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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
One arm rested along the back of the couch behind you, fingers tapping lazily against the leather while the common room buzzed around him. Loud, warm, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder after the Quidditch win.
He looked perfectly at home in it.
Hair still damp from the shower. Tie hanging loose around his neck. A fading bruise shadowing the sharp line of his jaw.
People gravitated toward Lorenzo Berkshire naturally. You’d noticed that weeks ago.
Girls smiled at him a second too long. Boys laughed too hard at his jokes. He flirted with almost everyone and committed to absolutely no one.
The sort of person professors claimed to dislike while letting him get away with murder.
Right now, though, his attention rested entirely on you.
Heavy enough to feel.
“You’ve been following me around all week,” you pointed out, eyes still fixed on your book.
“Mhm.”
“You’re not denying it?”
“Should I?”
The couch dipped slightly as he leaned closer.
Close enough for the sharp scent of maple and expensive conditioner to settle around you.
“You’re tense again,” he murmured.
You snapped your book shut. “You say that like you’re my healer.”
“No,” Lorenzo said easily. “If I were your healer, you’d actually listen to me.”
His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist.
Not enough to look intimate to anyone else, but more than enough for you to notice.
“You worry too much,” he continued quietly. “It’s irritating.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “The difference is,” he said, “I’m usually right.”
Across the room, Mattheo yelled out something toward him, drawing laughter from those around.
Lorenzo ignored them.
Which was honestly stranger than if he hadn’t.
Normally, he thrived on attention. Moved through crowds like he belonged at the center of them.
But lately, all of his attention had been you.
“You skipped the afterparty for this?” you asked flatly.
“I skipped the afterparty because Avery kept trying to sit on my lap.”
“You say that like it’s a problem.”
“It was irritating.”
You blinked at him.
Because Lorenzo Berkshire had never once seemed irritated by attention before.
If anything, he invited it.
But now he was watching you with something quieter in his expression. Less performative. Still confident, still maddeningly self-assured, but focused in a way that made something in your chest tighten uncomfortably.
Like you’d become a habit he never intended to form.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked suddenly.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“You think people deserve access to you just because they ask for it.”
Your brows pulled together. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does to me.”
There was something unreadable in his tone. Something that made you look at him properly for the first time that evening.
And instantly regret it.
Because Lorenzo was already watching you like he knew you would.
Like he’d been waiting for you to finally look back.
“You should make people earn you,” he said softly.
Then, after a brief pause,
“Some of them don’t deserve the privilege.”
“You look awful,” Lorenzo remarked, dropping into the seat beside you in Potions.
You didn’t glance up from your notes. “Good morning to you too.”
“It’s becoming concerning, honestly.” His knee bumped yours beneath the table. “Have you considered sleeping occasionally?”
“I hate this class.”
“You hate every class.”
“Not true.”
“Mhm.” Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, spinning his wand lazily between his fingers. “You complain differently depending on the subject.”
“You pay too much attention to me.”
His mouth curved slightly at that. Like you’d said exactly what he wanted to hear.
Around you, students shuffled into their seats while Professor Slughorn rearranged ingredients at the front of the classroom. The dungeon smelled like herbs, smoke, and something unpleasantly metallic.
You rubbed tiredly at your eyes.
The past week had been brutal. Exams. Quidditch matches. Barely any sleep. Most of yesterday had been spent trying not to snap at people for speaking too loudly.
Lorenzo watched you for a moment too long before reaching into the pocket of his robes.
“Here.”
Something silver landed beside your hand with a soft clink.
A ring.
You stared at it.
Plain silver. Heavy-looking. Dark green lettering etched into the underside.
“You giving me jewelry now?”
“You should sound more grateful when people buy you expensive things.”
“I didn’t ask you to buy me anything.”
“No,” Lorenzo agreed easily. “You usually don’t ask for things. That’s half your problem.”
You picked the ring up carefully, turning it between your fingers.
The metal already felt warm.
“Why?”
“Because,” he said lightly, “you’ve been having terrible luck lately.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “So your solution was accessories?”
“My solution,” Lorenzo corrected, “was fixing it.”
You looked at him then.
There it was again. That certainty.
Not arrogance exactly, though he had plenty of that too. Something steadier. More dangerous. Like once he decided something, the rest of the world simply had to catch up.
It was part of why people followed him so easily.
On the Quidditch pitch. At parties. In crowded hallways.
Lorenzo Berkshire moved through Hogwarts like the castle belonged to him.
And somehow, you’d ended up caught in his orbit too.
“You’re staring again,” he murmured.
“You say weird things.”
“I say accurate things.”
You rolled your eyes and moved to hand the ring back.
His fingers closed around your wrist before you could. Not rough, but not gentle either.
Just firm enough to stop you.
“Keep it on today,” Lorenzo said quietly.
Your eyes flicked toward him.
Something unreadable lingered beneath the amusement on his face now. Intent.
“For luck?” you asked dryly.
His thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist before he let go.
“For me.”
Before you could respond, Slughorn began speaking from the front of the room, and the class shifted into motion around you.
Lorenzo leaned back like nothing had happened.
Like his hand hadn’t lingered against your skin a second too long. Like he hadn’t looked at you with that unsettlingly focused expression again.
You should’ve given the ring back.
Instead, without really thinking about it, you slid it onto your finger.
╰┈➤
By the end of the day, three things had gone strangely right.
First, Professor Flitwick delayed the essay due tomorrow.
Then, your missing Astronomy notes mysteriously reappeared on your bed after being gone nearly a week.
And finally, Daphne Greengrass and Evan Rosier stopped bothering you.
Completely.
Which was strange, considering yesterday they’d cornered you outside Charms to mock your last Quidditch loss and get a reaction out of you.
Today, Greengrass wouldn’t even look at you.
You noticed it during class. She sat as far away as possible, avoiding your gaze so obviously it bordered on awkward.
Then at dinner, the second you sat across from Evan at the Slytherin table, he went still before abruptly standing.
His tray nearly tipped in the process.
Malfoy laughed farther down the table. “Rosier, where the fuck are you going?”
“Forgot something.”
“You’re literally holding your dinner.”
Evan ignored him and left.
You frowned after him slightly.
Beside you, Lorenzo looked entirely unsurprised. Actually, he looked amused.
“You’re smiling.”
“Might just be happy to see you.” He shot back, nudging into your side.
“That’s never reassuring.”
His grin widened.
Across the table, one of the sixth-year girls leaned toward her friend and whispered something while glancing between the two of you.
Lorenzo noticed too.
He looked pleased by it.
“You know,” he mused lazily, reaching over to steal a piece of meat from your plate, “people are starting to think you belong to me.”
You scoffed. “People think that you belong to everyone.”
A few nearby students laughed quietly at that.
Lorenzo didn’t.
His gaze stayed fixed on you.
Steady.
“You say that,” he said softly, “like it’s the same thing.”
Then Lorenzo smiled again. Easy, effortless, beautiful enough to make people stupid.
And just like that, the moment disappeared.
“You kept the ring on,” he noted.
Without thinking, your hand curled slightly against the table.
Lorenzo’s eyes dropped to the movement immediately. Tiny. Instinctive.
You still noticed him catch it.
“See?” he murmured. “Already getting luckier.”
You started noticing him everywhere after that.
Outside classrooms, leaning against stone walls with his tie hanging loose around his neck. Across the Great Hall, surrounded by people while his attention stayed fixed on you anyway. Stretched across the Slytherin common room like he owned the place.
Maybe he always had.
Maybe you just hadn’t noticed before.
“Berkshire’s gotten weirdly attached to you lately.”
You glanced up from your textbook.
Theodore Nott sat across from you in the library, looking deeply unimpressed as he flipped another page in his book.
“That’s a strong word.”
Theo huffed softly. “Is it?”
You sighed, absently turning the ring on your finger. “You and him are becoming insufferable.”
That earned the faintest twitch of amusement from him.
Across the room, Lorenzo leaned against one of the bookshelves, talking to a group of Ravenclaw girls.
Or more accurately, letting them talk to him.
You watched one of them touch his arm while laughing at something he said.
Lorenzo smiled easily in return. Charming. Relaxed. Completely in his element.
Then his gaze drifted lazily across the library and landed on you.
Immediately.
Like he’d been aware of where you were the entire time.
The smile on his face shifted slightly.
Subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice.
The Ravenclaw girl was still talking when Lorenzo pushed away from the bookshelf without warning and walked off mid-conversation.
Straight toward you.
Theo noticed too.
The chair beside you scraped loudly against the floor as Lorenzo dropped into it a second later.
“You look busy,” he remarked, glancing toward your parchment.
“I am.”
“That explains the attitude.”
Theo snorted quietly without looking up from his book.
Lorenzo ignored him entirely.
His attention settled instead on your hand resting against the table. Specifically the ring.
