Can I request a frat boy Sonny fix. I loved the two in October. Maybe a little make out session in the library? Live your writing style!
you asked for a little make out session in the library with fratboy!Sonny, and you know what? he never promised to behave. 💋 thank you for loving the October oneshots! I’m also obsessed with frat!Sonny and his whole “I’ll be quiet if you sit on my face” energy, so we’re not stopping anytime soon. you ask, I deliver.
Quiet Hours
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18+ MINORS DNI — 2K
Warnings: frat!AU, afab (she/her) reader, public setting (library), over-the-clothes stimulation (dry humping), forced touching (Sonny moves reader’s hand), praise kink (filthy verbal), dom!Sonny, cocky fratboy behaviour, risk of getting caught, humiliation/brat-taming elements, possessive behaviour, no aftercare, semi-exhibitionism, strong language, reader pinned/trapped, no plot just chaos
a/n: this one’s for the girlies who like their study sessions loud, their sweatpants dangerous, and their Zeta boys handsy as hell. think: fake-innocent “study date,” cocky basketball bragging, followed by a filthy, possessive aisle makeout that gets way out of hand.
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It’s supposed to be a study date.
You’ve got two casebooks open, a lecture outline pulled up on your laptop, and your highlighter cap gritted between your teeth, but across from you? Six feet of pure distraction in a threadbare Zeta Psi tank top and grey sweatpants that leave exactly nothing to the imagination.
Sonny’s not studying, nor is he helping you study like he promised. He’s just sitting there, next to you, leaning so far back in his chair it’s a miracle he hasn’t tipped over. One long arm slung lazily across the backrest, the other drumming a pencil rhythm against his thigh. Backwards cap. Chain glinting at his collarbone. That smug mouth never once shut.
“Babe. Babe. Hey, babe.” He grins when you don’t look up. “You see that three-pointer last night? The one right at the buzzer? Did that for you. Swear to God, that thing went in the second I thought about you in that little skirt you wore to pregame.”
You don’t respond. Not yet. He’s been like this since you walked into the law library; cocky, restless, and apparently under the impression that silence is a personal attack.
“Swear I heard you squeal from the bleachers.” He mimes the shot now, standing halfway from his chair, rolling his broad shoulders back before raising both arms dramatically and flicking his wrist. “Bang. Clean. Nothin’ but net, baby.”
You glance up just in time to catch the faux follow-through; biceps flexed, a flash of tongue poking between his teeth.
“You’re so annoying,” you mutter.
His grin only grows. “Yeah, but I’m yours to be annoying for. Don’t forget that, princess.”
He sits again, leans forward now, elbows on the table like he’s suddenly interested in your textbook. Spoiler: he’s not. You can feel his foot nudging yours under the table. Light at first, then more deliberate – the toe of his Jordans dragging slow up your ankle.
You press your lips together. He notices.
“What? Can’t a guy play footsies with his girl while she’s buried in…” He tilts his head, eyes warm but mischievous as he scans your textbooks “whatever the fuck that is?”. He chuckles softly as he runs his index finger down the inner spine of the book “C’mon, I sat through that whole panic session for your stupid midterm last week. You said this’d be more fun.”
“You said you’d keep me company, that you’d help,” you remind him, glaring.
He spreads his hands, all mock innocence. “And here I am. Keepin’ an’ helpin’.”
Then, God help you, he leans back again, that same lazy sprawl, and stretches both arms above his head like a cat, groaning softly like he knows it’ll get to you. Which he does. The hem of his tank rides up. A sliver of abs and the sharp vee of his hips catch the corner of your eye.
You snap your laptop shut.
Sonny blinks. “Oh, we quittin’ already? That’s fine, I’ve got a few ideas for what we can do back at the house instead–”
“I’m going to find a book,” you say sharply, standing and grabbing your phone before he can open that mouth again.
He watches you walk off; smirking like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly how long you’ll last before you come crawling back.
But he doesn’t give you the chance. He’s up and following you in less than ten seconds.
You turn the corner at the end of the aisle, heart thudding harder your ridiculously cocky, gloating, manchild of a boyfriend who won’t shut up about his “game-winning three.”
You don’t hear his footsteps. You hear his voice.
“Yo babe! Ya think they got a book in here on how to shut your man up with a kiss?”
You stop mid-step.
“Sonny,” you hiss under your breath, whipping around, but he’s already there; grinning, towering, hands jammed in the pockets of those goddamn sweatpants like he owns the whole floor.
“What?” he shrugs, low and teasing. “They got everythin’ else in here. Bound to have somethin’ under the S’s for ‘Study Date Etiquette.’”
You glare, sidestepping down the next row, faster now, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t.
“Why you walkin’ so fast, huh? You mad at me?” He follows, keeping pace way too easily. “I told you I’d keep you company. Never promised I’d behave.”
You snort. “You think that’s cute, don’t you?”
Sonny perks up. “You callin’ me cute now?”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still takin’ it.”
He’s at your side again, this time bumping his shoulder into yours like a high school boy who never quite grew out of teasing girls he liked. His cologne wraps around you, fresh and smug – just like him. Something cheap but sexy. Probably stolen from a frat brother’s gym bag.
You try to ignore him, reaching for a book on the top shelf, something to do with federal jurisdiction. You’ve never cared less about civil procedure. But he’s still talking.
“You in those glasses?” he murmurs just behind you. “That little note pad tucked under your arm? You expect me not to be thinkin’ about takin’ you into the back seat of my car after this?”
Your hand falters.
He notices. Steps closer, his chest brushes your back; casual, like he’s got every right.
“I mean, c’mon… you know I got no self-control when you go full nerd like this.”
“Sonny,” you warn again.
