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goorgeousz · 2 months ago

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intervention | aaron hotchner

after hours’ au

pairing: aaron hotchner x profiler!fem!reader summary: you happen to be in the worst mood ever and the team stages an intervention (one-man intervention. the one man being hotch) content/tw: r being in a mood, hotch playing favorites, a little ‘will they won’t they’ moment in the end, mentions of a case (non descriptive) word count: 2.6ka/n: just hit 500 followers!!!!!! It feels illegal and far too good to be true. I’m having so much fun! thank you so much, i love each and every one of you💗🪽 dividers @uzmacchiato

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Closing off a case earlier than expected is usually a recipe for an immediate mood improvement, right?

Then why on earth were you huffing and sulking on the back of the jet, a scowl on your face being an announcement to stay away. And if that wasn’t enough, your outbursts and snapping at anyone who tried to ease you down sealed the deal.

Hotch noticed, of course. He managed to develop an ability – he, personally, called it a curse – to always be hyper aware of you and your surroundings every time you were within his eye range. So, even though he was busy himself with paperwork on the flight back to Quantico, on his peripheral vision he could see very clearly your irritation.

Besides, the jet wasn’t really that hard.

Later, he watched from the window in his office the other team members walking out, one by one, all except for you. And right in the middle of his inspection – creepily staring – he heard a knock on the door. After allowing the visitor to come in, not before making sure he looked very busy and immersed in his reports, he looked up at his now opened door to the sight of JJ, with a bag on her shoulder and an apologetic expression.

“Hey! Just dropping out the reports.” she explained, walking closer to his desk and handing him the stack of papers. He nodded, mumbling a ‘thank you’ and looking back down to the mess of paper on his desk. Noticing she still stood there, hesitantly looking at him from across the desk, he looked back at her, his eyebrows raised in an encouragement for her to speak “We’re going for a few drinks in the new pub that opened close to Emily’s. Aren’t you coming?”

“Maybe I’ll join you guys later.” he dismissed with a polite curve of his lips, which was code for ‘absolutely fucking not, now knock it off’. She nodded, understanding immediately. “But have fun!” he added, once again going back to his files. He couldn’t be any clearer than that.

Still, he felt her presence lingering. JJ shifted on her hip, breath hitching and fidgeting with the straps of her bag, uneasy. Finally, Hotch decided to take pity on her and stopped pretending he didn’t know the real reason she was there. Settling his pen down and leaning back on his chair, he folded his arms and looked at her.

“JJ…”

“Hotch, you have to do something.” he raised an eyebrow again at the urgency in her voice “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s bad.”

“How so?”

She looked over her shoulder, making sure they were alone, which almost made Hotch laugh. He was sure JJ wouldn’t appreciate it. “Look, I’m not the one to blab.” she started, her voice getting lower “But she’s snapping at everyone. She didn’t want to go see Henry, or bar hopping with Emily and Garcia.” she listened, her eyes widening to prove the absurdity of the situation “And… She even denied going dancing with Morgan.”

Hotch sighed “JJ, listen…”

“Hotch, this is serious. She told Reid to shove his statistics in…Just…” she pressed her hands on her temples “Please, do something. We’re really worried about her.” he nodded.

“I will take care of it. Don’t worry.”

She then, finally, exhaled a breath she didn’t even realize she held. Mumbling things like ‘thank you' and ‘sorry’ and ‘make sure to join us later’, she flew off of his office in a matter of seconds, clearly relieved to be free from… Well, you.

He didn’t know yet how he felt towards Jj’s request. Truth was he did notice you were in a mood ever since you got in the jet to fly back home, and he wanted to talk to you from the moment he saw the scowl on your face when you sat down, dramatically turning your body towards the window.

But how would he approach you? It’s been almost a year since you joined the team and even though you and him had a great – professional – relationship, he was sure he wasn’t the person you would go to when in distress. So, despite the fact that he so desperately wanted to reach out and help you, he took a step back and waited for a better opportunity.

And that was just partially a cover up for the fact that he was a little scared to be told off by you in front of the rest of the team.

Stifling his doubts and hesitation he made his way towards your table. His gaze never left you, from the moment he walked out of his office until he standed awkwardly across from your desk, where you were curved reading a file from the last case between a mess of papers, crime scene’s photos and behaviour theory books.

He braced himself for your words, waiting for you to feel his presence and go off on him. But nothing came. Nothing in your posture gave away if you saw him standing there or not. Then, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he started to hold he realized JJ was being dramatic. You weren’t that bad.

“You’re still here.” he started, softly. Finally acknowledging his presence you lift your face to face him, your scowl melting into an easy and beaming smile. He relaxed.

“Very well noticed, Hotch.” your voice sweet as a kindergarten teacher “I can see why they chose you for Unit Chief.” and as fast as it came, your happy expression morphed into an annoyed one, and you faced down again, going back to your file like nothing happened.

Feeling more embarrassed than he was willing to admit, he recognized that he didn’t pick a good start. “I meant,” he restarted with a pointy tone “Everyone else just left…” This time your gaze didn’t shift away from the page “Again with the observation skills.”

He chose to ignore your sarcasm “They all went to that new pub Prentiss talked about. And it has come to my attention that you…” his voice faltered when you snapped your head up to face him, a fired look in your eyes, as if daring him to continue “...aren’t… as you usually are.”

“Oh, was I too mean?” you mocked, a fake pity tone and an exaggerated pout on your lips “Did I hear their feelings? That’s why they went running to complain to daddy…”

“Don’t… Not daddy…” Hotch retorted weakly, his voice muffled by your teasing. He cleared his throat, interrupting you “They were worried. We all are.” you sighed loudly, leaning back on your chair and pulling the file to your lap, resuming on your reading. “The team cares about you, and if any of them seemed off I’m sure you too would try and do something…”

“Wait.” you stopped him, a puzzled expression and a finger up “That’s how you usually handle your paperwork? With that much noise on the back? Because if it is, I understand why the directors…”

“Enough.” he snarled, now visibly annoyed. The tone shut you up, and you stopped with the mocking face, now fully scowling at him. “I understand that you’re upset, but I am still your Unit Chief. I am trying to understand, because even before they talked to me I noticed you were off since we closed the case. I just…” he stopped himself, his heart dropping immediately.

How could he not notice it before? That was his job, for Christ's sake. More often than not, women’s rage was a product of abuse. So something happened on that small trip, when the rest of the team was too busy tracing the profile.

“What happened?” he asked, his posture shifting.

“Huh?” you sounded more confused than annoyed, and it was a nice change. Not that Hotch saw it that way.

“During the case. Did someone… do something? An officer, maybe? Can you remember their name?”

“What? No! No, nothing happened.” you explained, your tone was a bit softer trying to convince Hotch that you were fine. He stared at you for a moment longer, trying to hunt down your behaviour if you were telling the truth. Satisfied after a few seconds of deep staring, he breathed out, nodding once in agreement.

“Then what is it?” he asked again in a much calmer voice, sitting down on the table across from yours “We closed the case way earlier than expected. It was an unusual situation, but we got our guy. We did our job.”

At that you laughed humorlessly. Sensing you were about to explain, he chose to stay silent. “We did our job? Hotch, the guy got pulled over because of a burnt-out headlight, and just happened to be carrying the murder weapon in the backseat. That’s why we got him.”

He frowned “The DNA matched with the ones left on the crime scenes, he confessed. And he matched the preliminar profile.”

“I know this is our guy, don’t get me wrong. But…” you groaned, sighing “All we got was a preliminar profile, we had nothing on him. We didn’t get even remotely close to finding his motivations. Doesn’t it bother you that you don’t know why he did it?” he stayed silent, just watching you with an intensity that pulled the information out of you “It’s part of our job, right? To study behaviour and patterns and humans. How can we prevent this from happening again if we don’t understand it?”

“We can’t.” he said, simply. You exhaled, defeated “I know it’s frustrating. This job…” he breathed, shaking his head as he took in the bullpen “You can’t take the weight of the world on your shoulders. Especially doing what we do, and seeing what we see on a daily basis. And you can’t let yourself focus on the things that you can’t do.”

“How do you do it?” you asked him bluntly, seeming so tired and desperate, hoping to see the answer to all of your problems in his eyes. And he wished he had it, he wished he could control it all. For a moment, he hated the world and how bad it was. He hated that you gotta see it. And even though he wanted to lie to you and give healthy advice, he just smiled. At least, he tried to. But he was sure it seemed like a grimace. And you understood that Hotch, too, hasn't found the answer.

“Since the case got closed off too soon, we don’t have all the details on his crimes. Which means the investigation will probably take longer than it should, if he doesn’t decide to cooperate.” you looked at him quizzically not sure where he was going with that “I can offer to assign two of my agents to help with the interviews. I suggest you take Reid or Rossi with you.”

“Really?” he selfishly loved the way your eyes widened slightly, your features softening. He pressed his lips together to suppress a smile, nodding and standing up.

“You have the team. Don’t be afraid to use it.” he said before walking upstairs back into his office, rooting that you haven’t noticed that he was mostly referring to himself.

You took the moment in, watching as he disappeared behind his door. The BAU was empty, the only sounds being from the cleaning staff roaming around the hallways. Resuming to the file forgotten on your desk, your thoughts went far. Playing with the cold and gross coffee left on your mug, you didn’t even realize someone approaching you, until the remains of his cologne filled your nostrils.

Glancing up, you found Hotch standing closer now, right on the side of your chair, holding his briefcase, with a daring expression “Going to have an early night?” you mocked, amused. It was long past your clock, but it was at least one hour earlier than he used to leave.

He lingered at the smirk playing on your lips, the closeness between you fogging his mind for a second “We are.”

What woke him out of his trance was the way your teasing expression morphed into one of surprise. It was so unusual to have you at a loss of words that it immediately sent an alarm into his brain, and he realized how “We are (having an early night)” must’ve sounded. Clearing his throat, he quickly corrected “We’re meeting the team at the pub. Come on.”

“But I’m…” you looked at the mess on your table.

“Nothing you can’t do on Monday.” his tone left no room for arguments.

As soon as the elevator’s door closed you were filled with a rush of courage, and without letting yourself think too much into it you turned to Hotch, throwing your arms around his neck in a tight hug. It was long since you hugged someone, and much longer since you had your arms wrapped around him. His hands hesitantly found your waist, and you pulled him tighter.

If the elevator wasn’t so loud you probably would’ve heard the loud noises of his fastened heartbeat. Realistically, even with the noise you most definitely felt it, since his chest was directly pressed against yours, and the scent of your perfume was suffocating him and when he caught a whiff of your hair – come on, it was right there – he was sure he was going to faint.

Once again you pulled him out of the curse you threw, this time by speaking. “Thank you.” with a voice so close but at the same time seeming so distant – from your mouth being muffled across his shoulder. He just squeezed your waist, not trusting his own words. Eventually, you pulled back.

Thankfully, or not, you didn’t move enough to actually create a distance, so now you were half hugging and half face to face, and none of you made a motion to tear the gaze away.

Before anything else could happen, the ‘ding’ announcing you’ve arrived at your destiny floor echoed, and you both pulled away. Finally standing away enough from him to actually manage to speak, you recognized you had something else to address “I think I owe you an apology.”

You catched a smirk forming on his face while he opened the passenger seat of his car, waiting for you to hop in “For snapping at every member of the team, for being sarcastic, for criticizing your direct superior or for implying I don’t deserve to be Unit Chief?”

If you were a better person, you would’ve just apologized. If it weren’t so late, and if you hadn’t caught the smug twitch of his lips, maybe you would’ve felt embarrassed. And maybe, if the lines between professionalism and passion weren’t so blurred between you, you would have acted differently.

But you weren’t that better of a person, it was late and you wanted nothing more than to wipe that grin off his face – that wasn’t entirely true. There was a whole lot more you wanted to do, especially with him, but within reason, no.

So, while he still held the door open waiting for you to get in, you stopped in front of him before taking a seat and with your eyes piercing into his, you leaned so close your breath fanned on his chin.

“Exactly. I’m sorry, sir.” and you blinked, your lashes being a show of its own. And for a moment, your mask fell, and instead of the smug teasing you portrayed, he saw a mix of emotions so raw and intense it knocked the air out of his lungs. For a brief second he saw the same look you gave him the night you two met, when you were just you and Aaron was just Aaron. Without the hierarchy, without responsibilities. Just pure desire.

Just as suddenly as it came, the moment was gone, and he was left to face the smirk of someone who knew to have him wrapped around their finger.

Needless to say, he forgave you.

taglist: after hours @sleepysongbirdsings @midnghtprentiss @camihotchner @ilovefictionallmenn @circuskatt all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna

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salem-s · 3 months ago

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FINAL ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS language, flufffffffff, angst if you squint, smmmmmuuuutt (unprotected...everything so don't take after them please). 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 13k. legit do not say anything. this was originally 4k words but i obviously couldn't let that happen for the last chapter. so.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER the only exception by paramore

Rafe swears he hears pounding on his door.

He takes an ear bud out, trying to discern if the noise was real or a part of the song he’s currently listening to. After a moment’s silence, he moves to put the bud back in but one, two beats later, the knocks sound again, confirming someone is at his door so late into the night.

Irritation bubbles in his chest.

Rafe’s been at these stupid memorization cards for what feels like hours, getting nowhere close to being ready for his eight a.m. exam. His mind has – obviously – been elsewhere for the betterment of a week, and he'd be lying if he said the attempt in drowning himself in work has properly distracted him from the events of last week.

Spoiler alert: it hasn't, and it's only getting worse.

Especially now, as the handwriting on the paper started giving him a headache hours ago, so he begrudgingly put on his glasses that he refuses to let see the light of day. The specks, unfortunately, do assist in not making the letters blur together, especially when he’s so tired that his gaze falls in and out of focus.

However, he hates them so goddamn much that it only worsens his already sour mood.

But now they aren’t the only annoyance of his night.

The fact that someone is ferociously pounding on his door only augments his headache, his frustration, and his precariously bubbling temper. He glances at the time, nearing two in the morning, angry that someone has the audacity to not only interrupt his studying, but probably everyone’s sleep on his floor, careless to rhyme or reason or simple ethics.

He wastes no time standing so quick his chair nearly falls over, stomping over, a long list of curses and horrific things to say are on the tip of his tongue, ready to viscerally berate this person until next Tuesday.

Rafe whips the door open. “The fuck is the–”

His words die in his throat when he sees you.

The air is momentarily knocked from his lungs.

Your hair and makeup are done, as if you've just come from somewhere, adorned in one of his favorite tank tops on you and jeans that hug you too tight to be anything holy. You peer up at him with wide eyes at his harsh words, hugging your basically bare frame in a feeble attempt to warm yourself from wherever you just came from.

God, you look beautiful.

He knows he’s supposed to be mad at you and giving you space and all that, but all of that fades in an instant when he notices your arms coated in goosebumps and your teeth slightly chattering.

Something ugly brews in his chest, discomforted by the thought of you bracing the cold all by yourself. Where is your jacket?

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” he grumbles, ushering you into his room without a second thought.

In an attempt to regain his cool, he frowns to keep up with his indifferent demeanor since he's supposed to be cordial and all, even though the mere thought of attempting small talk with you settles a kettlebell in the pit of his stomach. His heart aches looking at you, because you're simply a walking reminder of how he fucked it all up, said the wrong things and came on too strong with poor timing, a reminder of what he could've had if he was a little more patient, more calculated, less stupid in his endeavors.

Because the past week has been absolute torture for him.

He learned very quickly that almost everything around him reminds him of you: books with an aged spine and annotations adorning the wrinkled pages, simple parts of nature that resemble the color of your eyes, strangers hugging, the mere smell of eucalyptus, everything all at once. The day he got back, he went to the liquor store with Elliot in an attempt to distract himself, but it proved fruitless when he found himself wandering idly in the wine aisle, frozen in place when he found the same bottle that you snagged two of after that grueling dinner with your family.

From that point on, Rafe really only stayed in his room unless it was absolutely necessary to leave.

But it seems as though even the confinements of his room don't provide the solace he's been desperately seeking, as the knowledge of how your room shares a wall with his has been plaguing his conscience. There have been countless times where he's debated saying fuck it, knocking on your door, and begging on his knees to have you in his life again, but he knows he can't do that.

He needs to let you come to him, to not bombard you as he has before. That was what scared you off, his forwardness, so he's vowed to keep cool, keep a distance, and keep quiet as much as he can to give you the space you need.

So, he knows he needs to remain stoic, indifferent, guarded.

Reminding himself of this, Rafe hands you a hoodie off the back of his chair. “Did you lose your key again?”

The sound of his voice is so nice to hear, so refreshing, and you nearly sigh as you hug the hoodie close to your body before pulling it over your head, relishing in the way it smells like him, in its warmth as if he was just wearing it moments ago. Pathetically, you nearly sigh at how it feels adorning your body.

“I left my purse at Elliot’s,” you whisper, hugging your body. “Since when have you had glasses?”

Rafe freezes, forgetting he had them on.

Ignoring his pink cheeks and ignoring your question, he moves on, putting his guard back up.

Quickly.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is harsh, so he reels it in. “Uh, it’s late. I have an exam.”

You frown at the considerable distance he’s put between you, but part of you really can't blame him since you were the one who orchestrated the falling out.

“I won’t…I won’t take too long. I just need to know if…” You trail off.

How on earth are you going to go about this? Especially when his stare is so piercing, as if he's looking right through your body and into your soul, brows pinched in what you assume is irritation at your stammering.

“Know what?” he drawls out.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, gaping to try and find the words. You shiver as you recover from the chilly walk, but also at his stare that you can’t quite make out the meaning behind. Is he mad? Irritated? Relieved to see you? You hate how you can’t tell.

But you take a deep breath.

You know how he feels about you, you know all of it, despite this front he’s wearing right now. If Elliot can confirm it, it must be true.

And as if you needed the extra push, your gaze drifts slightly beyond him, fixated on his desk and noticing the sprawl of papers, his computer open to an online textbook, and notecards that have almost perfect handwriting etched onto them. What gets you, though, are the five almost professional looking photo prints laid out side by side across the top of his desk.

All of you.

You in the distance teetering your balance on a particularly precarious rock in your private cove. You walking up the dirt path to your nonna's cottage with the mountains behind you. You holding a hand up in an attempt to block the lens as your body adorns a hideous dress you only showed him for shits and giggles. You leaning forward to do your mascara in a tiny mirror hanging on the wall, wearing the perfect beaded dress. And, finally, you sitting alone in the garden chair in your nonna's yard, the moonlight hue behind you as you read your book, unknowing to his presence from the kitchen.

Just above his desk, just hovering over the photos, is his ceramic fish hanging on the wall, one of his only pieces of decor in his entire room.

Rafe follows your gaze with confusion, and his posture stiffens when he realizes what you're looking at, what you discovered. Instantly, he frowns as he side steps just enough to block your view of the photos, of the fish. But the damage has already been done, and your breath hitches as you immediately get the confirmation you need to open your heart up.

All of a sudden, you're blurting it out.

“Elliot told me what you said to him.” The lack of clarification has Rafe raising a brow, to which you add, “About what happened with Yara.”

Rafe’s breath hitches.

“Is it true?” Your voice is so small that it doesn’t sound like you.

“Which part?”

“All of it.” You take a cautious step closer, the tequila running through your bloodstream giving you the confidence.

Rafe doesn’t answer, instead he cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes trail down your body in calculation, gears working overtime in his head as he soaks in your words, the sliver of desperation coating your tone, the way you're playing with the hem of his hoodie, your brows etched in slight worry as you anticipate his response.

Then, it clicks with him, eyes slightly widening at the realization. The reasoning behind your acute coldness towards him wasn’t out of unrequited feelings, but rather the latter.

You cared too much, felt too much.

The thought gives him whiplash. You must've seen him and Yara in that godforsaken closet and gotten the complete wrong impression on the matter. His heart fucking lurches at your wordless confession, and no wonder you were so apprehensive about his words, about his intentions, and pushed him away at every single opportunity that presented itself because of a stupid miscommunication, because of her stupid actions.

“Is that why you were upset?” He takes it further and steps closer. “At your nonna’s, you said you were upset about something that made you tell your mom about us. You saw us? In the closet?”

Suddenly, he’s standing right in front of you.

“Is that why?”

You can’t speak, not while he’s practically caging you in, standing so broad and tall in front of you that it renders you speechless. He faintly smells of shampoo, an intoxicating scent, and you can almost see yourself in the reflection of his thinly wired glasses, only shielding his bright blue eyes through shiny glass. His hoodie swallows you whole, and you're grateful for the extra layer that feels like it’s warding off the vulnerability you're reeking of.

All you can manage is a small nod.

Rafe clenches his jaw, and a part of you fears you've said the wrong thing.

But then his eyes immediately soften as he brings a hand up to hover over your jaw, almost in muscle memory, as if he's been paining him to not do so, to not touch you.

For fuck's sake, he almost looks relieved.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You nearly snort at the simplicity. For a number of reasons, really, but the biggest one comes first.

“I was embarrassed. I thought you didn’t mean what you said in the ballroom.”

