#how to annotate for university

[sandramiksaauthor]

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

[lady-gravity-129]

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

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

[earlyspringtranscendence]

ik im talking a lot abt the books im reading rn (this is due to the fact that after eons of not having the time or energy i am once again reading books) but theydies i can happily announce that after 2 unsuccessful weapons and wielders books soulbrand has truly captured my enamoration once again i’m kissing keras lovingly and tenderly (the only way to kiss him)

[victory-cookies]

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

[iris-qt]

Are we getting more of theo whom has a staring problem

The Boy Who Folded First

-> Part Ⅰ - The Boy Who Stares

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

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

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

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

He is.

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

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

You go back to your essay. Or try to.

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

You glance up.

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

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

His eyes flick up, startled. “Yes?”

“You’re not even pretending to study.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Both.”

Cue the butterflies. Stupid, ridiculous, flapping butterflies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You drop your quill.

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

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

…

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

You really don’t.

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

You flip open your notebook.

And there it is.

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

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

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

You unfold it carefully.

And you gasp.

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

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

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

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

You look up.

Theodore Nott is standing there.

He looks like he wants to flee the country.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You would?”

You nod. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

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

He groans. “I knew you noticed.”

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

Spoiler: it is.

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

[annabelle--cane]

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

yes! it did!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EDIT II:

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

here is a wayback machine capture of the bonzoland website.

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

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

[spicynova]

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

pairing: college nerd!soobin x college reader

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

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

… ꨄ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he looks good. great even.

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

there he laid in all his glory;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he must know what he’s doing to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

okay, so he did know.

“but i only want cuddles-“

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

there’s no point in denying it either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“have fun!!”

————- ꨄ

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

[fligniuz]

sex for homework

luigi mangione x reader

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

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

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

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

You have a bit of a dilemma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes.

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

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : Smh

Who studies the night before their final?? Dummy

You smile, replying:

i do :(

help pls :((

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : You poor thing

And then:

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

We’ll work it out together

Score. He adds:

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

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

no promises :P

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, what were you thinking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”But I think you should,” he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[venmondiese]

ONE MISSING POINT

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

✧ | Pairing: Michael Gavey x reader

✧ | word count: 2.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why was he being so weak around you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirk, nodding slightly as you appreciate his words. 

“A bit riské” you tease him playfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, next time we’ll see”

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

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

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

[cottonlemonade]

Dating You For A Bet [Part 2]

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

pairing: University AU!Matsukawa x chubby!Reader

genre: angst

warnings: bullying

[part 1]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They laughed again but hurried inside.

“Y/-“

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

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

He would have noticed eventually how amazing you were.

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

He would have. Eventually. Wouldn’t he?

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

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

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

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

“I prefer to see it as romantic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tch.”

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

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

He looked up. “What?”

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

“That’s not… I’m so so sorry, Y/n.”

“Stop saying that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Done.”

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

“Actually… I have a date.”

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

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

[part 3]

[renthony]

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

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

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

[liliesformingi]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Basically, you two were cosy.

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

Eventually, you were bored, hungry and worn out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feel a bit better?”

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

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

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

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

“Yun-”

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

“Yunho, shut up.”

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

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

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

“That I can do,” he smiled.

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

[joonjuul]

Hi errmm so I wanna ask if you can make some nerd or shy jimin x yan!reader/bully!reader, I really hope you can consider my request, I would appreciate it if you can make one, cuz some author have been ignoring my request, and thank you so much

test me. pjm

pairing: nerd!jimin x bully!reader

wc: 4.8k

warnings: nerdy!jimin, loser!jimin, subby!jimin, jimin might be a switch, virgin!jimin, experienced!reader, bully!reader, academic rivals, oc is a bitchhh, crazy sexual tension, pwp, public sex, voyeurism, unprotected sex (wrap it up), oral (male receiving), light fingering (f receiving), orgasm denial (jimin receiving hehehehe), some crack

a/n: this took me a while but tysm for the req !!! im weak for subby jimin tbh

╋━

you were curious. you always had been growing up. you saw something that interested you and you immediately had to know more, and he was no different.

he was quiet and timid, could’ve easily been described as your polar opposite. but what was worse was how he constantly had to one-up you in everything he did. i mean sure, you were smart, gunning for valedictorian at what was considered to be a top university in your state, but he was somehow always one step ahead of you.

“whoops!” you say sarcastically as you bump into him in the hallway, knocking his books out of his hands as you watch him struggle to gain his composure, quickly falling to his knees to pick up his belongings.

but what bugged you even more, was that he never gave into your rude comments, the way you pushed him around, laughed at him, teased him in any way you could. he never gave you a reaction, and it drove you absolutely mad.

“didn’t see you there squirt. better pick those books up and get to studying, wouldn’t want me to get a better grade than you on professor jeon’s exam tomorrow.” but he doesn’t even glance in your direction. just shyly retreats down the hall, his hair bouncing in the wind of his quick strides.

you’ve known jimin since high school. you thought you’d escaped him after graduation, but you somehow ended up at the same university as well. it was almost as if he enjoyed your persistent teasing, you had been on him about it for years. since the day he got a 98 on your freshman math midterm and you only got a 92. ever since then, you just continued to get meaner, and meaner, hoping that eventually he’d snap and give up, allow you to take first place, or even better, transfer schools, but he never did.

you walk to the library calmly, carefully picking a quiet corner where you can peacefully get some studying in. this was going to be the one, you thought to yourself as you situated yourself, sprawling your papers and textbooks out on the table. this was going to be the one where i finally win.

and like that, you were off.

your eyes scanned every word in front of you, your hand vigorously jotting down notes and annotations as you soaked up every piece of information like a sponge. everything was falling into place, and even better, professor jeon taught history, and that was your best subject, and just so happened to be jimin’s worst. victory was clear as day.

almost an hour had passed before you realized your mortal enemy was sat only a few tables down from you, the library filled with your intense breathing as you came to the realization that not only had he came into the space undetected by you, but that he was studying for the same reason you were.

your focus is now completely lost, he was in enemy territory, he knew better than to use the library on the north end of campus. it was right next to your dorm and he knew that.

you slam your text book shut, collecting all your belongings in your hands as you stride confidently to his table, loudly dropping everything in front of him before taking a seat.

he looks up quickly, his eyes wide as he watches you sit down before him.

“what’s up study buddy.”

he quickly looks back down, doing his best to keep his composure but you quickly notice his knee bouncing beneath the table.

“nervous for the test tomorrow?” you put on a fake voice, doing your best to sound as nice as possible, which was something you weren’t used to doing. but the bait worked, and you watch as he carefully picks his head back up, his eyes landing on yours, his brows furrowed as if he’s confused why you’re being friendly.

he shrugs, “a little. i’ve never been the best at history.” his voice is quiet, but his body language speaks volumes, he was completely and totally intimidated by you.

“i’m pretty good at history, maybe i could tutor you.” your inflection comes off more teasing than you intended it to, but even so, jimin doesn’t seem to notice, as he carefully processes your proposal.

“what do you want?” he speaks more clearly this time.

“what do you mean?”

“well… you’re being nice to me. and you’re not nice.”

you roll your eyes at his question, “what i can’t be nice to you?”

jimin’s stare increases, not replying as if his lack of response says enough already.

“fine you’re right. i can’t be nice to you. you drive me insane and im gonna need you to stop studying to i can outperform you for once.” you snap, watching as his eyes widen at your words and foul tone.

“if you want out perform me, you’re just gonna have to be better than me.”

your scowl deepens, hatred blossoming within your stomach as you watch him flip a page in his textbook teasingly.

“i am better than you.” you grit through your teeth.

“the grades say otherwise.” his gaze falls to his book again as he continues to flip another page, but you’ve just about had it with his brattiness. you quickly stand up from your seat and lean across the table, closing his book harshly, nearly missing his finger as you watch his eyes snap up to yours in surprise. sure you were a bitch to him, but you’ve never been so close to actually physically hurting him.