Something pleased flickered across his expression.
“You kept it..” He said softly.
“You’re observant today.”
“I’m observant every day.”
That was true. Painfully true. Lorenzo noticed everything about you.
When you skipped meals. When you slept badly. The subtle shifts in your mood. Which people irritated you. Which subjects stressed you out.
Sometimes it felt less like attention and more like being studied.
“You’ve worn it all week,” he murmured.
You shrugged lightly. “Guess your magic luck ring works.”
“It does.”
“You’re very confident in that.”
“I’m very confident about most things.”
That much was obvious.
Enzo moved through life like failure simply wasn’t something that happened to him.
Even on the Quidditch pitch, he played like the world should move out of his way.
And somehow, annoyingly, it usually did.
“You know,” you said slowly, “people are starting to think you like me.”
Lorenzo looked up immediately.
Not surprised. Suddenly very interested in the conversation.
“Starting to?”
“You have a reputation, Berkshire.”
“Do I?” He tilted his head owlishly.
“You’ve hooked up with half the school.”
A lazy smile spread across his face, completely unashamed. “..Jealous?”
“Repulsed, actually.”
“Liar.” His voice dipped slightly when he said it. Still playful.
He leaned his elbow against the table, watching you in that unbearable way he always did lately. Like he was trying to memorize your reactions before you even had them.
“We have a match this weekend, right?” Theo asked suddenly, cutting through the tension.
Your expression soured instantly. “Don’t remind me.”
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair beside you, one arm sliding along the back of it.
“You’ll be fine.”
“You say that every time.”
“And I’m always right.”
“You literally lost your last game.”
“We lost our last game,” Lorenzo corrected.
“You nearly started a fight with the Hufflepuff captain afterward.”
“He insulted you.”
Theo finally looked up at that. “So that’s why that happened.”
Lorenzo looked entirely unapologetic. “He was irritating.”
You sighed. “It was regular house banter.”
“That’s not the point,” Lorenzo retorted immediately.
The blunt certainty in his tone sent heat creeping unpleasantly up the back of your neck.
Because he still sounded annoyed by it. Over an offhand comment from weeks ago.
Theo studied Lorenzo for a long moment.
Then you.
Slowly, he closed his book.
“I’m suddenly understanding several things,” he muttered.
“What does that mean?” you asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.” Which definitely meant something.
Before you could press further, Lorenzo nudged your knee lightly beneath the table.
“Come to practice later.”
“I have work to do.”
“You can do it after.”
“You’re not even captain.”
“No,” Lorenzo agreed easily. “I’m worse.”
Theo laughed quietly.
You looked between them. “Am I missing something?”
“Yes,” Theo answered immediately.
Lorenzo smiled.
Not the easy, flirtatious smile he gave everyone else.
Something smaller.
Sharper.
Like he knew exactly what Theo meant, and enjoyed the fact that you didn’t.
╰┈➤
Before you could ask, a girl approached your table hesitantly.
One of the Hufflepuffs from an earlier class.
“Uh,” she started awkwardly, “Professor Snape wanted me to give your essay back.”
You blinked. “Already?”
She handed it over quickly.
At the top of the parchment, written in sharp red ink: Outstanding.
You just stared at it for a moment.
That didn’t make any sense.
Last year, Snape barely tolerated your work.
Now suddenly you were getting Outstandings?
Beside you, Lorenzo glanced down at the grade before leaning back with a quiet hum.
“Told you,” he said.
The Hufflepuff girl left almost immediately afterward.
Practically fled.
You noticed Lorenzo watching her leave, his expression unreadable now.
“What?” you asked slowly.
His gaze shifted back to you instantly.
Nothing but amusement left on his face.
“Nothing.” You didn’t believe him.
Not even slightly.
Then Lorenzo reached over and adjusted the collar of your uniform absentmindedly.
Casual. Possessive. Like he had every right.
“You look better lately,” he murmured.
Your brows pulled together. “What?”
“Less stressed.” His fingers lingered briefly near your throat before pulling away. “I prefer it.”
Something about the way he said it made your pulse skip strangely.
Not because it sounded romantic.
Because it sounded like approval.
The weather turned vicious halfway through practice.
Wind tore across the Quidditch pitch hard enough to rattle the stands while dark clouds rolled low overhead, swollen with rain. Most of the team looked irritated by it.
Lorenzo looked exhilarated.
“You’re smiling like a psychopath,” you called from the sidelines as another player nearly lost control of their broom during a sharp turn.
High above the pitch, Lorenzo’s gaze fell toward you immediately.
Then he grinned.
Even from this far away, it looked sharp. Dangerous.
“Maybe you’re bad luck,” he shouted back.
A second later, he dropped. Straight downward.
Your stomach lurched violently, hands lifting instinctively like you could catch him from this far away.
At the very last second, Lorenzo yanked the broom upward hard enough for the tail to nearly scrape the ground before soaring forward again smoothly, like he’d planned the whole thing.
Bloody show-off.
A few younger students watching from the stands broke into applause.
Lorenzo basked in it for all of half a second before looking toward you again instead.
Like your reaction mattered more.
You rolled your eyes at him.
His grin only widened insufferably.
The wind picked up harder after that, rain following soon behind.
Cold drops soaked through your uniform while players shouted over each other across the pitch. Mattheo called for another drill. Someone swore loudly after missing a pass.
Above all of it, Lorenzo moved through the storm effortlessly.
You hated how good he looked doing it.
There was something deeply unfair about the way he flew.
No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just absolute confidence in every movement.
Even the weather seemed to bend around him instead of against him.
“You came.”
The sudden voice beside you nearly made you jump.
Theo stood there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, expression characteristically unimpressed.
“You people need to stop appearing out of nowhere.”
“You’ve been distracted lately.”
You ignored that entirely.
Theo’s gaze drifted back toward the pitch.
Specifically toward Lorenzo, who was currently weaving through two players at once with infuriating ease.
“He’s worse when you’re here,” Theo remarked.
“What does that mean?”
“He plays meaner.”
Almost immediately after Theo said it, Lorenzo slammed into another player hard enough to send him swerving violently off-course.
Not enough to hurt him, but enough to make a point.
You frowned slightly. “That’s normal for Quidditch.”
Theo made a quiet, unconvinced noise.
Then movement flashed suddenly in the corner of your vision.
A Bludger.
Flying far too fast.
Straight toward you.
You barely had time to react before a hand fisted in the front of your uniform and yanked you backward hard enough for your shoulder to slam into someone’s chest.
The Bludger tore past your face a second later.
Close.
Far too close.
Your pulse spiked instantly. “What the fuck-”
“Careful.”
Lorenzo’s voice.
Breathless from flying. One arm still locked tightly around you.
You hadn’t even seen him land.
Rain dampened the curls falling across his forehead while his broom rolled slightly against the ground beside him. His grip on you remained firm.
Possessive, almost.
Like he hadn’t realised yet how tightly he was holding you.
Across the pitch, one of the Beaters looked horrified. “Sorry! I lost control of it-”
Lorenzo looked up. The entire atmosphere shifted.
It happened instantly.
One second relaxed, the next dead cold.
Not loud. Not explosive.
Worse.
The Beater actually took a step backward beneath the look Lorenzo gave him.
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, mostly because the expression on Lorenzo’s face had suddenly become deeply concerning.
His jaw tightened.
The hand on your waist flexed once.
“You should pay more attention,” he said calmly. Too calmly.
“I said it was an accident,” the Beater muttered defensively.
Lorenzo smiled then. That easy, charming smile everyone liked so much.
It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Did I say it wasn’t?”
Silence.
Rain hammered harder against the stands around you.
Then, slowly, Lorenzo looked back down at you instead.
And just like that, the expression on his face softened.
Like someone flipping a switch.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
It was disorienting.
The sudden gentleness after… whatever that had just been.
You nodded once. “…Yeah.”
Lorenzo’s gaze flicked briefly toward the ring still sitting on your hand.
Something unreadable crossed his face.
“There’s that luck again,” he murmured.
You let out a breathless laugh. “You cannot seriously think your ring stopped a Bludger.”
“I think,” Lorenzo said softly, “that you’re safer with me around.”
The words settled heavily somewhere beneath your ribs.
Before you could answer, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your side.
Still holding you there.
Still too close.
“You were miserable before me,” he continued quietly. Not teasing this time. Certain. Like it was simply a fact.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Because maybe the unsettling part wasn’t that Lorenzo believed it.
Maybe it was that lately, you weren’t entirely sure he was wrong.
╰┈➤
The second Lorenzo let go of you, the cold hit properly.
Rain soaked through your uniform in freezing waves while the wind tore violently across the pitch. Your pulse still hadn’t settled from nearly getting your head taken off by a Bludger.
Behind him, the Beater who’d lost control of it was currently getting torn apart by Mattheo near the center of the pitch.