Your voice is so quiet that you almost think he doesn’t hear it, especially when he gives no reaction for a few seconds.

Then his palm is pressing harder, fully allowing himself to touch you. And, god, you can't help but lean into the embrace with a long sigh through your nose, not breaking eye contact with him as his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip, over the wound that’s practically all healed with little to no remnants of the disaster that occurred in that bathroom all that time ago.

A flicker of pain etches over his face at the reminder of the cut, of what your own mother did, but then his eyes trail back up to meet yours, now glossing with certainty.

“Nothing happened with Yara,” he reassures firmly.

You nod, sure of yourself now. “I know.”

“All I could think about was you.”

You can’t breathe.

Cautiously, Rafe leans down to test the waters, and once you make no move to pull away from his touch, he indulges in his endeavors to brush his lips against your cheek, pressing a chaste kiss there.

“About your pretty smile.” He pulls back to move to your other cheek. “Your pretty laugh.” To your forehead. “About how being with someone else made me sick.”

The air escapes your lungs.

“I meant what I said.” Rafe pulls back so he can meet your eye, a flicker of worry glossing over his pretty eyes, but nonetheless filled with determination. “Every word.”

You can’t help your second nature and let a sliver of panic let up.

“I thought you didn’t want to date in college.”

The excuse is meek, you know that, he knows that. It’s a last ditch effort for him to truly understand what he’s getting himself into.

But he's serious. Not a fraction of uncertainty glosses over his pretty features, or give you any shroud of doubt that he didn't mean what he said on that ballroom floor. With the firmness of his palm against your burning skin, the narrowed yet softness gaze in his blue eyes, and the way his other fingers on his other hand twitch in your direction tell you all that you need to know: that he's fucking missed you as much as you've missed him.

And – normally – that thought would scare you and send you running for the hills with a heartbeat too erratic and a mind too gone, but now it only solidifies you, grounds you, keeps you tethered to the boy standing in front of you. He's handing you a proverbial knife and hoping you don't stab him with it, and you have once before, but now you don't dream of letting it happen again.

“I didn’t,” he confirms cautiously. “Not until you showed me what it could be like.”

If it’s possible, you lean further into his touch, frowning in your overwhelming blossom of emotions. The thought of being wanted by someone settles a foreign feeling in your gut, wavering between pride and uncertainty.

“I want you, too,” you whisper, nearly sighing at how he visibly relaxes at your words, but your voice remains shy. “But I’m scared.”

Rafe pinches his brows in the slightest at your tone. “Of what, baby?”

The words die in your throat.

The list is endless, really, piling with a million excuses that only grow by the second. Where can you begin? How the idea of someone wanting more than just your body is evidently unheard of? How the concept of more implies putting up with the ugly parts of life, the parts you push deep down and never let see the light of day?

Your hands find his unoccupied one, holding onto your lifeline as if it'll fucking kill you if you let go.

“I don’t know how to be more than just…a body.”

That makes him frown. Immediately.

Despite it, you continue.

"All my life, I've just been..." You try and find the right words, avoiding his eyes and looking down at your connected hands instead at the weight of your upcoming words. "I've never been wanted, or yearned for, or anyone's first choice. It's really hard for me to believe that someone...that you...would want me..."

Rafe reels.

Have you really thought this entire time that he’s only here for the sex? That that’s all you're good for? All you're worthy of being loved for?

How can you not see how much more you are? How much you mean to him? Don't you know that you occupy his mind at every waking moment? That you're the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up in the morning to the last thing he sees at night, and how he shuts his eyes when he’s alone and pretends you're right there beside him, holding his hand or scratching his back or playing with his hair.

Don't you know how much he loves you?

“Sweet girl,” Rafe murmurs gently before leaning forward, wrapping you in a bone crushing hug that makes you oof against his chest, getting pulled taut against him. “How can you say that? How can you even think–? When I can’t even–” He grips you tighter. “Fuck.”

Your confusion is through the roof at his desperation. “Rafe, are you–”

“Do you even know how much you mean to me?”

That silences you.

“I’ve never felt like this about anyone,” he says in a wrangled breath. “Ever. I don’t know how to trust people. I don’t like to and I don’t know how. But with you, it’s never felt easier.”

A large hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and your heart lurches when you can feel a slight tremble.

Especially when he murmurs your name so quietly, so ardently, that you can't help but just listen.

“You’re so much more than a body.” Rafe’s voice is quiet yet firm and it makes you fumble at the sincerity. “You’re smart. You remember things better than anyone I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t admit it, but you’re actually sweet. You take care of things and people you deeply appreciate. I’ve never seen someone so delicately handle a ceramic fish before.”

You shakily chuckle against his chest.

“And the thought of not being around you anymore really scared me. And even if you...didn't feel the same," he says low, "I wouldn't have minded, as long as I could be in the same room or exist in the same friend group, it wouldn't...matter. As long as I could still see you.”

Rafe finally relents on his grip, pulling back a fraction and taking his hand to gently grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him and face the ferocity of his words, as if they didn't just fucking crush you in a way you've never felt before.

“I liked being with you.” His stare is piercing. “Existing together. Doing all of it.”

You hum. On instinct, you reach up to brush some hair out of his eyes.

Rafe’s heart pounds. “Tell me,” he says, voice dripping in desperation. “Tell me it was real to you.”

You nod instantly. “It was real. All of it.”

He sucks in a breath at the verity, and goes to say something else but you don't let him, instead pulling him down to kiss him.

And, god, it’s exhilarating.

All of your fears, all of your doubts, all of your uncertainties that plagues yours and his heart, mind, soul all fly out of the window. You can finally lean into one another without the steel weights cursing your shoulders or the cage locking in your hearts. The kiss is a wordless promise, an oath, a safety net.

His hands are everywhere instantly: arms, waist, face. Not an inch goes unnoticed as he finally, finally can touch you again, feel you again, hear you again. Your hands trail up to the nape of his neck, holding yourself here in his arms as if to remind yourself this is real and happening. He’s here, right here, and he’s not going anywhere, nor is he letting you go anywhere.

As much as it scares you, the tension in your shoulders slowly release.

You slowly back him up until his knees hit his desk chair, Rafe taking the hint and sitting down and wasting no time to pull you into his lap. It's muscle memory at this point, molding yourself onto his body. You both sigh at the sensation of the familiarity.

Straddling him, you place your hands on his shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles in his t-shirt as his hands trail up and down your side, settling under your – his – hoodie and skimpy tank top to feel the ridges of your ribcage, a connection he's been yearning to make ever since his hands left your body last. His palms are hot against your icy skin, sending a plethora of goosebumps up your spine.

Rafe simply stares at you, watching you admire the planes and grooves of his shoulder muscles, his biceps, anything you can get your hands on to make up for lost time spent pining in silence.

When you finally meet his eye, you shyly smile when you notice him already shamelessly looking right back at you.

One of your hands cradles his jaw, fingers gently skimming over the lenses of his glasses. “I like these.”

Rafe groans, rolling his eyes and darting his gaze away. “I hate them.”

“Why?” You nudge his cheek to force him to look at you. “I think they make you look handsome.”

“They make me look stupid.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. They're glasses."

"Still stupid."

"You should wear them more often,” you demand lightly.

Rafe frowns. “No.”

“Well, don’t they help you see?”

“Obviously, but–”

You smile, and he’s having trouble focusing. “Then case closed.”

His lips twitch. “Sweet girl,” Rafe warns.

There’s no backbone to it.

“Don’t sweet girl me,” you warn right back at him. Then, quieter, “Why didn’t you bring them?”

Instead he cocks his head to the side with a teasing smile.

“Are you really that interested in my optical choices or is this your sweet little way of getting in my pants?”

You snort. “We both know I don’t have to be sweet to get into your pants.”

Rafe laughs boyishly and you love the sound. But he’s still avoiding your question.

“Answer.”

“Bossy.”

“Rafe.”

“Okay,” he huffs playfully, “I didn't really have to bring them. I only need them when I’m reading or writing a lot. My eyes get tired.”

You pout endearingly. “That’s, like, the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard–”

“Fuck off.”

“No.” You lean forward and press a slow chaste kiss on his lips.

Of course, he can’t even fathom pulling away and mmrphs low into your mouth, leaning up to chase your lips again for another kiss when you lean back. You hum at his neediness, but giving in anyway and slightly parting your lips to give him all the access he wants.

Rafe wastes no time in doing so, a hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck to guide your movements as he lazily makes out with you as if he has all the time in the world to do so. The warmth of his mouth, his body, his palm nearly make you melt in your very spot, a wave of relief washing over you.

You decide that you love this spot right here on his lap. Your favorite seat. Your throne.

When you happily hum again, Rafe kisses you harder, squeezes a little harder.

“God,” he mumbles against your lips, “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

The possessiveness makes your stomach pool with pride. All his. All yours. No one else's but each other's.

You can’t help but tease him. “I don’t remember you asking me officially.”

“You’re still mine.”

And Rafe kisses you again. Harder. A mark of his words.

“Say it,” he demands quietly against your lips.

And you just fucking beam. “I’m yours.” Your fingers splay through his hair. “All yours, Rafey.”

Scoffing, he turns his head away as you chuckle at his reddening cheeks, peppering kisses on his cheek, jaw, lips, anywhere available for you to coat in markings of you, you, you.

“Stop calling me that,” Rafe murmurs, but loses all the edge in his tone because the feeling of you pressing your lips all over him sends his mind for a loop.

You simply hum. “No. You have so many names for me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you like those.”

“Who says I do?”

“Be so fucking for real.”

The laugh that escapes your mouth is loud and boisterous, probably waking up someone on your floor. But Rafe can care less because the sound is music to his ears, despite you jesting at his expense. Shit, you can make fun of him all you want if this is how you're gonna react, smiling and sitting pretty in his lap whilst drowning in his clothes, kissing him like he hung the stars himself.

You playfully slap his shoulder. “Whatever. But I’m still going to call you–”

“No.”

“Yes. When you’re least expecting it.”

Rafe hums low, a warning.

Shrugging, you suppress a smile. “What? I gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”

“Shut up.” Then, softer. “C’mere.”

You laugh incredulously. “I’m already here.”

You nearly have the gall to laugh again when he ever-so-slightly pouts, but it all dies in your throat when he’s tugging you impossibly closer, resting your face in the crook of his neck as his hands splay wide and broad on your back. It takes you one, two seconds to register his actions, and you find yourself melting at the notion of Rafe Cameron hugging you.

It feels so achingly familiar that you can’t help but sigh in contentment, letting your eyes shut for a few moments as you feel his chest heave in and out with his low syncopated breaths.

Your heart lurches at the action, pressing yourself impossibly tight against him in fear he's going to disappear if you inch back even in the slightest. He takes a particularly deep breath, one of relief almost, your chests brushing together even closer than before. It makes you hum, pressing another kiss to the soft skin on his neck.

You speak before you register it. "Thank you."

His hands gently rub up and down your back. "For what, baby?"

"For..." You swallow the lump in your throat. "For not running."

Your words make him frown, and he eases you back so he can look you in the eye, confusion glosses over his features as one of his hands reaches up to cradle your face, forcing you to look at him when you turn your head away in embarrassment.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly. "Gonna take a cavalry to get rid of me."

A smile twitches at the end of your lips.

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, letting it linger there for a moment before moving back up to meet your eyes, but before he can do anything else, you're already leaning in and severing the distance.

Rafe's large hand holds you in place, reciprocating your kiss with more fervor than before that makes his breath hitch. Your hips barely – just barely – move in tandem with his that has his hand gripping your waist, stopping your moments immediately.

You lean back at his sudden apprehension, almost shy. "What?"

"Don't- Don't do that," he answers meekly.

Of course, you've never been one to listen.

You roll your hips again.

His other hand leaves your face to grab your waist, both of his palms and all of his fingers digging deep into your flesh to cease your movements. His face is uncharacteristically scrunched in pain at the reluctancy of initiating what he's been dreaming about since the last time you had him.

You notice immediately. "What's wrong?"

Rafe's eyes dart between yours, sucking in a breath as he looks at you. "I don't want to hurt you again."

The words confuse you. Tilting your head to the side, you try and rack your brain on where this sudden approach is coming from, where the sudden apprehension stems from. The expression on his face tells you that he's holding back, he's pained, haunted by something you can't conjecture.

"You haven't hurt me," you tell him earnestly, a little confused, but one-hundred percent honest.

He furrows his brows. "...The day of the wedding?"

What?

You only look at him in befuddlement, mind trailing off when you replay the course of events of the day in your head. The only thing that would pertain to his words was when he fucked you deep and rough that morning because you asked him to. It had felt good. Too good. It was when you realized you were in too deep and it scared the shit out of you.

"Rafe," you say slowly, "what are you talking about?"

He looks pained even repeating it. "You cried. After we..." He shakes the thought away. "There were teardrops on your pillow."

The confession makes your heart skip.

That's why he was so weird with you for the entire day? Why he kept himself at an arm's length and could barely look you in the eye when you lounged together on the beach? Because he thought he'd hurt you? Made you cry? When you were upset for the complete opposite reason?

You frown at his anecdote, hurt that he's had to carry this miscommunicated guilt with him for a week, unknowing to the real reason, and under the complete wrong impression of your feelings.

Before you know it, your hands are reaching up to cradle each side of his face tenderly.

"That wasn't because of you," you whisper ardently, almost pained that he's been thinking that the whole time. "Not at all."

But Rafe doesn't seem to believe that. "I was too hard."

"No," you say immediately, shaking your head to emphasize your point. "No, you were too gentle."

That makes him furrow his brows.

At his silence, you continue with a deep breath.

"I thought that if I asked for it rough, it would let me get over my feelings for you, to remind me that it had to just be sex." Your voice is impossibly quiet yet firm. "But you didn't treat me like another fuck, you made sure I had what I needed, said all of these beautiful things, treated me impossibly gentle afterward."

The pad of your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.

"I cried because I was scared," you admit gently. "Not of you. Never of you. But of my feelings. You didn't make it easy for me to try and stop liking you."

A smile twitches at the end of his lips.

"So," he says quietly after a moment, "I didn't hurt you?"

You shake your head earnestly to confirm. "No. I'm sorry that I let you believe that you did."

His eyes blink, soaking in the weight of your words with a slow nod, the gears in his head turning as he gradually lets himself understand that it wasn't his hands that orchestrated your tears. He didn't hurt you. You are fine.

"You're okay," Rafe drawls out cautiously. "Right?"

Your nod is immediate. "Yes. Always with you."

That seems to make the tension in his shoulders release bit by bit, relaxing under your touch and allowing himself to believe you, believe that it wasn't what he thought it was, believe that he didn't hurt you.

"Okay?" You ask gently, confirming that he understands what you're saying.

Now he does, nodding against your touch and letting his hands experimentally skim your waist, easing up on his grip, and letting them venture over the smoothness of your skin. He waits a beat for you to pull back, to tell him to stop, but you don't.

Instead, you press yourself down onto him, making his breath catch.

It's out of clarity, certainty, especially when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss on his lips, a confirmation of your truth. He leans up to chase your mouth, and he's successful when you close the distance, allowing his tongue access to your mouth as teeth clashes against teeth, a wave of passion emerging like a tidal wave at the notion that he didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you.

"Fuck," Rafe mutters against your lips when you roll your hips once more. "You're going to fucking kill me. I swear."

Experimentally, he grips your waist and moves you back and forth against his already hardening dick, and when you don't pull back or voice your discomfort, he allows himself a deep exhale, allows himself to soak into the moment, allows himself to enjoy the feel of you, you, you.

"I missed you," you nearly whisper before you can stop it, the vulnerability feeling foreign on your tongue. "Missed this."

Rafe groans against your lips. "Me too, baby." He kisses you again as you moan quietly into his mouth as he continues guiding your movements against him. "Let me show you, mhm?"

Anticipation pools in your stomach, blossoming in your gut and sending warmth down to where your body touches his.

You're barely nodding before his hands venture down to your ass, holding you taut against him as he stands, your grip tightening around his neck like a koala and wrapping your legs around his middle. In seconds, your back hits the mattress, his knee is slotting between your thighs, and his lips are on yours again.

It's so familiar, so achingly familiar that you cannot believe you went so long without it, without him.

You arch into his chest, bodies molding together as puzzle pieces connect. A hand flies to his hair, tugging the strands gently that makes him omit a low groan into your mouth, one hand shamelessly groping one of your breasts under his hoodie and the other bracing himself over your body, barely hovering.

Rafe pulls back just slightly, a flicker of irritation coating his pretty face as he leans up to take his glasses off, ones that have slid down the bridge of his nose just enough to annoy him.

But you react before you realize it.

"Wait," you say, leaning up a tad for emphasis, a hand coming up to cradle his face and gingerly skim the metal as he freezes. "Keep them on."

A teasing smile twitches at his lips. "Seriously?"

You sheepishly nod, biting your lip.

Rafe stares at you for a moment, amused gaze darting between your eyes at the request.

"Please?" You add sweetly.

The scoff that leaves his mouth makes you suppress a grin, knowing how that one word makes him feel and using it to your advantage. He shakes his head in disbelief at you, but his faux irritation proves to be fruitless as a smirk can't help but grow on his lips.

"Can't say no to that, hm, sweet girl?" He murmurs, half in playfulness and the other half in adoration.

You shake your head slowly at him, your grin fading into something shy, as if asking for what you want proved to be difficult.

But he wouldn't dream of denying you that. Ever. Especially when you asked so nicely, so sweetly, just for him. Who is he to say no? Hell, you could've asked him for a car in that same tone and he wouldn't hesitate to ask what color, make, and model.

So Rafe indulges your request, pushing the glasses up further on the bridge of his nose and leaning down to connect your lips for the umpteenth time, nearly grinning when you let out a satisfied mmrph at him letting you get what you want. His hands are everywhere they can reach, groping and mapping out the curves of your body and nearly moaning at the softness of your skin.

"Can't believe you're mine," he murmurs against your lips, sending a shockwave down your spine as his thumb brushes over your nipple. "All mine."

"Yours," you whisper sultry, needy, desperately, nearly bucking up into him.

Rafe's eyes roll back at the sound of it, pushing the hem of your – his – hoodie to reveal your chest, and you sit up to aide him in taking it off. The act is deliberately thorough, as his calloused palms smooth over your skin, gingerly pushing it up over your head. Your tank top is next. Then, your bra. Then your jeans. Before you know it, you're almost completely nude, simply left in your light blue underwear and exposed in the cool air of his room.

All he can do is stare at your bareness, letting out an appreciative hum as one hand grabs a breast, his cool ring ghosting over your nipple that causes you to sigh deeply, eyes raking from your stomach, to your chest, and eventually back up to your face, where you peer up at him in anticipation. His hand gropes you meaningfully, as if he's studying the feel of the swell in his palm, relishing in your warmth.

"You're so beautiful," Rafe admires gently, almost to himself, before leaning down and taking the other breast in his mouth.

The words make your heart skip a beat, but you shove down the feeling as you arch into his mouth that licks and bites and sucks against the soft skin, a hand in his hair to keep yourself grounded, keep yourself tethered to him. No inch of your chest goes unnoticed, untouched, ignored.

Rafe is thorough in his appreciation, and as lovely as it is, you're growing impatient with need as you writhe underneath him.

"Want you," you whine under your breath, not like he can hear you anyway as it comes out as an incoherent babble, but figuring it's better than saying his name over and over like a mantra, but it proves fruitless when he albeit hums. "Rafe?"

"Yes, baby?" He asks lazily in between kisses as if he has all the time in the world.

"I want... I..."

He etches lower and lower on your body until his mouth is ghosting over your clothed cunt, a low hum emitted from his mouth as he presses a kiss against the wet patch on your underwear, greedily inhaling and exhaling hot breath that makes you squirm. By the looks of it, he's pleased at the sight of you eager for him, ready for him, squirming for him.

Instead of responding, he licks and sucks against the cotton of your panties, against the spot he knows makes you crumble all the same. You moan raggedly, almost embarrassed at the volume given the fact that you've just started, given that he's doing this over your clothes.

"Words," Rafe mumbles teasingly, the baritone of his voice vibrating your core with such fervor that it makes your back arch and your fingers grip a little harder in his hair. "What d'ya want, hm?"

"You," you manage to say, breathless and writhing. "Need you."

His nimble fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, sliding them down achingly slow until they're fully off, discarded somewhere carelessly as he resumes his position between your legs, taking in the sight of you: so pretty looking down at him, cunt glistening with need, face flush with anticipation.

One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as his mouth ghosts over your core.

"You have me," is all he says before closing the distance.

You moan at the contact, as his tongue plunges deep where you need him and his nose brushes against your clit. The taste of you has him groaning into your heat, the rumble causing your eyes to roll back at the sensation. The sound is obscene, especially when he eats like a starved man, like he's been depraved of his favorite meal, like he's ravenous.

"Taste so good, princess," he practically moans into your heat.

It's almost unbearable. You've been so worked up this past week at the thought of him, the thought of never being able to make things right, the thought of losing something you can't help but love. The wave of relief that washes over you only augments your pleasure, because your worries dissipate and you allow yourself to enjoy this, enjoy him, enjoy what he can give you.