“listen you little shit, i’m tired of you thinking you’re better than me. you’re nothing. you might have a slight edge on me academically, but who’s more popular ? who gets invited to the parties ? who balances their social life with being second in the class ? i’d rather be second and have something to live for besides extra credit.” you lean closer to him as you speak, watching as he cowers back in his chair, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips, noting how his hand trembles nervously with every inch closer you get to him.

you chuckle noticing how easily he reacts to you. “i bet this is the closest you’ve ever been to a woman.” your breath is hot against his face as you smile, knowing you’ve finally let out every horrible thing you’ve been keeping in all these years.

you watch as his eyes widen even further, a slight sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead as he begins to stutter.

“t-that’s n-not true.”

“sure. then why are you so nervous?” you reach up and brush a hair from his face, watching as he leans back into his chair further, almost afraid of your touch. but he’s unable to garner a response, only open his mouth slightly but no words are able to escape.

you smile with victory, finally feeling like your beating him at something as you return to your original position and begin packing up your things, only glancing up at him occasionally to see his shocked state.

with one arm full, you begin to walk past him with powerful struts, until you feel a hand grip your free wrist tightly.

with a quick turn of your head, your eyes land on him, his head down as he holds your wrist tightly, obviously avoiding your eye contact at all costs.

“i need you to teach me.” you hear him barely whisper.

“what? what could i possibly teach you since you’re so much smarter than me?” you respond sarcastically.

he continues to look down as you hear him breathe heavily for a moment, fighting the urge to say the things he wants to say.

“teach me how to be good with women.”

you stand frozen in place, your body overwhelmed with shock and disbelief as you try to process what he’s saying.

“what exactly are you asking me to do?” you already knew the answer, but you still couldn’t believe a boy like him would have the confidence to ask a girl like you this.

he lets out a deep sigh, but eventually lifts his head so his eyes meet yours, and they’re filled with so much desperation you feel your stomach turn, but not in a bad way, in a strange way you’ve never felt before. he almost looked, pretty like this.

“please.” his words comes out in a beg, his eyes filled with innocence and you think you might explode at the sight. but what in god’s name were you thinking ? he was a nobody, you wouldn’t be caught dead hooking up with someone so low on the social totem pole they have less cred than someone in chess club.

but you’re unable to stop yourself as you use the wrist he’s holding to pull him out of his chair, wrapping your hand around his tightly before you’re pulling him to a secluded bookshelf in the library.

“are you out of your mind?” you speak a bit louder now that you feel a sense of privacy in such a quiet and public area of your big campus. “what makes you think i would ever do anything with you?” you say with disgust.

he tips his head down, looking at the floor again, which is strange now that you’re standing because he’s always been quite a bit taller than you.

“im sorry, it was a bad idea i should’ve never mentioned it.”

“yeah you really shouldn’t have.” your voice is growing angrier now. “god i can’t believe you actually think you’d have a chance with me.”

he looks back up at you, his eyes less submissive and more annoyed at your growing insults.

“am i really that repulsive to you?”

“uhh yeah, pretty much.”

“then why keep talking to me? all the teasing? sitting at my table while im studying? after all these years why not just leave me alone?”

your face freezes for a moment as you recall every mean thing you’ve done to him since high school. he always took it, this was the first time he’d ever talked back. as much as you always wanted a reaction from him, and you thought you were curious about him, what if that was stemming from a place other than academic jealousy?

you shake the thoughts from your brain as you return to your argument.

“you’re easy to tease, i guess i got used to it over the years.”

“so you’re telling me you don’t feel a single hint of attraction towards me? that this all comes from a place of hatred?”

you freeze at his words. were you sure that you didn’t have any attraction towards him? since high school you dated the captain of the football team, the captain of the debate team, and the student body president, why would you ever be interested in a guy like jimin? maybe curiosity got the best of you over the years. every time you watched him pass you in the hallway and felt the urge to push him into a locker, was it because you hated him? or because you wanted an excuse to touch him?

“god shut up!” you yell loudly, with a certain amount of volume you really shouldn’t use in a library. jimin’s eyes widen at your outburst, and before you’re able to react, he lunges forward and places a hand over your mouth. your eyes meet, darting between one another as you feel the tension bloom in your stomach once again. the feeling of his skin over your face, over your lips, almost sending you into a frenzy. he had never been this close to you before.

jimin watches your reaction, gauging how your eyes get bigger, but you don’t push him away, you don’t spit in his hand or bite his fingers, you stand there, still. moments pass before jimin realizes the outburst is long over, finally pulling away and backing up against the bookcase, wanting to create more space between the two of you.

“i’m sorry.” he ducks his head down again, avoiding how the look on your face changes, how you’re no longer mad, how you’re not talking, maybe not even breathing.

you clench your fists together, taking a deep breath to calm yourself as you question whether or not this is a good idea, whether or not this will change everything for you.

fuck it.

you take a step forward, bringing your hands to his face as you pull him in. your lips meeting each other’s with ease as you feel him melt into you quickly, your mouths moving with synchronicity, but a hunger that you’ve never felt before.

you ignore his gentle whines as you push him further into the bookcase, the bindings scratching his back lightly as he fights the urge to moan out in pain. but you couldn’t care less. if this was going to happen, it was going to happen on your terms, which meant before you’re able to really think about your decision and change your mind.

your kiss turns feverish as you bring your hands down to his pants, fumbling with the button as you begin to undo them.

jimin pulls away quickly, looking at you nervously before glancing down the bookshelf aisles, waiting for an unsuspecting student to turn the corner and see you both.

“do you want to learn or not, brat? this is your only chance.” his eyes dance between yours, head spinning as he feels a wave of nervousness overwhelm him.

“what if someone sees?” his voice now a hushed whisper.

“you better be quiet then.” you push his pants down just enough to release his hard on, his underwear the only thing keeping it contained. you look down and see the imprint of his cock, your mouth watering at the sight as you realize his size. maybe you should start sleeping with nerds more often.

you place a hand on his cock, stroking it gently through his underwear as you look up just in time to see him throw his head back against the bookshelf, his eyes rolling back in pleasure as he stifles a moan.

“you respond so easily. you’ve definitely never been touched before, huh?”

he bites his lip, shaking his head aggressively as his hips subconsciously rut into your hand, already overwhelmed at the sensation of your touch, and you were loving every second of it.

you never thought you’d be interested in a submissive man until now. the sight of him already losing control and you’d barely even started was like nothing you’d ever seen before, and you were sure your panties were already soaked.

you continue stroking him slowly, but bring your hand down to his as you lead it up your skirt and to the hem of your undies, helping him move them to the side carefully before guiding his fingers to your drenched cunt.

his eyes go huge as he feels how wet you are, his fingers exploring your folds and clit before working their way down to your throbbing entrance.

you lean closer to him, the heat of his body radiating onto yours as you lean into his ear, speaking at barely a whisper.

“you still want me to teach you?”

he nods slowly, his fingers moving gently as if he’s afraid to hurt you.

“you’re doing good so far. just pretend you’re rubbing someone’s temple. use two fingers, and find the little nub, that’s the sweet spot.” he listens intently, following your directions as you speak, his fingers finally landing on your clit as he begins to rub torturously slow.

your knees buckle slightly but you keep your composure. you were normally a whiny mess with men, but something inside you gave you the strength to continue guiding him.

“that’s it, good boy. now just a little faster, and a little harder.” you feel his dick twitch at your praise and he listens soon after, his touch now starting a coil in your stomach as you feel it flutter with excitement. he was a very quick learner.

you stifle back a moan as you feel him speed up slightly, your body now leaning against his fully as you continue to stroke him through his underwear, the confinement now driving you insane. you just wanted to feel him.

you pull away slightly and watch as his hand retreats nervously.

