#a never cleans the whiteboards after class

[sevarchive]

♡ simmer to a boil ──

જ⁀➴ a karasu tabito story. 1.3k words

synopsis: in which two fierce rivals were stuck in the same cooking class, only to discover that the sweetest recipes (and feelings) come from the messiest beginnings.

a/n: this piece was written for a ticket from the ask roulette carnival! visit their original ticket here!

you’ve hated karasu tabito since the first time he smiled at you after destroying your team in a group project.

he hadn't even gloated, just tilted his head and said,

"your argument was like a cloud on a windless day. full, but going nowhere."

whatever that meant.

he was unbearable. arrogant. always late, but still somehow top of the class. smarter than he let on, and he knew it. and now, because of an elective scheduling glitch, you were both stuck in the same advanced culinary arts class.

"you're burning the onions," he said.

you shoved him back with your elbow. "you're burning my patience."

he laughed. "anger is just a simmering sauce. add the wrong ingredient and it boils over."

"do you ever talk like a normal person?"

you sabotaged each other immediately, swapping flour and salt, messing with the stove, hiding utensils. it was petty and chaotic, and neither of you wanted to lose. but he always kept up. he was annoyingly good. even when you tried to trip him up, he adapted.

he kept showing up, late, unbothered, calling you things like "captain overkill" or "butter boss." you rolled your eyes, but deep down, you looked forward to whatever name he'd come up with next.

when the midterm project was announced, the teacher paired you up. of course, it was him. karasu sighed dramatically, saluted, and said,

"what would a group project be without a little chaos?"

"probably something that doesn’t end in fire."

"hey, i like passing. believe it or not."

"then why do you sabotage everything you touch?"

he grinned. "for fun. but with you? maybe i'll try harder."

"i’m honored. truly."

you met up at his apartment since yours was a mess. his was spotless, filled with sauce jars, energy drinks, and a whiteboard covered in recipe notes and strange metaphor drafts.

cooking together didn’t go smoothly. you argued over measurements, plating, seasoning. he stirred the wrong way on purpose. you tweaked his sauces out of spite. it never quite clicked.

but for all your constant complaints, you never said no when he asked if you wanted to meet again. you kept coming back.

one evening, late, you were testing recipes again. you'd made a mess of the cream puffs. karasu had been unusually quiet that day, and now he hovered over the ruined tray.

"too much flour," he said.

"gee, thanks."

"it’s like love, y’know? delicate. mess with the ratio and it collapses."

you shot him a skeptical look. "okay, seriously. why do you always talk like that? are you in a secret poetry club or something?"

he paused, blinking slowly. "maybe i just like saying things in ways people don’t expect."

"yeah, well, you sound like a walking riddle sometimes."

karasu smiled faintly, tracing the edge of the ruined cream puff tray. "i guess i like saying things in strange ways. makes it easier not to say the real stuff."

you raised a brow, not sure where this was going.

he hesitated for once, then said, "like... maybe i like cooking with you. and i think you're kind of brilliant. even when you're being dramatic about butter."

that was the first time he didn’t smirk. the honesty caught you off guard. you passed to distract your thoughts. you handed him a spoon of failed custard. he ate it.

"not bad."

"liar."

he cracked a smile. "lying is like burnt sugar. bitter, but sometimes useful."

things shifted after that. he started remembering the small things: your favorite tea, the knife you always used. he handed you tools before you asked. cleaned your station without a word. left snacks with a casual "had extras." and maybe the biggest change was that he stopped messing with you completely. he actually wanted you to do well.

one afternoon, you cut your finger. karasu was by your side in seconds, wrapping it gently in a towel.

"careful," he muttered, brows drawn. "these hands make magic. can't have them bleeding all over the béchamel."

you raised an eyebrow. "was that... sweet? or just another weird cooking metaphor?"

he glanced up, smirking. "can't it be both?"

you rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. "you're insufferable."

"and yet, you haven’t kicked me out of your kitchen. i wonder why!"

you reached for the mixing bowl beside him, only for him to grab it first. "mine," he said.

"oh, you wanna play it that way?" you grabbed a pinch of flour and flicked it at him.

he stared at you in mock betrayal, then dipped two fingers into frosting and booped it on your nose.

within seconds, it was war. flour in the air, frosting on your cheeks, both of you laughing too hard to care. by the end, your aprons were ruined, your faces a mess, and your heart—stupidly full.

from then on, he hovered a little closer. knew your rhythm. you bumped shoulders, laughed at his dumb jokes, felt something warm simmering just beneath the surface.

with the final project coming up, you both practiced more. karasu texted you recipes at 3am. you didn’t mind.

one night, backs against his couch, surrounded by flour-smudged notes and test desserts, you muttered,

"i can't believe i'm willingly spending my weekend with you."

karasu raised a brow. "wow. almost a compliment. should i write it down?"

you rolled your eyes. "frame it and i'll deny it ever happened."

he smirked. "too late. already carved it into my ego."

on the day of the final, you moved in sync. you made the appetizer, he did the main, and together you plated dessert. no sabotage. no yelling. just quiet trust.

when the last dish went down, he turned to you, eyes wide and shining, and whispered,

"oh my god, we actually did it."

you blinked. he looked proud. soft, even.

with that, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him before you could think. around you, classmates clapped and buzzed with excitement, but all you noticed was the way he froze—then melted, chin brushing your shoulder, arms winding around your waist like they’d always meant to be there.

he pulled back just enough to glance at your face, his own flushed, eyes a little dazed. "that was... unexpectedly nice. very public. slightly terrifying."

you smiled. "you big softie. don’t make it a thing."

he grinned, still holding on. "too late."

the judges praised your meal. balance, precision, creativity. one even asked for seconds. when the final scores were posted, your names sat comfortably at the top—clear winners. karasu bumped your shoulder, grinning like he'd just won more than a grade.

afterward, outside in the warm evening air, karasu stood beside you.

"i used to think rivalry was the best way to keep you close," he said, quieter than you'd ever heard him. "because picking fights? that was easier than admitting i couldn’t stop thinking about you. that maybe all those stupid metaphors were just me trying to say i like you. a lot. probably more than i should. and yeah, i was hoping you'd stay, even if it meant arguing over soup for the rest of our lives."

you looked at him. "tabito."

he gave a nervous half-smile, the kind that looked a little too hopeful around the edges. "if you're gonna reject me, go easy. i'm already overcooked."

you didn’t answer with words. just leaned in, slow and sure, and kissed him like it had been building for weeks. because it had. he melted into it, like sugar meeting heat, one hand curling around your waist like he couldn’t quite believe it.

later, you'd bake cream puffs again. this time, the custard would be perfect. you'd feed him the first bite just to be smug about it, and he'd let you, only to swipe a bit of cream onto your cheek the second you turned away. he'd still say dumb things like, “this frosting tastes like forgiveness.” and you’d kiss his cheek, smiling, and say,

“then you better keep forgiving me.”

and he would. always.

who would've thought that you—his loudest rival, the storm in his kitchen, the salt in his sugar—would end up being the person who made everything finally make sense.

turns out, you were just the missing ingredient.

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist ; like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

[aqpippin]

pondering

[em1i2a3]

Supersonic

Pairing: CollegeAU!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When you ask Bob Floyd to tutor you after not doing so well on your first Advanced Theoretical Physics test, you never expected him to say yes, nor did you expect him to be so enthusiastic to teach you the material either.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Reader is an Engineering Major who is just trying to take a required elective that doesn’t tank their average, Bob is a Physics Major who is an overachiever and is top of his class. We love a good tutor trope y’all, and technically it’s friends to lovers hehehehe

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all, wrap it up), Bob’s a certified munch…What Can I Say? It’s in the holy scripture lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Hair Pulling, Face Grinding, Bob’s got a bit of performance anxiety (and loves praise, but the man also likes worshipping hehehe), Breast Play, Bob’s giving sub vibes in this, Handjob (I don’t think I’m missing anything)

Author’s Note: Alright. Alright. I heard the crowd lol. I heard the masses, and I finally got around to writing for THE Bob Floyd....And I came out guns blazing on this one. I hope it’s not a let down, I know y’all have been waiting for something from me regarding this cutie patootie, so I’m glad I can please the masses 😂Enjoy!!! (Side note: I’m not a physics major but I took a few courses here and there, don’t strike me down if I don’t get certain things right about the questions please! lol) This was also a request by @shewhocallstothestars but I did modify it a bit (hopefully that's okay.) 😏

P.S: Evil stuff dropping this so casually on a Wednesday afternoon! Lol Surprise tho!

Word Count: 19,626 (HA!)

The first time Bob Floyd saw you, you were late for Advanced Theoretical Physics.

Not embarrassingly late–but just enough for the heavy lecture hall door to groan open and click shut behind you with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the cavernous space. Just enough to make the professor falter mid-sentence, his marker hovering above the whiteboard as heads turned in your direction like a wave.

Your chin stayed tucked, gaze low as you moved up the steps with a quick, purposeful stride that practically whispered “please for the love of god don’t look at me.” Still, it was a walk that carried weight. Not flustered or apologetic–just sharp. Like you were used to showing up in the middle of things and moving through rooms without needing to explain why.

But even if you didn’t owe anyone an apology, you didn’t want the attention.

Especially not in the outfit you were wearing.

You didn’t mean to put on anything eye-catching, but laundry day had come and gone without mercy. Between leading three straight days of exhausting freshman orientation–clipboard, whistle, and all–and trying to get your textbooks, syllabi, and housing situation in order before classes began, your options had run out. So you’d thrown on a slightly-too-tight zip-up hoodie, your college’s emblem half-hidden under the worn zipper, and the only clean bottom you had left: a black skirt you hadn’t touched since the first day of summer.

It rode a little higher than you remembered, and paired with your bare legs and sneakers, it was far from inappropriate, but in a room where everyone else was in jeans and sweats, it made you feel seen. And not in a way you liked.

You spotted a half-empty row about midway up the lecture hall, three seats in from the aisle, and made a beeline for it, holding your skirt down as you made quick strides towards the spot that had your name written all over it. The weight of dozens of eyes prickled against your skin, but you kept moving, zeroed in on that opening like it might swallow you whole and hide you from the ogling stares.

Bob was seated near the end of that row.

His notebook was open, half a page of densely packed notes already filled in with that small, impossibly neat handwriting of his. A mechanical pencil twitched in his right hand as you approached–still mid-spin from the distraction you had caused. He looked like someone who took school seriously, but not obnoxiously so. His light brown hair was cropped short and a little mussed on the top, as though he hadn’t quite decided whether to tame it or not–or the wind got to it and messed it up on the way to class.

He was wearing a white t-shirt–simple, fitted just enough to hint at the softness of muscle underneath, but crisp in that way cotton gets when it’s been folded with care. Not stiff, but starched just slightly from the wash, like maybe he had just done his laundry the night before. His jeans were a classic blue–not faded or overly worn, but comfortably lived-in. No rips or frays.

His glasses were perched low on the bridge of his nose, the thin metal frames glinting faintly beneath the harsh overhead lights–almost silver against the warm tones of his skin. They sat just crooked enough to suggest he’d pushed them up one-handed without really thinking about it. Lenses wide and clear, catching reflections of the whiteboard, but not enough to shield the way his eyes flicked toward you the moment your footsteps slowed beside him.

He looked sun-kissed from the dying summer–like August had clung to him a little longer than it should have. His skin was a shade deeper than it would be in a few weeks’ time, golden along his forearms and the high points of his face, like he’d spent the end of break outside–on rooftops, maybe, or walking alone down sidewalks still radiating heat. His lips were a touch dry, his knuckles faintly rough. But he looked steady. Bright-eyed and well-rested. Like he wanted to start the semester with good intentions and achievable goals.

You stopped just beside him–hovering for half a second, your bag shifting on your shoulder as you nodded toward the empty seat a few spots in.

”Sorry, just gotta get by,” You murmured, voice low and unassuming.

Bob looked up fully then and immediately shifted forward, pulling his legs in without hesitation. His knee brushed the underside of the desk as he tucked himself close to make room for you, the motion smooth but stiff like he hadn’t quite expected you to speak to him. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to sound like that–soft, a little breathless from the walk up the gauntlet of steps, but still sharp.

You moved past him in one fluid step whispering a thanks, then your scent hit him.

It wasn’t overpowering. It wasn’t the cloying kind of perfume that lingered too long in a hallway. It was just…You. Soft and sweet, but grounded–like vanilla left to steep in warm skin, the subtle warmth of almond or cream trailing just behind it. Lotion maybe. Something gentle. Something worn, not sprayed on. Like it had been absorbed into your hoodie, your neck, the backs of your knees in the early September heat.

But then there was something brighter, just beneath it–like sugar and citrus had melted into the mix. Not sharp. Not tart. Just the idea of lemon. A barely-there twist of brightness that reminded him of the first sip of a drink on a hot day. Cool. Balanced. Memorable.

It made Bob lose all his grip on the pencil in his hand, and made him straighten slightly, as his eyes glanced over to you slipping into the seat three down from his, holding your skirt against yourself so it didn’t ride up when you settled. When you shifted–once, just enough to adjust your bag or maybe smooth your hoodie–his eyes dropped quickly to your legs.

Bare and warm-looking in the stale lecture hall light. The skin smooth, catching little glints of reflection in a way that made him stare too long before he realized what he was doing.

His gaze jerked back up, and his pencil fell out of his hands. He fumbled to catch it before it rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor, and somehow he barely managed to do it. He cleared his throat so quietly that it didn’t even echo under the dome of the lecture hall. And then he exhaled once, trying to shake off the heat that creeped up his neck, fingers curling tight around the side of his notebook.

You didn’t look at him. Not once.

Not even when you pulled out your pen and your fresh, untouched notebook and started scribbling quick, efficient notes in handwriting he couldn’t quite see. Not even when your fingers fidgeted once at the hem of your hoodie like you weren’t sure if it was covering enough. Not even when you tilted your head slightly to the left, exposing the faint shape of your jaw and that one stubborn wisp of hair behind your ear.

You didn’t look back.

But he couldn’t stop glancing.

Every time there was a lull in the lecture–every time the professor turned toward the whiteboard or paused to answer a question from across the room–Bob’s eyes slid sideways. Just for a second. Just to check.

He told himself it was just curiosity. That he hadn’t seen you around before, and that this class wasn’t usually the kind that brought in new faces. Not Advanced Theoretical Physics. Not on day one. And especially not someone like you.

You didn’t fit the mold–not in the way you moved, not in the way you sat. There was a presence to you, even when you were quiet. Like you weren’t just taking space–you owned it. It made him curious. It made him distracted.

It made the last half of his notes nearly unreadable.

He’d rewrite them later. He always did.

But he’d still remember the scent you left behind when you passed him. The subtle trace of sweetness and skin-warmed citrus that had settled in the air like something meant to haunt him.

And he’d remember that you never once looked back.

—————————

You didn’t speak to Bob until the third week of classes, when you got your first ‘mini’ test back and got hit with the harsh realities of the choice you had made in picking Advanced Theoretical Physics for your upper elective.

You got a 68. You had never got a 68 in your life.

Not in high school, not in your other college courses, not in anything that involved formulas or numbers or mental gymnastics you were usually proud to be good at. Being an engineering student was supposed to make classes like this feel natural. Calculation, logic, technical problem solving–it was your bread and butter.

But this? This was humbling.

You stared down at the note the professor had written in red just beneath the grade:

”Revisit your derivations–conceptual understanding needs tightening.” You didn’t even know what the hell that meant. You had studied everything possible to prepare yourself, you knew you had been on the right track, there was no possible way this was the right grade. Your jaw flexed, and you tapped your pen once against the corner of your desk before you forced yourself to still.

You tried to breathe through the sting crawling up the back of your neck, the tightness that formed just under your ribs. This wasn’t even a midterm–it wasn’t supposed to matter. But to you, it did. You prided yourself on being able to handle anything. Being the kind of student professors leaned on. A leader. Someone who could run orientation like a sergeant and still ace quantum mechanics in the same week.

And here you were. With a 68 circled at the top of your page like a slap.

You let the paper fall face-down across your notebook and sighed hard through your nose.

Then you glanced over.

Three seats down, Bob was sitting quietly, glasses low on his nose again, flipping his test booklet over to the back like he wanted to get one more long look at it before class officially started.

You caught a glimpse of the front page as he did–and there it was. Written in the same red your grade was given in, unmistakable in the overhead light.

97.

Clean, confident. Circled big enough to make a statement.

He didn’t look smug about it. Not exactly. But there was something in the way he stared at that number, his brows lifting faintly as if confirming to himself, Yeah, that sounds right. His lips were pressed together in a close-lipped smile, the kind people wear when they’ve worked hard and know it paid off. He tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the bottom of the page once. Then again.

Pleased as punch.

You didn’t mean to keep staring–but it was hard to look away.

His black t-shirt was tucked just barely into the waistband of his jeans today, like he’d rushed to get dressed but still managed to look clean and composed. His hair looked softer, freshly washed maybe, curling a little more than normal without any product in his hair. The sun-kissed flush along his cheekbones hadn’t faded just yet, but it was slowly revealing little patches of paleness beneath it. The silver frames of his glasses caught the light again as he leaned slightly forward, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook to take pre-class notes even though nothing had started yet.

He was…Prepared. Calm, and clearly good at this.

And you were not evidently.

You sat back slowly in your seat, gaze flicking toward the whiteboard, but your mind was still racing. Not with formulas. Not with panic. But with something slower, more deliberate.

You needed help. That much was obvious.

And unfortunately–or maybe fortunately–the only person who hadn’t fumbled through the last three weeks with shaky handwriting and unsure eyes was sitting just three seats away.

Then…You made a decision you never thought you would be making in a class you expected to be good in.

You were going to ask him for help.

It went against every fibre in your being–the pride you carried like a shield, the belief that if you just studied harder, dug deeper, figured it out on your own, you’d make it through. That’s how it had always worked before. You didn’t need tutors. You didn’t ask for things.

But your test score was still burning a hole through your notebook, and Bob Floyd was still sitting three seats down, calmly annotating equations while half the class looked like they were on the verge of weeping. He definitely had the highest mark and there was no denying that, and you had to pick his brain to see if you could emulate the same genius level thinking. Maybe there was a secret to it all, and he would somehow share it with you so you could make a quick recovery and still grasp honours at the end of the semester…At this point you’d take even the craziest solutions to save yourself from another embarrassing mark.

So…You waited until the end of the lecture.

It took everything in you not to bolt out the second the professor dismissed the room. You always left quickly–efficiently–avoiding the post-class shuffle of students with questions or headphones already in. But today you stayed seated, even as the sound of backpacks zipping and notebooks slamming shut rose around you like thunder. You didn’t move, just flicked your pen closed and kept your eyes on the spiral binding of your notes until most of the room had emptied.

You packed up faster than usual, sweeping your things into your bag in quiet, practiced movements–but you left your test out, folded once, red ink still just barely visible beneath the crease. Your hands felt warm. A little clammy. The kind of nervous energy you hadn’t felt since your very first midterm in undergrad. But you stood anyway.

Bob was still at his desk, leaning forward, transcribing the last few formulas the professor had scribbled across the bottom corner of the board. His notebook looked the same as always–clean lines, small print, mechanical pencil pressed tight to the paper like he didn’t know how to be imprecise.

You made your way down the row, test in hand, and stopped just short of his space. The words were already forming in your mouth, even before he noticed you.

You cleared your throat. “Hey… Sorry to bother you. You’re Bob, right?”

His head snapped up fast, and his eyes locked onto yours like he hadn’t expected you to actually exist this close.

“Uh–yeah,” He replied, “Yeah. Bob Floyd.”

You’d caught him off guard. You could tell by the way he blinked, like he had to reset. His mouth parted slightly, lips soft and chapped in the middle, and then–almost as if he remembered he was supposed to be someone in this moment–he cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

“You’re…Y/N? Right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He held out his hand, a little unsure. “Nice to meet you.”

You hesitated for a beat–because it wasn’t every day someone in a physics class offered a handshake–but you took it. His palm was warm and dry, his grip a little firm at first, like he hadn’t meant for it to feel that strong.

His fingers were long. His nails clean, almost manicured in a way that surprised you. His thumb brushed yours briefly, and for a second, the contact lingered just a little too long.

You let go, and Bob rubbed his hand on the knee of his jeans as you both sat in the pause that followed, air slightly charged.

You weren’t wearing anything special today–just an old cropped t-shirt that rode up when you lifted your arms and a pair of low-slung sweatpants that had long since given up trying to cling to your hips. A hoodie hung open over it all, soft with wear. It wasn’t much. Just lazy comfort. But something in the way Bob’s eyes dropped for half a second–just below the hem to a flicker of skin at your waist–told you it wasn’t invisible either.

He gulped again, trying to recover from being caught.

You cleared your throat. “So, uh… I was wondering if you offer tutoring or something. I kinda bombed that first mini quiz.” His brows lifted over the rim of his glasses–an expression halfway between surprise and amusement.

“I…I don’t offer it or anything,” He said, already fumbling a little, “But I can help, if that’s what you’re looking for…How bad did you do?” He asked, trying not to assume the worst, but knowing there was a possibility he was going to see a fairly bad mark, judging by the conversations that happened behind him when the tests were handed out at the beginning of class. You flipped the test open toward him, and he stared at the 68, a smirk drawing up on his lips. He let out a short, soft laugh through his nose, more of a warm exhale than anything mean.

”I mean…It’s not great, but I’ve seen worse.” You raised your eyebrows at him and smirked faintly.

”How comforting.” You mumbled. He shifted in his seat, thumb rubbing across the corner of his notebook like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His gaze didn’t meet yours directly; it just hovered somewhere around your shoulder, your mouth, and your hair. He was still absorbing the fact you were in front of him asking to be tutored.

“I can definitely help you bring your grade up. It’s early enough in the semester to get it back on track.” He explained. Something in his voice steadied–like the gears in his brain had finally clicked into place. Like this was territory he knew how to navigate. Structure. Process. Solutions. A small smile tugged at your lips. A breath of relief rushed through you before you could stop it.

“Thank you so much,” You replied. And then, already leaning in with eagerness, “When can we get started?” Bob paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes flicked slightly upward–thinking, scanning the mental file cabinet of his day.

“We could do today…You could meet me at the library,” He suggested, after a second, “I'm free after four.” You wrinkled your nose a little, already shaking your head.

“The library’s kind of a distraction for me,” You admitted. “It’s always too loud–someone’s always coughing or typing like they’re in a race. Even the reserved study rooms…I don’t know, it never really works for me.”

Bob tilted his head a little, listening closely, waiting for you to present a different option.

You hesitated for just a second before offering, more carefully now, “If you feel okay with it…We could study at my dorm? It’s definitely quieter. And there’s not much to get distracted by.”

You didn’t say it with any kind of tone. No flirt, no implication. Just facts. Just a space.

But Bob’s throat tightened anyway.

His mind, helpful as ever, immediately conjured the image–your dorm. What it looked like. What it might smell like. You curled up in your desk chair, with your hair pushed out of your face, sleeves rolled, and a half-empty mug of tea or coffee next to an open binder. Maybe your bed was still unmade. Maybe there was a bottle of lotion on your nightstand in the same scent that clung to you now, soft and sweet and skin-warmed.

He swallowed.

Hard.

Not because he had any ulterior motives. Not because he thought anything would happen. But because it had been a long time since he’d been invited into someone’s space like that. A woman’s space. A woman like you–all sharp eyes and soft smiles, casual comfort and effortless pull.

“Yeah,” He agreed, clearing his throat and nodding. “Yeah, that’s totally fine. If you’re comfortable with it.”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t,” You said easily, and the way you said it–so certain, so casual–made something tighten low in his stomach again.

“Okay,” He replied, and he finally looked at you. His blue eyes were steady behind his glasses, a little glassy from the fluorescents, but locked on yours. “Just email me your dorm number. I’ll bring the notes, you bring the test, and we’ll make a plan.”

You grinned, and god, it hit him like a sucker punch. Like something he hadn’t braced for.

“Deal.”

And then you turned, backpack swinging over one shoulder, hoodie hem swaying against your hips as you made your way back up the aisle.

Bob sat still for a moment. Longer than he meant to.

He hadn’t even packed up yet.

It took him another ten seconds before he finally exhaled, shoved his pencil into the spiral of his notebook, and muttered to himself under his breath–

“…Way to make this hard for yourself…You dummy.”

————————

Your dorm wasn’t anything glamorous–but it was yours, and that made all the difference.

When you unlocked the door and pushed it open after class, you were immediately met with the familiar scent of fabric softener and the faint citrus-vanilla from the reed diffuser you kept on the dresser. The room was small, technically a single dorm, but it was just enough space for you to carve out your version of comfort. Still, as you stood in the doorway, backpack slipping off one shoulder, you looked around and immediately thought that there was no way in hell it was going to stay like this, especially with a guest coming over.

You dropped your bag near the door, and got to work immediately.

The bed was first. You hadn’t made it this morning–just rolled out with your alarm still going, one arm flung across your eyes as you reached blindly for your phone, groggy and unwilling to admit the day had started. The sheets were still tangled, your navy-blue comforter half-slid to the floor, the corner twisted around your foot in your sleep. You tugged it all back with quick, practiced tugs, smoothing the fitted sheet until the last of the sleep wrinkles vanished under your palm.

Your comforter had a faint rip in the seam on the left side near your hip–stitched up once, badly, with mismatched thread. You’d done it the second week of your freshman year, the night you’d fallen asleep sobbing after a brutal call with your high school boyfriend, and woken up the next morning tangled so tightly in the blanket that it tore when you got up. You never fixed it properly. You kind of liked the scar.

You fluffed the single throw pillow you used for your head–an old one, pillowcase faded with soft clouds printed across pale blue fabric. Not the prettiest, but it felt like home. And the long body pillow you always fell asleep hugging–cream-colored, with one end slightly more smushed than the other–went right in its usual spot against the wall. A comfort thing. You didn’t sleep well without it.

Then you moved to your desk.