One of his hands venture up your body to grab a breast, as if he can't allow his hands to be unoccupied, to not feel and dote on you with every fiber of his being. The added pleasure makes your eyes roll back involuntarily.

"Oh my god, Rafe," you whisper so quietly that it's barely audible.

Your other hand covers his, gripping the back of his hand and squeezing tight to wordlessly reciprocate your want, your need, your appreciation.

His other hand comes to aide his mouth, maneuvering his body so he can both use his fingers as they glide in with ease, and his tongue that can't bear to separate just yet. It makes you whine so beautifully that his hips stutter forward against the mattress, groaning low into your cunt at the sudden sensation.

As Rafe sucks and laps and fingers you so brazenly, you let out a ragged breath at the plethora of pleasantries, suddenly hit with how nice everything feels, how the combination of his mouth, plunging fingers, and the hand fondling your breast start the familiar coil bubbling in your core.

"Fuck," you curse at the intensity, and how quickly it builds. "Please, I-I-"

Your hips writhe under his touch as you let out a particularly broken whine, chest heaving as you get closer and closer to your release.

"I know, baby," he murmurs low, almost strained.

Gasping, you momentarily lose breath at the speed of it, gripping his hand that's on your breast tighter, affirming how quickly you're approaching your high with your body language, one that he seems to understand quite well, something he's come to know better than a lot of other things in life. He's well versed in your tendencies, a pride he wears with his chest.

"Rafe," you whine as your orgasm comes closer, and closer, and closer. "I'm-"

You don't finish the sentence, and you don't even hear if he responds, because your orgasm hits you so quickly, so blindly, that your back arches off the mattress, a tidal wave of ecstasy flooding your veins and searing hot in your core. Your heartbeat is up to your ears, and he could be saying the secrets to the universe and you'd simply have no idea. It's pulsating, inebriating, because you don't hide behind a curtain of shame of how much you need him, not anymore, and that makes the release tenfold.

Despite your writhing hips, Rafe is able to lap up every drop, groaning deep into your cunt at the taste of you, of how nice you feel against his fingers, against his tongue, how pretty you sound as you let him hear you louder than ever.

Lazily, he licks and sucks you through the aftershock, nearly grinning at how your thighs tremble against his head and your ragged breaths ease from the intensity. Your thumb rubs absentminded circles on his hand, a gesture so fucking sweet that he reciprocates by placing a chaste kiss against your cunt, eyeing it for a moment as a brief goodbye before he sighs a hot breath against it.

"You did so well, sweet girl," he praises, trailing kisses up your body while turning his palm in your hand to gingerly lace his fingers through yours, squeezing once, twice, three times until his mouth is against your neck, sucking that sweet spot that makes you shiver.

You practically shake underneath him, still attempting to return to planet earth.

Rafe's nose nudges your jaw. "You okay?"

You exhale a noise that you think is affirmation, but frankly you're still trying to screw your head on straight after hearing your heartbeat in your ears, shuddering under his grounding touch that sends electricity through your already amplified veins.

"Yes," you start breathlessly, "I-I've just been– my brain– I couldn't... I need to..."

Rafe's face is suddenly inches from yours, practically beaming down at your incoherent babbling with a knowing glance, one that affirms just how nice he fucks you (your words, not his, as you've so graciously told him once). It's proving true now, as he takes in the sight of your gazed expression and bleary eyes, chest swelling with pride.

Watching you attempt to figure out your words all breathless and pouty, he can't help but let his gloating simmer into something more affectionate, something softer that he seems to only reserve for you. It's fascinating to see you like this, completely unguarded and fucked out and beautiful, nonetheless.

"Couldn't what?" He eggs on, heart blooming at the state of you.

"It doesn't matter," you mutter absentmindedly as you slip your hand out of his to paw at his chest, still recovering from the dizziness of your brain, movements sluggish as you reach down for the tent in his sweatpants while your eyesight slowly returns to normal. "C'mere, I–"

"Easy," he drawls out amusingly, taking the trembling hand that reaches for his dick and lacing his fingers through yours instead. "You're shaking."

You blink through your frustration, your vision returning (almost). "I'm not– I– You're being withholding."

His grin is impossibly wide. "I'm sorry, sweet girl." He doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "I'll give you another, just catch your breath, yeah?"

Your struggle is obvious, and your desperation even more, because you've missed him so fucking bad and all you want to do is feel him irrevocably, completely, ardently. The realization is pathetic, you know, but you figure that you're past the point of being shy, especially with him, who has seen you at your all.

You frown, spluttering, utterly flustered at his nonchalance, especially when his unoccupied hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, running the pad of his thumb on the corner of your mouth. "Wh– No, I don't want another, I want–"

"You don't want another?"

Groaning, you flush under his piercing stare. "No, I– Ugh, Rafe. I want you."

"Me?" Rafe repeats in faux surprise, brows raised playfully. "Could've just asked."

You roll your eyes so hard it only makes you a little more dizzy, trying really hard to appear angry but it goes nowhere when a hint of a smile ghosts your lips. And it only grows when he leans in, placing a long, chaste kiss on you, and you melt into it when you taste yourself, lungs wound tight. You figure you can breathe later.

He notices immediately, pulling back with a boyish chuckle that makes your chest feel funny. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

"Do it again," you mumble shyly, eyelids heavy with desire. "Please."

And he does. Immediately.

You albeit whine into his mouth as he reciprocates the noise at the sound of it, squeezing your hand once more and the gesture nearly kills you as you practically pout into his mouth at the sweetness of it. With your mind airy and lungs breathless, all you can think about is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, how he kisses you, how he touches you, how his voice sounds reverberated against your body.

It's incriminatingly intoxicating to be surrounded by him in all of your senses: his hand laced in your own, his breathy whimpers against your lips when your hand trails to the hem of his shirt to brush against his bare abdomen, teasing the waistline of his sweats. You're caught in a whirlwind of him, drowning in his scent and caged in by his arms.

You realize quickly, as you've noted before, that Rafe Cameron should come with a warning.

He pulls back, and you're about to protest until you see he's moving to take his shirt off in one swift motion, sick of the cotton barrier between your chests. As he begins to take his sweats and boxers off, you sit up, idly waiting for him as you tuck your legs underneath you. The sight of his cock hard and aching, dripping pre-cum off the tip, has you shamelessly staring, as you let out a small breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Rafe notices your change in position, patiently waiting all pretty and breathless and brazenly looking at his dick, and he can't help but tilt his head and stare at you with an amused gleam in his eye.

When he makes no effort to move, your eyes travel back up to meet his to see that they're already staring at you, a piercing gaze that has you biting your lip at the notion of being caught.

"What?" He asks teasingly, searching your face for any indicator of what you want.

But you're apparently good with your words now, or at least better than before.

"Wanna ride you."

The sentence makes Rafe scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head at you as he runs a hand through his hair, practically in awe of you, of your words, of how good you're being for him tonight, how you're starting to ask for things. It makes his chest swell with pride, proud that you feel comfortable enough around him to start voicing your needs, your wants, things that he'll give to you in less than a heartbeat.

Nonetheless, once he's learned how to use his brain again, he leans forward, turning his body so he's sitting up against the headboard and extending an arm for you almost immediately.

Which you graciously take, gripping his forearm as you crawl onto his lap, sucking in a breath when his dick is the only thing in between your two stomachs. You can't help but stare down at it, bringing a hand to grip his length like you've been dreaming about for days, letting out a deep sigh that makes your hot breath fan over his tip.

Rafe lets out a low moan, gripping your hips impossibly tight as he watches you spread the pre-cum off his tip with your thumb, spreading it down his length and jerking him off at a painfully slow pace that nearly has his hips bucking at the sensation of it. The sight of your hand wrapped around him nearly makes his brain shut off, dumbifying him to the point where all he can do is pathetically whine as you hold his dignity in the palm of your hand.

A particular tight squeeze makes him tense underneath you, eyes screwing shut for a moment to compose himself as one of his hands leaves your hips to wrap around your wrist, stopping your movements altogether.

Your head whips up, pouting. "What?"

Rafe just shakes his head, almost pained as he can't even get the words out.

But you understand him, and you pout. "But I want to."

"Sweet girl."

You hum, looking back down as you feel his hand push your wrist down, down, down until, with some adjusting, his cock is sliding in between your folds.

The sensation makes you both moan shamelessly, your lashes fluttering as your eyes roll shut. Your stomach pools in warmth for the anticipation, especially when your hips rock back and forth against him to coat his cock with the remnants of your previous orgasm, mixing it with the pre-cum that you graciously spread on him. The feeling, almost on command, makes him practically shudder underneath you.

Rafe whines out a curse, and if you weren't so light-headed you'd think he's begging. "Feel so nice already, making me go crazy."

Frankly, the stubborn part of you wants to elongate this as much as possible, but as you feel your prior orgasm practically dripping onto his length, it's clear that you're in no position to withhold him from experiencing the same euphoria. All you want to do is give back what he did for you, how he made you feel, to wordlessly tell him how much you appreciate him, yearn for him, want him to be taken care of.

With shaky hands, you guide his cock to your entrance, not wasting another second before you're slowly sinking down onto his length.

"Shit," he murmurs shakily against your lips, his grip iron tight on your hips – borderline, your ass – as he feels you lower inch by inch. "Oh my fucking god, holy fuck. Taking me so goddamn well."

It isn't until you feel him fully bottom out when you're letting out a ragged breath, one that you were unaware you were holding at the intensity of the feeling, of the stretch, of how much more you can feel him in this position, his cock hitting places unknown as you still on his lap, soaking in the moment of simply being full of him, relishing in the notion of how nice it is to be in your favorite spot.

Your arms sling around his neck, draped over his shoulders to impossibly taut yourself to his chest as you place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he can't even reciprocate because he's still sharply breathing, still not over how well you're taking him and how perfect you feel around him. It's, understandably, making his brain all fuzzy, and all he can try and concentrate on is not coming in this given moment.

So, no, he doesn't kiss you back. He can't.

Instead, he shakily exhales against your lips, gently shaking his head when you cheshire-cat grin at him, attempting to roll your hips in retaliation but his grip on your hips is iron. Part of you relishes in the marks you're going to wake up to, imprinted by him, and greedily want to and move again to get him to dig deeper, to be able to feel the reminders of him in the morning.

You try. He holds you still even harder.

"Just- Fuck," Rafe groans. "Gimme a minute, wanna feel you."

You pout, ignoring the way your heart thumps at the simplicity of his words, yet find yourself obeying. Leaning back a fraction, you take a moment to take a selfish peek at him: blue eyes blown black with lust, hair falling onto his forehead in messy waves that you brush back gingerly, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose that you fix silently, lips parted and swollen from all the activity he's been engaging in with them.

He looks unequivocally fucked out. You assume you look equally as such.

Without thinking, your arms retract from their position around his neck, slithering up the sides of his neck and letting your hands cradle each side of his jaw, holding his face in place as your thumbs absentmindedly trace circles, squares, triangles on the soft skin. You simply stare at him, admire him, wait for him to give you the green light to continue moving.

And Rafe doesn't think he's ever been held like this before.

It does something irreversible in his chest, a pang of an unknown emotion jolting through his skin like electricity as he simply sits under your touch, teetering between wanting to explode with admiration and shutting down altogether to sulk in the feeling. He's sure you have no idea what you're doing to him, and whether you mean to or not, he's sure there's nothing better on the planet than this, than the feel of you wrapped around him, holding him, grounding him.

His hands move up and down your spine, tracing vertebrae bone by bone in a delicacy he never knew he possessed. As his heart pounds in his chest, his mind morphs to mush, and the only thing he can conjecture is that he is, irrevocably, yours for the rest of his life. There's frankly no doubt about it, and the thought makes his lashes flutter shut to truly soak in the physicality of it all.

He feels you place a feather-light kiss on his lips, and before you can pull back to continue to give him the moment to gather himself, he's chasing the kiss and closing the distance again.

This time, Rafe's the one moaning into your mouth, especially as you accidentally shift your hips when kissing him back. At the slight movement, his impatience is suddenly through the roof as his hands venture down to your ass, slowly starting to guide your motions up and down, back and forth, taking him in ways that has his eyes rolling back.

Your thighs aide his movements for about a minute, but soon begin to tremble as your bounces get needier, kisses become breathless, sighs turn into whimpers. Calloused palms roam the entirety of your body, groping and rolling the flesh of your ass in tandem with your movements, slithering up your ribcage to squeeze and suck on your bouncing tits, down to where your bodies connect to press a firm thumb on your clit.

That right there makes you whine so gutturally deep where his hips unexpectedly jerk into you, his cock – somehow – burying deeper inside you to a spot unreached before.

Rafe moans your name like a mantra, like it's the only word he knows.

It makes your brain fuzzy, as your neediness takes over and your conscience is on autopilot. You say something, but it comes out like an incoherent babble, something insignificant and probably pertaining to how good he feels, as you continue to shift your hips up and down to take his full length, lift up to where his tip barely pokes out, only to sink back down onto him again. Over, and over, and over.

Your arms sling back over his shoulders, lazily linking behind his neck as one of his hands snakes around your back to pull you impossibly closer while the other works your clit, thumb pressing on it so firmly that you momentarily see stars at the ferocity of it all. Nails scratching the smooth skin of his back, you almost break skin at the attempt to pull him closer, as the need for more, more, more stems from the coil beginning to rumble in your stomach.

"Rafe," you gasp, sucking in a breath as you feel the familiar sensation bubbling. "Feel so full, feels so good."

"You feel like a dream," he mumbles shakily against your lips, hips jerking up into you as you recognize that he must be close. "Never gonna– fuck. Can't believe you were– and I was– oh my god, oh m– You feel so fucking nice– I'm gonna–"

Your chest is light, core on fire. "Something's– I feel– I–"

For a second, your eyes roll back as a searing hot sensation floods your lower half, and you momentarily only see white as you feel your body practically give out and lean forward onto his, gasping into the crevice of his neck as his hips slam into you from underneath. Your nails sink into the skin of his shoulder blades as firmly as you can muster with your little-to-no strength in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. Your whines are loud and straight pornographic at the branding fire feeling in your cunt.

Did you just come?

Given the heat overwhelming your core and the bundle of nerves shooting electricity through your veins, you think you just did. With your heartbeat in your ears, the sound of Rafe's shameless moans feel like they're underwater as you're practically putty in his grasp, both of his arms bear-wrapped around you as he thruuuuusts up into you with such intensity, such fervor, that you think he just came, too.

Spots blur your vision as you moan into the hot skin of his neck as he fucks you through your orgasm, only now feeling the hot spurts of his cum gushing into you with every upwards thrust of his, and you can't deny how fucking good it feels to be full of him – to be really full of him – as the sensation is burning hot and tempestuous and everything you've needed.

Your chest heaves at the intensity, clawing at his upper back for some sort of leverage that you're not sure will do anything to aide your limp body. His hips grind up into your core, and once you gain some sort of semblance back from practically passing out from the orgasm he just gave you, you realize he's been speaking the entire time.

You happen to catch the tail end of his words.

"–ve you, I fucking– I– fuck-" Rafe whines, and the sound vibrates your lips that are pressed against his vocal cord. "It's like you're made for me, feel so fucking nice, so pretty on top of me, I– fuck. How could I– When you–? With the–? Oh my god, oh my fucking god."

All you can respond with is a low moan, overstimulated as you come down from your earth-shattering orgasm as he fucks himself using you through his, his cum leaking out of you and spilling down your thighs and onto his lower stomach. The sight of it makes your breath hitch, breathless at how much you both came at the same time.

His bucking gradually ceases, becoming less and less grandiose and eventually settling in stillness as his chest heaves against yours. You register his hands trailing up and down your back soothingly, lips pressed to your hairline and placing chaste kisses with sweet nothings riddled between them. Your eyes flutter shut, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck that makes goosebumps adorn his arms.

The two of you sit like this for a minute, mentally coming down from the daze your simultaneous orgasms put you through. Once your vision returns to normal (i.e. you're no longer seeing stars every time you open your eyes to try and look at him), you gently press the palm of your hands to his shoulders, pushing yourself up off his chest to sit up and find some semblance of independence.

Your brain is foggy, no doubt, as you hazardously sway as you blink at him, heart racing as you discover he's already looking at you.

"Holy shit," you murmur, dazed and fighting exhaustion.

He exhales shakily. "I know."

You manage a wry smile. "That was-"

"I know," he repeats bashfully, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

With a trembling hand, you reach up to push his glasses further up his nose, letting your fingers dwell on the metal sides before bringing it down to cup his jaw. It's as if you're a ghost in your own body, feeling airy and light yet wrecked all the same, shaking as if you've been left in the freezing cold with no amenities, shaking as if he just gave you the best orgasm you've ever had.

Noticing your frailness, you laugh in a self deprecating way. "I think I passed out."

Rafe exhales a shaky chuckle, one of disbelief, as a hand travels up to the side of your neck, keeping your head in place from all the swaying. Though a flicker of concern coats over his eyes at the hazy smile you're flashing him, eyes blinking ferociously as if they're regaining sight.

It makes him frown. "Did you? Are you okay?"

You nod, lazy yet immediate. "Uhm, did you hear me? I think our neighbors are gonna kill us."

A boyish laugh escapes his lips, and he lets himself ease into the fact that you're fine, you're smiling, you're gazing at him like he hung the goddamn stars himself.

His thumb brushes a tear from the corner of your eye, one that you didn't know you had, humming low and sure as his eyes rake over the features of your pretty face. Now, you're left in the stilled silence of your own doing, basking in the aftermath of your actions, of the words that led you to this point. Your heart skips a beat at the vulnerability, knowing it's more than sex, knowing that what you're feeling right now – the gravitational pull towards him – is reciprocated, especially as his gaze softens. It's replaced by something deeper, more raw, cut open for you to do what you please.

The intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch, and, despite literally what just occurred, a wave of shyness overcomes you, averting your gaze down to his chest.

But in your bottom peripheral, you catch a glimpse of the fucking mess.

Your eyes widen, looking down to where your bodies connect. "Oh my god."

His gaze follows lazily, glancing at the sight with nonchalance for his soaked bedsheets, suppressing a shit eating grin as he continues to see small amounts of cum still dripping out of you, as if there's an endless supply of it inside you, continuously adding to the plethora of a mess on his (freshly washed, by the way) bedsheets.

You blink stupidly, attempting to fathom the sheer amount of mere sex all over your lower bodies, all over the sheets, some of it even grazing his abdomen. How did that even get there? How could the two of you produce that much? And – oh, god – is it ever going to come out of his sheets? Fuck, is it leaking through?

But he has no qualm with the matter, and instead beams at the fact.

"That was all you, sweet girl," he teases with a hand skimming the faint bruises starting to form on your hip. "You came so hard. You squir-"

Your hand comes up to cover his mouth.

Your face scrunches up in embarrassment at the word, because you fucking hate the term, and frankly assumed it was a myth for the longest time since you've never done it before, nor have any of your friends. Yet your heart thumps at the possibility that – most of – this mess is from you.

No, it couldn't be. It can't be.

Because if it is, he is never, ever going to let you live it down, and you can count on that for a fact.

Eyeing him quickly and feeling your face flush as he stares right at you, eyes twinkling with amusement, you remove your hand from his mouth and ring your fingers together, looking back down to the sheets with a dismissive scoff.

"I did not," you argue meekly because, frankly, you have no idea if you did or not. You don't even know what that was. "This is all yours."

Rafe's grin is blinding, teasing, fucking proud. "You totally did. Went everywhere, baby."

Face flushing, you groan and throw your hands up to cover your face, hating how hot your skin feels at his laugh and complete nonchalance over the matter.

"Fuck," you murmur as you take in the sight of it. "Are you serious? But I didn't– I don't even– How could I–?"

Instead of answering, he whistles low. "Holy shit, you really did pass out, didn't you?"

You refuse to answer, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth as guilt riddles your chest for ruining his sheets. Expensive ones, at that. You're assuming it has a crazy thread-count imported from god-knows-where, as he's the person to get the best of the best of material things as long as he has the means to obtain them. You've always liked sleeping in his room on the random occurrence it would happen, partly because his bed is always so damn comfortable, the sheets definitely having something to do with it.

"I'll wash them" you offer quietly, slight panic settling in now that you're – somewhat – back to normal and coherent enough to register that this is a problem. "I'll buy you new ones-"

But, of course, Rafe simply shakes his head, pressing his palms against your spine to lure you closer, letting the words die in your throat as he tugs you against his lips. He kisses you slow yet meaningful, a wordless promise that he's not mad about something like this, he's not even concerned, barely letting his beaming smile falter at the thought of having to clean it up. He's only thinking about you, you, you.

"No need," he murmurs against your mouth, still fucking grinning. "I'm framing and putting this shit on my wall."

You groan at his words, cheeks unabashedly hot.

"Gonna time-stamp it and everything," he adds just to be a prick. "Wave it around like a flag, and shit."

You want the ground to swallow you whole. "Stop."

