It was just supposed to be a quick tour of your campus and your dormitory, a little drive around the area so your mom feels more familiar with the environment her own daughter have adapted to.
"Pretty close to the campus, right?" You smiled from the passenger seat as she drove out of the driveway of your rented dorm once she was satisfied enough with checking it out, "I can even wake up just a tad late and still be early."
A tender laugh escaped your mom, hands on the wheel and driving down the road you've gone through since the start of the semester, "Not so expensive too, huh?" She nodded in approval.
Only then did her eyes land on a certain event going on on the side of the street. "Oh look! A car wash!" She exclaimed cheerfully, the wheels of your car immediately redirecting to that certain part of the street, "Your old man will be so happy to know his car's washed up after that awful rain last night." She snorted, patting your hand.
The moment your eyes followed her gaze, your smile vanished from existence. "Mom, no!"
Because, sure, a clean car would be perfection in your dad's eyes. But a clean car due to the hands of frat boys and witnessing it happen from within the car sounds like a torture in hell for you.
Especially when your mom parked the car right by Rafe Cameron and his closest frat bros. A frat boy with a cocky smirk, cap always on backwards, with an arrogant and snobby kook attitude as the cherry on top that makes him somewhat unbearable in your eyes.
How you wished you could evaporate into thin air when your mom rolled down her window with that wide smile on her face.
Topper Thornton first approached the car, grinning a toothy grin, "Ma'am." He winked at your mom, shirtless torso leaning against the side of her car door, his eyes just briefly glancing your way with an amused chuckle.
Before your mom could speak, you raised a hand to interrupt her quick, "Are the sorority girls doing the car wash too?"
At this point, even having to witness the tiniest skanky bra one of those girls would wear is better than having shirtless exasperating frat boys wash your car.
"Just us, sweetheart."
Of course he had to show up. What better time for Rafe Cameron to actually put work into his car washing other than when your parents' dirty car pulled over? Was it perfect timing or was he just being annoying?
"Cameron." You sighed, nodding tiredly as you slowly sank down the passenger seat, praying to god for a miracle of becoming invisible.
Noticing your familiarity with Rafe, your mom beamed with excitement, "Oh, who is this, darling?" She asked, watching as Rafe squeeze out the drenched, soapy sponge, his skin perfectly sunkissed; shirtless with that stupid backward hat still on.
"No one important."
"Rafe Cameron, ma'am."
He was smiling, all performative and charming wannabe! It sickens you seeing him trying to act all sweet and perfect in front of your mom, you might as well jump out the driver's window to strangle him in 3... 2...
Your mom turned her head towards you, almost giggling as she grabbed your hand, whispering enthusiastically to you, "He's cute!"
Looking back at Rafe, all you saw was his wide toothy grin, gaze completely locked onto the pissed off look you had on your face. He was enjoying it all too much, his face alone was practically mocking you. And even with every second you look at him, even with squinted eyes, you still couldn't find this "cute" factor your mom have found in him.
A scoff escaped your lips, rolling your eyes at him. "Just go wash the car. Squeaky clean." You waved him off, or rather tried to.
"Tell me more about yourself, Rafe."
"Mom!"
Rafe chuckled, the stupid grin on his stupid face only widening as he stepped closer to your mom's window, his lean torso practically put on a showcase for the both of you.
"Well, I guess I can say that I'm majoring in business, I play golf, and…" He shot you one glance. A glance that just tells you he's looking for mischief, "…I asked your daughter out on a date once."
A gasp escaped your mom, looking back at you, "I've never heard of this!" The look on her face was an odd combination between disappointment towards you and excitement towards the news, "How come I've never heard of this?!"
"Because it never actually happened, mom." You groaned, "He—"
"—Needed your permission." Rafe completed with more lies, "I told her I'd need your full consent to proceed with the date."
His never-ending lies only made your mom believe more and more that he's such a distinguished gentleman.
"Such a lie!-"
"How thoughtful and respectful." Your mom said in awe, close to actually tearing up from the "angel" in front of her, "Well, you've definitely won my permission now!" She laughed.
It took you a good amount of six seconds to realize she was genuinely giving Rafe Cameron the permission to take you out on a date. It felt like one of those wattpad stories of being sold by your mom to one direction. Except instead of the gorgeous Zayn Malik, you got the irritating Rafe Cameron.
Your mom smiled wide and happy, "Oh please, sweetheart, just go on a date with this cute boy." She subtly pleaded, "Don't you wanna make your mom happy?"
Well... you don't get that bright of a smile on her face every day. It's kinda sad.
It's his smile that suffocates you.
On one hand, you wanted to give your mom what she wanted, especially since you think she's trying hard to give you puppy dog eyes. On the other, you just wanted her to drive away from Rafe Cameron. Even better if she drives over him. Just to get away from his self-absorbed, cocky, shit-eating—
"Whatever." You sighed, already sinking in the passenger seat and regretting even letting her drive the car by the time she finally ended the convo with him with a cheerful shriek.
Delighted by your response, with a cocky and arrogant smirk on those lips, Rafe Cameron proudly washed your car, the wet, soapy sponge in his hand dripping while he lingered by your side of the car, stalling washing the roof of the car just to give you more time to appreciate his bare torso showcased in your window.
He surely must've thought you'd spread your legs open just at the sight of his glistening torso. But a difficult girl like you just makes this ten times more enjoyable for Rafe.
And just to make sure you know you're stuck with him, he leaned his face down by the window, grinning and winking at you before aiming the hose right at where your annoyed face was behind the window.