It was more shelf than desk, sure–but it held your brain in neat, tiny pieces. Notes, sticky tabs, a single battered wire basket for loose paper, and a coffee mug you never drank out of that just held highlighters, lip balm, and the same pair of scissors you’d had since high school. You stacked your textbooks neatly–physics, mechanics, one painfully dry thermodynamics manual–and slid your notebook on top, flipping it to the most recent page so Bob wouldn’t see your chaotic post-lab scrawl from earlier in the week.

There was a Polaroid pinned to the corkboard just above the workspace–one of you and your best friend from home, taken in your kitchen during winter break. You were both in pajamas, mid-laugh, a sliver of frosting from a baking experiment smeared across your nose. You paused for a moment, fixing the pin to straighten it, and sighed.

Your reed diffuser sat on the corner of the dresser–three pale wooden sticks soaked in a warm citrus-vanilla scent that reminded you of summer mornings and freshly folded laundry. The bottle was nearly empty now. You should’ve replaced it weeks ago, but you kept putting it off. There was something comforting about the familiar scent, even as it faded.

Near it sat a tiny glass tray shaped like a shell, where you kept rings you barely wore and two hair ties you always reached for. One had stretched out completely, the elastic barely holding together–but you refused to throw it away. It had survived too many late-night study sessions, too many chaotic mornings before class. It had history.

You lit your desk lamp–the one with the soft yellow bulb, not the bright blue-white you hated. It cast a glow across the room that made it look gentler, less like a dorm and more like a nook carved from a novel. Cozy. Private. You turned off the overhead light and stood there for a second, letting yourself just look. The soft shadows, the freshly made bed, the diffuser’s scent hanging lightly in the air.

You sigh, satisfied with your work, eyes scanning over the room once more. Everything was in its place. Not perfect, maybe–but it looked lived in, cared for, warm. It looked like you.

With that final breath of approval, you turned toward the door tucked just beside your dresser–the greatest stroke of luck you’d had all year.

An attached bathroom.

Single dorms were hard enough to land as a second-year, but a single with a private bathroom? That was near mythic. Your RA had called it the “housing lottery jackpot,” and you hadn’t argued. No communal showers meant no mildew smell clinging to your towel, no forgotten flip-flops, and–best of all–no awkward small talk with girls brushing their teeth beside you at midnight.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click, and reached for your phone on the counter. 3:30 PM. Forty-five minutes, give or take.

Bob said “after four,” but something told you he wasn’t the type to be late. You weren’t sure if that meant he’d be early–but either way, you weren’t risking being caught in your towel when he showed up at your door.

Without much thought, you tugged your clothes off in a few quick motions and tossed them into the hamper tucked beside the sink. The hoodie fell in a heap, the fabric heavy with the day’s wear. Your cropped t-shirt was damp at the neckline, your waistband creased from sitting through the afternoon lecture. It all smelled faintly of the campus and the late-summer air–sun-warmed concrete, paper, and the barest hint of classroom chalk.

You flicked on the fan and twisted the shower knob until the water reached the right balance of hot–just shy of scalding.

Steam bloomed in the narrow space like it had been waiting, curling along the top of the curtain and fogging the mirror in soft, slow layers. You stepped in, letting the heat rush over your shoulders in a way that made your muscles go slack and your eyelids flutter briefly closed. You weren’t indulging, not really. You just needed to rinse the day away–strip it off like a second skin, let the tension from your shoulders drain down the tiles and vanish with the suds.

While the water beat down over the back of your neck, your thoughts began to drift.

Even though this was just a tutoring session–just notes, formulas, and a second chance at a first impression–it felt bigger than that.

You hadn’t brought a guy into your room in months.

Not since you’d drawn that invisible line in the sand–the one that said: this space is mine and mine only. Not since you started guarding your time, your energy, and your peace. You weren’t a prude–far from it. You weren’t closed off either. You just…Stopped inviting chaos into your life. And sometimes, chaos looked like someone else’s backpack thrown on your floor, someone else’s hand on your thigh or under the waistband of your sweatpants, or someone else’s voice asking, “Do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

You didn’t miss it.

But still–when you looked Bob Floyd in the eyes and suggested your dorm like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean anything–something in your chest had fluttered. Not panic. Not excitement. Just a shift.

A crack in the routine.

Now, standing under the steaming pulse of your shower, with the scent of citrus shampoo rising like vapor and the water cascading down your spine, you realized you hadn’t really prepared yourself for that part.

Bob Floyd. In your dorm. Sitting on your bed, or at your desk…Breathing in your space.

You didn’t think it would be weird. He didn’t seem like the type to make things uncomfortable. If anything, he seemed like the kind of guy who’d knock twice even after you told him the door was open. He was polite. Mild-mannered. A little tightly wound in a way that made you think he probably alphabetized his class folders.

But you didn’t know him.

And it was dawning on you, as you tilted your face into the stream and let it blur your vision with heat, that this was only the second conversation you’d had with him. Two conversations, and now you were inviting him into the most intimate space a student could have–your dorm. Your bedroom. Your sanctuary. A place where your throw blanket still held the scent of last week’s laundry, and where your pillowcase had that faint stretch of mascara from the night you fell asleep before washing your face.

What if he thought it was messy?

What if he thought you were messy?

What if he saw the tangled cords beside your bed or the half-finished cup of coffee on your nightstand and assumed you were the kind of person who couldn’t get it together–even when your whole reputation said otherwise?

What if he looked at your 68 again, and thought you were dumb suddenly?

You hated that thought most of all.

You weren’t dumb. You knew you weren’t. You were sharp, resilient, calculated when it mattered–and still, you wondered if he’d already made up his mind about you. Academic ego like his–97s without breaking a sweat–probably came with an equally inflated sense of who could keep up. Maybe he was too polite to say it, but what if he thought you were just another pretty girl in a hard class, grasping for help she hadn’t earned?

You scrubbed your hands over your scalp trying to shake the thought loose, because it didn’t matter what he thought.

Right?

You’d asked for help. That was the whole point. And he’d agreed. He’d said yes without hesitation–well, after a small nervous stammer, but still. He’d seemed open. Kind, even. And if you were being honest with yourself–and not just stewing in self-preservation–you didn’t think he saw you that way. Not as dense. Not as helpless. If anything, he seemed genuinely surprised that you’d asked him at all. Like he hadn’t expected someone like you to even talk to someone like him.

You rinsed the last remnants of soap and shampoo off your body, letting the moment pass.

You weren’t going to overthink this.

He was coming over, he was going to sit down. You were going to go through your test and try and work through the incorrect answers, maybe laugh once or twice, and you’d be one step closer to not failing this class.

That was it.

You shut off the water, the sudden silence deafening in the tiny bathroom.

Steam clung to every surface. You wiped your hand across the mirror, catching your own reflection looking back at you–a few beads of water dripping from your hair, over your collarbones, down over your breasts, the light reflecting off of them like little glowing orbs.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, padded out onto the tile, and toweled your hair dry with slow, deliberate motions. You’d keep things light. Professional. You’d study. You’d ask questions. You’d nod along when he explained something that made sense. And then–

You paused.

Then maybe…Maybe you’d ask what his secret was. The 97. The sharp notes. The calm in his hands. The look in his eyes when he first saw you walking up those lecture hall stairs. Not because you wanted anything from it.

But because part of you was just…Curious.

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in the last traces of damp heat, the steam still clinging faintly to your skin like a second breath. The scent of your shampoo followed you into the room–light citrus, clean warmth, a kind of quiet comfort–and you padded barefoot across the tile, leaving soft marks on the floor that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.

Your eyes flicked to the digital clock on your nightstand.

3:55 PM.

Of course it was. Right on the edge of too early, which meant Bob would probably be here right on time–maybe even five minutes ahead, just to be polite. Just to prove he meant it when he said he took this seriously.

You crossed the room in quick, practiced steps, flipping through your clothes without ceremony. You didn’t want to overthink it. You couldn’t overthink it. You were still a little warm from the shower, your skin flushed and hair damp, and the last thing you needed was to feel sweat pooling under a too-thick hoodie while trying to understand whatever theoretical mind game was about to come your way.

So you grabbed a soft t-shirt–a light heather grey, already worn thin in spots from too many washes–and a pair of black workout shorts that hit mid-thigh. Functional. Comfortable. No-nonsense. You pulled them on in a few quick motions, not bothering with makeup or overthinking how the shorts made your legs look in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the slits of your blinds. It wasn’t about that.

You hung up your towels quickly on the hook by the door, turned to your desk, and yanked open the middle drawer with a quiet clatter. Your whiteboard markers were all crammed into a cup at the back–caps loose, labels fading. You pulled out four of them–blue, green, red, and black–and lined them up on your desk next to your notebook like you’d planned it that way all along. Some kind of subconscious need for control, maybe. Or maybe you just didn’t want Bob to see you fumbling for supplies mid-conversation.

Then you reached for the test. The test. The damn 68, still folded and creased and red-inked like a bruise on paper. You slapped it onto the desk with a sigh, the sound small but sharp in the quiet of the room. Your hands slid to your hips. You stared at it for a long second.

This was where it would start. Hopefully where it would turn around.

And then–just as your breath settled and you were about to pull your chair out–

Knock knock.

Two firm taps.

Not tentative. Not obnoxious. Just…Precisely delivered. Like he’d rehearsed it.

You sighed. Not from dread–but from inevitability. From the knowledge that this, right here, was the moment it would all shift. You rolled your shoulders once, exhaled through your nose, and crossed the room in five brisk steps.

You pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Bob Floyd stood just outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, a black three-ring binder hugged awkwardly to his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He had changed. He was wearing a navy t-shirt that clung just enough to his chest to remind you that he was broader than he looked seated in a lecture hall. His jeans were dark again–clean, cuffed slightly at the ankle because they were a little too long for his legs–and his sneakers looked freshly wiped down, as if he’d paused just outside the dorm building to rub them clean against the concrete.

His glasses were perched on his nose again, slightly fogged at the corners from the outside humidity. His hair was still a little mussed, like the wind had gotten to him–or maybe he’d run his hand through it on the walk over. His eyes met yours instantly, wide and a little unsure, like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“Hey,” He said, and it came out just a little too soft.

You leaned against the doorframe, one hand curled around the edge of it, the other still resting lightly on your hip. You didn’t mean to look casual–but you did. Warm skin. Damp hair. Legs bare in your shorts. You were dressed like comfort, like late afternoon, like a version of home he wasn’t expecting to see.

“Hey,” You returned. A small smile tugged at your lips. “Right on time.”

“I–uh, yeah.” Bob adjusted the strap on his backpack like it gave him something to do. “Didn’t wanna be early. Or, you know, too early. But also didn’t wanna be late.”

You stepped aside. “You’re good. Come on in.”

He hesitated just slightly before crossing the threshold, like he was stepping into a space that demanded a kind of reverence. And maybe, in a way, he was. His eyes swept the room instinctively, slow and deliberate–not nosey, just observant. His gaze skimmed over the bed, the desk, the glow of the warm lamp light, the closed bathroom door. Then back to you.

You watched him take it all in. The details. The neatness. The quiet hum of your diffuser still at work in the corner.

“This is…Nice,” He said finally. And he meant it. “Like, really nice. Kinda cozy.”

You smirked like you hadn’t been panic cleaning for the past hour or two, “I try.”He nodded once, still a little awestruck, like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here.

“Smells good too…Like you baked something.” You raised an eyebrow at him and gave a small laugh, motioning behind him.

”It’s just my diffuser.” Bob’s gaze drifted toward the thin plume of steam rising from your dresser, his face going slightly blush.

“Oh…” He blinked. “Didn’t notice that.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a sheepish little smile, soft and crooked. He ran his palm over the front of his jeans like it might smooth over the awkward pause that followed.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brow arched.

“Well,” You started, already moving toward your desk, “You can sit anywhere you’d like. I’m just gonna pull my whiteboard out so we have somewhere to work.”

He opened his mouth–maybe to respond, maybe to stall–but you cut in before the silence could return. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got water, Sprite, or…” you paused with a shrug, “an emergency stash of energy drinks if you’re into heart palpitations.”

Bob let out a short laugh, ducking his head as his fingers scratched the back of his neck. “Water’s good, thank you. Do you… need any help with anything?”

You shook your head with a quiet chuckle, already crouching to slide the whiteboard from behind your desk. “It’s all good, I got it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you replied with a grin. “Just get comfortable.”

Bob hesitated for a beat–then nodded once and toed off his shoes with quiet care, tucking them neatly beside the frame of your bed. The soft creak of your mattress followed as he eased himself up onto it, adjusting his binder across his lap. He settled back against your pillows like someone trying not to disturb a shrine. His back met the wall in a slow, deliberate lean, shoulders squaring before his legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent just slightly.

You were still crouched in front of your desk, tugging the whiteboard forward and flipping the eraser out of the marker tray with practiced ease. When you stood and propped the board upright against the far wall–angled so you could sit beside the bed and still reach it–Bob’s gaze caught on you again.

He wasn’t proud of it. But he couldn’t help it.

The soft sheen on your legs caught the warm light from your desk lamp, the moisture from your shower still clinging in subtle streaks across your skin. Your shorts were tight–they were the kind that followed the natural dip of your thighs when you bent forward, holding you in all the right places. Every angle pulled his attention. The curve where your hip met your waist, the shadow along the back of your knee when you adjusted your weight. You were only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, nothing scandalous, nothing remotely calculated–but Bob felt like he was seeing something private.

Like you’d invited him into something sacred and forgot to mention just how much of you lived here.

He cleared his throat and glanced out the window beside your bed, the blinds slatted just enough to let in the softest touch of late afternoon sun. The light was golden. Low. Hazy in the kind of way that made everything look suspended in time.

He told himself to focus. On the equations. On the test in your hand. On the notes in his binder.

Not on the way your legs moved when you crossed the room again, not on the lotion-sweet smell of you that lingered now even stronger than it had that first day in class, and not on the sight of you–relaxed and warm and totally unguarded–in a way he hadn’t seen before.

You crossed the room with a bottle of water and handed it to him without fuss, and when your fingers brushed, he felt the jolt of it deep in his chest.

“Thanks,” He said quietly, cradling the bottle like a peace offering.

You gave him a smile. Not teasing, not knowing. Just kind. Grounded. Unbothered.

And that made it worse somehow. Made it harder not to stare. Harder not to wonder what this was becoming, and how much trouble he was in already.

Because he could memorize equations. He could build models, ace problem sets, and calculate theoretical orbital mechanics in his sleep.

But none of that had prepared him for you.

You didn’t sit right away.

Instead, you hovered just beside the whiteboard for a moment longer, the test clutched in your hand, thumb brushing over the red mark like maybe you could fade it out with friction alone. But Bob waited patiently–quiet, composed, the bottle of water still nestled in his lap like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands yet.

You held the test out toward him. “Alright, let’s see how bad it really is.”

Bob offered a faint, crooked smile as he took the folded packet, careful not to smudge the corners with condensation from the bottle. He flipped it open to the first page, eyes scanning the first problem set. His gaze moved quickly–but not dismissively. He was reading, really reading, lips parting slightly as he traced your work with his eyes.

Then his brows lifted, just a touch–not surprise, but curiosity.

“Can you…” He glanced up at you, the glint of his glasses catching the light again, “show me how you got this answer? Go through it with me…I just want to pick your brain first. See your logic a bit.”

You hesitated, just for a beat.

Not because you didn’t remember how you got the answer. You did. You remembered every painful minute of trying to pull it out of thin air, piecing together old lecture notes and half-remembered formulas from late-night readings. But the thought of speaking it out loud? Of saying it in front of him?

That part felt…Vulnerable.

You bit the inside of your lip for a second, eyes flicking from the board to his face, then back again. Then, without a word, you bent down and picked up the black marker.

Bob leaned forward just slightly, shifting the binder onto the mattress beside him as you uncapped it with your teeth and started writing on the board. The soft squeak of dry erase on the surface filled the room.

“Okay,” You said finally, your voice steadier than you expected, “So the question was asking about particle behavior in a non-inertial reference frame, right? So I assumed we were supposed to use the rotating frame model the prof showed us last week. The one with the centrifugal and Coriolis corrections?” Bob nodded slowly, eyes locked on the board, on your hand.

You started to draw–carefully, neatly, the way you always did when trying to make sense of something. A circle. A line to represent the radius. Arrows for velocity, angular acceleration. You wrote out the base equation next to it, then began working through your substitutions.

“I plugged in the knowns here,” you continued, underlining as you spoke, “and then tried to isolate the pseudo-forces…but I think I misapplied the coordinate system. I used polar, but I think the solution assumed Cartesian.”

Bob made a small hum in the back of his throat–soft, thoughtful. You glanced back at him.

He was watching you. Focused, engaged. Almost the look a professor would give when they saw potential flickering just beneath a student’s mistake, and that made your throat tighten from the nerves that began to bubble over in your stomach.

Bob shifted again, the mattress dipping softly beneath his weight as he leaned forward, one hand braced on the bed beside his binder. “No, that’s good,” He murmured. “That’s actually really good. You weren’t wrong to try it that way. I think the issue’s just here–”He reached for the red marker from your stack, uncapping it with a soft click.

“See how you treated this term?” He pointed gently toward a partial derivative in your equation, careful not to touch the board. “You factored it like it was independent, but because it’s nested in the rotating frame, it still has angular dependence. That’s what threw the rest off.”

You blinked at the board, then at him.

“Wait…So if I’d just accounted for the cross-product instead of canceling it…”

“You would’ve landed within the margin of error,” He finished, smiling softly. “Easily a B. Maybe even B+ depending on how much partial credit he gave.” You stared at your own math like it had betrayed you and then slowly dropped your hand to your side, still holding the marker.

“That…Makes so much more sense,” You said, voice a little quieter now. Not embarrassed. Just a little humbled.

Bob stood up slowly, the mattress giving a soft groan beneath him as he rose. His steps were quiet but sure as he moved to stand beside you at the whiteboard, marker still poised in his hand like a baton he didn’t quite realize he’d taken control of. You stepped slightly to the side to give him space, though your shoulders still nearly brushed.

His voice came low, steady, as he started to rewrite the middle portion of your equation. His handwriting was sharp and balanced–blocky print with just a hint of slant, the kind of penmanship that spoke of hours spent copying down formula after formula with care.

“Your approach wasn’t bad,” He started, glancing at you just briefly before continuing, “Seriously. You just went too fast on the middle step, that’s all…And honestly?” He let out a breathy, half-laugh. “That’s the part that gets everyone.” You let out a quiet, half-aware chuckle–more breath than voice.

“Well…Evidently it doesn’t get you. You’re the one that got a 97.”

Bob flushed immediately. The back of his neck went pink first, then the tips of his ears. He ducked his head as he kept writing, though his next words carried a little laugh of their own.

“I’m a physics major,” He said. “So I better be getting that mark or else I’d be needing a refund from the school.”

You let out a real laugh at that–light, short, amused–and crossed your arms loosely over your chest, watching him scribble through the rest of the correction with a kind of practiced rhythm.

“No wonder you’re so good at this…” You muttered, more to yourself than him, but loud enough for him to catch.

Bob’s head tilted slightly toward you. “What’re you majoring in?”

You scratched the back of your neck, mildly self-conscious. “Engineering.”

He paused–just long enough to let the silence feel deliberate–and then let out a short, knowing laugh. “Ahh. Now it makes sense.”

You raised a brow, narrowing your eyes in mock warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You guys are chronic overthinkers,” He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. “And you guys aren’t? Please. Look at all the work you need to do just to get a simple solution. Two extra diagrams and four substitutions just to prove a particle moves left.”

He rolled his eyes, the kind of eye roll that had barely any edge–just enough sass to keep the playfulness alive. “Least if I took an engineering course, I’d still hit an 80 on the tests.”

You blinked at him. “Wow. Bold of you to assume you’d survive statics.”

Bob turned toward you a little more, raising an eyebrow, eyes glittering behind the faint reflection on his glasses. “I’d thrive in statics.”

“Oh, really?” you said, grinning now. “You think you would have a handle on it?” He cleared his throat lightly and gave you a soft smirk, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Maybe if I had the right tutor.” You blinked once. And then…Smiled.

He turned back to the board and finished the last line of the solution with a soft swipe of the marker.

“There,” He said, voice quieter again. “That’s how I did it.”

You stared at the board, then at him. The space between your shoulders eased a little. The knot in your chest began to loosen.

”Well…That’s one question down…At least I know where I went wrong…” Bob nodded, tapping the cap of the red marker softly against his palm.

“Let’s go to the next one.”

You reached over to flip the test packet to the next problem set, fingers skimming over the thin paper before tugging the top page aside. The math was already crowding your vision–variables stacked in tight lines, subscripts nestled between integrals and force vectors–and you let out a breath as you raised the black marker again.

He stepped back slightly to give you room, standing just behind and to your left. You could feel the warmth of him, the quiet energy he held so close to his chest, just skimming your shoulder. You swiped the board clean with the eraser in a few broad, practiced strokes until nothing remained but the faint sheen of leftover marker ghosting the surface.

“I’m gonna admit,” You started, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “I winged this one. So I’m definitely not gonna have an explanation for it.”

Bob shrugged, unbothered. “Then solve it,” He said casually. “Or attempt to. I’ll guide if you need it.”

There was a subtle shift in his tone–something a little less guarded, a little more drawled than usual. A slight southern cadence that lilted through the last few words, soft but present, like a warm hush pulled from somewhere deeper than lecture hall confidence. You felt your cheeks heat slightly at the sound.

Still, you nodded. “Alright.”

You started from scratch–no notes, no copying, just your best attempt. The marker glided smoothly under your hand as you worked through the logic piece by piece, pausing every few steps to reassess. You murmured quietly to yourself as you went, instinctively talking through the math aloud, and Bob said nothing–just watched. You could feel his eyes trace the path your gaze took, from the top of your diagram down through the first few steps of your math. Then–

“Nope. Wrong,” He interrupted, it came gently but firmly.

You blinked at the board, your hand frozen mid-step, and let out a quiet sigh. “Why?”

He stepped forward again, lifting the red marker. He didn’t correct it for you–just circled one specific term, the ink smooth and patient.

“This,” He pointed out, “You forgot to convert the mass into angular components. You treated it like a point mass.”

Your stomach sank just slightly. Not out of shame, but frustration. You dipped your head and started erasing that line.

“Sorry,” You murmured, almost under your breath.

“No need to apologize,” Bob said immediately, softer now. “Though I’m hopin’ this stuff sinks in…”

Your eyebrows knit, and you turned your head a little toward him. “Do you think it won’t?”

He shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders. “It takes a while to apply the theory. Knowing it in your head’s one thing…Applying it to a random question is something else…But being able to fix your own mistakes is the first step to understanding things a little better to apply things properly.” You nodded once, pressing your lips together. Then you went back to work, quieter now, more deliberate. He watched you fall into the rhythm of the solution again, only stepping back when you didn’t seem to need his guidance. You could feel his eyes flicking down toward the test for a second before he moved behind you.

You heard the soft scrape of his hand over the textbook as he grabbed it from your desk, flipping it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. Pages whispered past each other as he navigated straight to the chapter you’d been tested on–like he’d memorized the structure without even meaning to. His eyes scanned the problems, fingers tapping the margin of the page as he skimmed.

By the time he turned back around, you were capping the black marker with a little sigh of effort. “I think I got it?”

Bob came closer again and tilted his head to read your work. His gaze moved from line to line, his mouth twitching just slightly before he nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, you got it.” You caught the smile as it crept over his face–unfiltered this time, soft and a little proud. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, pushing them up the bridge of his nose before holding out the textbook toward you, with his thumb slipped between the pages.

“Try number twelve,” He said, the corner of his mouth still lifted. “New problem. Same concept. Let’s see what you remember.” Your eyes scanned the paragraph of setup–classic physics problem: rotating frame, non-uniform mass distribution, some sly attempt to catch overconfident students slipping past the conversion factor. You clicked your tongue once and let your focus shift back to the whiteboard, grabbing the green marker this time.

He watched you move–quiet, efficient, no hesitation as you picked apart the language of the question, breaking it into manageable parts. You leaned your hip against the desk just slightly, skin catching the late-afternoon light in the softest gleam. Your fingers danced over your phone screen, pulling up the calculator, thumb tapping with precise rhythm as your eyes flicked between the numbers and the formulas.

Bob didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring anymore.

There was a faint shimmer along your shoulder from where the light met your skin, a dewy glow from the shower that hadn’t fully faded. You were chewing softly on the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowed in concentration, and he thought–briefly, helplessly–that he could watch you solve problems forever if it meant watching you like this.

You didn’t say anything. Not for the full ten minutes it took you to work it through.

You just calculated, and wrote, and thought. You whispered a few fragments to yourself as you filled in a diagram at the top right corner of the board, then traced your logic through in smooth, deliberate steps. You stepped back finally, the marker hanging loosely from your fingers, your other hand planted lightly on your hip.

You turned slightly toward him.

“Well?” You asked. “What’s the verdict?”

Bob blinked–once, hard. Then blinked again.

“Right,” He replied quickly, moving forward, the textbook now tucked under one arm. He studied your work for a moment, leaning in just enough to squint at one portion of your substitutions. His lips pressed together.

“You did most of it right,” He murmured, pointing to a midsection of your math. “This part’s good…But you forgot to apply the correction here–” He tapped gently on a bracketed term near the top. “That throws the coefficient off. Still–partial credit would be earned. It’s not like you’d lose all the points.”

You let out a breath and nodded. “Got it.”

Bob uncapped the red marker again and leaned forward, elbow bent as he carefully scribbled a correction in the margin beside your step. His handwriting was still annoyingly neat, even in red, even when rushed. He talked you through it slowly, the pace gentle but firm, breaking down the terms like a translation instead of a reprimand.

Your arms crossed as you leaned against the edge of the desk, chin tilted toward him slightly. He didn’t rush, didn’t sound superior–he just…Taught. Like he wanted you to understand it, not just memorize it.

You smirked.

