,” you deadpanned, earning a soft chuckle.

Then there were his hugs: warm, steady, and impossible to resist.

One afternoon, you’d been pacing in the common room, ranting about something ridiculous Professor Snape had said in Potions. Lorenzo was sitting on the couch, watching you with a quiet amusement, until you threw your hands in the air in frustration.

“Am I wrong, though?” you demanded.

Instead of answering, he stood, stepped forward, and pulled you into a hug. It was so sudden, you froze.

“Lorenzo, what are you---”

“Shh,” he murmured, his arms snug around you. “You’re spiraling. Just… stop pacing and let me hold you for a second.”

For a moment, you considered pushing him away, purely out of principle. But his embrace was so warm, so comforting, that you found yourself leaning into it instead.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered against his shoulder.

“And you’re adorable when you’re annoyed,” he said, his voice muffled but teasing.

Then there were the casual touches that seemed second nature to him, like the way he always rested a hand on your shoulder when he leaned down to read over your notes.

“Did you mean to write ‘infusion’ here?” he asked once, pointing to your parchment.

“Yes, Enzo,” you said, your tone mockingly patient. “That’s exactly what I meant to write.”

“Good. Just checking.” He gave your shoulder a quick squeeze before walking off, as if correcting your work was the most normal thing in the world.

But perhaps the most Lorenzo thing he did was during Quidditch practice. You’d shown up to watch, cheering loudly enough to embarrass him in front of the whole team.

After practice, he jogged over, damp and out of breath, and pulled you into a sweaty, enthusiastic hug.

“Lorenzo!” you shrieked, trying to push him off.

“Just sharing the victory,” he said with a grin, tightening his grip.

“Victory? You missed three goals!”

“Details,” he said, leaning back just enough to grin at you. “Besides, I know you secretly love this.”

And as much as you complained, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Because with Lorenzo, every touch, whether it was a hand in yours, a shoulder squeeze, or a hug that left you blushing, felt like home.

IV. DRACO MALFOY

Draco Malfoy had a way of turning even the simplest gestures of affection into acts of grandeur.

“Y/N,” he drawled, stepping into the courtyard where you were waiting. “Your scarf is a disaster.”

You looked down, confused. “It’s just a scarf, Draco.”

“It’s an offense to fashion,” he corrected, already closing the distance between you. Before you could stop him, his gloved hands were carefully unwinding the scarf from your neck.

“Draco, it’s cold!”

“Shh.” He ignored your protest, methodically rewrapping it, each fold placed with the utmost precision. “If you insist on walking around like this, the least I can do is ensure you don’t embarrass me.”

Once he finished, he stepped back, inspecting his work like a proud artist. “There. Better.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though you had to admit the scarf did feel warmer.

Later, during a stroll to Hogsmeade, he offered his arm with a flourish.

“Draco, we’re not at a ball,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he said, his tone prim, “you look like you might trip over the cobblestones at any moment. I’m merely preventing a tragedy.”

You rolled your eyes but slipped your arm through his anyway. He gave a satisfied smirk, his fingers resting lightly over yours.

Then there were the smaller gestures, the ones you weren’t entirely sure were affectionate or just Draco being Draco.

Like the time he spotted a speck of dust on your robe during dinner.

“Hold still,” he said sharply, brushing it off with the utmost seriousness.

“Draco, it’s barely visible---”

“Barely visible isn’t invisible,” he cut in, flicking the imaginary lint away with a look of triumph. “You’re welcome.”

Sometimes, his gestures were less about precision and more about necessity. During a Quidditch match, the wind had ripped your hair tie loose, leaving your hair whipping into your face. Draco, seated beside you, sighed audibly before pulling out a spare ribbon from his pocket.

“You carry ribbons?” you asked, bewildered.

“Of course not,” he said, already tying it into place with practiced ease. “Mother always says to be prepared for emergencies. Apparently, this qualifies.”

“Does it?”

“Obviously,” he said, brushing a stray strand out of your face. “Imagine how ridiculous you looked before I fixed it.”

You stared at him, torn between laughing and being annoyed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re lucky I am,” he replied smugly, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Whether it was adjusting your scarf or offering his arm, Draco's gestures always came with a quiet, meaningful undertone: he cared more than he’d ever admit.

V. BLAISE ZABINI

Blaise Zabini’s affection was effortless, delivered with the same smooth confidence he carried everywhere he went.

Take, for example, the way his hand always found your thigh when you sat next to him. It didn’t matter if it was in the library, the common room, or even during a particularly dull History of Magic lecture. His hand would settle there, light and casual, like it belonged.

“Are you even paying attention?” you whispered once, glancing at him while Professor Binns droned on about goblin rebellions.

“Not really,” he said, smirking as his fingers tapped absentmindedly against your leg. “But you are, and that’s far more interesting.”

His casual touches extended to the little things, too. Like the time you’d been sitting together at breakfast, distractedly spreading jam on your toast while skimming your notes. Blaise had leaned over, taken the knife from your hand, and spread the jam evenly in one smooth motion.

“You were going to ruin it,” he said simply, setting the toast back on your plate.

