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. đ thank you for loving the October oneshots! Iâm also obsessed with frat!Sonny and his whole âIâll be quiet if you sit on my faceâ energy, so weâre not stopping anytime soon. you ask, I deliver.
Quiet Hours
âââââââââ ÎΨ ââââââââ
18+ MINORS DNI â 2K
Warnings:Â frat!AU, afab (she/her) reader, public setting (library), over-the-clothes stimulation (dry humping), forced touching (Sonny moves readerâs 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 oneâs for the girlies who like their study sessions loud, their sweatpants dangerous, and their Zeta boys handsy as hell. think: fake-innocent âstudy date,â cocky basketball bragging, followed by a filthy, possessive aisle makeout that gets way out of hand.
âââââââââ ÎΨ ââââââââ
Itâs supposed to be a study date.
Youâve 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.
Sonnyâs not studying, nor is he helping you study like he promised. Heâs just sitting there, next to you, leaning so far back in his chair itâs a miracle he hasnât 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.
âBabe. Babe. Hey, babe.â He grins when you donât look up. âYou 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.â
You donât respond. Not yet. Heâs been like this since you walked into the law library; cocky, restless, and apparently under the impression that silence is a personal attack.
âSwear I heard you squeal from the bleachers.â He mimes the shot now, standing halfway from his chair, rolling his broad shoulders back before raising both arms dramatically and flicking his wrist. âBang. Clean. Nothinâ but net, baby.â
You glance up just in time to catch the faux follow-through; biceps flexed, a flash of tongue poking between his teeth.
âYouâre so annoying,â you mutter.
His grin only grows. âYeah, but Iâm yours to be annoying for. Donât forget that, princess.â
He sits again, leans forward now, elbows on the table like heâs suddenly interested in your textbook. Spoiler: heâs not. You can feel his foot nudging yours under the table. Light at first, then more deliberate â the toe of his Jordans dragging slow up your ankle.
You press your lips together. He notices.
âWhat? Canât a guy play footsies with his girl while sheâs buried inâŚâ He tilts his head, eyes warm but mischievous as he scans your textbooks âwhatever the fuck that is?â. He chuckles softly as he runs his index finger down the inner spine of the book âCâmon, I sat through that whole panic session for your stupid midterm last week. You said thisâd be more fun.â
âYou said youâd keep me company, that youâd help,â you remind him, glaring.
He spreads his hands, all mock innocence. âAnd here I am. Keepinâ anâ helpinâ.â
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 itâll 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. âOh, we quittinâ already? Thatâs fine, Iâve got a few ideas for what we can do back at the house insteadââ
âIâm going to find a book,â 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 heâs doing, and exactly how long youâll last before you come crawling back.
But he doesnât give you the chance. Heâs 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 wonât shut up about his âgame-winning three.â
You donât hear his footsteps. You hear his voice.
âYo babe! Ya think they got a book in here on how to shut your man up with a kiss?â
You stop mid-step.
âSonny,â you hiss under your breath, whipping around, but heâs already there; grinning, towering, hands jammed in the pockets of those goddamn sweatpants like he owns the whole floor.
âWhat?â he shrugs, low and teasing. âThey got everythinâ else in here. Bound to have somethinâ under the Sâs for âStudy Date Etiquette.ââ
You glare, sidestepping down the next row, faster now, hoping heâll take the hint.
He doesnât.
âWhy you walkinâ so fast, huh? You mad at me?â He follows, keeping pace way too easily. âI told you Iâd keep you company. Never promised Iâd behave.â
You snort. âYou think thatâs cute, donât you?â
Sonny perks up. âYou callinâ me cute now?â
âThat wasnât a compliment.â
âStill takinâ it.â
Heâs 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 â just like him. Something cheap but sexy. Probably stolen from a frat brotherâs gym bag.
You try to ignore him, reaching for a book on the top shelf, something to do with federal jurisdiction. Youâve never cared less about civil procedure. But heâs still talking.
âYou in those glasses?â he murmurs just behind you. âThat little note pad tucked under your arm? You expect me not to be thinkinâ about takinâ you into the back seat of my car after this?â
Your hand falters.
He notices. Steps closer, his chest brushes your back; casual, like heâs got every right.
âI mean, câmon⌠you know I got no self-control when you go full nerd like this.â
âSonny,â you warn again.
âYeah?â
âStopâŚâ
âMake me.â
Itâs not a dare.
Itâs 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 itâs too quiet. Too warm. Too him.
Youâre alone.
Buried in the stacks.
And his mouth is so close itâs practically brushing yours.
âYou wanna pretend like you didnât come back here just to rile me up?â he breathes. âThen go ahead. But donât act all surprised when I call your bluff.â
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 heâs 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 heâs cashing in on every look you threw across the table, every crossed leg, every deep breath you didnât 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.
âFuck,â he pants against your lips, already breathless. âYou taste like that coffee you said you didnât want.â
You try to shove at his chest, half-hearted, useless. He laughs under his breath and kisses you harder.
âOh you like that, huh?â he mutters, nipping at your bottom lip, smirking when you chase him back. âDrag me to the library like a good little student and then sneak off all coy, pretendinâ you didnât know Iâd follow.â
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.
âYouâre such a fuckinâ tease.â
He says it like praise.
Like heâs proud of you.
Then his mouth is back on yours; rougher now, messier, like heâs trying to pull the sounds out of you. A gasp, a whimper, the start of his name. He drinks every single one like itâs proof heâs 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.
âShhh,â someone whispers loudly from beyond the shelves.
He doesnât flinch. Doesnât 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:
âYeah baby, shhh.â
Thatâs the last thing he says before he really loses the plot.
Your back hits the shelf with a thud that definitely isnât library-approved, and suddenly Sonnyâs everywhere; hands dragging up under your shirt, mouth wet and relentless, hips rolling against yours like heâs 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.
Youâre not kissing him anymore. Youâre 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 heâs been like this since the second you said, âstudy date.â
He groans into your mouth, sharp and low. âJesus fuck, babyâŚâ
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 thatâs 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.
âFuckinâ soaked,â he murmurs like a secret, nosing along your jaw. âYou come back here actinâ mad, and meanwhileâŚâ
He presses harder.
âYouâre drippinâ through cotton.â
You bite down on his shoulder to shut yourself up. And my God, he likes that⌠probably a little too much.
âQuiet now, huh?â he breathes, tongue sliding over the shell of your ear. âWhereâd all that sass go?â
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 oneâs touched since the 90s.
âYou gonna cum in the fuckinâ library, baby?â he grits out, voice thick with disbelief and pride. âThat what weâre doinâ? You wanna leave a wet spot right here on the floor, huh? That how you want this goinâ down?â
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.
âSay it,â he growls. âSay you want it.â
Youâre 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 bodyâs betrayed you.
âAhem.â 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 donât even have the courage to look. But someoneâs definitely passed the end of the aisle. Just far enough not to see, but close enough to know.
Sonnyâs still holding you. Still hard. Still breathing like he just sprinted suicides. His handâs still between your legs. The otherâs curled so tightly into your shirt itâs practically inside out.
He steps back slowly, finally. Lets you down gentle, fingers grazing the back of your thigh like heâs  reluctant to stop touching.
Your hairâs a mess. Shirt wrinkled. Lip kiss-swollen and probably bitten red.
And Sonny?
He just grins. Like heâs not even a little sorry.
âGonna go grab us a book on public indecency,â 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.
âFix your hair, babe. Canât have the whole library knowinâ you just came on my thigh.â











