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☆.｡.:* hello, and welcome to my fic rec blog! .｡.:* ☆

my main is @destourtereaux and i am an obx/hunger games/wizarding world writer; if you can support, check it out :)

i queue my posts, so i’m not always active when this account posts!

☆ RULES FOR REQUESTS

you can ask for my recs for a specific fandom, era, or up to 3 characters from different worlds (ex. the wizarding world; finnick odair, fred weasley, jj maybank; marauders era)

i do not read, write, or rec smut and heavy gore

note: my main fandoms are the wizarding world and obx so i may have less fics/hcs for the other potential characters unfortunately!

»»——⍟——««

☆ TAGS

HARRY POTTER UNIVERSE

#james potter

#sirius black

#remus lupin

#regulus black

#lily evans

#marlenemckinnon

#fred weasley

#george weasley

#charlie weasley

#harry potter

#cedric diggory

#draco malfoy

#blaise zabini

#neville longbottom

FORMULA ONE

#lando norris

#max verstappen

#charles leclerc

#carlos sainz

THE HUNGER GAMES

#finnick odair

#peeta mellark

THE MAZE RUNNER

#minho

THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY

#conrad fisher

LITTLE WOMEN

#laurie

OUTERBANKS

#jj maybank

#rafe cameron

#topper thornton

MARVEL

#steve rogers

#pietro maximoff

#peter parker

#sam wilson

#stephen strange

#matt murdock

DC

#jason todd

THE GRISHAVERSE

#kaz brekker

#nikolai lantsov

MY HERO ACADEMIA

#bakugou

HAIKYUU

#oikawa

#kageyama

JUJUTSU KAISEN

#gojo satoru

CELEBRITIES

#damiano david

#tom holland

#drew starkey

#timothee chalamet

#mingyu

GENERAL CLASSIFICATIONS

#hcs (headcanons)

#oc (non reader insert fics)

#long post (self explanatory)

»»——⍟——««

this list is edited whenever i start reading for a new character etc.

enjoy!

rosie <3

[lurkymurker-deactivated20221030]

The Euro Trip universe

A big fat over-arching masterlist for all your Euro Trip reading needs!

PS. Before you begin, I recommend starting with the OG series and going from there!!!

*= smut/contains smut

Euro Trip (the OG series): masterlist

And again, but from Rafe’s perspective

College Trip (the sequel): masterlist

Epilogue

Pre Euro Trip blurbs: the beginning, not that guy, some guy named Jacob, can you feel it too?, ‘Cept her, perfect timing, mistletoe, late night talking, the look, before the bonfire, super rich kids, 5 times, BAIT.exe, senior prom

Euro Trip — the extended cut: forty eight hours, paper rings, cruel summer

Post Euro Trip, pre College Trip blurbs: the first time*, Mr Cameron*, real deal, lost bet*, the one in an alternate universe

Post College Trip blurbs: dream boy*, lather and rinse*, fuckboy magnet, gold rush*, let me (p1), im not capable. will i ever be? (p2), right here (p3), over time (p1), just in time (p2)

dad!Rafe blurbs: as it was, malibu, the crush, history, where’d all the time go?

Written-on-the-notes-app snippets (aka, short blurbs): Kildare's finest fuckboy, NYE, red ribbon, right here, with you, You, plus…

Miscellanous: prompt list, HCs tag (contains several drabbles), Instagram tag, playlist by bestie Taylor

All the rules

Faceclaims

[destourtereauxrecs]

my fav rafe writer of all time

[nativegirltapes]

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ rafe giving you money to go shopping with your friends that hate him

“what are you getting all ready for?” rafe asked as he carelessly threw his shirt back on after a very long makeout session, watching you through your vanity mirror. rafe wanted to go further but you said no because you were on your period, although if it were up to him, that wouldn’t stop him.

“i’m going out with the girls for late lunch.” you said, applying your favorite lip liner.

“all your friends that hate me?” rafe was standing behind you, mesmerized by your every move, but mostly your lips and how plump and red they still were from kissing for almost 45 minutes.

“they don’t hate you.” you lied, turning your body to face him. “but maybe if you weren’t so mean to me they would like you a little more.” you got up from your vanity seat and walked over to your closet, scavenging through your options for lunch.

“yeah? ever think maybe they’re just mad their boyfriends can’t afford to keep up with their unnecessary spending habits?” rafe followed after you like he was a little kid, leaning himself on the frame of your closest. “speaking of,” you turned to rafe. “can i get some money? we’ll probably go shopping after getting food.”

rafe scoffed, “are you serious?” he said, like he wasn’t going to give you exactly what you wanted. “how much?” he dug in his pant pocket, pulling out his wallet. without you even giving a response rafe threw six hundreds to you. “thanks rafey.”

“yeah, whatever.”

[katsu28]

through the years

pairing: lando norris x fewtrell!reader

summary: a few glimpses into lando's journey of being in love with his best friend's sister. (5.9k) see request here!

a/n: r is three years older than max and lando. this has been a work in progress for months and was truly so so fun to write <3

sixteen

Lando’s tucking his helmet back into its protective case when he hears someone say your name.

He straightens up like he’s been electrocuted, nearly hitting his head on the shelf above him at how fast he looks up. If he had ears like a dog, they’d be perked. 

His eyes land on you chatting with someone he doesn’t recognize, and his heart skips a beat in his chest.

See, Lando has a massive crush on you, probably since before he knew what a crush was. All he knows is that you’re a few years older, his best friend’s sister, and the most perfect person he’s ever known. He’s pretty sure he’d fallen in love with you the moment he met you at one of Max’s and his races. 

But at only sixteen (nearly seventeen) years old, did he even know what love felt like?

Not really, but if Lando was being completely honest, he imagines it was the same feeling he got whenever he climbed into a kart—thrilling, exciting, a little bit of fear that he might puke. 

He hasn’t seen you in a while though. You’ve been off at university for a year now, somewhere far off, but Max had said something (read: complained) about you being home for summer break.

Lando thinks he might be more happy about it than your own brother is. 

“Hey!” Lando calls, raising a hand in greeting. You lift your sunglasses at the sound of another voice, squinting in the bright sunlight to see who’s shouting at you now. When your eyes land on him, you smile, waving back. Lando grins, one that only grows bigger as you start to make your way over to him. 

“Looked good out there today, Lan. You’re getting pretty quick on the straights,” You say on approach.

He’s had a little bit of a growth spurt this past year, so he’s no longer craning his neck to look at you, but you’ve still got quite a bit of height on him as you reach out to ruffle his hair playfully. 

“Thanks! Have you, erm, have you been here the whole time?” Lando’s voice cracks at the end of his sentence, mortifying him, but luckily you don’t seem to notice. You’re too occupied looking around the track for something, or someone. 

“Nah, I just got here, like twenty minutes ago? Mum told me to give Max a lift home.” You shrug. Lando fights the urge to let out a relieved sigh. Thank god you weren’t here to see him nearly spin out into the gravel on the last corner. That would’ve been embarrassing. “Have you seen him, by the way? I need to wring his neck.” 

A surprised honk of laughter splutters from Lando’s mouth. “What did he do now?” 

“Little shit broke one of mum’s good dinner plates and blamed it on me! S’why I’m here playing chauffeur,” You sigh, shaking your head. “Grounded during summer holidays, can you believe it? I’m basically Max’s personal shuttle, so it looks like you’re going to be seeing quite a bit of me for a while. Nightmare, innit?” 

“Not really. It’d be nice to see you around more again.” 

“You’re sweet, Lan. The punishment might be worth it to see your cute face all the time.” You wink at him, pinching his cheek gently. 

He knows you don’t mean it in the way he wants you to mean it. You still see him as just your little brother’s best friend, still a kid. But he’s older now, more mature. His voice is starting to drop, and he’s going places in his racing career by this point. He wonders if you know he’s joining McLaren’s Young Driver Programme next year. He wonders if you’d be impressed by it. 

“Hang on. I’ve got to take this, it’s my mum. Probably demanding I stop off at the shops on the way home,” You sigh, holding up your buzzing phone. “Do me a favor, be a darling and go find my idiot brother, would you?” You answered the call before he could nod, walking a ways away to talk to your mum. 

Lando remains rooted in place, watching you pace back and forth. 

“What’re you looking at?” Max pops up next to him out of the blue, bumping his shoulder rather roughly. It doesn’t phase him though, because he’s used to Max’s antics at this point. 

Instead, he sighs. “D’you think she’d ever like me?” 

“Who?” 

Lando nods his head in your direction, looking rather wistful. Max follows his friend’s line of sight until his gaze lands on you, on the phone, looking less than pleased. 

“Are you fucking with me? Please tell me you’re fucking with me,” He asks, wrinkling his nose at Lando. Even though you’re three years older than him, Max was wildly overprotective over you. Lando shakes his head. He is most definitely serious. “Mate, that’s my sister.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

Lando scoffs, giving Max a shove. “You’re disgusting.” 

“So you’re telling me that every time you’ve asked me where she’s been, what she’s been up to, it’s ‘cause you fancy her?” 

“Maybe. Yeah. I think she’s amazing.” 

“I’m gonna throw up. I’m actually going to throw up, oh my god.” 

“Don’t be dramatic.” Lando rolls his eyes, picking up his things. 

“You’re hot for my sister, how am I being dramatic? I think I’m being quite calm about this.” 

“It’s nothing, really. She probably won't ever see me as anything but a little kid.” 

“Oh, you never know. You’re getting bigger, mate. Stacking on the height, packing on the muscle.” He fakes two punches to Lando’s torso, grunting overdramatically when Lando pushes him away with another roll of his eyes. “Soon enough you won’t be able to keep the ladies off you, ya stud.” 

“Thanks? You do know we’re still talking about your sister, right?” 

“Oh. Right. Yeah, still gross.” 

“Oi, Max. Let’s go or mum’ll have my head if we don’t get home by dinner,” You grumble, reappearing behind Max and shoving him upside the head. Your gaze softens when it turns on Lando. “Bye, Lan. See you soon.”

Lando manages to get out a goodbye without his voice cracking again, thank god. He wants to go in for a hug, because part of him thinks it might lift your spirits, but knows Max would never let him hear the end of it. So he just settles for a slightly awkward wave before you turn on your heel and head for the car. 

Max rolls his eyes. Then he smiles deviously, pointing at your retreating figure with one hand and Lando with the other, before smashing them both together, all while making overexaggerated kissy noises. He seems to have forgotten his previous disgust quite easily. 

“Fuck off!” Lando hisses, flipping off his friend. 

“I’ll leave you behind, Maximillian!” You warn, not even turning around to threaten your brother. Max rolls his eyes again, but doesn't hesitate in hurrying after you so you won't leave him stranded at the track. 

Lando manages to catch your eye once as you’re pulling out of the car park and he waves again, trying but probably failing to stifle the goofy grin spreading across his face at the wave you gave him back. 

God, he’s so down bad for you. 

That year, however, the months went on, Lando found himself noticing that you came home less and less often, and not even for school breaks the following year. Max wouldn’t talk about it, but it was obvious it was somewhat of a sore subject, so Lando never pushed.

He’d always wondered what happened, but soon enough, his life became far too hectic to sit around thinking about all the what if’s and the why not’s. All he could do was hope you were doing okay. 

-------

twenty

It’s hard to believe Max is turning twenty-one.

So will Lando, later in the year, but for now he remains a very youthful looking twenty years old. 

Max invites a handful of people to a quiet dinner, nothing too flashy, nothing too fancy. Just a nice dinner with close friends and good food. His birthday sits right between race weeks, so Lando is fortunate enough to be able to carve out an evening for his best friend. 

Now he’s sitting at the end of a long table, sipping a lemon sparkling water as the first few of their friends start to trickle in. He’d arrived unfashionably early under the guise of offering to help Max iron out last minute details, set up, things like that.

In reality, the reason why he’d turned up so early was you. 

Lando doesn’t know if Max invited you, and if he did, he doesn’t know if you’d actually come. But on the off chance that you do choose to make an appearance, Lando wants to be the first one to see you. 

Naturally, he spots you the second you walk in, and he’s instantly transported back to when he was an awkward teenager, pathetically pining over his best friend’s sister with absolutely no shot.

Hell, he’s still pining over you. He thought whatever feelings he had for you would’ve faded over the years, but one look at you and everything comes rushing back. 

He thought he’d prepared himself for this, for seeing you again, but one thing that rises above all the other thoughts flooding his brain is that he’s not over you. Not by a long shot. 

He watches you make your way over to your brother and hug him. You lean in close to say something into his ear, and suddenly you’re both looking directly at him.

Lando startles, nearly spilling his drink, but he manages to compose himself quickly. That swoopy feeling he used to get whenever you made your way over to him is back in full swing again. He scrambles to his feet. 

“Hey, Lan!” You greet him keenly, wrapping him in a warm hug. Your perfume washes over him as you do, and he fights the urge to sigh happily. You still wear the same one you always did. He remembers because he’d more or less conditioned himself to associate the nice scent with you. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

Lando chuckles breathlessly, praying you’re not able to feel how fast his heart is beating through his shirt. “Too long.” 

You pull away, holding him at arms’ length, studying him with bright eyes. “You’re taller than me now.” 

“I’d hope so. M’not sixteen anymore.” 

“No, you’re not. You look good though, ” You say. You look like you mean it truthfully. 

“How’ve you been?”

“Been better, but I’m…getting by, all things considered.” You shrug, sliding into the chair next to him.

Both of you swing sideways to face each other at the same time, knees knocking into each other as you do. You share an apologetic smile. Your hand blankets his where it rests on the table, squeezing a few times as your eyes light up with excitement. 

You aren’t aware of just how much that one little move affects Lando. 

“But what about you, McLaren’s newest Formula One driver? That’s so amazing. Seriously. I’m proud of you.”  

He’s heard the compliment loads during his rookie year, but hearing it come from you makes his cheeks flush pink. He can feel the comfort of your words spreading from his face into his chest, tendrils of warmth wrapping around his rib cage. You’re proud of him, and it feels like he’s just won the world championship. 

“Thank you,” He squeaks. 

“I always knew you’d do great things.” 

“You’ve been keeping up with my career?” 

“‘Course I have,” You say warmly, nodding like it’s obvious. “It’s not everyday you can say you’ve known one of the up and coming talents of Formula 1 since you were kids.” 

“We’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we?” 

“You, yeah. Me…well, let’s just say I’m still trying to figure things out.” 

“You’re doing the best you can, aren’t you? Shouldn’t that be all that matters?” 

“I suppose you’re right. Thank you, Lan. I needed to hear that.” 

Silence stretches between the two of you, and Lando feels the need to break it. 

“Y’know, I didn't know if you’d come. Since…y’know, whatever’s been going on all this time.” He doesn’t mean to prod, doesn’t mean it as anything other than him drawing a huge blank about why you haven’t been around. 

Your expression still grows somber, brows creasing ever so slightly. “Max hasn’t told you anything?” 

“Seemed like a sore subject, so I never pushed.” 

“You must have a lot of questions then.” You murmur, tracing an idle finger over the pristine white table cloth. “About why I’ve been basically nonexistent for years.” 

“I don't need to know. You’re here now, that's all that matters.” 

“Y’know, you’ve always been so thoughtful, Lando. When we were all kids and Max was being…well, Max, you were always looking out for me, even though you didn’t have to.” 

“I cared about you. Still do.” 

It’s true. Lando cares about you in more ways than one, in more ways than just your little brother’s best friend should, but it isn’t something that he can help. You’ve still got him wrapped around your finger without even knowing it. 

“So sweet.” You smile, squeezing his hand appreciatively, and Lando feels like he’s just been shown a new purpose. He wants to be the one to make you smile like this all the time, something he’s known in his heart for years. “So, tell me more about you. What’s it like in the big leagues?” 

You wind up spending all night glued to each other’s side, filling one another in on what’s been going on in your lives since the last time you saw each other. Granted, it’s a bit more of him doing most of the talking with you on the listening end, but he gets the sense you’d rather have it that way. 

He’ll gladly talk for hours if it meant you looking at him with the pride in your eyes you’ve had the whole night. 

Eventually, the party rolls to an end, as all good nights unfortunately do. Lando wants to stay here, stay with you, but he can’t. He’s got an early morning and a day full of training tomorrow, so he’ll settle for walking you to your car after you’ve both said goodbye to Max. 

You’ve got your arm looped through his as you make your way out of the restaurant with the rest of the dinner guests. 

“This one’s me.” You jut your chin at the car coming up. If Lando isn’t mistaken, you almost sound kind of sad, but maybe he’s just looking too much into things because he doesn't want to leave. You leave his side, putting a little bit of distance between the two of you. “Thank you for keeping me company all night, Lando. It was really nice to see you again.” 

“Likewise. I’ve…” He trails off into an airy chuckle, shoulders creeping towards his shoulders instinctively. For a moment, he wonders if he should even say anything. “I’ve missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” You say softly, giving him a small smile. Lando feels his chest tighten at the sincerity in your tone. Then you step forward and wrap your arms around his neck in a hug and suddenly he’s just about ready to melt as his arms slide around you to return the embrace. 

He isn’t expecting your lips against his cheek, or the way they linger a little longer than to be expected before you step away again. Heat blooms where you kiss him, zipping through his veins like the thrill of pushing the highest speed down the home straight towards the checkered flag. 

“Don’t forget about me when you get to be a big hot shot in the racing world,” You say, only slightly teasing. 

“Don’t think I could.” 

He watches you get into your car and drive away, hands in his pockets, wishing he was brave enough to tell you how he feels about you. Some other time, maybe. One day he’ll muster up the confidence to say something. 

-------

twenty four

No matter how many times Lando comes home to race at Silverstone, the feeling never goes away.

A mix of joy, pride, the unmistakable vice-like grip of anxiety. Lando is excited, no doubt, but all he wants to do is make his home crowd proud. His family is here, his friends are here. Everyone is counting on him to do something amazing.

He’s got a hundred things to do before he has to head down to the garage to gear up, a methodical mental checklist to get through in not a lot of time.

Buzzing with nervous energy, he paces the top level of the motorhome, amping himself up while also trying to calm himself down. He’s barely managed to eat anything all day, as evident by the basically untouched chicken wrap sitting on the table next to him. 

Sure, he’s raced at Silverstone before, but this is the first year he actually has a shot at winning the whole thing. The car has proved to be a speed demon, and he’s been killing it this season, but neither of those help his nerves. 

It makes his stomach twist more than anything. It’s one thing to not win because he doesn't have the facilities to do it, it's entirely worse to know he can win and still let everyone down. 

“Well, if it isn’t little Lando Norris.” 

He freezes at the unexpected voice. Your voice.

His mind flashes back to the last time he saw you, at Max’s birthday party. How you talked all night, and kissed him on the cheek before you parted ways. 

It’s been three years since then, and you’ve stayed in close touch with each other, but you haven’t seen each other in person since that night. It isn’t either of your faults—life got in the way and neither of yours lined up. Nonetheless, he’s grown closer to you these past few years than he ever has, which definitely doesn’t help the massive crush he still has on you. 

Part of him thinks he really needs to move on—he’s been in love with you for so many years he doesn’t even remember the exact number, but his feelings remain the same. Any relationship he’s tried to have, just to see if he could ever love someone else, has never lasted.

Lando thinks he might be stuck on you his whole life, if the entirety of his teenage years and first few of his young adult years have been any indication. 

He’s very prone to wanting things he can’t have, it seems. 

Lando gives his head a shake because it couldn’t be you. You couldn’t be here, because last he heard from Max, you were somewhere out of the country on a work trip and wouldn’t be able to make it to Silverstone for the race. It’s a bummer for sure, but Lando knows you would've come if you could. Max told him you sounded downright upset about it on your check in call earlier in the week to break the news. 

He turns slowly, hesitantly. Hopefully. His fingers tighten on the water bottle he’s got clutched in his hands. 

There you are, looking back at him like something straight out of his dreams. 

You’re older now, as he is too, but there’s something different about you. About how you hold yourself. Like you've finally settled into the person you were meant to be. It isn’t something he could’ve clocked in on through texts and grainy video calls, but he sees it now, clear as day. 

“Hi.” 

“You’re here,” He breathes, disbelieving. He isn’t able to stop himself from rushing forward, bringing you into a very tight, very excited hug that lifts you off your feet.

You let out a surprised noise at his enthusiasm, barely managing to hook an arm over around his shoulders so you wouldn’t go flailing as he spins you around.

He puts you down soon after, still beaming as he takes you in. “How are you here? I thought—Max said you were on a work trip!” 

“I asked him to keep it a secret,” You chuckle, spreading a palm across his chest to steady yourself. “Wanted to surprise you for your home race. Hope that’s okay?” 

“More than okay! It’s so good to see you again,” He insists, folding you into another, albeit much quicker hug. He holds you at arm's length right after. “You look really good.” 

“I feel good,” You say sincerely. “Think I’m finally getting the hang of this whole life thing.” 

“That’s amazing. I’m proud of you for pushing through, sticking it out,” Lando murmurs, just as genuine. There’s nothing better than seeing you finally find a good place, happy with where you are and what you’re doing. It’s all he’s ever wanted for you. 

“Thank you. But oh my god, look at you!” You exclaim, taking his face in your hands. You pinch his cheeks the same way you used to do, but the way you’re looking at him feels much different than before.

There’s something that isn’t quite the same, like something about what you think of him has changed. The thought burrows its way deeper into his brain when one hand slides down to his chest for a few beats.

“You’ve grown up quite a bit again, haven’t you?” 

He laughs, a little high pitched and a little breathless. “Yeah well, you know what they say about second puberty.” 

“Still got the same cute laugh though.” You smile at him brightly, and it's like the sun has just poked its way through the dreary British fog for the first time in ages. His heart does an involuntary tap dance against his ribcage. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it then. Sorry if I, like, disturbed your pre-race rituals or anything, I just wanted to pop in and say hi before things get crazy.” 

“No, no, I’m glad you did. I think I needed to see a familiar face. Between you and me, I’m kinda freaking out.” 

“Oh, Lan,” You sigh, squeezing his hand. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Hope so.” 

“You will,” You insist firmly. “Don’t think about the people, don’t think about the crowd. Just trust your gut, and drive like hell.” 

Lando didn’t know it before, but your words are exactly the thing he needs right now. He sighs deeply, letting his shoulders relax just the slightest bit. 

“Anyways, I better go. Max is probably wondering where I’ve wandered off to.” 

He clears his throat, giving his head a little shake. “Yeah, I should—I probably need to get going as well.” 

“Good luck, be safe, all that. I’ll be the loudest one cheering you on.” 

Lando hears himself call out your name when you’re a few steps away from the door. You turn back to him, and he knows this is the moment. He’s about to do something he’s never had the balls to do before, never in the nine years he’s been in love with you. Only today, right here, he’s never felt more sure of himself. 

He’s trusting his gut. 

“Would you wanna grab a drink tonight? Dinner too, if you’re up for it?” 

“Yeah, ‘course! I’ll text my brother, see if he’s free.” 

“No,” He blurts. You arch a surprised brow at his sudden outburst. “Sorry, I just—I meant like, maybe just the two of us.” 

You’re quiet for a few moments, and it feels like the longest couple seconds of his life. But then you nod, breaking into a big grin. “I’d really like that.”

Lando doesn’t want to get his hopes up in fear of possibly jinxing it, but it feels like maybe, just maybe, he might have a chance with you. After all these years, he’s no longer just a little kid to you, no longer just your little brother’s best friend.

The thought of that pumps him up better than a race in front of his home crowd ever could.

-------

twenty five

He’s done it. 

Lando's just won in Abu Dhabi, gotten his fourth win of his career—his fourth win of the season. McLaren has just won the constructor’s championship for the first time in twenty six years, and Lando’s been an instrumental part in making it happen. 

