Camila Cabello has a fantastic ass. Everybody knows.
Well, everybody knows but Camila Cabello. Every day, she comes to school wearing jeans and t-shirts and flannels that probably got handed down from her older brother, or maybe she just has to buy boys jeans because she's much shorter than an average girl yet still has curves that don't fit in the girls, but whatever the reason, her pants are baggy, and they're shapeless, and they still can't hide that firm, curvy ass of hers.
It strains the seats of her pants. You can hear the seams almost-snapping — holding their breath and heaving sighs of relief — when she bends over.. And then she gets surprised when Creepy Drama Club Ariana or Austin From The Swim Team or Kristen The Lesbian Performance Artist Chick grope her in the lunch line or try to cop a feel while she's walking to the bike rack.
She's such a virgin — a first-class, over-excited, stumbles trying to say anything that isn't the right answer to one of Mister Morgan's questions about atoms or compounds or what makes a solution different than a solute, probably hasn't ever even put her cell on vibrate and used it to get off while watching Gaston trying to kill the Beast, capital-v Virgin.
Not that Lauren Jauregui has used her phone to masturbate to Disney. God, no, please — she pulls that trick while watching the Batman/Joker scenes of The Dark Knight. She has class, okay?
Not enough class to keep from staring at Camila during class. But that's not her fault, Lauren thinks. It's nobody's fault, really. Camila just has these cheekbones, and this jawline, and these eyes — her eyes scream "VIRGIN" more than anything else about her. They're not really wide or big or anything, and she doesn't look like some friend to all living things princess bitch who could sing about true love and get little woodland creatures to make her a badass prom dress, but her eyes, man, they're just ... innocent. Non-judgmental. And not in the space-cadet way.
They smile, even when she doesn't have her obnoxious, sunshiny, sweet tap-dancing Jesus I might as well be a puppy grin plastered on her face, and there's been more than one class where Lauren's zoned out completely, knocked her Vitamin Water or her pompoms over with her elbows even, because she can't stop looking at Camila Cabello, Big Virgin on Campus. At first, she feels creepy for it — sure, fine, she's the Token Lesbian Cheerleader, but really? Staring at some girl she's never talked to before, just because Camila's hotter than the surface of the sun? Who the fuck is she now, Edward Cullen?
But it doesn't stay that way. Staring becomes a part of class. Lauren sits there in freezing chem lab, in her assigned seat next to Baby Activist Ally Brooke and her messenger bag that has buttons voicing all of her opinions for her. She looks up at Mister Morgan with his nine o'clock shadow and the cock of his hips that's totally going to get him called a pedophile sooner or later whether or not it's true. Lauren doesn't have to try that hard to look like she's paying attention. Scribble down a few notes on mols or whatever, doodle what Camila would look like if she didn't dress like she's going to the Miami Women's Music Festival every day, then clear her mind and thank God that Camila's head is right in front of the blackboard so, no matter how much Lauren's watching her hair swish around her jaw, or ogling the way her lips wrap around her water bottle's mouth, it looks like she really gives two shits about the incomprehensible numbers on the board.
By Halloween, anybody else in the school would've noticed and said something. Ally and Normani have noticed and said something. They've told Lauren how the whole junior class knows already and how the football team's taking bets on whether or not Camila's going to be able to resist her. Whether Camila's going to drop the, "Sorry, but I'm straight" bomb, or whether she just doesn't buy the how do you know you don't like girls if you've never even kissed one line that Lauren used to get in Keana's pink satin panties over the summer.
And it all makes Lauren wonder: maybe she really is losing her touch? She dresses up as Sailor Fucking Moon for Halloween, even. Gets Keana to help her put the costume together and everything. Because Camila's a nerd, so she should be all over that shit. What part of a tight white shirt, big red bows on Lauren's tits and ass, fuck me red leather boots, and a skirt that barely passes the knuckle-test doesn't get a nerd revved up? Ariana flirts with Lauren, Normani flirts with Lauren, Ally doesn't flirt but points out how her bra falls short when the classroom gets Lauren's nipples hard — everybody says something but Camila.
She doesn't go out trick-or-treating with the girls that night, and she skips dinner, too. Instead, Lauren locks herself up in her room and tries to find any reason why Camila would ignore her like this. Lauren's hot enough, isn't she? Sure, fine, she's not some ginormous Amazon, and she's not tiny and skinny like Taylor Swift or some shit — okay, she has these wonky bow-legs, and there's a thin layer of extra flesh sitting on top of her abs, and her lips feel too big for her face sometimes, and she hate, hate, hates the freckles that sometimes cover every inch of skin that's ever seen the light of day. But she's hot, right?
Couldn't tell, considering there are days when she does nothing but stare at Camila and all it's gotten Lauren so far is a big fat heap of nothing.