"You're dead." You mouthed through the window, looking like the equivalent to an angry rat clenching its fist.
"You're mine." He mouthed back, shooting you a wink before squeezing soap onto the window, blurring away your sight of him.
One way or another, he was already planning the date.
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Summary: It was the typical story wasn’t it? The Kook girl and the Pogue that she shouldn’t fall for. Even worse when that Pogue is the absolute epitome of everything your parents hated. But there was just something in that grin, wasn’t there?
Warnings: Cursing, I think that’s it???
Author’s Note: This is such a fun story to write so thank you to everyone that was asking for a part 2 - I hope you enjoy !! Please send in any requests you might have / any questions for me
Not my gif
“Alright, you wanna try again or are you done?” JJ asks, swimming over to you with ease, holding his forearms up onto the board.
You two had spent the morning, since the sun was just rising, with JJ trying to teach you to surf. You’d stood up for less than five seconds, and had spent the majority of the time catapulting below the surface when the waves crashed over you. He hadn’t lost his patience like you thought he would, and everytime, he’d swam over, helped you get back onto the board, and never been too far from your side.
“I’m so cold,” You shiver, your legs dangling from either side of the board as you sat bobbing over the surface.
He laughs, running a hand over your leg, “Alright, let’s get out, I can’t send you home with hypothermia.”
JJ holds the board and pulls you in behind him, holding out a hand to help you off. He was such a gentleman with you that it still managed to surprise you.
“Okay, so what we’ve learnt, is that you’re still a little bit of a Kook with surfing like that,” He grins, grabbing your towel and his from the pile of your things on the sand.
You hit his arm, “Hey, I thought I did well for my first lesson.”
He hums, leaning into you until his lips are centimetres from yours, “Only because you had a crush on your intructor.”
“No I think he’s pretty full of himself actually,” You raise your brows, JJ silencing you with a kiss to your lips, one that injects some much needed warmth back into you.
You shiver as you pull your top and shorts back on, your fingers tingling as the warmth draws back to them.
“Here, take this,” JJ reaches his hoodie out to you, pulling it over your head until he sees your face poke out from the other side.
Your hair is damp and sticking down against your head, your eyes tired this early in the morning, your lips a little chapped in the air. It’s in moments like that when JJ realises how he feels for you must be the closest to love that he’s ever felt. To him, you were everything.
“Stealing your clothes? That seems a bit official for us,” You cock a brow, pulling the sleeves over your arms as the baggy material drops low over you.
“Oh don’t be fooled, I give one to all my ladies.”
“Fuck you.”
He can’t ever let you be mad at him, instead choosing to wrap his arms around you and kiss at your jaw and neck until you’re giggling in his grip. But it’s terminated too early as you hear the all too familiar alarm ringing out from your phone, telling you to go home before your parents realised you’d even left.
“Come on, I’ll walk you back,” And he slips his hand into yours - the perfect fit in their mismatched size.
~~~
JJ’s at the chateau for the majority of the rest of the day, counting down the minutes until he could see you. The rest had noticed it too, the way his nose was buried more in his phone recently, and he’d found more excuses than ever to not be hanging out with them.
“What do you think JJ? Smoke boat and beers?” John B cuts into his thoughts and JJ looks up from the loose thread he’d been pulling at on the couch.
“I can’t tonight,” JJ shakes his head, chewing at his lips as if it wasn’t the most obvious trait of his nerves.
“Are you kidding?” Kie laughs, “Since when did you have so many plans without us?”
“I’m just busy!” He stands up and goes to grab one of the beer cans from the cooler, “And I’m here now aren’t I?”
“And he’s defensive too,” Pope raises his brows, “Something you need to tell us Jay?”
He looks at them all, their eyes burning into him, and scratches the back of his neck, swallowing down the nerves in his throat, “What are you talking about?”
“Is there a girl?” John B gasps, standing up to join the blonde, wrapping an arm around him and clapping his chest, “Is our little JJ in love?”
JJ ducks out of his grasp, shoving John B away from him, “Relax man, it’s nothing.”
The other three all exchange a knowing look but JJ chooses to ignore it, picking up his phone and seeing a text from you instead -
So I’m being forced into going to a party at the beach tonight, any chance you can get the pogues to come too?
“Hey, what about a party tonight?”
~~~
The beach is already flooding with people by the time you get there, instantly being spotted by Topper who waves you over. He’s got a can in his hand for you already, a grin on his face.
“I’m surprised you weren’t too busy for us,” He quips, slinging an arm over you.
“Yeah, I guess I could just about fit you into my schedule.”
It was true, since you and JJ had started seeing each other, you spent nearly all of the time that you could with each other - every night when everyone else was asleep, every early morning, every day you could spend in quiet corners of the island without prying eyes. It could only be you two when you were together, and you made the most of all of the time you could.
“Come on, Kelce and the rest are over here,” He guides you through with a hand on your back, slightly too low so it makes you hyperaware of the contact.
The rest of your friends were crowded around one side of the huge bonfire, all revelling in the heat and cheering at Kelce finishing off his drink. Across the flames you can see John B stood pouring out a can into a red solo cup. He hands it down to the blonde sat on a log just in front of him. His hair is pulled back from his face with the bandana looping around his skull, a hooded flannel around his shoulders that you were sure you would inevitably steal.
When you stand on the other side of the fire, his eyes look up to you instantly. JJ tries to hide the obvious brightness now covering his face, and tries to avoid looking at you for too long, but he can’t ever seem to take his eyes away from you.