The moment he steps out onto the front of the car, hears the crowd cheering for him, he can barely even believe it. It doesn’t feel real at all. 

He wants to find you. He knows you’re here somewhere, probably with his family in the garage. He also knows he doesn’t have the time to find you, not until after he’s taken care of his post race duties. 

Lando doesn't see you until he returns to the pit lane in front of the McLaren garage.

The whole team is gathered there, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. He can feel the energy buzzing through the atmosphere, the pure excitement and joy of a long awaited championship not only for everyone here, but the whole team of papaya back at the factory too. 

This is their time as much as it is his, if not even more. They’re the reason he’s able to live this dream every single day, and for that, he’ll never be able to say enough thank yous. 

Instead, he’ll work even harder next season, keep pushing and honing his craft until he’s able to truly show his gratitude towards them. 

But for now, he’ll celebrate. After a long, grueling (but fulfilling) season, he’s earned that. 

He breaks into a jog towards the huddle, breaking into a face-splitting grin as he jumps into the team celebrations happily. Person after person clap him on the back on his way to his place beside the giant papaya sign, even after the team photo is taken and he gets doused by champagne from all sides. 

Lando feels like a million bucks. This feeling has been a long time coming, a long time needed. If he could bottle it up and save it forever, he would. 

There’s only one thing that could make this moment even better. 

He turns to the crowd behind the barriers, searching, searching, searching for his loved ones until— 

There you are, standing with his family just as he’d thought you’d be, cheering so hard he thinks you might even be crying. 

Man, are you a sight for sore eyes. You’ve both been busy the past few weeks, him with this triple header and you with your job. You’d barely made it to this race, but he’s happy you’re here. Even happier you were here to see him win. 

He makes his way towards you all, doling out hugs to everyone, not able to wipe the smile from his face as he chats with each of them. 

His parents, his sister, and finally…you. 

You’re beaming just as big as he is when he stops in front of you, flinging your arms around his neck in the tightest hug. He lets out a sigh of content, lifting you off your feet a bit in a hug just as tight, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he does so. 

“Hi, baby,” He breathes, running his hands down from your shoulders to your forearms as soon as he puts you down again. “What’d you think?” 

“What do I think?” You exclaim, taking his face in your hands. “I think you did amazing! I think I’ve cried, like, four times already since the race ended, honestly.” 

He laughs, wrapping his fingers around your wrists. “I made you cry?” 

“Yeah, you made me cry, you muppet! I’m so fucking proud of you,” You tell him, sounding nothing but truly sincere. There’s tears in your eyes again, happy tears for him, and he feels a surge of adoration bloom in his chest. “Congratulations, Lan. You’re destined for so much greatness, I know it.” 

He’s sweaty, sticky, and doused in champagne, but he still feels on top of the world at the joy in your eyes.

“I love you,” He blurts. He couldn’t have stopped the words spilling from his mouth even if he tried. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s knowing there’s no better time than the present, but it’s out there now. The past five months you’ve been dating have been absolutely mint, but Lando doesn’t think he could’ve gone another moment without telling you. 

You let out a watery sort of chuckle, sliding a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and bringing him in for a kiss.

You’ve kissed before—a lot, actually—but this one feels different. Better. The giant secret that he’s been holding in from you for years and years is finally out, and it’s like a weight lifted off his chest. 

“I love you too, Lan,” You murmur, words pressed against his lips like they're something reserved only for him. “God, I love you.” 

There goes his heart right then, the last piece of his heart that he’d saved for the day he wasn’t sure would ever come. The last piece of his heart that belonged to him now belongs to you, and in this moment, you’ve got all of it. 

All of Lando’s heart is now yours. 

Lando didn’t think this day could get any better, but now there’s this. The woman of his dreams, the one he’s been in love with since you were both kids, finally loves him back.

He’s not sure what heaven is like, but Lando imagines it might be something like this.

Here, under the Abu Dhabi sky, he’s gotten the championship, he’s finally gotten his girl. To him, there’s nothing better than it. 

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new fic :)

[destourtereauxrecs]

so adorable

[boneblushed]

Glitch

synopsis Rafe has a bad fall on the ski slopes. A temporary amnesiac, he falls in love with you all over again.

a/n oh Euro Trip Rafe I have missed you so bad 🥹

The velcro of your left glove snags, the worn edge catching on the handle of your ski pole. You sigh. The gauntlet cuff on the right side isn’t looking much better, all scruffy and threadbare so the underlying skin’s exposed.

“Hold on,” you call out, skidding to a reluctant stop.

It’s high time you replaced them with a newer pair, especially considering you’ve been using the same gear your parents bought you post middle-school growth spurt. But you don’t come to Aspen nearly enough to justify doing so at the moment; not that money’s a particular issue, it’s more so the inconvenience an unnecessary shopping trip will bring you.

“Dude. Again?”

You abandon the broken strap to send Topper a helpless frown. He’s a little way ahead, partially obscured by the crowd, but the exasperation on his face is made evident by his tone.

He draws nearer and glances down at the shaggy velcro, shaking his head disapprovingly. “We’ve gotta buy you a new pair.”

Above him, the sky is a gauzy blue, juxtaposing the sugary white hue of fresh snow.

“Not worth it Top,” you argue. The strap hitches again, an objection. “They’ll barely get used.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he answers, turning again. “Come on. I’m going to buy you a new pair.”

He’ll buy you a new one, your heart sings. And then it stops. You know better than to read into this gesture — he isn’t being chivalrous on purpose; when is he ever? This is the fourth time you’ve had to stop to untangle or readjust, and you’re pretty sure he’s just getting sick of you holding him up. Logic prevails, but your traitorous cheeks warm anyway, demure about the offer.

“It’s fine,” you insist. The velcro barely sticks when you refasten it. Fine enough. “Let’s keep going.”

You continue to push through the horde ahead of you, making your slow way toward the chairlifts. As you near, the ant-like skiers and snowboarders on the mountain become clearer, and you pull down your goggles, blinded by the sun’s glare.

That’s when the accident happens.

All of a sudden, but crashing in dusky orange slow-motion. Some guy hits a rocky bit of the slopes, losing control of his snowboard and nosediving into the snow. It’s a gnarly looking collision, made worse by his concerning lack of helmet, and you share a worried look with Topper before making your way toward him.

“Dude, fucking move—hey, sorry, best friend coming through—”

You startle, halting abruptly. You’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“—sorry, ‘scuse me gorgeous, I’m just gonna squeeze past you real quick—”

“Noah!”

In the split second that follows, you endure several emotions at once. The first: concern heightened ten-fold. Because if Noah’s referring to himself as the best friend, the some guy in question is actually Rafe Cameron.

The same Rafe Cameron that you love to hate, almost as much as your poor heart avows it.

The second: a concerning ache. Right at the centre of your chest, within your ribcage, as if the tired ligaments that hold it together are as weak as your velcro straps. The feeling swells, and you feel your heart squeeze through the cracks.

And then there’s apprehension, some excitement, a sudden bashfulness that makes your cheeks burn.

All round pathetic. You force a smile that’s more a grimace, hoping that Noah doesn’t notice your disquiet.

He pauses en-route, a surprised expression on his face. “Y/N!” He exclaims, breathless. The surprise melts into a mixture of delight and amusement. “Tell me you witnessed him bailing just then.”

You sigh. “Unfortunately.”

“Good,” he replies soberly, linking his arms in yours and tugging you forward. Your ski poles cross in protest, your centre of balance askew. “You’re coming with me.”

“What?” You ask, evidently bewildered. “Noah…”

You twist around and find Topper in the crowd, who shrugs, equally perplexed. Help me, you mouth, though you’re moving ahead too fast for the poor boy to discern it.

“…uh,” you try again, turning back to the face him, “I don’t know if this is —”

“Y/N,” he interrupts matter-of-factly, zig-zagging through the crowd with ease. “If there’s one person that can talk some sense into him, it’s you. I mean, shit, did you see how fast he was going? He’s going to board himself into a fucking coma if he keeps doing stupid shit like that.”

This brings a pause. It’s sort of endearing, really, how fiercely he cares about Rafe.

Your gaze softens a smidge. “You’re a good friend, Noah,” you say. “He’s pretty lucky to have you.”

“Us,” Noah corrects.

Your pulse jolts. “He doesn’t have me,” you reply, frowning a little.

“Everyone else may believe that Y/N, but I don’t.”

And again, a terrifying emotion bounding forth in your chest. “I —”

You’re saved the trouble of sputtering through an excuse by Rafe’s languid groan, a thready-sounding, “Shit.”

The crowd parts at Noah’s command, and the pair of you squeeze through, now face to face with Rafe.

He’s splayed out on the snow with his limbs in disarray, only one of his boots still strapped onto his board. His cheeks are a chilly rouge, dirty-blonde hair sticking out at odd angles. You resist the sudden urge to reach forward and comb your fingers through it.

“Idiot,” Noah mutters, crouching down beside him. “Absolute fucking idiot.”

He unfastens the aforementioned boot and tosses his board to the side, the nose-end looking notably abraded.

“Huh?” Rafe mumbles, a little dazed. He gropes at his purple-hued goggles blindly, pulling them off to squint up at Noah. It takes a worrying number of seconds for recognition to dawn on his features, and when it does, finally, Noah turns around and beckons you forward.

You hesitate, your gaze flitting down to Rafe’s face. “Someone should call Ward.”

“No!” Rafe yells suddenly, attempting to push himself up before collapsing backward languidly. He clutches his left side and groans, his eyebrows pinching in pain.

His discomfort makes you wince. You spring into action without meaning to, that concerning ache in your chest pulling you forth until you’re crouching down beside him like Noah.

“No Ward,” you murmur, placing your hand on his shoulder. “Noted.”

Up close, you can see a cut on his bottom lip, the rough stubble on his jaw all dewy from the melted snow. Your brow furrows. As he tears his gaze away from Noah to face you instead, you brush back his dirty-blonde fringe, searching for any more injuries. He has a graze on his upper forehead and you thumb over it gently, the furrow in your brow deepening with concern.

You glance up at Noah and nod. “Absolute fucking idiot.”

Rafe tries to do the same, but a sharp ache sears through his head when he attempts to turn it again.

“Stop moving it,” you instruct sternly, exerting more pressure on his forehead to hold it in place. “Noah isn’t going anywhere.”

“Have to,” he groans, his voice all gravelly and rough, “make sure he’s still here.”

He’s almost certain that Noah won’t be, that he’ll turn to him and find that the two of you are the only people sitting on the slopes. He imagines it like that scene at the end of Deathly Hallows, everything in blinding white and playing inside of his head.

You know, because he’s almost definitely dreaming if you’re crouching down beside him right now. With a soft hand on his shoulder, another pressed over his forehead. Two points of contact, he marvels, dazed. He squints up at you again, his reverent gaze falling over you in paces, and it feels as though a fog is descending on his surroundings. Everything blurs. He blinks abruptly.

“Dude,” Noah chastises, leaning over Rafe’s torso so that he’s within his line of sight, “where the fuck would I go?”

Rafe’s eyes widen, and he looks between you and Noah, evidently bewildered. “Bro,” he groans after a pause, his head falling back defeatedly. “I’m fucked.”

Your heart lurches worriedly, and you frown, looking over his figure for more injuries. “R’you in any pain?”

“Not physical,” he mumbles, lifting his head tentatively to squint at you. He drops it again and groans, overwhelmed by your closeness. “You’re really fucking beautiful, by the way. It’s messing with my head.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a tell-tale warm creeping up your neck. “Alright, you guys can go,” you say, turning to address the crowd. “He’s totally fine.”

Noah grins down at him, looking equally parts proud and exasperated. “There he is.”

Rafe isn’t sure what that means. All he knows is that he doesn’t feel fine, his head’s all jumbled and there’s a dreadful ache in every one of his limbs. The sound of blood pounding through his ears is unrelenting, and the chill in the air is downright abrasive. Not to mention, there’s this angel reincarnate that’s leaning over him at present, a concerned expression on her face that’s somehow making her look prettier.

Two points of contact, Rafe thinks again, agonised. Your softened features come to him in slow motion, the light reflected in your wide eyes, the shine of gloss on your frowning lips. You look extremely familiar, but he’s having difficulty recalling your name. There’s this overwhelming pull in chest that tells him you’re a big deal to him—his girlfriend, he hopes, aghast and probably deluded. That’s the concussion talking.

Besides, he isn’t even entirely sure that you’re actually real, all things considered.

“We should probably get him checked out, huh?” You ask Noah.

Noah knits his brow thoughtfully, peering down at Rafe. “You good, Cameron?”

“I feel fucking hungover,” Rafe mutters, pushing himself into a sitting position. Your hand falters as he hangs his head forward, and he reaches up, pressing it back into his skin. The rough pressure makes your breath hitch, less languid and more sure than he’s been since he bailed.

“You’re concussed,” you correct meekly, frowning down at him.

Rafe tries to shake his head, wincing as another bolt of pain shoots through it in dissent. “No,” he says, quick to fix his features. He grins dazedly. “I’m Rafe Cameron. And you’re… well, I hope you’re my girlfriend or something, because otherwise this heart attack in my chest’d be pretty concerning.”

You breathe out a scoff, mildly exasperated. A little relieved. If he’s well enough to remember to be an incessant flirt, he’s well enough for the concussion to not have caused any permanent damage.

“Alright, nevermind, no medical attention necessary,” you mutter, sending him a glare. It’s hard to hide the fact that your palms are clammy when you pull them away.

Noah loops his bicep under Rafe’s and pulls him to his feet, steadying him in place. The throbbing in his forehead intensifies, and he groans, staggering forward and doubling over.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” Noah replies then, frowning. “Maybe I’ll give my mom a call, just to be safe.”

“Your mom?”

“Dr White,” Rafe supplies, forcing himself to straighten. He tries to control his breathing, ignore the way his surroundings seem to be spinning.

Everything except you. His focus acquiesces. He must look pale or something because your gaze is apprehensive, this pretty furrow in your brow that he wants to smooth his thumb over. God, he must look pathetic right now, weak and mildly concussed, the aforementioned bail notwithstanding.

So he lies, adding, “Don’t worry about it White, I’m good,” mostly for your benefit—so you don’t think he’s some fucking chump who can’t handle a bit of a tumble.

He wants to impress you, bad. He plasters on another grin, going for roguish and landing on dense. “Would be better if you let me take you out later.”

“No way you’re asking me out right now,” you reproach, sending him a glare. “You almost just died five minutes ago, and that’s the first thing on your priority list?”

“You are, yeah,” he agrees, still grinning. He tries to walk toward you, staggering a little. “Seriously though, this has gotta be fate — bailing real fucking hard and finding a beautiful stranger along the way.”

You blink. “Beautiful stranger?”

“Heavy on the beautiful,” Rafe agrees, lumbering forward clumsily.

“Stranger?” You repeat, and then you falter, glancing down at his feet. “Rafael —”

He loses balance far too quickly for you to intervene, and he falls against you heavily, causing you to topple into the snow. Biting cold on your back, delightful warmth on your chest. His instincts must be somewhat intact, because he manages to hold his weight up despite being right on top of you.

Like, right on top of you. A terrifying emotion sears through your chest. The smatter of freckles on his nose are almost faded, his cheeks a brilliant rouge, snow-burned lips parted slightly. His overgrown locks brush against your forehead, just.

“Sorry,” he breathes out, and then he pauses, his gaze flitting to your lips. In the beat that passes, he agonises over the soft planes of your face, how pretty your eyes are up close. His heart’s just about pounding through his skin. How kissable your lips look, your cheeks, your neck, how right your figure feels pressed into his. His palms feel clammy; that hasn’t happened in a long while. He thinks, oh shit. And then, I’m absolutely fucking fucked.

You swallow, watching his pupils dilate. “Cameron. I need you to focus for a second.”

“Listen,” he murmurs, ignoring you, “D’you believe in love at first sight?”

“Rafael —”

“Because I know we’ve only just met,” he continues, drawing closer still, his heady gaze deepening, “and that — shit, I don’t even know your name, but I’m pretty sure that if I don’t kiss you right now I’m going to go fucking insane. That’s crazy, huh? I think you make me crazy. Have I mentioned that you’re really fucking beautiful yet? It’s messing with my head. Wait — I think I might’ve said that already —”

“Rafe Cameron,” you interrupt again, your eyes widening slightly. “If this is some stupid prank —”

“Prank?” He echoes, frowning slightly. He leans forward a little, brushing his nose against yours. Your pulse jolts. “You’re a prank.” He groans then, dropping his head to your shoulder. Your closeness may quell the pounding a smidge, but not completely. “You’re not real are you? I’m dreaming all of this?”

Your lock eyes with Noah over his head, sending him a worried look.

“Rafael,” you try again, pushing him off you and sitting up carefully. “This isn’t funny. I’m so beyond serious.”

Rafe, still splayed out on the snow, angles toward you with a furrow in his brow. “I’m confused.”

“Noah,” you say then, your voice louder, a little panicked. “I think you will need to call your mom after all.”

Noah frowns, crouching down beside the pair of you. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” Rafe answers, groaning in pain as he sits up. “Is that I’ve made a fool out of myself in front of this gorgeous stranger.”

“Ask her,” you continue, your heart feeling a little odd, “how long post-concussion memory loss takes to wear off.”

Noah eyes widen, searching Rafe’s face for any signs of mirth. “No way,” he says. “He’s gotta be fucking with us.”

“There’s an us?” Rafe echoes, raising his eyebrows at Noah. “Dude. Did you know your girlfriend’s a fucking smokeshow?”

“If this is some new pick up line you’re trying,” he replies, eyeing him warily. “It sucks ass Cameron.”

“Oooh, territorial,” Rafe answers, grinning dopily. He props himself up further, leaning closer to you and lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “You’re totally out of his league, by the way. Pretty sure you’re like, out of the Earth’s league.” He frowns. “That doesn’t make sense,” then groans, “fuck. Having a concussion is like drinking on an empty stomach.”

The pillow of his bicep presses into yours, full well engulfing it. You turn to face him, chewing on your bottom lip worriedly. If this was his idea of a prank, you want to believe that he wouldn’t let it go on this long. Especially not when you and Noah look so concerned, the latter retrieving his phone to give his mother a call.

“Hey mom,” he says, sandwiching his phone between his shoulder and ear and getting to his feet. You do so too. Rafe staggers to a standing position far more clumsily. “Yeah — no — the snow’s been sick, but I’m calling because something’s happened with Rafe. No, no, nothing too serious, he’s just a little concussed and may have some temporary amnesia. I was wondering if…”

“Maybe we can go on a double date,” Rafe tries again, grinning hopefully. There’s a bit of snow that’s melted on your bottom lip from the fall, and he aches to thumb over it, tuck his fingers under your jaw. “You, Noah, me.”

“No, no, he remembers me,” Noah continues, sending you a significant look. “But he doesn’t remember — yeah, it’s pretty selective — uh, maybe a few meters? Uh… no, what the hell’s a trigger? I’ll…”

“What d’you reckon?” Rafe prompts.

Noah turns away and you move your gaze to Rafe, half amused, half exasperated. “You, me, and Noah? Who’re you going to bring?”

“You,” he replies, like it’s obvious.

“And Noah?”

“Me.”

You breathe out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. Rafe thinks it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. His already muddled brain short-circuits for the billionth time.

“…half an hour?” You hear Noah affirm, the frown on his features audible. “Yeah — no — it’s been just over that — a trigger like what, though? What d’you mean you don’t know him as well as I do, he’s been coming to our house since he was like six years old…”

You don’t realise your brow’s furrowing until your feel Rafe’s rough thumb brush over it. You startle, feeling your skin warm as you look up at him.

“I’m lucky,” he murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

You swallow. “Why?”

“You’re worried about me.” His hand drops to your jaw, thumb swiping over your cheek. You swallow instinctively. “And you’re way too beautiful to be worrying about someone like me.”

“You’ve lost your memory,” you answer weakly. “Anyone’d be worried.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He draws closer.

“Which part, exactly?”

“That people would worry,” he answers quietly, his voice gruff. Closer still. “That I’d forget about someone like you so easy.”

“But you have,” you prompt.

“Then remind me, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart, Rafael,” you murmur, trying for a frown.

“Not my — wait.”

The thumb that’s swiping over your cheek freezes suddenly. “Wait,” he repeats, blinking several times. He scrunches his eyes shut, retrieving his hand to clutch it against his forehead. “Wait — fuck.”

You lean forward instinctively, tugging his arm away to look over his features, his concerning graze. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I knew…” he answers, shaking his head and groaning, “…but…shit, it’s so fucking obvious now —”

You furrow your brow in confusion, locking eyes with an equally bewildered Noah.

He holds his phone away from his ear, walking over and surveying Rafe’s features. “You good, brother?”

“Fine, shit,” Rafe curses again, scrubbing his hand over his face before meeting your gaze, chagrined. He grins hopefully. “That might’ve been quicker with true love’s kiss, though.”

You aren’t about to believe that he’s back without concrete evidence. “And my name is…?”

“Mrs Cameron,” he replies seriously.

You let out a scoff, more relief than indignation, catching the twinkle of mirth in his eyes. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

“Maybe,” he answers, raising his eyebrows, “if you let me take you out I’ll be too busy to bail.”

You roll your eyes. “Nice try.”

“But I’m maimed, sweetheart,” he adds, brushing back his dirty-blonde locks to show off the forehead graze. He pouts for good measure. “C’mon. Not even a pity date?”

You shake your head exasperatedly, catching Noah’s eye over his shoulder. “You’ll take it from here?”

“What? You aren’t gonna hang out with us?” Noah asks, pressing the phone against his chest. “I thought you were my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“Off limits, bro,” Rafe says matter-of-factly.

You’re about to protest when he draws closer and ducks his head, his warm breath on your earlobe cutting you off. “I won’t ever do that again,” he murmurs, the smile on his face audible, “I promise.”

“Good,” you answer, frowning sternly.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

You turn toward him, startling at his closeness. “Hm?”

He grins wider, brushing his nose against your fleetingly. “Missed remembering you bad, dream girl.”

[destourtereauxrecs]

euro trip rafe will always, ALWAYS be my favourite.

[boneblushed]

Untouchable

masterlist | part 5 | part 6

synopsis the if only conundrum.

wc 4.6k

“Rafe,” you warn.

“Y/N…” he echoes, his finger sweeping over your warm cheek.

He’s too close, closer than he should be, far closer than your own good or his would sanction.

And it’s as though his stupid, familiar scent has immobilised you, the rough chlorine and vetiver like a disarming agent, liquefying your limbs. His lips draw nearer, less than an inch from yours now, and your pathetic heart jumps into your throat in tandem.

Is he having as much trouble catching a breath right now as you are?

Your gaze staccatos as you force it up to his features, halting on his bobbing Adam’s apple, the shadow of stubble on his neck. At his mouth now, you watch his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip. Pause. His eyes are all pupil with a thin wafer of deep blue, like the rim of the horizon before it descends into velvet dusk.

He leans in further, reinforcing his hold on your jaw, and rather than doing the same, you find yourself freezing in place.

Perhaps it’s the fact that this is all becoming too real too fast—Rafe Cameron with his hand on your face, Rafe Cameron with zero regard for personal space. Rafe Cameron making the same move on you that he’s no doubt made on every other girl on his roster; he’s this close to sealing the deal, tasting your lips and marking you his, when you realise that you don’t want to be another name he gets to cross off his list.

If only you knew.

You press the heels of your palm against his chest hastily, hesitant more than firm, enough force for Rafe to stumble back in surprise.

His chest lurches in protest, his skin singed where your hands made contact.

“Rafe,” you resound, letting out another shaky breath. Unsure. “Stop.”

“I — shit,” he mutters back, his voice gruff, almost languid. He straightens a little and runs his fingers through his hair, the soft, dirty-blonde locks limp against his touch. “Why?”

