Thoughts (Possessive!male x Analytic!reader)

Thoughts

The clock struck 6:00 pm. School was finally over for the day.

"Dammit, why does debate club always have to run so late?!" Ric whined, shoving his hand in his pocket and taking out a granola bar. He visibly drooled at the sight and peeled the wrapper, promptly scarfing it down.

Your stomach growled irritably. A granola bar would be nice. "Well, we're not the only club that ends at six. Football, soccer, and basketball just ended, too." You continued to eye his snack enviously.

"Sfo whaff?" Your debate partner spoke between bites of granola before swallowing. "It's not like they use their brains for anything. For them it's just 'go, go, go! Run across the field! Do push-ups! Flex your muscles!'" His imitation of Coach Morgan was on-par. "Seriously, (y/n), if they had to do even half the things we do at debate, they'd be brain-dead before five. We're the ones earning national trophies for our school!"

"Yeah, but high school sports aren't competed at the national level," you said. "So there's no basis for comparison."

"ThErE's nO bAsIs fOr cOmPaRiSoN," Ric mocked you in a high-pitched voice. "You've gotta be kidding me. Debate already ended, and you're still trying to make an argument here? Just stop it already, (y/n)—"

Suddenly his phone rang, and the sounds of Nyan Cat echoed throughout the hallway before he scrambled to answer it. You couldn't hold back your laughter. Oh, the cringe.

He glared at you. "I'm not a weeb! You know I set this as my ringtone so I don't miss a call from my mom again!" His ear was pressed to his phone. "Shit, oh yeah, doctor's appointment. I said I'm sorry, ok! And sorry for cussing, too!" He ran off towards the entrance. "See ya later, (y/n)!"

You waved back at him, then proceeded to shove your books from your locker into your backpack and finally go home for dinner. Your mouth watered at the thought of any kind of food—you were desperate.

Suddenly a hand came from nowhere and slammed itself into the locker behind you. A strong arm wrapped around your waist and slightly arched your back, bringing you face-to-face with none other than Luke Biven.

Ah, yes. Tall, handsome, athletic, smart, charming—you know the clichés. Just scroll down Quotev's suggested list, and you'll find at least one book titled "The Bad Boy" or "My Mate, the Alpha" or something like that. Luke Biven was essentially that guy. Or at least, that's who you saw him as.

Were you surprised? More like confused. Questions were swarming in your head: Why was his leg pressing in between yours? Why was his hand tilting your chin up, his face so unbearably close you could see the faint freckles sprinkled across the tops of his cheeks?

But most importantly, what the actual fuck was going on?

More confusion was added to your growing list of questions as soon as he pressed his lips to yours and slammed your back against the row of lockers.

One thing was for certain: he was one hell of a good kisser.

His hand from the wall made its way to the back of your head and tilted it, deepening the kiss. He didn't even need to ask you permission to use his tongue; as soon as he began sucking your lower lip you practically melted into a puddle and lowered all your barriers (if you had any to begin with). There was so much going on at once and you were drowning in all the new, pleasurable sensations. He separated momentarily, giving you time to catch your breath, before kissing your parted lips once more. Sucking them, biting them. His other hand lowered to your hip, rubbing slow circles with his thumb. If your mouth weren't so occupied by his you'd be a moaning mess by now.