“it’s okay, you did good. now lesson two.” you turn around, pulling the hem of your skirt up as you grab the bookcase in front of you, bending over slightly, your panties still pulled to the side giving him a full view of your dripping cunt.

“fuck me.”

“what?” his voice is shaky as he speaks, his palms sweaty and fingers still wet with your slick as his eyes dart between your pussy and your slightly turned head.

“it’s not hard, just line it up, make sure it’s the right hole, and go crazy. you’re a smart boy, you can figure it out.” jimin gulps as he takes a step forward, his hands wrapping around the waistband of his boxers as he pulls them down, his cock springing free as he brings the head of it to your cunt. he can tell it’s the right one because of how disgustingly wet you were. he wondered if all girls got this soaked, but quickly shook the thoughts from his head as he glanced around the aisle one more time.

the library was almost empty when you had arrived anyway, and now that it was at least an hour later, he was almost sure most of them would be gone, but he couldn’t help the way his cock twitched at the thought of someone seeing the two of you.

“are you gonna do it or should i?” you say impatiently, bringing a hand behind you to reach for his cock, but he quickly pulls it away.

“i got it, i got it.”

he lines up with your cunt one more time before taking a deep breath in, trying to ignore the nervousness he felt, but it’s not strong enough to keep him away from you.

he slowly pushes the tip of his cock into your wet hole, the feeling of your walls tightening around him making him almost moan loudly, but he’s able to suppress it just in time.

you quickly notice his struggle and push your hips back against his cock, only allowing him to enter you more as he grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your sides almost painfully.

“that’s it, good job, keep going.” you praise as he begins to fill you up. his head beginning to spin as he feels how warm and wet you are, how you constrict around him tighter than he’d ever imagined it to be. it felt like heaven, it was enough for him to fall in love right then and there. quit school and study you instead.

and just like that he bottoms out. his cock filling you up to the brim as his balls land on your clit, his hips stalling as he bites his lip firmly, anything to keep the moans inside of him and not within the air of the library.

but you’re in exactly the same boat. a hand covering your mouth as you realize just how big he really is. you’d never felt so full nor stretched before. the head of his cock so deep inside you that it was practically touching your womb, you wouldn’t be surprised if you pushed on your stomach and his cock went flying out of you, it was almost torture feeling him hold still.

“okay, good.” you say in between breaths, your chest heaving as you try to regain your composure. “you can move now.”

jimin’s silent for a minute, he wants to plow into you, make you start screaming, fuck you until you see stars, but he didn’t know where to start or what to do.

“how do i… how do i move?” his voice trembles and you almost want to just push him on the floor and ride him right then and there.

“just do whatever feels right, jimin.”

he notices the annoyance in your voice and realizes this is probably just as hard for you as it is for him. he needed to man up and start fucking you before you changed your mind.

he pulls his hips back slowly, feeling your walls loosen as they allow him to escape, the sight of his slick stained cock sliding out of you makes him almost dizzy, but he swallows a gulp, before slamming his hips back into yours.

you let out a light squeal, your hand going up to cover your mouth again as he begins to fuck you desperately. his hips moving quickly as you hear him pant and whine behind you.

of course he had to be noisy during sex.

“f-fuck, okay that’s good, just be quiet.” you uncover your mouth quickly to provide feedback before covering it again, the feeling of him inside of you almost too much to bare.

his whines quiet but his breath is loud, the gentle slapping of his pelvis against yours filling the small aisle of bookshelves and you pray that everyone either has headphones on or went home by now. he was never gonna let up by the looks of it.

“what is this feeling? why does it feel like that?” his voice is filled with desperation as his hands grip your hips tighter, his pace never ceasing as he fucks you relentlessly. the sight of his cock drilling into you only fueling him on more.

“feels good, doesn’t it?”

he groans gently in response, the innocent boy now shedding away into something much, much different.

“can’t believe i went my whole life without this, fuck. you feel fantastic.” you moan out at his words, quickly covering your mouth again as you allow him to fuck you deeper, the bookshelf in front of you shaking slightly as you grab it, searching for some sort of stability.

“i thought i was supposed to be the one teaching you?” you choke out, stumbling over your words slightly as his thrusts speed up.

“fuck you’re right. well i did this right didn’t i?” jimin brings an arm forward around your waist and begins circling your clit again, making your legs weaken beneath you. you start shaking harder, moans slipping out from your hand over your mouth as you desperately try to keep your cool.

you nod, unable to muster a response and he smiles, loving how you react. his thrusts are sloppy, his balls slapping his hand against your clit as he tries to focus on you, but he starts to stumble as he feels his stomach tightening.

“shit. i don’t know how much longer i can last.” he stutters, his fingers on your cunt still moving harshly.

you swallow your pride and push his hand away from you, leaning forward as his cock slips out, making him groan loudly. you turn around to face him, shooting him a glare as you grab his shirt, pulling him in towards you.

“i thought you were gonna be quiet.”

jimin grins, his cockiness getting the better of him.

“and i thought you were gonna teach me.”

you quirk a brow at his words, before turning the corner of your mouth up in a smirk as an idea crosses through your mind.

“why don’t you teach me instead. you’re supposed to be the student prodigy, remember?” you say as you fall to your knees in front of him, grabbing his cock as you begin to stroke it gently, causing him to groan at your actions.

“teach me, jimin. teach me how to be as smart as you.” your pout turns mocking as you lick a stripe up his cock, tasting the bitterness of both your slick and his precum. his eyes never leave yours as he watches you intently, his mouth slightly agape as he relishes in the feeling of your tongue on his sensitive skin.

“never noticed how easily your bitchiness turns me on.” he brings his hand to the back of your head and aligns your mouth with his cock, watching the way your mouth opens instinctively to let him in, your tongue sticking out just enough for him to admire the mixture of your juices mingling together in your mouth. the sight is nearly enough to make him cum right then and there.

you grin and don’t waste another second, dipping your head down to take him into your mouth as much as you can, your throat hollowing out at his size, lips suctioning his length as you begin to bob your head steadily.

“fuck.” he groans, tossing his head back as he gathers your hair into a make shift ponytail with one hand, the other gripping the bookshelf beside him tightly, turning his knuckles a pale shade of white.

as much as you wanted to cum, and feel him inside of you, you had to be careful in such a public place, and getting him off quickly was the only way to accomplish that.

his grip on your hair tightens as you hollow your cheeks more, saliva dripping down your lips as your eyes begin to water ferociously, his hips now falling on a gentle pace, matching your speed as he fucks your face.

“f-fuck, you don’t need a teacher. seems like you already know what you’re d-doing.” his praise shoots straight to your core as you try not to smile at his unintentional compliment. it was like you were finally winning, even if it wasn’t academically. he was under your control completely, and the thought of him being weak for you only made you want to toy with him more.

“please, keep going.”

you tighten your grip on his shaft, fighting against his hold as you pull back, his cock springing free as you look up to him innocently, slapping his tip against your tongue.

“aww, are you close ?” your voice is sweet, but jimin knows very quickly that you’re only taunting him further. his toes curling as he feels his release being pulled away from him for a second time.

“f-fuck, yes. why did you stop?”

you lick another stripe up his length, stopping at the tip to circle your tongue over it teasingly, the head now red and pulsing with need.

“i just want to hear you say it.”

“are you kidding? say what?”

you quirk a brow up at him, a grin plastered smugly across your face. “that i’m better.”

“no way, i’m not saying that.” his words fuel the fire in you even more as you place your finger on his slit, dragging painfully slow. his face contorts painfully, the edge clearly in sight and your teasing is almost unbearable.

“admit it, jimin.”

he lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair before tightening his grip on the back of your head.