You wince. “I could ask you the same question.”

Rafe falters, momentarily caught off guard, his thick brow furrowing as he looks back down at you. “Are you kidding?” He rasps, as if trying to catch his breath. “You have to know that not kissing you right now is fucking torture.”

“We… we can’t,” you say then, grappling for excuses that are quickly slipping through your fingers. “Our relationship is strictly professional, and —”

“Oh come on,” Rafe interrupts then, reclaiming his hold on your jaw so that he can prompt your gaze up to meet his. “The way we look at each other is the exact opposite of professional.”

Your eyes widen slightly, disarmed by the revelation, and you find yourself struggling to deny the truth of it without outright lying.

“The amount I think about you,” he continue lowly, his voice gravelly around the edges. “Would put Cromwell into a fucking coma.”

The things I want to do to you, he wants to add, would definitely have that effect. Maybe—definitely—that’s overkill. Perhaps it’s your closeness that’s rendered him defenceless, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s superimposed by your wide eyes and pretty mouth. Christ, you’re going to be the death of him. He wonders whether you know that you’re pressing your cheek into his palm right now, vying for more of him. You have these tells that he’s yearned for since before tonight, before this year, before the year prior and probably even before he tried to ask you out.

A beat. You want to believe him so badly your heart aches, but there’s a nagging in your chest that makes it difficult to focus on anything else.

“Why now?” You whisper, uncertain.

“Didn’t think I had a chance til now,” he murmurs back.

What happens if it doesn’t work out? It taunts, refusing to relent. What happens if he loses interest just as you’re ready to accept it?

“It’s not the right time, Cameron,” you reply finally, letting out a languid sigh. You push away from him again, more sure this time than you were before. “It… it’ll overcomplicate things.”

“The way I feel about you already happens to do that,” he murmurs back, though it’s clear he’s beginning to acquiesce. He sighs too. “But,” he takes a step back, and your heart pulls, “shit… as much as I don’t want to, I get it.”

“Okay,” you say, swallowing thickly. Selfish as it is, you sort of wish he’d fought you on the fact harder.

“Okay,” he echoes, clearing his throat. Another beat as the pair of you regain your composure, or what’s left of it after the havoc wreaked by the promise of something more.

You nod in assent, try for a smile. It’s as you’re readying yourself for the let’s-pretend-this-never-happened speech that the pair of you are interrupted by the sound of a car fast approaching, the turbulent ignition like a blade through the silence.

Your father pulls into the driveway just as Rafe turns to face it, his headlights bathing the two of you in yellow light. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of Rafe’s body heat on your skin. It’s as though having a witness has shrunk the inches between your figures; you step away quickly, feel him do so in tandem, and try to act normal whilst feeling the exact opposite.

The ignition quietens, and your father climbs out of his car with subtle surprise etching his features.

“Mr Y/L/N!” Rafe exclaims, plastering on that charming smile of his. Effortlessly—like it’s nothing. Your heart pulls again. “How’re you doing?”

“Rafe,” he acknowledges, raising his eyebrows. Not unpleasantly; he just isn’t sure what to make of the pair of you outside of an Academy setting. “What brings you here?”

“I was just leaving,” he answers swiftly, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “I… uh, Mrs Y/L/N was kind enough to invite me inside for dinner.”

“Ah.” Your father’s eyes dart to you, searching for an explanation. “Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Rafe shakes his head in response, turning toward you and beginning to walk down the porch steps backwards. “I’ll, uh,” he sounds more breathless speaking to you than he does your father, his heady gaze softening as it falls over you in paces, “I’ll see you later?”

“At the next meeting, yeah,” you answer with a nod, trying to sound nonchalant. (Failing miserably.)

He pivots on his heels and slides his keys out of his front pocket, his heart doing this odd little lurch as the distance between the pair of you increases. His skin burns despite the Autumn chill, the phantom of your touch still pressed into his torso.

Don’t turn back, he thinks. He hears your father’s footsteps ascend the porch, hears your front door open and close after you greet him. He doesn’t see the knowing look he shoots you, nor does he hear the flustered waver in your timbre. Or the way your gaze lingers on his figure. When he sits down in the driver’s seat and does catch a glimpse of his reflection in his rearview mirror, all he can see is the same mouth that should’ve tasted you by now. He closes his eyes, and all he sees is your pretty face looking up at him, blurred around the edges.

—

You’re doing a good job at being normal about it all.

Too good a job, it seems; two weeks on from your porch-side rendezvous, it appears as though Rafe Cameron has resigned himself to his apparent fate—that he’s never going to be able to call you his.

How do you know? You’ve returned to professional pleasantries sans any playful teasing—sans any lingering glances or too-close proximity, the unbearable tension between you notwithstanding.

And the worst part of it all, you’re quickly realising, is that it’s based on a fate that’s very obviously untrue. Because the thing is, you do feel something for him, try as you might to vehemently deny it. And you know that it’s selfish, hoping he keeps pursuing you despite shutting it down already, but there’s this part of you that wants him to want you despite it all.

Again, if only you knew.

Rafe Cameron’s favourite deflection tactic is moving on far too fast.

“Any other notices?” You ask, looking out over the room-full of tired prefects in front of you.

Dalton raises his arm, the rolled sleeve of his uniform shirt pulled taut. You narrow your eyes at him, skeptical about the merit of his announcement. “Notices that aren’t just party invitations,” you add, sending him a stern glare.

Dalton grins roguishly, lifting his other arm in surrender. “Third one this year you haven’t attended, Y/L/N. Where’s your team building spirit?”

You roll your eyes, your gaze darting to Rafe momentarily, a knee-jerk response. Usually, this is where he’d jump in and interject. Recently, however, it feels as though he’s more afraid of the consequences of a possible imposition.

It makes your undeserving pulse lurch, your lips pulling down into a frown without meaning to. “You know what, Haynes,” you say after a beat, looking back toward him. “You’re right. When’s the party?”

Rafe falters, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Dalton’s too busy looking pleased to notice this reception, and he pushes back against his rickety chair, balancing it on its hind-legs. “Tonight,” he answers, flashing you another grin. A muscle in Rafe’s jaw ticks. “At mine. Cameron’ll get you the addy, won’t you brother?”

A beat. When Rafe doesn’t respond right away, you look up at him expectantly, your brow furrowing at the odd expression on his face—almost strained.

Your heart flounders.

You begin overthinking the invitation and your subsequent acceptance; why did you assume he’d want you there, anyway, at a party with all of his friends in the middle of his affluent neighbourhood? What were you trying to achieve by agreeing to go to it, some non-Academy time to solidify all this awkwardness?

Besides, you’d never fit in with a crowd like theirs, not without his Rafe Cameron charm as a buffer.

“Yeah, course,” he answers after pause, an unreadable emotion flashing across his blue irises. If you’re being honest with yourself, it looks dangerously close to reluctance. You resist the urge to grimace.

“Alright,” you say, clearing your throat awkwardly. “If that was all, we’ll lock in another meeting for the same time next month.”

A murmur of assent moves over the room, punctuated by the clamour of backpack zips and car keys jangling. You hesitate before retrieving your own laptop and placing it into your tote, Rafe’s imposing figure still frozen in place beside you.

Unbeknownst to you, he’s going through his own, exhausting turmoil of emotions. They start and end with you, the way they always do; almost kiss turned rejection or not, he’s pretty sure that your implacability in his mind is inevitable.

He’s pretty sure he’s actually fucking fucked, all things considered. (Read: wants you so badly it genuinely hurts sometimes.) Sure, the risks that come with being together may overcomplicate this whole head student thing, but not doing so is torturing him enough to render this a mute point.

Because, really, when have you ever accepted an invitation to one of his parties? Of all the absolute douchebags that make up your graduating class, why did you have to settle for someone as mediocre as Dalton fucking Haynes?

“…Cameron?”

It’s the third time you’ve said his name, just loud enough to break his reverie. He blinks a few times, glancing down at you. “Yeah?”

“Listen,” you say, frowning a little. “If I’ve… uh, I don’t know,” you pause, wincing, “overstepped, or something…”

There’s this slight, guilty inflection to your tone, and it makes Rafe feel worse, as if that was fucking possible. “Are you kidding?” He asks, shaking his head and plastering on a grin. “Of course not. I’ve been trying to get you to one of these parties for months!”

Your frown acquiesces a smidge, and you look up at him, your wide eyes messing with his brain. “I just mean… they’re your friends, and I know they never actually expect me to come to any of these things —”

“No, you should come,” he interrupts. “Get to know everyone. The girls. The boys,” he raises his eyebrows in what he hopes is a playful jibe, “Dalt.”

You lift your own in surprise, making to shake your head. “I’m not —”

“He lives at the end of the Strand Street cul-de-sac, super close to my house,” he interrupts again. “D’you need a ride there?”

And very far away from your own, as Rafe already knows. You try not to read into the fact that he’s willing to go out of his way to pick you up.

“I’ll be okay,” you respond slowly. “Listen, Cameron, I’m not trying to —”

“I’ll look out for you, yeah?” He says then, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. You’re close enough for his elbow to nudge yours as he does so, shifting a jolt of static through your bones. “Be your wing-man or something.”

You’re unsure what to make of his insistence, so you pause, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. Maybe he’s already forgotten about the same almost that’s plaguing you; maybe this is his gentle way of telling you he’s over it. Or maybe, and your mouth goes dry as you consider it, he’s moved in with someone else and doesn’t want you feeling awkward about the fact that you haven’t.

He’s sweet when he wants to be, you think.

“Alright,” you say finally, forcing a smile.

He throws his backpack over one shoulder, jogging backward toward the door. “No bailing last minute, Y/L/N.”

He’s gone before you know it, disappearing around the corner and no doubt catching up with his football posse. Your smile fades. It isn’t lost on you that this is the first meeting after which he hasn’t offered you a ride home.

—

Dalton Haynes lives in a magnificent palazzo in the heart of the Eight, its polished glass windows aglow with technicolor lights. The sharp edges are bordered by a cloudless sky, sunset orange transforming into deeper plum.

From the heavy bass reverberating through the air as you near, it’s clear that the party is already in full swing.

“Y/L/N!” Dalton exclaims, joined by Kelce on the front porch. “Look at you! You made it!”

You smile bashfully, clearly a little out of your depth, allowing him to pull you into a side-hug once you’re at an arm’s length. “I made it,” you agree, nodding at the pair of them. “Everyone else inside?”

Kelce raises his eyebrows, sharing a knowing look with Dalton before grinning roguishly. “Cameron’s inside, yeah,” he answer, taking a generous pull of his half-empty beer. Beads of condensation roll down the aluminium can ominously. “But I think you need a drink in your hand before you start mingling.”

“Uh,” you hold out your empty hands expectantly, “bit difficult considering I didn’t actually bring any.”

“No biggie,” Dalton answers good-naturedly, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “What d’you usually drink Y/L/N? I’m sure we can find something you’d like in the fridge.”

“Usually?” You echo diffidently, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. You aren’t sure you’ve done enough underage drinking to justify a predisposition to any sort of liquor—the odd, too-warm beer at a bonfire, a glass of moderately priced champagne if you’re at a celebration. A Mai Tai, once, at that exclusive PTA dinner at the Island Club last year.

With Rafe. And the rest of the association, of course, but it’s Rafe you remember, in his tailored suit and polished dress shoes.

Rafe, with the glinting cuff-links and generous wad of cash redeemable for fancy drinks and bar-staff compliance. Rafe, with the charming grin and really really distracting biceps. Aftershave, vetiver, and the saccharine scent of orgeat syrup. You didn’t realise, until just now, how much of him you remember from that first night as head students.

“Yeah,” Dalton prompts, retrieving his arm from your shoulder to pull open the fridge and peer inside. He’s led you down the hallway and into the busy kitchen, his large house suffused by varyingly familiar upperclassmen. “We’ve got some of my sister’s leftover White Claws, half a bottle of Sav, three of those Mai Tai drinks, oh — and a few cans of my beer, which you’re absolutely welcome to but I assume that you aren’t a big Budweiser girl yourself.”

“Mai Tai’ll do,” you answer, “thank you.”

“Easy,” he nods, handing one over before closing the fridge and straightening. He clinks the rim of his can against yours, making a noise of approval when you hiss it open. “The head girl at a party,” he says, grinning as he tips back his beer to take a sip. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

You roll your eyes, sending him a faux-glare. “You make me sound like such a fucking bore.”

“Not my intention,” he answers, raising his arms in surrender. “You just intimidate the living Hell out of me, and this laidback environment tends to take the edge of that a bit.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. “If you’re trying to flatter me, it’s working,” you say, turning to face the living room. You lean against the kitchen island in front of you as you survey the scene, the smooth marble like glacial lava on your forearms. And your gaze moves over the scene absentmindedly, a fact that isn’t lost on Dalton. It’s as if you’re trying to find someone in secret—catch a glimpse of their figure and then pretend that you didn’t.

He leans forward in tandem, taking another pull of his beer. “Oh, I’d never dream of flattering Cameron’s girl without his permission.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, you face whipping around to face him. “I’m not —”

“Oh, sure, maybe not right now,” he allows, raising his eyebrows. “But I think it’s pretty obvious you’re the reason that he’s been flirting with Leighton all evening, don’t you think?”

“Leighton?” You echo, frowning slightly. “Where’s —”

Dalton places his hands on your shoulders firmly, pivoting you on your heel so that you’re facing the kitchen window. It overlooks one side of his wraparound deck, and in amongst the ruckus, Rafe is standing too close to the girl named Leighton. She’s undeniably beautiful, all glowing limbs and cheeks that are rosied by the chill. And a hand on Rafe’s—your Rafe’s—bicep.

You blink. There’s an unfair wrench in your gut. Suddenly, the fact that you didn’t almost kiss him when you had the chance feels like a cruel twist of fate, entirely unbearable. He’s already moved on, the way you predicted that he would, but the vindication of being right doesn’t feel nearly as good as it should.

This isn’t his fault, you have to remind yourself. But that doesn’t matter, the nagging voice screams, seeing him with someone else still hurts like a bitch. Granted, a wholly unjustified bitch, seeing as you’re the one that insisted you keep this professional. You blink again. Her hand’s still abutted in all it’s manicured glory, on his stupid broad bicep as though it belongs there.

“Oh,” is all you say.

Dalton frowns. “Dude, did you hear anything I just said? The only reason he’s even talking to her is because of you.”

“You don’t know that,” you answer, forcibly peeling your gaze away from him. “Besides, nothing even happened between us.”

“That’s the point,” Dalton urges, sending you an assessing look. “Better an oops than a what if, right?”

You shrug helplessly, your gaze moving back toward Rafe without meaning to. He’s smiling down at the girl named Leighton, this real, genuine grin that makes you honest-to-God ache, and another ugly bout of jealousy sears through your ribcage, forcing you to resign yourself to your fate.

“Except,” you say finally, turning away from the kitchen window, “that there wasn’t ever a what if in the picture to begin with.” You pull away from the smooth marble countertop, making for the yawning stairwell before looking back expectantly. “What’re you waiting for, Haynes? You going to give me a tour of this place or what?”

—

The tour, whilst a useful way to pass time, fails to distract you from the envious turn of your stomach. It feels as though every window you peer through allows a crystal-clear view of Rafe Cameron and his latest conquest—his figure too-close to hers, his elbow nudging her slim waist, her pretty hand on his bicep, on his shoulder, ever-present.

“You need a top-up?” Dalton asks, pointing his can at yours questioningly. You’re halfway down the stairwell and fast approaching the kitchen, the burnt ochre hue of sunset transforming a deeper velvet.

You tip back your Mai Tai for its dregs, nodding in response.

“Y/N?”

He doesn’t use your first name very often. His gravelly timbre tends to oscillate between your surname and whatever pet-name he’s in the mood for; less so after you made it clear that it irks you.

If only he knew.

He’s thought about you a pathetic amount tonight. Where you are, when you’ll arrive, how he’ll play it cool when you’re with Dalton (fucking Haynes) despite wanting to die inside. And now, it feels as though his worst fears are manifesting before his eyes—gorgeous you in a singlet and jeans with a slice of waist exposed, with maddening spaghetti straps made of almost see-through material. With pretty eyes, prettier cheeks, glossy lips that he knows smell like peach. (And feel like satin, and taste like something illegal; taste like the absolute fucking death of him.)

If it isn’t already obvious, Rafe Cameron is spiralling. He doesn’t do that very often—ever.

As you complete your descent of the stairwell, he runs his fingers through his hair, drawing your attention to his taut biceps and strong forearms.

“Oh, hey!” You exclaim, a little sheepish. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“Been here the whole time Y/L/N,” he responds evenly, his gaze darting to Dalton beside you. Less even, now. “How long’ve you been here?”

“Not long,” Dalton supplies, moving past him post-descent. “Just gave her a little tour of the humble abode.” He turns to back toward you expectantly. “Another Mai Tai, head girl?”

“You can go now, Haynes,” Rafe says, not bothering to look back at him.

Dalton raises his eyebrows at Rafe over his shoulder. “You’ll grab her the drink?”

Rafe ignores him, and you frown, evidently bemused by his unfriendly reception. “I’ll grab it myself Dalt,” you say, raising your empty can in farewell. “Thanks for keeping my company!”

He sends you a mock salute in response, and you swear there’s an imperceptible wink thrown in too. You frown harder, a question, but he’s too busy disappearing into the hallway to particularly notice it.

“So,” Rafe begins. A pause. “You and Haynes, huh?”

You look up at him, your pretty brow furrowed. “Did you guys get into a fight or something? Because this morning —”

“Yeah. Over you.”

You falter. “Me?”

Rafe sighs languidly, raking his fingers through his hair again. It prompts his figure an inch closer to yours, the scent of his musk and vetiver aftershave rendering your poor insides jelly. “Why didn’t you come find me when you got here, Y/L/N?”

“You were with a girl!” You protest. “I didn’t… I don’t know, you were busy.”

“You came to his party,” he continues slowly, his voice low, “I’ve invited you to so fucking many and his is the one that you finally attend.”

“For you, you idiot!” You exclaim, and then you falter, grimacing abashedly. “I mean,” you sigh, “I… I don’t know, I was sick of things being awkward.”

A pause. An unreadable emotion flickers over Rafe’s blue irises, and he takes a small step forward, caging you into the stairwell bannister. “For me?” He asks, his heady gaze trained on your features.

“Besides,” you continue, choosing to ignore him. “You — you were teasing me about the invitation, going on about how you’d play wing-man when I’m with Dalt.”

He raises his eyebrows. “‘Dalt’, huh?”

“You called him that,” you defend, “Not me. And — and you were with some other girl when I arrived —”

“Leighton’s a family friend,” he interrupts, inching closer still to rest his arm on the rounded newel at your side. His bicep on your shoulder now, a body-heat wall of muscle. “She was telling me about the college guy she’s seeing.”

You swallow. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Rafe agrees.

A beat. You can hear the steady thump of your heartbeat in your ears, the music and party clamour like long forgotten white noise. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, breaking eye contact.

Rafe frowns. “For?”

“I know you didn’t want me to come tonight.”

Another beat. When he doesn’t respond—argue with you—right away, you feel your stomach drop, your unsure gaze moving back up to him.

His once-blue irises have given way to dilated pupils. You swallow again.

“True,” he murmurs finally, his voice rough.

“Because this is your crowd,” you explain unnecessarily, talking faster, “not mine. And your friend’s the one that’s hosting. And there’s no real reason for me to be here except you, but our relationship’s supposed to be strictly professional and I’m the one that’s been harping on about —”

“Because,” Rafe interrupts firmly, his calloused palm find the contour of your jaw and pulling you closer. “Not kissing you two weeks ago was hard enough as is.” He ducks his head to eye-level, his nose brushing over yours gently. “And I don’t think I have it in me to control myself any more.”

You inhale in surprise, your lips parting slightly. “That sounds complicated,” you murmur.

“So fucking complicated,” he agrees lowly, his spearmint-and-beer breath fanning over your warm cheeks. Your lashes flutter. “Christ Y/N,” you can feel his lips ghosting over yours, now, “will you let me in complicate it some more?”

You may lean in first, but Rafe leans in harder. His free palm finds your waist and presses you against the stairwell bannister, torso to torso with enough conviction to bruise a little, your figure like putty in his hands. And his mouth is all youthful and rough, infused by Budweiser, his warm tongue moving over yours with desperation. Like he doesn’t fucking believe any of this is happening—doesn’t believe how soft your skin feels, how sweet your lips taste, how wretchedly he wants to feel more of you, all of you.

His hand slips underneath your singlet to knead the bare skin he finds there, his bruised lips dragging along your chin to your jaw. “Complicated fucking neck,” he mutters gruffly, pressing teeth-scraping kisses along your throat. His hand slides down to the curve of your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. “And shit, don’t get me started on how much these jeans are over-complicating everything.”

“Says you,” you gasp, your arms circling his neck to allow your fingers free reign on his hair. “Your hair’s cuter when it’s a little damp like this, y’know that?”

Rafe groans, his forehead falling to your shoulder in faux-defeat. “Compliments. Complicated.”

“No compliments,” you say as he lifts his head again, smiling. “Noted.”

“No talking,” Rafe agrees. He leans in again, pressing his lips to yours, hard. “Just kissing.”

“Kissing, huh?”

The voice makes the pair of you freeze, spring apart in tandem. Standing at the end of the hallway, a condensation-shiny Mai Tai in hand and triumphant grin on his face, Dalton Haynes’ knowing gaze is trained on your figures. “Please,” he adds then, raising his arms in surrender and beginning to walk backward, “don’t stop on my account.”

He disappears around the corner, and you turn back to Rafe, noticeably chagrined. Shit, you think, mostly because you want to kiss him again. You’re totally fucking fucked.

[destourtereauxrecs]

THE TENSION OH MY LORD

[boneblushed]

Untouchable

masterlist | part 4 | part 5

synopsis So maybe Rafe Cameron isn’t as bad as you thought he was.

wc 4.3k

As the football team files into the locker room after practice, Rafe Cameron jogs ahead, the space filling with sweat and grit. The vague scent of testosterone permeates.

“Dude,” Dalton carps, shoved aside as Rafe pushes past him. “You good?”

“I’m late,” Rafe pants, fishing his towel out of his gym bag before throwing it into his locker. “She told me she’d murder me if I was late to another meeting.”

He’s in too much of a rush to notice the reception this receives, a flurry of knowing looks punctuated by a keen sense of hubris. Kelce and Dalton may be the only two willing to bet on his odds with you, but it’s clear that the rest of the team—the prefects, the graduating class—have picked up on the lingering eye contact and ricocheting glances, the drawn out meetings and nescient closeness.

Not that it matters. September now, with the crisp Autumn chill beginning to unfurl, you maintain the same, safe distance from Rafe Cameron as jilted you had once delineated. Sure, you’re friendlier now, a little softer around the edges, but it’s clear that you’re fighting hard to keep things professional, hold him an arm’s length away and not closer.

He wishes it wouldn’t bother him as much as it does. There’s been a few instances where he’s attempted more than a ride in his pick-up; an invite to whatever lame party his team’s throwing that weekend, an offer to stop by the Burger Shack on the way home. As friends—colleagues. To minimal avail, of course, you’re always giving him the same answer when he asks: “Nice try, Cameron.” Not a yes, not a no, just this odd, taunting response that’s sweetened by your peach scented lipgloss.

His most recent attempt had been just the other week, when a meeting about winter formal had run longer than you’d initially planned. It’d been brought to his attention by a pang of hunger in his abdomen, and he’d pulled up Uber Eats without any sort of ulterior motive.

“What’s your McDonalds order?” He’d asked, looking up at you briefly.

The sun was hanging low on the horizon that evening; he remembers this because of the way it bedaubed the bottom half of your face, accentuated the smooth column of your throat.