“You trying to kill our reserves now?” Mattheo snapped.
“It slipped-”
“I don’t care.”
Lorenzo followed your gaze lazily before scoffing under his breath.
“He’s lucky it hit the post first.”
You looked at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if that thing had hit you directly, I would’ve thrown him off his broom.”
The answer came too easily. Not exaggerated. Not even playful. Just honest.
Rain dripped steadily from Lorenzo’s lashes as he looked down at you.
“You can’t say things like that casually.”
“Why?” He tilted his head slightly. “It’s true.”
There was something deeply unfair about the way he stayed calm while saying things that should’ve sounded alarming.
Like his certainty smoothed the edges off them.
Thunder cracked overhead again.
Most of the team had remounted their brooms by now, circling impatiently while Mattheo finished yelling.
Lorenzo still hadn’t moved.
“You should go,” you muttered.
“In a minute.”
“You’re literally in the middle of practice.”
“And you nearly got brained by a Bludger.” His eyes flicked briefly across your face again. Checking. “Priorities.”
The wind shifted sharply.
Without thinking about it, Lorenzo reached up and pulled the hood of your cloak farther over your head before the rain could hit your face again.
The gesture felt strangely intimate.
You looked at him for a second too long afterward.
Slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted.
╰┈➤
Ever since Lorenzo started orbiting your life more aggressively, things had gotten easier in ways you couldn’t fully explain.
People moved around you differently now.
Professors suddenly remembered your name. Students stopped pushing their luck around you. Even small inconveniences seemed to disappear before they could become actual problems.
And somehow, Lorenzo was always there right before or right after.
Like a pattern you couldn’t stop seeing once you noticed it.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he said suddenly.
“I think you’re full of shit.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
He stepped closer instinctively as the wind got heavy, shielding part of it without seeming to realise he’d done it.
Too close.
You could smell rain, polish, and that expensive maple cologne he always wore.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked quietly.
“You ask me that a lot.”
“You keep proving me right.”
You rolled your eyes.
Lorenzo’s gaze flicked over your face once before settling softer somehow.
Quieter.
“You keep acting surprised when people listen to me,” he murmured. “They always have.”
Before you could answer, Mattheo shouted his name again from across the pitch.
This time, Lorenzo finally looked away.
Annoyance flashed briefly across his face.
Then he glanced back at you one last time.
“Stay until practice ends.”
The confidence in his tone irritated you immediately.
“You planning on restraining me if I don’t?”
His gaze drifted lazily across your face.
“No,” he said. “You’ll stay anyway.”
It happened gradually enough that you almost didn’t notice it.
At some point, Lorenzo became the first person you looked for after a bad day.
You started saving seats for him unconsciously. Waiting for his commentary after classes. Looking toward the Slytherin table expecting to find him already watching you.
“You’re getting clingy,” you muttered one evening as Lorenzo dropped onto the bed beside you, still damp from a shower.
“Mhm.” He stole your quill. “You say that like you’re not worse.”
“I’m definitely not.”
“You came looking for me after Charms.”
“That was because Bletchley was irritating me.”
“And who handled it?”
You frowned. Because he had.
Bletchley hadn’t bothered you once afterward.
Lorenzo noticed your hesitation immediately.
His grin sharpened slightly as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you back against his chest.
“There it is.”
“I really hate when you say that.”
“You hate most things.”
“You especially.”
“Liar.” The word came softer that time. Absentminded, almost.
Like he wasn’t even trying to hide how fond he sounded anymore.
It should’ve bothered you more than it did.
That was probably the problem.
╰┈➤
The realisation hit two weeks later.
Slow at first. Then all at once.
An uncomfortable awareness settling heavier in your chest every time Lorenzo touched you too casually. Looked at you too long. Expected things from you without asking.
Stay after practice.
Save a seat for him.
Sit beside him.
Wait for him.
Eat with him.
Let him take care of all your problems.
And every single time-
You did.
“You’re staring again.”
You blinked, setting the ring down against the library table.
Lorenzo lounged across from you, ankle hooked loosely around the leg of your chair like he’d anchored himself there on purpose.
Maybe he had.
“You’ve been acting weird,” you said slowly.
One of his brows lifted. “Weird how?”
Your lips pressed together as you searched for the right words. “I don’t know. Just… weird.”
Lorenzo sighed softly and reached up to brush the hair away from your face.
You leaned back before he could touch you.
His hand lingered awkwardly in the air for half a second.
Lorenzo blinked.
Then went very still.
The shift in his expression was immediate.
Sharp.
You looked away first, gathering your things too quickly.
“Where are you going?”
“I need air.”
“You were fine two seconds ago.”
“I said I need air, Berkshire.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
The atmosphere changed instantly. Because you almost never called him that anymore.
It was Enzo now.
“...I’ll walk with you.”
“No.”
Too fast.
Too firm.
For the first time in weeks, real silence settled between you.
Lorenzo leaned back slowly in his chair, watching you carefully now.
Thinking.
“..You’re pulling away,” he said finally. Not emotional. Not accusing. Scarily observant. Like he’d noticed a shift in the weather.
“You’re imagining things.”
“I don’t think so.”
You grabbed your bag before he could say anything else.
Then left.
You could feel him watching you the entire way out.
╰┈➤
The next few days were awful. Catastrophically awful. Enough to wear you down.
Umbridge tore apart your latest paper in front of the class after barely skimming it. Theo cancelled your study plans twice. Someone stole your gloves. Then your notes disappeared again.
By Friday, a pounding headache had settled behind your eyes from sheer frustration alone.
And underneath all of it sat one deeply irritating truth.
Lorenzo had stopped appearing.
No waiting outside your classes. No interruptions during meals. No hand at the small of your back guiding you through crowded hallways.
Nothing.
The absence felt loud.
You hated that you noticed.
“You look miserable.”
Your head snapped up immediately.
Lorenzo leaned against the corridor wall a few feet away.
Your chest tightened before you could stop it. Annoying.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You’ve been avoiding me back.”
The corner of his mouth tilted slightly. “Thought you wanted space.” The words shouldn’t have sounded sharp.
They did anyway.
You looked away first.
Mostly because eye contact with Lorenzo Berkshire had become genuinely hazardous lately.
He looked unfair standing there.
Sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’d done it without thinking, exposing lean forearms streaked with faint veins beneath warm skin. The kind of arms that looked unfairly good wrapped around a wand, braced against a wall, holding someone close.
His hands were rough. Scarred knuckles, long fingers, a silver ring catching the light every time he moved.
Practice had left him wrecked in the prettiest way possible.
Damp curls clung messily to his forehead and the nape of his neck, still darkened with sweat. A few strands stuck to his skin as he tilted his head back to laugh softly under his breath.
Merlin.
Even his laugh felt dangerous.
Low and warm and lazy enough to make your stomach tighten.
Most people expected someone like Enzo to be beautiful in a cruel way. Sharp edges. Ice-cold stares. The sort of man who looked through people instead of at them.
Instead, his eyes were warm.
Patient.
Rich brown melted with gold whenever the light caught them right, honey swirling through melted chocolate.
The kind that lingered on your mouth a second too long before flicking back up again like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
It was impossible not to imagine those eyes half-lidded with want.
Impossible not to picture his hands sliding slowly up your thighs, his mouth brushing your ear while he murmured something soft enough to ruin you completely.
Everything about him felt unfair.
The broad shoulders stretching thin fabric across his back. The sweat still drying along the column of his throat. The silver chain disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt whenever he moved.
Even standing there casually, Lorenzo carried himself like temptation made human.
Lazy confidence. Heat simmering just beneath his skin.
Like all it would take was one touch for him to come apart completely.
Deceptively soft.
Until he looked at you for too long. Then they became dangerous.
“You’re staring now,” he murmured quietly.
Your jaw tightened immediately. “You started it.”
A grin tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth.
There it was again. That horrible confidence.
Like he already knew exactly what effect he had on you.
You hoped he didn’t.
“You’ve had a terrible week,” Lorenzo observed.
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you.”
The words should’ve sounded flirtatious.
Instead, they settled low and heavy somewhere beneath your ribs.
Because he meant them.
You could always tell when Enzo was performing for people.
The charming smiles. The lazy flirting. The effortless arrogance.
This wasn’t that.
This felt worse.
Honest.
His gaze dragged slowly across your face before settling back on your eyes.
Studying you.
Like he was checking for damage.
“You look exhausted,” he murmured.
“So whose fault is that?”
A soft laugh escaped him. “Mine, apparently.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the strap of your bag.
“You disappeared.”
“I gave you what you wanted.”
“No,” you corrected quietly. “You punished me.”
Something shifted in Lorenzo’s expression immediately.
The amusement vanished. The teasing with it. Now he just looked at you. Sharp. Focused.
“You think I punished you?” he asked softly.