“You should become a professor with the way you teach.”

Bob glanced over his shoulder at you, an amused little tilt to his head. “Why? Am I boring you?”

You let out a real laugh this time, low and warm and amused. “No. Not yet, at least.”

He turned a little more to face you, one hand still holding the red marker.

“Don’t speak too soon,” He warned, the corners of his mouth pulling into a slow, boyish grin. “I’m sure I’ve got a lot more opportunities to do that.”

And even though the whiteboard still glowed behind him, filled with formulas and diagrams and half-solved questions, all you could see was the quiet crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and the way his voice–soft, sincere–almost sounded like a promise.

————————

Bob’s elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely laced, binder long forgotten beside him on the bed.

You were pacing.

Again.

Back and forth in front of your desk, your physics textbook open in your hands like it might suddenly say something different if you glared hard enough at the chapter title.

“I don’t understand,” You huffed, fingers tightening around the spine of the book. “We’ve been working through these questions almost every night for the past two weeks. I’m getting them very close to right when I do them here. I know what I’m doing on the whiteboard, I’m getting partial credit in class–but then I sit down during the quiz and it’s like…Like my brain just decides to take a smoke break.”

Bob watched you quietly from the bed, his gaze flicking down briefly as your shirt lifted with your movements. The hem rose just enough to show the waistband of the boxer shorts you’d thrown on after your shower, the edge of soft cotton skimming the top of your thighs as you turned in another sharp step.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just watched. Like he always did when you got worked up–like his stillness might balance out your storm.

You dropped the book onto your desk with a soft thud, dragging both hands through your hair before planting them on your hips in frustration.

“I mean, it’s ridiculous,” You muttered. “I can do it here. I’ve done it. You’ve seen me do it. What the hell happens between here and the classroom?” Bob leaned back slightly, hands now braced behind him against the bedspread, one leg bent, the other stretched long.

“Do you feel anxious when you’re writing the test?” He asked, tilting his head just a little.

You turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

“It’s a normal amount of anxiety,” You said flatly. “What, are you about to tell me that’s why I’m still not doing well on quizzes? A little test stress?”

He shrugged, his lips quirking upward like he knew he was about to toe the line. “Could be,” He replied simply. “Or…Maybe you just need some kind of…Positive reinforcement.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Positive reinforcement?” You repeated slowly, curious and suspicious of how he was bringing up the topic.

He nodded, straight-faced. “Affirmations. Encouragement. Rewards. You know. Psychology stuff.” You crossed your arms, the motion slow and deliberate, as you turned fully to face him. Your hips settled just to one side, weight shifting into that slightly challenging posture–the kind that said you weren’t going to let this slide, but not in the way he should be afraid of. Your head tilted a little, eyes narrowed like you were sizing him up. Watching.

Noticing.

And God, was he blushing.

Not a violent flush, but that creeping kind–the kind that started at the tips of his ears and crawled slowly down the sides of his neck like embarrassment blooming from the inside out. He wasn’t meeting your gaze now. Just staring down at the binder on his lap, his thumbs rubbing over the edge of the plastic like it had something important to say.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Took him in.

The soft slope of his shoulders where they leaned back into the pillow. The subtle indent his jaw made when he clenched it without meaning to. The flush of red creeping into his cheeks, all while trying to keep that composed, helpful tone–like he was still just your tutor and not someone who thought about kissing you when you leaned too close during derivatives.

The silence held for a beat too long.

Then you spoke.

“So you’re trying to condition me?”

Bob’s head snapped up, and his eyes met yours–wide, startled, and already bracing for the tease he knew was coming. But then, to your surprise, he laughed. A real laugh. Short and soft and so genuine that it made the tips of his ears go even redder.

“N-No!” he said quickly, shaking his head, that lopsided smile overtaking his face. “Jesus–no, I wasn’t–conditioning you?”

You smirked, keeping your arms crossed like a challenge. “It kinda sounds like you’re conditioning me.”

He laughed again–this time accompanied by a quiet snort he couldn’t quite swallow down fast enough. It made your grin widen.

“I’m not trying to train you like a dog,” He commented, wiping a hand down his face with mock-exhaustion. “I just meant…If you associate physics with something good, maybe your brain will stop freaking out every time you’re handed a test.”

You blinked at him once. Raised an eyebrow.

“So…” You started, slowly, carefully, “You’re trying to open my third eye for physics?”

Bob looked at you. Deadpan. “That’s not what I said.”

You stepped closer, a teasing lilt curling into your voice now as you gestured with one hand. “No, no, I think that’s exactly what you said. You want me to transcend. Find academic Nirvana through external praise.” He rolled his eyes.

”Okay. Now you’re just twisting my words.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Am I?” You grinned. He gave you a look. A very Bob look. One part fond, one part I walked into this with my eyes wide open and it’s too late to leave now. But the pink still hadn’t faded from his cheeks.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk again, bare thighs catching the warm glow of your desk lamp, watching the way Bob’s eyes flicked toward your legs and then immediately back up again.

“Alright, Professor Floyd,” You said lightly, “I’ll bite. What kind of positive reinforcement are we talking about here? You handing out gold stars? Stickers? Should I bring a report card for you to sign?” Bob cleared his throat. It was soft but unmistakable. A nervous reflex that made him sit up a little straighter on your bed, one hand rising to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose even though they hadn’t really slipped.

“I mean…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on some distant point above your shoulder. “I was thinking more like…A kiss.” Your entire body stilled, hands still loosely clasped in front of you from your teasing posture, your weight half-shifted against the desk. A beat passed–just long enough to wonder if you’d misheard him. But then his eyes flicked back to yours, just for a second, and the heat in his gaze made it impossible to pretend he hadn’t said exactly what you thought he did.

You could feel your cheeks warm–instantly, helplessly–heat blooming beneath your skin like it had been waiting for the right moment to spill forward. But you masked it with a slow raise of your eyebrows and a smirk, playful but laced with that sharp new curiosity curling low in your gut.

“Yeah?” You said, voice softer now. You shifted your weight and tilted your head. “A kiss? That’s what you had in mind?”

Bob’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Hard. His eyes flicked to the space beside your head before dropping to the floor–then back up to you, like he was trying not to look too long but couldn’t help it. He shifted on the mattress, fingers brushing over the edge of the binder like he needed something to hold onto. “I-I mean…It was just an idea. One of…Several.”

You stepped closer.

“Is that what you’ve had in mind this entire time?” You questioned, voice low, the smile on your lips laced with something sweeter now–teasing, but sincere. “Kissing me?”

Bob let out a nervous little laugh, breath catching as he tried to string together a reply. His knuckles were pale where they gripped the binder now, eyes flicking toward your legs again before jerking back up to your face.

“I–no, I mean, not… I never really got that idea till today,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought—I don’t know. It might help.”

You took another step forward.

“You sure about that?” you asked, the words curling in your throat like heat, low and just a little amused. Now you were standing directly in front of him, and the change in height made it impossible not to notice how he looked up at you–head tilted back slightly, wide blue eyes tracking your every move. His glasses slid a fraction down his nose, but he didn’t dare lift a hand to fix them.

His mouth opened and closed once before he found his voice. “I personally…Think it might work,” He murmured.

Your eyes flicked down to his lips–soft, parted slightly, flushed–and then back to his eyes. He was blinking slow now, like your presence this close was physically slowing his thoughts.

You bit your lip. Slowly. Purposefully.

“So you’re telling me,” You said, almost whispering now, “That you want to reward me with kisses…Whenever I get a question right?”

Bob exhaled through his nose. His legs had parted slightly where he sat, not intentionally–but enough to suggest his body was reacting faster than his brain. He nodded once, tentative but clear. His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper.

“I could…Do a whole lot more than kisses,” He said.

The second the words left his mouth, his eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Like he hadn’t even known he was capable of it. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the binder, his spine curving slightly forward as if he could fold himself up to hide from the boldness that had just escaped him.

Your breath caught–just barely–and something about the way he said it, almost reverent, almost pleading, sent a shiver down your spine. You watched his throat work, his chest rising and falling in subtle, shaky breaths.

He wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t teasing you back with confidence.

He wanted you.

Desperately.

You leaned in, closing that last bit of space between your knees and the edge of the bed until your thighs brushed his. The binder slid from his lap onto the comforter with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Yeah?” You murmured, voice warm, velvety, almost indulgent. “You think you could do more?” Bob nodded, slowly–eyes wide, lips parted, breath coming a little uneven now, fanning over your face.

“If you’d let me,” He said quietly, “I’d do anything.”

The words landed between you like a weight, heavy with longing, trembling with truth.

And you believed him.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

He didn’t play games. He didn’t flirt to win. He offered, quietly, completely–like giving a piece of himself to someone felt holy.

Your hands moved before your mind fully caught up, instinct carrying you as you lifted them slowly–deliberately–and rested them against the sides of his neck.

He was warm.

The kind of warmth that radiated from beneath the skin, the kind that felt like it could seep into your palms and settle somewhere inside your chest if you let it. His skin was soft under your thumbs, his pulse fluttering just beneath one, and when your fingers brushed lightly over the edge of his jaw, you felt the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Bob stilled.

Completely.

The kind of stillness that only came when something sacred was happening–like he didn’t want to risk breaking the moment by breathing too loud.

And then you leaned in.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow–measured. Confident in the space he’d given you. Confident in the way his knees shifted to make room for you between them, in the way his lips had parted already, waiting, hoping.

Your nose brushed his cheek softly. His glasses tilted just slightly from the nudge, slipping down the bridge of his nose in a slow, unbothered drift. You felt the ghost of his breath over your mouth, shaky and warm, and then–

You kissed him.

Gently. Just once. Lips pressed to his like the start of a sentence that would take its time to finish.

Bob breathed into it–exhaled a soft, shuddering hum from the back of his throat that vibrated against your mouth. His hands came up slow, tentative, like he didn’t want to assume. But then they settled–one sliding to your lower back, warm and careful, the other ghosting over your hip before stilling there.

And then he kissed you back.

Really kissed you.

Slow at first. So slow it made your knees weak.

He lingered on your upper lip, plush and steady, then pulled back half an inch and tilted–just enough to brush your bottom lip between his with soft, seeking pressure. His lips moved with purpose, not urgency. Thoughtful. Intent. Like he wanted to memorize you in pieces, to map the shape of your mouth one breath at a time.

You made a soft, involuntary sound into him–a quiet, pleased little “mmm”–and he kissed you again like he needed to drink it in. His thumb pressed lightly against the small of your back, grounding him, grounding you. Every motion of his mouth was reverent, restrained, and dripping with a kind of intimacy that made your skin burn.

You pulled back just an inch–lips brushing his, breath warm between you.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sweeping against flushed cheeks. His pupils were blown wide behind his fogged glasses, lips pink and slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with careful, controlled breaths. He looked dazed. Unmoored.

You smiled.

A quiet, knowing smile, and let your thumbs brush the sides of his jaw.

“Better go get the next question right, huh?” You whispered, teasing but breathless. “Gotta meet my end of the bargain.”

And just as you started to pull back, maybe to reach for the marker again, maybe to hide the way your heart was slamming against your ribs like a drum–

Bob’s hand on your lower back pressed just slightly.

“Wait,” He murmured, voice low and husky now. “How about we suspend the studying for now?”

The words came quiet. Careful. But you could hear the edge beneath them–that hunger he’d tried so hard to suppress now curling softly around the syllables.

You arched an eyebrow at him, still close enough that your noses brushed.

“Hmm…” You started, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Now you’re just going to end up distracting me.”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth. Then back up.

You ran a finger gently down the side of his neck, your voice warm and teasing.

“Let’s stick to the plan…” Bob exhaled slowly. Like it took everything in him not to pull you back in.

His hands didn’t move. But he nodded.

Barely.

And when you stepped away and turned toward the whiteboard again, you could feel the heat of his gaze trailing after you–like he was trying to sear every inch of the moment into memory.

———————

By the second correct answer, you were setting a timer for yourselves.

Ten minutes. That was the new rule.

Ten minutes per problem, per kiss. No exceptions. No shortcuts.

Because the last time you’d leaned in for one–intended to be short, controlled, just enough to make good on the deal–you’d ended up in his lap. His hands had slipped under your shirt almost instinctively, like they knew where to go before he consciously gave them permission. And when his palms flattened against the small of your back, warm and strong and bare, your breath had hitched in a way that surprised you.

Not because it was too much.

But because it was exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d been needing.

His fingers pressed into your skin–not harshly, not possessively, just enough to ground you. Like he couldn’t believe he was touching you and needed to memorize the shape of your body with his hands before you slipped away again. You’d gasped into his mouth, not even meaning to, and felt him inhale like the sound had gone straight to his chest.

And then you kissed him harder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, wrecking the neatness of it with the kind of carelessness that only came when heat outweighed hesitation. You pulled, just a little–testing, exploring–and he moaned softly against your lips like it cracked him open. His glasses were crooked by then, fogged from your shared breaths, and neither of you bothered fixing them. The world could stay blurry if it meant this stayed sharp.

Somewhere in the haze, Bob’s shirt had come off. You hadn’t meant for it to escalate. It had just…Happened. One minute your hands were sliding beneath the hem, feeling the heat of him, the tension in his abdomen, the ridges of muscle that lined his stomach, and the next, the shirt was gone. Flung off to the side without a single graceful motion. You hadn’t even looked where it landed.

He was solid beneath you. Not chiseled in a gym-rat kind of way, but strong in that natural, everyday way. Like he was built for work. His skin was sun-warmed with just a pinch of colour, a faint line of tan cutting across the middle of his arms where T-shirts always stopped. You touched him like he might disappear. He held you like he never wanted you to.

And God…He was good.

Surprisingly good.

Not in the way of someone who practiced, but someone who paid attention. Someone who kissed with focus. With reverence. Like your mouth was an answer he’d been solving toward for weeks. He kissed like he studied–slow, thorough, intentional. His tongue was gentle at first, coaxing. His teeth grazed your lip once, barely, and you swore you could feel it in your spine. When he kissed you the second time–after the next problem, when your timer dinged again–you already knew it wasn’t going to stay brief.

And it didn’t.

He pulled you in with hands that were just slightly rough from calluses and pencil grooves, fingers curling tight around your waist, your ribs, like he needed to feel you under his hands. And when he slipped those same fingers under the hem of your shirt again—this time slower, surer–you let him. You wanted him to. His touch wasn’t greedy. It was searching. Savoring. Like he was learning every inch of you the way he learned his formulas.

And you didn’t realize how touch-starved you’d been until then.

Until the heat of his hand met the curve of your spine, and you arched into him like your body had been waiting for permission. Until he kissed down the side of your jaw, slowly, reverently, and you felt the hum of it in your chest. Until your own hand traced the broad slope of his shoulder, down over the rise and fall of his ribs, and found nothing but steady strength and gentle restraint.

You didn’t say it out loud–but he could feel it.

The hunger in the way you kissed him. The gratitude in the way your hands explored him. The desperate edge that slipped into your breath every time you whispered his name between kisses like it wasn’t something you’d meant to do.

And maybe it wasn’t about physics anymore.

Maybe it never really was.

Because as Bob pulled back, breathless and flushed, his glasses still askew and hair mussed into soft waves from your fingers pulling and tightening, he looked at you like you’d changed something fundamental inside him. Like you’d opened a door he didn’t know was locked. Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

Your timer buzzed again in the background. Neither of you moved.

“…You got that one right,” He whispered, lips brushing your cheek “Think you deserve…A break.” You let out a breathless little laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the aftermath of the last kiss. Your hair was a bit mussed from his hands, your lips slightly swollen from the soft, reverent press of his mouth–and you were dizzy, absolutely dizzy with the way he looked at you.

“Bob…” You murmured, voice playful, warm, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got some sort of ulterior motive.” Bob, still slightly breathless, hand still planted firm and reverent on your thigh, sat back just a little. Enough to give you a look. One of those boyish, guilty-but-not-really guilty grins that curled slow at the edges and made your heart skip.

He pressed a hand flat to his bare chest, wide-eyed in mock innocence.

“Me?” He said, lips twitching. “No…Definitely no ulterior motives here. I’m just…” He leaned in again, close enough for his breath to dance against your jaw, “Trying to do something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Your brows lifted, pulse tripping.

“Oh?” You murmured, teasing but curious. “And what’s that?” He pressed a kiss to your jaw–so gentle it nearly didn’t register as a kiss at all. Just warmth. Just intent. Then another, lower, slower, right beneath the curve of your ear. And then:

“Going down on you,” He whispered.

The words landed hot, like they’d been spoken directly into your bloodstream.

Your breath hitched audibly. You swore you could feel your pulse flutter in places you didn’t think could react to words alone. Heat pooled low in your stomach like syrup spilling into something hollow. Still, you managed a quiet, almost incredulous laugh, voice tightening as you tilted your head to look at him again.

“Now I need to know,” You said, fingers threading back into his hair, “How long you’ve been thinking about that.” Bob let out a soft laugh, one hand splaying open against your hip, the other bracing himself still, like he needed to keep steady before he admitted anything to you. He kissed down your neck again, slower this time–each inch of skin passed over with the kind of devotion that said this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment confession.

And when he reached the collar of your shirt, where the fabric hung loose from earlier tugging, he nosed at it gently. Not greedy. Just wanting more.

You tugged lightly on his hair, not to stop him, but to coax him to pause–just enough to get him to look up.

“Hey,” You said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”

Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours–blue and wide and already glassy with the weight of how badly he wanted you. And then his face turned a shade deeper, that telltale blush painting up his cheeks and crawling behind his ears.

“Since…” He paused, like the words were too embarrassing to say. “Since the first day of class. When you came in late…Dressed in that skirt.”

You blinked, lips parting slowly.

“The black one?”

He nodded, eyes darting to your mouth like it might give him the courage to keep talking.

“It rode up just a little when you walked past. And you sat a few seats down and didn’t look at me once. And I–” He broke off for a second, laughing nervously. “I dropped my pencil because of how you smelled and how your legs looked and because you didn’t even notice me looking.”

You stared at him.

Then grinned, slow and wicked.

“Well,” You murmured, leaning in again until your lips were just barely brushing his, “Guess it’s a good thing you’re getting your chance now.” Bob exhaled a shaky breath–one of awe, of disbelief, of absolutely overwhelmed want.

And then he kissed you again.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the first.

It was deeper. Hungrier. Your lips opened beneath his without hesitation this time, and he drank in the permission like it was oxygen–his hands curling tighter around the backs of your thighs before lifting you effortlessly into his lap. You gasped softly against his mouth as your knees bent around him, your weight settling against the solid warmth of his thighs, your hands sliding up the broad slope of his bare shoulders.

He kissed you like he’d waited for this.

Like every moment you’d spent leaning over equations, brushing fingertips, trading teasing words had led to this exact point–and now he had you here, soft and open in his lap, your legs bare and warm against denim, your breath stuttering into his mouth every time he tugged you closer.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your t-shirt again, palms hot against your back, and this time he didn’t hesitate. The fabric peeled upward in one smooth motion–up, over your ribs, brushing your chest–until you lifted your arms and let him tug it off completely. He tossed it somewhere behind you, neither of you looking to see where it landed.

His eyes dropped.

The moment he saw what you were wearing underneath, his breath hitched—and for a second, he didn’t move. A soft cotton sports bra in a worn, dusky pink–simple, comfortable, a little faded from wash after wash–but the way it hugged you? The way it molded to the curve of your breasts, straps digging gently into your warm skin?

Bob Floyd looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

He swallowed once. Then again. His glasses had slipped slightly lower on his nose, giving him that boyish, dazed expression he got whenever something completely wrecked his train of thought. You watched his eyes trail over you, caught between reverence and want, and then–

He hummed. A soft, breathy sound from deep in his chest. Something unfiltered. Something warm.

Then he looked back up at you.

And kissed you again.

His hands gripped your hips now, anchoring you down in his lap like he didn’t want you to shift an inch. He kissed you harder–open-mouthed, deep, letting out a quiet groan as your hips rocked forward ever so slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just let the noise fall between you, ragged and raw, swallowing your gasp as he shifted his grip and guided you until your back hit the mattress.

The room spun gently with the motion, soft yellow light from the lamp catching in the lenses of his glasses as he leaned over you. His body followed—broad shoulders, warm bare chest pressing down as he settled between your legs. He braced his hands on either side of your ribcage, framing you like a question he couldn’t stop asking. His eyes searched your face for just a second, but you nodded–softly, wordlessly–already reaching for him again.

He dipped his head.

Kissed your throat.

Then lower.

And lower still.

He took his time.

Every press of his lips trailed down the line of your collarbone, across the top swell of your breasts where the fabric cut gently across your skin. His glasses slipped again, nearly falling off–but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even lift a hand to adjust them. He kissed you through the blur, lips brushing the tops of your breasts like they were something sacred.

You let out a quiet sound–half gasp, half moan–and threaded your fingers into his hair again. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of your skin as he groaned softly against you.

“Are you always this sensual?” you whispered, voice thick, dazed, breathless.

Bob let out a quiet sigh, like your question made something in him ease and deepen at the same time.

“Let’s just say I love giving…” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest. “…A lot.”

The way he said it–low, quiet, honest–made your legs clench involuntarily around his waist. Your mind flooded with images far too filthy for someone as sweet as Bob Floyd to inspire.

But then again, the way he looked right now–glasses fogging, lips red and glistening, his chest moving in slow, hungry waves with every breath–maybe he wasn’t that sweet after all.

His fingers reached for the thin straps of your bra.

“Hope you don’t mind,” He whispered against your skin, lips still pressing hot kisses between every word.

You shook your head quickly. “I don’t mind at all…”

With a reverent kind of care, he slipped the straps off your shoulders. One. Then the other. His fingers brushed your arms on the way down, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over your skin like he was memorizing it. Then–slowly, carefully–he tugged the fabric down, baring you to him inch by inch.

His breath hitched.

Your breasts, soft and flushed from heat and touch, rose with every breath you took. Bob didn’t reach for you right away. He just…Looked. Let himself take it in. His hands slid up your sides again–rougher now, purposeful–and when they cupped the curve beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushed upward, stroking slowly until your nipples tightened under the attention.

His glasses fogged completely.

Still, he didn’t take them off.

He leaned in and kissed the soft mound of your left breast, then your right, each kiss dragging slower than the last. His lips were gentle, his hands firm, and when he finally brushed the tip of his tongue over your nipple, your hips bucked without warning.

“God,” You whispered, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. Bob just smiled. Quietly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, lips hovering just over your nipple again, breath warm and teasing.

You shook your head slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. “I call it anticipation.”

His low laugh rumbled against your skin. “Didn’t know we were calling it that now… but okay.”

Then he kissed you again–this time firmer, lips wrapping around your nipple with a slow, aching pull that made your hips twitch beneath him. His tongue was wet and warm, lapping slow circles around the soft peak before closing over it again, sucking just a little deeper now–just enough to make you moan quietly, enough to send a thrum straight between your thighs.

His hands didn’t stop, either–broad palms sliding up and down the sides of your ribcage, thumbs sweeping in careful, reverent passes. He alternated between breasts with the same kind of concentration you’d seen in study sessions: deliberate, measured, like he was solving you.

And when he finally pulled away, lips red and glistening from worship, he blew a soft, chilled stream of air across your saliva-slick nipple–then the other.

Your entire body arched. He watched it happen with wide eyes, completely entranced.

Then–without a word–you sat up.

He blinked in surprise, hands still resting on your sides as you reached behind yourself and unhooked your bra the rest of the way, slipping the fabric down your arms and flinging it off the bed. The second it landed somewhere behind you, you laid back down–bare, flushed, and completely open.

Bob’s breath hitched hard. His glasses had slipped lower again, fogged beyond all reason now, and he still hadn’t touched them. He didn’t even seem aware of the state he was in–just that you were laid out beneath him, chest rising in unsteady waves, eyes soft but daring.

He exhaled shakily.

And then he moved lower.

He kissed the center of your sternum once, then again, trailing down past your navel with slow, reverent care. When he reached the waistband of your boxer shorts, he paused. His hands came to rest just above your hips, fingers curling slightly under the band.

He looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark behind the silver frames.

You nodded–slow, sure.

That was all he needed.

He pulled the fabric down just an inch. Then another. Just enough to reveal the top of your hips, the soft line of your lower stomach. His lips followed–kissing each inch as it was exposed, trailing warmth into places that had never felt this kind of attention before. The contrast between the heat of his mouth and the cool air made your thighs twitch, and he hummed softly against your skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” He whispered. “You don’t even know, do you…”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. Your fingers were tangled in the sheets again, breath catching every time his lips brushed lower, every time he said something in that breathless, reverent voice that made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time.

When he reached the base of your hips, he gave the waistband a firmer tug, and you lifted your hips to help him–knees bending slightly, thighs parting as he pulled the shorts down your legs. He slid them off with practiced care, and you watched as he tossed them aside with the same nonchalance he’d flung his shirt–like every barrier between you was one more step toward something sacred.

He paused there.

Just knelt between your legs for a second, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he needed to anchor himself before continuing. Then–without saying anything–he pushed your thighs up gently, spreading you open just enough.

His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee.

You gasped.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim. A promise. His lips lingered there for a second, and then they moved–trailing up the inside of your thigh in slow, wet presses, each one firmer than the last.

“You’ve got no idea,” He murmured against your skin. “How long I’ve wanted to do this… How many times I’ve imagined being between your thighs just like this…”

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above your inner thigh, and your hips jerked slightly at the contact. He didn’t move away. Just kissed the spot he’d grazed. Then again. Higher this time.

“Wanted to take my time with you,” He whispered, voice low, breath hot. “Make sure you know what it feels like when someone actually wants to do this…” Your hands gripped the comforter.

“I want to hear the way you sound when it’s good. When it’s real. When it’s slow…”

He kissed the top of your inner thigh–right at the edge of where you needed him most.

Then, finally, he glanced up–his glasses slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, mouth slick with his saliva and swollen.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” He said softly. “You’ll never forget it.”

