#yan!academicrival

But he? He made everything a race. Not just academics. Showing up to school first, finishing the test on time, submitting assignments even before deadline, it's like he was a madman.

You, on the other hand, didn't want any of this. And you had no idea why he was competing with only you of all other people— maybe it was your grades that paralleled his, or the way teachers praise you like a well-behaved puppy every time your name was brought up in a conversation.

Whatever it was, you didn't like it.

But you knew he did, and somehow that made something stir in your stomach.

Yan!AcademicRival appeared in the gates of your school disgustingly early again, his backpack slung casually across his shoulder as his cool grey eyes scanned the scene in his vision expecting your entrance.

And once he caught your figure in the distance, hands hooked with your friends' and chatting happily, he felt something in his chest shifting.

He didn't feel jealousy in a heart-wrenching, sad way. He felt it in a way that was petty and possessive, and he knew it. But did that bother him? No. He could be all petty and possessive when it comes to you, and he'd happily allow himself to.

You're his, afterall. And he's yours.

Yan!AcademicRival knew this school was way below what's worth his admission, but begged his parents to go here just so he could be with you.

Ofcourse, he'd have known you well even before he got here. And you didn't have to know why or how. He could just know things about you, because ofcourse, you're his, and he believes he has the right to.

Yan!AcademicRival waited for your friends to part ways with you, for their respective classes, so he could come and shove himself into your vision, all just to be petty and annoying about stepping in the school gates first this morning.

"Did your momma have to drag your ass out of the bed for you to start getting ready? Or had you forgotten about me attending this school, that you lost the interest in showing up anymore?"

His voice was smooth and laced with fiery pride and arrogance, his lips wearing that same mocking smirk he always flashes you when you're glaring knives into his eyes with an adorable (disgusted) scrunch on your nose.

"Quite the opposite, actually. I remembered you attend this school and sank back into bed after losing the interest to even show up."

You shot back, a hand on your hip as you rolled your eyes, in a way that made him want to make your eyes roll back from what he could be doing with your body, if you ever let him put his hands on you.

He chuckled, a soft, smooth sound strongly contrasting the way his eyes were travelling up and down your figure in an audaciously judgmental way.

You wanted to slap his pretty face and shut him up.

He wanted to slap you too, but somewhere else and for entirely different reasons.

And he could see it in your eyes, the disgust, the hatred, and it's all brewing something dangerous in his chest— the desire to turn that disgust into a flustered mess, turn that sassy, confident voice into pleasured moans, and make you want to cup his pretty face and kiss him nasty, like he wanted to do to you.

"Awh, you fear me that much? Huh? You wanna transfer schools because you can't handle a challenge? Can't handle competition? What, you wanna spend the last of your highschool year having fun?"

He stepped in closer, his voice taunting and smirk widening. He could see you practically seething, your eyebrows knitting together, lips forming a beautiful frown he wishes he could kiss off your face.

"False. I could handle competition all for what it is. I'm just you-phobic. I can't handle you."

You stuck a finger up in the air and tried to shoo him away like he was a rabid dog trying to eat your shoe. But all he did was get closer and plant a hand on the wall beside your head, leaning dangerously close to your face with that pretty smirk still present on his lips.

Your brain did a short-circuiting moment when your nostrils were filled with his scent— sandalwood, old books, and something so uniquely him, that it felt strangely intimate.

"I'm flattered. So it's not my grades. It's me. Guess we could work with that, huh?"

That whisper. Your eyes widened, now that was audacious. He's right infront of you, face almost shoved into your neck as he whispered insufferable things into your ear with that airy, feathery voice he had. You tried to sound as rude and offensive as possible, so he finally gets enough of your attitude and decides leaving you alone is a better choice.

"Yeah, go work on your personality. Work on learning to shut up when needed. And please work on learning about maintaining an appropriate social distance with your classmates, because honestly, you stink."

His eyes widened, lips parting as he took in the audacity your words contained. He was shocked. Stink? HIM? No way. He was certain you blurted that out just to piss him off.

Because how could that be true?

He spent four hours getting ready for school just so he could be pretty for you, smell good for you, and apply scented lotion on every part of his body so he could have soft skin just incase you touched him (don't blame him for being too hopeful).

Before you could even take your sweet time rolling your eyes at him looking shocked, he literally looked like he's about to burst into flames and start screaming at you to sniff him untill you admitted he smelled good, no, not just 'good'. He didn't wake up at four in the morning to get ready to be mediocre. He wanted you to admit he smells scrumptious, like a dessert, like you wanted to consume him.

"Stink... Huh. Like what? I smell like what? Fish? Say it."

His eyes bore into yours in a way he let you know he isn't going to let you go unless this conversation's done.

"You stink with PETTINESS."

He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing— except it sounded more like it was from relief than frustration. He'd have pulled his hair out and banged his head on the wall if you were being serious when you said he stank.

"...in that case, I suppose our scents are the same, love. As long as you're being petty with only me, it's all fine. I want you to be showing all of your attitude only to me."

...

Your eyes widened. Where from the deepest pits of hell did that affectionate term pop up from? And what the actual pieces of hell is he even blurting out? Is he insane?

"...what. First of all, what's with that name? Second of all, I'm being a total bitch to you, justified, by the way, and you're telling me... you like it?"

It took you a sweet second to realise his lips came crashing down into yours, a cherry-like sweetness clinging to his tongue as he pushed into your lips nastily, strings of saliva dripping down your chin while he kissed you proudly, the hand planted on the wall beside your head tangling into your hair as his other arm wrapped itself tight and snug around your waist.

His body naturally leaned into you, both of your chests collided and pressed against eachother, his tongue going all crazy while licking your lips and dragging all the dripping saliva back into his mouth like it's chocolate.

And after a sweet moment of messy and desperate kissing, he pulled back and wiped his wet chin clean with a hand kerchief, the same one he handed you over to clean yourself up. The moment his kerchief touched your lips, stained with the soft, glittery baby pink of your lip gloss and the mix of his and your saliva, his eyes sparkled with satisfaction and lips pulled back into that same, devastatingly handsome smirk.

You still stared at him, bewildered and yet to realise it's his hand kerchief that you're pressing against your lips, a soft pinkish hue dusted on your cheeks as you slowly took in the moment that happened between you and him.

"That lip gloss suits you. And me. Wear it more frequently, dear rival. Because we'll be kissing a lot more often from now on."

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