“fine, fine, you’re better. you’re smarter, you’re sexier, god you’re everything, i’ll worship you i swear just please let me cum.”

you smile at his words, bringing his cock back up to your mouth before stopping one last time, looking up at him cheekily.

“and you’ll let me get a better grade than you on the history exam?”

he rolls his eyes in annoyance, hand gripping your hair even tighter before pulling you over his cock, your mouth engulfing him fully, not even caring at the fact that he didn’t respond.

“just suck my cock, please.” his words are breathless as he feels you begin to use your mouth faster now, drool leaking down his shaft as he pumps inside of you, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead as he tosses his head back with pleasure. the feeling of his release finally coming back almost enough to bring tears to his eyes.

you bring a hand to his thigh, leaving marks as you grip it tightly for some sort of stability, your nails in his skin only spurring him on further as he makes one final pump, releasing into your mouth completely.

it feels like it would never end, spurts of his hot cum dripping down your throat as you swallow every last drop, loving the sounds of his sweet moans above you.

he’s a crazy mess, his hair flopping over his face and eyes as he looks down at you, your mouth pulling away as you open slightly, showing him that there was none left.

“yeah you definitely don’t need me to teach you how to do that.” he brings a hand down to your cheek and pinches it cutely. the fight of standing back up from your weak knees was brutal as he uses his arms to steady you, your eyes meeting carefully before you clear your throat, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him away playfully.

“you’re letting me beat you with that exam, park jimin.” you turn and walk away, returning to your shared desk as you pick your books back up and prepare to leave for the evening, feeling more exhausted than ever.

“in your dreams, sweetheart.”

[erwinsvow]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

summary: how you and rafe got started <3

author's note: if i could stop losing my brain cells over rafe cameron for a minute that would be great but i can't so here it is <3 this is mostly cute but in the shea cinematic universe this establishes the beginning of what can only be a hopelessly codependent relationship <3 more parts to come! also none of this would be written without the surge of inspo i get from reading every single one of @princessbrunette's posts but in particular this one, this one, and this<3 one!

now spinning: one of the girls by the weeknd & jennie

Rafe’s always thought you were cute. 

Cute, he’d think to himself in passing, on a hot summer day when he was getting ready to take beers from the fridge and go find the boys at the country club. He didn’t need to steal anything, the waitress at the club always gave him whatever drink he asked for, but he just felt like taking them from the house today. 

You were dawdling around the house with a bored Sarah, all dressed up with nowhere to go. Sarah was texting on her phone, likely engaging in a virtual fight with Topper. He’d feel bad, but the two of them did it to themselves. You were at the counter with Wheezie, leaning on your elbows while the two of you discussed something. He didn’t really care, until he met your eyes for a second. 

Cute. The way you met his eyes and then looked away, face heating up. You were in a bikini and a coverup, probably waiting for his sister before spending the day on the beach or at the pool. The cover up was white and see through, covering everything to the point where no one could see anything but the faint yellow of your bikini underneath.

Leaning on the counter, when you looked away, he got a glimpse into the top of your dress. He could make out little yellow flowers on the material of your bikini and the outline of your tits squeezed against each other. 

He grabbed a beer and opened it with his back tooth, spitting the cap out on the counter next to Wheezie’s book.

“Ew, Rafe, get your spit molecules away from my book.”

“Who reads in the summer anyways? You should be glad for my spit if it makes you stop.”

“It’s my summer reading, Rafe, not everyone can just skip their assignments and get away with it.”

“Please, what have I skipped?”

You and Wheezie turn to look at each other and start laughing. He cracks a smile too, unexpectedly.

“Actually, it’s a great book. You’re missing out, Rafe,” you say, with a smile gracing your face, and he realizes he’s never actually heard the sound of your voice. You’ve maybe said hi to him twice, and both times Sarah had dragged you away within seconds. You even sound cute. His name on your tongue sounds even cuter.

“Really? Maybe I need to give it a try.” You laugh again, meeting his eyes this time. 

“You can’t have my copy, I already put my annotations in this one-“

“Stop yapping, Wheeze. I’m not gonna take yours.”

“Actually you have a copy in the library upstairs. I borrowed it last summer.”

“Really, kid? Wanna come find it with me?”

Your face heats up so much you turn away. He smiles then, and he smiles again when you follow him up to the library.

“This one is fantastic too, it’s about this young girl in England-” your voice continues to describe the plot of the book in your hand. You shelve it and then your eyes immediately land on another, another classic, another favorite. You ramble off the description but Rafe’s hardly paying attention.

He’s trying to recall when you had become so cute, so pretty. He thinks he’s never noticed you after you walk away with Sarah, or when he walks away from you two lounging on pool chairs, your nose in a book like always.

This is different. When had you become so irresistible?

Your pretty hair falls down your back. It sticks to your neck when the two of you are outside in the sun, in the heat. He has an urge to lick the sweat off just to see how you’d blush and feel how you’d squirm. Your eyes are warm and bright, but you’re still too shy to meet his blue ones, even when it’s just the two of you.

And it has been. Just the two of you, recently, almost all of the time. Sarah’s always off with her stupid friends and Wheeze is at home doing her summer work. 

The two of you travel to every ice cream parlor in the eight in the next few weeks. Conversation comes easily, even though you have nothing in common. He hasn’t picked up a bag from his dealer since he started talking to you, he realizes. Hasn’t felt the need to get high.

You’ve never even smoked weed, much less snorted coke. You’ll drink at a party with Sarah, but not too much, and you always end up being the sober friend holding back the vomiting girl’s hair. At the bonfire that he invites you to, your eyes keep darting around, seeing if anyone needs your help. 

Rafe moves so he’s standing right in front of you, blocking your view.

“Hey, kid,” he says quietly, leaning in. You’re boxed in, with Rafe and only Rafe on your mind. The clean, attractive scent of his cologne. The way it lingers on his clothes, like the button up you’re wearing over your pink dress.

He picks up the red cup in your hand and places it on the log beside you, balancing his beer next to it. His hands are cold from the bottle but you don’t mind much. He takes your wrists first, holding them in place, and then slides down so your hands are touching. 

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” You were looking down at the hands, where the two of you were connected, but his voice makes you look up. He’s looking at you, and you want to hide your face. Your fingers twitch beneath Rafe’s grip. He holds on even tighter. “Don’t look away, princess. We gotta work on that, huh?”

You feel your face heating up at the nickname. You wish you were home so you could scream into your pillow.

“Sorry, sorry,” you scramble, trying to look up but you can’t find the strength or the will.

You’re embarrassed. Of course you are—this is Rafe, and you’re just you. Rafe is the one you’ve had a crush on since you knew what crushes were, and you are still the awkward little thing you were the first time you met him. 

His gaze burning holes through you makes you want to run and hide. Because this is Rafe, and right now you’re one of his girls. The ones Sarah’s complained about the whole time she’s known you—they get too attached, act all clingy, and then are replaced before long. 

You hear Rafe’s quiet laughter. You’re still boxed in, feeling hot and clammy even though he’d given you his button up not thirty minutes ago because you felt cold. 

“What’re you saying sorry for?” You look up quickly, and then look back down. Then Rafe’s hands leave yours, and he holds up your chin until you’re looking right into his eyes. “Hmm?”

You feel like puking. 

“I-I just, well I just-”

“You just what?”

“I don’t think I can be, um, be one of your flingy, uh fling-type girls. So, you know, maybe all of this isn’t a good idea.”

“Fling-type girls?” he questions. He’s holding back a laugh, which makes you irrationally upset. You shove hard against his chest to free yourself from the cage of his arms. 

“Yes, your fling-type girls. You have a new girl on your arm every week, and everyone knows it, and I refuse to be one of them, because it’s just embarrassing and dehumanizing,” he watches you ramble on. He smiles, but you don’t notice. “And frankly, I deserve better than that.”

“Are you done?” You glare back at him.