His tongue moved with devastating precision–slow, savoring, like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t about to waste a single second.

He started with a kiss-low, just at the edge of your folds, then dragged his tongue up in one long, warm stripe that made your legs twitch. You gasped, hands flying instinctively to his hair as he groaned into you, deep and low, like he’d been starving for this.

“Jesus–Bob–” You whispered, voice cracking on the edge of a moan.

He didn’t answer. Just licked you again, slower this time, tongue flattening against you with such gentleness it made your stomach tighten. Then he did it again. And again. Until the room dissolved into heat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of him eating you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

And maybe you were.

He used his mouth like a worshipper—like this wasn’t about getting you off, but about tasting everything he’d been dreaming of for weeks. He kissed your clit softly at first, then circled it with his tongue—just enough pressure to make you cry out, just enough to leave you chasing more. Your hips rocked against his mouth before you could stop them, and instead of pulling back, he moaned again, deeper this time, and grabbed your thighs—holding you open like a man possessed.

His fingers dug gently into your hips as he sucked on you now, lips wrapped around your clit with wet, deliberate pulls. His glasses were fogged beyond saving, the lenses glinting in the dorm light as they slipped further down his nose. He didn’t stop. Didn’t lift his head once. Just kept tasting and kissing and groaning like your body was the only thing he needed to study for the rest of his life.

You whimpered.

“F-Fuck, Bob–too good–”

That finally earned a reaction. He groaned again, louder, like your words were gasoline, and then–God–he slipped two fingers between your thighs, slick with your arousal, and pushed them in with a slow, practiced ease.

Your back arched.

The stretch was perfect. His fingers curled immediately, searching for that spot–and finding it like he’d mapped it out ahead of time. His mouth never left your clit, tongue flicking faster now, suction intensifying just slightly, just enough to send a full-body tremor through you.

“C’mon,” He murmured between strokes, voice ragged, lips brushing against you with every syllable. “That’s it… Just like that. Let me hear you.”

You did.

You let go of any remaining shred of restraint and moaned–loud, broken, lost to the rhythm of his fingers and the warmth of his mouth. Your thighs shook, your body tightening, unraveling. The dorm room felt like it might dissolve around you.

“G-Gonna–”

“I know,” he whispered, breath hot, eyes glassy as he looked up at you from between your thighs. “Go ahead. I got you.”

And then he did something devastating.

He sucked harder.

Curled his fingers deeper.

And moaned into you like your orgasm was his reward.

You shattered.

Your hands clutched his hair, your legs tensed around his head, and your breath broke into a stuttering cry as he licked you through it–never stopping, never letting up. He worshipped you all the way through your high, his mouth messy, eager, lips slick with you as he kept kissing, kept groaning, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, panting, spent–he didn’t move right away.

He kissed your inner thigh.

Then again. And again.

Then trailed up your body with soft, slow presses of his mouth, leaving a trail of your own taste on his lips as he made his way back up. His chest hovered over yours, his weight warm and solid, and when he finally kissed your mouth again–full and deep–you could taste yourself on his tongue.

And he let you.

Let you feel it.

Let you know exactly what he’d just done to you.

He pulled back from the kiss, hovering above you, mouth swollen from all the work he had done, lips slightly parted. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way–hair mussed from your fingers, flushed cheeks, chest rising with the weight of restraint.

Then, like a flicker of light through the haze, he let out a breathy laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving. Joyful.

You laughed too–soft, breathless, dazed–your palm dragging slowly down his bare chest before reaching up to push his glasses back up his nose. The lenses had slipped almost entirely off his face, smudged and misted at the edges. You caught the little fingerprints and streaks near the bottom and smiled, chest still heaving slightly as you murmured:

“Where…The hell did you learn that?”

Bob’s laugh deepened this time, short and warm, his entire face flushing deeper crimson. He covered his face with one hand for a second, then dropped it to your waist, eyes shining with both amusement and bashfulness.

“From…My past partners?” He said, half like a question, half like a confession. “I told you I’m a giver. I may look timid but…As you can tell, I know my stuff.”

You grinned, your heart skipping at how proud–but still modest–he sounded. You leaned up, catching his mouth in another kiss, slower now, languid. He hummed against your lips, eyes fluttering shut as his hands pulled you just a little closer.

“Bit surprising,” you whispered against his mouth.

He nodded, kissing you again, hands smoothing down your sides. “I know.”

And it would’ve stayed gentle, dreamy, lazy like that–until your hand drifted between your bodies.

You hadn’t been trying to tease. Not really. But when your palm brushed over the thick bulge in his jeans, the way his breath hitched immediately had you curling your fingers lightly around him, just enough to feel the weight of him. The heat. The hardness pressing insistently behind the denim.

You smiled, eyes soft but mischievous. “Your turn?”

But to your surprise, Bob flinched—barely, but it was there. His hand caught your wrist gently, not to push you away, but to pause.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

You blinked, your palm still resting against him. “What?” You tilted your head. “You don’t… even want to have sex?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, eyes darting to yours before lowering again. “I just…It’s really okay. You don’t have to.”

You sat up slightly, just enough to bring your faces closer again, concern slipping behind your smile.

“Are you…” Your voice gentle. “Are you nervous?”

His lashes fluttered. A breath stalled in his throat. And that was all the answer you needed.

You reached for his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. His skin was hot, his jaw tight, but he leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“Bob,” You said softly, a smile curling into your voice. “How can you be nervous after you just gave me the best orgasm of my life?”

That made his eyes shoot open–just a little. You watched his expression shift. Like he’d heard something he hadn’t expected. Like praise landed harder than touch ever could.

“Seriously,” you continued, your voice warm and slow, “That was unreal. No one’s ever touched me like that. Not like they wanted to. Not like they were…Memorizing it.”

His mouth parted. You didn’t miss the way his breath trembled now. His hips shifted slightly against yours, and when you glanced down, you could see he was getting harder from your words alone.

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “You’re incredible, Bob.”

A sound left him–barely a sound, more of a low exhale, like it physically knocked something loose in him. His hand tightened slightly on your waist.

“You made me feel so good,” You whispered. “Safe. Wanted. Perfect.”

His eyes closed, lips parting with a shaky breath, and his hips rolled the tiniest bit into your palm. You could feel how much he wanted it now. How much he wanted you. He just hadn’t known if he was allowed.

And God, the way he responded to praise–it made something ache inside you.

Your foreheads rested together, breath shared in the quiet space between words, between heartbeats.

“Let’s do it together, hm?” You murmured, your voice warm and coaxing–softened with affection, laced with intent.

Bob let out the tiniest breath of a laugh, and his lips brushed yours as he smiled. “Okay.”

The word was nearly a whisper, but it carried weight–an unspoken trust folding itself into the syllables.

You leaned back just enough to reach between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the button of his jeans. He inhaled, shaky and quiet, watching you as you popped it open, then tugged the zipper down. The sound broke the hush of the room, loud in the stillness.

Bob shifted, lifting himself up just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband. He wriggled out of his jeans with a little bit of awkwardness, and when the denim bunched at his ankles, he kicked them off with a grunt.

You both laughed. Low and breathless, the kind of laughter that came when something was too intimate not to be a little bit funny.

His glasses slid further down his nose.

“Sexy,” You teased, bumping your knee gently against his side.

He rolled his eyes–blushing, flustered, but grinning–and settled back between your thighs, his hands bracing himself on either side of your hips now. The closeness allowed you a better view of him, and you didn’t waste the opportunity.

Your gaze drifted downward. His boxer briefs were tented–straining. You could see the thick outline of him pressed against the fabric, the darkened patch of wetness at the tip where he was already leaking.

Your hand slid slowly down the middle of his torso–over the soft rise and fall of his stomach, the faint ridges of muscle, the trail of hair beneath his navel. Bob held perfectly still, his breath shallow, watching you.

When your fingers ghosted along the inside of his waistband, just above the swell of him, he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Tease,” He muttered, voice tight.

You didn’t deny it.

Instead, you slid your fingers a little deeper. Tugged the fabric down just enough to expose him.

He sprang free with a soft, needy sound escaping his throat.

Your eyes widened slightly.

He was…Big. Thick, flushed, already glistening with precum. The head was ruddy and swollen, shiny with need, and your stomach fluttered at the realization that he’d gotten like this just from pleasuring you.

He looked desperate.

You wrapped your fingers around him slowly, your palm sliding up his length with soft pressure. His breath hitched immediately, head tilting back slightly. His glasses slid another fraction down his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them–just closed his eyes for a moment, his chest lifting in a shallow, shivering inhale.

You stroked him again–long, slow, deliberate. Your grip was just firm enough to make him twitch, your thumb swiping over the slick bead at his tip.

His hips bucked. He gasped, and then let out a shaky laugh.

“Sensitive?” you murmured, lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

Bob’s head dropped forward a bit, cheeks flushed to hell. His voice cracked slightly.

“N-no…Anticipation.” He corrected jokingly, using your own words against you.

You laughed softly. So did he.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept stroking him, slow and sensual, your hand gliding up and down the length of him, savoring every tremble in his thighs, every shift in his breath, every twitch of his fingers against the mattress beside you. He was fully braced now, arms trembling slightly as he rocked into your touch.

His voice came out thin, frayed at the edges.

“I’m really…Really not gonna last if you keep doing that, and…” He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper, “And I really do want to have sex with you…”

His eyes met yours. Wide. Pleading. Vulnerable.

Like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

You leaned up slowly, hand still wrapped around him, lips brushing his ear.

“No need to beg…” You whispered, voice thick with heat. “But if you want to come inside me, Bob…Then you better hurry up and get these off.”

His whole body jolted.

A groan–low, raw, helpless–escaped him.

His boxer briefs were gone a second later. Pushed down and kicked away without a single thought, like he couldn’t bear another second of distance.

He came back over you with reverent slowness–climbing the length of your body like he was rediscovering it inch by inch.

His bare chest skimmed yours, warm and solid. His hips dipped low, the hard length of him brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath hitched at the contact.

“God,” he whispered, voice raw as his lips brushed against your neck. “You feel so good already.”

You arched into him just slightly, your hands finding his shoulders–broad and warm beneath your palms, still trembling faintly from restraint. His glasses were fogging again, slipping lower, but he didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t care.

He kissed the side of your neck.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek–lingering there with a kind of gentleness that made your stomach twist.

And then he kissed your mouth again. Slow. Sweet. Deep.

You moaned softly into him.

The tops of his thighs pressed flush to the backs of yours now, his cock resting heavily between your legs–leaking precum that smeared slightly against your inner thigh as he shifted to fit himself against you perfectly.

His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it, thumb stroking lightly against your skin as he pulled back just enough to speak.

“You sure?” He asked softly, voice shaking with the weight of everything he was holding in. His eyes searched yours, pupils blown, cheeks flushed.

You nodded. Slow. Certain.

“I’m sure,” You whispered. He let out a shaky breath, then he reached down between the both of you, eyes never leaving yours.

You felt the warm glide of his knuckles against your folds first, then the soft, slick drag of his cock as he slowly ran the tip of himself through your arousal.

Your breath caught.

He swirled it over your clit once, twice–just enough to make your thighs twitch.

And God, the way he looked at you while he did it.

Eyes locked. Lips parted. Worship written into every line of his face, made you feel dizzy.

“You’re so wet,” He murmured. “You feel…Unreal.” You whimpered, your nails digging lightly into his shoulder as your other hand wrapped tighter around his bicep.

“Bob…” You whispered, voice already trembling. “Please.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips–soft and slow and steady.

Then–finally–he began to push in.

You both moaned.

The stretch hit immediately, slow and burning, a delicious ache that made your spine arch and your mouth fall open.

“F-fuck,” Bob gasped, his forehead dropping briefly to yours as he sank in inch by inch. “God, you’re–you’re so tight. So warm. You feel so good…Wow…” Your hips shifted, trying to take more, and his hands immediately gripped your thighs, grounding you.

“Easy,” He said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I got you. Just breathe.”

You nodded, your head swimming.

He pushed deeper.

You could feel every inch–every throb of him, every shudder in his breath as your walls stretched around him.

“Just like that,” He murmured. “Doing so good. Taking me so well.” You whimpered, and the sound cracked open something in him.

“You like that?” He whispered, kissing your cheek again, his hips rolling just the slightest bit deeper. “You like hearing how perfect you feel around me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes, Bob–keep talking–please–”

“Fuck,” He breathed, his voice breaking again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He rocked forward the last inch with a soft, helpless moan. Your body trembled beneath his as you adjusted, your thighs hugging his hips, your hands gripping him tightly. Bob groaned into your neck, voice ragged.

“God…You’re perfect. I swear, you’re–Jesus, I don’t even know how to describe this–” You turned your head, catching his mouth again in a deep, desperate kiss. You could feel him trembling above you, his muscles taut, breath stuttering with the effort of staying still.

“You feel so fucking good, Bob–so full–so deep–” His breath hitched.

“Say that again,” He whimpered, “Please.”

You kissed his neck, your voice thick with heat.

“You fill me up so good…God it feels amazing.” Bob let out a deep moan.

Then he began to move.

Just a tiny thrust at first–barely pulling out before pressing back in, the friction slow and hot and devastating.

Your mouth fell open.

His lips ghosted over your cheek as he whispered, “Gonna make you come on me just like this…” Your back arched at the words, your cheek bumping against his glasses. “You like the sound of that?” He added. Your fingers curled into his shoulder blades, nails dragging softly over warm skin as you nodded, breath catching on a moan.

“Yes…Yes, please.”

The quiet plea cracked something open in him.

He kissed you again–mouth hot, searching, needier this time–and his hips began to move.

Slow at first.

A deep roll forward, dragging his length out almost completely before easing back in, the friction molten, smooth, aching. You gasped into his mouth, your body lifting slightly to meet the next thrust. Bob groaned–low and husky–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, sweat dampening the hair at his temples, glasses fogging up again from your breath. Still, he didn’t take them off. He looked wrecked. Gorgeous. Reverent.

“God, you feel…” He whispered, voice thick and ruined as he rocked into you again, a little harder this time, “So good…So tight around me, baby–oh god.” Your breath stuttered. The nickname, unintentional or not, hit low and warm and made you clench involuntarily around him.

He felt it.

He swore softly–“Jesus”–and dropped his head to your shoulder, the next thrust coming sharper, more instinctual.

Your hands roamed—up his back, over the rise of his shoulders, down to his hips where your fingers dug in just slightly. He kissed your neck between thrusts, then bit gently just beneath your ear, and the second his teeth grazed your skin, you gasped.

Your body clenched again.

Bob moaned, full and broken.

“Fuck, that–You like that?” He murmured, voice hot and desperate against your ear. “You like when I do that?”

“Y-Yeah,” You whispered, trembling, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You feel so good, Bob…You’re hitting every part of me.”

He groaned–long, low, filthy in how soft it sounded. His hips began to move faster now, deeper, each thrust dragging a moan from your throat, and his hands slid beneath your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist so he could sink in even further.

“God, you’re perfect,” He praised. “You’re so perfect for me. Every inch of you–I swear–fuck–”

Your head fell back against the pillow. You were gasping now, barely able to respond, but you tried. You wanted him to hear it. You wanted him to know.

“You’re so good at this,” You panted, voice trembling. “So good at making me feel good–God, you’re incredible, Bob–”

His whole body stilled for half a second, as if praise struck something too deep.

Then he moved faster.

A rougher thrust–still controlled, still measured, but heavier now, thicker with want. He let out a moan against your neck, raw and hot, and your back arched at the sound.

You could feel him everywhere–his chest brushing yours, his lips at your throat, his hands gripping you tight like he needed to feel every part of you at once.

You cried out, hips lifting into his, clenching around him with every thick, slick stroke. He felt it. Groaned again. Slid one hand up your body to cradle the side of your face.

“Look at me,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

You did.

And the second your eyes locked, his pace stuttered–just for a heartbeat–like the sight of you, soft and dazed and open beneath him, was enough to make him lose rhythm.

Then he started thrusting again. Deep. Steady. Hot.

“I want you to come on me,” He whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “I want to feel you come again–want to hear how good it feels.”

Your lips parted. Your thighs trembled.

“Bob,” You gasped, desperate now. “You’re so good–please don’t stop–please–”

He kissed you again. Deep. Desperate. All tongue and breath and heat. His thrusts got heavier, faster, until you could feel your climax curling up your spine like a fuse.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He murmured, hips stuttering with restraint. “I can feel it, baby… You’re so tight–so fucking wet–come for me–please–“

You shattered.

With a cry that broke in the middle, your walls clenched around him, waves of heat and release rolling through you so hard your vision blurred. Bob moaned your name–ragged, reverent–thrusting into you a few more times before he groaned loud against your shoulder and came with a shuddering, broken gasp. Bob’s entire body tensed as he came–his cock pulsing deep inside you, hips stuttering against yours in involuntary thrusts as thick, hot ropes of cum filled you.

You felt everything.

The way his muscles tensed above you, taut and trembling. The low, broken sound he made as he buried his face in your neck. The way his arms curled tighter around your waist like he needed to hold onto something to stay connected to consciousness

“F-Fuck,” He choked out, hips giving one more weak, slow push. His release was hot and endless, spreading warmth low in your belly as his body finally started to give in. His breathing was ragged, the heat of it ghosting over your skin. He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t move at all for a long moment.

Just slumped forward, his bare chest sticky against yours, the last tremors of orgasm still rolling through him. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, and you felt him exhale with all the weight of a man undone.

Even the frames of his glasses were warm.

You let your arms slide around his back, hands splayed wide across the muscles there, sticky with sweat, anchoring you both. The only sounds in the room were your shallow, echoing breaths, and the soft hum of a distant hallway light buzzing just outside your dorm door.

Bob’s weight against you felt right. Heavy in the best way. Settled. Natural.

Your fingertips traced slow, thoughtless patterns over his back as you both lay tangled together, letting the afterglow settle around your limbs like warm syrup. Your heartbeats synced slowly–yours still fluttering, his gradually calming.

And then–

He shifted.

Lifted himself slightly on one trembling arm, the other brushing your hair back from your forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his lips pink, and his glasses crooked beyond saving. His smile was dazed. Soft. Glowing.

He leaned in and kissed you again. A soft kiss. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said thank you, and also more, and also stay.

When he pulled back, still breathless, still inside you, he murmured:

“We’re gonna have to start going to the library to study.”

You blinked. Confused. Flushed and blinking at him through the haze, your breath still catching a little in your throat.

“…Why?” You asked, voice hoarse but amused, one hand reaching up to gently smooth the short, light brown strands of his hair that were now sticking out in every direction.

His smile widened–lopsided and boyish, just a little cocky.

“Because we’re never going to get any studying done if we’re near a bed…” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “The temptation will be too strong.”

You laughed–light, breathless, your chest shaking under his with the sound.

“Well,” You teased, trailing your fingertips down the curve of his back, “There goes that positive reinforcement idea, then.”

Bob leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.

“I’m sure we can figure out a replacement,” He replied, “Something that can be done in public spaces.”

You burst out laughing.

He did too.

And you stayed like that–wrapped up in each other, laughter echoing soft and breathless into the quiet room.

[snail-day]

Oh, there's such a lack of yandere nerd!gojo content out in the world. He'd be such a freaking loser dragging his poor lab partner back to his stupidly large apartment that his parents bought him (trust fund kids, am I right?) The poor son of a bitch pushes up his glasses for what has to be the fifth time in the last minute, his fingers shaking just enough to smudge the lenses. He would normally take the time to clean them. After all, this is a very special moment. However, his focus is locked entirely on you, pupils blown wide with exhilaration, his face burning hot.

He’s finally alone with you.

A free hand hovers over yours, the way a scientist might hesitate before handling a delicate, precious agar sample. But you’re not just any experiment. You’re his.

"Oh - oh, wow, you’re shaking," Gojo breathes out, voice nearly cracking from how much he’s holding back. A large, pathetic grin wobbles, too eager and lovesick. "That’s… ahhh, you probably think that’s bad, huh? But - !" Letting out a breathless, giddy laugh, barely able to contain himself. "But it’s not! It’s just your fight-or-flight response kicking in! Isn’t that amazing? It’s just pure biology - adrenaline, cortisol, your nervous system firing on all cylinders - " cutting himself off with another shaky inhale, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, he’s really trying to collect himself (and failing, he's pretty sure he came in his pants).

"You don’t actually have to be afraid, though," he continues, voice softer now, "Because I’d never, ever hurt you! Never! I mean, scientifically speaking, fear is just your body misinterpreting stimuli, and that’s kind of tragic, don’t you think?" Bright blue manic eyes flicker over you, adoringly, like you’re a rare phenomenon he’s lucky enough to witness firsthand. "Because I love you. God, I love you so much. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?"

His fingers twitch, and then finally, he touches you. Just barely. A featherlight brush of his fingertips against the back of your hand, and he shudders like you’ve just sent a shock straight through him.

"Warm," he mutters, almost to himself. "Oh wow, you’re so warm." That pretty face of his is practically glowing red now, and he laughs, high, nervous, like he can’t believe this is actually happening. "I always - I always thought about this, you know? Back in class? How your skin might feel? I - I tried to calculate it once, based on average human body temperature and external environmental factors, but- but actually feeling it is so much better!"

His voice cracks at the end, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, muffling a half-sob, half-laugh. His glasses slide down again. He shoves them up with a clumsy knuckle, barely able to hold himself together.

The room is a mess of his obsessions, shelves packed with manga, figurines lined up like tiny sentinels, textbooks, and loose papers stacked in towers on his desk Complex chemical equations scrawled across a whiteboard, some of them crossing into territory you can’t even begin to understand.

One of them looks… medical. With dosages sprawled out within the Navier-Stokes equation.

Gojo’s long, pale fingers he laces over yours, and oh how his entire body shudders again, like he’s barely restraining himself from pulling you into his arms. "You - you have no idea how much I adore you," voice trembling. "I mean, did you know your hair shines under fluorescent lighting? I wrote a whole equation trying to determine the way light refracts off the strands. And the way you chew on your pen cap when you’re thinking? I- I started doing it too, just to feel closer to you - though studies show - it's like really bad for your teeth so - we should - should stop that bad habit - ah "

His other hand moves suddenly, reaching for something on the desk. A glint of silver. Your breath stutters between soft sobs.

When did he get a syringe? Wasn't he just professing his undying love for you?

Gojo blinks, as if he just remembered he was holding it. Then he lets out another one of those nervous, giddy laughs, clutching the syringe close to his chest like it’s something precious. "Oh - this? Ahaha, you - ah, you weren’t supposed to see that yet! I was gonna - " He bites his lip, gaze flickering between the syringe and you like he’s debating something. "I mean, it’s nothing bad! Just a little - just a little help! A tiny, tiny chemical nudge to help you relax! I measured everything perfectly, I promise! You can trust me! "

And oh are you starting to cry even more which causes him to freak out just a little more... "L-Let’s start over," small stammers as his manic smile widening. "I-I’ll explain it all again! In even more detail! Ohhh, you’re gonna love this!"

[forhappysake]

Teach Me

A/N: This is my first smut and it is LONG. Sorry y'all, I love a plot. Also, not totally proofread, xoxo.

Warnings: SMUT, professor!reidxreader, implied age gap, mentions of dementia, loss of virginity, bl0wjob, protected sex, use of nicknames (good girl), sub!reader/dom!spencer if you squint

The fact that you’d managed to get into Dr. Reid’s criminology class was an absolute stroke of luck on your part. You’d stayed up until midnight, eagerly waiting for your round of registration to unlock, and you’d immediately submitted your requests and refreshed the page until you got confirmation. You were elated. You had read so much about the young doctor, only in his mid-30s, who had multiple doctorates and over a decade of FBI experience. You were fully aware that taking his class would elevate your resume, not to mention that he was quite easy on the eyes.

Of course, that last part was just the consensus around campus. He polled “hottest professor” on social media every year since he’d arrived. You stared at his professor profile on the university’s website. The picture was undoubtedly a couple of years old, with brown curls atop his head and a cleanly shaven face. However, you’d heard from lots of the older majors that he’d aged like fine wine. With that in mind, you shut your computer before crawling into bed for the night. This semester can not end fast enough, you thought. 

*Seven weeks later*

Returning from Christmas break was never easy, but knowing you were going into Dr. Reid’s class made things that much easier. It was your last class of the day, from 3:00 - 4:15, and you knew you’d soak up every minute of it. Though after surviving two other earlier classes and multiple rounds of icebreakers with your new classmates, you were starting to lose your initial excitement at what Dr. Reid’s course may hold.

You walked into the lecture hall, noting an empty seat about three rows from the front. Claiming the seat as your own, you pulled out your new notebook and a red pen, scribbling the date and course number at the top of your page. You checked your watch: 2:58. You couldn’t help but tap your foot impatiently as your fellow students filtered into the room.

After a few more moments passed, the side door in the lecture hall opened, and Dr. Reid walked out in front of the room. He didn’t look up at the students, whose murmuring had gone silent the moment he entered. Instead, he turned his back to the group as he wrote his name and the course number on the whiteboard. 

He turned back around, this time scanning the students in the hall before clearing his throat. “Good afternoon, my name is Dr. Reid. I’ll be your professor for this course.” He paced around for a moment before coming to a stop and leaning himself back onto the desk. He looked a bit different from his faculty picture. His brown hair had grown out, allowing you to see more of his curls. His once clean-shaven face had evolved into stubble, and the rings around his eyes looked a bit darker. However, you couldn’t argue, he had aged well. 

“First thing’s first, the university requires that I take roll call for the first three weeks of the course.” You waited for him to fumble around on the computer or take up a piece of paper with all of your names on it. Surprisingly, Dr. Reid began calling out names from memory without picking up a roster. “Riley Anderson?” 

“Here,” a light-haired boy in the back of the class said, waving his hand. 

The back and forth of Dr. Reid calling names and students replying went on for another minute before he came to your name, “Y/N Y/L/N?”

You raised your hand and offered a small smile, “Here.” He looked up at you and smiled back. As you looked away, you could feel his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he cleared his throat and continued, making quick work of the rest of the roll call before starting the course. 