Luckily, though, Lauren has perseverance and she doesn't have enough class to keep from demanding that Mister Morgan make Camila her partner for the next group project thing. It's on Archimedes or Anaximander or some other dead Greek dude, and Lauren couldn't give a shit less if she tried. The project's about as important as learning Latin. She's seen all the teen movies and after-school special dramas. She knows that group projects are the best way to get your man.
Or hot girl who wears boys' clothes, in this case.
Whatever. Camila Cabello is hers.
***
"So, I'm thinking of, like ... we can't just do the same thing as everybody else ..."
Lauren nods, but she only knows what Camila's saying because she can guess from the way her lips move. God, she thinks and fights the urge to sigh like some starry-eyed chick flick heroine — But Jesus God, Mary, Joseph, and Melissa Etheridge — Christ, I love those lips. (She doesn't know if she really loves them yet, but the 'yet' is the most important word there. For now, she loves how smooth Camila's lips are, how the curve of the bottom one looks just like the other girl's ass in today's set of breaking up the back jeans.)
She puts her chin on her palm, her elbow on the table; she lets her shoulders slump, and she leans forward. Not too far forward ... but this is her patented Awesome Boob Shirt. Sugar pink, so she doesn't look intimidating, with thin blue and purple plaid lines, so she doesn't fade into the background. Tight because she bought it one size down — unbuttoned to her cleavage (amped up by her patented Awesome Boob Bra), riding up when she pretends she's ignoring it and showing off her skin like, so what if I don't have perfect abs; you want me, you need me, there's no one else who you want more.
Her skirt is short, her makeup immaculate, and so far, this "study session in the back of the library" idea has only gotten her a run-down of Camila's ideas on hydrogen bonds vs. ionic bonds.
"I mean," Camila continues, "Mister Smith's not going to expect a lot from us in the way of saying anything innovative. It's not even AP Chem — it's just ... With the same topic, there's a lot of room for overlap, you know?"
"Oh, I know," Lauren says. She'd rather overlap her thighs with Camila's, or get the girl to notice how her tits are grinding against each other already. They'd chafe without the bra there, they're going at each other so hard. "Totally. Totally."
"So that's why — or, I think that's why, anyway. Why ... presentation's such a big part of the grade. And why we need to be, you know, different from everybody else." She runs her fingers through her hair. Lauren would rather be fingering Camila's hair for her. Carpet and drapes, if she could manage it — and she probably could today. With Normani, Ally, and Ariana causing a scene in the caf, there's almost nobody else here.
Just her and Camila.
Camila, who coughs but doesn't say jack squat when she feels Lauren's ankle stroking up and down her calf.
Camila, whose long bangs are getting lost in the rest of her hair, which nearly reaches her ass, and looks so easy to tug.
Camila, who keeps looking into Lauren's eyes. Even if Lauren weren't wearing her Awesome Boob Shirt, this is just awkward. How the Hell is she supposed to stare at Camila's eyes when the precious little princess won't let her go without getting eye-contact?
It's totally ridiculous, too, because isn't she supposed to want eye-contact from whoever she's interested? Lauren sighs and lets her eyes fall down to Camila's cleavage, listens to her rabbit on about ... whatever it is. More than listening, Lauren lets the words rush by her, blah blah bonding, yadda yadda chemical reactions, something or other about the periodic table — more interesting than all of that is the rise and fall of Camila's breasts while she talks. The way she takes deep breaths, thinking she's going to say something longwinded and brilliant, then hacks the oxygen up and goes into shorter clauses, choppy sentences, falling all over her words like a baby falling all over itself. This kind of thing should not be so charming. She sounds like she's high.
She probably doesn't even notice Lauren staring.
"What'd you have in mind, anyway?" Lauren says, because it's been a while since she said anything resembling a real sentence.
"What d'you, I just ..." Camila pauses, and for a moment, looks at Lauren like she's grown a second head. "I just said that — I was just saying that we should do something that's not a skit because everyone else is—"
"Do you think I'm pretty?"
Camila blinks. She sighs and scratches at the back of her neck. She looks like words want to come out but can't make her mouth cooperate in making them happen. The question sits down between them and for all Lauren can see, it's probably covering itself in whipped cream — she doesn't think she meant to say it. But that could be the side-effect of the silence. Which sounds worse than rusty nails on chalkboards and which needs to set itself on fire already. And as Camila looks like she's going to say something, finally, Lauren interjects and asks again:
"Do you think I'm pretty?"
"Yeah, I guess, I mean, I ... I don't—"
"You don't think I'm pretty? ... I think you're pretty—"
"Wait did you just say you think I'm—"
"Yeah. I did. Is that a problem?" Lauren can't even believe that she's gotten herself into this kind of mess. Why doesn't anything ever follow the script she wants it to? She and Camila are supposed to be making out by now, well on the way to defiling this damn library ... not staring at each other, then looking away, and back to staring, daring the other to do something first. It is not supposed to happen this way! Lauren sighs, shaking her head and letting her hair fall toward the table. Words. Making them work. She can do this. She's Lauren Jauregui, for God's sake. She can handle anything.