You let out a frustrated breath. “Everything went to shit the second you stopped hovering.”
His jaw flexed slightly.
Not angry. Thinking.
Then, slowly, Lorenzo stepped closer. Too close again.
You hated how natural it still felt.
“I don’t think you understand how cruel people are when I’m not around,” he said quietly.
The corridor suddenly felt very empty.
Very still.
You stared at him.
Lorenzo held your gaze steadily, expression unreadable now.
Like this was simply a fact you hadn’t accepted yet.
“You say things like that,” you muttered carefully, “and then act surprised when I think you’re insane.”
That finally pulled another smile from him. Smaller this time. Almost tired.
“You think I’m insane because you still believe those people were being kind to you before me.”
Part of you wasn’t sure that they hadn’t been.
“I think you liked it,” Lorenzo continued.
Silence.
Your pulse kicked hard beneath your ribs.
“You liked things being easier,” he said calmly. “You liked having someone deal with problems before they became yours.”
“That’s not tru-”
“You slept more.”
You stopped.
His gaze sharpened, head tilting as he studied you.
“You stopped looking exhausted all the time,” he went on. “You smiled more. People stopped bothering you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“And then you got scared because you realised you were relying on me.”
The words landed too precisely.
That was the problem.
Not his attention. Not even his possessiveness.
It was how easily he’d become part of your life without you noticing the shape it was taking.
Lorenzo studied your face for a long moment, then pushed himself off the wall.
His eyes dropped briefly to your hand.
“You lost something,” he said.
Not a question.
Nothing casual left in his voice now.
You crossed your arms. Defensive. “It’s just a ring.”
Lorenzo looked at you for a long moment.
Then he let out a quiet laugh.
Disbelieving.
“You really still don’t get it,” he murmured.
Something uneasy curled low in your stomach at his expression. Disappointment etched in his tone.
He stepped closer again, lowering his voice.
“Every good thing in your life happened because I wanted it to.”
It wasn’t long before everyone around you had stopped reaching out.
Not dramatically. There wasn’t a fight or any warning. Just distance.
Conversations cut shorter than usual. Empty seats left in the library. Eyes that flicked toward Berkshire and scurried off before you could get out a word.
“You’re staring,” he murmured from where he lounged across your bed, flipping lazily through one of your textbooks.
You looked away from the dormitory window. “Theo’s avoiding me.”
“No,” Lorenzo corrected softly. “He’s avoiding me.”
The distinction mattered.
You swallowed.
Outside, rain hammered against the castle windows hard enough to blur the grounds beyond them. Hogwarts felt quieter lately. Smaller somehow.
Or maybe your world had just narrowed.
Class.
Your dorm.
Lorenzo.
Over and over again until everything else started fading at the edges.
You hated how comforting it felt. How caring he acted. Always arriving with something you needed before you asked, watching you too closely to miss when you forgot to eat, when you were pushing yourself too far.
“He was your friend,” you said finally.
Lorenzo glanced up then.
Warm brown eyes, patient. Beautiful.
Dangerous.
“He still is,” he said calmly. “If you need him.”
The wording made something cold slide slowly down your spine.
If.
Not when.
Because he already knew you wouldn’t go looking for Theo.
Just like you hadn’t gone looking for anyone else.
Daphne stopped speaking to you entirely after the incident outside Charms.
Evan physically left rooms when Lorenzo entered them.
Even Mattheo, loud, reckless Mattheo, watched the two of you carefully now. Like standing too close to whatever this had become might get him burned too.
And somehow, through all of it, Lorenzo stayed gentle with you.
That was the worst part.
He wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t angry.
Gentle.
His hand settling automatically at the small of your back through crowded hallways. Fingers brushing your jaw when you looked exhausted. Pulling you against his chest at night like he couldn’t sleep properly otherwise.
Like you belonged there.
“You’re lost in your own head again.”
You blinked.
Lorenzo had crossed the room without you noticing.
His fingers slid beneath your chin carefully, tilting your face upward until you looked at him properly.
“You disappear into your head when you’re unhappy,” he murmured.
“I’m not unhappy.”
“No?”
His thumb brushed slowly beneath your eye. So tender.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because you weren’t unhappy. That was the problem.
Everything was easier now. No one bothered you anymore.
Professors treated you differently. Students moved around you carefully. Your grades improved. You slept through the night without waking up anxious and exhausted and angry at the world.
Lorenzo handled everything before it could touch you.
Like he’d promised.
“You’ve isolated me,” you said quietly.
The words hung between you.
Lorenzo didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it.
Instead, his gaze drifted slowly across your face with something almost affectionate.
“No,” he said softly.
His hand slid around the back of your neck. Holding. Steady.
“I isolated everyone else.”
Your pulse stumbled.
Somewhere deep down, you knew he meant it literally.
Not metaphorically.
Not romantically.
Literally.
You thought about the Beater who nearly hit you with the Bludger transferring schools two days later.
About Snape suddenly grading you perfectly after months of disdain.
About people going pale whenever Lorenzo looked at them too long.
About Theo’s silence.
About how every road in your life somehow kept leading back here.
Back to him.
“..I’m scared of you.” You whispered.
Lorenzo’s expression softened instantly. Almost heartbreakingly so.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.
His forehead rested briefly against yours. “You stopped being afraid a long time ago.”
And maybe that was true too.
Because even now, with the full shape of him finally unfolding in front of you, possessive hands, manipulation, and terrifying devotion and all, your body still leaned toward his instinctively.
Still wanted him closer.
And you hated yourself for it.
Lorenzo noticed immediately.
He always noticed.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
Your brows pulled together. “Don’t what?”
“Hate yourself for needing me.”
He said it like it was obvious. Like it was natural. Like the sky being blue or fire being hot.
You should’ve pulled away then.
Should’ve called him insane again. Should’ve run.
Instead, your fingers tightened slowly in the fabric of his shirt.
Lorenzo went completely still.
Watching you. Waiting. Careful in the way predators were careful right before the killing blow.
“You made it impossible not to,” you admitted quietly.
Something dark flickered behind his eyes. Victory.
Relief.
Obsession so intense it almost looked painful.
His hand slid into your hair slowly, like he couldn’t quite help himself anymore.
“I know.”
The honesty of it burned hotter than denial ever could’ve.
You laughed once under your breath. Weak. Breathless. “God, you’re horrible.”
Lorenzo smiled then. Beautiful enough to ruin lives. “I know that too.”
And still yet you tilted your head back when he kissed you.
Your hands still clutched at him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
By the time you realised what had happened, Lorenzo Berkshire had threaded himself through every part of your life so completely that removing him would’ve meant tearing pieces of yourself out with him.
Your habits.
Your comfort.
Your safety.
Your sleep.
Your peace.
Him.
Always him.
The kiss turned deeper slowly. Possessive. Not rushed. Certain.
Like Lorenzo had never doubted this ending for a second.
His hand settled against your throat gently enough to make your stomach twist.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes lingered on your face like he was memorising the sight of surrender.
“Mine,” he murmured softly.
The word hit harder than it should’ve. Like he’d been waiting for you this entire time.
Like this version of you: exhausted, dependent, wrapped willingly in his hands, was the one he’d wanted all along.
Outside, thunder rolled across the castle.
Inside, Lorenzo pulled you against him until there wasn’t space left between your bodies at all.
He stayed close, too close for anything to feel ordinary anymore. Until the world outside the room seemed irrelevant, distant, like it belonged to someone else entirely. His arms tightened around you in a way that wasn’t rushed or uncertain, but deliberate, steady, as if he’d decided there was no reason to ever let go again.
He guided you down fully on the bed with him still holding you, the movement careful and unhurried. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, but he didn’t create space between you, not even to settle properly. Instead, he adjusted so you were drawn into the curve of his body, his chest pressed to yours, one arm braced beside you while the other stayed wrapped around your back like a shield.
When he kissed you again, it was slower this time. Deeper in feeling, not in urgency. Like he was memorising the exact shape of the moment. His fingers tightened briefly at your shoulder as if grounding himself there, keeping you close enough that nothing could interrupt it.
And when he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was because he had to, his breath uneven, his forehead hovering just near yours, as though even a fraction of distance felt wrong now. He didn’t move away. He simply stayed there, caging you gently between his arms, his presence warm and unwavering, like he’d decided without words that this was where he belonged.
Safe.
Trapped. Kept.
Loved.
His mouth brushed your temple gently. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore,” he whispered.
And the horrible thing, the truly horrible thing, was that you believed him.
Reqs open.
Reblogs help more people find the story, comments help me survive writing it.
Was going for something different to my usual style of writing for this one.
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pairing fratboy! rafe cameron x kook!sororitygirl! reader
rating explicit 18+
summary when rafe’s friends bet that he can’t charm you into sleeping with him, he can’t say no to the challenge. he has no idea that you decide to make a game out of his advances. you have a secret bet to win, too. and you’re determined to break his heart.