The first day’s lecture was relatively tame. Nothing too gruesome was discussed, and thankfully the young doctor didn’t make you play any more icebreaker games. Upon class dismissal, a large line of students eager to make nice with their new professor lined up at his desk. Though you had hoped to meet the doctor personally, you didn’t want to wait around after being on campus all day. You quickly gathered your books and shoved them in your backpack before walking up the stairs and leaving the lecture hall. 

As with all semesters, the work began to pile on quickly as you did your best to keep up. Most of your classes began to blend together. However, Dr. Reid’s class was always your first priority. There was something about him that made you feel the urge to make him proud of your work. Maybe it was the way he’d smile thoughtfully as you asked him questions during the lecture or the time he’d made extra office hours for you when you needed help with a paper. It could have even been the morning you’d bumped into him in the campus coffee shop and he’d paid for your drink. As you pondered this, laying in bed the night before your midterm, you couldn’t help but feel a little silly. He did these things for all his students, right? You did your best to quiet your thoughts before forcing yourself to sleep the night before your exam. 

The next morning, you walked through campus with a certain confidence in your step. Though you had never been a great test-taker, you were confident that you were going to do well on Dr. Reid’s midterm. He’d even been so kind as to offer you a study guide, which you had been working through over the last week. You were prepared, but as you approached the lecture hall, you could see that your classmates weren’t feeling so confident. 

A young boy sat by the door, frantically scanning his handwritten notes in a last-minute attempt to memorise information. Several others followed suit.

Dr. Reid came around the corner, exams in hand. “Good morning, Y/N,” he said with a bright smile. “Are you ready for the exam?”

“Born ready, Doc,” you joked, following him into the lecture hall and settling into your seat. Dr. Reid passed out the exams. Just as you suspected, you finished without a hitch. You dropped the paper on his desk and he offered you a small smile as you turned and left the lecture hall. 

You made your way to the library to study for your fifth and final midterm. You chose your typical spot in the corner of the room, hidden behind a large bookshelf. As you settled into study, you put your headphones in. As you dove into your reading, you became oblivious to the world around you. An hour passed, and it was only when you felt a tap on your shoulder that you were pulled from your work. 

You turned to face whoever had tapped you, and you failed to hide your surprise when you were met with the dark eyes of Dr. Reid. “Oh, hey!” you said, trying to be casual as you paused your music and took your headphones off. “What are you doing here?”

He looked down at you from his standing position, offering an awkward shrug. “I’m not sure, really. I guess I just thought I might find you here.” 

You furrowed your brow. “Is something wrong? Did I mess up on the exam?” 

Dr. Reid shook his head, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Goodness, no. You did wonderful. The grade is already in, actually.” “Oh,” you mumbled, smiling a little at his compliment. “Well then, what’s up?”

He stumbled around for a second, working up the confidence to utter his next sentence. “I was wondering if you were free tonight.” 

Your eyebrows raised and you felt your jaw drop a little. Was this happening? “Uh… f-for what?” you asked, trying not to get your hopes up. 

He pulled his hands from his pockets, fiddling with his tie as he shook his head. “Ah, you know, this was silly of me. I should go,” he turned to turn from you, but you reached out and grabbed his hand before he could walk away. 

“For what?” you asked again, ignoring his previous comment. You locked eyes with him, trying to read his expression.

He stood up a little straighter, your obvious interest seemingly bolstering his confidence. “I’ve been working on an article for a journal publication here at the university. I was wondering if you’d be willing to look it over for me,” he said. There was silence for a moment before he added, “I will also be cooking a new pasta recipe I found, and I would like it if you would stay for dinner after that.”

You felt a small smile creeping on your face, but you tried to contain your excitement. However, you could tell from the blush growing on his cheeks that he noticed. “I would love to do that, Dr. Reid. If you could send the address to my personal email, I would be more than happy to be there in-” you looked down at your watch, “roughly an hour.” 

A smile spread over his face, “Great. I’ll do that right away.” He looked around the library for a moment before he seemed to realize where he was, snapping back to reality. “Right, well, I’d better go straighten up my place a bit. I’ll see you soon, Y/N.” With that, Dr. Reid turned from you and headed for the library door. He glanced back at you once, the blush on his cheeks evident as he walked out onto the quad. 

—

After Dr. Reid’s departure from the library, you quickly gathered your things and rushed to the parking lot, making quick work of the drive back to your apartment. You jumped in the shower and rinsed the day off yourself before drying off and standing in front of your closet. 

You examined your clothing choices. This wasn’t a date, was it? Maybe you should go with business casual… or should you choose something a bit more scandalous? Scandalous seemed to be the winning choice. If anything, you could lie and tell him you were going out after leaving his place. He wouldn’t think anything of it, right?

You settled on a shorter black dress that had a low-cut top. It exposed the tops of your breasts in a way that wasn’t wildly distasteful but wasn’t too subtle, either. You decided to skip on the underwear for the evening, the idea of being exposed underneath your dress enough to excite you. You’d never been with a man before, and you figured tonight wouldn’t necessarily be any different. You might as well have some secret fun of your own. 

Checking your watch, you realized you were running short on time. You dashed back out the door to your car. Checking your phone, you saw he’d emailed you as he promised: 

From: Spencer Reid Here’s the address you asked for, along with my apartment number. I look forward to seeing you soon.  -S.R.

You couldn’t help but smile as you entered the address into your car’s GPS before taking off. The fifteen-minute drive felt like an hour as you tried not to let yourself get too nervous. You entered the lobby of his apartment building, catching the elevator to the fourth floor. 

“Apartment 424,” you mumbled to yourself as you stepped off and walked down the aesthetically lit hallway. The carpeted floor was pristine, and the view from the window at the end of the hallway told you that living in this building was not cheap. You shook the thoughts from your head as you reached the last apartment in the hallway, closest to the window. This is it, you thought, don’t fuck it up. 

You knocked twice and stopped to listen for any motion on the inside. You swore you could hear the soft lull of classical music from behind the door, and you suddenly heard footsteps fast approaching. The dark wooden door swung open, unveiling the wild curls of Dr. Reid. “Y/N!” he said, a smile spread wide across his face, “I’m so glad you’re here. Please, come in.” He stepped back from the door, ushering you into the room. 

“Thank you, Dr. Reid.” You stepped inside, examining the room around you. It fit his personality wonderfully. The green paint on the walls was accented by large bookshelves and dark furniture. You smiled when you noticed the lack of a television and instead, a record player sat in front of the sofa. “You have a lovely apartment, Dr. Reid,” you whispered, in awe of the way his personality was infused into the design of the place. 

He furrowed his brow at you, tucking his large hands into his pants pockets once more. He must be nervous. “I appreciate that. But please, call me Spencer.”

“Spencer,” you said, testing how the name felt in your mouth. “I can do that.” He smiled at you before gesturing to the couch, offering you a place to sit. You followed his lead, sitting on the far end of the couch as he perched in the middle. You felt him watching you closely, so you turned to look at him. 

Spencer noticed that you’d caught him staring, so he cleared his throat to diffuse the awkward silence that had fallen over the room. “Here’s that piece I’ve been working on, if you’d still like to look over it.” He leafed through some files on the table before pulling out a thick stack of papers, held together by a large paperclip. 

You took the article from him. “Twenty-seven pages front and back? That’s quite the article, Spencer,” you joked, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

He blushed sheepishly. “You don’t have to read it all if you don’t want to. I just thought that-” 

You waved your hand, cutting him off. “Of course, I am going to read it all. I’ll get started right away if you want to go work on something else.”

“Actually, I think I’m going to start that recipe I mentioned if you’re still interested in dinner,” he rose from the couch, watching for a sign of your approval. 

You looked away from the papers to smile up at him, “Certainly, thank you.”

As he walked away, you continued scanning the papers he had given you. You weren’t sure why he wanted you to review it, you could find no issues. You let out an audible sigh, which Spencer heard from the kitchen. 

“Are you doing okay?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes! I’m not sure why you wanted me to look over this. It’s flawless,” you said, sounding almost disappointed. 

“I would take that as a compliment if you didn’t sound so let down,” he said jokingly, a nervous tinge in his voice. 

You shook your head, “I feel that I wasn’t much help.” 

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been a great help on this project. In fact, the questions you asked about the behavior of female abusers in class were what got me thinking about this in the first place.”

A blush spread over your face, “Really?”

He smiled, trying not to make it too obvious that he noticed the blush on your cheeks. “Really. You’re easily my best student. Your drive is unmatched, and your work is some of the best undergraduate writing I have ever seen. You should consider graduate school if you aren’t already.”

I shrugged at his words. “I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. We’ll see where life takes me, I reckon.” Spencer nodded before padding back to the kitchen, checking whatever he had put together in the oven. Almost on cue, a kitchen timer dinged, letting him know creation was complete. 

He pulled an oven mitt onto his large hand and pulled the dish out of the oven, setting it carefully on the stovetop before he turned back to you. “If you’d like to come sit at the kitchen table, I’d be happy to serve you.” You did as he requested, picking one of the two seats set at the table. Two glasses of wine were readily poured and thick, black cloth napkins were placed at each chair. You spread the fabric over your lap, noticing the careful vines embroidered along the trim. 

“Are these hand-embroidered?” you asked. 

Spencer nodded, “My mother used to live with me. She enjoys doing that sort of thing. I came back one day and she’d done these floral patterns around the edges.” He held up his cloth, gently tracing his finger along the vines and flowers. 

Despite your evident interest in her handiwork, you couldn’t help but wonder about his mother. “Your mother used to live with you?” you asked. “Where is she now?”

Spencer sighed as he looked down, gently laying his cloth across his lap as you had done moments before. “She stays in a nursing facility where they can give her the attention and care she needs. Between working at the university and consulting on cases for the Bureau, I wasn’t doing enough.” As he looked up at you again, you could hear the implication of his final statement: I wasn’t enough. 

You reached for the hand he’d placed back on the table, gently covering it with your own. “I’m sure you did everything you could for her. I’m certain she knows how much you care for her.” 

He offered you a sad smile, turning his hand up under yours and gently wrapping his fingers around your hand. “Thank you, Y/N.” Spencer trailed off, seeming to zone out for a minute as his eyes glazed over. You gently pulled your hand away from him, bringing him back to reality. 

“Well, uh,” he cleared his throat, rising from the table. “We can’t have dinner without the food, how silly of me.” Spencer gently picked up the dish from the counter, setting it on the table in front of you. You examined the dish of pasta. “May I?” Spencer asked, scooping up a healthy spoonful. 

“Sure, thank you,” you picked up your plate, offering it to him. He placed a large helping of food on your plate along with a piece of bread before passing it back to you. You waited for him to serve himself and get reseated before you took a bite. “Oh my god,” you mumbled. 

Spencer’s eyes shot up from his plate as he dropped his fork on his placemat. “What’s the matter?”

You shook your head, eyes wide in amazement. “This pasta is incredible. Where did you find this recipe?” 

Spencer’s shoulders relaxed and he let out a small laugh of relief. “Oh, I got it from a coworker. He’s a true Italian – cooks this sort of thing all the time.” 

You lifted the glass of wine he’d set out for you earlier. “Cheers to this mysterious coworker and your ability to replicate authentic Italian cuisine.”

He mirrored your movements, and your glasses gently clinked together. You locked eyes with him as you both took sips of your drinks. Something about the moment was wildly intimate and laced with flirtation. 

You forced yourself to look away, examining the cloth on your lap. “So, uh,” you stuttered, “are you looking forward to the end of the semester?”

Spencer took a bite of his pasta, mulling this over for moment. “Well,” he started, “yes and no. How about you?” He looked you over. You wondered if he was trying to profile you based on his careful examination of your body language and facial expressions. 

You chose to shrug, “Yes and no.”

“Why’s that?” he asked. 

“Oh, I’m not sure. There are some classes I’ll miss. Yours, of course.” 

He smiled shyly, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I love your class, but it’s really more than that,” you mumbled, refusing to make eye contact as you fiddled with the hem of your dress. 

He quietly rose from the table and approached your side, looking down at you carefully. “Tell me,” he whispered. He leaned down to you, putting a hand under your chin and forcing you to look at him. He placed his large hands on either side of your face, as one of his thumbs gently caressed your cheekbone. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he whispered. His dark eyes scanned your own. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong and we can forget this. We’ll never talk about this again.” 

You swallowed nervously. “You’re not reading this wrong,” you answered quietly. You brought one of your hands up to cover one resting on your face. 

You rose from your seat and he followed suit. He stood several inches taller than you, adding to the strange power dynamic between the two of you. 

He lowered his hands, running them over your shoulders and down your arms until he slipped his hands around your hips, holding you in place in front of him as he looked at you. You could see the way he held himself back from you. He was trying to decide just how far he should go. 

You sighed and reached for him. “I’m not made of glass, you know,” you whispered jokingly, hanging your arms loosely from his neck to pull him a bit closer to you. He complied, leaning over you silently as your words hung in the air between you. 

“This entire situation is delicate,” he said in a serious tone. “I just don’t want to overstep.” 

“Spencer,” you laughed. “I’m standing in your apartment, calling you by your first name. Your hands are wrapped around my hips. I’m hanging off your neck. Don’t you think we’ve already overstepped?” 

He considered this for a second, looking around the room. “I suppose. What are you thinking?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. 

“I’m thinking,” you said, pressing your body against his, “that I would love to push some more boundaries with you.” 

As much as he tried to deny it, he found himself giving in to you. Spencer closed his eyes, letting the scent of your perfume flood his senses. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he whispered. 

“Tell me,” you pressed a gentle kiss to his neck. He leaned back, allowing you full access.

“Fuck-” he murmured, “I noticed you from the beginning. You…” His words trailed off into a groan as you gently sucked on his neck. He ran a hand down your body, pressing you against him with a large hand on the small of your back. “You’re always so attentive, so eager to learn.”

You hummed in agreement, continuing to trail your lips up and down his neck. “Is there anything else you can teach me?” you whispered dangerously close to his ear. 

He pulled away, placing a gentle hand around your waist, guiding you into the hallway of his apartment. “Where are we going?” you asked. 

“My bedroom,” he said. His hand tightened around your waist as he reached for the door. 

The two of you stumbled inside, unable to keep your hands off each other. You found yourself falling backwards on his bed as he leaned over you, catching your lips in a kiss once again. You ran your hands through his soft curls and thought of all the times you’d berated yourself for imagining this exact moment. This couldn’t be happening. 

“I’m not going to go easy on you,” he mumbled against your lips. You felt a tinge of anxiety. Was now the time to tell him you really had no idea what you’re doing? He ran his hands up the back of your thighs, lifting the hem of your dress and revealing your lack of underwear to him. “No underwear?” he asked, smile evident on his lips as he leaned over you, leaving your back pressing against his clothed chest. 

You blushed, trying not to let on that you’d secretly been praying for this to happen all evening. Of course, Spencer already knew that. You were putty in his hands. 

He lifted himself off of you, and you rolled over to face him as he stood over you. “Stand up,” he said. You did as you were told, rising in front of him. You stayed still as he circled you a moment, almost as if you were some kind of prey. Spencer found the zipper to your dress. He rested his hand on it for a moment, leaning forward to offer you a soft kiss on the cheek. You took it as his way of asking for your consent, so you nodded, to which he immediately began unzipping the back of your dress. 

The black material fell from your shoulders and soon laid limply at your feet. Spencer let out a quiet moan as he turned you around to face him. You were completely bare before him. “My god, Y/N,” he mumbled. 

His lips attacked yours as he pushed you back on to the bed, your dress forgotten on the floor as his hands explored your body. He placed both his hands around your breasts, squeezing them gently as he began kissing down your neck. Spencer’s descent down your body continued with the utmost purpose, as you saw him lowering himself off the bed and down on to his knees in front of you. 

“W-what are you doing?” you asked nervously. 

Spencer looked up from your body to meet your eyes. “I want to taste you,” he said, matter of factly. 

As hot as the statement was, you couldn’t overcome the insecurity and anxiety that had seeped into your mind. In one flash, the confession fell from your lips. “I’ve never done this before,” you whispered, voice barely audible. 

Spencer stopped immediately, completely removing his gaze from your naked figure to focus on your face. He rose from his knees and sat himself on the edge of his bed. “You’ve never had sex before?” Spencer asked gently, looking you in the eyes the entire time. 

You nodded, suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable in front of him. “I probably should have disclosed that sooner. I’m sorry, I know it’s a major turn off,” you started to sit up, reaching for your dress on the floor. As you did, Spencer grabbed your wrist, forcing you to stop and look at him. 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” he said. 

You furrowed your brow at him. “Really?” 

He cupped your face with his hands, gently tracing the edge of your jaw with his thumbs. “I know our situation isn’t the most conventional, but if you let me, I promise I’ll take care of you.”

You bit your lip in anticipation. “Okay,” you nodded. 

“Okay,” he whispered. “I want you to lay back for me, and I’ll make you feel good.”

You couldn’t help but trust him as you laid back on to the bed. He dropped to his knees once more, running his hands over your thighs before pulling them apart, exposing you to him. Spencer lunged forward, licking an experimental stripe up your slit to gauge your reaction. You’d never felt anything like it before, and you couldn’t help but moan as he continued his movements, focusing his attention on your clit. 

“Spencer,” you groaned. Your hand found its way to his mess of curls, tugging sharply. He moaned into your center, the vibrations nearly sending you over the edge. “I-I’m close,” you whined, continuing to hold the back of his head. 

You heard him speak from between your legs, “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.” Spencer dove back into your core, wrapping his lips around your clit. 

A sudden intrusion caused your legs to jerk, and you realized he’d inserted a finger into you. The mixture of the wonderful pressure he was placing on your bundle of nerves and the new sensation of his finger thrusting inside you sent you over the edge. You came hard, loosing your grip on the back of his head as you did. 

Spencer remained on his knees, lapping up what he could of you release before he rose to meet you on the bed. “You’re such a good girl,” he said, placing a soft kiss on your forehead as he laid next to you. 

You hummed in satisfaction, forcing yourself to open your eyes. He brushed a strand of hair out of your face. You couldn’t help but notice the sinful amount of clothes that were still on his body. You expressed this by tugging gently on his tie, “Why am I the only one who’s naked?” 

Spencer chuckled. “We can fix that,” he said, rising from the bed. He made quick work of his tie, and undid the buttons on his dress shirt as you watched in awe. As Spencer shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, you took in his physique. Though thin and tall, his muscles were pronounced. You noted a few scars scattered about his figure, and wondered if you could get him to tell the stories behind them. His voice brought you out of  your thoughts. “You’re staring,” he said as he slowly undid his belt. 

You shrugged from your position on the bed, “I like what I see.” 

He let out a quiet laugh as he discarded his belt on the floor next to the bed, the hard leather hitting the floor with a loud thunk. Spencer peeled his pants off his legs, neatly folding them and setting them on a dresser next to the door. You couldn’t help but notice the large tent in his boxers, and found yourself wondering what exactly he was hiding under there. 

Before you could stop yourself, you slid off the bed and stood in front of him. He raised an eyebrow at you, indicating his confusion as you dropped to your knees in front of him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he said with a tinge of humor in his voice. 

“Returning the favor,” you said shyly, not wanting to meet his gaze. 

A large hand came to rest gently on your head as he ran his fingers through your hair, “You don’t have to do this, you know. This is about you.”

You shook your head, finally mustering up the courage to look up at him. “I want to. I want you to teach me,” you whispered. 

That statement was enough to bring an end to his objections. Spencer smiled down at you with a sigh, “Pretty girl. Go ahead.” You smiled happily at the compliment and the permission to continue. You placed a few simple kissed above the hem of his boxers before locking your fingers under the seam and pulling them down completely. Spencer assisted by stepping out of his boxers, and he stood completely bare in front of you. You stared at his figure once more, eyes wide at the sight of him. His length was intimidating, especially for someone as inexperienced as yourself. You were unsure of how to proceed. 

Spencer leant down quietly and took your hand from his thigh, moving it to wrap around the base of his cock. “Now, just move your hand back and forth until you find a rhythm,” he encouraged. Like a student eager to please, you followed his instructions. After a moment he spoke again, “You’re doing so good, pretty girl.” 

You weren’t sure if it was your need to praise him or the flash of unadulterated lust you felt at that moment, but you leaned forward and slid the tip of his dick into your mouth. Spencer looked down at you through hooded eyes, the silent act urging you to continue. You opened your throat the best you could, sliding him further into your mouth until you couldn’t anymore. You wrapped your hand around the rest of him and, in time with the bobs of your head, stroked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. 

“Y/N,” Spencer groaned from above, placing an encouraging hand on the back of your head. He held your hair tightly. “Relax, baby,” he murmured. You slowed your movements so that he could fuck your throat at his own pace. You could tell he was holding himself back for your sake, and your heart swelled at how gentle he was trying to be during such a filthy act. 

You closed your eyes, becoming accustomed to the feeling of him hitting the back of your throat, timing your breaths to the thrust of his hips. Suddenly, you felt the hold on the back of your head let up as Spencer pulled completely out of your mouth. “I’d love to keep doing that,” he said, out of breath, “but there are other places I’d like to finish tonight.” 

You blushed at the implication of his words. He reached a hand out to you, helping you stand up from the ground and pulling you into a passionate kiss. Spencer’s tongue entered your mouth as he moaned into the kiss, hands exploring your figure as he pushed you back towards the bed. You let yourself fall, the soft mattress greeting you as Spencer continued kissing you. 

He reached a hand down between the two of you, taking a hold of one of your thighs and spreading your legs open for him. Spencer pulled away from the kiss, meeting your eyes. “Do you still want to do this?” he asked. 

You nodded. “I want to do this with you, Spencer.”

“You have to be vocal,” he said, continuing to look down at you. “I want you to tell me what you feel and what you need.”  You agreed.  

He kissed you gently once more before guiding his hand in between your legs, pushing a single finger into your opening. Spencer thrusted the digit in and out of you slowly, allowing you to get used to the feeling. “Do you think you can take another one?” he asked quietly. 

You nodded, “Yes.” He gently pulled his fingers out of you, the next intrusion stretching you more than the last. He worked his index and middle fingers in and out of your opening as you moaned under him. 

After another minute, he pulled away from you. “You’re doing so good,” Spencer encouraged. He gave himself a couple quick strokes as he reached over to his side table, pulling a condom out of the drawer. He slid the condom over himself and positioned both your legs on either side of his body, lining himself up with your entrance. “Remember, you have to tell me what you’re feeling. Okay?” 

He rubbed soothing circles on your thigh with one hand as he gently rubbed his cock up and down your folds, collecting your wetness. You whimpered as Spencer pressed his tip into your entrance, body jerking inadvertantly as he continued to enter you. He peppered your collar with kisses as he continued. There was a small tinge of pain which brought tears to the corner of your eyes, but the pleasure was overriding the minor discomfort you felt. After fully entering you, he paused, allowing you to adjust.  

“How does it feel?” he asked. Your eyes, which had been squeezed shut, fluttered open at his voice. 

“Spencer-” you stuttered, “m-move. Please.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead before pulling himself back and entering you slowly once again. 

“God, you’re so tight,” he groaned above you. You couldn’t respond, too focused on the feeling of him thrusting in and out of you to begin to form a reply. “I wish you could see yourself right now,” he whispered, peppering your cheeks with kisses, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You moaned at his praise, and you felt yourself tightening around his cock. “You like it when I tell you how good you’re doing?” Spencer asked, a mischievous smirk rising to his lips. “You’re such a good girl, Y/N. You’re taking me so well,” he punctuated the final two words with sharp thrusts of his hips.

Between the words coming out of his mouth and the consistent movement of his hips, you knew you wouldn’t last long. You moaned, dragging your fingernails down his chest in an attempt to let him know. “Words, baby,” he encouraged. 

“I-” you groaned, “I’m gonna cum.” 

Spencer nodded, lifting himself up on his right arm to create some distance between you. “Hold on for me, one second.” He snaked a single hand down your torso, reaching your clit. He began drawing tight circles on your clit, causing your legs to shake as you tightened around him. Spencer leaned down to you and pressed his body against yours, “Let go, I’ve got you.”

With his permission, your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks. Your back arched off the bed as you squeezed your eyes shut, Spencer’s name falling off your lips. Driven by the feeling of you constricting around his cock, Spencer drove one final thrust into you, pushing himself in to the hilt. 

You felt an unfamiliar sensation as he finished into the condom inside of you, lips parted in a silent groan as he held himself above you, staring deep into your eyes. “Good girl,” he whispered one more time as he collapsed on top of you. You both laid there for a second in a futile attempt to catch your breath. He leaned up, placing a soft kiss on your lips before he pulled out of you, causing you to moan at the sensation. “I’ll be right back,” he said. 

You heard him exit his bedroom, and the sound of water running drew your attention to the bathroom. A moment later, Spencer reentered the bedroom. “Come on, baby. Let’s get cleaned up.” It was then you became aware of the amount of sweat coating your body, as well as the wetness coating your inner thighs. You accepted his outstretched hand as he lead you to his bathroom, allowing you to sink into the bathtub before he followed suit. He climbed in behind you, allowing you to lean back against him. “How do you feel?” he asked. 

You turned your head to look at him, “I feel great.” You sat in silence for a second, a smile spreading across your face. 

“What?” Spencer asked. 

You shook your head, covering your face before letting out a small giggle. 

Spencer’s smile mirrored your own. “C’mon now, what is it?”  

“I guess you did have a lot to teach me, Dr. Reid.” You turned to look at him, eyes meeting for the first time since entering the bathtub. 

Spencer pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, lips dangerously close to your ear. “Believe me, there’s lots for you to learn, if you’re interested.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you asking me on a date, Doc?” 

He sighed, leaning back against the bathtub. “Sure am.”

“Maybe next time, we’ll actually make it through dinner and get to dessert,” you said with a laugh. 

“I don’t know,” he said, leaning around to look at you. He lowered his voice, “Now that I know what you taste like, you’re my favorite dessert.”