Your frown looked prettier in yellow light — that’s another thing he remembers. You’d raised your eyebrows a little, not bothering to look up at him. Another pang. “Why?”

“You’re not hungry, Y/L/N?” He’d asked, raising his in tandem.

“Starving.” You’d glanced up then, frowning harder, prettier. “Maybe you should concentrate on getting this done so we can both go home for dinner.”

“Okay, not McDonalds,” Rafe had acceded, flicking back to the UberEats home screen and leaning in. “Chinese? Thai food? Something fancier? Vending machine crap?”

“Cameron.”

“Y/L/N,” he’d mocked, knocking his shoulder against yours cajolingly. “C’mon, we both need a bit of food. We’ve been at this for fucking hours.”

“So if I say yes,” you’d asked then, angling away and sending him a pointed look, “you’ll let me pay for my own meal?”

Rafe hadn’t missed a beat, scoffing, “Of course not.”

You’d sighed, “Exactly.” And then, “Nice try, Cameron.”

Like clockwork. He’s thinking about it now, mostly about the way his name moulds your gloss-shiny lips, when Kelce’s voice breaks his reverie.

“Pussy whipped,” he coughs, earning a few stifled laughs from the rest of the football team.

Rafe’s about to rise to the bait when his conscience forces a falter, reminding him of the last time you were brought up in this locker-room. He’s constantly, incessantly taunted by the stupid, sophomore version of him; more so now that he knows his fondness of you was misinterpreted back then. So he’s adamant that there won’t be any more crude shows of affection—when he tells you he’s grown, he’s wants to be able to mean it.

So, instead of responding, Rafe flips Kelce off over his shoulder, grabbing his lathering gel and disappearing into the shower area.

“Oh shit,” Kelce wolf-whistles, more a jibe than a taunt. “You really are pussy whipped, huh?”

“Do me a favour, Smith.” Rafe sounds calmer than Kelce had expected him to, his rough voice scary steady. “And keep her name out of your mouth.”

—

You’re scrunching your nose when he nears, head lowered and notes in disarray.

It’s that stupid, heady cologne he wears—musk and patchouli something, you think—that you’re developing a knack for recognising almost anywhere. And chlorine, always chlorine and other pool chemicals, except for Fridays which are devoted to football practice petrichor.

“I would ask if you own a watch,” you say, refusing to look up, “but I know you do, because the Rolex logo blinds me every fucking time it’s in the sun.”

Rafe takes a seat beside you, snaking his arm around your backrest and swivelling it around to him in one swift motion.

You gasp in surprise, though it melts into a scoff as the indignation sets in. “Cameron,” you angle back, eyes widening slightly. “I was in the middle of something.”

“So here’s the thing,” he begins, ignoring you. His thighs are pressed into either side of his seat, the groove of his knees nudging your thighs ever so slightly. “I was… alright, a minute late, yeah? And I thought — well, she isn’t going to care if it’s a minute or ten, she’s going to murder no matter how late I am.”

You raise your eyebrows, crossing your arms over his chest. “True.”

“So,” he leans down, fishing a cylinder of Pringles and a packet of Skittles out of his bag, “I thought I’d take some time to pick out my ideal last meal.”

You glance down at the assortment dubiously, narrowing your eyes. “Vending machine crap?”

“Vending machine crap,” Rafe affirms, throwing them onto the table beside him. The plastic crinkles ominously.

“Bold of you to assume that I’d allow a last meal, Cameron,” you say then, faux-serious.

He leans forward in his seat, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. “Christ, Y/L/N, you’re going to deny me fundamental human rights now?”

“Wouldn’t you rather a quick, painless death than us delaying the inevitable with some food?” You respond, leaning forward in tandem.

“A quick, painless death, huh?” He asks, his voice lower now, roughened by the closeness. “How’re you going to do it then, head girl?”

The amusement on your features gives way to diffidence. It feels as though there’s a hidden meaning to the words he’s saying, something more crackling alive in the inch of space between your faces. “Poison,” you say, softer too.

A pause. Rafe’s gaze falls to your lips, and his chest stills, his broad shoulders tensing. “Don’t know if you’ll need it,” he murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing arduously. “Not right now.”

You furrow your brow, momentarily bemused. “Hm?”

Rafe Cameron thinks about kissing you often. He thinks about it in this absentminded, matter-of-fact way, like it’s meant to be on his mind all the time, like the pull in his chest is an inevitable part of being your almost friend—colleague.

He thinks about it extra hard now, slanted by your proximity and the soft, bergamot notes of your perfume.

Contrary to your vow, it’s eliciting a slow, painful death not to lean in and press his mouth against yours. He swallows again, his gaze lingering on your lips, and the tension in the room sears through you like a meteorite.

You pull back hastily, clearing your throat and turning back toward the table. “Anyway,” you cough, pulling your laptop forward and touching the mousepad. “We should really get going on this agenda.”

Rafe takes a little longer to regain his composure, his warm breath folding over your shoulder as he sighs. He turns too, leaning forward to look at the screen, and suddenly his proximity feels like too much to bare.

You move your chair to the side a little, the legs scraping over polished wood tauntingly. Rafe’s chest pulls in protest. “Right,” he says after a beat, trying not to frown. “Winter formal.”

The pair of you work in silence for a while. Time ticks by slowly, the maddening inches between you shrinking, and it’s only at the sight of a purple horizon that you acquiesce and stop working.

When you close your laptop and turn to address Rafe, you find that he’s already looking at you.

The revelation makes your pulse jolt. You break eye contact and clear your throat, busying yourself with your tote bag.

“Your focus is unparalleled by the way,” he says after a beat, his voice somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Remind me never to leave you alone when you’re studying.”

You try not to look too pleased by this revelation. “I always study alone, Cameron.”

“For your safety, Y/L/N,” he replies, faux-sombre, “I really think you shouldn’t.”

You look over at him, raising your eyebrows. “Is this your weird way of asking me on a study date?”

“Oh no,” he responds matter-of-factly, pushing back onto the hind legs of his chair. “One, I don’t study.” He leans forward then, ducks his head to eye-level, the blue of his irises bright and ever present. “Two, studying together is not a date.”

In your head, this translates to: you’re overestimating his interest. You say, suddenly chagrined, “I was kidding. Obviously.”

“So was I,” Rafe returns, cracking a roguish grin. “Obviously.”

You scoff, throwing your tote bag over your shoulder and standing up. “Nice try, Cameron.”

“It’s true, though,” he replies, oddly sincere as he straightens. “Any other girl and I’d never fucking dream of bringing them to a library to hang out.”

“Make out,” you correct with a cough, earning another grin.

“Exactly,” he nods, raising his eyebrows significantly. “I mean, shit, I’ve got a reputation to uphold Y/L/N.”

You breathe out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. “What? As the Academy’s biggest fuckboy?”

“Fuckboy?” Rafe echoes, faux-affronted. “It’s not my fault I’m such a goddamn delight, now, is it?”

“Except,” you reply, trying not to smile, “that delight is probably the last word I’d use to describe you.”

Your shoulders knock together as you walk forward. It becomes harder not to smile, his closeness like warm syrup.

“And the first?” He asks.

“Well,” you splay your palm out and begin listing adjectives off, “cocky, arrogant, absolutely insufferable, sweet when you want to be which is actually rarely ever —”

“Sweet?” Rafe interrupts, something fond swelling in his chest. “I’ll take sweet.”

“You’re forgetting the rarely ever part,” you remind him, raising your eyebrows.

“Still,” he insists, grinning stubbornly, “ever.”

You shake your head exasperatedly, almost amused, and push through a set of double doors that take you to the foyer. The carpark isn’t far away, and the promise of a ride home—time and closeness like something rare—lingers in the air.

It’s as you’re grappling with its presence that you frown, suddenly aware of the silence. The pair of you have stopped walking and you aren’t certain why that is. “This conversation was going somewhere, wasn’t it?”

Rafe furrows his brow thoughtfully, though his features are quick to acquiesce. “Right. The fact that I don’t consider studying a date.”

You cringe again. “Oh.”

“But,” he continues, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

A tell-tale warmth spreads over your cheeks. “Nice try, Cameron,” you mutter, though your voice sounds weaker than you want it to.

“Don’t worry, Y/L/N,” he murmurs back, bowing his head to eye level. “When I’m asking you out for real, I’ll make sure that you know it.”

—

Lightning: his musk and patchouli scent—and chlorine today, no petrichor to fill the air.

Thunder: his voice. Deeper when he’s calling out for you than when you’re alone with him.

One always comes before the other, like this cyclical reminder of how much of him is now familiar.

“Y/L/N!” He calls out urgently, prompting you to halt.

“Cameron?” You turn to face him as he nears, evidently bewildered. “No meeting today, remember? Cromwell’s away.”

“No, I know,” he answers, a little breathless. “How’re you getting home?”

You furrow your brow bemusedly. “Walking?”

“I always drive you home after meetings,” he says then, quick to fall into your step. “Let me drive you home.”

“Did you hear anything I just said?” You ask, sounding a little exasperated. “We don’t have one of those today, genius.”

Rafe grins handsomely, knocking his shoulder against yours. “I’m a creature of habit, Y/L/N. Can’t you use your head girl goodwill and humour me just this once?”

You shake your head bemusedly, deciding to accede. “I don’t get why this is such a big deal for you.”

Rafe shrugs matter-of-factly, beads of water falling from his damp hair to his broad shoulders. It pulls your gaze from his muscles to the bare expanse of his forearms, his shirt sleeves rolled up so his Rolex glints in the yellow sun. “It’d be weird,” he says finally, “driving home in silence on a Wednesday instead of listening to your god-awful playlist.”

“Hey!” You chide, pushing him sideways playfully. “My playlist is fucking fire.”

Rafe makes a face. “Listening to that much Taylor Swift can’t be healthy.”

“Don’t do that,” you return, fixing him with a knowing look. “I hear you humming along to Delicate whenever it plays.”

“Good tune,” he defends, accurate lyrics, “that’s it.”

“Aw,” you tease, smiling this sweet, amused smile up at him—sunshine incarnate. “Don’t worry Mr Fuckboy, I won’t tell anyone that you’re actually a secret swiftie.”

Normally he’d return the jibe, but that fond look on your face is making it hard for him to breath. He wishes he had a camera, pathetic as that is. He wishes he had you, was afforded the luxury of endless time with your pretty face.

“Kildare Academy’s head girl everybody,” he says after a beat, unlocking his car with a tandem grin. “The paragon of confidentiality.”

Delicate plays once on the ride to your house. And when it does, his proclivity for the song now made public, Rafe Cameron isn’t afraid sing along loudly.

He’s proudly unabashed when the chorus blares through, singing, “Is it cool that I said all that?”

“Is it chill that that you’re in my head?” You join in between laughter, angling toward him to face him fully.

His long fingers drum against the steering wheel with the beat, making the muscles of his forearm pulse. He leans forward to turn the music up louder, and when he hand drops again, it falls onto the vibrating gear shift.

Dangerously close to your exposed thigh, a slate of sunlight painting it a warm shade of orange. “Cause I know that it’s delicate.” Rafe becomes acutely aware of the lyrics to this song, all of a sudden. “Isn’t it…”

“Isn’t it, isn’t it, isn’t it,” you continue to sing, that sweet, amused smile making a return on your face. Almost pleased. The awareness grows maddening.

You continue to hum along whilst Rafe tries to catch his breath. He’s almost grateful for the fact that he’s nearing your house until he realises that this means no more pretty girl in his pick-up truck.

“Think you can keep yourself from studying too hard this weekend?” Rafe asks, pulling into your driveway carefully.

You turn to face him, raising your eyebrows playfully. “Think you can force yourself to do a bit of study this weekend?”

Rafe throws his arm around your headrest and leans in a little, this fond, roguish grin on his face that makes your chest hurt. “Why? You asking me on a study date, Y/L/N?”

“No,” you answer, fixing him with a pointed look. “I just think your brain deserves a little bit of a workout.”

Rafe presses his tongue against his cheek, his gaze falling over your figure slow. “Trust me when I say,” he replies, his voice lower now, rougher. “That the real estate you occupy in there is a workout in itself.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, that pain in your chest dissolving into something softer. “All the nagging,” you deflect, “huh?”

Your front door opens, and Rafe catches the movement in his peripheral vision. His eyes linger on you anyway.

“Not quite,” he murmurs finally, just as you turn and unbuckle your seatbelt.

You look up at your porch and find your mother squinting down at you. She has a dish-towel clad hand pressed against her full hip, and her warm gaze scans over the pair of you knowingly.

When her expression changes, the delighted smile on her face creating crow’s feet, you recognise what’s coming before she’s even opened her mouth.

A few weeks ago, before his presence infused all this sweetness into your bones, you probably would’ve turned to him at this stage and pleaded he refuse.

Now, however…

“Rafe!” You mother calls out, gesturing for you to roll down the window. “Have you had dinner yet, sweetheart?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he answers, leaning forward to send her that handsome smile of his.

It’s a compromising position, his cheek close enough to press against yours, and you’re awash with the heat of his torso as it occupies the personal space in front of you. You swallow.

"Well then," she responds, "you'll have to stay and have it with us."

The arm he's wrapped around your headrest relaxes, his fingers brushing over your shoulder intermittently. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” your mother dismisses, waving the dish-towel around. “If you help me make the last few bits, you’ll be doing the opposite of imposing.”

Rafe hesitates momentarily, his eyes flicking to your face for approval. It’s only then that he’s able to recognise the closeness; his pupils flex a little, just enough to make you swallow once more.

You’re okay with this? He seems to ask.

You shrug. It appears all the confirmation he needs to shift the gear into park and release the ignition, his close proximity wavering.

And he walks the short walk to your porch behind you, his pleased expression hidden, unaware of the look of exasperation you’re sending to your mother.

She raises her eyebrows reproachfully. It’s only polite, they seem to say, as if we’re doing him a favour. As if Rafe Cameron doesn’t live in the most expensive house on the island, no doubt equipped with a private chef—a miscellany of fancy dinner items.

Maybe you’re embarrassed by the mediocrity of your own home, on the cusp of the Eight with enough roots to belong to the Cut. And you know it’s silly, thinking this way; terrifying too, because since when did you care what Rafe Cameron thought of you?

The fact that you’re grappling with these emotions must show on your face, because Rafe pulls close once the three of you are in the kitchen, ducking his head to your ear.

Goosebumps bloom where his warm breath fans over your skin. “Are you sure you’re good with this?”

You know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but you sort of hate that he knows this is affecting you at all. You breath out a scoff, breaking away from him deftly. “It’s not a big deal,” you lie, sending him a stern look. “Drop it, yeah?”

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, raising his arms in surrender. Then, he shifts his attention to your mother, who’s grabbing a bunch of fresh vegetables from the fridge.

“Think you can handle chopping duty, Rafe?” She asks, handing them over to him with a smile.

“Yes ma’am,” he repeats, and then he raises his eyebrows at you, his blue eyes filled with mirth. “So this is where you get it from, huh?”

“Ma’am,” you mother echoes, nodding approvingly. “I like it.”

After she’s enlisted your help in making the salad dressing, she can’t help but hover over the pair of you, throwing jibes as she pleases.

“So Rafe,” she says, ignoring your stern look, “Y/N tells me you’re captain of the football team, on top of being head boy. Your parents must be pretty proud of you, huh?”

Rafe’s features falter. There’s a split second where the hand that’s chopping away at the lettuce freezes in place; it’s a subtle pause, but you’re in tune enough to recognise it despite your mother’s ignorance.

“Maybe,” he answers finally, quick to plaster a smile back onto his face. “Though they do tend to have pretty high expectations.”

“And I’m sure you’re meeting all of them,” your mother dismissed airily, her bright eyes warm. “Do you know where you want to end up next year?”

“UNC,” he replies automatically. “Wanna stay reasonably close to my family, you know?”

You frown at this, sending him a questioning glance. From the little Rafe has disclosed about his father, it’s clear that he’s a bit of a tyrant—why would he wants to stick around here for him?

He turns his head in tandem, somehow reading your thoughts. “Wheezie,” he adds, looking back to your mother. “I know my dad’ll take care of Sarah just fine, but me and Wheez tend to get a little bit forgotten.”

“And Wheezie and Sarah are your younger sisters?” Your mother asks.

“Uh-huh,” he affirms, returning his gaze to the chopping board. “But anyway, I’ll probably apply to some of the other colleges on the East Coast, too, just in case I don’t manage to snag one of UNC’s football scholarships.”

“I’m sure your grades’ll get you through,” you say then, unable to help yourself. There’s a pause as two pairs of eyes descend on you, Rafe’s a little surprised, your mother’s on the smug side.

“Careful, Y/L/N,” Rafe teases, nudging your shoulder with his. “That was almost a compliment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you reply, rolling your eyes playfully. “The dumb frat boy act may work your friends, but I know you pull more A-grades than all of them combined.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, a jibe. “More keeping tabs, huh?”

You shrug, mock-nonchalant, tapping the side of your nose conspiratorially. It transforms Rafe’s expression into something roguish, full of mischief, and he ducks his head slightly, feigning a challenge. “You’re right though,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’m coming for your title, Miss Future Valedictorian.”

“So that’s why you didn’t want me studying this weekend!” You exclaim, faux-affronted.

“It’s also why we can’t go on study dates together,” he affirms, nodding soberly.

You furrow your brow. “You’ve lost me, Cameron.”

He raises his eyebrows significantly. “Too distracting, Y/L/N, keep up.”

It throws you, the ease with which he admits to this, your mother his witness. You try to dismiss it with a scoff, though the sound that comes out of your mouth is far weaker. “Anyway,” you glance down at the concoction in front of you, cheeks too-warm, “dressing’s ready.”

—

Rafe stays far longer than you expect him to.

He tackles your mother’s interrogatory remarks like a champion, deflecting as necessary. And he’s polite about it all, effortlessly charming, asking just the right number of personal questions—making your heart swell with his thoughtfulness.

And it’s terrifying, really, when dusk falls and he’s still here. Burnt ochre transforms into deep, purple hues, and it’s only then that your mother acquiesces and lets him go.

“Thank you again for dinner Mrs. Y/L/N,” he says, halted at your door with a handsome grin on his face.

“You’re welcome here anytime, Rafe!” She answers delightedly, sending him a playful wink. “Especially when you joke about the fact that I look thirty.”

“Sisters!” He insists, looking between the pair of you solemnly. “Seriously, Mrs. Y/L/N. Love your work.”

Her smile extends from her lips to the sides of her crinkly eyes, crow’s feet shining through. “Give your family my best.”

He nods kindly, and she turns, disappearing around the corner and leaving you to close the door.

Just you and him on your porch, now. The stygian sky descends on the scene like velvet, and the silence reclines, allowing your gaze to fall over him in paces.

His too, agonising over everything from the curl of your lashes to the osculate between your lips. The smooth column of your throat, illuminated by the dim glow of your porch lamp.

“Thank you,” he murmurs finally, breaking the silence. (He knows, if he hadn’t, the urge to kiss you would’ve grown unbearable.) “For tonight. I haven’t sat down for a meal like that in a while.”

You’re quietly surprised by the revelation, and in the beat that follows, his figure blurs around the edges. He’s proximal, though not proximal enough. And his once-damp hair is now fluffy with static, his taut muscles ever-present, his torso like a body heat furnace.

One step forward, and he’d be able to press you against your front door and kiss you. You swallow thickly.

“Don’t thank me,” you say quietly, willing yourself to look up at him. “It was fun.”

Another pause. He’s staring down at you with this intensity that makes your cheeks burn, and you find yourself grappling for purchase on something—anything, overwhelmed by his closeness.

“If only you were always like this,” you add, trying to tease though sounding a little weaker than you want to.

Rafe’s forearms are bare, rougher in the chill. He crosses them over his chest, leaning into the column of your porch, closer. “Like what?”

His warm breath unspools. He’s softer like this, at your doorway after dinner, his thick brows raised and skin awash in yellow light.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, looking away without meaning to. “Sweet.”

“Sweet?” He echoes, his voice lower, rougher. “I’m always sweet, Y/L/N.”

“That’s not true,” you whisper. You’re aware that he’s inched infinitesimally closer.

“To you,” he rasps, “I am.”

He pushes off the column of your porch then, ducking his head until it’s at eye-level with yours. When his rough palm finds the contour of your jaw, you let out a shaky breath, your heart a mess.

“Rafe,” you warn.

“Y/N…” he echoes, his finger sweeping over your warm cheek.

[destourtereauxrecs]

s-c-r-e-a-m-i-n-g.

[boneblushed]

Untouchable

masterlist | part 3 | part 4

synopsis It is crucial that the head boy and girl of Kildare Academy learn to work together. Too bad the head girl is you and the head boy is Rafe Cameron.

wc 3.2k

“Alright, so the last thing we need to — guys,” you falter, scrubbing a tired hand down your face. Though you’re well aware that Friday afternoons are the worst possible time to hold a prefect meeting, they’re a once monthly affair that are otherwise unavoidable.

“Oi!” yells Rafe beside you, his voice commanding where yours is frustrated, rough around the edges.

He crosses his arms in the pause that follows, the broad expanse of his bicep nudging body heat into your shoulder. And it doesn’t help that he smells of familiar things — chlorine and sweat, notes of patchouli with vetiver musk. “Y/L/N’s speaking. Show some respect, yeah?”

The room quietens almost immediately, because of course it does.

You try to be grateful for his presence, you really do. But when the upperclassmen near the back—who haven’t so much as made eye-contact with you over the past half hour—straighten at the sound of his voice, it replaces any appreciation you had for him with ever-growing indignation.

Sure, Rafe Cameron may be bigger than you, more intimidating, with stronger forearms and broader shoulders and a shadow of rough stubble that — wait, what were you talking about, again? You blink. He needs to stop stepping in like he is and veering you off course.

Right. Rafe Cameron as the intimidating one.

How you recognise that his exterior may be more daunting than yours is, and presume that what you lack in height and width you make up for in tenacity. Doggedness. Why can’t they listen when it’s you making the announcements?

This isn’t the first time you’ve needed him to step in, either — at prefect meeting number three, now, it’s clear that the pair of you have opposing strengths and weaknesses. And in theory, this is probably a good thing; you as the organised one, him as your glorified bodyguard.

Except that, stubborn as you are, you don’t think that you need one of those. Especially not one with as big an ego as Mr. Kook Prince of Kildare Academy, Ward Cameron’s eldest son.

He glances down at you encouragingly, his features faltering at the expression on your face. Somehow, you’re able to make unimpressed look almost pretty. “First home game tomorrow,” he explains under his breath. “Probably why they’re all so distracted.”

You meet his eyes briefly, balk a little. He’s standing closer than you’d expected him to, the blue in his irises speckled by sunlight yellow. “Whatever.” You cough, turning back toward the classroom. “Alright. Do I have everyone’s attention?”

Beside you, Rafe shifts inscrutably, sending the room a remonstrating glare. If you weren’t so intent on proving your independence, you might’ve even found his dedication a little endearing.

But you don’t, the thought whizzing through your brain like the fleeting tail of a firework. “So,” you continue, “the last thing on our agenda is divvying up prefect duties for next month.” You duck down and pull it open on your laptop, the projector screen behind you flashing on in tandem. “To save everyone the trouble, I’ve gone ahead and drafted a rough schedule based on last month’s one.”

“Football season’s started though!” calls Kelce from the back, bolstered by grunts of approval from his teammates.

Rafe’s about to reprimand him on your behalf when you turn toward him, eyes widening pointedly. Don’t, you seem to say, to which Rafe’s brow furrows in a why not? sort of way.

You glare: I got this.

Rafe raises his eyebrows: I never implied that you didn’t.