"Hey, look," she says, "I'm sorry — I didn't really mean it ... the way it came out. That was bad—"
"Not really bad, it was just—"
Her hand snaps up and she all but glares at Camila. "I'm apologizing to you, okay?" Camila nods. "So you're gonna keep quiet until I'm done, right?" Another nod, and Lauren continues: "It wasn't bad, you're right — but it was really defensive and you didn't deserve that. So I'm apologizing. But, like ... how long have we been in class together?"
"Two and a half months." Camila doesn't even need to think before she says that — a fact Lauren doesn't know what to do with. It could mean too many things for her to think about.
"Right. Two and a half months, and ... when, exactly, was the first time we talked?"
This one, Camila does stop to consider, ducking her head and zoning out at the table, and she doesn't come back into the real world with an answer. "... Are you hitting on me, Laur?"
For all that vacant look behind Camila's eyes is adorable, Lauren really just wants to punch something. What the Hell kind of response is that? It feels more than likely that she's just pissy because Camila's only taken two-and-a-half-fucking-stupid-goddamn months to put two and two together, but these logistics are the last thing Lauren wants to think about. Absolute last. Except for maybe the way she's furrowing her brow so much it hurts. And how Camila runs her teeth along her lower lip, then licks it. And whether or not Camila's stomach's doing these same backflips — but after all of those things, the logistics are the last ones on Lauren's mind.
Pretty much everything goes out the window when she grabs the collar of Camila's flannel and yanks the freaking Goddess across the table, down into a kiss.
Getting kissed back makes her heart rattle against her ribcage.
But, cool — she has to keep her cool, so she doesn't let this get to her; she grinds her lips into Camila's like this isn't doing anything to her and like her head's still on the ground, not trying to float off into outer space. The smoothness makes sense, finally: Camila's lips have an afterglow taste of Dr. Pepper lip balm. Probably a few hours old, but still there. Still canceling out how dry her mouth is and how her tongue, when it crashes into Lauren's, is eager but has no fucking idea what it's doing. But Lauren keeps the kiss going anyway. She's hungry for it, for the charity of sharing her saliva with a mouth that needs it — there's some contest going on between her and herself, judging how far she can get her tongue down Camila's throat.
Camila moans, but it's half a whimper. Pleasured, sure, but wobbling and uncertain, and not a call for anybody to try and taste the rest of her breakfast. Lauren slackens her grip on Camila's shirt, pulls back just enough to whisper, "Have you even done this before?"
True to form, Camila lets the words teeter out of her mouth on their own accord — her lips flop open and closed, open and closed; ums and ahs and er, I-s assail Lauren's ears — "Never — never quite that so much, I ... but I've kissed ..."
"You gay?"
Camila shrugs. "It's not — I mean, I — never really had the chance to —"
Lauren kisses her again — slower, softer, so tender she barely knows her lips have found Camila's again. "Could show you," she offers. "Or help you figure it out at least. If you don't mind giving up your first time anyway."
Camila holds off a minute, then nods, whispers that she doesn't mind — that Lauren's pretty, and nice, and she trusts her, she guesses, even if she doesn't really think the library's the best place to, you know, do it. She actually says do it, which is possibly cuter than the way she wrinkles her nose when she doesn't get an answer perfectly right. Lauren snickers. Nods. Gives her one last little, gentle kiss because, really, there's no time for making out, even though Camila's pretty good at it.
Anywhere else, and Lauren would make a big deal out of romancing a girl who's this high-strung, stripping her good and proper and rubbing down all of Camila's sinewy muscles, kissing her all over and giving her a better warm-up — but a quick glance up at the wall clock says they've only got fifteen minutes until next bell, and though a cursory glance doesn't show anybody lurking around, Lauren doesn't trust people not to decide that now is the perfect time to come asking about shit that doesn't matter. They've just got to make the best of what little they have. Lauren lets Camila's shirt go and slithers underneath the table; she gets a good spot on her knees, and palms up and down Camila's thighs by way of saying sink down in the chair so I can actually get at your pussy, babe.
Which works better than Lauren expects. Camila juts her hips forward and slips them down in her seat, and Lauren all but tears her fly apart. Button here, zipper there — obstructions, both of them, just like the cotton boy-shorts Lauren finds hiding underneath them. She smirks, chuckles just a little bit at the sight of the Superman logo; even though she'd love to comment on it, she claws into the waistbands and yanks both jeans and underwear down to Camila's knees. Pressing her elbows into Camila's thighs, she keeps the other girl's legs separated, just to make her own life easier.