It’s then that his eyes fall to Topper, now stood with his arm still on your back, too close to you to be natural. You see JJ’s jaw clench and unclench.
“You got a problem pogue?” Topper calls over to him, lifting his cup in the direction of JJ and his friends.
JJ smirks, piercing his lips and shaking his head, “Nothing.”
You take the opportunity to step away from Topper’s touch, making it as subtle as you can. JJ stifles a laugh, looking down at the sand and smiling to himself.
Eventually, your friends all disperse within the party. John B and Pope go to find Kiara and get distracted before they can come back, Topper and Kelce head off with Sarah and the girls to find more drinks. And so it’s just you and JJ sat on opposite sides of the fire, waiting to finally be yourselves with each other.
“Seems like you and Topper are getting on well,” He raises his brows.
JJ wasn’t the type to get mad about it, he found it funnier more than anything - he knew you weren’t looking at anyone else but him.
“Oh yeah, totally,” You smirk, “He seems to be a big fan of you too.”
“Maybe we should give him a show, just to remind him whose girl you are,” JJ quips, leaning forward a little like he is desperate to get closer to you.
“Whose girl I am? Really?” You shake your head, “That’s the route you want to go down?”
He laughs at you, the kind that brightens his eyes. It’s the face you want to kiss.
John B walks over with Pope and Kie, placing an arm in front of them to stop them in their tracks, “Are we interrupting something?”
You and JJ both look up and he scratches the back of his neck like he’s got to find some way of getting back into the mode of lying to them.
“No, just waiting for you guys to come back,” He clears his throat, “I don't know about (Y/N), uh," Another cough, "Hey Kie, did you get more drinks?"
You look at him and can't help but laugh, and in the moment, lying seems pointless, "You're seriously this bad at this?"
JJ looks at you with a flash of panic over his eyes, "I-"
"Oh my god you're terrible," You shake your head, "You're telling me they've believed you lying to them all this time and you're that bad at it?"
He narrows his eyes at you like he's sure you've lost your mind.
"Okay so we definitely were interrupting…" Pope cuts in, "What the fuck is happening? Is this a bit?"
JJ looks at you and then at his friends, "(Y/N)'s my girlfriend."
All three of them look at him and look back at you, and then again in the same order, the pieces fitting together. John B points a finger between the two of you, "Are you kidding?"
"Yeah, no offence JJ but you two are like polar opposites," Kie points out, "And (Y/N), are you sure?"
You laugh and shrug your shoulders, "He's not so bad."
"Alright enough of the questions," JJ stands up, finishing off the rest of his drink before crossing over to you, "We're getting out of here."
He grabs your hand and pulls you up next to him, and you'd be stupid to object. It’s like his eyes were made to solely be on yours, his hands made to only roam your body, his lips just for you. Different sides of the island and somehow you’d never met someone who you’d been so drawn to, so determined to never lose. It felt comforting to no longer, in some way, have to do that completely behind closed doors.
“So are your friends going to hate me now that they know I’m the one using up all of your time?” You ask him as the two of you walk off of the beach.
JJ laughs, “They’ll come around, you have a way of convincing Pogues to like you.”
He wraps his arms around you from behind and kisses your temple, leaving his lips lingering there.
“Okay, so as much as your friends now know, my parents still don’t,” You point out, leaning your head into his, “So where to now?”
Summary: It was the typical story wasn’t it? The Kook girl and the Pogue that she shouldn’t fall for. Even worse when that Pogue is the absolute epitome of everything your parents hated. But there was just something in that grin, wasn’t there?
Warnings: Sexual references, mentions of a gun
Author’s Note: Couldn’t started writing for outerbanks and not write for JJ of course !! Hope you like this one !! Let me know if you want to be tagged in future work <3
Not my gif
You know his eyes are on you, looking at you as often as his eyes will let him from the other side of the room, wanting nothing but your gaze to fall onto him too. You don’t bite, you let him simmer there in his own impatience.
“(Y/N)?” Kelce snaps you back to reality, “Are you even listening?”
No.
“Um, sorry,” You drag a hand through your hair to drag it away from your face, “What did you say?”
“Holy shit, what is that?” It’s Topper that notices, pointing to the dark purple blotch on the base of your neck.
He hadn’t even realised what he’d done until the mark started to show, and it had been a good few days of keeping your hair down or caking it in concealer. Though, today, you’d thought your hair would be enough. Evidently, it wasn’t.
“It’s nothing,” You pull your hair quickly back over your shoulders to cover it, fighting back the blush from your cheeks.
“What’s with the secrets (Y/N)?” Topper pries, “Who are you hiding from us? Are they here?”
His eyes are scanning the room but by the time his eyes get to the group of Pogues, he’s lost interest - instincts telling him you’d never go for one of them. You were Sarah’s counterpart for the Kook Princess title - both of you sharing in the ‘parents that own the place’ sort of lifestyle. To your friends, they couldn’t imagine you going for anyone from the other side of the island.
“Alright, well we’ll figure it out eventually,” Kelce wiggles his brows, “But as I was saying, let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah we can take the boat,” Topper nods, downing the rest of his drink and setting it down on the side.
“Coming?” They look at you, waiting for your feet to follow them.
“Um, yeah, I’ll catch up with you guys, I just need to pee,” You nod, “Meet you at the dock?”
They don’t question it much, but you don’t give them much of a chance anyway as you hurry off deeper into the house.