< prev
The sorority house is quiet. After your day at the beach, most of the girls, including your roommate, left to go to a party on the other side of campus. You were too tired to tag along.
You slip into bed after a long shower, wearing nothing but underwear and a soft, oversized t-shirt. The quiet room is dim with the glow of your desk lamp. Your body is sleepy, heavy after a day of soaking in the sun, but your mind isn’t ready to shut down.
You know Rafe isn’t out tonight on account of his frat’s probation. He’s probably bored in his room, just like you. And you want to have some fun.
Seeing him shirtless all day today, feeling his skin on yours stoked a fire in you. It made you want to slip away with him somewhere and give into the pull you both feel for each other.
You text him to come over. You’re not surprised when he quickly texts back that he will.
・・・・・
When you open the front door with a sweet, relaxed smile and an offer to hug, Rafe feels like he’s in heaven. You never text first. Maybe you’re starting to feel something for him, too.
He ducks down to wrap his arms around you, squeezing gently, reveling in the smell of soap on your neck.
He was kidding himself when he thought this would be the way to get a hold of his emotions. He’s falling off the deep end, and all he can do now is hope you are, too.
The bet is a distant, stupid memory. He doesn’t want to just hook up with you and be done with it. He wants to have something with you and he can only hope you want the same.
You land back down on your heels after getting up on your tip-toes to hug him, swinging the door closed behind him.
“You burned a little,” you say, gently poking the pink tinge at the top of his cheek.
Rafe winces dramatically as if you hurt him, earning a laugh from you. Endeared, he can’t stop himself from kissing your forehead before you turn to guide him up the stairs.
Just like the first night he was here, he watches the shape of your legs as he trails you, his gut already coiling with the anticipation of feeling them wrap around him.
Being next to you all day with no opportunity to kiss you was its own class of torture, and now, the baggy t-shirt you’ve draped over your body just barely covers your ass, making him hard before he’s even in your bedroom.
The door clicks closed behind him as you sit on your bed, leaving space for him.
“Everyone went out?” Rafe asks, the stillness in the house making him unsure whether anyone else is even here.
“Not everyone,” you reply. “But most.”
You remember what he said about hating boredom. It’s the first weekend into his frat’s probation and he’s already restless to party.
“Today was fun,” he says, taking a seat at the foot of your bed.
“You’re welcome for the invitation," you reply with a squint.
“Did I not say thank you?”
“No, but I’m used to you not having manners.”
He grins, dimples cutting deep, and it’s almost starting to irritate you how charming his smile is, your lamp’s light casting shadows over the planes of his face.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice low. And he means it. You’re prickly at times, but how could anyone call you a bitch? You invited him today to give him a loophole out of his frat’s probation, to give him fun. You have a heart, no matter how much you try to hide it.
You smirk, eyes on his. The tension sinking between you is getting heavier with every passing second. The attraction that sits deep in your stomach is hotter than you expected.
You realize it’s because he doesn’t touch you the way you thought he would. He’s firm, but never aggressive or selfish. Every taste he’s given you of his touch has left you hungry for more. It’s like he knows what you want without having to ask.
Rafe leans in, cupping your face like he doesn’t want you looking at anything but him. The tension cracks when your lips finally meet, and you can feel it, how badly you’ve both wanted each other all day.
You drag your hands up his arms, skimming over his hot skin to the cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him towards you. When you guide him to lie over top of you, you feel how hard he is, how his body is begging for yours.
Rafe doesn’t sink onto you completely, but the weight he does put on you is heavy in the best way. The sounds of your slow, wet kisses fill your ears as he gently grinds against your middle, biting your bottom lip just once, enough to make you impatiently writhe against him.
Slowly, you slip your fingers under the hem of his t-shirt, guiding it off his body, tossing it to your floor. His chest is warm and firm against you as his mouth finds yours again.
Moments later, he drags your shirt up, pulling it off over your head, exhaling sharply once he sees you’re braless. He kisses you harder, until eventually, he shifts, and his fingers press between your legs, slowly, torturously.
Your breath hitches at the touch, at how wet you are already.
And he wants it so bad. So bad that it aches. But he knows he barely scraped by with your forgiveness after he snapped at you for walking out of his room the other night, and he can’t do it again. He can’t risk losing you.
“Hey,” he rasps against your lips.
“Hmm?” your voice comes out weak.
“I’m not going to do what I did last time,” he says. “Whenever you want to stop, just… say it.”
You nod, pulling him in to kiss you again. The softness in Rafe’s voice is teetering toward romance, and you have no interest in letting it go there. Truthfully, even if he is an asshole about whatever you end up doing tonight, you’re not attached enough for it to sting.
You spread your legs wider, finding pure bliss in the pressure of his hand on you, only your thin panties keeping him from having full contact. You lose yourself in the way he’s trailing his fingers up and down, steady and firm as his tongue sinks into your mouth.
He pulls back, forehead on yours, and whispers as he gently taps his fingertips against your heat, “You want my mouth here, baby?”
Every muscle in you twists, throbbing.
“Yes,” you sigh in relief.
He shifts lower to settle between your thighs and places a languid kiss over your panties, coaxing a slow moan from you. He drags the fabric down your hips, your legs, your ankles, letting them bunch at the end of your bed, before he sinks onto his elbows with his head between your legs.
Rafe’s heart is pounding in his ears when he sees you bare, up close, glistening and so fucking perfect. His thumbs skim over your folds as he gently spreads you apart so he can see every part of you.
He’s in deep and he knows it, because all he wants to do is please you. Even though his cock is so hard that it’s aching, making you come is all that matters to him right now.
His eyes drag up to your face. You watch him stare up at you like he always does, skin tingling with desire. With anticipation. You shudder as his hot, wet mouth finally meets your core.
The taste of you makes every part of his body ache with hunger, like no matter how much he gets, he’ll always be starving for you.
He doesn’t waste any time teasing you. He gives you what you want, starts to lick and suck, the sounds of your staggered breathing and moisture filling your bedroom. His tongue trails over every bit of you, wriggling over your clit, and when you feel his tongue nudge inside, he groans and you breathe out his name, drunk off the pleasure.
Rafe’s hands dig into your thighs as you pulse around his tongue and fill him with your scent, your taste, everything that makes him so damn lost for you. And he knows now, entirely, that he was an idiot for thinking he could do anything with you without getting attached.
As he continues to lap at you, his nose brushes against your slick clit, making you thread your fingers through his hair and gently pull. No matter how much you writhe, he keeps his mouth hard on you, refusing to lose contact.
It takes almost no time. You press against him as your orgasm crashes into you, every nerve ending pinching with bliss as you come on his tongue. He sucks your clit until you breathe an overstimulated whine, placing a hand on his cheek so he’ll give you a break.
Rafe shifts up to meet your lips again, hovering over you as he lets you see how good you taste. He’s savoring this, covering your mouth with his, breathing you in and unable to believe that just a few weeks ago, you were always around, yet a complete stranger.
He can’t believe what he’s been missing out on. It’s like the world narrows in on him, on both of you in this moment. It feels right to be here with you, in your bed, his lips on yours. He could only do this, feel this with a girl he genuinely likes.
Your body is still buzzing from the rush he’s given you as you trade slow kisses. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this type of chemistry with a guy before. You want more. Maybe you’ll even become friends with benefits if it’s as good as you think it will be.
You shift to touch him over his shorts, feeling him exhale against your mouth as you cup his thick shaft. He gently jerks against your hand, grinding over you. He’s so hard, so big, that your heart skips in anticipation of feeling him stretch you, fill you.
You move to the button of his jeans, expecting him to help you take them off, but then he pulls back, ending the kiss.
Rafe stares down at you, at the blissed out expression on your pretty face, and he can’t do it. Although every part of him, every muscle, every goddamn vein is hot with his desire for you, he can’t separate his feelings. They’re a part of his core, too permanent to untangle, and as much as he tells himself to get a grip, he can’t.
His emotions control him, not the other way around. He’s lost in you now. And if he’s going to do this, he needs to tell you the truth.
“I really like you,” he half-whispers.
And then he feels it, the way you stiffen. You lift your hand off of him, shifting up a little.
“Am I not supposed to say that?” Rafe teases, trying to pretend your reaction isn’t hurting him, that he doesn’t regret telling you. Why can’t he just keep his fucking mouth shut?
You sit up, finding your t-shirt to cover your bare chest, the mood in the room completely shifted now. You look over your shoulder at him. You were hoping to do more tonight, but you can’t. Not when he’s talking to you like this means something.
You need to tell him you aren’t looking for this. For feelings. For a boyfriend. You may have wanted to hurt him at some point, but now, you won’t. You can’t.
Rafe traps his bottom lip under his teeth for a second, eyes searching like he can find an answer in your face if he looks hard enough.