“Yes, and not because you said that. I was done anyway.”

“Good.” Your face drops for a second, thinking you overstepped and totally overreached regarding his intentions, but then Rafe surprises you—he leans in and kisses you. 

You weren’t expecting a playground peck, but the way he’s kissing you completely surpasses any and all expectations (and fantasies) you’d dreamt up. His grip on your hips is hard, and his tongue is almost down your throat. It’s messy, and wet, and when he pulls away, there’s strings of spit connecting you to each other. 

You should wipe your mouth before anyone sees, but you don’t. Your heart is racing, and you can barely speak, much less move. 

“If I wanted you to be one of my girls, I wouldn’t have spent the last three weeks listening to you blab about books and buying you ice cream. You’re gonna be my only girl, and that’s that, okay?”

You nod dumbly—words and motions still not quite back yet. You feel flushed. People’s eyes are on you both.

“Now, do you wanna head out and go get a cone?” You nod again. “Good girl. And watch your mouth.”

[antoncore]

a thousand poems | l.at

word count: 1k

contains: (almost) tooth-rotting fluff, reader is a bit of a valentines hater, university au, literature student!anton

synopsis: you never saw the point in valentines, dreading it every year. that was until anton, a sweet literature student came along and changed your perspective…

anton lee was genuinely one of the sweetest boys you’d ever met if not the sweetest. he was a literature student that you started talking to on one of your regular library trips. the two of you had gotten so close that he’d shown you his “secret spot” — an empty hallway hidden in the corner of the top floor of the building. he offered a sense of calm between all your stressful deadlines and overwhelming classes. whenever you’d have your hangouts, he’d either have a snack that you mentioned you liked, a song to recommend you, a book that reminded him of things you’d talked about or a new poem he’d scribbled down before leaving for classes that morning.

it was now a few days before valentines and it was all that consumed your campus life — heart decorations in the student union, posters for speed dating events plastered on every noticeboard you laid your eyes upon and an overwhelming amount of emails from various societies advertising themed events. you hadn’t given much thought to the day, being too preoccupied with upcoming deadlines. you walked up the stairs, your bag heavy with the books you needed for one of your upcoming assignments.

as you turned the corner, you saw anton already waiting, cross-legged on the floor with an open book on his lap. his glasses had slid slightly down his nose, and he tapped his pen against the page, deep in thought about what to annotate it with next. “you’re here,” he teased, looking up to smile at you. his smile was soft and warm, making your heart race and settle all at once — something that nobody else had been able to do. “of course,” you replied, dropping your bag beside him with a sigh. “although i had to battle my way through a sea of valentines decorations to get here.” he laughed at your dramatic tone, shaking his head as he put his pen down.

“looks like i’ll be your escape,” he said with a grin, making space for you to sit. “i can tell you need a break.” you flopped down beside him, your exhaustion from the day’s classes suddenly feeling a bit lighter. anton’s smile softened as he spoke gently, “come on, let me read something to distract you.” “you always know exactly how to comfort me,” you said, your voice quieter than usual. he started to read from the book in his lap, his voice gentler than ever. you recognised the words from one of his favourite books, a romance novel he’d spoken about often. you rested your head on his broad shoulder as you continued to listen to him read.

the way he read every word felt intentional, like they held a deeper meaning that only he could understand. anton paused to look at you and smiled softly, only for your eyes to unintentionally meet his for a brief moment. if either of you were unsure of your feelings before, that brief moment made everything clear. there was a tenderness in the way he acted now and it spoke volumes, unspoken yet understood.

“i-i umm… actually wanted to read something else to you. i know you’re tired of everything to do with valentine’s but… i’ve been working on a poem for a while now, and… i wanted your opinion,” anton admitted, trying his best to avoid eye contact. “a poem?” you repeated, your head tilting to look at him. he nodded, fiddling with the corner of the page. “yeah, it’s… nothing special, honestly,” he whispered, but the way his fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the piece of paper told you otherwise. you waited patiently, just like he always had for you.

finally, he cleared his throat and began reading the poem, his voice a little shaky at first. as his voice grew steadier at each line, the words sank deeper into your heart, realising every word resonated with the connection you’d come to share. you could feel the warmheartedness behind them, the vulnerability in how he expressed what was so often left unsaid. before you knew it, he had finished the poem and looked up, his cheeks flushed, unsure as to how you’d respond. you stayed silent, reflecting on what he’d said, unsure whether you could find the words to express how you felt. you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper.

“anton… that was so… beautiful,” you breathed out, the weight of the words still sinking in, your cheeks just as flushed as his. “it was perfect.” his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to say something but instead he gently traced the edge of the paper with his fingers, his eyes searching yours. “you really think so?” he questioned, his confidence lacking in the moment. “i was so nervous to read that to you.” you smiled reassuringly as you studied his face fondly. “why? you know i love everything that you share with me.” “because this was different, y/n,” he admitted, lifting his head up fully. “this was… for you.”

the air between you shifted as you swallowed, your fingers slightly shaky. “anton…” he hesitated for a second before reaching for your hand, his touch warm and grounding. “i meant every word,” he confessed, his thumb softly brushing your knuckles. “every single one.” your breath caught in your throat. the touch of his gentle hands, his sound of his calm voice along with the way he was looking at you — like you were something precious, irreplaceable — was almost overwhelming.

you were speechless and it was impossible to deny that everything inside you pulled you towards him, as if you were connected. slowly, you leaned in, closing the space between the two of you. anton’s breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly before they fluttered shut. your lips met in a soft kiss, one filled with all the words you couldn’t say right now. his hand moved to cup your cheek, his touch featherlight, as if he were afraid this moment would end too soon. the way you melted into each other felt natural, as if this was always meant to happen. his fingers held you for just a second longer before you both pulled away breathless, his glasses slightly askew and his cheeks even more flushed than before, matching your own.

“so y/n… can i—” he paused, his eyes asking for your reassurance. “can i be your valentine?” his question hung in the air, soft yet filled with so much meaning. you smiled, heart fluttering at the sincerity in his eyes. you cupped his face gently, bringing him closer as you whispered, “of course.” anton’s eyes brightened and before you knew it, he was kissing you again, more tenderly than before.

“i’d write a thousand poems just to show you how much you mean to me.”

cee’s taglist ☾⋆⁺ : @sshwaa @seokiebin @gacktsa @nlovesbjh @atzhrts @yuzuksi

[atlaswav]

CATACLYSMIC ☾

INFO: 5252 words..... dr ratio x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: You hate him, of that you're certain. You hate the man behind the alabaster figurehead, and you want to see him unravelled, but you don't know exactly what you do to him. WARNINGS: um alcohol and one kiss. also some swearing but mostly fine AUTHOR'S NOTE: rising from the grave to bring to you this thing i found this in my drafts from who knows how long when I was obsessed with this man (still am). someone help. i can no longer write this much for one fic. what was i on.

Veritas Ratio made it no secret that he despised those who lived in ignorance. He openly shunned those who were stupid enough to turn their eyes from knowledge – they’d be beggars in due time. They didn’t know how the world was governed, and ignorant fools would play victim to fate’s cruel touch.

With this philosophy of his, you often wondered whether or not his ivory figurehead would soon burst with the tumultuous storm of the man’s self importance. You wondered what would lie underneath. Surely, the divine makers would’ve allowed balance in his creation – surely, his face was horribly disfigured in exchange for such otherworldly intelligence. 

He was both delightfully astute and horrendously ill mannered at once. Brighter than your entire class combined – your entire university combined, no doubt – but his pretentiousness was overflowing, and you believed he was in dire need of being put in his place.