You get to the bathroom and pull the door shut behind you, not locking it. With any luck, a certain boys’ eyes would have followed you all the way here and he’d be coming in three… two… one…
“Having a good night?” There’s a grin tugging at his lips, his blonde hair splaying over his head in a messy mop, his eyes hazed slightly by the concoction of weed and beer in his veins.
“Asshole,” You mutter underneath your breath, “I told you they’d see it eventually.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you didn’t cover it,” He raises his hands in defence and your eyes catch with his in the mirror where you’d been frantically trying to fix your hair around your face again.
You turn around and lean back against the counter of the sink, moving your hands up until both of them link with his fingers, wrapping around his larger hands.
“Hi,” He smiles, the kind of smile that made you realise why you’d first even thought about liking him, it was irresistible.
“Hi,” You roll your eyes, an equally bright smile threatening to give away your facade.
JJ leans in and kisses you, lightly at first, just holding his lips over yours. But it doesn’t take him long to crave more, missing the feeling of you completely consumed by his touch. He hums into your kiss and pulls away, pressing his forehead against yours. Your heart was pounding.
He just had that effect on you - your heart racing, stomach fluttering, and blood boiling all at once. He had kissed you and you didn’t want to leave.
“Tell them something came up,” He mumbles the words against your lips, not wanting to lose too much contact yet.
“And go where?” You pull back just slightly from JJ but it only invites him back with you, chasing you to now be pinned against the counter.
“Anywhere but here,” JJ groans, dipping his head to kiss his marking on your neck, “Anywhere where I can add to this.”
You laugh, hooking your finger under his chin to tilt his gaze back up to your eyes, “Give me ten minutes, I’ll meet you outside.”
With a final peck to his lips, you walk away, leaving his eyes chasing you like a puppy dog before the door closes behind you.
~~~
The boys and Sarah, and a few other girls from your year at school, are waiting on the boat down at the dock as you walk over.
“Finally!” Kelce shouts, stepping one foot onto the side of the boat to prepare to help you on.
“You guys go without me,” You encourage, your words making Topper turn his head too.
“What are you talking about?” Topper laughs, knowing you were never one to call it a night early.
You place a hand low on your stomach, “Girl troubles.”
“Okayyyy…” Topper raises his hands as if to back off, “I know better than to ask more about that.”
It’s a smile of relief when you respond, “I’ll see you later.”
With that, you disappear back up towards the house party, scanning the seemingly empty expanse outside for that familiar mop of blonde. Before you can pull your phone out to text, a known pair of arms wrap around you and pull you up from the ground. You squeal and kick out your legs.
“I thought you’d keep me waiting,” JJ says against your ear, lowering you to the ground and holding your hips from behind.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” You smirk and lean your head back against his shoulder, exposing your neck for JJ to nuzzle his face into.
That was one good thing about having to sneak around together; when you did see each other, Jay couldn’t keep his hands off you. Though you were almost certain that would never change.
~~~
Under the promise to be quiet, you and JJ sneak through into your house. He holds one hand to your waist and the other laced with your fingers as he follows your steps to ascend the stairs towards your room.
The pair of you ass the room where, luckily, both of your parents were still asleep and JJ follows you as close as he can be to get to your ensuite. He lifts you up to sit on the counter beside the sink, assuming your normal positions. When the two of you had first started seeing each other, it was all just fire, and bedsheets and peeling away clothes and fighting for dominance. It was a hunger, a craving. But it was more than that now. He threw rocks at your window and brought over food at midnight, he left notes in the morning when he had to leave or wake you up before sunrise so that the two of you could swim together before disappearing to opposite sides of the island. And he did this - he brought you home from parties and helped you get ready for bed.
He gets out the toothbrush you kept for him in the cupboard. He keeps contact with you always - a gentle hand on your thigh or standing between your open legs. He was soft and loving. So, though that fire still burned between you, it seemed to do more than just ignite you now. And it was yet to burn out.
“I hate nobody knowing that you’re mine,” JJ mumbles into the quiet, tracing his fingertips over your collarbones.
You narrow your eyes, “And who said I was yours?”
He cocks a brow at you, shifting both hands under your thighs and pulling you close to him, “Do you need me to remind you?”
You wrap your legs around him and let JJ carry your weight into the bedroom, giggling when your back hits the mattress.
~~~
The sunlight streaming through your curtains is enough to tell you that it is later than it should be. JJ is taking up your half of the bed, his torso flush against the exposed skin of your back. The bedsheets are tangled in the mess of your legs together and the sound of chatting in the kitchen is what snaps you into reality away from this haven.
“Shit, JJ!” You hiss, “Get up, babe, you need to go.”
He grumbles in his slumber and tightens his hold on you.
“JJ come on!” You hit his arm, wriggling reluctantly out of his grip, “My parents are downstairs, they’ve got people over today.”
You stand up out of the bed and try to find your abandoned clothes amongst the mess on the floor, tossing JJ’s tshirt and shorts in his direction.
“Come on, I’m sure they’d love me if they met me,” JJ yawns, stretching against the bed sheets.
“You know? That’s a great idea, if my Dad’s got his gun lying around I’m sure it would be even better,” You quip, pulling your halter neck top back over your torso.
“Yep, nope, okay, I’m up,” JJ scrambles up, pulling on his white tshirt and fixing his cap over his head.
You look at him with panicked eyes but they relax as soon as your gaze meets his.
“Hey, don’t stress, I’ll go out the window, okay?” He encourages, “I’ll make sure they don’t see me.”