You shake your head ever so slightly, stern, looking back to Kelce without another word. Rafe’s gaze lingers. “I was getting to that,” you say, frowning reproachfully. “The spreadsheet will be edit-able over the weekend, so feel free to get into it and make any changes you need to. Obviously, no duties should be left unfulfilled, so if you aren’t able to make one, you’re going to have to find a way to swap with someone who can.”

“Just the weekend?” Connor pipes up, followed by a murmur of collective assent. “But training’s tonight, game tomorrow —”

“How long is a football game, Walters?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.

“Kegger right after,” he adds pointedly, raising his in tandem.

You roll your eyes. “You know there are two days that make up a weekend, right?”

“We’re meant to sort this shit out when we’re hungover on Sunday now, Y/L/N?” Kelce asks, a glint of mischief in his otherwise dark irises. He’s pushing it, he knows he is, but he wants more of Rafe defending your honour to rub in Dalton’s face.

“Yes,” you deadpan.

“If you can handle an eighteen-hole at the fucking Club on a Sunday morning, Smith,” Rafe adds, much to your chagrin. “Then you can handle a prefect duty schedule.”

“Damn,” Kelce grins triumphantly, sitting back in his chair. “Aye aye, Captain.”

Rafe furrows his brow again, looking over the rest of the classroom, a warning. “Anyone else with something to say?”

There’s a low murmur of dissent, and several people shake their head in response. An angry warmth creeps up your neck, diffidence mixed with indignation.

“Alright then.” You can feel Rafe looking down at you, but you refuse to meet his gaze. “That was all from me… anyone with any last minute notices?”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Rafe says then, angling back toward the crowd. His shoulder nudges yours again, too-broad and too-close, another waft of chlorine and musk. “My dad’s outta town this weekend, so party at mine after home game.”

As the room erupts into excited chatter, he ducks his head to eye-level, his rough timbre raising goosebumps on the shell of your ear. “You’ll come?”

The prefects are beginning to pack up their things, signalling the end of the meeting, so you allow yourself to turn your head and look up at him, your glare growing weak at the closeness of his face. “Why would I come?” You ask, breaking away abruptly and gathering your own belongings.

Rafe does the same, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because I’ve never been to one of your parties before?” You return, like it’s obvious. As you turn away and begin to walk toward the exit, you assume that Rafe will rejoin the boys in his football team. They straggle near the doorway, no doubt waiting to head for the locker-room, but he refuses to accede so quickly, following you out instead.

You glance up as he falls into step, his rough hand mussing his overgrown locks. “Can I help you?” You ask, bemused.

“That was before,” he says, answering your previous question. “We’re partners now.”

“Cameron!” calls Kelce, “Bro, you coming?”

“I’ll meet you guys out there,” Rafe replies easily, not bothering to turn his head to address him. “C’mon, Y/L/N. It’ll be fun.”

Maybe it’s the tone he uses, quietly superior with pity lacing the edges. Like you never get invited to parties. (You don’t, but that’s besides the point.) Like you aren’t capable of fun and he’s doing you some kind of favour.

You halt abruptly, pivoting to face him head on. He’s taken aback at first, but the surprise in his blue eyes melts away very quickly. Gives way to something deeper, thick as brown molasses.

You force yourself to ignore it. “You need to stop doing that,” you order.

“Doing what?” Rafe asks, frowning bemusedly.

“Stepping in and telling them off,” you sigh, grimacing abashedly. “I had it handled.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Half of them were falling asleep, Y/L/N. I just thought I’d wake them up a little.”

“What?” You accuse, folding your arms across your chest stubbornly. “Because I can’t?”

“Oh, you definitely can.” He raises his arms in surrender, running his tongue over his bottom lip as he looks over your pretty features. Something sultry about it. “This right here? This is you handling yourself just fine.”

You make a face, as if your heart isn’t stuttering at the timbre of his voice. “Then why?”

“Because we’re a team,” Rafe repeats, dropping his arms again. “I mean, shit Y/L/N, I wasn’t trying to undermine you. Not everything I do has some kind of ulterior motive.”

“Debatable,” you mutter.

“Including,” he adds pointedly, raising his eyebrows. “Inviting you to my party.”

“That I’m not going to,” you clarify.

Rafe shrugs. “Just being polite.” Just want to see you in something other than school uniform.

“Cute,” you say, turning away again. “Not happening.”

“Busy?”

“No.”

“Then why can’t you come?” Rafe asks, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

Your turn to shrug. “I just don’t want to.”

—

Rafe tries not to let your non-attendance get to him, he really does.

Tannyhill is a site to behold against the glow of purple dusk — alive with technicolor lights, the heavy bass reverberating through chilly Autumn. Upperclassmen flood every inch of the ground level of the mansion, empty bottles strewn over smooth marble countertops, outdoor beer pong games gaining momentum.

He just wants to be helpful. He feels guilty enough as is that you’re the one that’s organised almost every speech and conference so far — it’s the reason he’s piped up at every prefect meeting you’ve had, desperate to fill a role, prove he isn’t deadweight in this partnership.

But clearly that’s the last thing you want.

So he decides to change tact. If not to gain your approval, to have an excuse to text you in the middle of a fucking party that he’s hosting.

As if that isn’t the most pathetic thing ever.

“Oi!” He calls out, his voice still low and gruff, sweetened by the slur of liquor in his system. “Prefects only in the living room. Can the rest of you fuck off for a second?”

The space empties diligently, pulling in any prefects that were straggling on the deck. As his gazes moves over the group, he realises that every single one came to his party except you. His chest lurches abruptly.

“Alright,” he clears his throat, trying to ignore this feeling. Failing miserably. “Everyone get out their phones and open up the schedule spreadsheet.”

Kelce shares a knowing look with Dalton, triumph edging on amusement. “The prefect duty one?” He asks, feigning bemusement. “Why would we do that?”

“Because we’re all here,” Rafe replies, sliding his own phone out of his front-pocket. “So organising swaps will be real easy.”

Kelce raises his eyebrows, accedes. “Right.” He fake coughs, and it sounds like, “Simp.”

Connor, half a bottle of Fireball down, makes a noise like a whip-cracking from the back of the room.

“I’m serious,” Rafe says then, evidently unperturbed. “Get your phones out. I’m not going to ask again.”

“Dude,” Dalton replies, actually bemused now. “Relax. It’s a party.”

“Exactly,” Rafe responds, his gaze glued to the phone in his palm. “So the faster we do this, the faster you can get back to hitting on freshmen.”

The jibe pulls some stifled laughter from the crowd, and Dalton scowls abashedly, his stubbled face flushing.

It’s enough to force him to oblige, the rest of the prefects way ahead of him. As they converse amongst themselves, editing the spreadsheet as necessary, Rafe manages to capture a photo of them to send to you.

Cameron: [attached a photo] swapsies > pong

Maybe he doesn’t expect you to reply so quickly.

Y/L/N: are you trying to prove a point or something?

He frowns down at the message thread bemusedly; this isn’t the reaction he’d expected from you. He’d thought you’d be grateful to see them sorting out the schedule — to see him organising it, him being responsible for once.

He imagines pretty you in your pyjamas, rolling over on your bed to sigh at the photo. He realises that he’s already conceptualised a concerning amount of your room decor — simple, tidy, organised. Like you. In this imagined scenario, you’re wearing sweatpants and a singlet with a wafer of bare waist in between them.

His thoughts snag at the latter, the promise of glowing skin becoming quickly overbearing. He realises he thinks about touching you a lot, far more than he should.

Cameron: prove a point?

Y/L/N: that they listen to you more than they listen to me

Cameron: you know not everything’s a competition, yeah?

Y/L/N: maybe not to you

Cameron: I think the word you’re looking for is thank you, Y/L/N

Y/L/N: bite me

Rafe shouldn’t grin at the message, but he does anyway. He knows it’s the closest he’s going to get to gratitude; he can imagine you sighing again, rolling your eyes at the message before responding to it. The hem of your singlet riding up as you shift in your bed. More soft skin for him to touch.

He swallows thickly. He’s totally fucking fucked.

Cameron: gladly

—

“Well,” Cromwell beams, his crows feet deepening reverently, “it sounds like you two are really embracing your roles as head students.”

His rises from his chair by way of dismissal, looking between you genially. “Same time next month?”

“Looking forward to it, Crom-dog,” Rafe replies, grinning handsomely.

The nickname never fails to make you grimace—he’s the headmaster, for God’s sake—but you’re quick to fix your features, nodding and smiling in tandem. “We’ll get that plan for winter formal written up.”

“Always two steps ahead of me,” Cromwell resounds, making a noise of approval. “I like it.”

You smile wider, warmed by his praise, before turning and exiting the office. Rafe is close behind you, his chlorine and patchouli scent ever-present, and he’s quick to fall into your step as you enter the hallway.

“Winter formal plan?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. “Already?”

“Two steps ahead, Cameron,” you say, tapping your nose conspiratorially.

The gesture swells something fond in his chest, a wave before it crashes ashore. He taps his own nose, a question. “What does this mean?”

You fix him with a significant look, brushing the side of your nose again.

Rafe grins, resisting the urge to reach forward and do the same. The want to touch you is honest-to-God unbearable. “Fine. Don’t tell me. When’s our next meeting?”

“Friday?” You ask, turning away again.

You’re nearing the double doors that bring you out into the Academy’s entranceway, brilliant steeples shading the flagstone pavement. Beyond it is the carpark where Rafe’s pick-up sits.

“Friday,” Rafe confirms, and then he pauses, running his fingers through his hair. In the mood to play with fire, he adds, “You walking home?”

“Yeah?” You glance back at him, balk a little. There’s an alarming amount of sincerity swimming within his blue irises.

In the beat that passes, you think, he’s sweet when he wants to be. The other day, he’d offered to cover your lunchtime duty when you’d told him you had an assignment due. And he’d sent you that meme last week, the one about Taylor Swift that’d made you laugh unprompted. Sweet.

He gestures toward his pick-up in the distance. “Need a ride?”

Before this year, you would’ve declined almost immediately. There’s nothing you hate more than being indebted to someone, especially when that someone has an ego as big as Rafe’s.

Maybe you’re just being polite. Maybe you believe that it’s futile to fight it. Or maybe, and this revelation terrifies you the most, you’re starting to realise that he’s got a heart big enough to match it.

You shrug, changing trajectory and making for the carpark. “Yeah, sure.”

Rafe tries not to look taken aback. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before his expression relaxes again, a roguish grin pulling up at his features. As he catches you up, he says, “Damn, Y/L/N. You’re not going soft on me, are you?”

You roll your eyes in response, fighting the smile that’s threatening to break through. “Not if I can help it, Cameron.”

You walk in tandem toward his pick-up truck, your shoulders brushing intermittently. Sudden jolts of static that you pretend—he pretends—aren’t leaving imprints of heat on your skin.

“Good.” Rafe nods approvingly, sliding his keys out of his back-pocket. “Need someone ‘round here keeping me in check.”

“Thought that’s what your dad was for, Cameron,” you muse, your tone playful.

Rafe hesitates, stumbling a step before regaining momentum. It makes you frown, this sudden break in his composure, how quickly he goes from faltering to pretending that he hasn’t.

“He’s outta town this weekend,” he coughs, avoiding your gaze. He tries for nonchalant, mussing his overgrown locks and adding, “You’re just gonna have to work overtime to make up for it, Y/L/N.”

Again? You want to ask. Is he ever actually around?

But that’s overstepping. “Maybe if he pays me for it,” you say, glancing over at him again.

There’s a pause as your eyes meet, something strong, almost aching, pulsing in the air between you. A crisp Autumn chill with a side of something sweeter.

You look away first.

“You can do better than Ward Cameron as your boss,” Rafe says, and you’re sure he’s insinuating something; you just don’t know what.

“Right,” you reply awkwardly, halting at his pick-up truck.

Another pause. “Shit, anyway,” Rafe says then, breaking the silence by patting the hood of his car. He clears his throat and plasters on a grin, the same blend of charming and handsome, clearly done talking about his father. “Shall we?”

You eye the vehicle faux-dubiously, sending him a pointed glance. “You’re not one of those, trigger-happy, love-to-rev-their-engine wannabe racer boys, are you?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, his expression akin to mild amusement. “Careful Y/L/N,” he says. “That’s enough adjectives to tell me you’ve thought about this before.”

“Not an answer, Cameron,” you return, folding your arms across your chest.

“Hey,” he raises his arms in surrender, “I’m not any of those things when there’s a pretty girl in my car.”

You make a face, compensating for the way your cheeks warm at his words. “You better not be.”

“Yes ma’am,” he nods sincerely, opening the door for you before jogging to the driver’s side. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

You buckle in, raising your eyebrows at him. “Good.”

He returns this with a faux-glare, turning on the ignition. “No talking, Y/L/N. Best behaviour means concentrating on the road, and the road only.”

As his gaze moves down toward the gearshift, it snags at your bare thighs on the seat, your uniform skirt hiked up ever so slightly. So much for best behaviour. You in his pick-up truck is like an agonising game of look don’t touch.

The ride home is silent, as promised, broken only by the intermittent whistle of Autumn wind.

Once he’s pulled into your driveway and switched off the ignition, he makes a show of letting out an audible sigh of relief, wiping non-existent sweat off his brow.

“Funny,” you try to deadpan, though the mirth on your features shines through easily.

Rafe angles toward you seriously, and you’re struck by how much larger he looks inside his pick-up truck. He folds one of his arms around your head-rest, fixing you with a significant look. “Can I get you to fill out a quick survey before you leave?” He asks, pulling out his phone and turning the screen toward you. It reads: Were you happy with your service today? If yes, please tip, with buttons for 5%, 10%, and 15% below it.

A peal of laughter bubbles out of you, somewhere between exasperated and amused. “Funny,” you repeat, shoving him back playfully.

He cracks a grin, the spot in his chest that you pressed against glowing a metaphorical amber. “Have a good weekend, yeah?”

You smile in tandem, unbuckling and opening the door. “And you.”

“Oh, I will,” he replies, a rare moment of candour from easy-going, ego-as-big-as-his-heart Rafe Cameron. “Weekends without my dad around are always better than the ones that he’s here for.”

[destourtereauxrecs]

no matter which rafe of yours i'm reading, i know ur not gonna let me down <3

[boneblushed]

Is it chill that you’re in my head?

synopsis your best friend James isn’t sure why he’s so angry about the fact that you’re going on a date with someone else.

wc 2.6K

“He’s looking over here,” James sings under his breath, his brown eyes full of mirth. He’s balancing on the spindly hind-legs of his library chair, the Potions essay he’s supposed to be doing laid out in disarray.

You send him a reproachful look. “You’re being malicious.” When you turn back around to face Davey Gudgeon’s table, there’s a split second of eye contact before he ducks his head down abashedly, his cheeks a brilliant rouge.

He has a crush on you, apparently. Sirius and Remus had overhead him talking about it on his way down to breakfast this morning—about how prefects rarely escaped unscathed after sharing something as intimate as a Saturday night duty.

James Potter, your best friend and a royal pain in your ass, finds this revelation abso-fucking-lutely hilarious for some reason. Asshole.

“Au contraire,” he murmurs, the grin on his face audible, “I’m being a world class wingman.”

The look on his face is downright dangerous. He waggles his eyebrows at you suggestively, unperturbed by the frown on your own, a warning. Easing forward until each hind-leg finds the ground with a resounding thud, he cups his hands around his mouth, whisper-shouting, “Oi! Gudgeon!”

Davey Gudgeon reddens further, a feat you didn’t think was possible until now. He glances over at James dismally, a furtive expression on his face. “What?” He mouthes, sending you this weak half-smile. It’s sort of sweet, almost contagious. You find yourself smiling back at him on instinct.

“Come over here, you bludger,” James chastises, like that’s the obvious next step. To be fair, it probably is to him — he’s never shied away from flirting with the girls he fancies, a self-proclaimed dating aficionado with way too much chat for his own good.

Davey hesitates, his nervous gaze flitting to you momentarily. He looks as though he wants to do just that, but isn’t sure whether his crush on you is reciprocated. Sweet.

He has gentle eyes, too, pretty juniper with bright specks of burnt ochre. A nice head of brown hair. If it was cold outside, you bet he’d offer you his Quidditch jersey without hesitation.

You think you need sweet, all things considered. You’ve known James Potter all of seven years now, had a wretched crush on him all of five, and never once has he indicated that his aforementioned expertise could ever extend to you.

It’s high-time that you gave your pathetic heart a rest.

“You’re making him miserable,” you mutter, ever-reproachful.

Davey hasn’t moved yet, though you’re sure he wants to, his hands braced on the table in front of him apprehensively. He keeps looking between you and James, surveying his options; in order ease his anguish, you decide you’d better make the decision for him.

You push your chair back and stand up, it’s spindly legs scraping against the vinyl floor forebodingly. James looks up in surprise. “Where r’you going?”

“To Gudgeon’s table.”

“Why?” James urges, perplexed. He half-stands too, his features a smidge less mirthful than before.

“So you’ll stop,” you reply, frowning down at him.

He raises his arms in surrender. “I’m stopping.” A pause. In the beat that passes, his assessing gaze falls over you in paces. “You’re not… you’re not keen on him too, are you?”

You think on this, cocking your head to one side. “I don’t know. Maybe? He’s kinda sweet.”

“But he doesn’t even have the balls to come over here and ask you out properly,” James whisper-shouts, mildly exasperated.

You’ve never once called him sweet.

He’s had this tragic crush on you for all of seven years, and never once has he been on the receiving end of such a fond adjective. He’d only made a fuss over this Davey situation because he was sure it was just a jibe — no way someone like you would be interested in a guy like Gudgeon, no way you would even entertain the possibility of more than friends.

Right?

James wants that more than friends thing with you, bad. This morning, when Sirius’d brought up Bludgeon’s crush on you—sniggering violently—he’d snuck a glance at your features to ensure that it wasn’t reciprocated. He’s sure he’d caught a bit of second-hand embarrassment, though maybe it was actually just tender hearted diffidence. Maybe Davey fucking Gudgeon had something that he somehow didn’t.

Right now, James’d give up his head boy badge and Quidditch captaincy to acquire that something. His chest hurts terribly. He runs his sloven fingers through his unkempt hair, sending you another look of bewilderment.

“Because you’re here,” you reprove. “Course he’s not going to come over when the James Potter is taking the mickey out of him.”

You say his name like it’s an insult. James’ heart plummets. “I’m not — he’s welcome to come over,” he argues quietly, chagrined. “Besides, he’s going to have to get used to me if he wants to be your boyfriend.”

“Why?” You frown. “I always bugger off when you’re with another girl.”

“That’s different,” James insists, frowning in tandem.

“How’s that different?”

They aren’t you, James thinks vaguely. His poor heart blunders for the umpteenth time this afternoon. “None of them are girlfriends.”

“Not for lack of trying,” you mutter. James swears he hears a hint of spite in your tone. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. M’going over.”

James slumps back into his seat reluctantly. He knows that you’re right, begrudging as that revelation may be — he is always flirting with one girl or another, though that’s more so to pass time than anything particularly serious. Never you. You’d see right through him, anyway. Besides, the last time he tried, it’d been so disastrous you’d assumed he was joking.

It’d been at that Halloween party they’d had in the Gryffindor Common Room last year, firewhiskey flowing and sweet treats piled atop every surface.

You were wearing this gorgeous, albeit bemusing, costume of a Muggle someone — Wonder Woman, or something, James didn’t quite understand it. Showing a lot of skin. Your pretty eyes were accented by rouge glitter, lips all glossy, and your exposed limbs and bare waist had eased his heart right into his throat.

And James Potter didn’t often find himself lost for words, but it appeared as though this party was one of those exceptions.

“Woah,” he’d murmured, wolf-whistling lowly. He was in this ridiculous, Babbity Rabbity costume (courtesy of Sirius, who was a cackling pot), feeling entirely out of place when you looked so beautiful. “Christ, Y/N, who’re you meant to be? The hottest muggleborn at Hogwarts or something?”

You’d rolled your eyes then, because no way he was serious. “Don’t tease, James. Did you guys manage to snag any cauldron cakes?”

He’d been too busy to insist his sincerity, fond gaze travelling down your bare limbs, slow. Lingering on the wafer of exposed waist between your corset and skirt. He’s still agonised by the want to touch your soft skin; that wretched Hogwarts shirt tuck has prevented this from happening.

“By the fire,” he’d answered after a beat, dazed.

And when you’d fallen out of earshot, James’ eyes still trained on your figure, Sirius and Remus’d come up behind him, the latter wearing Muggle-manufactured fangs. (Supposedly, he was meant to be a vampire.)

“You’ve got a tragic affliction, James,” Sirius’d tutted under his breath, faux-apologetic. “How’re you somehow able to flirt with every girl in this room except the one that matters?”

“Shut up,” he’d muttered back at the time, though as he thinks back on it now, he realises that Sirius was right.

For some reason, with you, he always manages to say exactly the wrong thing. He watches Davey scramble to straighten as you near his library table, the heat on his neck rising until his entire face is in a flush. And you’re smiling as you sit down beside him, this sweet, unabashed smile that looks too much like feelings reciprocated. Something in James’ ribcage cracks, an ugly emotion springing forth from within it. But he’s immobile, hands on the table and furrow in his brow, agonised by the fact that you’re looking at Davy all fond, not him.

Never him. You ask a question—James is trying his best to lip-read, but it’s difficult not to get carried away staring at your mouth. Davey nods, and then reddens some more. Then you stand up, feelings-reciprocated smile on your face as you walk back over to the table you’re sharing with James.

“He looks pleased,” James mutters grumpily.

You frown. “You don’t.”

“You’re doing charity work,” he answers, ignoring the insinuation. “You know that, right?”

“James,” you sigh, “you’re being unkind.”

“Because he’s punching.” But James knows this is unfair. He’s pretty sure every bloke in Hogwarts would be, if it was you and them.

—

“James,” Sirius calls, bemused. “You coming mate?”

Its autumn in Hogsmeade, and they’ve reached a cross roads.

The path to the left of them leads to the Hog’s Head Inn, one of their favourite haunts in the village due to its relative unpopularity. To the right, where James is glancing furtively, the cobblestone pavement takes them toward the Three Broomsticks. Where you are. With Davey.

Remus shares a knowing look with Sirius. “Think he’s in the mood for one of Rosmerta’s butter-beers, actually.”

James groans, scrubbing his calloused palm down his face slovenly. He knows exactly what he’s insinuating; Remus always has been the most astute of the lot. “Don’t bloody start.”

Sirius grins then, reaching for James and throwing an arm around his neck. “Reckon you’re going to need something stronger than butter-beer if you’re planning on watching Gudgeon snog your girl.”

His heart plummets. There’s that ugly emotion again, rearing its contemptuous head at him. “Wormtail’s there too,” he tries, shoving Sirius off. “We should go say hi.”

“Oh yes,” Sirius allows, his brown eyes full of mischief. “The one Marauder with a girlfriend. You after some tips, mate?”

“Cut him some slack, Sirius,” Remus chastises, though there isn’t much fire to his tone as he says it. “Reckon he’s miserable enough about the fact that the one time he fancies a girl she isn’t interested.”

James frowns, sending the pair of them a look of determination. “Look, shove off, both of you.” The crease between his eyebrows deepens further, keenly resolute. “I just want to check on her, alright? Make sure that bludger isn’t pulling anything funny.”

“Right.” Sirius nods soberly. “Or snogging her to death.”

“Fuck,” James groans again, his insides squirming. “You’ve gotta stop putting that image in my head.”

He turns toward the path to his right, the cobblestones plush with Autumn leaves, when he spots your figure in the distance and freezes. Coming closer. You look beautiful in this matter-of-fact, effortless way that makes James’ heart stutter; your pretty eyes are alight with mirth as you catch his gaze, this fond smile on your lips that makes him want to kiss you. Bad. He swallows thickly, his chest a pathetic mess.