Arrogant and pretentious were two of the words that came to mind when someone mentioned Dr. Ratio, and you were sure you weren’t the only one who refused to worship his word like the gospel. In turn, he seemed to despise your very existence, as if you were merely a faded annotation in the footnotes of an ancient epic. Vandalising a work of art. A moustache on the Mona Lisa. Circe in the Odyssey, if she’d welcomed sailors with open arms, allowing them to degrade her as they would a common concubine, not a descendant of the gods.

Yet instead of sharing the witch’s beguiling, seductive nature, you only shared her mortal voice. Thin, reedy, quiet, compared to the booming voices of gods. The voice of Veritas Ratio. Your achievements could only pale in comparison to his, and it took everything within you to clap politely as he received his third – fourth? (you weren’t intent on keeping track) – diploma.

God you hated that man. You’d muttered as much under your breath countless times.

“Dr. Ratio is fine. No need to worship me.” he’d once corrected. But the attempt at humour was lost on you as your classmates began to laugh. The divine makers likely brought him into existence just to spite you. Oftentimes, you fought your urges to hurl the nearest textbook at his caricature head and watch the plaster crack, fall to the floor, and reveal his disfigured face. 

Not that you’d seen it before – lingered around him enough to see it disappear.

His scorn held no favourites, and certainly not when it came to you. He’d openly dragged your work through the dirt a couple of times before, and it was only a matter of time before he did it again. His words were scalding, leaving burns across your thin skin and leaving your mouth tasting of ash. Your voice, faint and human, fell quiet at his ‘gospel’. 

If it weren’t obvious, the hatred was mutual. He’d never admit it outright – he was far beyond these meaningless, trivial things such as immature hatred – but you felt his scathing glare in your soul, even through that perturbing headpiece, and that was enough. 

“Have you found it?” 

You turn around, meeting the cold, blank, unseeing gaze of his caricature head behind you. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but no one else had asked him about it, so you never pushed him further. None wanted to invoke his wrath, no matter what circumstance. It was a miracle neither of you had exploded at each other yet, but you suspected that he’d gladly put aside any type of loathing he harboured for you so that this project would get done faster. 

You were happy to oblige as he took the lead. A free credit was a free credit. But you did have your limits.

“Nope. The text is ancient. I doubt this library has it.”

“Nonsense.” he clicked his tongue, glancing to the side. “I’m asking the professor. Go work on your part.”

Patience is a virtue, as you keep reminding yourself. 

“Sure. Let me know if you find anything.” you say instead of the retort that sits on your tongue. False niceties and biting, underhanded remarks. This charade was entertaining, at the very least.

How did everyone love him? There had to be people like you who shared your dislike towards that conceited scholar. With a long suffering groan, you took a seat at one of the plethora of tables in the university’s library, clicked your pen and began to write. 

Maybe the reason he despised you so was because of your ideas, arguably the opposite of his own way of thinking. Where his twisted logic, rearranged rationality and pulled apart natural reasoning to formulate new material, you cut and stitched the work of others together to create your own emulations. (Frankenstein's monster. Was that a cliche? For Ratio, it probably was.)

He’d likely scrap what you’d written as soon as he returned, but that didn’t stop you from trying to spite him anyway. You hoped your readings wouldn’t go to waste as you recorded your findings, then started to draft an outline for your project. 

The scratch of paper became white nose, your hand struggling to keep up with the pace of your mind – was it even worth it? He’d likely call it worthless, snatch it from you and throw it into the recycling bin, then start writing his own outline. It only angered you further as you frowned at the page, wondering how he’d approach the project. 

The thump of a heavy tome on the wooden desk snapped you out of your sombre thoughts. 

“Here.” Ratio took a seat at the chair opposite of yours, brushing the dust off the thick text, leafing through its yellowed pages. “I told you they’d have it. You just need to search better.”

You offer him a tight smile. “Noted.” More false niceties, more flat remarks.

Then the figurehead disappears in a blink, and you nearly drop your pen. He barely pays you any mind as he runs a hand through his hair, flipping through the text. You’d heard the rumours of the handsome face beneath the statue, but you’d never have imagined him to be so disgustingly perfect. 

Statuesque. 

His deep violet locks looked unbelievably soft. His crimson eyes showed laser focus as he scanned the text in front of him, ignoring you completely as he noted something down. After a brief silence where you skim over your outline and he presumably attempts to decipher the undeniably unreadable and ancient text which you were opposed to reading in the first place, he turns to you with a sigh. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“I wrote an outline.” you hand the papers to him begrudgingly, fidgeting with the pen in your hand. You don’t meet his gaze, afraid that his calculating gaze might see too far into your soul. 

“This?” his distaste seeps through his tone. You don’t need to look at his face to know that he’s frowning. 

You say nothing as he skims through your work, twirling your pen between your fingers.

“...It’s not the worst thing I've ever read.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. 

“It’s not good, either.”

You scowl at him. 

“I can salvage it.” he nonchalantly throws it back onto the table, returning to the text at hand. 

You want to shove his grotesquely perfect face into the book. He really was put on this earth to spite you.

“Don’t just sit there. Go look for texts on criticism of our stance.”

You don’t know how you’re going to find the patience to survive this project. If anything, it irked you further to find that there wasn’t some monstrosity hidden behind that figurehead. In everything he did, he seemed to be inventing new ways to get on your nerves. However, unbeknownst to you, Veritas Ratio held you higher than you gave yourself credit for. He believed your ideas to be invigorating. Refreshing, almost. A welcome reprieve from the same reiterated, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated approaches that your other classmates had. 

You weren’t like the rest of the mindless, studying machines at the university. You could be brilliant, and it annoyed him that you didn’t know this. He’d admitted as much to himself before, but he’d never tell you. But it was still not good enough for his standards – far better than what the imbeciles in your class could’ve come up with – but still far behind him. Or so he kept telling himself. 

Days passed by without a word from either of you. You were content to write your part in the solitude of your dorm, and he seemed perfectly content mulling over whatever he’d found in that indecipherable ancient text. By the time you’d nearly finished your part, he decided to meet with you once again to share your findings. 

His definition of deciding to meet with you meant simply cornering you after class and asking you to follow him. 

You started to protest, but he’d already turned and briskly walked out of the classroom, so you groaned and followed after him, winding up in the library again. This time, in a secluded corner with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window, illuminating the small table and workspace with a warm glow. 

You wondered how he wasn’t winded after trekking across the entire campus. You certainly were. His muscled build suggested that a mere leisurely walk couldn’t possibly have tired him out. What did he eat? Was he what Nietzsche had in mind when he wrote of the Superman? 

“What are you doing? Sit.” he gestures to the seat across from him, and you sink into the armchair, taking out your papers. His headpiece disappears once again, and your breath catches in your throat. 

His hair cast a faint shadow across his face, and his eyes seemed to glow. As you leaned in closer, you realised there was a thin ring of gold around his pupils. 

“Are you done with your part?” he demands, breaking you out of your trance. 

You silently hand over your drafts, watching his eyes flit across your paper. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes narrowing, but he remains quiet. Were his eyelashes always this long? They created an indistinct shadow on his cheeks. His skin was pale, fair. Not the sickly kind of pale you thought he’d be. Did he exercise? You wouldn’t be surprised, with all your classmates always fawning over his broad, strong chest and narrower waist. 

Was it your imagination, or were his cheeks slightly flushed? It might have been the light. 

“It’s deplorable.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you sit back against the armchair. 

“Your ideas are rudimentary. Have you been reading at all?” he sighs, holding his head in his hand. “No matter. I can fix it. I don’t need you to do anything anymore. You can go.”

You stay seated in shock, unable to move. You’ve heard the anecdotes of people crying over being scolded by him, but was he always this harsh? 

“You know it’s a group project, right?” you begin before your better judgement can decide against it, “My work is just as important as yours, it doesn’t matter if you think my work is ‘deplorable’. I’m in the same class, I take the same course, I learn the same things as you do, you don’t get to look down on me no matter how stupidly smart you are.”

He raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Why not?”