[junhuiste]

experi-meant to be ⋆ park wonbin

pairing: wonbin x gn reader

tags/warnings: fluff, cursing, college au, laboratory environment, one mention of baking, 1600 words

a/n: i meant to publish this on valentine’s day since i had lab that day but i never finished it lol. there’s some microbio lab procedure jargon so like this is what streaking plates is if you want a visual lmfaoao. this is my first published work in like three years it feels weird haha + i might change my layout/header for fics but for now i’ll keep the same layout i've had for past fics

wonbin believes U are the uracil to his adenine—you should always be paired together.

| seunghan: dude 

| seunghan: lowkey i can’t come to lab bc my car won’t fucking start so i’ll have to make it up next week :\ but taehyun and his partner would probably be willing to help you out with calculations and clean up hopefully

Wonbin pants heading up the stairs into the classroom lab, cheeks immediately pink as he’s made a spectacle amongst everyone already sitting and tuned into the TA’s pre-lab lesson. Sighing as he processes Seunghan’s text, Wonbin turns to the drawing of bacterial growth curves on the whiteboard but is soon after preoccupied with the fact that there is no Taehyun on a stool. There’s just your backside entirely in front of him. 

Taehyun is one to set up all his materials before the TA even steps foot through the lab door so if he isn’t here now then that means—

“Guess you’re stuck with me for today.” 

Wonbin tries to swallow but it gets stuck halfway down his throat and is about to go into a choke type cough frenzy when he surprises himself and softly clears his throat instead. His thoughts are all just stuck there—in the middle of his esophagus, begging for them to travel back up to his brain so he has enough stamina to stick it through the four hour class. 

“No hate to him because Taehyunnie’s a tad faster at getting through the steps, so you know, we’re usually out thirty minutes early, but I can promise you I’m better at calculations. And I’m more precise with measurements,” you let out a small giggle before setting your backpack on the floor next to Wonbin’s.

The commotion of pipettes being thrown onto the surface, glass tubes clinking, and sneakers squeaking rushing to obtain their samples is right away drowned out in Wonbin’s ears by the sight of you perched atop the stool a mere few inches away from him. He tries to keep his chest from heaving at bay by taking his notebook out of his backpack and reviewing the method for today’s class. The solution is only short lived though, promptly taking notice of how you gather materials from the drawer while simultaneously reading through your own notebook. 

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Wonbin assumes his seat in the third to last row of his Virology lecture, close enough to the door that he can be among the first to leave as soon as “see you guys next time” leaves Professor Choi’s lips. He longs for the day (ideally it would be quite before the last week of classes but realistically that’s the best he has to offer for now) that he musters up just the slightest bit of courage to join you and Taehyun in the second row, where Seunghan also occasionally accompanies you two. It’s only the third week of this semester, but perhaps the sixth course of his over the past three years Wonbin’s seen you in. From Biochemistry to Rhetoric 2, he has never taken place at a desk next to yours. 

Wonbin’s always aching to know how you’d answer everything he could ever ask you, be it the attendance quiz question or your weekend plans—what time you usually roll out of bed, whether or not you stroll to the local farmer’s market near campus, if you’re spending Saturday with a special someone. He needs to hear you laugh at Taehyun’s cynicism about college. He needs to hear it up close, not having to strain his ear when he’s fifteen rows behind when you crack up at your friend during the five minute break Professor Choi gives the class. 

But Wonbin will take what he can get for now, and if that’s helping you fulfill your wish of completing the lab procedure as quickly as possible, he’ll do it. 

“I can do the calculations for us,” you begin, “would you mind getting our mutant strains at the front of the class and streak the Petri dishes?” 

Wonbin nods almost too enthusiastically and curses at himself for seeming embarrassingly desperate in front of you. Sure, he’d like to muster up the courage to ask you out, but today he’ll try to take it one step at a time.

When Wonbin returns with new plates to grow your bacteria on and two tubes filled with your bacterial strains, you scoot your chair closer to his to later show the finished calculations. He catches a whiff of your light perfume and almost falls out of his own chair. 

As he’s setting up the Bunsen burner for sterilization, you chuckle, “you know the real reason Taehyun’s not here today is because he left town last night to get a head start on the extravagant romantic weekend he has planned with Gaeul.”

“If there’s one way to use our one free unexcused absence, that’ll do it,” Wonbin replies. 

“Do you have any plans for Valentine’s Day, Wonbin? I mean if you did I just hope you wouldn’t leave me early like Taehyun did,” your eyes meet his for a brief second before flitting back to your notebook.

Wonbin’s grip on the matchstick to light the burner loosens. He just barely catches himself before the match could fall from his hand onto the lab bench. What he needed to get a grip on was his fucking sanity—he almost set the classroom on fire because his heart instead is aflame for yours. 

Taking a breath, Wonbin exhales when the flame turns to blue, finally lighting the Bunsen burner. 

“Nope, no plans,” he briefly turns to you. There’s a beat and he considers that asking you back would seem too forward, but he does it anyway. 

Upon seeing your grin before you open your mouth, he turns his attention right back to the tubes and plates in front of him. 

It’s so over. 

For a second Wonbin’s relieved, because he thinks he can actually get through the next two hours without overthinking his micro movements in front of you. Now that it’s over for him, maybe he can actually pay attention to the way the metal loop he’s holding makes contact with the jelly-like agar inside the plastic plate and not disappoint Seunghan with the results. However, it’s not realistic because even still, Wonbin takes note of all your beauty and remains completely bewitched.

“Honestly I wish...I mean Minjeong, Yunjin and I are gonna do a rom-com binge and bake desserts…but you know…not any plans with someone like that…” 

Your temporary lab partner tries to hide his smile and nods silently as he continues switching between spreading bacteria on the plate with the metal loop and then sterilizing the loop in the blue flame. 

The rest of lab goes smoothly as Wonbin tries to quell the embers within him for the time remaining. There’s forty minutes left but technically to you Wonbin knows time is dashing away and it should feel like there’s what but only ten minutes left to do everything. Your pair was a few steps ahead of the others, just like how it would be when Taehyun accompanied you every week. 

Wonbin has been psyching himself up the past two hours to finally ask you out but currently he’s stuck in his head and just can’t seem to get it out. Does he chase you after you’ve stepped foot out of the lab or should he leave you be? Or maybe he can try next week. He’ll keep telling himself that until there’s one day of instruction left and then he won’t see you for three months and then he’ll lament the entire summer to Seunghan that he didn’t say shit. 

He can do that…or just rip the bandage off at an agonizing speed. 

The last Petri dish that Wonbin holds is being wrapped in parafilm to prevent contamination. He’d been going through the motions of the procedure while simultaneously not paying attention to his surroundings, at his own self’s behest. You’ve already cleaned the entire lab bench and he doesn’t notice until he hears “see you in Virology,” and suddenly you’re slinging your backpack over your shoulder. 

It’s now or next week…or never—wait you know that Wonbin’s in your Virology class? What you said is ringing in his ears and it hits him all at once.

Petri dishes in hand and turning around, Wonbin freezes in his tracks.

“Um…”

Your eyebrows furrow.

“Do you want to hang out tomorrow?” his own mouth betrays him and suddenly it’s all coming out much too quickly for his liking. 

You’re about to answer but before you can even get a word in, “I-I don’t mean to interfere with your plans with your friends but uh, if you wanted to do something like that I’m down.”

Your lips press into a line and Wonbin is about to pass out from the threatening fluorescent classroom lights. 

“Park Wonbin…are you asking me out on a date?” He can practically feel his sweat melting the parafilm tape off and a vision of him dropping the Petri dishes in front of you, cracking open and shattering, exposing E.coli to everyone in the room flashes before him. He blinks once and calms his vice grip on the plates. 

“Yes. Yes I am asking you out on a date,” Wonbin looks down at your sneakers, not knowing where else to shift his gaze to. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” you smirk, slinging the other strap of your backpack over your other shoulder and saluting.

Park Wonbin swears his heart is on fire and does a backflip off a fifty foot cliff. A curve forming on his lips, he smiles slightly waving with the plates still in his hand, “see ya…”

You halt your forward movement and turn back around, “Wonbin?” he perks up again, “you should sit next to me in lecture on Tuesday.”

[tmrwithyou13]

❆ winter - sunoo oneshot

word count: 1.7k | genre: angst, some fluff | sunoo x male!reader

✮⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‘ Seriously? ‘ I thought to myself. 

I sit up from bed, take a peek by the window, and sigh. I watched the snowflakes slowly fall from the foggy sky, piling up with the snow that was covering the ground like a blanket. 

I despise this gloomy and crispy weather. 

I had school today, so I had to force my freezing self to get up from bed and get ready for school. For fuck’s sake, I wish I was back in my hometown. My hometown was where I could feel the warm embrace of the summer, where I could see the kids chase each other at the beach, leaving footprints on the sand, and where I could see the sun celebrate and shine with the color of yellow. 

I finished brushing my teeth as I wiped my mouth, and then my face. I changed into my uniform as always and grabbed my bag that was hanging by my door. I couldn’t wait to go to school to see… him. 

– SCHOOL –

I open the door going to my classroom, and I’m greeted by my only friend who was hurdled up around my chair, how ridiculous. I love him for it.

“Took you long enough, Rain..” Sunoo scoffs.

I love it when you call my name.

“Oh shut up.” I smile “It’s snowing outside, and I hate it..” “You always seem to hate the snow. It’s the best season!” she chuckles after saying so.

When he did, I wanted to stop time just to see that smile. His name matched who he was. That’s how I described the summer. His smile was my sun. His presence is a warm embrace. Memories with him feel like footprints on the sand. I love you, Sunoo.

“Earth to Rain?” he flicks my forehead. I didn’t even realize I was dozing off like that.

“Right, right.” I look at the whiteboard, slightly embarrassed.

“We should go out later since it’s snowing. We should have a snow fight then go ice skating… maybe the park too?” He leans a bit closer with that smile.

How could I say no to that?“Fine,” I mumble. 

Talking with you made me realize I can never say no to you.

The teacher enters the room, and class begins. And now, I’m stuck in a wave of thoughts.

I’ve been carrying this fondness for him for as long as I can remember. And when I’m about to confess, something always stops me from doing so. When I look at his eyes, I see a reflection of myself and I look like an idiot. I’m a grumpy person. I wasn’t like the shiny and joyous person he was.

But I swear I will confess today. I won’t hold back, even if it means crying in front of you. 

The uneventful day at school ends. Finally - 

We walk out of the class alongside each other.

“Finally. I swear, one more word from Sir and I was going throw my desk at him…” I comment. I never even liked any of the teachers here at all.

“You’re so stubborn, Rain.” Sunoo pouts as we leave the school building. Thank god we weren’t assigned to clean the classroom..

I immediately change my face to a smug one. I hate this snow, really… It’s insufferable. I’m just not used to this. Sunoo, please change my mind after we hang out together.

We arrived at some place full of snow, kids were running around, even chasing each other.

How cute.

This scene reminds me of when I could watch the kids run after their friends by the beach. It was something I wanted to engrave in my mind since I wouldn’t be able to have that same feeling ever again. I miss my warm home. I feel nostalgic.

Sunoo suddenly grabs my wrist and runs through the snow with me behind him. He was laughing, and his eyes were smiling too. Even your eyes could smile, Sunoo.

“C'mon, don’t be such a party pooper and make a damn snowball.” He teases, as he forms a snowball in his hands

Oh shit.

Sunoo throws the snowball right at my face…“AH– ARE YOU FUCKING–” I get cut off by another snowball from Sunoo

“LANGUAGE, THERE’S KIDS!” Sunoo laughs, he runs in another direction, hiding behind a pile of snow

My eyes get irritated. Okay Sunoo, if that’s how you want to play it. 

I scoop some snow, and I try to make the biggest snowball that I can make with my bare hands. I hurriedly look for you amid the fog. Seriously?

I could hear you and some kids laughing, as another snowball was thrown at me by the legs. I quickly throw the snowball back at him.

I run to you, “Dammit, Sunoo... You’re so childish” I jokingly remark. The kids run away, laughing and chasing eachother as usual. I don’t even know who they are, but I assume you were friends with them. I kneel to you with my knees dug through the snow. He laughs harder, followed by my laugh. 

I didn’t want to stop laughing with you because I felt so content in this moment. I love this memory with you, so I’ll keep my heart open for it. I think I’m falling for you even more, I’m sorry.

I stand up and grab your arm, “Get up, you energetic thing.” I scoff after saying so.

He gets up, with a smile again. He really was a ray of sunshine. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips at the sight of you.

Snowball fighting with you made me realize how much I wanted to lay next to you every day.

“Okay, next stop! Ice skating!” He says with his hands on his hips. He looked like a superhero in that stance. Yes, you are my hero, Sunoo. 

We stopped by the Ice Skating rink, there were professional ice skaters and I felt so intimidated by it.. They were so flawless and perfect with it, so elegant. Like a swan. 

He enters the rink, with a polar bear for support. The struggle was visible… this will be a problem for both of us. 

“Well..” He mumbles

“Well?” I scoff as the white breath comes out of my mouth.

“Just hold on to that polar bear, sucker.” I chuckle after. “I paid extra for that, you know?”

“You’re so mean!” He lightly hits my shoulder with his one hand

“Fine, fine. Hold me, and we’ll ice skate away.” I slightly smile

He puts himself behind me, as he lays his hands on the back of my shoulders, supporting himself. Can we stay like this forever? 

“Go!” He says. I slowly skate, if I went any faster, both of us would fall.

“Why are you so slow…” He says in a ‘i-need-princess-treatment’ tone. 

“Don’t be sassy. You’ll fall if we go any faster.” 

“Go quick!” He says in a cocky tone “We won’t fall, trust!” He laughs

“I swear…” I say in a teasing yet irritated voice 

I went quickly, and we actually didn’t fall. This is so ridiculous but… I didn’t care. Atleast I was being ridiculous with you right now. I felt the breeze on my face, I could feel my face becoming numb as I kept skating. 

  I feel infinite, Sunoo. “I feel infinite, Sunoo.” I said that out loud.

..

“I feel infinite with you too, Rain.” He said followed by the sweetest laugh I’ve ever heard.

Suddenly, I don’t regret saying that out loud. I always felt like I could tell you everything without a filter and you’d still have something to say. And at this moment, Sunoo, I want to spend all of my seasons with you whether it be the season I hate most.

The guy who was in charge of the rink said our time was over. Sigh.

“That was pretty fun.” I scoff

“That’s my first time hearing you say anything was fun… I’m astonished.” He teases

I roll my eyes, “Yeah okay, you make it sound like I don’t feel emotions.” I say as we both remove our ice skates and go back to our school shoes. “Can we just go to the park already?  I feel like I’m about to get a frostbite.”

Skating with you made me realize that I wanted you to hold me and that I wanted to feel infinite with you.

- PARK -

We sit on the bench together, it was already night time so it was extra cold.. I couldn’t feel my face. I couldn’t feel my hands either. 

The white blanket of snow piles up even more and the snowflakes fall elegantly as I watch you look up at the stars.

Time stopped for a bit. You were as soft as a melody, as bright as the sun rays, as lovely as the spring that arrives before the winter, and as warm as the summer beach I spent my days in. Honestly, I didn’t know it was this hard to tell you how I feel. I thought I could just say it. 

Looking at you at this moment made me realize I will love winter because I get to spend it with you. 

“The stars are beautiful tonight, Rain.” He continues to look up at the perfectly dark blue sky, his pink hair flawlessly falling.

“I agree.” I keep your face in the frame of my eyes. 

I want to live the rest of my life with you. I want to have snowball fights with you again. I want to ice skate with you holding onto my shoulders again. I want to sit next to you in school every day. I want to wake up to your voice. I want to look out the window and see you waiting for me just to walk together to school. Sunoo, “I love you.”

I said it out loud.

He looks at me.

Don’t look at me like that, Sunoo. 

It was silent.

“I don’t love you like that.” His smile slowly fades, he stands up.

5 minutes.

Please, lord. 5 more minutes.

Maybe in 5 minutes, you’ll change your mind.

Maybe in 5 minutes, you’ll love me.

Maybe in 5 minutes, you’ll catch me in a warm embrace.

Sunoo looks at me like it is the final time.

When did it feel this awkward? ‘Ahem’ Sunoo lets out.

“I.. don’t really know what to say. I don’t love you. We’re just friends and.. you’re a boy. Goodnight.”

I watch you walk away from me. Not even a smile. In fact, it was a look of disgust.

I don’t know what to do.

I hate winter.

—

heeyyy, this is my first oneshot and I hope it meets the people's expectations. English isn't my first language, but I would love to write more stories in that language ^_^ THIS IS VERY RUSSSHHEEDDD!!!!! thank you for taking the time to read this, give me more recommendations or ideaaasss!!

[kookiestarlight]

genuinely snorted when i read your comment about the students 😭😂 KIDS CAN B LIL DEVILS !! esp in numbers too, it’s like they feed off of each others’s mischief omg. back in my day, during art class the boys got paint on their hands and smeared all over the washroom walls 😔 i still feel bad for the poor janitors who had to clean that up :’) but it makes me wonder if you have any stories about your students !!

PLEASE like I genuinely cannot with them anymore!!🫠 the way that if the paint situation happened to me I’d make them stay their next break cleaning it up. every last drop of it. that’s so sad🥲 but such a real situation 😭

I actually teach at two different school and at an afternoon academy, so I have a fair share of stories😵‍💫 but I don’t think I’ve experienced anything super crazy, (YET) other than just ridiculously bad behavior in general :,)

most recently I had my whole class of 6 year olds hide in the playground and refuse to come to english class cause “it’s boring” and the mastermind behind this was obviously the little devil that’s always causing chaos and is just the worst. but the thing is, he gets everyone to follow along😭 they were literally protesting!!

then the other day we were playing a game where they had to come out and write in the board but this bad student in particular was being bad so I made him sit at the back of the class for a while. then I told him he could come back. and I was like, okay, I don’t want to exclude him so he’s been good for the past 10 minutes, let’s give him a chance now and see if he’ll Integrate himself and play along properly with the rest of the class.

he begged for a turn as soon as I moved him back, acting all sweet, so I gave him his turn after two others, handed him the pen and as soon as he got to the whiteboard, he started scribbling all over it and pushing the pen into the board so hard he pushed the tip in and broke it 💀 (as a teacher our pens are gold as they tend to get lost and stolen by other teachers all the time lmao)

I’ve talked to his parents countless times but it’s clear they set no boundaries at home and there’s never ever consequences so 🤷‍♀️ I can only do so much.

I’m supposed to be doing experiments with them this week but I haven’t done any and I won’t be doing them because I just KNOW that’s going to be chaos.

but the thing is, my classes can be noisy and they don’t listen, especially with the older kids, they just talk way too much. sometimes I can only get 10 minutes of proper teaching and explaining out of a 55 minute lesson. it sucks and wears my patience so bad. but there’s only a handful of kids in total that are genuinely bad. Like bad, bad. you know what I mean 😭

but every day is so so draining.

[voteoakes]

task 001 ! *// 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢'𝐦 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞

dominic has never been particularly decisive about (anything?) the places he lives. he lived in a dorm at a boarding school long before he had opinions about the matter, his random-lottery roommate assignment just so happened to be dipped in gold, and his apartment is paid for, the final say belonging to, his parents. no place has ever, truly belonged to him, but this two-bedroom with @saxifraged comes close.

⋆ the bedroom was simple to arrange. aileen and his mother came to a tidy conclusion: the sports memorabilia she wanted out of her house would have a place in italy, as long as it was kept in frames, on shelves, and with pennants cleanly pressed. on move-in day, dom simply held the hammer while the women he loved most instructed and directed, upholding a silent agreement as they put together the image of their shared interest - dom. the gallery wall they arranged consists of shadow boxes of the lanyards worn by season-pass holders to the capitals, too nostalgic to toss; printed photos of his high-school rowing team; and the map of his first marathon run, accented with the assorted medal or two draped precisely to toe the line between juvenile and prideful. ⋆ his desk sees the most use, often strewn with sticky-notes in a dozen shades and notes on the whiteboard calendar above, tacked with polaroid pictures, movie tickets, flyers. he doesn't keep much, too accustomed to a divided life, but paper trash that previously lived in his wallet now has a properly devoted shrine. while chan could never help in this particular arena, dom is a great studier, and by effect, probably spends most of his time here. ⋆ the rest of the apartment, as far as he's concerned, is emilia's to dictate. if she texted him an amazon link, he bought it. bookcase, art print, tv stand - no questions asked. she knew better than him, this was doubtless, but he also considers it his attempt at making theirs a fair trade. they cook together, but em always leaves him leftovers. they share chores, but em always cleans up before they have the club over. em dusts in places dom didn't know could gather dust, keeps the frames straight, chills his drinking glasses after class, and charges his watch when he accidentally abandons it on the kitchen counters. the least he can do in return is take up a very minimal space in the shower organizer. if, one day, there is a way to return the good fortune he received with emilia medina from batesville, indiana, he will.

[pjplayground]

Random Thoughts About Cornelius/Lewis I think about way too often

Title is self explanatory. Mostly headcanons under the cut.

I wonder what else he's picky about? Why would he make a PB&J gun? Because he's like me. Portions on certain foods need to be EXACTLY TO MY SPECIFICATIONS otherwise I'll break down. So if he's picky about a simple PB&J, what else is he picky over? I think he doesn't like a lot of spaghetti sauce on pasta, or he just orders butter pasta. He probably never has any kind of liquid/creamy based thing on subs, like mayo or dressings. Also can't stand coconut. Just a vibe.

I don't think Neil tolerates heat very well. I feel like on really hot Summer days, the last thing he wants to do is go outside... unless it's to a pool. Because he gets heat sick very easily, and he feels like he's gonna puke but he knows he's not but because he feels like he is he's just in an eternal cycle of suffering. I'm not speaking from experience what are you talking about...

Loud/sudden loud noises are probably a sensitive thing for Cornelius. I feel like when he was younger he'd hate the sound of blenders, mixers, rumble strips on roads, lightning, etc. As well as shrill/cringe inducing noises such as styrofoam rubbing against styrofoam, crinkling/ripping/rubbing plastic, squeaky markers on whiteboards, buzzing from flies and bees, and squeaky shoes on linoleum floors.

Do you think Neil ever goes into one of those little travel bubbles and just kinda floats through the air? Like to be in a calming environment.

I think besides dogs, he also wants a pet snake. It was like that when he was a kid, and as an adult, he still wants a pet snake.

Cornelius has a very specific way of doing things, and if you mess up that system by cleaning his mess for him, you're dead!

I think in general he has sleep issues. Especially when Neil is on business trips. He's only comfortable (and used to) sleeping in his own environment, so any other environment messes with his routine enough to make him toss and turn.

In case it wasn't already obvious, I think Cornelius is autistic. Self diagnosed later on down the line. I feel like the physical symptom he displays the most (aside from fidgeting) is toe walking.

Let's face it... Lewis in the movie is kind of an irritable jerk. But I think this is explained by his past. He always keeps his guard up and he never wants to get close to anybody because they always leave him. Hence why he scolds himself for letting himself think Wilbur was a friend, rather than scolding Wilbur for lying after he found out.

He didn't like frogs at first because "Ew, slimy."

He was definitely the type to always get picked last in gym class. Neil can't catch a ball to save his life... but he is a pretty fast runner.

Another vibe I get, but I feel like there were those times when he wished Mr. Willerstein could be his dad. He was essentially the only thing close to a father figure he had in his life before he got adopted. We don't see much screen time with them interacting, but it's clear Lewis and Mr. Willerstein had a pretty good teacher-student relationship. Hell, I even feel like Lewis would prefer to spend his lunch hour with his teacher instead of in the cafeteria with everybody being loud and annoying.

If Neil is gonna play any game, it's gotta have good puzzles. So what I'm saying is he probably played a lot of Professor Layton. But because he grew up during the DS, Wii, and Gamecube era, he's probably nostalgic for those Zelda games (Twilight Princess, Ocarina of Time, Skyward Sword), Mario games (New Bros. Wii, Mario Kart Wii, Galaxy 1 & 2, Mario Kart DS, Mario Party DS, Double Dash, Sunshine, Paper Mario), as well as the Metroid and Megaman games which would've been in circulation during that time period. For some reason, I don't think he was ever interested in Pokemon. I feel like that's more Franny's schtick.

Cornelius does NOT like horror games. Unless it's FNaF, because it's not actually scary most of the time.

He either sleeps in the softest blankets known to man or he ain't sleeping at all.

Neil may be one of the smartest men on Earth, yes, but he still has his dumb moments. Like when he's trying to find the syrup in the pantry for his pancakes, and he can't find it so he asks Wilbur for help. Then Wilbur proceeds to find the bottle of syrup that was right in front of Neil's face the whole time, and he somehow didn't register its existence.

Lewis prefers longer socks to normal length socks, because he blisters easily. But also because there are more fun varieties.

Frogs he can learn to love. But small, spindly spiders? NOPE NOPE NOPE. Tarantulas? He loves them because they're fuzzy and the perfect petting size! But the minute the spiders get smaller he is OUT. He hates bugs in general, really. The minute he finds a spider, ant, bee, or any bug in his house he will bomb the residence then move to Mars.

[ravendruid]

Be In My Eyes - Chapter 18

You can read the previous chapters here or on AO3. Check out the outfit inspiration boards here. Summary: With midterms week coming to an end, it's time to sit back, relax, clean some wounds—mostly emotional—and party!

Keyleth glanced at the clock strategically placed above the whiteboard in the classroom. Bile clawed its way up her esophagus and onto her throat as she realized she had less than five minutes until the end of the exam, and she still had two questions left. She tried to focus on the question she was working on, but the more she read it, the emptier her brain felt. Until, at last, the dreadful cough ensuing from the professor two rows down called her attention.

“Pens down.”