“Were you serious today?” he asks before you can reply. “When you said every guy does it?”
Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Rafe hangs onto your words. It’s obvious that the things you say stay with him, circle his mind. He almost seems worried about you thinking every guy cheats.
“It was a joke,” you reply.
He sits up, leaning against the wall, close enough that you can feel his breath on your shoulder.
“Why are we talking about this?” you say, tense from the sudden shift in atmosphere.
“I wanna know,” he replies.
It feels crazy that you once thought he was just another careless asshole. Rafe has an intensity to him that you’ve never seen in a man before. A passion that nobody can fake. But you can’t reciprocate it.
“We don’t need to get all serious," you say with an awkward laugh. While you’ve had to tell guys this before, for some reason, doing it feels really hard this time. “This thing between us is just… fun, okay?”
Rafe shakes his head just slightly, unable to understand why. He likes you, more than he ever meant to, and he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that you want to keep him at a distance.
Now that he’s actually spent time with you, he’s sure there’s a deeper reason for why you have the reputation that you cycle through guys and never stick around. It bothers him that he doesn’t know what that reason is.
He wants to understand the girl sitting in front of him. He can’t help wondering what pushed you into being like this. If some guy stepped out on you, then he was an idiot.
“Did it happen to you?” he asks.
He’s clearly still stuck on the whole cheating thing. Why can’t he just take no for an answer?
“Rafe…” you huff in frustration.
“Did it?”
“I’m not talking about this,” you snip, your tone sharp.
Questions circle Rafe’s mind. But he doesn’t ask them.
He still has his pride. It’s obvious that you’re only into him for sex, and that you’ve seen enough of him to know that you don’t consider him worth more.
It’s jarring to go from such heated lust to this cold tension within a minute. He hates this about himself. How he speaks before he thinks. How he can’t just keep doing this with you and convince himself that how he feels doesn’t matter.
“Should I go?” he finally asks, half-hurt, half-frustrated.
You look away.
“Yeah,” you say flatly.
He shifts to stand up and finds his shirt on the floor. You watch the fabric fall down his taut back, a strange mix of sympathy and rejection settling in your heart.
He checks his pockets for his things and sets out to leave. But he stops halfway, lingering in the middle of your bedroom for a second, as if he’s trying to figure out if he should say something.
But he doesn’t. You stare at him. He doesn’t look back.
The door shuts behind him, leaving you sitting up in your bed, your top pressed against your chest, your heart pounding. This time, he’s the one who stopped things from going any further, and it’s clearly because you refused to open up to him.
Rafe is not who you thought he was. You’ve witnessed his temper, his impatience, his spite, but there’s a tenderness to him that you never saw coming. All things that you’re sure some other girl would want. Not you.
This is probably the end of your fling. And it’s okay. It’s familiar and comforting and right to say goodbye before things get too messy.
・・・・・
Rafe’s heart is racing. And it won’t stop. It’s always like this after his mom calls.
It’s a rainy Sunday morning, a week since he saw you last. And he can’t stop thinking about you. Since that night, every time his phone has buzzed, his body has flooded with anticipation, hopeful that it was you, just to be let down.
He was about to leave for the on-campus gym when his phone started buzzing in his pocket and once again, he wanted it to be you. But it was his mother, and now he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at his phone.
He never knows when she’ll reach out, and every time, it gives him whiplash. It was a quick conversation, a surface-level check-in, but that’s always enough to throw him. She talks to him like he’s an old friend, not his son, not one of the kids she left behind.
Maybe it’s self-sabotage. Or an ill-fated belief that he can prove to you that he’s someone worth keeping around. All he knows for sure is that he misses you, so he texts you that he’s going to the gym if you want to come.
You respond that he can pick you up in fifteen.
・・・・・
You watch Rafe’s truck pull up from your bedroom window.
You figure he made peace with the fact that you want to keep your relationship strictly physical. Some guys can’t, acting like they’re entitled to you because they caught feelings, and you always cut them off when things get to this point.
You decided to accept Rafe’s invitation, though, because you really enjoy being around him. There’s something so effortless about it. You couldn’t have been clearer that you don’t want anything serious, so you’re optimistic he’s back in your life because he got his emotions in check.
Rafe’s eyes meet yours when you open the passenger-side door. Despite every twisted up way you’ve made him feel, his lips curl into a smile. You have that effect.
“Taking me to the gym isn’t some excuse you’re going to use to improve my form, is it?” you say, climbing into his seat. Light raindrops sink into the thin material of your gym clothes as you toss your duffel bag to the back.
Rafe smirks as you shut the door. He’s so glad you agreed to meet him. You lift his mood in seconds, clear the murkiness in his head, move past the tension from the last time you spoke like it wasn’t ever even there.
“If you’re doing things wrong, then I gotta help,” he replies.
“Bye,” you sigh jokingly, reaching to open the door again, but he drives off before you can. You playfully nudge him, and he glances over at you with another smirk, eyes flickering over your beautiful features.
You grin, then your eyes trail down his big arms, the way his t-shirt clings to his taut body. It’s ridiculous, the pull he has on you. The memory of last weekend rushes in, the feeling of his mouth between your legs, the desire to do it all again, and more.
“You go there a lot?” you tease. It’s obvious that he does.
“You can’t tell?” Rafe says, reaching for your hand to put it on his flexed bicep.
“You’re so annoying,” you say, pulling away. He laughs. He loves your sharp teasing, the way you show your humor by giving him shit.
It’s a part of you, one of the layers he doesn’t fully know, and that’s what keeps dragging his mind to the last time he saw you, to how cold and closed off you suddenly became when he tried to actually get to know you.
He told himself to stop trying to break through your wall, but here he is, with you again, silently hoping he can.
・・・・・
An hour later, you’re downing water as you pace towards the gym’s entrance, still a little breathless from the workout as music pulses from the ceiling speakers, weights clanking around you.
You and Rafe spent the whole time making jokes, playfully competing through sets, touching each other wherever you could, catching each other looking. You’re happy you came.
Your legs burn from the squats you finished off with, and as you turn to make a joke about needing him to help you stretch, you realize Rafe isn’t walking behind you anymore.
You spot him across the gym, posture rigid as he talks to some guy by the benches. His hands flex at his sides, and for a second, you think he’s about to swing.
The other guy is already backing up a step, looking intimidated. It’s just like the Rafe you always saw back in Kildare.
But then he looks up, catching your eyes, and shakes his head in frustration, like he’s snapping himself back into reality. You watch as he approaches you with long strides, his jaw slowly losing its tension.
“What was that?” you ask.
He exhales, a sheen of sweat over his face, and replies, “Nothing.”
・・・・・
After a quick body shower, you find Rafe by the front doors, already waiting with his hands shoved in his hoodie pockets.
You walk out of the gym together into the humid air. The rain has stopped now, puddles scattered across the parking lot. Your sneakers squeak across the pavement as you walk to his truck.
You can feel the tension rushing through Rafe, and it surprises you that you care. You’re not the type to want to dig into what’s going on in a guy’s head, but this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself wanting to know with him.
“I thought you were about to break your streak,” you say once you both settle in the truck.
“What?” he asks, looking up at you.
“I don’t fight anymore,” you say, mimicking him in an effort to keep things light. His dimples deepen a little, and you like that you’ve made him smile.
You won’t ask more, although you want to know if he’s okay the same way you would with a friend, because that’s sort of what he is now.
The second Rafe saw the guy at the gym staring at you as you walked past, the way his eyes dragged over you, he snapped. The protective instinct he has for you that only burned hotter once he remembered he’s not allowed to feel it. You’re not his.
He hated seeing you get leered at, but he hated the reminder that he has no right to be mad about it even more. He had to say something, tell him to stop looking at you, threaten him just to feel some power.
“He was lookin’ at you,” he finally relents, his voice low. He exhales hard, frustrated that his filter always dissolves around you.
Your forehead creases. You shouldn’t enjoy his jealousy. But you kind of do.
“That’s why you got so pissed off?” you say with a dismissive laugh. “You look at me the same way.”
Rafe shakes his head, brief but resolute. You’re cheapening what he feels for you. And it’s a stab in the back.
“I don’t,” he replies.
Again, things have shifted between you within seconds. He means that he looks at you as more. There’s no misunderstanding that. You don’t know what to say. If you can even say anything.
You pull your seatbelt over your body, buckling it in place, frustration rising that he’s not doing the same.
You don’t want to sit here and talk about anything serious. Honestly, it’s scary. You don’t think you should see Rafe anymore because something in you is cracking and you need to keep your distance so you can seal it up again.
He obviously hasn’t reigned in his feelings for you, and you don’t want to deal with that.
“Let’s go,” you murmur.
Rafe shoves his damp hair back from his forehead. You both started this with your walls up, but along the line, he let his guard crumble while you never did. Because you clearly expect the worst from him.