Sirius and Remus must spot you too, because the pair of them beginning walking backward toward the Hog’s head, their eyebrows raised in tandem.

“She isn’t with the bludger, Prongs,” calls Sirius, a knowing lilt to his tone. “Now’s your chance.”

“My chance?” James asks, distracted.

“To snog her, you idiot.”

But James doesn’t hear him. Partly because the wind’s picked up, mostly because it’s difficult for him to concentrate on anything but your growing closeness.

Once you’re within earshot—more of you to agonise over, exposed waifs of skin like a siren song—he stumbles forward clumsily.

“Y/N,” James breathes out, pleasantly surprised. “Where’s Davey?”

You grimace, looking over your shoulder furtively. “I’ve just escaped him.”

James’ stomach deflates, relief washing over him in waves. He raises his eyebrows playfully. “Escaped?”

“Don’t,” you warn, frowning sternly. “He… he’s alright, really. Just doesn’t really know how to hold a conversation.” You grimace again. “Or take a hint. Like, at all.”

“Yeah? Why’d you say that?”

“Well,” you begin, and then you shiver, moving closer to James without meaning to. “Christ, Potter, you’re a really good wind shield, y’know that?”

“At your service,” he murmurs, inching forward too. “You were saying?”

You gaze up at him, the rough planes of his face ever present, and you’re struck by the revelation that he doesn’t need an old Quidditch jersey to keep you warm. He’s a furnace of body heat and cedar-wood cologne.

“Well,” you continue, voice low, “after two butter beers and absolutely zero chat, I’d sort of assumed that he’d have realised that this just isn’t going to work.”

“But…?”

“But,” you grimace, “he asked me out again.”

The way your features twist as you say it, as though that’s the last thing you want to do, wrings any residual jealousy he may be feeling right out of his stomach. He’s struck by this suddenly, overwhelming urge to caress your jaw and pull you closer.

“And let me guess,” James murmurs, grinning fondly. “You said yes.”

“I said I’ll see.”

“I worry all this charity work’s going to be the death of you, Y/N.”

You crinkle your nose up at him, punching his chest playfully. “Don’t you start James Potter.”

James raises his arms in surrender, still grinning. His gaze lifts above your head to take in the footpath behind you, and he finds himself looking right at the burly figure of Davey Gudgeon trudging toward the pair of you.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, raising his eyebrows. “You weren’t kidding about him not being able to take a hint, huh?”

You furrow your brow, looking over your shoulder bemusedly. When your head whips back around to face him, your eyes are wide and a little tortured, dappled by the warm, orange hues of Autumn. A damsel, James’ thinks, dazed, as if that’s a normal thought for a eighteen-year-old bloke to have. He’s already spiralling over kissing you and it’s been all of five minutes.

“Is he looking over here?” You ask, your voice low.

James’ eyes dart back to Davey. “Uh, yeah?”

“Good.”

You wrap your arms around his neck hurriedly, leaning forward and pressing your lips against his. James takes a second to recalibrate, his poor heart a mess, but when he does, he’s quick to circle your waist and pull you closer, his strong arms firm and torso warm on your figure. It’s a deft kiss, chaste as it is agonising, though kiss enough for him to memorise the feeling. The buttery taste of your lips, the perfect way they appear to mould against his.

It’s a tandem emotion — you’ve revelling in this kiss far more than you should, the arduous pressure of James’ lips on your own. He’s going to leave a mark. He tastes like sugar quills and feels like the death of you, his sloven hands pressing into the bare skin of your waist.

When you do finally pull away, your cheeks are warm and you’re a little breathless. “S’he still there?”

A beat passes. James doesn’t look up.

You mistake his pause for unease, and grimace abashedly, looking away from him. In hindsight, you aren’t sure what possessed you to kiss him like that — you want to pretend it was to stave Davey away, but your traitorous heart says otherwise.

God, you think, it was a really good kiss. If only James liked it as much as you did.

If only you knew.

“Sorry,” you add in a hurry, still grimacing. “I — I wasn’t thinking, I just didn’t want Davey to come over here and I —”

“Y/N,” James interrupts, his voice rough, gravelly around the edges. “Stop talking.”

You let out a breath. “Why?”

“I want to pretend you kissed me because you wanted to, just for one more second.”

“What?” You ask, your eyes wide. “Why?”

James thinks, isn’t it obvious? He’s still marvelling over how perfect your mouth is.

“Because,” he admits quietly, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.”

You don’t know what to say to this. Your still chest to chest with less than an inch between your figures, and you can feel your poor heart struggling to free itself from its cage. “You have?” You say, suddenly bashful.

James nods. His pupils are a little blown, his unkempt hair a mess, and he keeps his gaze trained on your lips as though he’s being paid for it. “And listen,” he murmurs, reaching forward to thumb over them softly. “Don’t worry about Davey Gudgeon.”

“Why not, James Potter?”

“Because I’d sooner die than let that bludger bore my girl to death again.”

[destourtereauxrecs]

RI i am so glad i found ur acc again - i literally cannot even express how delighted i am that u decided to write for james potter!! i've always been of the opinion that he is so so similar to ur euro trip rafe, and u write him perfectly.

thank u for ur service <3

[boneblushed]

And, boy, you got her

synopsis Rafe’s in charge of the pledges during Rush Week. Hazing isn’t a thing. Making you feel so high school is.

wc 3.6K

a/n omgggg Euro Trip Rafe <3333 I was living on pledgetok last week and just couldn’t not write something about it

“Holy shit,” Noah mutters, surveying the crowd over his red cup, “I swear they get scrawnier every single year.”

Rafe nods gravely, taking a pull of his beer. “It’s fucking grim.”

“Like — fuck, look at those two.” Noah gestures toward the shaded veranda, a fresh coat of gloss making its balustrades shine. Huddled in one corner, attempting to take up as little space as possible, two boys donning UNC merch survey the crowd in tandem. “We weren’t that fucking scraggy as freshman, were we?”

“You two weren’t,” Kelce snorts, coming up behind them. Topper brings up his rear, mid-bite of his loaded hotdog. “Thornton definitely was though.”

“Oi!” Topper protests, his words garbled by half chewed sausage. “S’wasn’t that bad. C’mon.” He turns to Rafe then, swallowing his mouthful. “But seriously, you locked in any potentials?”

Rafe furrows his brow thoughtfully, looking back over Delta Chi’s yard. Unsurprisingly, it’s far too early to say. Though the barbecue that they’re hosting is a good way for pledges to mingle, it isn’t exactly hazing material; they’re going to have to get creative.

“Maybe,” he replies finally, shrugging. “We’ll just have to see I guess.”

He tips back his red cup again, swallowing the last dregs of beer before acquiescing. As he’s about to announce his need for a refill, a few pledges sidle up to their group, looking hopeful.

Not overtly, of course. Painstakingly hiding their eagerness behind an armour of insouciance.

“Rafe,” the tallest of the three greets, handing him another red cup. The golden liquid inside it brims to the surface, its white foam dissolving in mocking. “Hey, bro. You need another?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, hiding a grin. “Shit. Table service already?”

The boy grins in tandem, looking a little sheepish. “Big fan, man. I’m Dylan.” He motions at the two guys on either side of him, wearing matching squints and backwards caps. “This is Rahul and Xav, we’re all here from Trinity.”

“Durham and Chapel Hill?” Noah enquires, whistling approvingly when they nod. “Fuck, we used to love having away games there. Those Trin cheerleaders…”

“Haha, shit, what was that chic’s name again?” Rafe asks then, a pull of mirth as he turns to Noah. “The one you messed around with in junior year?”

“Blake,” Noah answers, groaning in a mock-wistful sort of way. “They didn’t make ‘em like her at the Academy.”

Rafe snorts, sending the pledges a sage glance. “Nah. They made ‘em better.”

Noah raises his eyebrows, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, so we are allowed to objectify your girl then, Cameron?”

“Damn, so you’re tied down?” Xavier pipes up, his voice gravelly and low on purpose. Overtly masculine, like he’s trying hard to be red-blooded. “Your girl doesn’t mind you partying?”

Rafe frowns. “Why would she mind?”

“Uh,” Xavier balks, pulling at the bill of his backwards cap, “shit. I don’t know… like, doesn’t she get pissed that you’re constantly around sorority girls?”

“HA —” Topper laughs, and then he falters, thwarted by Rafe’s warning glower. “Uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Let’s just say Cameron doesn’t give her any reasons to be suspicious.”

“Because he’s obsessed with her,” Noah adds, unperturbed by Rafe’s expression. He pauses then, an amusing idea popping into his head. “Which means…” he continues, returning Rafe’s glare with a trust me one of his own, “you guys should be too.”

Rafe doesn’t trust him. Like, at all. He sends him a bewildered look, unsure where he’s going with this. “White — what?”

Noah ignores him. He downs his beer and crushes the red cup in his hand, deftly aiming it at the nearest bag of trash. “So,” he says, eyeing the three pledges with interest. “How serious are you guys about rushing Delt?”

“Pretty serious, bro,” Rahul answers, looking to his friends for support. “Think we got a shot?”

Noah throws his arm around Rafe’s neck, his strong bicep taut as he shoots them a grin. “Depends, man, I might know how we could figure that out though.” He begins to steer Rafe away from them, sending one last, faux-somber look over his shoulder. “Be right back, yeah?”

Rafe, whose bewilderment is quickly giving way curiosity, allows himself to be marshalled out of earshot without complaints.

He shrugs Noah off of him once they’re on the verandah, his features ever-bemused as he turns toward him. “The fuck was that about?”

“Bro, I know exactly how we’re going to haze these motherfuckers,” Noah replies, his voice lilted with mirth. “You know… without breaking any rules.”

The bewildered expression on Rafe’s face doesn’t acquiesce. “Okay… how?”

“Instead of getting them to be our bitches,” he answers, a mischievous grin making home on his features. “We’re going to get them to be our girlfriends’ bitches.”

Rafe frowns. “Bro. What?”

“Cameron, it’s perfect.” He swipes Rafe’s beer from his hand and takes a generous pull. “What do frat guys hate more than being called scrawny as fuck?”

“Uh. Doing assignments?” Rafe answers blankly, still frowning. He doesn’t have it in him to think too hard about Noah’s profferance. He’s on hour two of manning this boring event, hour four since he bid you farewell, and all Rafe can bear to think about right now is the imminent taste of your peach-scented lips.

Noah shakes his head. “No, dumbass. Being called a simp.”

“Wrong,” Rafe answers, “I don’t mind that shit at all.”

“You’re the exception,” Noah replies matter-of-factly. “You and Y/N have always been the exception. C’mon, I’m talking about us,” he places his palm over his breastbone solemnly, “mere mortals.”

Rafe narrows his eyes. “Fuck off. How would that even work?”

“We…” Noah pauses to think, a slightly furrow to his brow, “alright, I got it. We assign the pledges to our girlfriends, one by one. Give them a week to make a good impression — you know, carry their bags, buy them flowers, all that sentimental crap you love.”

“You really think the guys’ll agree to this?” Rafe asks, sounding reluctant. “I mean… I don’t know if I’m alright with a bunch of idiots holding doors for my girl.”

“But you’re an idiot that holds a door for your girl,” Noah answers, not missing a beat.

“Fuck off, White.”

“I’m serious. It’ll be funny. And look… if you’re worried about Y/N, I know she’ll find it adorable as fuck.”

Rafe shakes his head. “No way. She didn’t find high-school me adorable.”

Noah raises his eyebrows skeptically. “You’d be surprised, man. Besides, these guys aren’t going to be like high-school you. High-school you was a douchebag.”

“A douchebag who got the girl.”

“A douchebag who got the girl after he stopped acting like a douchebag.” Noah smirks then. “A douchebag who’d give all these fuckers a run for their money if he was pledging Delt this year.”

Rafe grins in tandem, stealing his beer back to take a big swig. “Alright, shit, alright. Harmless shit though, right? Chivalry and all that?”

“Harmless as hell,” Noah agrees. “C’mon. You really think any of these guys has the balls to make a pass at one of our girls?”

“Easy for you to say, White. You don’t fucking have a girl.”

Noah frowns. “What d’you mean? Aren’t we going halves on Y/N?”

“Holy fuck, Noah,” Rafe groans, almost spitting out his mouthful of beer. “If Y/N heard the shit you said when she wasn’t around, she’d probably kill you.”

“Nah,” Noah replies, seemingly unperturbed. “She loves me.”

“Well,” Rafe says grimly, crushing his own empty cup in his head. “She might do now, but she sure as hell won’t by the end of this week.”

—

The first time it happens, you’re understandably perplexed.

You’re en-route to your 9AM, bag strap denting your left shoulder, when a stranger falls into your step and swipes it from your figure. It’s a motion so quick and deft you initially think you’re getting mugged.

As you double back in bewilderment, he proffers, “you alright with this?”

“Uh.” You balk. “What?”

“Your bag,” he answers, readjusting it on his own shoulder. He seems earnest. Nervous, even. “It looked heavy. I can carry it to class for you, if you want?”

You allow a pause to take him in.

“No, I’m…” another pause, more of his demeanour on display. Backwards cap, crisp white polo shirt, smile lines exposing the ghost of a grin on his face. A familiar grin, the kind that pulls a soft, maudlin feeling from your ribcage. “Look, if you’re trying to hit on me —”

“No, no,” he interrupts quickly, his eyes widening in a panic. “Shit — no, don’t tell Cameron I’m hitting on you. I’m just…”

“Wait a minute,” your eyes narrow accusatorially, because of course he’s behind this chivalrous display, “you know my boyfriend?”

The stranger grimaces sheepishly. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Explain.”

“It’s… uh… well — basically, I’m pledging Delt,” he answers haltingly, self effacement juxtaposing his frat boy exterior. “Rafe’s asked us to be all gentlemanly and shit for pledge week, I don’t know. To you guys, I mean. Like… the current frat member’s girls?”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “No he hasn’t.”

“Shit.” He looks far more nervous now that he did five minutes ago. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you grumble, pulling your phone out of your pocket. “No he did not.”

Rafe’s on speed dial. He picks up on the first ring, the way he always does for you.

“Hey baby,” his gravelly timbre crackles through the phone, the low hum of frat house chatter audible in the background. “What’s up?”

“Don’t even. You know what’s up Rafael.”

A pause. When Rafe speaks again, his voice is quick and placating. “It was Noah’s idea.”

“Of course it was.”

“Dylan’s not playing up, is he?”

You raise your eyebrows at the stranger then, assessing him faux-suspiciously. “No way. He’s doing a better job than you ever did in high school.”

“Woah woah woah,” Rafe replies, a playful lilt to his tone. “That fucker’s not calling you dream girl or something, is he?”

“Worse. He’s being respectful of my boundaries.”

“Oh shit. I fucking knew this was a bad idea.”

You shake your head in exasperation, trying not to laugh. The poor stranger’s still standing there at attention, your leather bag looking ridiculous on his arm. “Rafe. Tell me he’s the only one.”

“He’s one…” Rafe starts slowly, sounding sheepish, “of three. Four, counting me.” In the background, you hear Noah pipe up and add, “five, Cameron. How could you forget me?”

“You’re un-fucking-believable, Noah White,” you shout through the phone.

“I love you too, Y/N,” Noah sings, and then he groans, no doubt shoved to the side by his indignant best friend. It’s Rafe on the phone again, voice sweet and thick as molasses as he says, “they’ll behave, baby, and make your life easier in the process. I promise.”

“What?” You accuse, fighting back a smile. “Like you did in high school?”

“Fuck no,” he replies, the grin on his face audible. “They’ll be nothing like I was, sweetheart.”

“What?” You tease. “Absolutely insufferable?”

“And absolutely in love with you.”

You raise your eyebrows. “How can you be so sure?”

“They’re under strict instruction. Have a shiner waiting for them if they pull something funny.”

Another exasperated laugh bubbles out of you, and you begin walking forward again, motioning at the boy named Dylan to follow in your step. “Right. So the boundaries are on purpose, are they?”

“The respect, too. No being inappropriate and charming at the same time.”

“And why not?” You ask faux-indignantly. “What if I like being objectified?”

“Can’t have you falling in love with them, can I?”

“Hey,” you argue, frowning stubbornly. “That is not what made me fall in love with you.”

“It isn’t?”

“Well,” you balk, “not solely that.”

“You’re fucking sexy,” he recites devotedly, almost yells, and you can hear the collective groan of his frat brothers in the background. “Are you wearing those Lululemon pants right now? Point is, I’m thinking about your ass in those Lululemon pants right now.”

“Rafe, I was fucking kidding. Stop.”

“No you weren’t.” You know he’s right; you can picture that stupid smirk on his face. It makes your cheeks warm. Asshole. “You’re blushing now, aren’t you?”

“Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Rafe agrees. “No funny business, alright? Just lots of good deeds.”

Good deeds. You suppose you could get used to good deeds, the embarrassment of attention notwithstanding.

You let out a defeated sigh, halting in front of your 9AM class. “You so, so owe me.”

“I so, so love you,” Rafe replies, and it makes your pulse leap; you’ll never get used to this feeling. “See you later, yeah?”

“Uh huh. Love you.”

Dylan waits until you’ve ended the call before saying farewell, dutifully handing your leather bag back to you and giving you a mock salute. The way he does it, all sheepish and genuine with a charming smile on his face, makes your heart twinge in a junior year of high-school sort of way. You’re feeling sentimental. It’s sweet.

You’re reminded of Rafe before he was yours, stumbling over himself to win your favour. Confusing chivalry with courting, objectifying you in the name of flirting.

Insufferable, but sweet nonetheless. You digress.

—

The next time it happens, you’re ambushed at your favourite cafe.

A dutiful Delta Phi pledge has already queued up and purchased you coffee, handing it over to you with a blushing bouquet of tulips.

You raise your eyebrows at him questioningly. “Is that…?”

“Uh, an oat iced coffee with vanilla?” He asks, sounding nervous. “I asked Cameron for your order.”

“Didn’t ask me about pastries, though,” a voice behind you adds, rough and familiar with a sweetness around the edges. Rafe circles your waist with ease and pulls you into his chest, sponging a soft kiss to your temple before handing you a brown bag.

A glossy, Daily Bread sticker shines on its exterior proudly.

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you look up at him expectantly. “Tell me you didn’t drive back home for a single croissant.”

“I didn’t drive back home for a single croissant,” Rafe replies. He grins then, looking that same, sheepish genuine that pulls a maudlin feeling. “I drove back home for twenty.”

“Rafe. Why?”

“Because you like Daily Bread,” he replies matter-of-factly, like it’s obvious.

You shake your head in exasperation, tip-toeing up to press a quick kiss to his lips. It becomes less quick against better judgement. He tastes like spearmint gum and cold brew, the hand he has held to your waist tightening ever so slightly. Slipping under your shirt, massaging the soft skin he finds there expertly, discreetly. Too much for 8am on a Wednesday morning, sans coffee. Your face feels on fire. You pull away in a hurry.

Meanwhile, the freshman pledge balks at the exchange, looking out of place.

Rafe frowns bemusedly at your diffidence, only clocking the reason when you nod over at him.

“I’ll walk her over Ben,” he says, dismissing him. “You’re off the hook, bro.”

“Shit.” The boy named Ben grimaces; he needs to get his hours in, and doesn’t deem this a fair ambush. He scrambles for an excuse. “Right. Can I still give her the flowers?”

“Of course you can,” you beam, accepting them gratefully. You look up at Rafe then, asking, “And if I want to walk with Benjamin?”

Rafe grins down at you, disbelieving. “Do you, baby?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” you say, wriggling out of his grasp. “He got me flowers.”

Rafe falters, his eyes widening in surprise. “Sweetheart, I got you a croissant.”

“Ben got me a coffee,” you hedge. “And flowers.”

“Y/N,” he placates.

“Rafael,” you echo, unperturbed by his exasperation. You take a sip your coffee. “I’ll see you later, okay? Ben’s ticking off a good deed this morning.”

Poor Ben looks helpless, taking the brunt of Rafe’s glare as you motion for him to hold the door for you.

“C’mon Ben, we’re going to be late.”

“But…” Ben pauses, his eyes flitting to Rafe nervously. “This is fine, right?”

Rafe sighs, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth in defeat. “Yeah, bro. You’re good.” He looks to you, then. “You’re unbelievable.”

You smile sweetly. “I’m wearing the Lulu leggings.”

“Oh I noticed,” Rafe replies, his blue eyes falling down your figure in slow, reverent paces. “It’s why I want to be the one holding the door for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Men only want one thing.”

Rafe grins. “Yeah. You.”

—

By the end of the week, you’re more used to the chivalry than you’re willing to admit.

You’ve enjoyed free iced lattes and filled your dorm with gorgeous bouquets, no door left unopened and no walk to class left unescorted. And really, every pledge you’ve come across has been pleasant and unassuming, albeit absolutely terrified of Rafe and therefore extra obliging on instinct.

They’ve even offered to do favours for you, got you into sought after Pilates classes and done last minute grocery runs on your behalf. It’s put you in this constant state of mild exasperation, like you can’t believe you’re worthy of this much love and chivalry.

It’s exactly the way you felt back in high-school with Rafe, and this revelation pulls lots of funny feelings from your stomach, from your chest. Feelings you’ve forgotten that are all yours and all his. Because it’s strange, having someone other than Rafe taking care of you. (Or Noah.) It’s strange because it makes you realise just how much he adored you back in the day.

These emotions come to a head at the pledge week closing bash, Delta Phi lit up with fluorescent lights in technicolour. Inebriation ensues, beer pong follows, and an impromptu DJ deck plays endless songs with heavy bass.

Rafe Cameron has you pulled close, as always, the taut muscle of his forearm pressing heat to your exposed waist. You’re a few drinks down and hyperaware of his proximity, ankles touching, thighs too, torsos close with your head resting on his shoulder.

“I think I like Dylan the best,” you announce suddenly.

“Yeah?” Rafe asks, kneading your skin absentmindedly.

You nod. “He’s sweet. Told me all about his girl back home.”

Rafe grins then, shaking his head bemusedly. “You’re such a sucker for love, sweetheart.”

“Hey!” You glare up at him faux-incensed, looking accusatory. “So are you!”

“Shhhh,” Rafe murmurs playfully. “Not so loud, you’ll fuck up my street cred.”

You scoff. “Since when do you care about street cred?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Rafe agrees easily, leaning down to draw your lips in for a kiss. He’s all patchouli and musk, beer on his tongue and unchaste intentions in his touch. When he pulls away, his lips are still an inch from yours, his voice rougher than it was a second ago, “I don’t care. Like, at fucking all.”

“Good,” Noah snorts from behind him. “‘Cause you never had any to begin with, bro.”

“There you are,” you say then, eyeing Noah over Rafe’s shoulder. There’s a mock accusatory expression on your face, softened by mirth and the alcohol on your lips. “Have you been hiding from me, White?”

Noah grins sheepishly, taking a pull of his beer. “Maybe.”

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me. When did you become worse than Rafael?”

“I didn’t become worse!” Noah insists. “He just became better. You know, after he got the girl.”

You make a face. “Smooth.”

“Hey,” Noah raises his arms in surrender, looking faux-somber, “someone’s gotta teach the next generation, don’t they? I’m committed to their education.” He raises his eyebrows then, a mischievous glint in his eye. “C’mon, don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

Rafe grins. “She totally fucking loved it.”

You aim a glare at the pair of them, failing miserably at hiding your amusement. “So maybe I didn’t mind it. Sue me.”

“Of course you loved it,” Noah says, throwing his arm around you and pulling you into his side. “You love Cameron, don’t you?”

You narrow your eyes. “Opinions vary.”

“You love me?” Noah tries.

“You fucking wish.”

“Everyone fucking wishes,” Rafe says then, throwing his arm around you too, your figure wedged between the pair of them. Frat boy sandwich, you think tiredly. If high-school you could see you now, you’re pretty sure she’d have an aneurysm. “Especially when you’re in Lululemon.”