“Okay,” You take a deep breath, “I don’t want to know what my Dad would do if he found you.”
“Well we won’t be finding out any time soon,” JJ laughs, stepping close to you for a moment so he can kiss you quickly, “Can you sneak out tonight? I have a plan.”
“Of course,” You smirk, “I’ll see you later.”
“Oh, and you might want to cover those up,” He points down at the marks now along the base of your neck, a couple spilling down onto your chest.
“You’re such an asshole,” You shake your head.
He grins and ducks towards the window before you can get too mad at him, clambering out as quietly as possible and lowering himself down the wall.
You watch him walking slip out onto the road, just past where one of your father’s friends was getting out of the car.
“What reason do you have for being around here?” You hear your Dad’s voice shout out, watching him walk down the path towards JJ.
JJ walks with his head focused in front of him, knowing better than to start anything - he probably would have done before he started dating you.
You can’t see his face from this angle any more, but you can only imagine the grin curling its way onto his face.
john b asked you to housesit while he ran off to do some bullshit—you specifically, no one else, cause he was sooo sure anybody else would do something stupid and make all his cabinet doors fall off or something (even pope??) and you were kinda honored that he chose you.
that being said, when JJ dropped by for the first time when you were diligently watching the house, you should’ve known something was up. but he does that cute grin, that boyish one that makes you totally melt into any ridiculous thing he wants to do.
you swear you fucking blacked out. you have no idea what got into you. (JJ. it was JJ that got into you.)
on the bed—the one in the guest room you were staying in at first, one of the rickety legs snapped under the weight of you two, sending the bed crashing to the floor with a loudness that made you both laugh in shock a little bit, but didn’t stop JJ’s relentless pounding into you. the bed slanting even managed to provide a new angle, sending JJ plunging deeper than you’d ever had him, leaving your head swimming in blind ecstasy and quickly providing a blinding orgasm that crowded out all thoughts of how fucking angry john b would be about you two destroying his furniture
after that bed got destroyed, you thought you probably shouldn’t fuck in it anymore, cause you didn’t wanna break it anymore than it already was!! maybe john b could fix it the way it was now, but if the slats splintered further, you knew he wouldn’t be able to. that was your noble excuse to leave that room behind and move somewhere else, but you saw the devious glint in JJ’s grin as he eyed john b’s room, and his dad’s room, too.
john b’s bed managed to weather the pounding, but JJ was fucking you wet, slick dripping down your ass, his cum sliding out of you lewdly, spit smeared across your face and onto the pillow when he flipped you over, squirt raining past JJ’s fingers when they abused your cunt, and then soaking into the sheets. when your head cleared after the second or third time he used you, you immediately jumped up to yank the sheets and pillowcases off the bed, guilty at the unmistakably lewd smell and the way they were soaked through
the house had countless casualties. the bottom bathroom cabinet was crooked from when he took advantage of your lotion-slicked body after your shower, your bare ass filling out the sink as he slammed you up onto the counter and ate fervently, his eternally-sweaty straw hair marring your freshly clean thighs as it drug softly across your skin while his tongue prodded you open further and further for him. the faucet got knocked a little bit loose too, you think.
bent over the kitchen counter, where a tile had chipped a little—but not too bad. the sheets ended up stripped off all the beds, you were barely able to convince JJ that you could not fuck on a bare mattress. you’d literally never be able to get the smell out. you rode him on the day bed, and the way his fingers dug into your ass as he thrust up into you roughly told you that the bastard wanted this one to break, too. shockingly, it didn’t. you even let him fuck you on the porch, laying flat on the creaky wooden slats so no passerbys could see you, your teeth digging into your own hand as you struggled to stay quiet while he egged you on to be loud enough for the neighbors to hear. his back was streaked with scratches and mosquito bites afterwards, and there was a crack in the boards
when john b gets home, you actually feel like you’re about to get grounded for life. he catches you immediately, you and JJ asleep on the day bed, tangled up in the destroyed sheets and sweating all over eachother from the broken air conditioning. when he yells at you loud enough to make JJ wake up and spring out of bed, he’s immediately able to see the hickeys and bruises dotting JJ’s neck and abs and back. you’re fucking mortified. JJ is suppressing the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen. john b looks like he wants to kill both of you and then himself.
is it really your fault that the house couldn’t handle you two, though??
jj who got bitchy!kook!reader to crumble…and is a smug bastard about it.
jj had been pestering you for a very, very long time. constantly teasing mocking, and poking fun at you — always having a remark locked and loaded for whatever snarky, sassy comment you gave him that day.
for a pogue, he handled your attitude well. perhaps pogues just handle it better, as you’ve never met a kook boy who hasn’t called you psycho bitch with a big mouth.
the relentless mockery and vulgar flirting from jj, along with the lingering touches and downright gropes he gave you left you in a state you knew damn well you shouldn’t be in.
you often found yourself thinking about him late at night, and in most those cases, whilst your hand was stuffed into your victoria secret panties.
it was another one of those nights, playing with your own pussy until it was left sticky and throbbing, moaning jj’s name to your empty room. you had become sick of your pathetic excuse of an orgasms by your own hands, trotting your way over to jj’s house at gone midnight.
you were at his door, clearly disgusted by the actual state of the cut — and jj’s house, but feeling your own arousal, causing your panties to stick to you, it was the very least of your concerns.
which is how you ended up right here, in playboy pogues bed, getting your cunt absolutely drilled by him, his hand flat between your shoulder blades and forcing your chest to the mattress.