"Wear it like armor."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're hot. I mean it, baby. I'm gonna get you to do that every time."

"Rafe."

"What?" He says incredulously as if it isn't the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. "You can't expect me not to go crazy over that, hm?"

You only shake your head at him, but you suppose if the roles were reversed, you'd definitely feel an inclination to drawl out the teasing to a T. After all, riling him up is one of your favorite past-times, as riling you up actually might be his number one.

Eventually, you secede. Especially when he threatens you with another orgasm.

After he cleans you up and delicately dresses you in his own clothes, with wobbly legs you attempt to help him strip the sheets (even though all he told you to do is sit at his desk and look pretty, which you wholeheartedly refused to do) and replace them with his spare set. In an effort to get your shit together, you use the communal restroom to wash up, taking one of his spare toothbrushes – because of course he has one – and using it. He goes into the restroom across the hall, stating he was bored of being alone, to freshen himself up.

When you return to his room with him hot on your tail, you slither back onto the clean sheets and settle under them as if you were made to lay there.

Getting comfortable, you quietly watch him resume his tasks of the night: organizing his notes, taking off his glasses and leaving them askew – to your utter dismay – as his shirt and sweatpants follow, leaving him in boxers, and finally turning off his desk lamp as he navigates through the dark and and climbs into bed beside you.

It’s muscle memory the way you puzzle-piece your way into each other’s arms. Rafe tugs you impossibly close, placing a chaste kiss on your hairline as your hands splay across his bare chest, nearly sighing in relief at the familiarity. It's unfathomably inviting, it's cloud nine, it's home.

When he starts to lightly rub up and down your back, you sigh again.

“Tired?” Rafe murmurs gently.

All you do is nod against his neck, placing a ginger kiss on his vocal cord.

He hums at your sweet gesture, nearly melting at the implication. “Okay, sweet girl. Go to sleep. I'll be up early tomorrow but you can sleep in, m'kay?”

Tomorrow. Early morning. Notes. Glasses.

Fuck. Exam.

Your eyes flutter open as you remember his night before you arrived, all the papers scattered on his desk, the reason he was wearing those godforsaken glasses in the first place, the open textbook on his computer, the entire reason he was up so late in the first place.

A kettlebell settles in your gut.

“Wait.” Rafe hums lazily in response. “What about your exam?”

With a chuckle, he nuzzles into your hair, unbothered.

“Baby, if I don’t know it by now, there’s no use.”

Part of you feels guilty. Guilty about plaguing his conscience for the betterment of a week and – no doubt – pulling his focus from his studies and all of the important shit going on in his life. Guilty about arriving at his door in the middle of the night and – again – pulling his concentration from what he needs to pay attention to in order to get the marks he needs to pass.

Guilty about everything you've put him through, him, Rafe, your Rafe, who's been so patient with you in your journey of self discovery or whatever bullshit.

“I can help,” you offer weakly, as he rubs soothing up and down your back. “I’m a good teacher.”

Rafe chuckles quietly and you nearly frown, unsure of his nonchalance.

“Best teacher I know,” he murmurs. His voice is deep and baritone and it practically lulls you to sleep.

Your eyes are already closed. “Let me help. Please.”

“Very sweet of you. Go to sleep.”

“‘M really smart. You said so.”

“I did.”

You yawn. “What’s the class?”

Rafe doesn’t answer for a minute, and you soon believe he falls asleep. But then, quietly, “Art history.”

Your heart flutters. “I know about that.”

A warm hand rubs up and down your back. “I’m sure you do, baby.” Then, it cradles the back of your head in brazen laziness. “Sleep.”

His voice emulates a lullaby, low and alluring and smooth. Impossibly, you nuzzle closer to him with a stupid smile on your face. Grinning against his neck, you press the lightest kiss you can muster as your hands gently skim over the hills and divots of his chest, grounding yourself, a reminder that this is real. He’s here, right here, holding you, reciprocating your love, your want, your need.

“Stop smiling,” he says above you, but his tone is far from authoritative. Instead it’s softer, as if he’s suppressing a smile as well. “I can feel it.”

You squirm when he pinches your side, reciprocating the act and attempting to tickle him, but he doesn’t budge in the slightest.

Suddenly, Rafe grabs your wrists lightning fast and pins them high over your head, the motion forcing you on your back as he hovers over you. Despite the darkness, you can feel his face inches from yours, breath fanning over your lips.

“I thought you wanted me to go to sleep,” you challenge.

Rafe snorts. “You’re being a brat.”

Ah, that word. That sort of behavior has gotten you in trouble before, and the thought of annoying him makes you grin even harder.

“Rafey, that’s hardly nice.”

The guttural groan he lets out makes you laugh quite unattractively, letting out an oof when he collapses against your body and therefore crushing you. Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, he shakes his head and mumbles something incoherent against your soft skin that feels like a million pin pricks to each nerve.

His hand leaves your wrists and slowly drags down your arm, settling on the top of your ribcage just under the swell of your breast, lazily rubbing his thumb over the grooves and curves of the bone with little to no shame whatsoever.

The act gives you goosebumps. “What? Nothing to say?”

“Go to bed.”

You hum, kneading your fingers through his hair and smiling when he lets out a content sigh. “Okay, fine.”

Rafe practically clings to you, breathing in your scent and unabashedly nestling into your embrace. Your fingers through his hair feel so achingly familiar, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until now. He feels your lips gently press on the crown of his head, his heart skipping a beat as he involuntarily lets out another sigh, a wordless thank you for trusting him, believing in him, and – most importantly – letting yourself have this. Trusting him. Trusting yourself.

Exhaustion seeps through his pores, eyelids heavily shutting as his body seems to sink deeper into the mattress, deeper against your body. Your nails lightly scraping his scalp and back quickly lure him to sleep, so gentle and adorning that he’s so close to–

"Hey."

"Sweet girl, I said go to bed."

You pause for a moment, elongated the silence in the darkness as he can practically hear you thinking. After a second, he frowns as he just now analyzed your tone, which was far from teasing.

He's about to prompt you to continue when you shift slightly above him, and his heart fucking melts when he feels your lips press a kiss against his hairline.

"Those photographs are beautiful."

Despite the complete darkness, and despite the fact that even if the light was on, you wouldn't be able to see his face anyway given his position, his face flushes hot.

Because you weren't really supposed to see those. They'd been the final prints he submitted for his photography class, tasked to photograph the pleasantries of life that may emulate beauty in everyday life. And, to him, he wanted you as his everyday muse since you already occupy almost every waking thought of his.

Rafe sat on the prompt for the entire semester, never once finding a muse meaningful enough to him to make him feel like he could complete the assignment. However, once Lorenza had given him the camera, the task seemed like the easiest thing he's ever done. Plus, you made it pretty simple. You emulated effortless beauty. All day. Everyday.

"I had a pretty model," is all he responds with.

And your thanks is translated enough when you press another kiss to his forehead, ticking his soft skin with your gentle breaths, and all he can think is sweet, sweet, sweet girl. It's concerning, really, how he really only thinks of you. He thinks of you when he wakes up, when he sees something funny, when he's scribbling down notes, when he goes to sleep.

So. Yeah. You are his everyday beauty. By a longshot.

He continues to think of your pretty, of how warm you feel pressed against him, how sweet you smell. He remembers how you looked in the moonlight, the candlelight, under the Sicilian sun with a glisten he could swoon over. It lulls him to sleep. Simply the image of you, you, y–

“Rafe?”

Rafe’s pulled from his slumber, barely lifting a finger and humming in response. He can’t even open his eyes, bloodshot and tired from all the studying.

“Do you want me to come home with you for Christmas?”

Out of all the things he expected you to say, that has to be the last topic on the list.

All exhaustion comes to a halt as his eyes blearily blink open, unsure if he’s heard you right, as the question is so out of left field that he doubts you actually said what he thinks you said. Despite his head feeling like a million pounds, he manages to lift it so he’s looking at you in the darkness.

Rafe can just make out the outline of your face. “What?”

He hates how small his voice is.

But your fingers continue to massage his scalp and he feels you shrug underneath him.

“I dunno, I was thinking I could do for you what you did for me." Your voice is impossibly shy, almost as if you didn't mean to bring it up but now there's no going back. "Provide some moral support, I don’t know. Just a thought.”

Yes, he wants to scream. Of course he wants you to.

It would make life incredibly easier, not to mention he’d get to spend more time with your undivided attention and shower you in a ridiculous amount of appreciation now that you're officially his. He can show you off to his friends and family and flaunt you around, shamelessly hold you and kiss you and not have to feel the slightest bit guilty about it.

He'd tell you to bring that beaded dress he bought you, take you out to dinner on the mainland and fuck you for the whole island to hear. There's no doubt he's going to buy you anything under the sun that you express interest in, shower you with the kind of love you've been aching for for so long. He'd have to be assertive, though, because you're exactly the girl his sisters will immediately love, and there's no way he's going to be able to share you.

Rafe needs to relax.

Instead of saying all of that, he takes a deep breath. “You’re not going to Lorenza’s?”

“No,” you respond quietly. “I was supposed to go home so she’s already going on a trip with her girlfriends. But now I'm just...” You take a breath. "No, I'm not."

He frowns at the idea of you spending winter break alone, because there’s absolutely no way you're going to go home and face your family again, and the long haul across the Atlantic feels like a chore after just recovering from doing so.

“You can say no,” you murmur playfully. “I have a sublet lined up for December, and I’ll come back to the dorm when they open on the new year.”

That makes Rafe scoff. “You’re not doing that.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he commands. “You’ll spend it with me.”

Suddenly you clear your throat, almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to, like, invite myself. You seriously can say no–”

Rafe is sitting up before he knows it, leaning on an elbow and finding your jaw with his other hand to navigate through the darkness, and kissing you firmly enough to let it do all the talking for him.

You mmrph in surprise into his mouth, effectively shutting you up and assumingely shutting down any doubts you have about the entire idea. Rafe kisses you certainly yet deliberately slow, as if to reassure you of his answer, that you don't have to stress about being too much, especially around him. In fact, he wants you to be too much, yourself, unapologetically you. He craves it, utterly deprived every second you're acting shy as if he wouldn't give you anything you asked for.

Pulling away, Rafe resumes his previous position and lowers onto your body, his original position. His lips find the soft skin of your neck and place a kiss there, sucking ever so slightly to emphasize his point, to stake his claim, to wash away your doubts.

“I want you to stay with me,” he murmurs quietly. “Okay?”

You hum shyly. “Okay.”

Rafe runs his hands over your ribcage. “I need you to know something, though."

"Yeah?"

Your tone is so fucking sweet that it makes his upcoming words difficult, understanding you can completely hold your own against a family full of narcissists yet wanting to shield you from it all anyway. He wants to hide you away from it all, but he knows you're tough, you're strong, you're too kind for your own good.

"My dad probably won’t be the friendliest.” Rafe figures that's the nicer term for Ward. "He'll be charming and inviting when you first meet him, but behind closed doors..."

He trails off, not necessarily wanting to get into the specifics of his father's tendencies right now with you, laying pretty beside him and body exhausted with earlier passion. To subject you to this all over again, it makes his chest pull, knowing that his father will probably say or do something to remind you of the obscenities of your own family, to remind you of the darkness that shrouded you a week ago.

Before he can continue, you gently massage his scalp. "I understand. I'll be alright."

It makes him nearly swoon. "You're too sweet for your own good, hm? You can be mean to him if you want."

You laugh and he swears he's never heard a prettier sound.

"I'm not doing that."

"If I asked you nicely?"

Chuckling again, your nails rake down to the nape of his neck and back up to his scalp, making him sigh low into the confinements of your hold. But it's much more than physicality, it's almost a promise, reaffirming your stance and wordlessly convincing him that you have his back. Now and always.

"Still no," you murmur, and by the tone of it he swears you're smiling. "You're the one who said I'm incapable of being evil."

Rafe snorts. "I did."

You hum happily, content with 'winning' the conversation as you continue to massage absentmindedly. "Besides, I’m great with parents.”

This conversation feels all too familiar, full circle, echoing his words that he spoke to you all the time ago when your mother stormed into your dorm room, the catalyst for all of this, the start of the spiral to where you lay now with limbs entangled and hearts out in the open.

Shaking his head slightly and allowing himself to shut his eyes, Rafe murmurs in agreement, almost tauntingly.

“I’m sure you are, sweet girl.” Then, quieter, “Sleep.”

The words are like a command, and despite every effort to not do so, you find yourself babbling something incoherently, words soon dying in your throat as you fall asleep, but not without being lulled by the sound of his syncopated breaths, and that, somehow, his hand has found yours in the darkness, lacing your fingers together and squeezing gentle enough for it to be a long lasting reminder: he's here, and he's not going anywhere.

You let yourself succumb to that. You let yourself deserve it.

notes holy shit???????? i have a few (more like a hundred) things to say. legit where do I begin.

thank you for 900 followers FIRST OF ALL i only started posting laaaaaate march (practically april) so this is absolutely incredible, thank you for all the support it's been so overwhelming in the best way. half of the comments genuinely make me lol and the other half make me legit spiral bc huh???? you like my stuff??? anyway.

for those who have sent me inbox messages: I SEE YOU!!! I APPRECIATE YOU!! I HAVE NOT IGNORED YOU!!! i'm gonna try to get around to answering them but trust i see y'all!!!!

on the topic of inbox messages, a few of you have been asking about if i'm open to blurbs, and i 100% am. i cannot guarantee i will be able to answer all of them (i started a full-time job??? crazy) but i would love to try and provide that.

okay i think that's it from me. again. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT i'm legit sad this is ending but, again, im open to blurbs about them so TRUST this def won't be the last time we read about them. GODSPEED!

878 notes · View notes

urvampygf · 3 months ago

Text

CROSSING BOUNDARIES

( Bsf!Chris x Inexperienced!Reader )

after the last time they saw each other, tensions grow between reader and Chris as they take it a step further, although not all the way just yet.

Pt. 1 / Pt. 2 / Pt. 3 / Pt. 3.5

-`✮´- 4k

contains. tension, pining, flirting, teasing, kissing, jerking off, handjobs.

It’s been two weeks since Chris last saw Y/N. She hasn’t exactly been avoiding him—just conveniently busy every time he asks to hang out. She isn’t ashamed or regretful about what happened between them. But she knows that their dynamic has shifted.

Now she’ll get all flustered and shy around him. She’ll make things awkward. And she doesn’t want to burden him with her nervousness—so, instead, she keeps her distance.

All is well in Y/N’s quiet avoidance—until Matt unknowingly forces her to face what she’s been running from.

Y/N shows up at the triplets’ place around 9PM. She’d almost canceled. In fact, she’d even typed out a half-hearted “might be too backed up with studying tonight” text… But then Matt sent her a dorky selfie, grinning with a family-size bag of candy, followed by a text: “This could be yours.”

So now she’s here. Standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, trying to look casual, while Chris leans on the corner of a wall—lazy smile on his face like he knew she’d come.

“Look who decided to show up,” Chris teases, his voice easy, but his eyes track her like he’s been waiting.

Y/N shrugs off her jacket and tosses it over the back of the couch.

"Blame Matt’s bribery. I’m only here for the sugar.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

They sit around for a while, casually yapping Nick’s ear off while he hastily edits a video he’d been procrastinating—as per usual.

Y/N, though, is clearly caught up in her own head, stealing shy glances at Chris when she thinks no one’s looking. Matt and Nick stay oblivious, but Chris picks up on it almost immediately.

He can tell she’s nervous, maybe even a little embarrassed. Her eyes flicker to the side every time his hand just so happens to graze her thigh, and he keeps doing it, watching her reaction like it’s a game.

“I am fucking STARVED—like, I could eat a whole mother fucking horse.” Nick groans dramatically, still focused on the laptop in front of him.

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast…” Matt chimes in, a bit calmer than his brother.

“…You mean 3PM?” Y/N jabs, mocking their absolutely wrecked sleep schedules with a grin.

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, kid—you’re better than us,” Matt fires back playfully, pushing himself off the couch and heading for his keys on the kitchen island.

"Where you off to, limpy?” Chris quips as he leans back against the couch, glancing over his shoulder at his brother with a proud grin.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Matt responds, his voice flat, irritation evident in his tone as he shoves his feet into his shoes.

“What’s the matter, Ya ankle hurtin’?” Chris doubles down, his arms resting casually on the back of the couch.

“I’ll kill ya,” Matt mutters nonchalantly, walking toward the front door without even sparing Chris a glance.

“If you’re gettin’ food, I’m coming with ya. You always fuck up my order,” Nick says, shutting his laptop abruptly. He’s already halfway to the door, his feet sliding into his shoes as if he’s been silently begging for a reason to take a break.

Matt, standing at the top of the stairs, raises an eyebrow, his thumbs tapping on his phone screen. “I don’t even know where we’re going yet—” He glances up, ready to protest, but Nick’s already marching past him.

“We’ll figure it out on the road!!” Nick cuts him off, grinning like he’s won some invisible battle.

They leave quickly, Matt not bothering to ask Y/N or Chris if they want anything. He knows they’ll want food, he’ll just text them once Nick makes a decision for everyone.

That leaves Chris and Y/N alone, the silence between them loud and awkward.

Y/N suddenly feels the weight of the moment. She’s alone with the guy whose face was just smushed between her thighs a couple weeks ago. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t think about that night—she replays it daily. It’s frustrating, especially when she’s touching herself, trying to relive the feeling of him.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to be a one-time thing. Her heart says it should be—to spare her from the messy shit that always follows. But her body, her mind? They beg to differ.

Y/N shifts slightly on the couch, toying with the strings of her pants.

The silence stretches until Chris finally breaks it, his tone casual, like he’s just simply asking about the weather.

"…So, you still thinking about it?”

Her eye meet his, blinking as her heart rate picks up.

“What?”

Chris raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smug grin. That teasing glint in his eyes is impossible to miss.

“Y’know—when ya tried to kill me with your thighs.” He leans back a little, lazy confidence in his posture. “Seemed pretty into it.”

Y/N'a eyes flick down to her lap. “…Of course I think about it. Haven’t really stopped,” She mumbles, her voice quieter than usual, almost shy, which makes Chris ease up on the teasing.

“Yeah… yeah, me too.” He says it softly, voice trailing off as he tries to find the right words.

Chris shakes his head, a small laugh escaping him. “Okay, no, no, no—I’m not gonna have you goin’ all shy on me. Not happenin’.” He sighs, leaning his upper body toward her with a playful yet caring look.

“I’m not goin’ shy, I just… I don’t know. Maybe I am.” Y/N's words come out softer, the vulnerability peeking through despite her best efforts to brush it off.

“Ya know, I thought you weren’t gonna talk to me anymore,” Chris raises his concern without an ounce of hesitation.

Y/N glances at him. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“You kind of were.”

An uncomfortable silence falls between them before Y/N shyly admits, “I don’t know how to act around you anymore.”

“Why not?” Chris asks, his tone losing the playfulness as his eyes narrow, confusion creeping in. His tone stays nonchalant, but his posture shifts—one palm resting on his knee, his forearm crossing over the other.

Y/N bites her lip, glancing up at him with uncertainty. She pauses, then blurts it out before she can stop herself. “That night… why did you stop me?”

Chris lets out a quiet scoff of a laugh, arms folding casually over his chest. “Oh, so that’s what’s got you all upset, huh?”

But he doesn’t dodge the question. His voice stays even, maybe a little teasing, but honest. “You were tryin' too hard,” he says simply. “Felt like you thought you owed me or somethin'.”

The words hit harder than she expected—because that was how she felt.

“I… I guess I did kinda feel like I owed you,” she admits, her voice small.

Chris tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she breathes out. “I don’t know what I’m doing with this shit…”

“Okay, but you’re not clueless,” Chris says, his voice calm. “And it’s not a big deal. You’re okay. I’m not, like… annoyed or anything.”

“I kinda am clueless,” Y/N mutters, an awkward chuckle failing to mask her insecurity.

“Oh yeah?” Chris raises a brow, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “How so?”

There’s a challenge in his voice, kind of like he doesn't believe her.

“Well—” she pauses. “I’ve done shit with guys before… helped 'em get off or whatever. But no one’s ever really told me if I was doing anything right. Or wrong. I just kind of… hoped I was doin' okay.”

That got his attention. Chris turns his head, eyebrows pulling together.

“Did they ever finish?” he questions, leaning in slightly.

“Well, yeah—”

“Then you got nothing to worry about.” Chris leans back again, his tone light and dismissive. Like he’s shrugging off her worry as simple insecurity.

“But I don’t wanna guess,” Y/N protests, her voice soft and steady. “I—I wanna know.”

Chris watches her for a second. “It’s not that hard. You just go by what gets a reaction—and what doesn’t.” He pauses, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I could… show you. What I mean.”

The words hang between them, heavier than he intended. His eyes flicker to hers, nearly uncertain now.

“If you want,” he adds quickly, voice softer this time, like he's making himself nervous.

“What do you mean, show me?” she asks carefully—not uncomfortable, just hesitant; not wanting to assume too much.