“Take that stick out of your ass, Veritas Ratio. Get off your high horse.” you snatch your papers out of his hands and take your leave, ignoring his calls of your name. 

Were you dramatic? Yes, but not without reason. Given Ratio’s reputation for prioritising academics over everything else, you suspected that it wouldn’t take long for him to find you, either. 

You were so wrong. 

More days passed with no contact. He didn’t seem to be affected by your dramatics, and never once batted an eye in your direction unless necessary. It seemed your hypothesis of him inventing new ways to get on your nerves was on the track of being proved correct. But if you didn’t do something within the next few days, you trusted him to turn in the project without your name on the paper, resulting in a zero. 

He was just as stubborn as you, and though you were nothing compared to him in actuality, you were so close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you for who you were.

Seemingly, even in the battle of wits, he seemed to emerge victorious. 

“Ratio.” 

He barely glances up, engrossed in his writing. “What?”

“Are you done with the project?” Biting the bullet stings your teeth and left a bitter taste on your tongue. 

“No. Not yet. Why? You’re finally going to help?”

“Are you going to stop looking down at me?” 

The library is nearly empty. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon, and the voices of students float down the corridor beyond the grand stacks of books, yet you’re here. Why do you bother? Are you really that desperate for his validation?

“Are you going to keep writing such reprehensible work?”

You glare at him. “Guess not.” you turn on your heel.

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” he sighs, leaning back in the armchair. “You’re not aware of what you can do, are you?”

You glare at him. Your chest stings. 

He looks at you, then. Truly. His complexion relaxes, and he rubs his temples. “Sit. Let’s go through your part.”

“Why?”

“I mulled it over. Your part is brilliant.”

Your eyes widen.

“But your expression and research is appalling. Have you learned how to write academically at all?”

You’d never simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss a man at once until today. “What happened to getting off your high horse?”

“I got off it. Now sit and listen, I won’t repeat myself.”

You supposed that was the closest to an apology he’d ever give you, so you sat. It pained you, but you did. Besides, he had called you brilliant – your part – but still, you couldn’t force the smile from your face as you listened to his instruction. 

“Your ideas in your introduction are well formed, but from there, it all goes downhill. You have to reorder your logic for it to make sense, and we will be deducted points if you don’t elaborate on the principles of your concept first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So how would you do it?”

“For one, I’d restart completely and get straight to the point.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Show me, then, if you’re so good.”

His eyes narrow at you, but he says nothing as he motions for you to come closer. 

The librarian was likely too scared to kick either of you out after closing time. Your arguments were heard by all of your neighbouring desks, and whenever there was a break in conversation, it seemed as if everyone held their breath. There was pin drop silence except for the two of you – but neither of you realised it. 

He was blunt, and had no idea what you were thinking, but perhaps this is what entrapped him. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had called your ideas brilliant. 

You quickly learn how good of a teacher he is. Maybe it’s his forced patience or once-in-a-millenium genuine praise that spurs your decision, but you find yourself so willing to prove yourself, and he finds himself willing to help. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad. 

“Just fix it, stop arguing with me. I’m right.”

“Why? Do you know every single thing about our topic?”

“No, but I have four degrees and more experience than you.”

“Jackass.”

“Change it.”

You grumbled another insult under your breath, yawning as you scribbled out the section you wrote and began to reword your thoughts. The sudden quietude was jarring, and as you looked around, you realised the overhead lights were off, the only source of light from the lamps illuminating the desks. 

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, sitting up straight and stretching. 

“Who cares? Finish up, then we can head back.”

“Fuck you, give me a break. I don’t write at the pace of a robot.”

“Then learn.”

“Fuck you too Veritas Ratio.”

“Expand your vocabulary while you’re at it.”

“Why are you so intent on irritating me?”

“You get irritated easily. Not my problem.”

“If you know I get irritated easily, why do you keep provoking me then? Do you want me to hate you more?”

He seems to pause. Minisculely, almost unnoticeable had your gaze not been trained on him for the past few hours. He had a habit of pausing and furrowing his brows when you said something slightly out of line. 

“Just finish the paper. You talk too much.”

You sigh and get back to work as he leafs through his own research. 

Amicable silence passes. The night is alive outside, gleaming and glistening with the touch of benevolent gods and whispers of long gone wishes – pearls stitched by fate’s knowing hands. 

“I’m done.”

“Show me.”

You pass the paper to him as you watch his expression carefully. 

Crimson eyes flit across your work, gold ringed irises flickering in the scarce light. If you could capture the way the light reflected in his eyes in a jar, you think wishfully that you’d stare at it forever; Until the light died out, or it decided to escape the ephemeral glass confines. 

But you’d never admit it out loud. It was wishful. If Veritas Ratio could read minds, he would undoubtedly reprimand you.

He clears his throat, and you snap to attention, swatting away your fantasies of stealing and bottling evasive light. 

“It’s good.”

You wait for him to speak further, but he says nothing. “Just good?”

“Well, by my standards, no, but for you, it’s good.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he leans on the table, forearms flexing. “That you’re finally starting to live up to your potential.”

“Huh?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What potential?”

He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. Forget light, you’d barter with the lady of fate to let you preserve this moment in a frame so that you could glimpse this expression forever. You’d never seen him so dumbfounded and awed at once – you doubt anyone ever has. He’d always been a man of knowing, and whatever he didn’t know, he would find out. Nothing was ever a “maybe,” or a “probably,” it was always absolute. It had to be absolute in his philosophy. 

You happened to be the one exception. 

“You’re not aware of the potential you have?”

“You think I have potential?”

“Aeons,” he murmurs under his breath, before standing and gathering his belongings. “I’m going to bed. See you in class tomorrow. We’ll finish up then.”

He leaves before you have the chance to question him, but as you slump back in your armchair, you can’t help but smile. 

Potential was as close as you’d ever get to a compliment from Veritas. 

—

The lady of fortune and lady Themis looked him in the eyes and saw their mortal emanator at his birth. He’d never been certain what he was made for, but he never let it burden him. Things like these weren’t made for him to ponder, that was up to the dreamers and inventors. 

He was a being of logic. A doctor of calculations and reason, and everyone knew him as such. 

But he simply couldn’t figure out what it was about you – your naive gaze or that pout that absently curved your lips – that had your words and scent and eyes lingering in his mind like a vengeful phantom. 

You were the being of all chaos and irrationality, but you were so bright. Unhoned, rough and unhewn. A gemstone shining with impurities but shining still, casting a beautiful mosaic cast across the ground with indecipherable shapes and patterns. 

It was deplorable. He hated you for being on his mind, and hated you even more for your wasted potential. He hated how you stared, how his cheeks would redden from the intensity of your gaze, and how he’d have to pretend he was unfazed, because he couldn’t afford any distractions. 

You were the being of his undoing, he was sure. You were brought into existence to spite him, to bring an unaccounted variable into the equation of his being, and present a causality dilemma for all he was. 

He wanted you gone, but he wanted you closer all at once. 

He hated it. 

It wasn’t common for him to sleep in either, so when he woke five minutes before class was supposed to start, he cursed you with all the spite in his heart and rushed to class, clutching papers from the night before, still imbued with traces of your lingering fragrance. Just how long had you pored over those papers for your smell to latch to them? It should be impossible. Fate was clearly against him. 

Fate brought you back together as he entered the brimming lecture hall, and the only vacant seat was the one next to you. 

“Did you get the papers in order?” you asked, glancing at his dishevelled state. The Dr Ratio you knew was never dishevelled, but this was the closest you’d ever seen him to it. 

“Yes. Just write your name on your bits and sign the sign off sheet and it’s complete.”

You take the paper from him, scrawling your name across your work, then handing it back. 

With your project finally submitted, you could breathe easy again – never endure his biting remarks and criticism again. 

But as the class progressed, you realised you were in trouble. 