“Yeah?”
“Stop…”
“Make me.”
It’s not a dare.
It’s a trap.
Because the second you turn around, his hand finds the shelf just beside your head, boxing you in. His other lands on your waist. And suddenly it’s too quiet. Too warm. Too him.
You’re alone.
Buried in the stacks.
And his mouth is so close it’s practically brushing yours.
“You wanna pretend like you didn’t come back here just to rile me up?” he breathes. “Then go ahead. But don’t act all surprised when I call your bluff.”
He leans in. Not with softness. Not with care.
Just heat. Pure, unbridled, frat god pressure. The full weight of his mouth claiming yours like he’s been dying to shut you up for an hour and this is the only way he knows how.
His lips are hot, greedy, open from the start. No teasing. No build. Just his tongue sliding over yours like he’s cashing in on every look you threw across the table, every crossed leg, every deep breath you didn’t think he noticed. His fingers tighten on your waist; then slide lower, gripping your hip with bruising intent as he walks you back into the shelf. One slow, grinding step at a time. You stumble, but he catches you easily, mouth never leaving yours. Never easing up.
“Fuck,” he pants against your lips, already breathless. “You taste like that coffee you said you didn’t want.”
You try to shove at his chest, half-hearted, useless. He laughs under his breath and kisses you harder.
“Oh you like that, huh?” he mutters, nipping at your bottom lip, smirking when you chase him back. “Drag me to the library like a good little student and then sneak off all coy, pretendin’ you didn’t know I’d follow.”
His voice is low and thick, curling inside you. His hand slides beneath your shirt, warm and wide against your stomach, fingertips tracing slow circles just below your ribs.
“You’re such a fuckin’ tease.”
He says it like praise.
Like he’s proud of you.
Then his mouth is back on yours; rougher now, messier, like he’s trying to pull the sounds out of you. A gasp, a whimper, the start of his name. He drinks every single one like it’s proof he’s right.
Because he is. You know it, and so does he.
He pins you harder against the shelf, one knee sliding between yours. You feel the roll of his hips. The grind. The hard, heavy line of him straining through those sweatpants, pressing into your thigh like a threat.
“Shhh,” someone whispers loudly from beyond the shelves.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pause.
Just smirks against your neck, breath hot as he sucks a bruise into the skin right under your ear, and murmurs like the devil himself:
“Yeah baby, shhh.”
That’s the last thing he says before he really loses the plot.
Your back hits the shelf with a thud that definitely isn’t library-approved, and suddenly Sonny’s everywhere; hands dragging up under your shirt, mouth wet and relentless, hips rolling against yours like he’s trying to fuck you through his sweatpants. Your gasp gets swallowed whole, buried beneath the thick press of his tongue sliding back into your mouth like he owns it.
You’re not kissing him anymore. You’re letting him take. One hand fists the collar of his tank, pulling, dragging him impossibly closer. The other disappears beneath the waistband of those damn grey sweats just to feel. Not even for anything; just the weight of him, the heat, the proof that he’s been like this since the second you said, “study date.”
He groans into your mouth, sharp and low. “Jesus fuck, baby…”
His hand slips between your thighs like it belongs there. Not even coy about it; he cups you over your leggings, slow pressure through fabric that’s suddenly way too thin. His thumb starts moving, slow, lazy circles that make your eyes flutter and your hips jerk, and that only makes him laugh.
“Fuckin’ soaked,” he murmurs like a secret, nosing along your jaw. “You come back here actin’ mad, and meanwhile…”
He presses harder.
“You’re drippin’ through cotton.”
You bite down on his shoulder to shut yourself up. And my God, he likes that… probably a little too much.
“Quiet now, huh?” he breathes, tongue sliding over the shell of your ear. “Where’d all that sass go?”
You whimper. Actually whimper.
Sonny loses it. He grabs your thigh and hitches it higher around his waist, grinding forward so rough the shelf behind you rattles. Your whole body rolls with it, pinned between his cock and the heavy press of encyclopedias no one’s touched since the 90s.
“You gonna cum in the fuckin’ library, baby?” he grits out, voice thick with disbelief and pride. “That what we’re doin’? You wanna leave a wet spot right here on the floor, huh? That how you want this goin’ down?”
He shoves his hand deeper between your thighs, fingers pressing harder now; rubbing tight circles over your clit with the kind of pressure that makes your knees buckle. He catches you with his hip. Keeps going like he wants you ruined.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want it.”
You’re gasping against his throat, digging nails into his shoulder. He sounds like a fucking caveman and you love it. Need it. Your hips are chasing his hand without shame now, little desperate rolls like your body’s betrayed you.
“Ahem.” The sound of a throat clearing cuts sharp through the haze.
You freeze.
He freezes.
And then he groans into your neck, forehead thudding against the shelf behind you.
You don’t even have the courage to look. But someone’s definitely passed the end of the aisle. Just far enough not to see, but close enough to know.
Sonny’s still holding you. Still hard. Still breathing like he just sprinted suicides. His hand’s still between your legs. The other’s curled so tightly into your shirt it’s practically inside out.
He steps back slowly, finally. Lets you down gentle, fingers grazing the back of your thigh like he’s reluctant to stop touching.
Your hair’s a mess. Shirt wrinkled. Lip kiss-swollen and probably bitten red.
And Sonny?
He just grins. Like he’s not even a little sorry.
“Gonna go grab us a book on public indecency,” he mutters, grabbing Modern Political Theory off the shelf and flipping it open like it says something worth reading.
You glare.
He winks. Adjusts his sweats and struts off; casual, cocky, tossing you a teasing glance over his shoulder.
“Fix your hair, babe. Can’t have the whole library knowin’ you just came on my thigh.”