It should go fast and fevered, but for a moment, Lauren pauses. She has to appreciate the craftsmanship down here — the sharp angles of Camila's hips, the way her thighs don't bulge but are obviously strong enough to crush Lauren's head between them. She slaps the inside of Camila's right leg; nothing ripples or jiggles, not even a little bit, or if it does, it's too dark under the table for Lauren to see it — and God, what kind of work-out does this girl do to get ripped the way she is? She digs her thumb and finger into the flesh, kneads against the muscles (not looking for any knots to work out or trying to be productive; just curious, needing to know how every inch of Camila's body feels); Lauren nudges enough to suggest that Camila come ever-so-tiny-little-bit-closer — which she does. So good. So compliant. And now, so close.
Close enough for Lauren to see that at least something took care of Camila's hymen for her.
Actually popping cherries is the worst fucking buzz-kill. Plus, they'd have to explain the blood if they got caught.
Lauren says a silent thanks that she hasn't painted her nails lately and lets her hand fall to Camila's pussy. Thumb first — she brushes it through the coarse hairs, ghosts it around the outer lips, slips it between them. It's moister down here — not wet, yet, but damp. Much nicer than inside Camila's mouth. Lauren takes her thumb back soon enough, though, drags it along the skin; presses hard enough against them to make Camila gasp, takes enough care in doing so that she's not going to hurt her.
"Oh, God ..." Half-whisper, half-whimper, it slips out of Camila's mouth, and Lauren retaliates with her other fingers. Skims her index finger here, over Camila's clit, then under it, over again, and away — back down to her pussy-proper. She's slick, enough for Lauren to get her middle finger in there as well, but Camila's muscles still tighten around her as she nudges around, pads her finger tips and the flat, soft edges of her nails along the walls — she hears Camila's breath hitch and pauses, working one spot over until Camila's breaths go kiddie pool shallow, quick and heavy and burning up with sighs, moans, groans.
And all bets are off now — the fingers come out, and Lauren dives in headlong, mouth open, tongue ready. Camila's clit is ready for her, too, thank God — she laps around in the moisture, licks along Camila's lower lips, teases, teases, teases some more — and to enough effect that she smirks against Camila's pussy. Camila's hand falls to Lauren's back and grips on, but she doesn't notice the shape of Lauren's mouth pressing its smug curves against her hole. Or maybe she does. She's too busy huffing, "Lauren — oh my — oh God—"
Lauren doesn't go after the clit tenderly, tough, not when time's short and the thing's red and swollen and waiting for her. Teeth come first — she grazes them down the top of Camila's clit, relishes the deep gasp she hears above her. With a flick of the tongue against its underside, she gets the clit between both sets of pearly whites and rubs it around, rubs them down it, then up again, snaps her tongue against it for good measure. Tactics switch — it's all tongue now, but with the same desperation of before; Lauren doesn't give Camila long swathes of muscle into muscle, but knocks her tongue around, pounds it into Camila's clit as much as she can manage, tries to shove the thing back up into its unaroused state. Camila moans; her fingers press harder into Lauren's shoulder-blade, shift forward so that the nails have a chance to dig in; were it not for Lauren's shirt, Camila Cabello would be giving her cat-scratches and that thought's hot enough she wants to start getting herself off too.
But Camila's the virgin here, and it's about here. Lauren curls her tongue up in the clit and for a moment, considers maybe possibly dragging this out —
But the bell rings first, and she's pretty sure that she's got muff-mouth enough for suffering through Mister Sheppard's English class.
Her tongue snakes back into her mouth, and her teeth go back to Camila's clit. She grinds them there once, twice, and then pulls back, teeth still fixed on the nub of nerves and skin and muscle, dragging along it as slowly as she can allow — and with one last nip. Another groan falls out of Camila's lips. Her nails force themselves harder still against Lauren's shirt and skin, and on the tail of the groan comes a shudder — no lady-jizz at least, and Lauren's glad for that. Saves her the trouble of washing it off her face.
She leans back, for the first time since she started this, and looks up at Camila's face — the flushed cheeks, the angry red shade that still hasn't left her lips (and might bruise — Lauren kind of hopes it does), the eyes she hasn't opened yet.
"Not quite covalent bonding shit or whatever," Lauren snarks. "But here's hoping it was good enough for you."
"I ..." Camila starts; she cuts herself off, a deep breath flooding her as she tries to steady herself. The gears in her head are back to turning, but Lauren takes it as a personal accomplishment that Camila's having trouble getting them started up again. "I think," Camila says again. "... I mean. I don't know about, well ... either you're just really good, or I ... I could be gay."
Lauren shrugs. "No rule says it can't be both, Camz." And she smacks Camila's thigh again — playfully, like a kitten with some string. "Come on. Get your pants back on."