“this is all you needed, huh? just needed someone to fuck all that bitchiness outta you.” he drawled from behind you, amused at your slightly dazed look.
despite your loud, pornograhic moans bouncing off the walls as jj fucked you like the world would end tomorrow — you still had something to say.
“f-fuck you, pogue. this — this doesn’t mean shit.” You spat, reaching back to scratch your neatly manicured nails against his forearm.
he gave a deep chuckle, rumbling from deep in his chest as he grabbed your hips, yanking you closer, thrusting somehow deeper, hitting that spot your fingers or stupid frat kooks couldn’t ever hit.
“the sounds you’re makin’ say different, mama.” he commented, listening to your loud, borderline yelps as he pounded into you, hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave fingerprint bruises.
“g-god, you’re so full of yourself.” you hissed, and he leant down, snaking a large arm around your neck and pulling you to his chest tightly, other hand wandering from your hip to the bulge in your lower abdomen — pressing down on it with a smirk.
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♡⃣you can't sleep because of your parents fighting. you crash at jj's house, but accidentally disturb his sleep when you move too much.
pairing ! :⠀fem!reader x bsfdealer!jj.
warnings ! :⠀smut. handjob. fingering. swearing. blowjob. cum in mouth. male masturbation. unprotected penetration. abusive household.
the shouting downstairs, the sound of glass breaking, doors slamming. and you can’t breathe when it gets like that, so you do what you always do. crawl out the window and ride your bike straight to the only place you ever feel safe.
it’s late, way past midnight, and your hands shake a little when you knock on his door. jj answers faster than you expect, blond hair messy, a beer bottle still in his hand.
and the second his eyes land on you, you watch him soften. your wet lashes, hoodie zipped but not all the way, and pajama shorts too small for this kind of night.
“hey, hey” his voice drops low, barely above the music coming from inside. “what happened?”
you don’t answer. you just grab him, arms around his waist and face buried in his chest. he smells like weed and saltwater and jj, and suddenly the knot in your throat burns.
“sorry” you mumble against him, rubbing your eyes like a kid. “i just— i couldn’t stay there tonight.”
but then you realize he isn’t alone. there are two guys slouched on the couch, baggies and lighters scattered across the table, smoke curling around their heads. they look at you the second you step inside, and it’s that slow head-to-toe look.
“yo, jj." one of them says, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “this your girl?”
“nah, man. just a friend.” jj’s arm tenses around you, shaking his head.
then he leans down, close enough that only you hear it. “go to my room, yeah? i’ll be there in a sec.”
and because it’s jj, because you trust him even when you shouldn’t, you nod. you walk past the guys with their heavy stares, and shut his bedroom door behind you.
by the time the front door slams and the voices fade, you’re already half-asleep on his bed. the mattress dips and you flinch, eyes snapping open, but it’s just him. his hand on your arm, his voice softer than when he talked to the guys.
“hey, it’s me. you’re good.”
you swallow hard, eyes burning all over again.
“they were so loud tonight, j. like… i thought…” your voice cracks, and you hate how small you sound.
jj doesn’t let you finish. he just pulls you against him, holds you like he’s done it a hundred times.
“who were those guys?” you ask after a moment, your voice muffled in his shirt. he hesitates, which is answer enough.
“just… some friends of barry’s.”
you pull back to look at him.
“don’t worry about it, alright? i got it handled.” he coughs, like he wants to bury the topic, then forces a grin. “so you crashing here tonight?”
“i don’t wanna go home.” you admit, fiddling with the edge of his sheet.
“your parents are gonna kill me if they find out you keep sneakin’ over here.”
you laugh, a little watery. “what, you kicking me out?”
“no.” his smile tilts, tired but real. “was actually planning on hooking up with some tourist later, but…” he shrugs, eyes meeting yours. “guess i’ll stay in instead.”
you roll your eyes.
“guess i’ll take the couch.” he mumbles after a while, already starting to sit up. you grab his arm before he can move.
“no. stay here.”
he quirks a brow, smirking a little.
“but you always move too much when you sleep.”
your eyes narrow, lips pressing into a thin line. “jj.”
he laughs at the look you give him, hands raised in mock surrender. “okay, okay. i’ll stay.”
he disappears into the bathroom, and you can hear the sound of water running, the scrape of his toothbrush against his teeth.
when he comes back, you’re already tucked on one side of his bed, blanket pulled to your chest, phone lighting up your face. missed calls and texts. you sigh, thumb locking the screen.
jj doesn’t say anything, just pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere on the floor before flicking off the light. he climbs in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.
“you know." he murmurs, voice teasing in the dark. “if your parents knew you were sleeping with me right now they’d actually kill me.”
you whip your head toward him, eyes wide even in the dark. “yeah. that sounded so bad.”
he chuckles, the sound low, warm. “i meant literally sleeping in my bed. not like that.”
your lips twitch, finally softening into a small smile. “goodnight, jj.”
“sweet dreams, princess.”
sleep comes easier than you thought it would, but the problem with jj being this close is that your body doesn’t care about boundaries, not even in dreams. you toss, you turn, and eventually your back ends up pressed flush against him. your ass nudges against his hip, his thigh, making him cling to the very edge of the mattress just to keep from touching you too much.
he’s dead asleep at first, but then—friction.
so slight he almost thinks he’s imagining it, until you shift again in your sleep, pushing back into him without meaning to. he groans softly, the sound slipping out before he can stop it. his eyes blink open, hazy from sleep, and he realizes he’s already half hard, straining against his shorts.