Chris shrugs, trying to play it off like it’s nothing serious, even though his eyes completely follow hers. “I could show you what I like. You just watch. Shit, you could even join me… if you’re up for it.”

Y/N’s lips part like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Her mind’s racing—caught somewhere between what the fuck is happening and why does that sound kind of… hot?

She finally lets out a breath that slips into a soft laugh. “Well that’s intense.”

Chris chuckles, looking off to the side like he's searching for someone to save him from his own suggestion. “I mean—yeah. But it doesn’t have to be crazy shit. Just… honest.”

Her eyes shoot down to his mouth, then back up. She bites her lip. “How would we even do that?"

Chris shrugs, more relaxed now. “Could just be me showing you what I like. Nothing more.. unless you want it.”

A long pause stretches between them.

Y/N softly speaks up, “Would it be weird if I said I wanted to try?”

Chris raises his brows, a slow smile easing onto his lips. “Not even a little.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chris doesn’t give Y/N a second to catch her breath before pressing her back against the now-shut bedroom door, his mouth crashing into hers like he’s been waiting weeks for it—and that's because he has. The kiss is messy and familiar, fueled by pent-up tension.

She gasps against his mouth, letting out a breathless laugh against his lips. “Gotta get hard first, huh?” Y/N teases between kisses, her tone breathy but teasing.

Chris lets out a low chuckle against her lips, grinning against her. “Won’t be too difficult with you lookin’ like that.”

His hands slide down to her hips, fingers kneading into the skin like close isn't close enough for him.

Chris gently pulls her away from the door, his lips still devouring hers with a hunger stronger than the first time they did this. He walks them backward, guiding her without breaking the kiss, until the back of his thighs bump into the edge of the mattress.

He breaks away just long enough to tug his hoodie over his head, the motion quick and clumsy, like he can’t stand to be separated from her for more than a second. The moment it hits the floor, his mouth meets hers again, hands finding their way to her waist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her.

Y/N’s hands slide up to his shoulders, fingertips brushing the edge of his tank top before rushing to bury themselves in his hair.

Chris finally pulls back, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath, his skin radiating a comforting warmth. “I think you got me worked up enough,” he mutters, that familiar cocky attitude returning as a smirk spreads across his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Y/N lets out a soft, flustered laugh, biting her lip as she glances to the side, her reaction half amusement, half embarrassment. Her cheeks are already warm, but now the blush quickly spreads to her ears.

Without breaking eye contact, Chris settles onto the bed, one arm propped behind his head like he’s just chilling. He pats the space beside him, his gesture casual—even there’s nothing casual about this situation.

Y/N hesitates for only a second before moving, swallowing her nerves as she sits beside him. Not too close, not too far. Her heart thumps as she adjusts her position, trying to figure out the right amount of space; close enough to seem confident, far enough to not seem desperate.

She ends up somewhere in the middle. And it still feels completely wrong.

“Don’t be nervous,” Chris says, his voice low as he bumps his knee against hers. “You’re just watchin’ me jerk off, that’s all. Totally casual.”

He squints playfully at her, grin growing with every second he sees her try not to laugh.

Y/N shakes her head and covers her mouth, amusement tugging at her lips despite herself. “You’re insane,” she mutters, her voice light and teasing through a quiet chuckle.

Chris’s grin lingers as he leans back on the bed. “You sure you’re good?” he asks, eyes scanning over her to search for any hint of discomfort.

Y/N nods, her smile dimming into a softer nervous yet curious one. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Chris hums low in his throat, looking away for a second like he’s letting the moment breathe, giving her time to collect herself. Then, slowly—almost lazily—he shifts his hips and runs his palm down the front of his sweats, not directly touching anything yet, just letting the implication sit.

“I’m not gonna, like, make it weird,” he mutters with a smirk, glancing at her out the corner of his eye. “Unless you want it to be.”

Y/N’s eyes drift downward, sucking in an audibly shaky breath. She shifts slightly, straightening her posture like she's trying to hide that he's totally caught her off guard.

Chris huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, clearly amused. His eyes stay on her, lips pulling into something close to a smirk as he bites down gently on his bottom lip. “You’re lookin’ real focused,” he whispers, practically eye fucking her as he subtly palms himself.

She doesn’t answer, just lifts her gaze to meet his. Chris takes her curious stare as a green light. He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous habit she grown to know all too well by now.

A quiet chuckle escapes him, almost uncertain. His tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes drift from hers. He doesn’t look at her when he slips his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, which sit just above the edge of his sweats. He’s still concealed, his movements slow, measured.

The reality of the situation finally hits Y/N. She bites her lip, almost instinctively. She’s seen Chris shirtless countless times—at the beach, at the pool, towel slung low on his hips fresh out of the shower. Fuck, he’s even mooned her a couple of times just to make her laugh.

But this?

This is more than that. This is different.

Finally, Y/N speaks, her voice quiet. “Do you… like when someone watches you?”

Chris’s jaw tightens at the question, his heavy eyes widening for a moment. The intensity fades quickly, replaced by his usual calm control. He exhales slowly, voice now husky. “Yeah.”

She swallows hard, shifting again where she sat, thighs pressing tighter together as heat pooled low in her stomach. It was ridiculous how hot this was—sexy even. He wasn’t even exposed, and she could barely contain herself.

She notices the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his posture changes when he touches himself. His jaw tightens, brows pinching in quiet concentration. But he keeps himself out of sight, hand moving slow beneath the fabric, keeping the reveal just out of reach. Like he was letting her adjust.

Chris glances over at her again, lips parted, breath a little heavier now, as if he’s no longer trying to hide how good it feels. His eyes find hers for just a second before he moves to rest his free hand gently on her thigh.

His thumb begins to move, slow circles against her skin. His touch serves as a quiet invitation. A silent you can join if you want.

Her breath hitched and he must’ve heard it, because the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

Y/N looks at him with a flustered look in her eyes. Her chest rises with a slow, shaky breath, needing to speak but struggling to find the words.

“Can I?..”

The question comes out quick. Vague. Nervous. But her eyes don’t leave his, silently asking him to understand what she meant without making her say it.

Chris huffs out a quiet laugh. His smile grows cocky as his hand still lazily works beneath his boxers.

“Can you what?” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to make her shudder. “Hm?”

He knows what she’s asking. Of course he does, he's not dumb. But he’s not going to let her off that easy. He wants her to say it.

“Chris—” she huffs, a teasing warning in her tone. “You know what I want.”

Her voice has that spark again, the one he didn’t realize he’d missed until now. It makes his smug grin soften into something more genuine.

He leans back slightly, eyes scanning her face with something warmer behind them.

“There she is,” he mutters with a low chuckle, clearly pleased. “Took you long enough.”

He still wants to fluster her—can’t help it. But fuck, he missed this version of her. The one who gave him shit right back.

“You—wanna take over?” Chris asks, breath catching mid-sentence as his cock twitches in his hand.

Y/N nods.

He pulls his hand away, glancing at her for confirmation. Then, with a swift motion, he pushes his boxers and sweats down just enough to let himself spring free.

Her breath caught at the sight of him. Him, her best friend, in front of her like this.

He didn’t look at her right away, just kept quiet. He was giving her space. Letting her look, take it in, feel whatever she needed to feel without commentary.

“How—how do you… um… like it?” Y/N asks, her voice shaky, nervousness clear in her tone. She's not feeling scared or pressured, just nervous. Because she wants him to feel good. Because she doesn't want to fuck this up.

She wraps her hand around the base of his dick, and Chris exhales softly, a noise that just kind of slipped out.

“Just… uh—tight and slow? I—I don’t know…” He stumbles over his words like he’s forgotten how to speak. He collects himself before continuing, “It’ll feel good no matter what. Don’t worry.”

He drags his eyes up to meet hers, his gaze soft and warm, fond almost.

She offers a small, shy smile in return, flattered by the reassurance—and already knowing the answer to her unspoken question.

“And why’s that?”

Chris’s smirk widens, playful but sweet.

“’Cause it’s you, ma.”

Y/N can’t help the soft smile that eases onto her lips as she begins to stroke him, just the way he said he liked—slow and tight. Her body leans in, drifting closer without even realizing it, her focus locked entirely on his face.

Sure, she could be staring at his pretty cock in her hand right now; But his face? His reactions? That's all she really cares about.

His lips are parted, breath shallow, swallowing every sound that might slip out too easily. She watches the tension in his jaw, the way his lashes flutter, how his brows knit together in that desperate way she’s never seen from him before. He looks so fucking needy, so fucking pathetic. And god is it sexy.

“You okay, Chris?” Y/N teases, her voice laced with a sultry kind of innocence that didn’t exist a few minutes ago. The shift in her confidence is subtle, but unmistakable, and it has him fucking reeling.

Her wrist twists with every stroke, a slight squeeze at the head making his hips twitch. Chris lets out a breathy chuckle, the sound almost strained. “Don’t start with me,” he warns, his tone daring, though his grin betrays him.

His eyes squint open, catching the soft, sly smile on her lips, the one that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. She's playing coy. Everything about her in this moment feels deliberate, like she’s playing a character, and he’s completely fucked for it.

“Where’d all this confidence come from?” Chris manages, his voice rough and strained, eyelids squeezed shut like he’s fighting the need.

Y/N grins and tilts her head, her strokes never faltering. “Beats me,” she says airily, leaning in just a bit closer. “Why, you complainin’?”

His lips part, a shaky breath escaping as his head tips back slightly. “Not even a little,” he mumbles, voice nearly a groan.

Y/N bites her lip, her gaze sweeping slowly over his face, taking in every detail; the furrow of his brow, the way his lips part as he holds his breath to keep in any and all noises. After a beat of silence, she reaches up with her free hand and gently guides his chin toward her.

Chris opens his eyes at the contact, pupils blown, lips parted. That look—dazed and desperate—makes her body grow unbearably hot. Her thighs press tighter together instinctively, just as his own leg twitches beside her.

He lets out a low, unrestrained groan, his first real sound. She leans in and catches his mouth with hers, kissing him with a slow, deliberate intensity that makes it clear: this time, she’s the one leading.

“Fuck—I need you.” The words spill from Chris’s lips like a confession, hot and breathless against her plump lips. His hand cradles her jaw, tugging her even closer, like he can’t stand the inch of space between them.

Her neck burns, warmth blooming all the way down to her core where it flutters. He needs her. Not just anyone—her. Her best friend wants her. He craves her.

“Then have me.” The words fall out between kisses, soft but sure.

Chris freezes, lips hovering just above hers. His chest rises and falls like he’s been sucker-punched. A breathy, helpless moan escapes him before he can stop it—half shock, half pleasure, and all her fault. She’s still stroking him, slow and steady, like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just blow his fucking mind.

“Wait—are you serious?” His voice is hoarse, wrecked with disbelief. Her. The same girl who said she was afraid. The one he swore he’d never push.

Y/N only nods, her thumb unthinkingly ghosting over the head of his cock. His whole body twitches.

“Shit—Y/N—fuck—” He groans, head tipping back as he sucks in a shaky breath.

Y/N bites back a laugh at his reaction, slowing her pace out of mercy, then whispering a playful, “Sorry,” knowing she's not actually sorry at all.

Chris opens his eyes, searching hers as he tries to read between every word she isn’t saying.

“You’re not just—saying that, right?” he asks, quieter now. “Tell me what you mean. What do you want me to do?”

Y/N sighs softly, like she’s still trying to gather her thoughts. “Chris—”

“YO!” A voice cuts through the air, loud and unbothered. There’s a brief pause, followed by a muffled, “Where the fuck are those two?"

"We got McDonald’s!! Nick was being picky!!”

Matt.

Chris groans, head lolling back against the wall as he lets out a series of dramatic, whiny noises. “OKAY! Just finishing up a game!” he yells back, his voice cracking slightly with frustration.

Y/N’s hand slips away from him, resting in her lap as she laughs under her breath, clearly amused by his misery despite the embarrassment heating up her cheeks.

“I didn’t even get to cum,” Chris grumbles like a kid who just had his toy taken away, tossing his hands up in full defeat.

“Put your dick away and let’s go eat, i'm starving.” Y/N says, voice light as she trails her fingertips teasingly along his still-hard length.

Chris gasps, a breathy chuckle slipping out. “Oh—fuck you,” he mutters, shaking his head before tugging his pants back up over his needy cock.

A sly grin plays on Y/N’s lips. “You will,” she calls over her shoulder, turning on her heel and striding out of the room as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Chris pauses for a beat, then pulls his hoodie back on, taking a deep, steadying breath as he adjusts himself one last time. He follows her out, giddily grinning, flushed, and completely undone.

a/n: heyyy, crazy how many people wanted this second part😭 ts actually gave me sm trouble like i hated it for a while and still kinda hate it, so i really hope you guys feel different😓 if you wanna be added to my tag list for this series or any in the future for that matter, simply just comment on the post!! (i hope i did the tagging shit right i'm so new to posting on this app) thank you so much, hope you enjoyed!!

dividers: all me!! feel free to use, they're just lines and emoticons after all, nothin fancy😭

taglist!!: @sophand4n4 @annsx03 @sinarainbows @jjmaybankswifes-blog @hannahsturniolo

©.urvampygf

#sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x y/n #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fluff #christopher owen sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo smut #christopher sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets imagines #sturniolo triplets x reader

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edenesth · 5 months ago

Text

5 Steps to Losing to You

Pairing: student council president!Yunho x vice president!fem!reader

AU: high school au (enemies to lovers)

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: The student council president of KQ High had five simple steps to surviving his vice president: outshine you, outsmart you, outlast you, annoy you, and — definitely — never fall for you. Too bad every step brought him closer to late-night arguments, unexpected truths, and one unforgettable confession under the fireworks. Somewhere between enemies and uneasy allies, Yunho took five steps too far — and ended up losing (his heart) to you.

Genre: romance (duh), comedy

A/N: Thank you, @itstheghostofmypast, for giving me the urge to write another high school AU. This one's heavily inspired by one of my favourite animes of all time, Kaguya-sama: Love Is War.

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Do you ever meet someone for the very first time, and somehow, without a single word exchanged, you just know — from the very core of your being — that you can't stand them? No logical reason. No past history. Just pure, gut-level irritation.

That was exactly how Jung Yunho felt the second you stepped into the student council room, your posture straight, your expression unreadable, exuding the kind of effortless confidence that set his teeth on edge.

You were the new transfer student — the one the teachers haven't been able to stop raving about, the one who somehow landed the coveted vice president title before even learning the school layout. And now, here you were, standing beside him, the council's golden boy, as if you belonged there.

"Dude, that's her? Oh, they weren't lying when they said she'd be eye candy," Wooyoung, the council treasurer, whispered with a smirk, elbowing Yunho's side. Yunho didn't even glance at you. He just scoffed, nudging Wooyoung back hard enough to make him stumble. "Yeah? Well, too bad a pretty face isn't enough to survive my council. I give her two weeks before she runs back to wherever she came from."

He said it loud enough for you to hear — on purpose — just to see if you'd flinch. But you didn't. You only lifted your chin slightly, eyes flicking toward him for a single, scathing second. And in that moment, you hated him just as much as he hated you.

Because from the moment you locked eyes, you knew exactly who he was — the adored, untouchable president who had everyone wrapped around his finger. The boy who carried himself like the school was his kingdom, and every student his subject. And now you were supposed to serve under him?

Absolutely not.

You hadn't transferred here to play second to anyone — least of all some arrogant, overhyped, self-proclaimed king. Back at your old school, you were always at the top: top grades, top leadership positions, top of every ranking that mattered. You weren't just a vice president — you were a future president in the making.

If Yunho thought you were here to play a supporting role in his perfect little reign, he was dead wrong.

You weren't here to make friends.

You were here to take his crown.

────

Yunho leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he watched you skim through the thick binder of council documents that Seulgi, the council secretary, had just handed over. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you like you were some kind of unwelcome intruder trespassing on his territory.

"Hope you're not too overwhelmed," Yunho said, voice dripping with fake concern. "Student council here isn't exactly… beginner-friendly."

You didn't bother looking up, flipping another page instead. "Don't worry, President," you replied, tone sweet but sharp. "I've dealt with more organised councils before. This is nothing I can't fix."

The room went still for half a second — just enough for Seulgi to glance between you both like she was watching a fuse being lit.

Yunho's smile sharpened. "Fix? That's a bold word for someone who hasn't even seen our term plan yet."

You finally met his gaze, leaning forward just slightly over the table. "Oh, I've seen it. Last year's records were so charming, especially the part where half the events went over budget and the spring festival had a typo on the banner. Spring Festivel, was it?"

The muscle in his jaw twitched, but his grin didn't falter. "Funny. You talk big for someone who just transferred here. But I get it — new girl syndrome. All ambition, no clue how things actually work."

You rested your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the table. "And you talk big for someone who's clearly too comfortable sitting on his throne. Guess we'll see who adjusts faster — me to this school, or you to having actual competition."

The president's smile froze in place. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was being challenged — especially not by someone who hadn't even been here a full week.

Seulgi cleared her throat awkwardly. "So! Uh, why don't we go over this semester's goals together? You know… as a team?"

You and Yunho didn't break eye contact. Neither of you smiled.

"Can't wait," you said.

"Neither can I," he replied.

And like that, the war had officially begun.

────

To the outside world — to teachers, students, and anyone not trapped in this cursed room — Yunho and you were the dream team, the picture-perfect president and vice president duo. Smiling side by side during assemblies, coordinating in perfect sync during meetings, and even exchanging polite nods in the hallway.

But inside these four walls, away from the prying eyes of your adoring audience, it was an entirely different story.

It started small. The first time Yunho reached for the meeting agenda, it was mysteriously missing from his file. "Alright, let's get started with today's agenda—" he paused, flipping through his folder, only to find the neatly printed schedule gone. His eyes snapped up, narrowing instantly at you.

You sat across from him, filing your nails with deliberate slowness, not even trying to hide your smug smile when he had to wing the entire meeting from memory. "Looking for something, President?" you asked sweetly.

Wooyoung watched the exchange from the corner, whispering to Seulgi, "That's the second time this week. If this keeps up, he's gonna staple the agenda to his forehead."

The secretary sighed, already immune to the madness. "At least they're creative."

Then there was the presentation. Monthly council update in front of all the teachers, a perfect opportunity for the president to shine — until Yunho confidently clicked to the next slide… and instead of student council statistics, the screen flashed an embarrassingly tragic childhood photo of him mid-sneeze, teeth crooked, hair tragic.

Gasps filled the room. His eye twitched. From beside him, you covered your mouth, the picture of shocked concern, while under the table, your finger rested innocently on the laptop's trackpad.

"Oops," you whispered sweetly.

"You're dead," Yunho mouthed back.

The teachers would later praise your teamwork for handling the "technical difficulty" so gracefully.

The coffee war escalated next. Yunho, ever the gentleman, brought you coffee before morning meetings — extra bitter because he knew you hated it with a passion. You retaliated the next day, handing him a cup that smelled amazing but was actually salted beyond salvation.

Wooyoung took a cautious sip from his own drink, eyeing both of you. "This is why I only drink from the vending machine now."

"Smart," Seulgi muttered.

When it came time to make festival posters, the battle turned artistic. The school festival posters were a joint project — one half handled by you, the other by the president. What should have been a cohesive design turned into visual warfare.

Yunho's side was classic and professional, clean fonts and crisp colours. Your side? Bold, flashy, practically neon — and just slightly crooked, making his side look off-balance.

"It's like watching a couple divorce through graphic design," Wooyoung whispered.

"Except they were never married," Seulgi muttered. "Thank god."

The final straw — at least for that week — came during the morning announcements, when the president confidently read out the list of upcoming events — only to realise someone had swapped his script. Instead of the council's official calendar, he was now announcing a fake bake sale where Yunho himself would supposedly be dressing as a bunny mascot to promote sales.

His death glare found you through the broadcast window. You waved back cheerfully.

The students roared with excitement. "Bunnyho!" they chanted.

Seulgi buried her face in her hands. Wooyoung filmed everything.

And yet, the moment those council doors swung open, you both snapped back into your roles like pros. Smiling in sync at the cameras, cutting ribbons together with practised grace, even finishing each other's sentences when teachers asked about the upcoming festival. It was a performance so convincing that even Wooyoung — who knew the truth — found himself applauding.

"It's terrifying," the treasurer started, watching the two of you gracefully cut the ribbon at a new club opening ceremony. "They look like they actually… get along," he whispered, equal parts horrified and impressed.

"Tell me about it. They're scarily good at this," Seulgi agreed, clapping along with the crowd. "It's like they're starring in a romcom where only they missed the memo."

If only they knew.

If only the rest of the school knew.

If only anyone knew that beneath all the staged smiles and synchronised speeches, it would only take five steps for the mighty president and his infuriating vice president to lose — not to each other, but to something neither of them ever saw coming.

────

Step One: seeing each other.

It started like any other day in the student council room — a battleground polished to perfection.

You arrived first, flipping open your notebook, already plotting your next move. Yunho followed shortly after, shooting you a glare so subtle no one else would notice, but you caught it. You always did. The latest round in your ongoing war had been yours — you'd managed to replace his entire project folder with a stack of fake documents detailing a made-up proposal for a "Student Council Talent Show," featuring him as both host and performer. He'd spent an hour in front of the principal before realising the whole thing was a setup. You were winning.