“You really think every guy is the same, don’t you?” he finally mutters.
You look through the passenger window at the car parked next to you. If he wants an answer this bad, he can have it.
“Absolutely,” you reply, simply and honestly.
Rafe’s eyes flick over at you, but you’re looking away, profile silhouetted against the glass. For the first time, he feels the real distance between you.
He’s never had great self-control, and here he is again, a victim to his emotions, drowning in the silence of a girl who finally gave him the truth he asked for, only to realize he has no idea what to do now.
It doesn’t make sense. You have such a good time together. This would be so easy. Why are you so committed to keeping him at a distance?
“I don’t get it,” he says.
“You don’t have to.”
His blood boils. He hates how effortless it is for you to decide the conversation is over while he’s ready to tear himself open for you.
“You’re so…” he sighs bitingly.
You finally turn, your gaze snapping to his. Your eyes are narrowed, daring him to finish that sentence.
“So what?” you snap.
You’re expecting what you’ve heard before. That you’re cold. Impossible. A bitch.
He stares, regretting letting his temper snap, regretting letting himself care.
“What?” you repeat. “Should I walk home?”
The words cut Rafe deep.
This is a reminder of what he learned at ten years old when his mom left, that there’s something unlovable, something too much about him. And right now, with how easily you’re shutting him out, you’re proving it.
He thought seeing you would make things better. It didn’t.
“I shouldn’t have texted you today,” he says.
“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” you reply.
You unbuckle your seatbelt, reach for the handle, and push open the door, the thick air rushing in. It’s a twenty-minute walk across campus to your sorority house. You’re tired, but you can make it.
Before you can swing your legs out, his hand is on yours, his grip firm.
“No, I mean…” Rafe exhales. He’s desperate. He needs you to stay, even if it means admitting why he’s so scattered. “I’m just on edge, alright? My mom called me this morning and it always fucks with my head.”
The anger sitting in your chest melts a little. Usually, when men share their feelings like this, it’s a manipulative way to get sympathy or a dump of emotional labor that you have to clean up. But the way Rafe said it felt different.
You relent, pulling the door shut with a thud. You turn to look at him again and the urge to protect yourself softens. Because while you’re mad and confused and admittedly kind of afraid of what you’re feeling right now, you want to know.
“Why?” you ask, still a bit of a bite to your tone.
“I never know when she’s going to call,” he admits. “And I don’t - I don’t want to answer, but I always do, and then it just pisses me off the rest of the day.”
Your brows furrow as the questions start to stack up. The curiosity is a tug in your chest.
“What’s… the deal with her?” you ask.
Rafe’s eyes drift down. He turns on the engine. The truck rumbles to life, giving him a distraction to hide behind. It’s stupid; he’s the one who started this conversation, and now he’s getting nervous.
He stares through the windshield, focuses on anything other than the girl sitting inches away from him.
“She left when I was a kid,” he admits. “And it always makes me act like an asshole after she calls because I never see it coming. My bad, alright?”
The air leaves your lungs for a moment. It’s odd to hear an apology from a man you once thought didn’t know what accountability even is, but the real shock is the familiarity of that hollowness in his voice.
It’s the hole only abandonment can leave. It’s the same one your father carved in you.
You keep your eyes fixed on the dashboard.
“Then don’t answer her calls,” you respond.
Rafe’s lips flatten together. It’s such a you thing to say. Don’t deal with the problem.
His dad didn’t care to hide the truth. He’d told Rafe that his mother wasn't going to fight for custody. She only said that she’d keep in touch, as if she was saying goodbye to an old friend instead of the family she decided she didn’t want anymore.
That rejection is a permanent part of him. He’s been angry since. He hates her for quitting, for not sticking to her responsibilities, for being immature, for not loving him and his sisters enough.
She simply didn’t want to be a mother anymore. But he answers her sporadic calls because she is. He’s trapped, hating the woman he can’t bring himself to cut out.
“That’s not me,” he replies.
You meet his eyes again. Usually, the story of your dad is something you only share with friends who have earned your trust. But looking at the hurt etched into Rafe's face, it feels wrong to let him sit there thinking he’s alone with this gut-wrenching feeling.
The words are pushing against your teeth, demanding to be shared, demanding to help him.
“My dad left, too,” you reply. “And if he tried to call me, I’d block him. People who can do something like that to their own kid never change. And they don’t deserve access to the people they hurt.”
It crashes into Rafe, cold and sudden. He’s not angry anymore. Not at all.
There’s a hard sting of sadness for you buried in him now. He finally understands it. Understands you.
And deep below, there’s also a flicker of relief. You told him. He felt like he was screaming at a wall, and now he’s not anymore.
He looks at you with a softened, searching intensity, his heart pounding.
“Really?” is all he can say, because he thinks saying he’s sorry would only offend you.
“He was a selfish cheater,” you say with a shrug. “He did whatever the fuck he wanted to do without thinking about anyone but himself.”
He grimaces. You’d once told him you like structure and it makes sense because if you felt the same pain he did, of someone who’s supposed to love you leaving, it means you never had predictability.
You expect the worst from everyone, because then you never have to watch them fuck you over.
“I know I’m guarded. I hate being treated like it’s a problem.” You sigh, shake your head. “And I think you want more from me and I can’t give it to you, okay?”
Rafe just sits there, the engine idling, his gaze fixed on you with a newfound clarity.
Regret washes over you. You’ve said too much. It’s almost laughable how this all started as a stupid bet, and now you feel like you’ve ripped open a wound for him. And his silence is making it worse.
“I’m walking home,” you say. You reach for the handle, your movements hurried. You need a clean break.
Usually, you cut contact with a guy because you can feel him falling, and you have no intention of letting things get any deeper. But as you step out into the humidity, you can tell that you aren't just running because of Rafe’s feelings. You’re running because of yours.
Somewhere between the weeks of getting to know him, of discovering the depth in him between silly jokes and easy conversations and effortless chemistry, it’s obvious now. He’s almost found a way into your heart.
And you can’t let it go any further than that.
(to be continued)
new parts come out every friday at 8 pm est. if you want to be alerted of when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘
contains: sfw and nsfw questions, fem/afab!reader, lots of mentions of his shitty father and his effects on Johnny's psyche, talks of like everything in a romantic relationship?
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
spent for a minute where you'll probably get a breathy "holy fuck..." that makes you giggle and nuzzle up to him, then "do you need anything? do you want me to help?" You roll your eyes with affection, "I think I can go pee by myself, Johnny." "...do you want me to help you walk to the bathroom?" (he does because you're not trying to ruin your bliss by putting strength back into your limbs yet.) While you clean up, fix up your hair, what have you, Johnny's grabbing water and a snack, like you just finished a little league game. You come back to bed, and find a bottle of water in your spot and pieces of cut up orange in a bowl on his lap. "You got us orange slices?" "Yeah...?" "You're adorable," and he'll never admit how much he loves you calling him that. Johnny puts on some movie you've both seen a million times (but your love for it never fades) and fills with satisfaction when you fall asleep before him.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also yours)
Johnny likes his arms, strong from all that training and tennis, hands, long legs, hair (mainly when you play with it), but doesn't know where to begin on his favourite part of you. If he had to give one hard answer, he'd say your lips. However, he could go on for hours about how soft your hair is and pretty your eyes are and the little sounds you make when he kisses your neck and how wide his eyes still get feeling up your chest and the security he feels holding your waist and your hips and your ass— you get the point.
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
Johnny lives to cuddle. Anything that momentary dulls his need to merge into one with you, he's a BIG fan of. The go-to is: your head on his chest, his arm around your shoulders/waist, keeping you tucked to his side, one of your legs thrown over his, his hands under that leg's thigh, holding it in place across his lap. He's a sucker for your stomach as a pillow, his arms wrapped around your waist, too though.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
(!not in a relationship with you!) interested in the idea of a threesome with Gat, knows Gat would never, so never brings it up. but jokes about it a LOT
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
so much of Johnny is talk. He's barely not a virgin with his two — MAX four — bodies. Given his lack of experience (but not non-existent experience!) he knows the basics, and looks to you for the rest.
F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
if Johnny thinks about commitment too much, he feels suffocated and can't do it. So he doesn't. Johnny proposes when he feels the passion to. He's already so dedicated, what's a — giant — pretty rock on your finger and a party? You both agree not to be assholes on the legal side of things, and you're married. He looovvveesss calling you his wife when away for matches and complaining to his teammates about missing you. He loves having you in his phone as "[y/n] aka MY WIFE!!!!!" He loves reporters referring to you as his wife. He loves excessively reminding everyone you're his wife. He loves you, his wife.
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
Johnny's very touch tank by quinnie; he tells you he's gentle when he wants to be, so he wants to be gentle with you. He's very in tune to when and where he can keep up that persona he's spent so much time defining himself as, versus be incredibly soft with you.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
Yes. All the time. Encasing.