“god no." he breathes under his breath, forehead pressing to the pillow. he pokes your arm gently, whispering. “hey… hey, wake up.”
you only stir, mumbling something incoherent, moving just enough to roll a little closer to the middle of the bed. it gives him space, takes away the pressure, and he exhales a shaky sigh of relief.
but then he misses it. the warmth, the contact.
he stares at the ceiling, wide awake now. his hand drags over his face, debating and fighting himself. then slowly, almost helplessly, he inches closer again.
your back fits against his chest like it belongs there, and his hips brush yours all over again. his breath shudders out of him, because god, he’s so touch-starved it hurts.
jj tries to be good. really, he does. he tells himself it’s just your body shifting in your sleep, just an accident. but then you press into him again.
he grinds, just once, slow, and his eyes flutter shut because it feels so fucking good. the ache low in his stomach spikes, and before he knows it, he’s rolling onto his back, one arm thrown over his face like maybe that’ll stop him from completely losing it.
he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t. he should get up, sneak to the bathroom, lock the door and take care of it there. but then his gaze drags to you.
you're curled on your side, lips parted, those tiny shorts riding up your thighs. and his self-control slips through his fingers.
his hand presses against his cock through his shorts, the friction making him groan softly, head tipping back into the pillow. it’s too much, too good, and he can’t stop.
“fuck.” he breathes, hips lifting into his palm, desperate for more relief.
he shoves his shorts down just enough, wraps his hand around himself, and the first stroke makes his whole body shiver. he moves faster than he means to, hand slick, hips rolling up into it, and the little grunts spilling from his throat are getting louder, enough to cut through the quiet.
the bed shifts under his movements, the mattress dipping and creaking softly. you stir. a sleepy little whimper slips from your lips, and jj freezes, panic flooding him instantly.
your lashes flutter, eyes heavy as you shift, searching for him even half-asleep. your leg drapes lazily across his thigh, holding him in place.
jj curses under his breath, his hand stills, cock throbbing painfully in his grip.
“don’t—” he whispers, voice hoarse, leaning close to you. “go back to sleep, princess. please.”
his heart hammers so loud he swears you can hear it. he’s cursing himself silently, because what the fuck is he doing? touching himself next to you, like some perverted dude.
he drags his palm over his face, chest rising and falling hard. he should stop. he should definitely stop. but then his hand shifts lower, brushing over your bare thigh. just barely like he can’t resist.
you twitch under his touch, a sleepy little hum leaving your throat.
“jj?" your voice is raspy and soft, like it always gets when you first wake up.
he freezes, but his hand doesn’t move away.
your eyes flutter open slowly, hazy from sleep, finding him beside you.
the sight makes your stomach twist—his flushed face, his hand still at his cock, his lips parted, guilty and needy all at once.
your voice is small, confused. “are you…?”
he squeezes his eyes shut. “shit.”
you push yourself up fast, heart pounding, staring at him. his hair a mess, chest heaving, pupils blown wide, his hand falling away like he’s ashamed.
“sorry." he mutters, voice rough. “fuck, i’m sorry, i didn’t—”
but the words die when your hand slides over his stomach, then lower, wrapping around him where he’s still hard, slick and heavy in your palm.
jj chokes on his breath, eyes darting to yours. but he doesn’t say anything. he can’t.
you stroke him slowly, watching his face.
“you... you like this?” your voice barely above a whisper.
his throat bobs, lips parting, and all he can do is nod.
the heat between you two is too thick to breathe in. you can’t help it. you unzip your hoodie, letting it fall open, your bra the only thing covering you underneath. jj’s eyes flick down, then back up to your face, like he doesn’t dare ask for more. like he’s scared the second he does you’ll pull away. so he just lets it happen.
you crawl lower, in between his thighs, and he doesn’t move. doesn’t even breathe, until your mouth replaces your hand, warm and wet around his cock.
jj groans, his head tipping back, fist clenching tight in the sheets. “jesus christ—”
you take your time, feeling him twitch on your tongue. his hips lift without him meaning to, fucking into your mouth like he can’t control it.
he’s close fast, way too fast.
“wait—, wait, you gotta stop, i’m gonna—”
but you don’t. you keep going, swallowing every sound he makes until he breaks apart with a strangled groan, finishing in your mouth, his whole body shuddering.
you lift your head slowly, wiping your lips, your chest rising and falling hard. jj’s hand shoots out, grabbing the front of your hoodie, dragging you up to him.
he kisses you rough, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning into your mouth as you swallow together.
when you finally break apart, both of you breathing heavy, you just stare at him.
“what the fuck was that, jj?” your voice is shaky. “why the hell were you jerking off right next to me?”
jj scrubs a hand over his face, still catching his breath, chest rising and falling hard.
“i didn’t— fuck, i didn’t mean to, alright?” his voice is low, defensive, like he’s trying to convince himself. “i just got horny, and you were right there, and—”
he shakes his head, teeth gritting, then shoots you a look. “but— huh? you are the one that just gave me head!"
you can’t answer. your lips part, your throat dry, but nothing comes out. you roll your eyes instead, huffing, and flop onto your side with your back to him.
“whatever, jj.”
he stares at you in the dim light. the room goes quiet for a beat. then suddenly he’s moving. the blanket yanks down, his hand curling around the waistband of your tiny shorts, tugging them down in one swift.