Keyleth tried to control her breathing as she lowered her pen and closed her exam, the blank space of the last two questions taunting her. Her heart started racing, and she stared at the paper in front of her with wide, unfocused eyes. Keyleth tuned out of her surroundings, not paying attention to the rustling of her classmates packing and leaving nor the blur of her professor taking away her unfinished exam. This was one of the most important subjects of her degree, and because of that, the professor had made it clear at the beginning of the year that finals would be worth 60% of their final grade while midterms would take 30% of it. Having a bad grade on the midterm could drastically lower Keyleth’s final grade if she didn’t raise it by finals.

“Miss Ashari?” The professor called her, gently touching her shoulder.

Keyleth looked up at the middle-aged man, the wrinkles around his soft, concerned brown eyes were more prominent at such a close distance. 

“Y—yes?” Her voice was low, barely louder than a whisper, and wavering.

“Is everything alright?”

Professor Uriel was not only one of the oldest professors in the Biology department of the University of Emon, but was also a descendant of its founder. While such a high status could turn the man into a power-hungry narcissist, Professor Uriel was one of the kindest teachers Keyleth had, going as far as to bother remembering his students’ names.

“I’m sorry,” Keyleth mumbled, embarrassed. “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to complete my exam.”

“Ah.” Professor Uriel smiled kindly, the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes shifting with it. “Do not worry about that, Miss Ashari. I have faith that you can still get a high grade. You are, after all, the best student in this class, are you not?”

Keyleth’s face reddened. She did put an immense amount of hours into her homework and assignments, and she tried to participate as much as her anxiety allowed her, but she would never call herself the best student in the class. 

“Let’s find out first what your grade was, and then we can discuss if there is a need for extra assignments to bring it up. Does that sound good to you?”

“Y—yes, that would be… Thank you, Professor,” Keyleth gave the man a hopeful smile before she started packing her things. 

It was already fully dark out when she left the teaching building, but Keyleth tried to not let the feeling of unease take over her. She was still slightly anxious about her exam, and walking alone at night didn’t help much. On a different occasion, she would have called Vax and asked him to stay on the phone with her until she got back to Greyskull, but he was still not talking to her. 

Keyleth started wondering if maybe it was her fault. Had she done something to upset him? Perhaps if she had tried to be less clingy, he wouldn’t be mad at her, or maybe if she had tried to be better, he would still be talking to her. Was there a point in even thinking about it anymore? It had been almost a week since their last conversation on the way home from the bar, and Vax didn’t seem any closer to resuming their friendship. Would it be best for Keyleth to forget about it and move on? 

Keyleth’s thoughts got interrupted by her phone vibrating in her pocket. A picture of Vex’ahlia and Trinket hugging in their bedroom showed on the screen, and Keyleth answered the call with a frown.

“Hi, Vex. Is everything okay?”

“Keyleth!” Vex cheered giddily on the other side of the line, immediately followed by an also cheerful Pike, giving Keyleth the impression that they both had already started drinking. “Where are you?”

“On my way home. I just finished my last exam.”

“We’re going out tonight to celebrate. Will you please come with us, darling? Pretty please,” Vex begged, shadowed by Pike in the background.

“Alright, but just us girls. Is that okay?” Keyleth bit her lip, hoping Vex was too tipsy to consider the reason for her request.

“Sure. No stinky boys tonight. Did you hear that, brother?”

Keyleth’s heart fell to her stomach. Vax was with his sister, and while she might have been too drunk to not add up the math, Vax wouldn’t be. He would surely figure out right away the reason for Keyleth’s request. Did it really matter, though? Did she care about how Vax felt for being left behind while the girls went out to have fun? The answer was an easy yes, because no matter what Keyleth told herself—or forced herself to believe—Vax’s sadness still made her heart ache.

“Well,” Pike’s voice got closer, and Keyleth heard shuffling on the other side. When she spoke again, the shorter girl’s voice was louder, “We’re going to have dinner first, then we’re going to Glorious. A girls’ night.” She offered. 

“Sounds good to me,” Keyleth answered, relaxing her shoulders as she saw the lights of Greyskull on the other side of the road. “I’m almost home. I just need to shower and get ready.”

“I have a dress for you, Keyleth,” Vex replied behind Pike.

“O—okay?” Keyleth was scared because she had seen Vex’s dresses before, and most of them were not something Keyleth could see herself wearing, but she gave her friend the benefit of the doubt and accepted the offer. 

Vex’ahlia and Pike were both waiting for Keyleth when she walked in, Pike holding a shot glass and Vex two. Vax was sitting on the armchair closest to the TV—Keyleth’s unofficially assigned armchair—with an open book on his lap. He didn’t even try to conceal the amusement on his face as his sister and their roommate loudly cheered Keyleth’s return home and promptly handed her a drink. Quite the opposite. His smile towards Keyleth was softer than she had seen him look at her that week, suddenly setting the embers in her navel ablaze. 

“Come on, let’s get ready,” Vex dragged Keyleth behind her to their room, where she started digging through her closet.

“Go ahead and shower first,” Pike instructed Keyleth as she, too, dug through her wardrobe. Keyleth obeyed, not wanting to burst her roommates’ bubble of happiness. 

Keyleth showered quickly, wanting to free the bathroom for the other two as fast as possible. She was still getting used to sharing her space with others, a habit she didn’t have due to being an only child and having lived most of her life with only her dad. While Vex and Pike were comfortable with anyone walking in the bathroom while they showered, Keyleth wasn’t. It had taken her a few weeks to even become comfortable with the idea of changing clothes in front of her roommates, which she had only started doing after Vex rolled her eyes at Keyleth and reminded her they all had the same body parts and that she didn’t have anything Vex hadn’t seen before. Sometimes Keyleth felt guilty for taking over the bathroom when the other two needed to get ready. But thankfully, they had fallen into a natural schedule where Pike and Vex would make up for any lost time by getting ready together.

“I have this dress for you,” Vex said as soon as Keyleth walked out of the bathroom, fully wrapped in a towel. She was holding a hanger with a black dress that already looked too short on her friend.

“I have dresses, too, you know?” Keyleth moved aside, allowing Pike in. Vex cocked an eyebrow, but Keyleth ignored her, opening her wardrobe and looking through her hanging dresses. She found the one she was looking for and pulled it out, showing it to Vex, who gave her an approving look.

“You’re full of surprises, Keyleth. I never thought you would have a dress that short.” Vex smiled, putting her dress back in her closet.

Keyleth blushed at that. She wasn’t sure if Vex was complimenting or mocking her, so she opted not to say anything. Although, in her defense, that was the shortest dress Keyleth owned and one she had never worn before. She had been saving it for a special occasion, and she figured it was either that or having to wear Vex’s dress, which was way shorter than the one she owned. 

“Hey, Pike,” Vex called loudly as she opened the bathroom door. Keyleth saw her browse her make-up kit, unbothered by the fact that her roommate was in the middle of a shower. “How much do you two want to bet the boys are going to show up at Gilmore’s to check on us?” 

“They better not,” Pike replied, her head peeking out of the curtain. “I will kick them out of the bar if they do.”

Keyleth and Vex both laughed at their friend. For such a short girl, Pike had the courage of a giant.

—

Vax’ildan stretched out on the armchair, setting his book on the small side table. It felt wrong to enjoy the comfort of the plush green pillow behind his back, the one Keyleth had bought specifically for this chair. It felt even worse to be sitting on it, enjoying the view of the entire living area and kitchen, the proximity to the bookshelf, growing fuller every week, and the soft lamp in the corner behind the armchair that provided just the right amount of lighting to read. It felt wrong because this was Keyleth’s spot—everyone at the apartment knew that—and Vax, more than anyone, was undeserving of such comforts after being a complete dick to his best friend all week.

Staying away from Keyleth had cost Vax more than he wanted to admit to himself, both emotionally and physically. Gilmore, who Vax learned had no trouble speaking the truth, even if it hurt his friends, had drilled into him all week about how he was screwing this up badly with Keyleth by being so distant, not helping with the overwhelming guilt he already felt. Almost worse than the guilt were Vex’ahlia’s piercing stares whenever Vax joined the girls to study. It had confused him, of course. Vex had been nagging him to leave his bedroom since classes started, and now that he did, he felt like she almost wanted to kill him for that. It’s not that he didn’t know why. Vax wasn’t dumb. What confused him the most was that the last time he talked to his sister about the subject, she was hellbent on pushing him away from Keyleth. If anything, Vax thought his sister would be happy with their distancing, but she had proven him wrong. 

There was no use in crying over spilled milk. Vax had made a conscious decision and had stuck to it. As much as it hurt him, there was no turning back. Or at least that’s what he thought before Pike sought him earlier that afternoon. The worshipper of the Everlight—of all gods, it had to be a disciple of the goddess of redemption—had come bearing good news and a second chance, which Vax was going to hold on too tightly and try not to ruin everything. That’s why his heart broke when Vex informed him no boys were allowed to go out with the girls that night. Ever since he heard his sister and Pike scheming to get Keyleth out of the house to celebrate, Vax hoped to take the chance to enact his redemption, but Keyleth had other plans. 

Vax had run multiple scenarios in his mind on how he would approach Keyleth to apologize, to justify his behavior, but none of them seemed good enough. She deserved much better than him. No matter what Pike told him, Vax wouldn’t take anything for real until he heard it from Keyleth’s lips. He knew he had to make sure everything was perfect, no matter what his plan was. He was ready to work hard for Keyleth’s forgiveness.

What Vax wasn’t ready for, though, was the sight in front of him as, one after the other, the girls walked into the living room. 

Pike walked in first. She wore a light blue mini dress with a low-cut square neckline, see-through chiffon sleeves and skirt, and white heels that made her barely taller than five feet. Her pale blonde hair was loosely curled down to her shoulders with two intertwined pieces on each side of her head meeting at the back, and she was wearing a golden necklace with the symbol of the Everlight. Her make-up was also done perfectly in shades of gold and light blue eyeshadow—Vax recognized his sister’s signature smoky style—and soft pink lipstick. There was no denying: Pike was as beautiful as she was intelligent, thus emphasizing even further why Scanlan was so infatuated with her. 

Vex’ahlia was right behind Pike, the height difference clearly noticeable as they chatted with each other. Vax had long gotten used to his sister’s fashion style, but it still bothered him sometimes how she would bare herself so much. Vex wore black shorts and a sheer black shirt with embroidered roses with what looked like a white lace bodysuit underneath. She carried a pair of worn-out and cheap combat-style boots—the off-brand pair she bought to match Vax’s. Her hair, much like Pike’s, was also loosely curled down to her shoulder blades with two interlocked pieces on each side that met at the back, and her make-up consisted of her signature smoky eyeshadow in gold and black and sharp eyeliner. Vax noticed she was also wearing the silver bear necklace and the golden ‘V’ pendant he had given a few years back. No matter how much of a hard-ass Vex was to him, it comforted him to know she still wanted him close, even when he wasn’t physically able to be near her.

“Oh, hi, brother.” Vex greeted him, setting her shoes behind the couch and shooing Trinket so she could sit.

“You two look very beautiful. Although, Vex’ahlia, you—”

“Oh, don’t you even start, Vax.” She admonished him with a piercing look.

“Wait until you see Keyleth,” Pike said with a knowing look as she sat next to Vex on the couch.

The girls chatted happily for five minutes, and for five minutes, Vax tried to gather the chaos of thoughts in his mind, praying to whichever gods were listening that they would give him the strength to not act like a fool. It seemed like the gods weren’t listening, though, because as soon as Keyleth walked into the living room, absent-mindedly searching for something in her purse, Vax’s jaw dropped, and all blood rushed from his brain.

Keyleth was wearing a forest green mini dress—Vax had never seen her wear anything that short—with colorful flowers, a low-cut square neckline, and sheer sleeves. Her long red hair was curled down to the entire length of her back, with braids on each side of her head that were fastened by a small green bow in the back—now it was obvious to him that she had done the other girls’ hair, too, since they were all matching. She was wearing Vex’s heels again, the ones that made her almost as tall as Grog, and had a golden leaf pendant around her neck. 

“Finally,” Vex’ahlia muttered, standing to her feet. Keyleth looked at her friends apologetically before her gaze fell on Vax’s still awestruck expression. 

Vax was glad he was still sitting on her armchair because he would have fallen to his ass from the look Keyleth gave him. She had a different shine to her eyes. Maybe it was from the smoky gold and green eyeshadow, or perhaps the sharp eyeliner—Vex’ahlia had for sure been in charge of the girls’ make-up—but something about Keyleth’s look made his entire body numb.

Even worse than Vax not feeling anything was the fact that he also didn’t realize that all three girls were staring at him: Vex and Pike in amusement at his bewildered expression, and Keyleth with an increasing blush in her cheeks. In his defense, though, Keyleth was beautiful.

“Brother,” Vex’ahlia approached Vax, slapping him on the shoulder to get his attention. That seemed to break the hold on him, and Vax shifted his attention to his sister. “We’re going to leave now. Don’t even think about following us, alright? We’ll be fine.”

“Uhm… y—yeah. Sure.”

Vex shook her head as she stepped away from him, joining Pike and Keyleth by the door, who were putting on their jackets. Keyleth allowed the other two to leave before her, holding back and looking at Vax again. Her body shuffled awkwardly at the door as she bit her lower lip in discomfort, and for a moment, Vax could swear Keyleth was waiting for him to ask her to stay. Gods above. Vax wanted to ask her to stay home with him so badly, but just as quick as the thought crossed their minds, it vanished into the unknown, and Keyleth left—not before giving him a soft smile, unable to hide the sadness in her eyes.

It took Vax a lot of strength and self-control not to chase her down the hall, to heed his sister’s words, and not follow them to the restaurant and the bar. After such a long and exhausting week, all that strength seemed to deplete his resources, and Vax was barely able to drag himself to his bed, much to Percival’s surprise, who had been quietly sketching out something at his desk. He had no more energy to change his clothes, so he allowed himself to flop onto the mattress with a soft thud and closed his eyes. His heart ached again as the small flame of hope slowly extinguished itself.

Keyleth would never love him, no matter what Pike said. Vax hadn’t been good enough for her a month ago, and he wasn’t good enough for her now, after all the pain he put her through. Again, he wasn’t dumb. Vax knew very well that Keyleth had asked for a girls’ night because she wanted to be away from him. Could he blame her, though? Keyleth had all the right to be mad at him. Even though it hurt him, Vax felt he had no energy left to fight for her—for them.

The last image that crossed Vax’s mind as sleep took over his conscience was Keyleth’s smile whenever she saw him walk into a room. He loved her smile so much. She had shined so bright in his life, and he ruined everything, dragging himself back to darkness again. He was all alone again, as he should be. Someone like him didn’t deserve to be loved by someone so kind and pure as Keyleth.

[matthewzkrause]

This 12-Year-Old Built an App That Went Global — Here’s the Behind-the-Scenes.

How a middle schooler turned frustration into 1 million downloads (and a lot of disbelief from adults).

Let’s set the scene:

It’s 9PM on a school night. Most 12-year-olds are finishing their homework, brushing their teeth, and begging for “just 10 more minutes” of screen time.

But not [First Name].

This kid was up late building something. Not a LEGO spaceship. Not a TikTok dance. An app. A real one. The kind you download from the App Store.

Fast-forward a few months? That app had 1 million users across the world.

No team. No funding. Just Wi-Fi, curiosity, and a 12-year-old who got sick of forgetting his math homework.

It Started With One Bad Day Like all great stories, this one began with frustration.

“I forgot my homework at home. Again. And I got detention. I was so annoyed, I thought, why isn’t there just an app for this?”

That was the moment.

No pitch decks. No big vision board. Just a regular kid solving a problem he actually had.

So he Googled: “how to build an app.” Then he opened YouTube. And didn’t stop watching until he understood enough to try.

Bedroom Coding. No Fancy Setups. Just Grit. Forget offices and whiteboards. This all happened from the corner of his room — headphones on, laptop overheating, mom yelling about bedtime in the background.

He taught himself to code using YouTube tutorials. He sketched the layout on notebook paper. He tested it on his friend’s phone during recess.

After a couple of months? It worked.

A simple homework tracker that sent reminders, let kids share assignments, and didn’t look like it was built in 2004.

The Wild Part? It Went Viral By Accident. The app launched quietly — just a little school project. No marketing plan. No ads. Not even a tweet.

But kids started telling other kids. Teachers started sharing it in class. A random TikTok clip showing the app blew up overnight.

Next thing he knew?

500 downloads → 50,000 → 1 million.

30+ countries

DMs from students saying “thank you”

Teachers emailing him asking how to “partner”

Meanwhile, he was still doing long division in 6th period.

Why It Worked (When So Many Apps Don’t) Simple: it solved a real problem.

It wasn’t bloated or full of ads

It was clean, fast, and made by someone who actually understood the user — because he was the user

It had soul — and people could feel it

It’s the kind of thing you can’t fake in a boardroom. You only build this if you’ve actually lived it.

The Kid Behind the Code He’s not some tech prodigy with a Silicon Valley dad.

His parents aren’t coders. They didn’t even know what he was doing at first.

“They were just like, ‘As long as your homework’s done and you’re not breaking anything, go for it.’”

They gave him what most kids never get: space to explore. Not pressure. Not perfection. Just permission to try.

And that made all the difference.

What’s Next? He's 13 now — and still building.

He’s working on version 2. Adding AI-powered features to help students figure out how they learn best. Testing a chat-based assistant that explains assignments in plain English. And yes — still turning in homework on time.

Final Thought 💬 This isn’t just a cute story about a smart kid.

It’s a reminder.

That the next big idea might not come from Silicon Valley. It might come from a messy bedroom, a cracked iPad, and a 12-year-old who was tired of forgetting his math homework.

So the next time you catch yourself scrolling, bored or overwhelmed, remember: Some kid out there is coding the future while sipping Capri Sun and ignoring bedtime.

[skowd090]

Best Explainer Video Company in India for Skowd: Captivate, Convert, and Communicate Like Never Before

Introduction

Let’s be real—people don’t want to scroll through blocks of text to figure out what your brand does. In today’s fast-paced world, explainer videos are the cheat code to getting attention, sparking interest, and driving conversions. If Skowd wants to stand out, partnering with a top-tier explainer video company in India is the smartest move right now.

What is an Explainer Video?

An explainer video is a short, engaging video that breaks down what your product or service does in an easy-to-understand, visually captivating way. It’s like an elevator pitch—but on steroids.

Types of Explainer Videos:

2D Animation: Classic and versatile

Whiteboard Animation: Sketch-style storytelling

Motion Graphics: Clean, modern, and often data-driven

Live Action: Great for a personal or human feel

Hybrid Videos: A mix of animation and real footage

Benefits of Explainer Videos for Skowd

Increased Conversions

Studies show landing pages with explainer videos convert up to 80% better.

Social Media Engagement

Videos perform better on Instagram, LinkedIn, and Facebook—perfect for marketing campaigns.

Explain Complex Concepts

Got a service or tech that's hard to describe? A 60-second animation can do the job better than a full webpage.

SEO Boost

Videos keep visitors on your website longer, signaling value to search engines.

Why Choose an Explainer Video Company in India

India is a global hotspot for creative services—and explainer videos are no exception.

Cost-Effective: Get high-quality videos at a fraction of US/UK prices.

Creative Talent: India's animation scene is thriving with world-class designers and scriptwriters.

Fast Turnaround: Agencies here are used to tight deadlines and multiple timezone collaboration.

Key Qualities of a Top Indian Explainer Video Company

A strong portfolio across industries

Transparent communication channels

In-house scriptwriters and illustrators

Professional voiceover options (US, UK, Indian English)

Multiple revision rounds included in packages

Types of Explainer Videos Offered

2D Animated Explainers

Whiteboard Explainers

App or Product Demo Videos

Motion Graphic Visual Stories

Kinetic Typography Videos

Character Animation Videos

Each type can be tailored to match Skowd’s brand tone, audience, and goals.

How the Process Works

Kick-Off Call – Understand your goals and message

Scripting – Crafting the perfect story

Storyboarding – Visual plan of your video

Voiceover Recording – Male/female voices, accents, languages

Animation & Editing – Bringing the storyboard to life

Feedback & Final Delivery – Polish and render in HD

Tools and Software Used

Top Indian explainer studios use industry-standard tools like:

Adobe After Effects

Adobe Illustrator

Vyond

Audacity (for voice)

Toon Boom and Blender (for advanced animation)

Adobe Premiere Pro (for editing)

Pricing for Explainer Videos in India

Typical Cost Range:

30-sec video: $150 – $400

60-sec video: $400 – $800

90-sec video: $800 – $1200

What Affects the Cost?

Type of animation

Script complexity

Revisions required

Voiceover language and accent

Real Case Studies and Success Stories

Many Indian agencies have worked with Fortune 500s, SaaS startups, and eCommerce brands. Skowd can benefit from the same level of expertise—at just a fraction of the cost.

Challenges and How Indian Companies Overcome Them

Time Zone Gaps

Work while you sleep—agencies keep things moving with detailed progress reports.

Accent Concerns

Choose from American, British, Australian, or neutral Indian voiceovers.

Creative Misalignment

Use sample references and mood boards to stay on the same page from the start.

How to Get the Best from Your Video Partner

Be super clear about your objective

Provide inspiration or competitor examples

Use tools like Trello, Notion, or Slack to streamline communication

Be prompt with feedback for faster delivery

Future Trends in Explainer Videos

AI Voiceovers and Scriptwriting

Interactive Explainers (Clickable Video Elements)

Hyper-Personalization for Target Segments

Multi-language Adaptations for Global Reach

Why Skowd Should Invest Now

The video trend isn’t slowing down. Whether it’s ads, onboarding, or product pages—an explainer video makes your brand more trustworthy, more memorable, and more likely to convert. Don’t wait for your competitors to beat you to it.

Conclusion

If Skowd is serious about making a strong digital impact, an explainer video isn’t optional—it’s essential. Partnering with a top explainer video company in India means you get the perfect blend of quality, affordability, and creative storytelling. It's time to show the world what Skowd is all about—in just 60 seconds or less.

FAQs

1. How long does it take to make an explainer video? Anywhere from 7 to 21 days, depending on length and complexity.

2. What makes Indian explainer companies different? Cost-effective services, English fluency, fast delivery, and global experience.

3. Will my video be customized for Skowd’s branding? Absolutely. Colors, tone, messaging, and visuals will align with your brand.

4. Can I choose the voiceover artist? Yes, most companies provide sample voice demos to choose from.

5. Is it possible to update the video later? Yes. If you keep the source files, updates can be made anytime.

[southernworkout]

The Best Home Gym Equipment in Adelaide: A Guide to Fitness at Home

Creating a dedicated workout space in your own home has never been more appealing. With the rise of hybrid work and a growing awareness of personal health, many people are rethinking their fitness routines. Home Gym Equipment Adelaide has become an increasingly sought-after topic among locals looking for a more convenient, flexible, and cost-effective way to stay fit.

Incorporating the right tools into your workout space starts with understanding your fitness goals. Whether you’re aiming for strength training, cardio endurance, mobility, or a balanced mix of all three, your selection should reflect your needs and lifestyle. What works for a powerlifter may not be ideal for someone focused on yoga or general wellness.

Start with the Basics

If you’re new to working out at home, begin with foundational tools that support a wide variety of exercises. Resistance bands, adjustable dumbbells, and kettlebells are versatile and don’t take up much space. These options allow for strength-building, toning, and functional training without the need for bulky machinery.

Yoga mats and foam rollers are essential for mobility and recovery. A high-quality mat provides a stable surface for stretching, Pilates, and core work, while foam rollers aid in muscle recovery and reduce the risk of injury.

Space-Saving Strength Solutions

One of the biggest concerns for many is space. Fortunately, modern designs offer compact solutions. Adjustable weight benches with foldable frames, wall-mounted squat racks, and compact cable pulley systems are ideal for homes where space is at a premium. These items offer the functionality of a full fitness center without occupying an entire room.

Additionally, investing in multifunctional tools like a power tower or an all-in-one resistance station can cover push-ups, pull-ups, dips, and more in one setup. These systems help reduce clutter and streamline your fitness experience.

Cardio That Fits Your Space

Cardiovascular fitness is vital for heart health, endurance, and calorie burn. While treadmills and stationary bikes are classics, there are plenty of alternatives that are just as effective and take up less room. Consider a jump rope, mini stepper, or under-desk cycle for quick bursts of activity during the day.

Rowing machines offer a full-body cardio workout and are often foldable or storable when not in use. For those with more room, air bikes or elliptical trainers bring variety and intensity to a cardio session without leaving the house.

Creating a Functional Layout

How you set up your space matters just as much as the items you choose. Ensure that your equipment is placed in a way that encourages regular use. Consider dividing your area into zones: one for stretching and recovery, one for strength, and another for cardio. Mirrors can help check form and add a sense of space, while good lighting boosts energy and motivation.

A clean, clutter-free area will make your workout routine feel like a natural part of your day. Storage racks, wall hooks, and baskets help keep your setup tidy and safe.

Tech-Supported Training at Home

Smart devices and digital platforms have made it easier than ever to train effectively at home. Fitness trackers, smart scales, and heart rate monitors provide insights into your progress. Virtual classes and app-based programs offer structure, variety, and the motivation of guided instruction. For more info, click here

Many pieces of equipment now come with digital connectivity, allowing you to stream classes or track your metrics in real-time. Whether it’s a virtual spin class or an on-demand strength workout, this tech-enhanced approach can boost accountability and results.

Staying Motivated Long-Term

Consistency is key in any fitness journey. To stay engaged, choose tools that you enjoy using. Music systems, motivational posters, or even a simple whiteboard for tracking goals can make the environment more inspiring.

Switching up routines periodically keeps things fresh and challenges the body in new ways. Incorporate elements like resistance tubes, sliders, or battle ropes to introduce variety. Celebrate small wins along the way to stay mentally and emotionally committed to your health goals.

Making the Most of Your Investment

Setting up your own workout zone is an investment in your long-term well-being. Instead of paying for a gym membership, you’re creating a permanent space that suits your schedule, preferences, and pace. By choosing high-quality and multifunctional options, you get more value over time without compromising on effectiveness.