“Rafe.”

“I’m kidding. Not really. They all love you, you know that, yeah?”

You look up at him questioningly. “The pledges?”

“Uh huh,” Rafe replies, raising his eyebrows at you. “This is what I was afraid of, you know.”

“What?” You ask, lifting yours in tandem.

“Everyone falling in love with you, like I did in high school.”

You scrunch up your nose at him, your cheeks warming in diffidence. “No one’s fallen in love with me, don’t be silly.”

“I have,” Noah pipes up unhelpfully.

“Shut up, Noah. I saw you talking to Georgia just before.”

Noah grins, pulling away and offering you a mock salute. “Guilty as charged.” He turns to survey the crowd, spotting her figure on the fairy-light lit porch. “Speaking of…”

And he’s gone before you’re able to tease him any further, leaving Rafe to guide you out of his side and into his chest. You wrap your arms around his neck, his hands exerting a warm, steady pressure into the curve of your waist.

“As I was saying,” you continue, frowning up at him playfully. “No one’s fallen in love with me.”

Rafe’s unconvinced. His gaze skates down your figure again, a tortured groan falling from his throat. “Have you seen you, sweetheart?”

You roll your eyes, face hot and self conscious. “And even if they have,” you add, “it doesn’t matter.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “It doesn’t?”

“No way. Because I’m in love with you, not any of them.”

Rafe grins then, a devastatingly handsome look on his face. “I’ll never get used to hearing that.”

“I’ll never get used to saying it.”

[destourtereauxrecs]

i love rafe and noah aw

[bonniepop]

"i hope you know i find you very attractive," atsumu slurs from the bar, head lolling as he spoke.

you sigh and pluck the shot glass from his hand and set it down on the bar. "yes, you've mentioned this several times." you look behind him and scowl. "seriously? you know he has a game tomorrow."

osamu shrugged. either he didn't drink as much as atsumu or he had an extremely high tolerance for hard drinks. "i didn't do nothin'. he was the one who kept playing drinking games."

"then why'd you play with him?!"

"i didn't. he just kept drinkin' by himself."

you sigh and turn back to the blond. "you're lucky you drank so much so fast. it's only eleven. you've got time to sleep this off."

"you're taking me home?" atsumu gasps, leaning so far forward you have to catch him and push him upright. "oh my god! what will the media say when they see us?!"

your face crumples in incredulity bordering on disgust. "uhh, that we're engaged? wait, how much did you drink?"

"we're engaged?!" atsumu says, placing his palms to his cheeks. he pulls away one hand gasps at the ring sitting on his finger before turning to you and holding your face in his hands. "we're engaged. our combined hotness level is through the roof."

"o-kay," you say, having quite enough of this. you push his hands away and tug at his wrist. "get up. we're leaving and getting you sober."

"i'm not drunk!" he says stubbornly, even though he nearly tripped just trying to stand up. once he's upright, though, he looks you up and down and grins so wide you're concerned he might tear his face apart.

"what?"

he giggles. "my fiancée is so hot."

that makes your lips twitch. "whatever. let's go home."

he gasps again. "we live together?!"

[destourtereauxrecs]

adorbs

[ddejavvu]

hi!! I have a request for james potter (this is something that happened to me recently and it made me so upset). Could you do mean!gf (being mean is her love language and someone tells her that shes a bad girlfriend to james, but james knows that its her love language) and she asks james if shes a bad gf??? like angst/comfort kinda

You pose the question over dinner, but perhaps that's unfair seeing as James feels the need to gape at it, and his meal succumbs to the unforgiving force of gravity. An obscene half-chewed lump of rice and beans escapes his mouth and he apologizes hurriedly for the mess, still struggling to comprehend what you've sprung upon him.

"Shit- say that again?" He asks, scrubbing fruitlessly at the brown stain on his blue shirt, napkin wet with condensation from his glass.

"Am I a bad girlfriend?" You repeat, each letter striking an axe against your heart until you're sure it'll crack with a jagged edge like you're a Saturday morning cartoon.

"No, I did hear you correctly the first time," James concludes, mumbling more to himself than to you and grimacing at the sheer audacity of your words, "I- darling, I don't really know what to say to that. I mean- fuck no, 'f course, but- but why are you asking? What made you think that?"

"Someone told me I was," You shrug, your fork looking rather sullen as you drag it listlessly around the salsa on your plate that's leaked from the soft tortilla layer of your burrito.

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter. Someone who knows us. That's what matters."

"Did they tell you why?" James asks, careful not to prod at their identity, even if that's on the forefront of his mind.

"'Said I'm always mean to you." You murmur, "And- and I think I am."

"You're not mean to me," James scrunches his nose, confusion filling the wrinkles that appear there, "But- well, you're not always mean to me, but I like it when you are."

"It's not funny." You tell James, decidedly somber even in the wake of his reassurance, "I called you dumb the other day."

"Well, darling, I had been boxing with the toaster because it wouldn't toast my bread, and you came up behind me and informed me that it wasn't plugged in. That was dumb."

You bite your lip, and James hopes you're withholding a smile.

"Well. That was dumb, but you aren't. And you're not any of the other mean things I say about you, either."

"I like it when you're mean to me." He repeats, "You're nice to the people you don't like, and you're mean to the people you do like. You're just a bit like a broken compass, darling, but I'd walk south for miles if I was following you."

In order to avoid splitting your lip open with the harsh force of your bite you chew words instead, and spit them out, "You're cheesy."

"And you're mean," James grins, "But that's the way I like you, and y'can't be a bad girlfriend if I like the way you are."

[destourtereauxrecs]

so so cute

[bookofbonbon]

you keep him there - coriolanus snow.

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader.

Warnings: Death. Dead Body. Toxic relationship. Toxic!Snow x Toxic!Reader.

Summary: Coriolanus is now President and you his First Lady. Perhaps you don't particularly like him but, you are protective of him.

Word Count: 1215.

You sit in calm silence, hand pressed to your temple - careful to avoid your meticulously styled hair as a cigarette burns between your fingers - the beginnings of a headache coming on as you knead the taut skin softly, waiting patiently for the arrival of your husband. 

You’d known Coriolanus your entire life. A common theme amongst most polite Capitol society. Of course, 17 years on and the divide between old money and new still existed; flimsy but very much still there. 

Were the two of you close growing up? No.

But, did you consider him friend? Also, no. 

At the very least however, did you like him? Not in the slightest. 

Of course, none of that mattered, not when each of you headed your respective families; families who made up half of the remaining four of the Old Guard of the Elite - Snow and Blizzard.

So, it was to no one’s surprise when your betrothal to Snow was announced at 20; the match arranged by your respective grandparents - although you suspected Coriolanus had more of a hand in it than his senile grandmother did - and cementing your union as husband and wife at 21.

So, despite your dislike of the 25-year-old, newly minted President of Panem, his role as husband in your life actually meant something to you - you’d always protect him.

It’s what got you into your current predicament. 

“How many times must I tell you to stop smoking inside?” his voice shatters the silence from where he stands on the other side of the Parlour.

His long legs carry him quickly over to you, a deep scowl etched into his features as he plucks the cigarette from between your fingers and crushes it in the ashtray. 

“The nicotine will stain the walls yellow. Not to mention the smell,” he stands over you, sharp nose turned up in disgust. 

“So, I’ll have an Avox clean the walls and replace the furniture,” you resolve, standing from the plush couch and leading him out of the Parlour and into the Drawing room. “Besides, that’s the least of our material problems, right now.”

“And what about when the nasty habit leads you to an early grave? Hm? What will an Avox do then?” 

You stop outside of the drawing rooms closed doors. Turning to face him, you lean against the frame and smile. 

“Come now, Coco, I thought we agreed never to lie to each other,” you tut. “Let’s not pretend the prospect of an early grave doesn’t secretly thrill you.” 

Coriolanus rolls his eyes at the nickname, he simultaneously hated and grew fond of it. 

“And yet, still you pretend you don’t like me,” he raises an eyebrow at you. “Whether you choose to believe me or not, I would like to grow old with you.”

“Or not,” you smile tightly, turning swiftly back toward the closed doors. 

A lie, you knew Coriolanus held affection for you, no matter how oddly he showed it. Although, the same could be said about you with him. However, it was just that affection - it wasn’t a lie that you didn’t like him. 

“As I was saying, yellow stained parlour walls are the least of our material problems right now,” you open the doors of the drawing room and reveal the dead body on the floor. “Not when Livia Cardew’s fiancé is bleeding out on my new rug.”

“I’m not sure what it is about me that seems to invite talks of treason.”

You find yourself leaning, once again, against the doors frame as Coriolanus steps further into the room.

“Must be all those outward displays of affection you show toward me,” he speaks sarcastically, crouching down. “I'll have a new rug made for you.”

You snort something of a laugh - a rare sound. 

“What did he say?”

“He came to deliver something of a warning to me.” 

You stand behind Coriolanus, placing a hand on his shoulder and peering down at the blue faced and bloody nose body. 

“Is that so?”

You make a noise of agreement, “something about power getting to your head and boasting that he himself was about to step into immense power in a few short weeks when Livia’s mother steps down; that he was doing me a favor by stopping by, if I had any sense I would leave you before it was too late.”

“Truly two pretty little idiots,” you scoff. “As if we’d allow the fool and that idiotic girl to take control of the Capitol’s largest bank. Although, I suppose we should thank them,” you wonder aloud. “They have made it significantly easier on us.”

“Thank you,” Coriolanus pats his cheek and stands.

Ushering the two of you out of the room, he guides you to the front doors with a hand on the small of your back.

You laugh, proper this time; the sound is nice, reminding Coriolanus of a songbird - without the temptation to shoot it dead - and it brings a genuine smile to his face. 

“What of Livia?” you ask, as he takes your coat from an Avox and helps you into it.

“We keep her alive, a small token of our mercy,” he decides. “But we strip her of the majority of her family’s assets on the grounds of treason, replace her with someone Capitol society trusts as heir to the Cardew Empire and leave her with only enough to keep her just above the line of poverty.” 

Turning you toward him, Coriolanus observes you quietly with a strange look in his eye as he tucks a stray hair back into place and fixes the imperfection.

“I supposed I should break the unfortunate news of her never-to-be husband’s passing to her, I’m already ten minutes late.”

You smooth out the front of your coat, stepping out of his reach and out the door but, not before pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Before, you can clear the landing to descend the front steps however, Coriolanus calls to you. 

“Hm?” you turn back to him. 

“Would you…” he trails off, the strange look still in his eye - it’s insecurity.

You don’t point it out.  

“Would I?” you repeat, stepping back within his reach. 

“Leave me,” he finishes, recalling the earlier warning given to you. “I mean, after all, you say you don’t like me.”

His lips pull bitterly.

You almost laugh in his face, that after five years together and all you had done for him that he would still question your devotion to him. 

“I don’t,” you shrug, nonchalant. 

His jaw tenses, ears turning red with anger… or maybe humiliation but, you don’t give him time to dwell on it; crowding his space and gripping his jaw tightly between your fingers, you force him to look at you.

“But, I also don’t have to like you. I love you and that’s enough for me, I can only hope that someday that it’ll be enough for you too,” you loosen your grip. 

Coriolanus swallows thickly, eyes closing as he presses his forehead to yours.

“It’s enough for me,” he whispers. 

“Always remember,” you remind him, pushing him back slightly to look into his eyes “We’re a team. Snow lands on top and…”

“the Blizzard keeps it there,” he finishes.

You keep him there.

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2023. All rights reserved.

[destourtereauxrecs]

snow lands on top, and the blizzard keeps it there.

that is so creative omg

[ddejavvu]

Animagus r & Sirius cuddling in their animagus forms <3.

Love the series btw, ur amazing!!!

based on all of those sweet videos of cats disappearing when cuddled by their dog friends <33

--

James stomps into the room sounding more like an elephant than a deer, and Sirius is surprised that, when he huffs after scanning the room for a split second, he doesn't trumpet as well.

"Well, shit," James concludes, tossing his books haphazardly onto his bed and ignoring the way the hardback covers clack together, "I was lookin' for y'girlfriend, Pads. Gotta pass on a message from Marlene for her."

Remus glances up from a sock that he's patching up, brows furrowed, "She's here, Prongs. She's- she was here."

Both men frown confusedly at the big black dog who regards them with nothing short of complete and total lazy indifference. It takes another prod from Remus, a, "Pads. Where did Y/N go?" to get him to blink, exhaling an irritated puff from his wet nose.

He lifts his head from where it had been nearly resting on his haunch, revealing your much smaller feline form curled up inside of the space he'd created with his massive furry figure. Somehow he'd managed to completely envelop you, and you blink at the light that invades your eyes now that you're no longer engulfed by the black dog.

James lets out a bark of laughter not unlike you'd hear from Sirius at the sight, but tamps it down to a poorly-concealed snort when you flex your claws at him. He clears his throat, a grin still lingering on his face, "Uh, right. Marlene told me to tell you she's stealing your eyeliner for tonight's party, but that she'll give it back tomorrow morning. And- and that she's gonna wear your flats, too. The black ones. Anyways, uh- try not to crush her, Pads."

Sirius takes it as your dismissal, curling back in on himself and sealing you into his heated embrace once more. James and Remus are left to wonder how you can breathe with Sirius surely smothering you, but within mere seconds they can hear a purr rev to life from beneath Sirius's furry chin.

Perhaps, James muses, there's more to life than breathing. But as someone who lives with Sirius, who has to fight through a pile of the man's dirty laundry to get to the shower every day, he hopes you'll survive the stench.

[destourtereauxrecs]

ADORABLE

[iwas-princess]

suna rintaro • christmas eve princess

“c’mon, baby. don’t be like that.”

you huffed back at your boyfriend, your arms crossed over your chest as you childishly pouted. you walked ahead of him, continuing your journey to the passenger seat of his luxury car.

“hey, sweetheart, stop.” he chuckled as you continued to ignore him.

the silent treatment that you played didn’t let up as you neared his car in the store’s packed parking lot, much to his dismay. he stayed behind you, his large hands filled with your family’s christmas gifts you both had just purchased last minute.

it started out small, this argument did.

suna, ever the lazy man he is, pushed aside gift buying for weeks as your schedule filled once finals season approached, resulting in your shopping to begin the night before christmas. to say that you were irritated would be an understatement when you found that there were no gifts to wrap.

you wanted to kill rintaro, and even contemplated makibg sleep on the couch for a week— but it was christmas eve and even though he was annoying, you still wanted nothing more than to be near him during this holiday season.

angry or not.

as you approached your passenger door, you turned around briefly to take one look at him.

his hair was collecting snowflakes, the jet black locks speckled with white fuzz beautifully. his strong arms were carrying two heavy bags and one large electronic box for your younger sibling, and although he looked as if the items were nothing compared to him, you could tell that he was struggling slightly to carry them all in this cold, and his long fingers were most likely numb from the cold.

“wait, just a second. you know that you’re not allowed to open your own door; that’s my job.” suna corrected as your glove clad hand reached the car door handle.

you rolled your eyes, but felt your heart warm a few temperatures at his manners.

“let me just set these in the trunk and i’ll get you in that nice and toasty car, ‘kay? don’t want my princess getting too cold.” he explained as he popen the trunk, and carefully set the gifts in there.

you waited patiently, frustrated at him, but nevertheless ignored him still.

he tucked his frozen hands in his pockets breifly as he walked around the your side of the car, sending a flirty wink your way as he watched your eyes follow his moves briefly before looking off in the distance.

“i saw that, pretty girl.” he chuckled under his breath as he reached you.

the close proximity of him suddenly, caused a warm feeling to envelop your cold body. his scent filled your lungs as you breathed in the harsh air, your eyes nearly rolling back at the smell.

he was intoxicating.

his bare hand covered yours to gain your attention, wanting nothing more than to see your eyes on him once more— those pretty eyes that he adored.

when you didn’t budge, he let out an airy laugh at your behavior,

“sweetie, c’mon. look at me…” his voice was nearly teasing, catlike in every way as he spoke.

“what?” you harshly huffed out.

“ah, there she is. there’s your pretty voice that i missed so much.” he gently cooed at you. you found it condescending.

“what do you want, rintaro? i’m cold.” you were icy cold when you asked him, your voice cruel.

he ignored your attitude, tucking a loose strand behind your ear before caging you against the car door.

“rintaro! what is wrong with you? i’m freezing and i have to go home and wrap presents because you,” you shoved your finger against his coat covered chest. “didn’t tell me that we didn’t have any until last minute! now, i’m going to be exhausted all fucking day tomorrow because i’ll go to bed late”.

he smirked as you shouted quietly at him, careful not to make a scene.

he didn’t want to invalidate you in anyway, because he knew very well that he fucked up this year, but something about how adorable you looked in your puffy coat he bought you had his heart bursting. you looked so damn cute, exclaiming about your worries while you dressed warmly. your cheeks were flushed from the harsh cold, your nose beginning to run as well.

you had his whole heart and you didn’t even realize it.

you noticed the smug look on his face, immediately resulting in a punch to his shoulder.

he hissed in pain lowly, his broad body flinching back slightly before the hand covering yours nursed the now sore muscle.

“ouch, baby. that was awfully mean of you, don’t you think?”

you huffed in annoyance before turning around and opening the door yourself. but, just as you opened it, your boyfriend was quick to shut it with his knee.

“hey! what is your-“

he face leaned closer to yours, his cold nose touching your own freezing one. his dark eyes bored into yours and his lips brushed against yours gently.

“you know only i open this door for you, no one else. not even you.” he whispered darkly, his voice raspy.

you nodded slowly, allowing him to reach next to you and open the door back open for you, his eyes never leaving yours. he backed up enough for the door to fully open.

“go in.”

you obeyed reluctantly. you slid into the luxurious car, the soft heated cushions welcoming you happily with comforting warmth. you let out a satisfied sigh at the feeling, before turning your attention back to your doting boyfriend. he leaned in towards you slowly, your breath hitched as his torso entered the warm car. his face became nothing but a few inches away from yours, giving you the impression that he was going to give you a forgiving kiss. but instead, he reached a few inches behind him, and pulled the seatbelt around your lap before buckling it.

“gotta keep my little princess safe, don’t i? these roads are icy, brat.”

you nodded along, at loss for words.

“suna?” you called out after a few moments of thought as he was exiting the vehicle.

he stopped momentarily, crouching over slightly to hear and look at you as you spoke.

“kiss me.” you whispered.

he smiled wide, and if his cheeks weren’t frostkissed you could’ve seen the blush that creeped upon him at your words.

“of course.”

[destourtereauxrecs]

getting into the holiday spirit omg this was such a cute, cozy read

[wreckofawriter]

Lucky Charm

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pairing: james potter x reader

summary (request by @delusionalcancer): hello! I was wondering if you could do a James Potter fiction where he has a very important quidditch match and begs you to go but you can’t so he is really sad but midway through he sees you in the crowd and gets super happy? Sorry if requests are closed!

word count: 5k

warnings: weed, language, a tiny bit of angst, james calls you doll, no y/n (i think)

a/n: been really liking writing about quidditch recently lol. This is based on book!james who is a chaser not a seeker. its a bit cheesy but i think its cute

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

The common room was never quiet after Gryffindor had a quidditch match. Even when you lost -a rare occasion- there would be a crowd of bitter fans, grumbling about an unfair call or an unlucky miss, late into the night. Usually quidditch brought life and excitement to Gryffindor, no matter the outcome. But today as students in red and gold shuffled up the marble staircases and through the portrait hole they were silent, even in large groups there was no more than a hushed nervous whisper among them. The usual complaints that followed a loss had been discarded and forgotten. 

It bothered you. It was uncanny and made you shift uncomfortably in your chair by the fireplace. A glance around told you that you weren't the only one feeling that way, an uneasy air had filled the room. 

The match had been a brutal one, even now the heavy drops pounded against the windows of the tower, the winds shifting and fighting, unable to decide which way to blow. The air was just cold enough to turn what should have been rain to sleet, sharp and cold. Many had been surprised that the match had even taken place, expecting it to be canceled due to such terrible conditions. But the heads of houses refused to back away from a challenge, and the Gryffindor team hardly seemed to mind. 

“Quidditch is played in any weather and every weather.” James had insisted, the morning before the match, “They won’t cancel a match for anything and I don't expect them to.” 

You had stared up at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall anxiously watching as chunks of hail were blown sideways uneasily, “I don’t think I even wanna go watch.” 

James' face dropped as soon as you said this, “What? No!” he exclaimed, “You have to come watch. You're my lucky charm!” 

And of course when he said that with his lips pulled into his signature boyish pout you couldn’t deny him anything. 

Gryffindor was the favorite to win this year's cup, as they were every year since James joined the house team. It wasn’t all him of course but he had something no one else seemed to possess; raw and unbridled talent. People often joked that he was born to ride a broom, but it was hardly a joke. James’ broom wasn’t something he rode, it was a part of him. It seemed to a spectator that he could hop onto it and tell it what to do with nothing but his mind. He was graceful and precise so casually it seemed as if he were hardly trying at all. Today's game against Slytherin had been a shoe in, an expected win.

Which is why the loss had come with such a heavy silence. You couldn’t deny that Slytherin thought ahead, they too had been expecting the rain and had been a bit smarter about it, casting a series of enchantments and charms onto their players, paying extra attention to their seeker. So while your team fumbled through heavy storm clouds bogged down by drenched robes, the Slytherins had a relatively easy time navigating the skies. With this advantage they had taken the opportunity to humiliate the Gryffindor team as much as possible. 

Their chasers played dirty, purposefully slamming into the Gryffidors and then claiming they simply had not seen them. Their beaters were ruthless as well, using their bats for hitting more than just bludgers, one of them had hit your new third year seeker, Aada Laine, straight between the eyes with their wooden bat, breaking her glasses in two and bloodying her nose.

James, who was so used to winning and doing it easily, took this bitter start to the match poorly. His anger had risen quickly leading to a number of unnecessary fowls that the Slytherin team took with great enthusiasm and by the time Regulus had caught the snitch right from under a near blinded Aada, Slytherin was already up 120 to 40. Perhaps it was just the shame of a horrible game but as James landed he had been angrier than you had ever seen him. His usually unruly hair plastered down across his skull from the rain, one of the lenses of his glasses was cracked and he was gripping his broom so tightly you had been surprised it had not snapped in two. 

His obnoxious parade that usually occurred after a match had not taken place, in fact he had not even glanced at where you, Sirius, and Remus stood waiting for him on the edge of the pitch. Instead he marched across the mucky grass straight towards the seeker.

She was sobbing uncontrollably despite the fact that her nose and glasses had both been fixed by Madame Hooch. A few other teammates stood around the young girl attempting to offer comfort. But when James reached her he did no such thing, in fact he snatched the broom from her hand and yelled so loudly that even over the whipping of the wind and the jeers of Slytherin you had heard him kick her off the team. The rest of the Gryffidors had made to protest angry shouts and bitter words thrown at James but he had simply marched across the field and into the changing room leaving Aada wailing even louder than before.

No one had seen James since, and as you sat quietly in the common room with the other students it began to seem like you were all waiting for him. Waiting for him to show up, all smiles and jokes, and everything would go back to normal. But as hours ticked by and he never showed it became clear this was not going to be the case. 

By dinner time the common room had almost completely cleared out. The die-hard fans retreated to bed while the rest of the house trooped miserably to the Great Hall preparing for the taunts and jeers from the Slytherin table across the hall. 

It was almost dark by the time Remus climbed through the portrait hole looking annoyed, but he grinned when he saw you. 

“No dinner?” You asked him and he shook his head sitting beside you. 

“Been out looking for James.” 

Your eyes widened, “You still haven't found him?” 

“No we did.” He assured you quickly, “He's just acting like a prick so I decided I wanted to come in and dry off.” 