I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
stupidly fast like a middle schooler in their first relationship. he's a very expressive person! Johnny really says it though for the first time in a peaceful moment between you two, maybe after your first time together, air thick with your love for each other (even if you hadn't used that word for it yet), some skinship. He takes his time letting it come out of his mouth. "I love you." You give those three words their moment, before... "I love you too, Johnny." And he's certain his heart's going to burst. But it doesn't, and he keeps living, loving and being loved by you.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
JEALOUS. Stemming from his childhood of Carrie favouring Will, it's always a trigger when he has to fight for your attention. His first line of defence is clingy affection, like maybe you just forgot he was around or thought reaching for your boyfriend right now was unnecessary/inappropriate, so he came to you. If he still doesn't receive that acknowledge he's looking for, he gets distant, and pissy. All snide remarks and snarky quips until you tell him to cut it out, he's being ridiculous, and he questions "am I?!" Having been down both paths many times, you either deescalate and get him to be open and honest with you, or it turns into a full blown argument you regret in thirty minutes anyway.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
Johnny gets drunk off your lips, and acts like it, becoming malleable, entering a haze, and unable to stop till you pull him out of it, usually giggling that he's gonna suffocate you. Lips are his default favourite, to kiss and to be kissed, but also really loves your neck and his collarbone.
L = Little ones (How are they around children?)
(as can be seen with Will) incredibly good with kids and it's unreasonably attractive. First time meeting your extended family, Johnny's missing after half an hour and you're petrified your male relatives have cornered him, but you find him with your little cousins, dutifully learning a dance the girls were teaching him. "Johnny?" "Oonne seccoonndd, I keep messing up my clap and my snap." "It's snap then clap!" the girls scold with a groan, clearly sick of Johnny's persistent mistake. You watch until he gets it right, the girls are happy, and you can go back to your cousins your age— "I promised the boys I'd play tag with them," which makes the girls pipe up, "we wanna play tag too!" Saying goodbye, your aunts comment about how maybe next time they'll get to see him more, having been occupied with the little ones all day, and you tell him how cute you found him with them on your way home. Johnny shrugs, "I'm a big brother. Besides, beats sitting at a table with the adults discussing our college plans." He's so confused when you jump his bones the second you get home.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
assuming you slept over after his matches/meeting Saturday morning, lazy. It's Sunday! Why would he want to get out of bed where he's all warm cuddled up under the blankets with you sooner than he has to?! And when else would he get the time to press his morning wood up against you? As for weekday mornings, he's up early — too early (in your opinion) — to run, and his arrival home is your alarm. He showers while you get dressed, dresses (from the towel he walked in with around his waist, being quite the distraction in the mirror's reflection) while you do your hair and makeup. Sweetly domestic overall.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
anything violent. Johnny'll tease and be cocky and a little mean — if that's what you want — but he'd never hit you. No matter what. "Choking" (it's strangling) is really off the table since Carrie isn't shy to speak (as she shouldn't be as a survivor!!) about domestic abuse and the "if he isn't scared to strangle you, he isn't scared to kill you," fact. Growing up seeing his father be violent towards his mother completely turns him off anything similar, "consensual" and "in a kinky way" or not.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
"no blowjobs for [however long]" is a serious threat to Johnny. He makes an attempt to be nonchalant at the beginning of basically every one you give him, not that the act lasts long before he's gripping whatever he can in a fist and rambling out whiny "thank you"s. He's not bad at going down on you, he likes to, you enjoy the experience, when he looks up at you? Oh your God— but he's better with his hands.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
seriously? at you? You would've had to cheat on him with his dad or something. Rooting back to that father, Johnny can't bring himself to get angry, to any degree, with you even in the room. But in general? pretty short fuse that rarely reaches the end of its line. He tries to not take things too seriously most of the time.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
everything. Dude is a walking encyclopedia for his partner. And is all too happy to cater to your every preference. (He's lowkey that ""if an attractive person disagrees with me i will immediately change my views. i have no principles." "maybe you should have principles" "you're right maybe i should."" meme) It's an unfair advantage he has come your birthday/christmas time; all the money to spend AND knows what to spend it on.
R = Remember (What is their favourite moment in your relationship?)
definitely sometime on Beechwood. Maybe the fourth of july party, maybe skinny dipping, maybe something as innocent as running around with the goldens on the grass or him on the sand. Johnny doesn't miss a chance to reminisce on it though, that's for sure.
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
SUPER protective. You call him overprotective, because he knows you can handle your own, he just likes also being there. Given, you know, New York, the sidewalk rule is common place, along with him always making himself a shield for whatever hypothetical could come your way. Johnny needs to be around you all the time — just in case something goes south! Starting to get dark? "I'm coming with you." Taking the subway? "I'll join you." Going out with your girlfriends? "Okay, but I could be a help to the whole group." You never tell him his presence does make you feel safer, and he doesn't need you to. He can tell. That's why he still does it. And he laps it up when you verbally go to bat for him.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
his Olympics. Johnny spares NOTHING when it comes to anniversaries, and spares very little when it comes to dates and gifts. And like stated in Q, it's always perfect. Whether it's exactly what you wanted or just had the best thought behind it, Johnny never misses. He assures you that you never do either, and while you trust him, you know you're not as on the mark as he is.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
biting his nails. You swat his hand away and scold him for it all the time, but still end up manicuring his nails so they don't look like he bites them to the nub.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
can't shut the fuck up to save his life. Most of it is incoherent babbling you tune out, but his moans? You'd never focus on anything else.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
WAYYYY too easy to get pics out of and trick into whimper audios. "I'm sad you're not here. bicep pic for your sad girlfriend?" and there's no hesitation on his end to send a photo through. "Can you record yourself doing push ups and saying my name in between each one?" "How many? push ups i mean" You say jump, he asks how high!!
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
lean. Not the type that can bulk. And a good five and a half to six inches max he can use well.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
high. Being a teenage boy and all, there isn't really a time Johnny isn't down to have sex. And he's nearly always up for multiple rounds too. Like he isn't going to be up at five am to run tomorrow. He's good at reading when you're exhausted and need to stop, despite not saying it, because of that though.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)
(as previously mentioned in C) CUDDLERRRR. A pillow, you, even Will when he's come in after his nightmares, Johnny needs to be holding something to sleep well. It's almost Pavlov-ed him in a way that he's out cold within a couple minutes of cuddling. Goodbye to that movie you'd really been wanting to watch with each other.
a/n: sorry if this is ass (especially the later half) I just wanted to get it out tonight and it's currently 2:24 am and my vision's a little blurry so I'm posting this and sleeping. been on a REAL Johnny kick lately. THAT'S MY BOYFRIEND. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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touch-starved!johnny sinclair who pretends he’s not. who jokes, who grins, who sprawls out like he doesn’t need anyone...but somehow he’s always finding his way back to you.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who drapes himself over you without thinking. an arm around your shoulders, his head dropping into the crook of your neck, fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes on your arm. if you shift away, even just a little, he notices immediately, but doesn’t say anything. he just looks at you, soft and a little unsure, like did i do something wrong?
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who sleeps better when you’re there. tangled legs, your hand on his chest, his breathing finally evening out. if you try to leave the bed first, he tightens his grip, half-asleep, murmuring your name like it’s instinct.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who always wants skin-to-skin contact. knees pressed together under the table. your feet on his lap. your fingers hooked through his belt loop. he doesn’t care who’s watching, he just needs to feel you there.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who melts when you initiate it. you lace your fingers with his? he freezes for half a second, then squeezes back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. you kiss his cheek? his smile goes soft and private, like the world’s just narrowed down to the two of you.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who gets quiet when you hold his face in your hands. as much as he needs it, he's not used to this affection. his childhood was yelling matches and love shown through tight smiles and fake words. you entering his life shattered all that. suddenly his eyes are dropping, forehead resting against yours. no more jokes. no more bravado. just a boy who doesn’t know how to ask for comfort...but always takes it when you give it.
touch-starved!johnny sinclair who acts casual about it, but always finds an excuse to touch you. “c’mere, it’s cold,” even when it’s not. “no space, sit here,” patting the space between his legs. he frames it like convenience, like habit—never like need.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who presses kisses into your hair, your temple, your shoulder. soft, absentminded, almost unconscious. he doesn't even realize he does it. he's not trying to start anything, he's just grounding himself.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who lets you trace the scars and little marks on his skin. he doesn’t look at you while you do it, but his breathing goes slow and deep, like he’s finally safe enough to exist in his own body.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who never pushes, never demands. he just lingers. just stays close. just hopes you won’t pull away. and when you don’t—when you pull him closer instead—he holds on like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to do exactly that.
guys im alive. shocker! i havent posted in forever bc of winter travels but im so back (lets see how long this lasts).
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