So when Yunho swept into the room, you were already bracing for his retaliation. And sure enough, it came — a stack of freshly printed minutes from the last meeting placed squarely in front of you. Except every instance of your name had been replaced with "Her Royal Highness, The Vice President of Perfection".

You stared at it. He smiled, all teeth and zero remorse.

"Thanks for the edit," you said coolly.

"Anything for my vice president," he shot back.

But that wasn't the real blow. The real sabotage came during the club funding review later that afternoon. It was your turn to present the approved budgets for each club, a dry, boring task — until Yunho, in a voice far too innocent, asked, "By the way, Your Highness — didn't your old school have a fencing club? You were captain, right?"

You froze for half a second. It was microscopic — no one noticed. Except for Yunho. Of course, he noticed.

"Yeah," you said, flicking through the papers like the question meant nothing. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing. Just wondering why you transferred out so suddenly. From what I hear, you were practically royalty back there, too."

You knew what he was doing. Fishing. Trying to unearth whatever dirt might be hiding under your perfect exterior. You forced a smile. "It was boring," you lied. "Needed a challenge."

He hummed, unconvinced.

Later that evening, you found your chance to return the favour. You'd overheard a conversation between Wooyoung and Seulgi, something about Yunho always leaving in a rush after school, barely staying long enough to clean up. So you set a trap — a simple one. You "accidentally" scheduled a last-minute meeting that ran late, forcing him to stay behind.

You expected him to blow up at you afterwards. You were ready for it. What you didn't expect was to follow the tall and lanky boy out — purely out of curiosity — only to watch him walk straight to the convenience store down the street, throw on a part-time apron, and start restocking shelves.

You stood outside, stunned, watching the golden boy student council president clock into a job like any regular kid. Except he wasn't just any regular kid, was he?

For the first time, you saw him without the shine — no polished uniform, no cocky smirk, no sharp words ready to fire at you. Just a boy with his sleeves pushed up, quietly stacking instant noodles, stopping every so often to check his phone like he was waiting for a message.

And when his phone finally buzzed, you saw him smile — small, tired, real.

You didn't mean to see the text, but you did.

Mum: Yunho-yah, don't forget to bring home eggs if they're on sale.

You stepped back before he could notice you watching, heart thudding with something you couldn't quite name.

That was the first crack.

The next day, Yunho found a neatly folded discount coupon for eggs tucked into his student council folder. No signature. No note. Just a coupon.

He stared at it for a long time.

For once, neither of you said anything.

But it didn't end there.

Later that week, Yunho caught sight of you outside the school gates, long after the council room had emptied. He hadn't meant to linger — in fact, he had every intention of ignoring you like usual — but something about the way you stood there caught his attention.

You weren't scrolling through your phone or chatting with anyone. You just stood there, posture straight, hands clutching your bag like it was the only thing keeping you upright. A sleek black car pulled up, polished until the surface gleamed, and a middle-aged man in a pressed suit stepped out to open the door for you.

He scoffed quietly to himself. Of course.

Princess treatment. Figures.

But as you slid into the back seat, something about the way you moved made him pause. Stiff. Formal. Like you were stepping into a stranger's car, not your own. He caught a glimpse of your face through the tinted window before it rolled up — your gaze fixed straight ahead, unfocused, mouth pressed into a thin line. You looked... distant. Detached.

Not proud. Not smug.

Not like someone who had it all.

Just... tired.

Yunho frowned, stuffing his hands into his pockets, muttering under his breath, "Must be nice to have everything handed to you... so why do you look like you've got nothing?"

He didn't have an answer. And that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

That night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the memory of your empty eyes lingering longer than they should.

Neither of you knew it yet — but the game was already changing.

────

Step Two: the unexpected rescue.

The rain came down hard — the kind of storm that soaked you to the bone in seconds, drumming against the pavement with no mercy. You stood just outside the school gates, shoulders hunched slightly under the awning, arms crossed tight as your phone buzzed non-stop in your hand.

Driver (5 missed calls)

Driver: Stuck in traffic. 15 minutes.

Driver: 20 minutes.

Driver: Sorry, Miss. It's a mess out here.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, locking your screen before shoving the phone into your pocket. This was typical — your family's staff was always prompt when it came to your father, but for you? Delays. Excuses. You were used to it. Didn't make it any less irritating.

The rain intensified, and you took a careful step back, just barely avoiding a splash from a passing car. That's when you saw him — Yunho, already halfway down the sidewalk, hood pulled up, backpack slung over one shoulder.

He could have kept walking. You expected him to. Hell, you would've preferred it.

But he stopped.

He stood there for a second, back still facing you, before you saw his shoulders rise and fall in what looked suspiciously like deep, begrudging contemplation. Then, without a word, he turned back, marched toward you, and thrust his umbrella out with one hand.

"Don't make it weird," he muttered, hood shadowing half his face. "I'm not leaving my vice president to drown. People would talk."

You stared at him, dumbfounded, before slowly stepping under the umbrella's cover. Your shoulder brushed his — just barely — but it was enough to make the air between you heavier than the rain itself.

"You're still an arrogant ass," you said, mostly out of habit.

"And you're still annoying," he shot back.

But neither of you moved away.

The walk to the nearby bus stop was silent, save for the rain pattering against the umbrella's canopy and your synchronised footsteps on the wet pavement. The silence should have been awkward — it always was between the two of you — but this time, it felt... almost easy.

At the stop, he held the umbrella steady over both your heads until the bus pulled up, wiping rainwater off his forehead with his sleeve.

"Don't think this means I like you," he said, voice quieter than usual.

You snorted, climbing up the bus steps. "Please. I'd be more worried if you did."

But when you found your seat by the window, you caught a glimpse of him outside — standing there in the rain, umbrella still in hand, watching the bus pull away. Neither of you knew why this moment stuck so firmly in your minds. You just knew something had shifted.

The next morning, you were absent.

Yunho should've been pleased. A day without your sharp tongue, your constant presence, your infuriating need to challenge his every decision — it should've felt like a vacation. But instead, an uncomfortable unease gnawed at him from the moment he entered the council room and saw your usual seat empty.

He shouldn't care. He knew that. But for some reason, his mind kept circling back to the night before — the rain, the bus, the fleeting glimpse of your tired face in the window.

Did you even get home safely?

He scowled at the thought. Not my problem. I already did more than enough. But no matter how much he tried to shake it off, that knot of regret just sat there in his chest, stubborn and unrelenting.

By mid-morning, his irritation boiled over. Slamming his pen down, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Where's Vice President Pain-in-the-Ass today?" he asked, tone far too casual to be casual.

Wooyoung's eyebrows shot up — before a slow smirk stretched across his face. "Why? Miss her already? You two were so cute sharing that umbrella last night."

Yunho's chair scraped violently against the floor as he sat up straighter. "What?! Who said— That's not— I'm only asking because I was expecting her to submit the student committee reports today!"

"Suuure," Wooyoung drawled, dragging out the word until Yunho was ready to fling a stapler at his head.

Seulgi, ever the peacekeeper, stepped in with a sigh. "She called in sick. Probably caught a cold from getting drenched yesterday."

The president's stomach did an uncomfortable flip, though he masked it with a disinterested shrug. "Serves her right for not bringing her own umbrella," he muttered.

But later that night, during his shift at the convenience store, he nearly rang up a customer's items twice — his mind completely elsewhere. Each time the door chimed, he half-expected to see you storm in with some ridiculous complaint about student council policies. He hated the way that thought made his chest tighten.

He hated it even more when, the next morning, he found himself at his kitchen counter — brewing herbal tea.

When you returned to school the next day, you dropped your bag onto your desk, only to pause, brow furrowing. Sitting there, completely unassuming, was a flask of warm herbal tea. No note. No explanation.

You glanced around the empty room — only one other person was there this early, and of course, it was him. Yunho, head down, pretending to be engrossed in a report he had already read twice.

You nudged the flask aside and pulled out your notebook instead, determined not to play into whatever weird game this was.

Across the room, his pen froze mid-sentence. After a few beats of silence, he huffed, loud enough for you to hear.

"For heaven's sake, it's not poisoned," he said, still not looking up. "Drink it if you want to actually recover."

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious — but curiosity (and the faint scratch in your throat) won out. You unscrewed the lid, steam rising in a gentle curl. It smelled... comforting. Soothing. Like something homemade.

Reluctantly, you took a sip.

"...It's good," you admitted quietly.

He didn't respond, but when you looked up, you caught him — just for a second — sneaking a glance at you over the top of his file.

Again, neither of you said another word.

────

Step Three: forced vulnerability.

For a while, it seemed like the umbrella incident and the flask of tea never happened. Whatever fleeting kindness had passed between you both was quickly swallowed by your usual dynamic — sharp words, constant one-upping, and a relentless need to prove the other wrong.

That fragile truce didn't stand a chance.

It all came to a head after yet another brutal fight — the kind that had papers flying across the table, voices raised loud enough to make the underclassmen passing by the council room door wince. Seulgi had to physically step between you, arms stretched out like a human barricade.

"You always have to hog the spotlight, don't you?" you seethed, finger jabbing toward Yunho. "President this, President that — it's like you can't function unless the whole school is watching you."

"And you're any better?" His voice came sharp and fast, eyes blazing. "You waltz in here acting like you're saving us all, like this council should be grateful to breathe the same air as you. Spoiled little princess who can't handle not being number one."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Wooyoung, who usually lived for drama like this, suddenly found his folder of expense reports incredibly fascinating.

You stormed out before anyone could see the flicker of hurt flash across your face. No way were you going to let Jung Yunho of all people make you feel small.

You walked blindly down the hall, fury pulsing in your veins, until you froze at the sound of his voice — quieter, softer, so unlike the boy who had just ripped into you moments ago.

"…No, Mum, I can't cover that shift. I already stayed late for council." A pause. "It's fine, really. I'll figure it out."

The reminder hit you hard. Yunho, the golden boy, the president everyone envied — was working part-time jobs after school. The same boy who seemed to have it all was just another kid juggling too much, carrying more weight than he let on. You didn't mean to eavesdrop, but you couldn't move either. Something about the edge of exhaustion in his voice made you stay.

Suddenly, the arrogant bastard didn't seem so untouchable after all.

A few days later, the roles reversed.

Yunho had gone to the library to grab an old council binder when he spotted you tucked away at a corner table. You weren't working — just sitting there, blankly staring at an open textbook like the words weren't even registering.

Next to you, a small pile of letters lay scattered — some still sealed, others torn open, the papers inside slightly crumpled like you'd held them too tightly. He didn't need to read them to know what they were. Letters from parents who cared more about achievements than feelings, words dressed up as 'encouragement' but laced with disappointment underneath.

He hadn't meant to stop, but something about the way your shoulders curled inward — that tiny, defeated slump — made him pull out a chair across from you without a word. He opened his own notebook, flipping through pages like he had a reason to be there.

The silence stretched, but for once, it didn't feel awkward.

Eventually, Yunho broke it.

"Not everyone's parents show up for them either, huh?" he said quietly, still pretending to read.

Your head snapped up, startled by the unexpected understanding in his voice. But he didn't look at you. He just kept twirling his pen between his fingers, as if the words had been said casually — like it wasn't the first time either of you had ever acknowledged this shared emptiness.

You didn't answer, but you didn't push the letters away either.

And just like that, things further shifted.

For the first time, you both saw each other — not as rivals or enemies, but just two kids quietly drowning under the weight of expectations neither of you had asked for.

────

Step Four: defending each other.

It happened so fast, you didn't even have time to think.

You were passing by the courtyard on your way back to the council room when you heard them — two students sitting on the low wall, voices pitched just loud enough to be overheard.

"I heard she only got vice president because her family donated a new wing to the school."

"Yeah, everyone knows Yunho's the real deal. She's just there to smile and look pretty. Riding his coattails the whole way."

Your hands curled into fists, steps already veering toward them — but someone else got there first.

The sharp thud of a bag hitting the ground made the gossipers jolt upright. Yunho stood there, shoulders squared, eyes dark with something dangerously close to fury.

"Say that again," he said quietly — and somehow, the softness of his voice was far more terrifying than if he'd shouted.

The students stammered, scrambling for excuses, and he didn't even spare you a glance as he slung his bag back over his shoulder and walked off, leaving you standing there — stunned silent.

Because for all the times you had accused him of being full of himself, Jung Yunho had defended you like it was second nature. Like the idea of anyone else insulting you was unthinkable.

You didn't know what to do with that.

The universe, however, was nothing if not fair. Because just a few days later, the rumours shifted — this time, about Yunho.

"Did you hear? Student council president's working at some convenience store. Imagine seeing him behind the counter after school, bagging snacks for pocket change."

"Golden boy's not so golden after all."

The words grated against your ears so sharply, you were standing in front of them before you even realised you'd moved.

Arms crossed, chin lifted, you gave them a smile so sweet it made your words all the sharper. "Funny. I didn't realise students who can't even pass basic math had opinions anyone cared about."

The stunned silence that followed was delicious. You didn't wait for their response — just turned on your heel and walked off like they weren't even worth your time.

That should've been the end of it — except Yunho was waiting for you by the lockers later that afternoon, arms folded, gaze unreadable.

"I didn't ask you to defend me," he said, tone somewhere between exasperation and confusion.

"Yeah, well." You shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "Couldn't let my rival's reputation get dragged through the mud before I beat you fair and square."

He stared at you for a long moment — long enough that you felt heat creep up your neck. And then, to your utter disbelief, he smiled. Just a little.

"You're insane."

"You're welcome."

Neither of you admitted what was really happening here.

Neither of you wanted to.

Because rivals didn't protect each other like this — right?

…Right?

It was supposed to be a one-time thing.

That's what you both told yourselves. Yunho stepping in when people ran their mouths about you? Just defending the council's reputation. You shutting down rumours about his part-time job? Basic professional courtesy. Nothing more.

Except it kept happening.

You noticed when he looked more tired than usual, dark circles smudged under his eyes like he hadn't slept a wink — and then you caught yourself caring. Which was ridiculous. You didn't care. You were just making sure the president didn't screw up his responsibilities because he couldn't handle his personal life. Right?

And Yunho? He wasn't watching out for you. No way. He just… happened to notice when you didn't eat lunch (because of course a spoiled princess would be picky), and maybe that's why he tossed a protein bar onto your desk without looking at you. Totally normal. Not thoughtful. Just practical.

The mental gymnastics you both performed to justify each and every concern were Olympic-level.

When you caught the president absently saving you the better seat during meetings, you told yourself he was just being tactical — easier for you to see the projector, of course. And when Yunho overheard you grumbling about forgetting your calculator before a math quiz, and then somehow one appeared on your desk five minutes later, you were definitely not touched. It was probably a spare he didn't need. Nothing more.

Wooyoung and Seulgi, meanwhile, were losing their minds — because the two of you were so deep in denial it was physically painful to watch.

"She just snapped at him for using the wrong pen colour for the event banners, then turned around and gave him the last slice of cake at the meeting," Seulgi whispered, wide-eyed.

"And he's been pretending to hate her handwriting, but I caught him saving one of her post-it notes in his folder," Wooyoung whispered back.

"Should we help?"

"Nah. Let them suffer."

Because to everyone else, it was painfully obvious: the two of you cared, far too much, and it was eating you both alive.

Neither of you could sleep without replaying your arguments, wondering if you'd crossed a line. Neither of you could look at the other without searching for signs — were they okay? Were they pushing too hard? Were they... thinking about you too?

Of course not.

You hated each other.

That's what you told yourselves.

That's what you needed to believe.

────

Step Five: the breaking point.

The final planning meeting for the year-end festival — the crown jewel of student council events — was supposed to be smooth sailing.

Supposed to be.

Instead, it turned into a sudden crisis and full-blown disaster. Miscommunications piled up like wreckage, schedules clashed, vendors were double-booked, and somehow, two essential permits vanished into thin air — all thanks to the endless assumptions of he'll handle it or she'll settle it.

In truth, the entire student council had been stretched too thin. With final year exams looming and everyone juggling revision sessions alongside festival planning, it was inevitable that details would slip through the cracks. Messages were missed, notes went unshared, and somewhere along the way, every member — even you and Yunho — had trusted that someone else would catch the mistakes.

No one did.

And now, with barely a week left until the biggest event of the year, it was all on the verge of collapse.

The council room was a war zone by the end of the day, with papers scattered across every surface, and half-eaten snacks abandoned next to rapidly-drained cups of instant coffee. The rest of the council had long since been sent home after nearly combusting from secondhand stress.

That left just the two of you — sworn enemies, or at least that's what you both kept telling yourselves — sitting across from each other in the wreckage, sleeves rolled up, hair undone, exhaustion written into every breath.

Somewhere between fixing the vendor placements and rewriting the schedule for the third time, you both cracked.

Laughter. Actual, delirious laughter. It started small — you snorted at something he mumbled under his breath, and he stared at you like you'd grown a second head before dissolving into laughter himself. The kind that made your stomach ache and your shoulders shake, the kind fueled by stress and sleep deprivation until it was impossible to stop.

"This is actual hell," you groaned, collapsing onto the table, cheek smushed against a poorly drawn map of the festival grounds.

"Yeah," he leaned back, arms hanging off the back of his chair, head tilted to stare at the ceiling. "But at least it's not boring."

You turned your head to look at him — hair sticking up in every direction, tie loosened, shirt wrinkled, sleeves unevenly rolled, and yet somehow still the same Yunho who drove you insane. Except, right now, he wasn't the 'golden boy president.' He was just… a boy. One who was just as tired, just as human.

"Yunho," you said softly, surprising even yourself. "Why do you hate me?"

His laughter faded. He didn't look at you right away — just exhaled long and slow, fingers tapping against the table.

"Because you make me feel like I'm not enough," he admitted, voice low, like a confession dragged straight from his chest. "And I hate feeling that way."

The honesty knocked the air from your lungs. Because it was exactly how you felt too — and you'd never meant for him to see you like that, just like you never thought you'd see him like this.

"I never wanted to hate you," you whispered, voice small. "I just wanted to beat you."

He finally turned his head, gaze meeting yours — and for the first time, there was no sharpness, no competition, no battle lines drawn between you. Just understanding.

And maybe, just maybe, something softer underneath. Something neither of you were ready to name.

"It's late. We should go," he murmured.

The air was cool, the sky stretched inky black above you, and the silence between you wasn't exactly uncomfortable — just unfamiliar. After months of snapping and snarling at each other, the absence of sharp words felt almost too quiet. Too fragile.

The two of you walked side by side down the empty street, your steps slower than usual, like neither of you wanted to be the first to break the strange peace that had settled over you.

But eventually, you couldn't hold back.

"…Are you okay not making your shift tonight?" you asked softly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

He took a moment before answering, the faint scrape of his shoes against the pavement filling the gap. "I'll just work a double another time," he said with a shrug, like it was no big deal.

It made something pinch in your chest — this casual acceptance of overworking himself like it was second nature. You hesitated, then asked the question you realised you'd never actually known the answer to.

"Why do you work so hard?"

He didn't answer right away. His hands slid into his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly under the weight of the question. But eventually, his voice emerged, quieter than you expected.

"For as long as I can remember, it's just been me and my mum," he said. "She works really hard, but money's always been tight. When I was old enough, I took as many jobs as I could — bagging groceries, tutoring, working at that convenience store. And I kept my grades up because… I just wanted to make her proud. Wanted to give her a life where she didn't have to worry anymore."

You slowed your steps, turning your head to look at him properly. And once again, you saw him — not as your rival, not as the frustrating golden boy — but as a son. Someone's son, trying his best.

"You're a good son, Yunho," you said softly, with a smile that felt more genuine than any you'd given him before.

He smiled back — just a little — until you added, just as softly, "Can't say the same for myself though."

Yunho's footsteps halted. You stopped too, eyes falling to the sidewalk beneath you.

"You wanted to know why I transferred here, right?" you asked, voice quieter now.

Without waiting for an answer, you bent down and pulled up the edge of your right sock, revealing a thin line of surgical scars tracing across your ankle. The streetlight caught on the pale skin, glinting faintly.

"One bad match," you said, almost to yourself. "One opponent who played dirty during championships. That's all it took."

His brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"Like you said, I used to be fencing captain. Top-ranked in my old school." You let out a soft, bitter laugh. "And after the injury, I couldn't compete. I fell from first place — took months off to recover, missed exams, missed everything. To my parents, that was all it took for me to become… a disappointment."

You let your sock fall back into place, hands brushing down your skirt, voice tight with forced cheer. "So, they sent me here to start over. To rebuild whatever glory I lost. To make me their perfect trophy again."

The president didn't say anything right away. And for once, you didn't try to fill the silence either. You just stood there together, in the middle of a quiet street, under a flickering streetlamp — two students who had spent so long trying to outshine each other, only to realise they were both just chasing shadows.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you'd ever heard it.

"They were wrong."

You glanced up at him, blinking.

"They were wrong to make you think you're only worth something if you're perfect."