“Makes sense,” you sighed, “he looked furious out there.” 

“Tell me about it.” Remus groaned slumping back, his wet robes soaking onto the couch as he kicked his feet up on the coffee table, “He’s sulking like a child out at the boat house.” 

“Oh, he’s very mature.” You chidded and you both grinned lightly. 

There was a moment of quiet and the fireplace snapped, a portrait yawning. 

“I don't suppose you could go get him?” Remus asked, looking up at you hopefully. 

You sighed expecting this, “What makes you think I could bring him to reason?” 

“You know how he is,” Remus said and he was right. You knew exactly how James was, earnest and genuine and proud. You thought about it for a minute, Remus eyeing you hopefully. Reluctantly you gave in. “Well I best go get him.” 

You mumbled complaints under your breath on your way down towards the lake, the enticing smell and warmth of the great hall taunting you as you passed. 

The trail to the boat house was muddied and steep. By the time you reached the bottom you were shivering and damp, glad for the cover it provided from the wind and rain. James was seated at the edge of one of the docks staring out across the lake. 

You sat next to him and he turned, “Oh.” he said, “I thought you were Sirius.”

You grimace, “Does my hair look that bad?” 

James' usual laugh didn’t follow and instead he cracked a small forced grin. 

You’re both quiet for a moment, the sound of the rain pounding onto the roof and splashing onto the water. 

“Congrats on the game by the way.” You say.

“What?” James looked at you bitterly, “That's not funny.”

You grin, “Yeah but you were, I’d stand out in that shit weather to watch you knock Connaham off his broom again.” 

James paused, “He scored because of that.” 

“Eh, whatever,” you shrug, “Totally worth it.” 

You were expecting a laugh but instead James just shook his head, “You don’t understand.” 

“Well then explain it to me.” You said, rolling your eyes playfully at him. 

“We’ve got absolutely no chance at the cup anymore.” He says fiercely. 

You shrug again, “Since when I thought we were favorites? You just lost one game.”

By the way James looks at you you can tell he's getting frustrated but you don't back off keeping his gaze lock with yours. 

“Ravenclaw hasn’t lost at all, and there's no way we're beating them by 230 points. We’d have to be 80 points up and catch the snitch.” 

“That doesn't mean impossible.” You point out and he glares. 

“You don't understand quidditch.”

“Says who?” you say and he shoots you a look, “Okay so what if I don't understand quidditch, I do understand that you're bloody good at it.” 

Your praise raises a genuine smile out of him for the first time that night. 

“Didn’t know you thought so highly of me.” He said, wiggling his brows. 

“Don't let it go to your head.” 

There's another pause in conversation and you take the opportunity to pull a small joint from the pocket of your robes.

James grins, “Ah so this is the reason you're out in the cold.”

“What? No! I'm here purely to comfort you.” You giggle, lighting it with the flick of your wand. 

He watches you out of the corner of his eye, the way your face lights up from the soft orange glow of burning hash. Your eyes sparkle and your lips pucker as you exhale. He finds it hard to look away but does so quickly when you turn to look at him. 

“Want some?” 

He nods and takes the joint from you grinning, “Thanks doll.” 

You flush at the pet name, something he called you a bit too often. 

The two of you pass it back and forth a couple times silently, watching the cold rain splatter onto the surface of the lake. 

“You should really apologize to Aada though.” You mumble the slight buzz of your high making your voice sound floaty. 

James doesn't say anything for a moment before he folds his arms stubbornly, “I was serious about that. She played like shit.” 

You furrow your brow, “You all did James, that's not fair.” 

Heat rises to his cheeks as shame bubbles in his stomach, “I don’t care if it's not fair. That snitch was four centimeters from her nose when Black caught it. She cost us the game.” 

“Her broken nose.” You fight back, “And it's a team sport, she screwed up yeah, but so did you.” 

Embarrassment flooded James' head in an angry red, “If it weren't for me it would have been a bloody blowout!” He snaps and you're taken aback, “I scored every damn point we had and youre saying I screwed up?” 

You look at him bitterly, “Yeah I am. You let yourself get all pissed off before the game was even up and your team fell apart. You're the captain, take some responsibility.” you scoff. 

James is now glowering, the softness of being high turned sharp and awkward, “You don’t even know what youre talking about.” 

“I may know nothing about quidditch James but I do know that making a little girl cry over a game is a prick move.” You spit. 

“It's not just a game!” He shouted at you so loud you flinched back. 

Your eyes are narrowed as you stand, “That's exactly what it is James, a game. And you let yourself get all worked up over it like a child.” 

He tenses as you speak, he feels as if someone had punched him in the gut when you look at him like that. But his pride takes over in a swoop and anger rises as he stands too, “What are you even doing down here?” He demands, “To smoke fucking weed and ‘comfort me’? You're not my bloody girlfriend!” 

You stop dropping your shoulders, he was right of course, you weren't his girlfriend. As much as everyone always seemed to assume you were, as much as you flirted and touched, sneaking off together into the night beneath his cloak. The two of you had always toed the line of intimacy but you had yet to cross it, something you lay awake thinking about most nights. 

“You're right.” You state firmly, “I don’t know what I’m doing down here.”  And you turn, throwing the roach onto the ground and stomping it out. You're back out into the night grateful, as the weather hides your tears. 

James doesn't follow though he bites his tongue harshly when you leave, wanting to call out, apologize and beg you to stay with him. But he doesn't, just watching you go with balled fists before he yells and swings at the stone wall.

The next morning is awkward when James makes it down to the great hall for breakfast, his hair messier than usual and dark circles under his eyes, the knuckles on his right hand scabbed.

The two of you sit on opposite sides of Sirius who carried the conversation on his back with great effort. 

“Godric, what is up with you two?” He asks finally, “You’re walking around like fuckin’ corpses.” 

“Nothing.” you shrug not meeting his eyes, “Just tired.” 

Sirius eyes you both, and then glances at Remus who is mentally praying for him to shut up. “Sure…”

You excuse yourself to head to Arithmancy and Sirius turns to James immediately, “So you guys finally shagged huh?” 

James sputters and Remus scoffs in disbelief. 

“That's not while you’re all awkward?” He gaped, “What the hell else could it be?” 

James grimaced, “We just… had an argument. “ 

“Don’t tell me it was over Quidditch.” Sirius says and James looks away, “Christ you're an idiot.” 

James just nods in agreement, letting his head rest in his arms. All of the anger he felt towards you had been replaced by regret over his sleepless night and now all he wanted was for you to smile at him, but you wouldn’t even meet his eyes. 

“Well, apologize.” Remus says, beginning to pack up his things, “Seems you have a lot of apologizing to do after yesterday.” 

James stares gloomily at where you had been sitting, “Yeah I know.” 

It's not till lunch when he finally gets you alone, cornering you on your way out of Herbology and back up to the castle. The grounds are wet from yesterday's weather and your shoes are covered in mud. 

“I’m sorry.” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, “I didn’t mean to yell at you last night, I was just upset and tired and I… I shouldn’t have done that. I'm really sorry doll.” 

You eye him skeptically, looking for a hint of anything but pure sincerity, but find none. His eyes are glued to you like he's begging you to forgive him and as usual you just can't say no. 

“All’s forgiven James.” You say simply, “Though you're lucky I didn't push you into the lake.” 

Neither of you mention the real reason you stormed back to the castle last night, what he had said about what you were, or more what you weren’t. The topic seemed too heavy for the bright sun that seeps through cracks in the clouds. 

He grins and throws an arm around you, “See this is why you're the best.” 

You raise a brow, “Why ‘cuz I put up with all your bullshit?” 

“No, because you forgive me for all my bullshit.” 

“That's because I know you're an idiot who only means about half of what he says.” You snicker and it feels as if the world has gone back to spinning when he leans into you.

“I'd give myself at least a good three quarters.” He smirks. 

“Of course you would.” 

Remus looks pleased to see you hooked under James’ arm when you enter the common room, “See you two have kissed and made up.” 

You flush.

“I think we're missing half that equation.” James said slyly, leaning in to peck your cheek, “There, all better.” 

“Get off me James,” You huff, heart pounding as you half-heartedly push him away to take a seat on the couch and you know everything is back to normal when he sits beside you and throws his arm back over your shoulder with a pout. 

And things stay normal, well as normal as they usually are. 

The weather begins to warm and the trees begin to sprout new growth, green and pink flowering across the forest whenever you look out the window. A sense of excitement has gathered in the students, even as exams approach the sun gleaming through dusty windows in the castle make everyone feel giddy. 

James has been practicing non-stop now as the final match against Ravenclaw approaches. He's out late, keeping the team out till dark to run drill after drill, play after play. He's even taken to giving private lessons to the new seeker, “Can’t have them falling apart when I leave, doll,'' He explained when you asked, “Plus I need her to be prepared for the match, we’re gonna win that cup again I swear.” 

It was nice to see he was nothing but optimism again, his natural state. But it all crashed to the ground when the date for the match was set. 

Your eyes go wide when he tells you, “The 16th?” 

“Yeah, so you better start making your ‘Go Potter’ banner now.” He says cheekily.

“James..” You pause and feel guilt bubble in your chest, “I have my apparition test on the 16th. It was set ages ago.” 

His face falls, “I thought we all took the test back in January!”

You shake your head, “Wasn’t 17 yet, my mum had to pull some strings so I didn't have to wait till summer.”

“So you can't come?” He’s devastated, his heart sinking into his stomach, he doesn't just want you there, he needs you there; to glance down at in the crowd after he scores, to wink at as he sweeps past, “But youre my lucky charm.” His voice is so soft it hurts.

 “I know James, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.” You look down at your hands unable to handle the disappointment that was written on his face. 

He doesn't say anything, just staring down at the food on his plate. Suddenly his appetite was gone, he didn’t know what to think, how to think. What was even the point of quidditch if you couldn’t be impressed by his amazing dives and dodges?, “Will you at least be there before the match?” he asks.

You shake your head, “I’m leaving Friday after classes. My mum is gonna bring me back on Sunday.” 

And he wanted to cry, it was childish and dramatic but it felt like you were abandoning him before his big moment, his big match, one that he had been working so incredibly hard to win, “Oh.” is all he can muster out and you're both left looking at your laps. 

You apologize again, and try not to let the heaviness in your chest drag you through the floor. You weren’t sure if there was anything worse than disappointing him, you preferred him fiery and fuming.

When James reached the Quidditch pitch for practice that day he seemed to have lost all of his energy, his feet dragging. He kept getting asked if he was okay and he kept saying yes even though it felt like someone had smashed him to bits and put him back together with nothing but scotch tape. 

He played terribly, his usual charisma lost leaving his passes stale. He felt anger rising with every mistake he made, how could he let this happen? How could he let you have so much impact on him? How could one person missing from a stand of hundreds make him not even want to play? It was infuriating how obsessed he had become with you. Sirius and Remus had warned him this would happen, that his little crush would grow into a bulging monster, and they had been right. He simply couldn’t help it, you were stunning. And funny and brilliant and every other positive adjective he could possibly come up with, he would list what he liked about you for years if you asked. It was this reason he just couldn’t bring himself to confess, the only thing worse than having to keep you at arm's length was losing you altogether. And despite his friend's assurance that his feelings were returned he just couldn’t risk it, he couldn’t risk being wrong and not even being able to call you his friend anymore. Because, once again, he needed you. 

So he played it up, with the petnames and the touches, he took what he could trying to make it obvious, to convince you to make the move he so desperately wanted to. But you hadn't, you had just blushed and giggled, turning his heart to mush. 

And now he was sitting in an empty locker room, tears spilling down his cheeks because you couldn’t be at the most important game he had ever played, would ever play. He wiped them away desperately but they just kept coming, making his face feel hot and his head throb. 

The ache didn’t go away over time like he thought it would but grew, weighing him down like a ball and chain. Everyone noticed, his friends, his teammates and worst of all you. 

You kept apologizing, like it was your fault that his match had been scheduled on the one weekend you would be out of the castle. He could tell you felt terrible about it and it only made him feel worse that he wasn’t just bringing down his own performance but your own. If you didn’t pass your exam he was sure it would be his fault for making his own devastation at your departure so obvious. 

The sixteenth approached with building anticipation, the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors that usually got on quite well had begun to shout obscenities at each other at dinner. Team members were taunted constantly in corridors on the way to classes, a duel had even broken out between two beaters, landing them both in the hospital wing for a short spell. But of course ever the strategist, the Ravenclaws had saved their best ammo for last. 

It was Friday night before the match and you had already left giving James a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek ‘for luck’ that had actually improved his mood quite a bit. As if sensing this the Ravenclaw captain had materialized before him on his way back from dinner with a sick grin on his face. 

“Heard not even your girlfriend wants to watch you lose tomorrow Potter.”

James flushed red, “Piss off, Robinson.” 

He just laughed, “I mean after your horrid performance last match I bet you asked her to leave huh?” 

James tried to swallow his fury but he was not doing very well, his fists bunching at his sides. 

“Maybe when I win she’ll realize you're all talk and finally go on that date with me.” he taunts. 

James knows this is very untrue, you had confessed to him many times that you found Robinson nothing short of annoying, claiming he had an even bigger head than himself, but he still felt jealousy rising in his gut. Would you think less of him if he lost again? Would you laugh about it behind his back? Would you give some other guy a kiss on the cheek and wish him luck instead? He wasn’t sure he could bear even the thought. 

He strode past Robinson with a seething glance, “You're gonna be bloody crying by the time the match is over tomorrow.” He hissed and then marched up the stairs to a restless night of dreams involving you kissing some faceless guy in blue quidditch robes. 

James felt sick the next morning, his head was throbbing behind his eyes and no matter how much bacon he tried to force into his mouth he just didn’t feel like eating. It wasn’t until Aada came up to him literally shaking from nerves that he realized he was just gonna have to pretend to be okay. 

He gave his usual pep talk in the locker room, but his eyes were cold and hard instead of the usual glowing excitement that he alluded. The team was tense when they marched out onto the field, the sun was out and the sky was clear. A cold morning breeze swept across the grass as he shook hands with a smirking Robinson and he shivered. 

The whistle blew and it began. 

“Potter with the quaffle!” The commentator began, “Nice dodge there, oh that looked like it hurt! It’s Ravenclaw with it now.” 

James growled rubbing his side where the bludger had hit him and racing after the girl who had snatched his fumble. 

The game pushed on and James was surprised to find that while he was playing mediocre at best, the rest of the team seemed to be making up for it on the tenfold. Aada, who had been instructed to do nothing but annoy the Ravenclaw seeker until Gryffindor was eighty points up was doing a magnificent job, the extra time he had put into training  her showing obviously in her skillful maneuvering and dives. The beaters had yet to miss a hit and twice James had been able to score with only the keeper as an obstacle. 

Despite the fact that they had gone in at a significant disadvantage the Gryffindors were shockingly loud, James didn’t glance much at the crowd, afraid it would make him realize who wasn’t there more than who was, but he could hear them even over the whooshing of wind in his ears. 

They were almost an hour into the game when the snitch was first spotted, but only 50 points up, Aada was unable to go for it and instead took the opportunity to run straight into the Ravenclaw keeper, nearly knocking him off his broom. She played it off beautifully, tears and all, and it cost them only one penalty shot which their keeper saved. James could have hugged them both. 

When the quaffle was tossed after, Robinson had snatched it from James’ grasp and sped towards the hoops. A bludger caught him in the side and the quaffle spiraled from his grip down towards the Gryffindor crowd, James raced after it, his feet sweeping inches from the heads of his classmates when he caught it with a roll. It was then that something caught his eye. 

A flag so large it was being held by four people was spread and waving mere inches from his face, the words, “Go Potter!” sprawled on it in red and gold ink that had been enchanted to send off sparks that crackled and snapped with golden light. 

He looked down and saw you staring up at him, a red hat pulled over your head as you cranned up at him, waving your arms as wildly as you could possibly manage. You were grinning so wide he could see each of your teeth, your cheeks pink and eyes glinting as you cheered up at him. 

When you locked eyes he felt his heart rise from his stomach and pound away in his chest. He wanted to drop into the stands that very moment, take you into his arms and kiss you stupid. But instead he sent you a wink and sped off towards the goals feeling like someone had just gifted him a pair of wings. 

“Potter with the quaffle, bludger coming his way. A beautiful dodge!” The commentator yelled, “And he's looped Robinson as well, look at him go!” 

James had never felt so confident in his life, and he scored with ease again and again, coming to do a victory lap round your flag each time he did. 

“And Potter scores again!” shouted the loudspeakers, “He has been simply unstoppable! Gryffindor leads 160 to 80!” 

The cheers were deafening around you and James once again hoovered above you momentarily, blowing you a kiss that caused your cheeks to light on fire. He was actually doing it, he was winning the match he had told you was impossible and pride swelled in your stomach. It wasn't ten minutes later when Aada caught the snitch and it was official, you had won, both the game and the cup. 

The team hurdled to the ground and swarmed their seeker, but James had started in a run the opposite way, towards the crowd that was now rushing out onto the pitch. 

He shoved past the first few to reach him and beelined for where you were jogging at him, arms spread. 

You collided with such force that if he hadn’t lifted you into the air you were sure you would have toppled over onto the ground. His arms wrapped around your waist spinning you around with a shout, “You came!” 

You nodded, smiling so hard it hurt, you looked down at him, his cheeks flushed, brown eyes glistening in the sunlight and you knew at that moment that it was meant to be. You took both hands and cupped his face pulling it into yours and kissing him feverishly. 

There was a loud chorus of cheers and whoops around you but neither of you heard, too lost in the taste of one another. When you broke away he was grinning even wider, “You passed then?” 

You had forgotten all about your test that morning, but he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t. 

“Yeah, I disappeared as soon as they handed me my license.” You giggled, heart hammering in your chest, “Mum’s gonna kill me for missing dinner.” 

“You’re a bloody treasure doll.” He laughed, and then he drew you into another kiss squeezing you tight around the middle as your hands ran through his hair. “My lucky charm.” 

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

taglist: : @accio-rogers @roslea @sleepingalaska @the-natureofme @sarcasticallywitty @rosieweasley @dracosgoodgirl @inglourious-imagines @princess-jules47 @daedreams @d22malfoys @evyiione

m.list

[destourtereauxrecs]

I MISSED UR JAMES!!!!

[holllandtrash]

the man | lando norris (6 to 1) smau

part of the lover x 6 to 1 series | lando norris x leclerc! reader

and I'm so sick of them coming at me again 'cause if I was a man then I'd be the man

takes place a year after the original story of 6 to 1 i know this one wasn't voted for but it's been sitting in my drafts and i haven't posted in over a month so enjoy

ynleclerc

liked by landonorris, lissiemackintosh and 28,922 others

ynleclerc happy monday drink your greens

view all 813 comments

landonorris no thank u

ynleclerc hmm i seem to recall you asking me for the recipe ten minutes ago

yellowmclarens love her but why does she feel the need to post body shots like this

yvonneatthetrack full length shirts exist babe xx

lovely_sainz this is quite literally just an excuse to post pics of herself in a crop top lol

charles_leclerc

liked by scuderiaferrari, joris__trouche and 1,083,223 others

charles_leclerc gym day

view all 2,6022 comments

danielricciardo taking lessons from george?

f1emily yeeeeesh thirst trap coming in hottt

sundayscariess its illegal for a man to look this good

ferrari.florals ok 🥵🥵 more of this pls

ynleclerc added to their story

wag.spotting

liked by paddockclubs, norrisupdates and 16,302 others

wag.spotting collection of pics of y/n posted by her friends these last few days

view all 1,036 comments

whatisferrari looking a little too close for comfort with that guy in the first pic

ricciardobaby i KNOW thats not lando laying on her legs in that second pic

golden_norris it's not carlos either...why does she hang out with so many guys lol 81piastries come get your girl landonorris

ynleclerc

liked by landonorris, mlnmarta and 43,881 others

tagged: ysl

ynleclerc devils in the details ♡ thank you ysl

view all 1,600 comments

landonorris paris or london

ynleclerc montreal, im hanging out with lance - he's moved back up my ranking lancestroll oui landonorris 🤔🤔🤔

happyhamilton sorry am i reading the comments right...shes with lance?

karlaformulauno yeah...what...

paddock.updates

liked by wag.updates, landolovers and 8,400 others

tagged: ynleclerc, landonorris

paddock.updates Y/N Leclerc and Lando Norris are no more after Y/N Leclerc has confirmed to be in Montreal with fellow F1 Driver, Lance Stroll

view all 794 comments

papayaclub LOL bro not her jumping from lando to carlos to LANCE

wag.updates did not have this on our f1 bingo card

sunshinemick silly szn i guess but i can't say im surprised..

ynleclerc damn news travels fast 💀💀💀

landonorris ohh thats why you're not answering my calls yellowmercedes i can't tell if shes joking but honestly lando deserves better sundayscaries shes got the worst sense of humour if this really is fake, for landos sake i hope they actually are over

ynleclerc

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc and 61,029 others

ynleclerc weekly recap

view all 2,704 comments

landonorris did you crop out my face in all of these on purpose

ynleclerc its called a soft launch landonorris you can't soft launch after hard launching FOR A YEAR ynleclerc watch me

leclercsrearwing bestie even i know that lando hates fish and im not his girlfriend

ynleclerc i didn't force the sushi down his throat 🫶🏻 liked by landonorris

landonorris added to their story

landonorris

liked by ynleclerc, mclaren and 487,220 others

tagged: tumitravel

landonorris Rollin’ with tumitravel paid parternship

view all 1,683 comments

ynleclerc im gonna borrow that suitcase

landonorris get your own

boxbox if driving doesn't work out he could be an influencer

albonoscats would do anything to see more of lando in his influencer era

haasbeen whatever he's selling i'll buy it

ynleclerc

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc and 76,205 others

tagged: carlossainz55, landonorris, arthur_leclerc, charles_leclerc

ynleclerc emptying the camera roll 📸 not ready for summer to end

view all 823 comments

charles_leclerc Pourquoi publier cela? why did you post that?

ynleclerc désolée 🤭🤭 sorry

jemmaf1 is that CARLOS in that first pic having dinner with her and her friends

ynleclerc carlos hosted the dinner montrealking18 WHY DO YOU KEEP HANGING OUT WITH CARLOS gokartboys asking the important questions ^^

fmkf1grid yes we get it you're close with all the drivers thank you for the reminder

pastriesoscar this photo dump is so pretentious lmao its just look all the drivers in my life and also look how pretty i am

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, ynleclerc and 410,495 others

tagged: carlossainz55, ynleclerc and danielricciardo

landonorris also emptying the camera roll, good idea ynleclerc

view all 2,106 comments

ynleclerc love you

danielricciardo who are those beauties in the last picture

liked by landonorris

givemef1 not lando posting the same pics as y/n 💀

schummyys he really said 'i was at carlos' dinner party too don't worrry'

hornersux wait but that pic of y/n in the window is actually so pretty

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, mclaren and 580,239 others

tagged: ynleclerc

landonorris to the love of my life, you never cease to amaze me. from the way you switch languages mid conversation with me to the way you are always curled up on the couch waiting for me to walk in the door. you are my biggest supporter, my strongest motivator and the reason my days seem brighter. i don't know how i lucked out with you little leclerc, but i promise to love you for the rest of our days

view all 4,232 comments

danielricciardo are you proposing to y/n over instagram?

pierregasly seems like it landonorris just keep scrolling

ynleclerc currently crying on the couch as i wait for you to come home liked by landonorris

summeriturnedf1 he calls her LITTLE LECLERC

happymclarens okay he LOVES her loves her

allgasnobrakes wonder how charles is doing reading this and knowing that lando is planning on marrying his sister

formulaferraris forget charles...lando is the biggest simp in the world for y/n, lets talk about that

a happy ending was deserved