“It’s toast, Blaise,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“Precisely. There’s no excuse for sloppy toast,” he replied, his lips quirking into a half smile as he rested his elbow on the table and leaned closer.

He was equally casual about his protectiveness. When you walked into the common room one night, balancing a stack of books, Blaise, who was lounging on the couch, arched a brow.

“Drop one of those, and I’ll laugh,” he said lazily, though he was already standing.

“You’re so helpful,” you said sarcastically.

But before you could move, he reached out, took the books from your arms, and placed them on the nearest table. His hand brushed your back as he passed, light and deliberate. “There. Now you don’t have to make a spectacle of yourself.”

Even in the rare moments when you were annoyed with him, his touch had a way of disarming you.

Once, after an argument about which Quidditch team was better, you’d crossed your arms and turned away from him. Blaise, unbothered, leaned back against the couch and stretched his arm along the backrest until his fingers lazily grazed your shoulder.

“You’re mad,” he observed, his voice amused.

“No, I’m---” You stopped mid-sentence as he lightly trailed his fingers down your arm. It wasn’t much, just enough to make you shiver and forget whatever comeback you’d been forming.

“Hmm?” he prompted, his smirk growing.

“Nothing,” you muttered, glancing away, which only made him chuckle softly.

VI. REGULUS BLACK

Regulus Black wasn’t one for grand gestures. His affection was quiet, almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. But you always noticed.

It was in the way his fingers would brush against yours as you walked side by side through the castle corridors, his hand lingering just long enough to send a silent, unspoken message.

“Regulus,” you teased once, glancing down at where his hand hovered near yours. “You can hold my hand, you know. I won’t bite.”

He huffed softly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Sure you weren’t,” you replied, your voice laced with amusement. But before you could say anything else, his fingers laced with yours, quick, almost shy, but steady.

In the common room, when you were bent over a pile of parchments, furiously scribbling down notes, he would sometimes come up behind you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” he said one evening, his voice low and steady.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, not looking up.

He didn’t argue. Instead, his thumb brushed against the fabric of your robes, a small, grounding gesture. “Just don’t forget to breathe,” he said softly before slipping away, leaving behind the faint warmth of his touch.

And then there were the moments that caught you off guard, like when you’d been lost in thought by the Black Lake, the chilly wind tugging at your cloak. Regulus appeared beside you silently, slipping his scarf from around his neck and draping it over your shoulders without a word.

“You’ll freeze,” you protested, clutching the soft wool.

“I’ll survive,” he replied, his tone so matter-of-fact it made you smile. He didn’t move to take the scarf back, though he did stand close enough that his arm brushed yours.

And then one evening in the library, you were both pouring over ancient texts for a Potions essay, the quiet hum of the room interrupted only by the scratch of quills. Without looking up, he reached over and adjusted the candle near your book, tilting it so the light fell more evenly across the pages.

“Thanks,” you said softly, glancing at him.

He shrugged, not meeting your gaze, but the faintest hint of a smile played on his lips.

VII. TOM RIDDLE

Tom Riddle’s affection was as precise and calculated as everything else he did.

You were pacing the length of the common room, muttering under your breath as you reviewed your notes for the tenth time that evening. Tom, seated in his usual armchair, watched you with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “you’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

“I can’t help it,” you replied, not stopping. “I need to make sure I’ve got everything memorized.”

Before you could pass him again, he stood, closing the distance between you in two measured strides. Gently but decisively, he cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Stop,” he commanded, his tone low but unyielding. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, a gesture that was oddly soothing despite the intensity of his stare. “You’re better than this frantic display. Calm your mind.”

For a moment, all you could do was blink up at him, the warmth of his hands grounding you in a way that words never could.

“Better?” he asked, his dark eyes searching yours.

“Better,” you admitted, your voice softer now.

He stepped back, letting his hands fall to his sides, though he lingered close enough that the heat of his presence remained.

There were other moments like this, too, where his touch was both a command and a reassurance.

Like the time he found you struggling to reach a book in the library. Without a word, he appeared behind you, effortlessly plucking the book from the shelf and handing it to you. When you opened your mouth to thank him, he tilted your chin up with a single finger, his expression unreadable.

“You shouldn’t have to struggle,” he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper.

Or the time you were arguing with him over something trivial (probably his refusal to let anyone but himself tutor you).

“You’re insufferable,” you’d snapped, crossing your arms.

“And you’re too intelligent to waste time bickering with me,” he replied smoothly. Before you could fire back, he placed his hands on your shoulders, his grip firm but not unkind. “Now, sit down and let me help you. You’ll thank me later.”

Despite the commanding edge to his touch, there was something deeply reassuring about it. A promise, unspoken but felt in every deliberate move.

Because with Tom, every gesture carried the same message: You’re mine, and I’ll make sure you never forget it.

A/N: SURPRISEEE just temporarily back bc i missed writing and I missed you guys

Taglist (for those who asked to be tagged in everything) = @smut-anarchy, @marikajhaha, @nottinmyheart, @hzdhrtss, @babene-e

love u guys

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