Your throat tightened, and you had to look away — because if you didn't, you might actually cry, and you weren't ready for that. Not in front of him.

"Come on," he said gently, nudging your arm. "We still have to survive this festival. One tragedy at a time."

You laughed — watery, but real. And without thinking, you bumped your shoulder into his.

For once, he didn't bump back harder.

────

Five steps later, you were finally here.

The festival had somehow, miraculously, come together — the chaos you and Yunho had wrestled into order was now a blur of glowing lanterns, flashing booth lights, and bursts of laughter floating up into the night air. From the rooftop, you could see it all — your shared battlefield turned into something beautiful.

You should have felt victorious. But instead, your chest ached with something you couldn't name.

Footsteps behind you.

You didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"Shouldn't you be down there soaking up the praise, President?" you asked, arms folded across your chest, voice deliberately casual.

He stepped up beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets, gaze flicking down over the festival before settling on you. "Shouldn't you be down there taking credit, Vice President?"

You side-eyed him, lips twitching up despite yourself. "I thought you hated sharing your spotlight."

"I do," he said — quieter this time, almost too honest. "But… maybe I don't mind sharing with you."

You froze.

This wasn't the usual banter. There was no smirk, no teasing edge to his voice. Just Yunho, standing there under the open sky, the glow of the festival washing a soft colour over his face.

"I spent this whole year trying to beat you," you admitted softly, your fingers curling around the cool metal railing. "Trying to prove I was better."

"Same," he said — too quickly, like he'd been holding it in. Then he shook his head, a breathless laugh slipping out. "But every time I thought I was close to finally taking you down, I just… ended up liking you more."

Your heart stuttered. "Liking me?"

"Yeah." He exhaled hard, like saying it out loud physically knocked the air from his lungs. "I hated you so much I couldn't think straight, and then somewhere along the way, I just wanted to know you. All of you."

The first fireworks burst overhead, painting the sky in red and gold. The light caught in his hair, in his eyes — and you realised you'd been staring at him this whole time.

"You're such an idiot," you whispered, even though your throat was suddenly tight.

"Why?" He turned toward you fully now, his shoulder brushing yours. "Because I confessed first?"

"No." You took a step closer — close enough that the heat of him bled into your skin. "Because I've liked you too. For longer than I wanted to admit."

Another firework cracked, sending sparks raining down like stars.

Neither of you looked at it.

Yunho's hand found yours on the railing — the touch hesitant at first, until your fingers curled back around his. His thumb traced along your knuckles like he couldn't believe this was real.

"I still want to beat you," you said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Good." He leaned down, forehead almost brushing yours. "I wouldn't like you if you didn't."

And then — under a sky exploding with light — he kissed you.

It wasn't sweet or shy. It was a clash of everything you'd ever felt for each other — every argument that left you breathless, every late-night meeting where silence spoke louder than words, every sharp-tongued insult meant to cut but only carved deeper into longing.

His lips were warm and urgent, tasting faintly of festival cotton candy and the mint gum he always chewed when stressed. His hand slid up, fingers threading into your hair before settling at your jaw, his thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone so softly it left your skin tingling.

He pulled you in like you were something fragile and precious and dangerous all at once — something he couldn't risk breaking, but couldn't stand losing.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands fisting in the fabric of his blazer, tugging him closer until there was nothing between you but heat and heartbeats. You could feel the tremble in his breath, the subtle shudder that ran through him when your fingers brushed the back of his neck. His heart hammered so loudly against your chest that you could swear it was echoing your own.

The fireworks painted streaks of gold and crimson across your closed eyelids, but none of it compared to the colour blooming beneath your skin — the dizzying warmth curling low in your stomach, the ache of every unsaid word bleeding into every touch.

When you finally broke apart, panting slightly, foreheads pressed together, you both laughed — breathless and dazed — like you couldn't believe it took you this long to get here.

The fireworks were beautiful.

But they were nothing compared to this.

────

The following Monday after the festival, the entire school knew.

Some claimed they'd caught glimpses of you and Yunho sneaking off together just before the fireworks, while others swore they saw his arm casually draped around your shoulders during the late-night cleanup. And, of course, the boldest rumours came from those who witnessed you both at the council table, sipping from the same straw like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But none of that was the real giveaway.

The real giveaway was how you two fought — exactly the same as before, except now he called you baby in the middle of arguments, and you shot back with a saccharine sweetheart, both said with enough venom to curdle milk. The council meetings were still battlegrounds, but now they were laced with something sharper — affection disguised as irritation, fondness hidden under barbed words.

"We should focus on next month's fundraiser," Yunho declared, tapping his pen against the table.

"We should focus on midterm review sessions first," you countered, not even looking up from your notes.

"You just want to show off how perfect your study guides are," he accused, eyes narrowing.

"And you just want to procrastinate so you can rewrite your precious 'president's welcome speech,'" you fired back.

"It's called leadership."

"It's called an ego trip."

The room went silent — council members exchanging wide-eyed glances, already bracing for the explosion.

But instead of storming off like you used to, Yunho just leaned back in his chair, tilting his head with that infuriating smirk. "I'm still your boss, Vice President."

Your smile was too sweet, too dangerous. "And I'm still the one who covers your ass when you forget deadlines, President."

Somewhere in the back of the room, Wooyoung silently started a betting pool: kiss or kill — which would happen first?

Together, the two of you became the undeniable, unstoppable force of the student council — a perfect storm of brains, charisma, and sheer chaos. When Yunho's charm and golden-boy smile couldn't win over the principal, your cold logic and flawless presentations sealed the deal. When your sharp tongue and brutal honesty made freshmen tremble, his easy grin softened the blow. Together, you raised more funds, pulled off bigger events, and terrified more slackers than any council duo in school history.

And yes — you still argued like your lives depended on it.

But now, the fights ended with lazy kisses behind closed doors, fingers brushing under the table during meetings, and softly muttered threats of "I'm still going to beat you at this" whispered like a love language.

Some days, he walked you to your chauffeured car, fingers laced with yours despite the stunned looks from every passing student. Other days, you waited at the convenience store until his shift ended, pretending to browse the snack aisle while secretly watching him work — admiring the boy who once drove you insane, and now, somehow, made your heart ache in the best way possible.

And every night you walked home together, sharing an umbrella or splitting a can of soda, your shoulders bumping softly in the dark.

"We're still enemies, right?" you asked once, voice quiet under the stars.

He grinned, tugging you closer by the waist. "Always."

Then he kissed you again — and just like that, the fight for power had never tasted so sweet. Because somewhere between rivalry and romance, between every clash and compromise, you both realised: there was no winning without each other.

If you've watched Kaguya-sama: Love Is War and are also a fan of it, just know that I love you. The way Wooyoung was initially going to take Miyuki's role, but on second thought, Yunho seemed more well-suited for it. Wouldn't you agree?

Also, I hope y'all liked the rooftop kiss🙈

And if you haven't watched the anime, I love you too! For taking the time to read this, I genuinely hope it was enjoyable hehe I know I had a lot of fun writing this.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@blueberrychan @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha

@haven-cove @idfkeddieishot @vic0921 @vnessalau @apriecotte

@bangtannie7 @vtyb23 @khjoongie98 @scuzmunkie @anxiousskylar

@bunny4yungi @zl-world @quailbagutte @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @cixrosie

@cristy-101

#edenesth #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #jung yunho #jeong yunho #high school au #enemies to lovers #yunho x reader #yunho x you #ateez fluff #ateez oneshot #yunho fluff #yunho imagines #yunho oneshot #ateez fic

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fuddaroundandgetbueckets · 21 days ago

Text

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Warnings: Sexual content, swearing

WC: ~7K

A/N: hey….how yall doin

A Long Time Coming Part 13 – Heavenly Purgatory

Fall – 2022

With a jolt, Paige woke to her phone alarm blearing.

Tangled with Azzi in her bed, she blindly reached to her side, slamming her hand down until she found the culprit of the noise while Azzi grumbled sleepily into her neck. “Off,” she groaned.

Paige grunted and hooked an arm around her shoulder, squinting one eye open as she adjusted to the brightness of the phone, the other hand tapping on her screen as she turned the alarm off. It was Sunday and they had no practice, meaning the pair had plans to sleep indefinitely.

Paige tossed her phone haphazardly back on Azzi’s nightstand, missing completely. It landed with a thud on the floor on the side of the bed, becoming half visible between the faux white fur of the rug Azzi bought online. Paige paid it no mind, instead focusing on the irritated, “Being loud” that Azzi muttered into her neck.

Paige went back to fully embracing her then, legs completely tangled and arms wrapped around each other like puzzle pieces, their heads resting in each other’s necks. Squeezing Azzi’s body, she said quietly, “My bad, baby.” As she spoke, her words caused the hollow of Azzi’s neck to vibrate.

She felt Azzi breathe deeply onto her skin, adjusting as she got ready to fall into REM again. The silk of her bonnet pressed into Paige’s temple, and Paige felt warm all over her body in the way that wasn’t too much but just enough.

This is it, she thought. She didn’t want to be anywhere else – with anyone else.

She laid still for a few moments, fighting the urge to squeeze Azzi further. The pads of her fingers pulsed with the itch to do so.

Then, her eyes shot open, meeting the light streaming unevenly through the broken blinds of Azzi’s bedroom window.

She’d called Azzi baby. And they hadn’t been hooking up.

She felt her pulse quicken, and she was decidedly awake.

Her eyes shifted to the side, head unable to remove itself from the crook of Azzi’s neck as they were wrapped around each other like a Rubik’s cube. She caught the sight of a loose curl that had slipped out of Azzi’s bonnet, her eyes going cross-eyed as she focused on it and tried to even her breathing as to not wake Azzi up.

She couldn’t move, so, she overthought.

Pet names during sex were entirely different than not during sex, everyone knows this. Right?

Sure, she’d slipped in a “Ma” here and there, mostly on accident, but that was universal. Right?

Paige frowned to herself. She was realizing quickly that her armor was cracking, and there was a reason “baby” had slipped out of her without a second thought. She wanted to be exclusive with Azzi, badly.

And worse – she wanted Azzi to be her girlfriend, heart-wretchedly.

They had been hooking up for close to two months now and fallen into a routine: Paige would pretend to occupy her time without Azzi, while thinking about Azzi, and then would come over to Azzi’s place and kiss her until her vision went blurry.

In the interim of these times, an annoying voice in her head, sometimes known as Nika, would ask, “And the next time she gets asked out or hit on, what then?”

As much as Azzi felt like hers, she wasn’t. Not officially. And the thought of someone else scooping up the person who was more-likely-than-not the love of her life, had her absolutely sick to her stomach.

From the outside looking in, one could say they had already been acting like a couple for a while. They doted on each other, they were always together, they bought each other gifts that reminded them of the other, and they were together…intimately…most nights. (every night). The key missing was that the pair couldn’t get two minutes into a conversation of what they were, or rather what they could be before Azzi became flustered. Paige would rather run into incoming traffic than make Azzi uncomfortable.

She wanted Azzi. But she wanted Azzi to tell her she could have her more.

For now, she would take what she could get. If Azzi was scared to label them, but she could still lay like this in bed with her in the way they were now, where they didn’t know where one of them began and the other ended, so be it. She would just have to show Azzi how sweet life would be if they were together, how much she would adore her if given the opportunity, and ease her into considering the idea of never talking to anyone ever again. And maybe Paige would start calling her “baby”, because it felt right and Azzi hadn’t told her not to yet.

Her neck tickled as Azzi snored softly against her. Her impulses won, and she squeezed Azzi tightly under the heavy comforter, giving a kiss to her exposed shoulder slipping out of her old and tattered sleep shirt. Azzi grunted, her body going flat as she was pressed further against Paige. “Paigggggeuh,” she groaned, adding syllables to Paige’s name she didn’t know existed.

She didn’t care; she loved any way Azzi said her name.

Paige shifted until they were nose to nose, watching as Azzi’s swollen eyes peaked open. She looked disgruntled and tired, her full lips twisting in displeasure at being woken up.

She looked perfect.

Paige felt herself start to form a lopsided grin. “Missed you,” she said, her voice scratchy from unuse.

Azzi scrunched her brows and breathed a short chuckle. “We’ve been together for seventeen hours.”

Paige shrugged, her shoulder rubbing on the pink sheets beneath her. “We haven’t talked in, like, eight hours.”

“We were asleep.”

“Your point?”

Azzi’s eyes bounced between Paige’s; amusement clearly settled into them. Paige knew she was being ridiculous, but the reward was right in front of her: Azzi twisting her mouth to fight back a toothless smile. And Paige did that. First thing in the morning.

“You have morning breath.”

Paige snorted, bumping their noses together. “So do you.”

Azzi leaned forward, giving her a soft peck before mumbling, “I do not.”

“Yeah, and you forgot to wear your retainer.”

Azzi scrunched her nose, grumbling, “You never wear yours.”

Paige gave her three short kisses in a row. “I been forgetting,” she smirked, “You can’t keep your hands off me before bed.”

Azzi’s mouth dropped in feigned offense, giggling. “Oh, so I’m the problem?” Her face became serious, lowering her voice to mock Paige as she said, “Azzi, baby, don’t stop. Right there, oh yeah baby.”

Paige’s eyes widened, laughing in both shock and embarrassment, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “Aye, yo, yo, relax. Don’t need to be doing allat now, Christ.” She reached up and covered both hands over her eyes, fighting the smile that wanted to find home on her face.

Azzi leaned over quickly, sprawling across Paige’s chest to lay her flat on her back and forcibly remove Paige’s hands. Squinting one eye open, she found Azzi smiling down at her fondly.

“Hey,” Azzi said, voice softening. “I like it. The way you talk to me.”

Paige felt her heart seize, staring up at the beautiful girl on top of her. “You like it?”

Azzi nodded, suddenly looking shy. Paige knew what she meant – when they were alone, memorizing the curves and dips of each other’s bodies, she had a way of speaking to Azzi that was new for both of them. It was like she had forgotten what a joke was, the way she took showing Azzi how good she could make her feel, how good Azzi made her feel, so seriously. Paige guided her, praised her, worshipped her, and admired her fully and adamantly for however long it took. She was soft and gentle, confident and reassuring. It was what Azzi needed from her without saying as they dived into this new and complex layer of their relationship. Paige would give it to her a thousand times over.

She reached up, caressing the underside of Azzi’s jaw with her thumb while her other fingers hooked loosely over the curve of her neck. Azzi leaned into her hand, a content sound leaving her.

“I like being good to you,” Paige said quietly, rubbing her thumb back and forth. Her eyes traced the rounded cheekbones that sat by Azzi’s temples, the dimple on her left cheek, the dimple on her right, the darkened acne scar on her chin. Her perfect girl.

With her hand on her face, Paige felt Azzi’s skin warm from her words. In times like these, when speaking in hushed tones so close, it sometimes felt more intimate than sex. Paige felt her stomach hollowing out slightly, a steady pulse beginning at her core from her vulnerability and proximity to Azzi.

“I like being good to you too,” Azzi murmured, fiddling with Paige’s t-shirt collar. “I heard the ‘baby’ earlier.”

Paige pursed her lips, twisting them to one side. She ran a tongue over her top teeth. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded, “Liked it.”

Paige stared at her for a beat. “Good.”

Azzi blinked at her. “Good?”

Paige hummed, drawing her in for a slow kiss on her left cheek. On her dimple.

Pulling apart, Azzi pushed her nose against Paige’s. “That’s all you have to say. Good?”

Paige smoothed Azzi’s bonnet that was lifting behind her ear, a slow lopsided smile growing. “What do you need, baby?”

Azzi’s mouth parted slightly, and Paige watched as a familiar blush came to the surface of her cheeks. Sputtering, she let her forehead fall to the center of Paige’s chest, missing the way Paige was grinning ear-to-ear. Paige hooked her arms around Azzi’s shoulders, rocking them back and forth as she sang, “Babyyyyyyyy.”

“You’re so irritating,” she heard Azzi muffle into her shirt.

“Baby, that’s mean.”

“Paige.”

“Where’s my baby? I’m baby too.”

The pair heard a loud thump against Azzi’s shared wall with Amari.

“You two are disgusting,” Amari called out through the plaster. “Just make out so I don’t have to hear whatever the hell conversation you’re having.”

Azzi lifted her head to prop up on Paige’s chest. They smiled sheepishly at one another, before Paige pointed to her now puckering lips.

“You heard her.”

Azzi’s eye roll could be heard across the state of Connecticut. She leaned down to kiss Paige anyway.

----------------------------------

Paige noticed the ring a few days before her 21st birthday.

They had been walking to the library together. It was fall now in Storrs, which meant campus sidewalks were lined with vibrant red and gold trees. It had just rained, causing fallen leaves to stick to the underside of their sneakers and making a familiar squish sound with every step. The tip of Paige’s nose was turning red from the cold, but she didn’t notice as she watched Azzi.

Azzi was staring down at her phone in concentration, having to submit a discussion post at the odd hour of 2:30pm. Paige had a discreet hand on the sleeve of her jacket, tugging it rhythmically closer and away from her to make sure Azzi avoided any large puddles in her distracted state. She guided them quietly through campus, a small smile playing on her lips as she watched Azzi grumble to herself about the ridiculousness of having to reply to a classmate’s post on what kind of pasta noodle was their favorite.

(Paige’s favorite was shell noodles but she kept it to herself).

As they approached a crosswalk, Paige had to tug Azzi back into her as she kept walking on ahead, narrowly avoiding a speeding Subaru.

(Azzi was nowhere near close enough to getting hit by the car. Paige just wanted her close).

(And of course, it was a Subaru).

Paige looked down at her from the corner of her eye, enjoying far too much the way Azzi slotted against her.

“Almost done?” she asked, watching the way Azzi’s thumbs flew across her screen.

Azzi nodded, eyes unmoving from her phone. “Just need fifty more words.”

Paige watched her for a few more seconds before a glint on Azzi’s right hand caught her eye.

“What’s that?”

“Hm?”

Azzi looked up momentarily as Paige nodded at her hand, beginning to guide her across the street with a palm in between her shoulder blades. She looked down, flexing her hand and inspecting the piece of metal on her ring finger.

“Oh,” she said casually, “My grandpa bought me this when he was in Ireland. Said it was meaningful, and he couldn’t wait ‘til my birthday. It’s pretty, right?”

Paige nodded, still eyeing the ring and somehow conscious of every dip and crack of the sidewalk as she steered Azzi. “Yeah, it’s pretty. The hands and heart are cool.”

Azzi was back on her phone now, rapidly typing once again. “It’s called a Claddagh Ring, or something. I guess the way you wear it is important.”

Paige hummed, eyes bouncing from Azzi’s profile and to the small stairs ahead. “Step,” she said, making sure Azzi didn’t trip.

Satisfied after getting her up safely, she asked, “Why would it matter how you wear it?”

Azzi shrugged, a smile blooming on her face as Paige watched her click ‘submit’ on her discussion post. “Finally,” Azzi muttered, sighing as she stoved her phone in her jacket pocket. She looked up at Paige then, immediately reaching up to rub Paige’s nose. “It’s supposed to symbolize your relationship status, I guess. Your nose looks cold.”

Paige was looking at her with a dopey grin, inadvertently guiding them to walk closer together as Azzi’s shoulder brushed the top of her chest. Admittedly, she was only half-listening now. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm,” Azzi nodded, staring ahead, “Shows people if you’re single or not.”

Shows people if you’re single or not.

Single.

Or.

Not.

Paige came to a full stop, with Azzi walking a few steps ahead before turning back with a quirked-up brow. “You good?”

She stared at Azzi, accidentally making a face that one could only describe as getting sprayed by a skunk.

Paige was decidedly not good.

“Well, how are you wearing it?” she asked, refraining from stomping her foot like a child.

Azzi turned to continue walking, but not before Paige caught the smirk beginning to form on her face. “Doesn’t matter.”

Doesn’t?

Matter?

The library was in view now, with Azzi striding confidently toward it, leaving Paige standing there looking like a gaping fish. She sputtered to herself before practically pulling a full sprint to beat Azzi to the door.

Paige nearly knocked her over in the process of pulling open the handle before Azzi could lay a finger on it. Paige had momentarily lost her sanity, but not her sensibility.

Azzi pursed her lips, clearly trying to hold back a smile as she passed by Paige who held the door open for her.

Following after Azzi, she continued staring at her in disbelief. She leaned her head down to whisper-yell in Azzi’s ear as they maneuvered by wooden desks, “You’re just not gonna say?”

Azzi turned back once, sharply, telling Paige with her eyes to be quiet as they received disconcerting looks from surrounding students.

Paige retreated like a kicked puppy, pouting, as she followed Azzi.

They found their usual spot – a table near the back with a south facing window. It caught the best views of the foliage outside, and the sunsets in the afternoon. Paige paid the window no mind as she flopped into a creaky wooden seat, shaking her iPad out of her bag like it had wronged her. She peered over the screen at Azzi briefly, mouth pursing at her nose already being pressed into her textbook. As if their conversation hadn’t affected her at all and Paige wasn’t on the brink of psychological fragility. Paige purposefully slotted her knee in between Azzi’s thighs, slouching in her seat, annoyed that she felt too far away sitting across from her. Azzi sat, unreacting, flipping the page of her book.