The professor was merciless. He flicked through the presentation on the new topic with haste, rushing through new concepts, formulae and calculations with record speeds. You’d nudged Ratio, whispering for help, but he rolled his eyes and kept his stare attentively on the presentation. 

You wanted to slap him. 

Was he tolerating you because of the project? Was he going back to cold stares and dismissive glances?

You wouldn’t allow it. Not when you were so close to discovering the man behind the alabaster figurehead. As soon as the professor signalled the end of the lecture, a collective sigh was released from the class. 

You turned to Ratio, and he was already staring at you. 

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Tutor me please.”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Pick someone else, then. I don’t see why I should.”

“You asshole, I’ll buy you lunch if you tutor me.”

He frowns at you as he begins to leave. You trail after him. “Please?”

He sighs deeply. Like a man burdened with the weight of his own world on his shoulders. Byron’s brooding, romantic hero, in his melodramatic glory. “Fine. Stop annoying me.”

You smile. “Thanks. Meet you at your dorm after dinner?”

He sighs again. “ Don’t be late or I'll lock the door and go to bed.”

He watched the seconds tick by in agonising motion – a man awaiting his sentence, but also his reprieve. Is this what his classmates felt before they took tests? It certainly seemed like it. Relief was on the horizon, and yet great suffering was imminent. He’d never known the feeling until now.

But as they say, the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his quest to decipher you. 

It seemed mutual as he paced in front of his front door, having eaten dinner at the cafeteria early to mentally prepare himself. 

When your knock finally sounded at his door, he sighed, checked his watch, then reluctantly opened the door. 

You were a picture to behold. 

Hair slightly damp from a shower, drowning in loose, oversized clothing. It was all painfully domestic to see you walk through his doorway, scanning his living space. In the back of his mind, he thought it felt right, but he shook his head. 

You were messing with him again. 

Two could play that game. 

“Take a seat.” He pulled out a stool from his kitchen island. “Want a drink?”

“What, like alcohol?” you huffed. 

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Only if you want me to be.” you shrug, setting down your notes on the bench.

He sighs exasperatedly, already berating himself for agreeing to this. He never agreed to tutor anyone. Why were you the exception? You shouldn’t be. 

His hypothesis: you were trying to get something out of him. A way to cheat the class, his academic favour, something hedonistic, even. It seemed plausible enough, but you listened intently as he explained the concepts the professor spoke of in the lecture, asking questions and actively engaging with his explanation. 

It didn’t seem like there was any ulterior motive. So why was he letting you break his rules and defy his nature?

“God, why didn't the prof explain it during that lesson? Everyone struggled.”

“You’re not smart enough to understand his concise methods, then.” he huffed. 

“You’re too smart.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Smart ass,”

“Get back to work. You did that question wrong, by the way.”

You groaned. “Where?”

He was so caught up in your quarrels that he didn’t notice the time grinding away at the pestle. It was nearly midnight when you’d finally caught up with that day’s classwork, and he sighed in relief. 

“You understand?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry now.”

“I won’t. Now get out.”

“No drink?” you frowned, pretending to sulk at his expense. He simply stared at you, getting up from his stool and walking to the fridge. 

Remarkably, he pulled out two beers. 

“Don’t speak. If you do, I'll regret allowing you over again.”

A smile befell your lips. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Wipe it off then.”

A frown.  His new hypothesis: you were trying to seduce him for better grades, more tutoring sessions, or for his own downfall. 

“Drink and leave.”

“If you say so.” you take the chilled bottle and drink. He watches your throat move, and he thinks of himself as pathetic as he drinks as well, wincing at the bitterness. 

“Do you live by yourself?” you ask, head propped onto your hand. 

“I do.”

“Are you lonely or something?”

“No, people are irritating.” Like you.

“What a ray of sunshine you are.” You’re not much better.

“I don’t have to put up with any idiocy.”

“If you say so.”

Quiet passes as beer fizzes in the bottles, golden liquid sloshing at the sides of the glass. 

One thing you learn that night is that Veritas Ratio, the famed multiple time valedictorian of your university, is an extreme lightweight. His cheeks become red quicker than you can finish your bottle, and he starts to grumble nonsense under his breath. 

“You’re really smart, you know?” he suddenly says after mumbling something about quantum physics.

“What was that?” 

“You’re really smart. Really smart. Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he leans on the bench, not entirely aware of his surroundings as he does so.  He squints at the ground. 

He’s a cute drunk, you realise begrudgingly.

“Thanks, Veritas. You’re smart too.”

“I know.” he drinks from his bottle again, swirling the dregs. “But I can’t figure you out.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Do you hate me?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then why are you like this?”

Your eyebrows raise. 

“You’re making me irrational. I can’t figure it out.”

“...Sorry?”

“You should be. You know, I was nearly late to class today because of you. You kept me awake.”

“Really?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts. And things.”

You laugh at his predicament, draining your beer and gathering your things. Trying to leave before he said anything that could turn the encounter south. 

“Wait. Don’t go.” he slams his palm onto your notes, determination in his eyes. 

“I need to go to bed.” you say as if scolding a child.

“I need to figure you out. You’re still an enigma to me. The anomaly of my behaviour. Is this your intention?”

“What are you talking about? You’re drunk.”

“I can think. I can move. I can see fine. I’m not drunk. Answer me.”

“Maybe I'm just so mesmerising to you.” you joke, but his brows furrowed in thought. 

“Maybe.” he retracts his hand from your notes, and you stow them away into your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder before he can do anything else. 

As you’re halfway to the door, he pushes you against the wall. 

You never realised how tall he was until then. How much of a height difference you had, or how muscular he was. He had to have worked out on a daily basis. The pungent smell of alcohol lingered on his breath, and his cheeks were tainted with deep red as he searched your gaze. 

You decide he’s officially lost his mind, but who were you to complain?

“Are you mesmerising?” he whispers, eyes trailing down your face, examining and analysing, his hand tracing down your body with those slender scholar’s hands.

“You tell me.”

Then he grabs your face and mashes your lips together. The kiss is rough, biting and rushed. You freeze for a sliver of a second before returning it, letting him decide your allure with his own devices. 

He pulls away almost too fast, lips kiss bitten, breath fast. 

“You’re a siren.”

“Am I?”

“You’re going to ruin me.”

“What a weak man you are, if it only takes one woman to ruin you.”

“I hate you.”

“Really?”

“I hate it because I’d probably let you.”

“Are you a masochist?”

“Not in my right mind. I’ll wake up and regret everything, but it’ll all be the same, fundamentally.”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

He still has you pushed against the wall, caged within himself. “You were put into this world to bring about my destruction.”

“How? Why?”

“You’re my opposite. Brash, naive, carefree.”

“Are you normally this analytical of people?”

“No, which supports my point.”

“I see. So you’re going to let me ruin your image?”

“No. I hate you for it.”

“Let me go then.”

He wordlessly steps away, and you stumble to the door. 

“So what are we?” you ask, turned away from him. You can’t see the way he drinks in your visage like a starving man, and the small, sober part of him is grateful for it. 

“Polar opposites.”

“I mean who am I to you?”

He’s silent for a while, so you turn back to him to find him leaning on the wall, gazing into space. 

“Veritas?”

“You’re my undoing. A catalyst, maybe, for my downfall. But there must be balance, right? So what are you?”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

You knew then that he was beyond reason. Was this what you did to him? You took some sadistic pride in seeing a man such as himself reduced to a mumbling, questioning, incoherent mess. You were somewhat pleased with the effect you had on him., but you could never let him know this. 

He crumpled to the floor, back to the wall, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ll figure you out.”

“Sure you will. Goodnight, Veritas.”

“Night.”

Your smile was brighter than the morning as you left his apartment, embracing the night’s welcoming chill. 

written by @atlaswav , published 15th of July 2024