Durable construction, ease of use, and adjustability are features to prioritize when shopping. Equipment with a strong warranty and user-friendly design ensures you’ll make the most out of your setup, now and in the future.

[spintaxi]

Daddy Dearest: Deion Sanders

Daddy Dearest: The Abrasive Echo of Deion Sanders Is Louder Than a Stadium Full of Vuvuzelas

Why NFL Teams Treated Shedeur Sanders Like He Showed Up to the Combine With a Megaphone and a Lawsuit TAMPA, FL — NFL front offices have always factored in variables like hand size, Wonderlic scores, and the ability to run a 40-yard dash without tripping over one’s own ego. But this year, there’s a new metric on the draft board: Paternal Decibel Rating (PDR). And no one in this draft class suffered more from a high PDR than Shedeur Sanders, quarterback, son of NFL Hall-of-Famer and living motivational podcast Deion “Prime Time” Sanders. Teams like the Cleveland Browns, Las Vegas Raiders, and Tennessee Titans—the three most quarterback-desperate franchises since Napoleon tried to invade Russia with flip-flops—reportedly paused before calling Shedeur’s name. Not because of his mechanics. Not because of his stats. But because they could hear his dad yelling from another time zone. A Father’s Love, Weaponized Deion Sanders, once known for his athletic prowess and currently known for never turning down a microphone, has taken the concept of “sports dad” and dialed it up to eleven—then set fire to the dial. According to one AFC scout who requested anonymity but wore a giant gold chain and demanded to be quoted like a prophet: “We’ve seen helicopter parents, but this dude is flying an F-22 Raptor made of pure bravado.” Shedeur Sanders is a Heisman-contending, stat-stuffing, interview-polished quarterback with enough upside to make even the New York Jets briefly forget they exist. But his stock dropped faster than Deion’s blood pressure after seeing a coach wear khakis in Boulder. Why? Because Shedeur entered the NFL Draft tethered to a man who once said: “If you ain’t swag, you drag.” And the NFL, notoriously conservative and allergic to personality unless it’s sponsored by Gatorade, does not want drag, swag, or dadgic interference. What NFL Executives Are Saying (Satirically and Not) An alleged text chain between three general managers—code-named “Mild Mike,” “Tired Todd,” and “Desperate Dan”—leaked to SpinTaxi Magazine this week. Here’s a sample: Mild Mike (Browns): “Shedeur looks good… throws tight spiral… leadership vibes.” Tired Todd (Titans): “Agreed. But if we draft him, do we have to CC his dad on every practice plan?” Desperate Dan (Raiders): “Can we install a mute button on the sideline?” Sources inside two NFL war rooms confirmed that the question “What’s the Deion Factor?” appeared on multiple whiteboards. Alongside it were flowcharts that looked more like family counseling brochures than football analytics. One box said: “Will Dad tweet criticism of OC if team loses?” Another read: “Will Dad hold unsanctioned press conferences in the team parking lot?” And the final one? “Does this franchise currently possess enough spiritual bandwidth to absorb a full-force Deion-Quake?” The answer, in most cases, was a weary, mascara-smudged “No.” Analogy Break: Drafting Shedeur Is Like Buying a Sports Car That Comes With a DJ Let’s break this down in terms a Raiders fan might understand. Drafting Shedeur Sanders is like buying a Lamborghini that handles great, accelerates clean, and looks sharp—but the dealership insists on installing a custom stereo that only plays Deion Sanders’ Instagram Reels at full volume. You might still take it for a test drive, but you’re going to ask if the stereo is optional. “We want a field general,” said one NFL coach. “Not a joint custody battle with a former cornerback who thinks God personally emails him play-calling advice.” “Coach Prime” or “Dad Prime”? Pick One. During Shedeur’s tenure at Colorado, Deion Sanders transformed the Buffaloes into a media phenomenon. Colorado games became less about football and more like prequel episodes to a Netflix reality show no one asked for but everyone hate-watches. Shedeur didn’t just play quarterback. He played sidekick. He played legacy. He played the kid who had to pretend dad wasn’t coaching from the Jumbotron. And Deion wasn’t just visible. He was the sun. Everything rotated around him, including the narrative of his son’s future. Several NFL insiders confirmed that Deion insisted on attending team interviews with a briefcase labeled “Primeology: The Way of the Brimmed Hat.” Inside were gold-trimmed stats, spiritual quotes, and a list of acceptable media outlets. “We were just trying to find out if Shedeur could read cover-2,” said one scout. “But Coach Prime turned it into a TED Talk about how God told him not to trust weather apps.” Survey: Coaches More Afraid of Deion Than Torn ACLs In a confidential NFLPA survey of 50 assistant coaches and GMs: 78% said they would rather deal with an ACL rehab than a Deion media storm. 12% thought Deion Sanders had already trademarked their team motto. 6% believed Deion might try to install his own son as offensive coordinator midseason. One NFC South coach confessed: “We almost drafted Shedeur. Then Deion showed up in a white fur coat, did a TikTok dance in our cafeteria, and demanded we fire the team chaplain.” Tom Brady’s Confused but Supportive Dad-Energy Former Bucs quarterback Tom Brady, never accused of being too loud off the field (except for that one thing with the kale ice cream), commented publicly that Shedeur deserves a shot—but that maybe it’s time to “let the kid speak for himself.” Brady added: “My dad once sent a letter to the editor when I lost a high school game. That was enough. Deion’s doing a stadium tour.” Meanwhile, Deion responded by comparing himself to Moses, Vince Lombardi, and Tony Robbins in a single sentence, then offered to let Brady join “Team Prime” as a spiritual advisor “if he promises to smile more.” Trace Evidence: Social Media Meltdowns, Drive-By Sermons From Twitter tirades about "haters" to live sermons in locker rooms (including a now-viral monologue titled “Only God and Nike Sign My Kids”), Deion has made himself the loudest person in a room full of NFL microphones. “Shedeur has NFL potential,” said one former quarterback analyst. “But his dad’s voice is like being trapped in a motivational carwash that won’t let you leave until you agree to buy six T-shirts.” One team staffer swore that Deion “lit incense in the film room” and refused to enter until someone whispered his 40-yard dash time as a password. Public Reaction: Bandwagon or Bypass? On Reddit, fans are divided. One Broncos fan wrote: “I love Coach Prime. He makes things interesting. But I don’t want him teaching our kicker how to ‘walk with vision.’ I just want the kicker to kick.” Meanwhile, a Tennessee Titans fan commented: “We’ve had QBs who throw like medieval catapults. I’ll take Shedeur. Just leave his dad in the RV.” But perhaps the most poignant response came from a Cleveland Browns fan: “We already have one guy who won’t shut up—our owner. We don’t need another one with a hat and a catchphrase.”

Comedy Writer - A wide, surreal cartoon scene inspired by exaggerated mid-century humor comics. A Super Bowl-style kickoff ceremony for the 'Alpha Father Conference.'... - Alan Nafzger 1 Comedy Corner: What the Funny People Are Saying Jerry Seinfeld: “What’s the deal with Deion Sanders? He’s the only dad who shows up to a job interview and insists on negotiating the benefits for someone else.” Ron White: “Deion’s so loud he doesn’t need a microphone—he needs a warning label. ‘Caution: May spontaneously coach your team without permission.’” Sarah Silverman: “Shedeur’s got arm talent, brains, and footwork. But NFL teams are like, ‘We’re not sure we can afford a second head coach who’s technically not on payroll.’” Chris Rock: “There’s dads, and then there’s Deion. He’s like if your hype man and your parole officer were the same person.” A Future in Flux As of press time, Shedeur Sanders has been drafted by the Cleveland Browns—a team known less for quarterback success and more for hosting the Witness Protection Program for careers. The Browns claim that Deion’s reputation did not impact their decision. However, they also installed a new “Parent Perimeter” at training camp and quietly asked the NFL to create a “Silent Saturday” policy banning all sideline commentary from uncredentialed fathers. When reached for comment, Deion said: “They knew who I was when they met me. They knew what it meant to ride with Prime. Now let’s ride. Amen.” Disclaimer This article is entirely a work of satirical journalism. The observations, quotes, and dramatic events are fictionalized, exaggerated, and lovingly fabricated as part of a humorous human collaboration between a tenured professor of NFL Anthropology and a philosophy major turned dairy farmer who can run a 5.2 forty if provoked by geese. Sources: NFL Teams Install “Dad-Free Zones” After Deion Storms Draft War Rooms Deion Sanders Demands NFL Rename AFC to “Alpha Father Conference” Shedeur Sanders Throws 50 Touchdowns, Still Asked About His Father’s Hat Collection Raiders Refuse to Draft Anyone With a Parent Who’s Verified on Twitter Deion Sanders Sues Silence, Claims It’s Stealing His Brand Tom Brady Joins Prime U to Teach Passive Aggressive Leadership Skills Browns Announce New Policy: No Coaching Unless You're on Payroll—or Named Deion

Comedy Writer - A wide, surreal cartoon scene inspired by exaggerated mid-century humor comics. A Super Bowl-style kickoff ceremony for the 'Alpha Father Conference.'... - Daddy Dearest: Deion Sanders NFL Teams Install “Dad-Free Zones” After Deion Storms Draft War Rooms NFL franchises have long tolerated sideline parents, pushy entourages, and even the occasional uncle-turned-financial-adviser, but this draft season forced the league to take drastic action: the introduction of “Dad-Free Zones.” The measure was quietly added to combine policies after Coach Deion Sanders, dressed like a motivational speaker at a rodeo, allegedly stormed three war rooms with a bullhorn, a Bible, and a PowerPoint titled “Why Your Franchise Needs My Bloodline.” Eyewitnesses at the Titans facility claim Sanders “materialized out of nowhere, like a brimmed-hat ghost,�� and began laying hands on whiteboards, declaring their quarterback board “spiritually weak.” One scout swears Deion insisted that offensive coordinators “speak prosperity into Shedeur’s arm.” The new Dad-Free Zones are secured by keycards, emotional boundaries, and, in the case of the Las Vegas Raiders, two former UFC fighters and a priest. The NFLPA issued a joint statement: “While we respect parental involvement, we draw the line at uninvited choreography and impromptu Instagram Lives in decision-making rooms.” The Browns, who eventually drafted Shedeur, have installed what they call a “Prime Buffer Zone,” a six-foot space guarded by soft jazz music and affirmations that “this moment is about the player.” Next year, the league is considering full-body hat scans and spiritual energy audits for all attending fathers. Deion Sanders Demands NFL Rename AFC to “Alpha Father Conference” In a move that stunned linguists, broadcasters, and AFC Commissioner Dave Baker alike, Deion Sanders is demanding the NFL rebrand the AFC as the “Alpha Father Conference.” According to a 3 a.m. Instagram Live hosted from his custom prayer chamber, Sanders argued that the current AFC moniker—short for “American Football Conference”—is “weak, uninspired, and lacking divine masculinity.” “This isn’t just about football,” Sanders said, wearing sunglasses indoors and pointing to a poster of himself riding a lion. “It’s about fatherhood leadership. The NFC can stay as the ‘Not Fathers Club.’” The proposed rebrand includes a new logo (a silhouette of Sanders in a cowboy hat baptizing a football), a reordering of the playoff seeding based on parental involvement, and an annual “Dadfluence Combine” where coaches must read aloud bedtime stories and give lectures on discipline and charisma. Owners are split. Jerry Jones called the move “bold and biblically-adjacent.” Meanwhile, Robert Kraft allegedly asked if the Alpha Father Conference included spa vouchers. Bill Belichick declined to comment but sighed into a microphone for 47 seconds. The NFL responded cautiously: “We appreciate Coach Prime’s vision and respect all family dynamics. However, the AFC brand has existed since 1970, and any changes would require a committee of 32 dads and possibly a therapy goat.” Deion responded by challenging the NFC to a dad-off. Shedeur Sanders Throws 50 Touchdowns, Still Asked About His Father’s Hat Collection Despite breaking rookie records with 50 touchdowns, 5,000 yards, and three fourth-quarter comebacks in snowstorms, Shedeur Sanders cannot escape the gravitational pull of his father’s accessories. In press conferences, interviews, and even Gatorade sponsorship shoots, the only question louder than Shedeur’s stat line is: “So… what’s your dad wearing today?” The obsession reached a peak during Week 12, when Shedeur dismantled the Ravens defense with a no-huddle offense described as “smoother than jazz played in a Bentley.” Yet, postgame, ESPN’s lead analyst asked: “How does it feel to play in the shadow of Deion’s cream-colored Stetson?” The NFL shop mistakenly stocked “Shedeur Sanders Game Jerseys” with photos of Deion on the tag. One confused fan asked: “Is this the one who plays quarterback, or the one who speaks in parables?” Fashion critics from GQ and Field & Stream have ranked Deion’s game-day hats higher than most defensive coordinators. Meanwhile, Shedeur has adopted a strategy of answering every question with football jargon or reciting the Book of Psalms, whichever silences the noise faster. “My dad’s got hats. I’ve got arm strength,” Shedeur told reporters after a playoff win. “We’re not the same package. I throw touchdowns. He throws Instagram captions.” Deion, in response, released a limited-edition hat called “Fifty TDs of Faith.”

Comedy Writer - A wide satirical cartoon illustration inspired by exaggerated mid-century humor comics. Read the full article

[knchins]

Naivety - Ran & Rindou H.

Summary: College professors Ran and Rindou often share students...in more ways than one.

Pairing: Ran x Reader x Rindou

Reader Type: AFAB - gender neutral

Rating: E+

Word Count: 2.8k

Kinktober Prompt: Double Penetration + Noncon

Request: Anon

Warnings: NONCON, college teacher/adult student, unequal power dynamics, manipulation, blackmail(?), semi-public sex, corruption kink, yandere/obsessive behavior, begging, vaginal fingering, dacryphilia, very brief oral (afab receiving), vaginal sex, unsafe sex, anal sex (no prep/no lube, please don't do this), double penetration (two holes), some degradation, some praise, light spanking/groping, some implied mind break, cream pies, no aftercare

Kinktober Masterlist

Ran's lilac eyes scanned over the small auditorium, an almost bored look on his face as he continued the lecture. While the subject he taught was generally fascinating, this particular introductory lesson was less than entertaining for him to go over. It was as necessary as the extraction of an infected tooth and about as enjoyable. 

His gaze stopped on your face. His favorite, most beloved student, worked tirelessly to get down every word that came from his mouth onto paper. The first time he saw you, he could smell the naivety on you. The sweet innocence that he craved so much to destroy. 

Ran was used to being lusted after by his students. He was tall, handsome, articulate, and well-put together. His striking features were a sight for sore eyes on exam days and while he could be a bit of a sadistic professor, students would often flock to his classes again and again just to spend more time with him. 

His younger brother, Rindou, was a professor at the same university. They taught similar subjects and oftentimes there was a crossover between classes. They shared a lot of the same students and while people adored Ran, Rindou was the harder one to please. He was strict with deadlines, less animated during lectures, and his exams were known to be some of the toughest in the school. 

Yet time and time again, students would subject themselves to his torture just to get a look at his pretty face or maybe even to do the impossible: to win him over. Unlike Ran, Rindou never played favorites. There was no way to tell if you were in his good graces or not. While some students liked this, others weren't too fond of not knowing where they stood. 

Ran finished his lecture as he glanced at the clock in the back of the room. His time was up and with one last lingering look in your direction, he dismissed the class. He turned his back to the seats and began to clean off the whiteboard he had been scribbling equations down on as he explained them. 

He listened to the sounds of the students filing out of the room, most of them in a rush to get to lunch as the clock had just hit noon. He heard the unmistakably light footsteps that hesitantly came towards him. Without even looking he knew that it was you, his star pupil, his delicate little flower. The one he had had his sights on since the first day of the semester. 

"Professor Haitani?" You asked, your voice soft with a slight tremble from nerves. Despite how many times you came up to him after class to speak with him, you always worried that you were bothering him. 

"Office hours start after lunch," He said, a playful smirk on his face as he turned to look at the now sullen expression on your face. "But what can I help you with?" Your name rolled off his lips effortlessly as if it had been made for him to speak aloud.

You quickly apologized to him before asking for clarification on something that had been in the homework assigned for that week. The directions had been a little unclear to you, so you figured it would be best to catch him after class. Ran was notorious for his ever-changing office hours and could be difficult to get ahold of at times. 

Ran hardly paid you any attention as he noticed that the two of you were left alone in the modestly sized classroom. He explained the assignment a little more thoroughly before pining you down with his sharp eyes, their normal laziness somehow fading at the fact that he was in the perfect position to make his move. 

"Did you know that you're my favorite student?" He asked nonchalantly, acting as if he wasn't setting your entire body on fire with that very question. Of course, you had a crush on your hot professor, who in the class was immune to his good looks and charm? 

A lump formed in your throat as your heart hammered away in your chest. "Sir?" You asked, confusion intertwined with the question. Had you heard him correctly? Was it just a figment of your imagination? 

You pressed back against the desk that he had somehow managed to corner you against, his hand brushing against your thigh slightly. He looked down at you with half-lidded eyes, enjoying the look of complete shock that was etched into your features. 

"You have the highest grade in the class," He practically cooed, "I think that deserves a reward." This time the pads of his fingers didn't just brush against your thigh, rather they found their way up your modest skirt to press fire into your cool skin. 

Your breath was caught in your chest, not quite believing that something like this was happening to you. Of course, there were rumors that the Haitani professors sometimes fooled around with their students, but after an investigation, they were said to be just that: rumors. They were fantasies conjured up by young, horny minds. 

Ran felt the smooth skin of your thigh, squeezing it before jerking it away from the other. You hadn't even noticed that you had pressed your thighs together in an attempt to keep him out. Tears were already forming along your lower lash line, though you did your best to keep them from falling down your face. 

"Be a good student and spread those legs, you don't want to fail, do you?" He asked, sounding almost bored as you shook, rattling the various objects on top of the desk behind you. You did as you were told, spreading your legs enough for him to fit his hands between them. The idea of him failing you because you didn't do as he told you had your blood running cold with anxiety. 

Your teeth sunk into your lower lip as his fingers traced your slit through your underwear. Your eyes were tightly shut as you tried to imagine yourself in a place somewhere far from here. 

"Eyes on me," Ran said sharply, and begrudgingly you reopened them to look at him, two tears escaping and falling down your cheeks. "Ah, you look so pretty when you're crying." He replied, kissing the trail of tears along the side of your face. The act made you shudder once more and you wondered what would happen if you screamed out for help. 

It would be your word against his. There were no cameras in the room that you knew of. No one was around to witness what was happening. Who would ever believe you over your suave, smooth-talking professor? 

Ran pushed the middle of your underwear aside to touch your bare lips. You bit down harder, wishing you could take your eyes off him and look somewhere, anywhere else. How could he possibly look so stoic while doing something so heinous? A small whine of protest left you, muffled by your refusal to open your mouth in fear of breaking out into loud sobs. 

His finger nimbly moved past your folds and slid into your naturally damp core. It was tight, barely stretching for his digit due to your lack of arousal. You attempted to push him out by clamping down, but it only furthered his intrigue. 

More tears fell, "Please, Professor, I won't tell anyone if you just let me go." The beg made his cock twitch in his tight-fitting dress pants. "Just stop, p-please," your voice wobbled as you fought back cries of anguish. 

Ran hummed, a sound of curiosity as he simply added a second finger and watched your jaw clench in pain. While your hymen was no longer intact, that didn't mean that you were well-versed in sexual acts either. 

His thumb began to rub lazy circles against your clit and you tried to quell the feelings of arousal that came with it. More whimpers were escaping from your throat which was so tight with anxiety that it was hard to even breathe. 

The door creaked open and both sets of eyes went to it. Yours wide and watery as you let out a sigh of relief at the sight of none other than the other Haitani professor. Certainly, he'd see what his older brother was doing and would stop him, right? There was no way he'd let this continue. 

"I thought I'd find you here," Rindou said and your eyes widened at how unsurprised he was. "I thought we were going to lunch?" The shaking of your legs only increased and Ran had to put an arm around you to keep you from falling back onto the desk.

"I have lunch right here," He replied, his demeanor blase as he continued to finger fuck you slowly. His eyes flickered back to meet yours and saw the scream that threatened to erupt from you. "Nah uh," He said with a smirk, "want to ruin that high GPA of yours? Lose your scholarships? Hm? Keep quiet and I'll make sure you pass with flying colors." 

You quickly shut your mouth and nodded your head stiffly, not bothering to stop the tears anymore as he increased the pace of his fingers. 

Though you could no longer see his face, Rindou looked pleased. While it was still relatively early in the semester, he had been looking forward to finding a new pet to play with. While Ran usually had good taste, he had picked out a few duds before. Like the ones that tried to report their lewd behavior. 

But you? Rindou had kept his eyes on you from the moment he first saw you. You were yet to be on his roster but he had seen you leaving Ran's class before. He knew that he had to have you, had to sink his teeth into you, and needed to control you for the remainder of your college education. 

Ran slipped his fingers out of you, slick arousal now coating them. He watched the horror that spread across your face as he showed you just how wet they were. "You keep acting like you don't want this, but look how soaked my fingers are from your tight little hole." 

Your body was on fire with embarrassment and anger. If only you had the strength to fight back, to make him somehow pay for humiliating you. But you stood frozen in place like a doe that had just jumped in front of a speeding vehicle. 

Your professor grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the desk so that his brother could easily get behind you. Rindou moved quickly but quietly, startling you when his hands reached up your skirt to yank down the damp underwear. He maneuvered your leg upwards so that he could get your foot through the hole, allowing easy access for the two of them. 

"Please," You muttered, knowing it was pointless but unable to stop the whimper from coming out. "I won't tell, just let me go." Rindou had a smug smile on his face as he forced your legs apart more. Ran seemed almost bored with your plea. 

"I know you won't," Ran replied, "And you'll be free to go as soon as we're finished." 

You let out a squeak of surprise when you felt a tongue against your slit. Rindou was between your legs, tasting you, teasing you as you nearly collapsed on top of him from fear. You dared to look down, realizing he had to have been fairly flexible to get into the position he was currently in. 

Rin moved out from between your legs and stood back up. Both he and Ran began to undo their leather belts, unzipping their zippers, and freeing their cocks from their trousers. You shut your eyes once more and tried to go to a happy place, somewhere far away from the cold classroom. 

A hand roughly grabbed you by the chin, "Open up those pretty eyes." Despite the compliment, it was a harsh demand. You forced yourself to open your eyelids to see Ran's angry expression. "Since you can't listen to the rules the first time, we're going to have to punish you." 

Rindou grabbed your right leg and lifted it, your knee folding under his grip. With his free hand, he pumped his cock quickly before pressing it to your tight asshole and roughly thrusting into it without any sort of preparation. 

Ran quickly placed a hand over your mouth to muffle your cry of pain. The searing heat of being stretched by Rindou had you ready to sob until you felt a second penis bully its way into your pussy. 

Both men were letting out low groans as your hands found the lapels of Ran's jacket and clenched them tightly for support. Both holes were gripping them tightly, trying to force them out as you attempted to deny the pleasure they were bringing you. 

It wasn't as if you had never done anything like this before. You had only had sex a few times with your boyfriend, however, that was it. It was nothing like this rough snapping of hips. You had never felt so full in your entire life. It was as if there wasn't room for anything else inside of you. 

Ran removed his hand from your mouth so he could hold onto your hips with both hands, squeezing the flesh there hard enough to leave faint bruises. "Taking us so well," He cooed, "What a good little student." 

He let out another groan of pleasure at how tight and wet you were, despite forcing his large dick into a small space, he was feeling an overwhelming amount of pleasure. His brother was in the same position, still holding up your leg with one hand as he smacked and grabbed your ass with the other. 

"Fuck this asshole is so tight," Rindou hissed under his breath as he increased his pace. Your death grip on his cock began to loosen as the pain of his first entry dissipated with each thrust. Now the only ache you were feeling was the one for orgasm, pressure forming into a knot in the pit of your stomach quickly despite your inward protests. 

A gasp escaped you as Ran hit a particularly good spot inside of you. Your reaction had him adjusting his angle of entry so he could hit it over and over again. "You wanted to be stuffed by your professors, didn't you? Dirty little whore." 

His words cut deep as you shook your head in an attempt to deny how good you were feeling from being taken advantage of so roughly. Their cocks moved in unison, the perfect rhythm that had your eyes rolling as you couldn't help but lean back against Rindou for support. 

Ran let go of your hip with one hand in order to furiously rub your clit in a way that matched his thrusts against your g-spot. Your jaw was clenched to keep the pathetic whines from coming out, though it was easy to tell that you were close to cumming just from the expression on your face and the way you relaxed enough for him to plunge in even deeper. 

One more circle around your bud had you coming undone, a moan ripped from your lips as your entire body jerked with the force of your orgasm. It was both too much and not enough, how you yearned for another even before you came down from your first. To hit that peak for a split second once more was what you wanted most in the world. 

And just like that, the high was gone as you found yourself being pumped full of cum from both professors who had managed to cum at the same time. Their hot white seed coated the walls of both holes without even an ounce of worry. 

Rindou had stilled his movements as Ran continued to give half-hearted ruts into your pussy until finally pulling out. His brother stayed inside your asshole a moment longer before pulling out as well, catching you before you could fall completely onto the floor of the stage. 

Again you were crying, the tears had stopped momentarily during your orgasm but now they flowed freely. White hot anger had how could you possibly be enjoy something so disgusting—anger at yourself for wanting it to happen again. 

You managed to collect yourself, pushing away from the younger professor and pulling your underwear up though cum had already dripped into them, soiling them completely. You'd have to walk back to your dorm like this and you prayed that you wouldn't run into anyone you knew on the way there. 

Ran had adjusted his pants and fixed the tie that had gone askew. "I think this is going to be a very productive semester." 

Rindou had the faint outline of a smirk on his face, "I think so too."

A/N: Sorry Anon it took me so long to get to this request! I hope it lived up to your expectations <3