Paige huffed, slumping further as she simultaneously eyed the ring glistening on Azzi’s right ring finger over her iPad screen. She held the screen higher, as if Azzi could see what she is searching through the iPad cover and looked up “Claddagh ring finger meaning”.

Right ring finger. Point facing out. Meaning: single.

Paige’s eyes zeroed in on the ring.

Right ring finger. Point facing out.

Single.

“Did you have a bad lunch or something? You’ve made that face twice now,” Azzi was looking up at her through her lashes, face slightly bemused. “You look like you just ate a lemon and then stepped in manure.”

If possible, Paige slumped further, attempting to hide her face from view. “’M fine,” she muttered.

She was not fine.

Here Azzi was, sitting across from her, casually wearing on her right hand the biggest sign for Paige that could want something more with her. Like, romantically. Not to be friends that kiss. Instead, they could be friends that kiss…and are also dating.

Of all the places in the world she could feel this way, Paige wanted to scream where she sat in the back of the library. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to kiss her, or wanted to grab Azzi by the shoulders, shake her, and ask, “Why won’t you just tell me what you want? I’ve never wanted anything more than you in my life, can’t you see that?”

But no, she couldn’t do either. Because she was sat in the UConn library, Azzi across from her with her nose already back in her textbook.

She had to talk to Nika.

-------------------------------

“She’s wearing this ring, bro.”

Paige laid horizontally across her bed, head falling off the side as she stared at herself, upside down, in the mirrored door of her closet.

Nika sat at her desk, filing her nails. “Mhm.”

Paige frowned, her reversed state making it look like a smile in the mirror, causing her frown to deepen.

“It’s from Ireland or something – her grandpa bought it for her. I guess depending on how you wear it, it shows if you’re single or not.” Paige huffed, the shot of air causing the baby hairs on her forehead to float.

Nika looked up then, seeming far more interested in the conversation now. “And how was she wearing it?”

If possible, Paige’s frown deepened further. “Single.”

She caught Nika’s wince in the upside-down reflection. “Not great, dude.”

Paige sat up on the bed abruptly, her hair flying in opposite directions around her, looking oddly similar to a bird's nest. “Nika, what the hell.”

Nika raised her hands in defense, her file being held like a source of protection against the manic woman in front of her. “What? You want me to lie?”

Paige dragged a rough hand down her face. “No, I want you to tell me what to do.”

Nika rolled her eyes, leaning back to begin filing again. “I’ve told you what to do. Ask her out.”

Paige went silent, eyes going unfocused as she stared blankly ahead. How in the world was she supposed to ask out a girl she spent every waking moment with? How was she supposed to woo a girl who has popped her back pimples before?

Nika looked at her and shook her head, clicking the roof of her mouth. “Stop overreacting,” she said, “Of course, Azzi thinks she’s single. You both have been hooking up for months and have barely talked about what you are. You just kiss and feed each other your food like baby penguins and think no one in the room notices. Which is gross, by the way, you should stop doing that.”

Paige gaped at her, looking and feeling mortified. “We do not do that.”

“I watched you feed her at lunch and pretend the spoon was an airplane.”

“That is not the same thing that penguins do.”

(Paige did not know her voice could hit as high of octaves as it did when speaking her last sentence).

Nika waved a hand, unbothered. “Whatever. I’m not a zookeeper, and this is a dumb conversation,” she pointed her nail file directly at Paige, “It doesn’t matter how you do it, or what you do. You just need to do it. Ask her out.”

Paige stared down the nail file, pouting. “Why do I have to be the one to do it?”

Nika stared at her like she was dumb, and Paige felt stupid too.

Nika stuck out her thumb, “One: you’re older.”

She held up her pointer finger, “Two: you kissed her first.”

She held up her middle finger, “Three: she’s a princess, but more importantly she’s a scared princess who not too long ago figured out she likes her best friend.”

She held up her ring finger, pointing at it, “And four: She’s Azzi Fudd. She’s a fucking dime and a half, and everyone knows. You know, I know. Fuck, even…Steve from middle-of-nowhere Alaska knows because she has over two hundred thousand followers on Instagram.”

Paige was quiet for a beat. “Steve?”

Nika palmed her forehead, letting out a frustrated groan. “You get what I’m saying.”

Paige wrung her hands together, staring at her sock that had a hole forming on the big toe. “I do.”

Nika waited a moment before waving her hand expectantly.

“So…what are you going to do about it?”

---------------------------

On the morning of her birthday, Paige woke up to the bottom of her shirt tickling her chest.

With her vision still blurry from sleep, her eyes opened to see Azzi, who had fallen asleep at her side after coming over the night before, grazing the soft skin of her stomach with her pinky.

“Mornin’ baby,” Paige greeted her in a tired and low tone, slightly confused.

Azzi leaned over, placing a tender kiss on the corner of her mouth, her hand moving to cup Paige’s exposed side. “Hey, birthday girl.”

Paige gave her a sheepish grin, tugging Azzi forward until she fell on top of her. Paige tugged on Azzi’s shirt, “My gift wrapped up under there?”

Azzi pushed her chest lightly, flushing anyway. “You’re so corny.”

“More like horny, but probably that too.”

Azzi snorted, covering Paige’s mouth. “Please stop talking.”

Paige smiled under Azzi’s palm, giving it a kiss. Azzi slowly removed her hand from her face, leaning down to place a soft kiss on Paige’s right cheek, and then her left. She breathed across her jaw, not touching but letting the trail of her breath cause goosebumps to rise on Paige’s skin. Paige closed her eyes as Azzi’s lips hovered over hers, taking in her bottom lip to suck gently.

Paige closed her eyes, relishing in the way her senses felt so heightened with Azzi. She was aware of her hand caressing Paige’s side, the pads of her fingers placing light pressure as she moved to kiss down the column of Paige’s throat.

Heaven, Paige thought, breathing deeply through her nose with closed eyes. They let me in early.

Shifting the comforter aside, Azzi moved down the length of her body slowly, like she had nothing else to do that day apart from pleasuring Paige. Paige realized then she didn’t even know what time it was, other than being vaguely aware the sun was up from the light that peaked through the window blinds. She realized she didn’t care to know.

Azzi positioned herself to have her legs on either side of Paige’s thighs, kissing down her sternum.

“Happy,” she placed a wet kiss on the side of Paige’s right breast.

“Birthday,” she blew on the slick part of skin she left behind.

Paige shivered.

She dragged her lips across Paige’s skin, finding home at her nipple and repeating the same action.

“Happy,” she took her nipple in her mouth, sucking and twirling her tongue before releasing it with a wet sounding pop.

“Birthday,” She blew over it, before repeating it again on Paige’s other breast.

Paige stared at her in awe, mouth hanging ajar. Her heart was pounding, as she felt her core start to pulse watching Azzi. “Baby,” she breathed. She fisted the sheets beneath her palm, trying to stay still.

Azzi ignored her, continuing her rotation of sensually slow kisses across her stomach and gliding her tongue across her skin. She was gentle with it, like she just wanted to taste her, take her time with her. It had Paige wanting to put a fist at her mouth and she hadn’t even touched her there yet.

Without looking up, Azzi tugged Paige’s boxers down slowly. As she tugged, the tips of her fingernails dragged slightly, and she kissed each new part of exposed skin. Lifting her hips up, Paige helped Azzi tug the boxers off completely; she was suddenly bare and very evidently turned on with a trickle of slickness escaping her and traveling down the inside of her thigh.

Azzi hummed, watching it for a moment. She shifted her body to have her thighs rest on the side of Paige’s calves and reached up to drag her fingernails up the length of Paige’s quads. Using both hands, she pulled her legs further apart. Paige’s breathing was ragged, and she was so turned on she wanted to squirm.

Azzi held the inside of Paige’s thighs with her hands, making indents with her fingertips before leaning down and swiping her flat tongue against her center.

Paige gasped, her thighs involuntarily clenching while Azzi kept them apart. Azzi’s eyes looked up to find Paige’s hooded ones, silently telling her to be good.

Paige’s mouth was dry from hanging open for so long.

Azzi dragged the fingers of one hand across her inner thigh, using her pointer and middle finger to separate Paige’s folds. She swiped a flat tongue down the center again.

Paige hissed. She fisted the sheets harder.

In a practiced move, Azzi configured her tongue to have a sharper tip, finding Paige’s clit and circling. Paige let her head fall back momentarily, eyes rolling back, before she continued watching Azzi work.

Azzi shifted her hands again, her left-hand keeping Paige’s folds apart, while her other hand’s pointer and middle finger entered Paige slowly. Paige made a croaking sound.

Azzi continued her ministrations of her clit with her tongue, while her fingers inside of her began to pump. Paige felt the base of her spine go rigid, overwhelming pleasure making her feel like her entire body was tingling and had her toes curling.

“Azzi, baby,” she grinded out, “You’re so perfect. So good.”

Azzi hummed against her, the vibration causing Paige to jolt. In a harsher thrust, Azzi crooked the fingers she had pumping inside Paige.

“Happy,” Azzi whispered, taking her clit in mouth and sucking.

“Birthday,” she breathed, fanning her breath over the most sensitive part of her. It caused Paige to jerk her hips up, but Azzi steadied her legs and continued circling her tongue there until Paige thought her vision was going blurry.

“Fuck,” Paige choked, feeling herself start to build up to her peak. “Fuck.”

Her hips were jerking on their own accord now, unrhythmically. Azzi followed her with every motion; her mouth latched onto her center like it was locked there. She gave Paige no reprieve, swirling her tongue with added pressure and dangerously fast.

Paige reached down, gripping a portion of Azzi’s hair. She croaked again, her toes clenching and unclenching, feeling like she was about to release, and then –

“Oh.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Fuck. Right there.”

“Don’t – Don’t stop –”

Paige breathed raggedly, her heart hammering.

Feeling the peak of her orgasm settle itself, she tingled all over. The tips of her toes, her leg muscles, her stomach that had been clenched, her chest, even her ears.

She watched Azzi rise after taking a final swipe of her tongue over her to clean her up and carefully lift her boxers back around Paige’s hips.

With a small, smug smile, Azzi settled in the crook of Paige’s arm and looked up at her. “Good start to the day?”

Paige let out a breathy laugh, kissing the center of her forehead. “Yeah, I think my birthday is tomorrow too.”

-----------------

Paige’s birthday was filled with love.

She received calls from all her family, friends from Minnesota, and Azzi’s family (to which she had to vehemently avoid blurting out, “Thank you – also, I’m sleeping with your daughter now. Hope that’s cool.”)

Her friends shouted her out all across social media, her phone buzzing with endless texts and notifications. Even Geno texted her something she was sure he thought was heartfelt. (He said: happy bday p).

And before Azzi left in the morning for class, she handed Paige her birthday gift (no, it was not the sex) – two tickets for them to see Drake in concert next month. Paige had screamed, exclaiming her gratitude and attempting to pick up Azzi in and spin her in a circle while she wore her school backpack, begging to go down on her before she left for the day.

Azzi had laughed heartily, swatting her hands away as Paige tried to take her backpack off. “I’m going to be late, bighead.”

Now hours later, Paige and her friends found themselves standing around Paige’s kitchen island lined sporadically with red solo cups. They had been playing drinking games for two hours, and most were tipsy, including Paige. When Nika first emerged with a larger-than-the-bible shot book, it was all downhill from there.

“We have to go out, it’s Bucket’s birthday,” Aaliyah groaned. “Y’all are so lame.”

“I’m indifferent,” Paige hiccupped, waving off the cup of water Azzi started to hand her. Azzi sat in the barstool beside her, sober, as she had a test the next morning. She wore a crop top with one of Paige’s zip-up hoodies, no makeup, looking effortlessly perfect in the hue of the purple Christmas lights that lined Paige’s kitchen ceiling. So pretty, Paige thought, picking up a curl that had a different pattern the rest around it and pulling. Mine.

“We can just go to Ted’s for a little, then dip,” Nika conceded. “But we cannot miss 11am conditioning, CD will kill us all.” She took turns pointing at everyone in the group, attempting to be threatening.

Aaliyah rolled her eyes, the jingle of her keys echoing in the room as she turned toward the door. “Let's go before the line gets long.”

Nike scoffed, “Since when do we wait in line?”

The rest of the group began shuffling towards the door, everyone’s loud voices carrying over each other. Azzi squeezed Paige’s bicep, shoving the water in her face again. “You drank a lot already, c’mon.”

Paige frowned but chugged the water anyway, crushing the cup with her hand when finished and wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her hoodie. She kicked the toe of her shoe against Azzi’s. “You sure you wanna come? You got that test at 9, right?”

Azzi smiled, albeit tiredly. “Don’t even start, it’s your 21st birthday. I’ll buy you a drink and then go home.”

Paige smiled back at her, hands tingling to draw her in for a hug, but still being cautious of the friends around them that weren’t aware they’d been hooking up.

“They’re so obvious,” Paige heard Amari groan loudly, causing her to blush. Or was it from the alcohol? She couldn’t tell.

Twenty minutes and several disorganized Uber rides later, the group had locked down a table at Ted’s. Paige had been brought four, or possibly five, shots so far, and she was properly drunk – probably for the first time in her life. She was leaned against one of the nearby pool tables, half-listening to what Nika was saying and half-watching for where Azzi had gone.

“You’re so down bad.”

Paige turned to look at Nika again, her head lolling slightly. “’M what?”

“Down bad,” Nika yelled over the music, her words slurred. “She left, like, five minutes ago and you’re already like ‘oh my god, where did the love of my life go’.”

Paige’s lips went flat, her drunken state unable to dispute the truth in Nika’s statement. She shrugged, raising her fruity mixed drink to her lips. “Whatever. You seen her?”

Nika shook her head. “Nah, we can do a lap though.”

The pair set their drinks down, beginning to slip between bodies to cross the crowded bar. Paige politely waved at students that recognized her and called her out but otherwise kept moving as she felt tunnel-visioned to find Azzi.

In a quieter part of the bar where more pool tables were scattered, Paige found her there.

In deep conversation with a guy. One she didn’t recognize.

Azzi was illuminated by the overhead light of the table, the zip-up hoodie she had been wearing earlier undone and sliding off her shoulder. The guy she was speaking with was tall, maybe the same height as Paige or more. He had stupid blonde hair, and a stupid sharp jaw, and his shirt looked too small. They spoke animatedly, the guy leaning toward her while holding onto his pool stick. Azzi held a red-colored drink, her Claddagh ring catching the light from above.

“Who the fuck is that?” Paige heard herself say before she could stop her lips from moving. Paige watched as they talked, eyes following her movements as Azzi threw her head back in a laugh, and felt somehow angry and sick at once.

“Brian,” Nika said bluntly, hiccupping.

“Who the fuck is Brian?” Paige turned to Nika expectantly.

“Some guy she’s doing a project with, dunno the class,” Nika said slowly, registering that Paige was upset.

Paige scoffed, looking back to Azzi and Brian quickly before turning back to Nika, “Why do you know about Brian, and I don’t?”

Nika eyed her like she lost her mind, which likely wasn’t far off. “Probably because you’d be weird about it, like you are being right now.”

“I’m not being weird,” Paige defended, feeling her cheeks grow warm, scrunching her brows in irritation. She turned to look back at Azzi again, this time catching Brian lean down to say something in her ear, hand hovering far too close to Azzi’s waist for Paige’s liking.

What, she suddenly can’t hear you?

Yeah, fucking right.

Her feet moved first before she could process what she was doing, and then she was standing at Azzi’s side, hands flexing so she wouldn’t tug her closer.

“Yo,” Paige nodded, only speaking to Azzi.

She beamed at her. “Hey, birthday girl,” she nodded at Brian standing a foot away, “This is Brandon, we’re in Psych together.”

Brian. Brandon. Who cares.

Bradley extended a hand towards Paige, giving her a smile that showed too many of his teeth. “Hey, nice to meet you – and happy birthday!”

Paige stared at his hand, refraining from scrunching her nose in disgust. “Yeah,” she replied flatly.

A beat of awkward silence passed between the three of them, Paige unwavering in saying anything further. Bryce shoved his outstretched hand in the front pocket of his jeans, looking uncomfortable. Paige felt Azzi jab her in the side of the ribs before Braxton cleared his throat.

“Right. Um, so earlier I was asking for your number, Azzi? There’s this new –”

“No.”

Brett blanched, clearly surprised at being cut off. Paige caught the mortified expression encompassing Azzi’s face through the corner of her eye.

“What?” Ben asked, attempting an awkward laugh to ease the tension.

“She’s not interested.”

As Baker sputtered, Paige gripped him by the shoulders turned him around towards the doorway where she entered from. “Issa packed bar, Brendan. Plenty of other pretty girls for you in there.” She patted his back at her last word, sending him off with a shove towards the door. He looked back, confused and seemingly lost for words as he walked out of the room.

Paige braced herself, knowing Azzi was searing her eyes into the side of her face. She threw her hands up as a precaution, turning slowly to face her. “Now, Az –”

“What the fuck was that?”

Azzi looked pissed. Her brows were close together, nostrils flared, and her frown was deep. In their years of friendship, she had never seen Azzi so angry with her, and it made her stomach flip in ways that felt unwanted.

“Az –”

“Paige, I’m on a project with him for class,” she hissed, gripping her bicep tightly. “Do you know how rude you were?”

Paige scoffed, motioning towards the door Barry had just walked out of. “He was about to ask you out.”

Azzi motioned her arms in front of her, exasperated. “So, what if he was? You think I’d say yes? Would you even care?”

“You think I wouldn’t care? Is that a joke?” Paige replied harshly, feeling herself beginning to get angry.

Azzi’s eyes flashed to the group of people starting to stare at them argue, a flush of red covering her cheeks. She huffed, dragging Paige by her bicep out through a large exit door at the back of the bar and into the crisp October air.

They stood in the back alley of Ted’s, a highly coveted area for the local Storr’s rat colony. It held the welcoming aroma of dumpster and drunk-college-student-barf.

They stared at each other silently, arms crossed, Paige wobbling slightly from the alcohol in her system.

Azzi cracked first.

“We’ve been doing this, no label, for two months,” she said simply, the bite in her tone from earlier sounding tired.

Paige tugged at her scalp, feeling overwhelming frustrated as she stared into Azzi’s hard eyes. “Azzi, every time we talk about it, you shut down. What am I supposed to do? What do you need me to do?”

Their eyes bounced across each other’s face as Paige waited silently for Azzi’s response. She watched the brunette sigh shakily, and she fought the urge to reach for her.

“I don’t know how to navigate this,” Azzi admitted quietly. “It’s so overwhelming, my feelings. And I’m scared to mess anything up between us.”

Paige pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. “This is why we have to talk.”

“And,” Azzi continued, sounding shaky, as if Paige hadn’t spoken, “Sometimes we just act the way we did before, before everything. And I don’t know if you really want me or you just want to fuck me.”

Paige stared at her, a true and honest feeling of shock coursing through her. “You think I don’t want you? Like I don’t want to be with you?”

“I don’t know we don’t talk about it –”

“Azzi, I’ve been trying to talk about it –”

“I know, and I’m not saying it’s your fault –”

“Well, the way you’re talking about it sure sounds like it you’re blaming me –”

“I just –”

“Azzi –”

“Stop cutting me off, Paige!” Azzi yelled.

They stared at one another, realizing then that their voices had been getting progressively louder.

Paige watched Azzi take her bottom lip into her mouth, it’s slight quiver so subtle that she wouldn’t have noticed had she not been watching her so intently. Paige clenched her fist.

“I don’t want to fight with you, especially today,” Azzi said, sounding on the verge of tears. Paige shut her eyes as she continued. “Let’s just go home, alone, and think about what we want to say to each other the next few days. Okay?”

Paige’s eyes opened to see Azzi already staring, her eyes looking so sad Paige had to divert her eyes to the brick wall behind her.

She wanted to say no, no, no. We need to talk, figure this out together, come home with me, let me hold you, I'll make it right, I'll show you how much you mean to me -

Instead, Paige nodded, sticking her hands in her hoodie pocket. “Okay.”

They continued looking at each other, with time passing in a way that made two seconds feel like thirty hours. Azzi’s mouth twisted, and she sniffed as she finally passed her to get to the door. Paige stopped her with a feather-light hand at her shoulder before she could open it, extending her arm to hold it open for her.

They stood in the doorway for a moment, the pulse of the music inside echoing in their ears and the light from the bar illuminating only half their faces. Azzi’s lip still quivered, and her doe eyes looked bigger than usual. Paige thought she looked like an angel.

“I’m sorry everything’s complicated,” Azzi whispered, finding her focus on the laces of Paige’s sneakers. “Happy birthday. I love you.”

Paige watched her walk away and into the crowd of people to try and find their friends, curls bouncing with every step and her vanilla perfume wafting her as she passed.

Paige entered back into the bar fully, shutting the door behind her.

She pulled out her phone and tapped until the dinner reservation she had made for two tomorrow was cancelled.

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