“what— the fuck are you doing?” you snap, twisting to look at him.
but his gaze drops instantly, and his breath catches. you’re wet. soaked, actually, the thin fabric of your panties sticking to you.
“so mad and for what.” his lips curl into a grin, low and smug. you whine, covering your face with your hands.
“you’re so annoying.”
he laughs, leaning over you, one hand sliding over your bare hip while the other palms your ass. “annoying, huh?”
his hand slips between your thighs, fingers brushing against your damp panties, and you jolt, a soft sound escaping your throat before you can stop it.
“doesn’t sound like i’m that annoying.” his voice is cocky.
you don’t push him away when he’s groping you, not when his fingers tease the fabric clinging to your folds. you’re letting him.
jj’s smirk deepens when you don’t stop him. your thighs shift, but not to push him away—just restless, nervous, like you don’t know what to do with yourself.
“mhm. i did that.” he mutters, dragging his fingers slowly over the damp spot on your panties. the sound you make when he presses down has his cock twitching all over again. “acting all pissed at me, but you’re pussy's soaked.”
“shut up.” you whine, face burning.
he chuckles, low and dirty, before tugging your shorts the rest of the way down. he tosses them off the bed, then hooks his fingers into your panties too.
“maybank—” you start, but it comes out more like a gasp when he pulls them aside, finally seeing you bare in the moonlight.
you squirm, but his hand is already there, fingers slipping between your folds, gathering your wetness. the first drag of his fingertip against your clit makes your hips jerk.
“oh my god—” you breathe, nails digging into the sheets.
he circles your clit lazily, watching the way you twitch under his touch. he pushes a finger into you without warning, making you arch. your walls clutch around him immediately. he groans, pumping it in and out.
“shit, princess, you’re choking my finger.”
"i mean— you do have big fingers..." you hide your face in the pillow, whining.
but his free hand tugs your hair just enough to tilt your head back so he can see your expression. he adds another finger, stretching you, curling them just right until your moans turn higher.
“nah. don’t hide from me.”
his thumb brushes your clit, and you’re a mess already, hips rocking into his hand.
“wait— jj, j—”
he grins against your ear. “feeling good?”
you nod desperately, and that’s all it takes for him to pull his fingers out, leaving you clenching around nothing.
“relax. you'll like this.” he says, sliding down the bed.
before you can argue, his tongue is flat against your folds, groaning like he’s starved.
“holy shit.” he mumbles against you, licking a long stripe up your pussy before wrapping his lips around your clit.
your hand flies to his hair, tugging, thighs trembling as he eats you out like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. every flick of his tongue, every suck, drags you closer, and when he slides those fingers back inside while sucking your clit—you come hard.
a strangled cry leaving your throat as your hips grind against his mouth. jj moans into you, drinking it.
“you taste even better than i imagined.”
you’re still panting when he crawls back up, hovering over you. his shorts are already halfway down his hips, his cock heavy and hard, pressing against your thigh.
“so... do you want my cock inside your pussy? hm?" he says, voice rough, though his eyes already know you want it.
you grab his shoulders, pulling him down. “yeah just—fuck me, jj.”
that’s all he needs to line himself up, pushes in slowly, and both of you gasp at the stretch.
“jesus—” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “why are you this thight?”
“jj, can you just— move.”
he bottoms out, giving you a second to adjust before pulling back and snapping his hips forward again. the bed creaks, the air filling with the sound of skin slapping, his groans mixing with your moans.
“you feel—fuck—so good.” jj grits out, his pace quickening.
your nails dig into his back, your body arching into his as he pounds into you, hitting deep with every thrust.
“mhm!— faster!— jj i’m—”
he growls against your neck, his thrusts growing rougher, more desperate.
your climax crashes over you, clenching around him so tight it drags a strangled curse from his throat. he buries himself deep, grinding against you as you pulse around him.
“fuckfuckfuck—” he groans, spilling inside you, hips stuttering.
both of you collapse into the sheets, breathless, sweaty, tangled together in the dark.
for a long moment, it’s silent except for your ragged breathing. then you finally whisper, half-teasing and half-serious.
“you’re still an asshole for jerking off next to me.”
jj just laughs, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “yeah, but you liked it.”
JJ taste tests all your different flavored ChapSticks.
cw: slightly smutty
“Why do you have so many of these?” JJ’s got one of your chapsticks in his hand, showing it to you. He’s been sitting at your dressing table, rifling through your things, picking up one thing at a time, fiddling with them, dropping (and almost breaking) one of your favorite trinkets — a tiny turtle figurine. You had scolded him once already, a sharp ‘quit touching everything JJ, just wait 10 more minutes and I’ll be ready to go.’ He had tipped his head back, groaning loudly, whining like a petulant child, ‘but I’m booorrred.’
You roll your eyes, ignoring him, continuing to try on different outfits in your closet.
“Seriously, you have like 20 of these, why do you need so many?” He’s playing around with them, dropping one on the floor. It rolls under the dressing table and JJ considers trying to get it before shrugging, thinking you probably won’t notice.
You sigh before stepping out of the closet, dressed in a pleated denim skirt—black, with a burgundy sheer top, fitted to you perfectly. JJ can’t help looking you up and down, lips parting slightly at the sight of you. You catch his eye, suddenly doubting your outfit choice.
“What? Is it too dressy for the party? I can wear a hoodie or something instead,” you say, already turning to grab said hoodie before JJ stops you.
“No, don’t change, you look beautiful.” You squint at him, seeing if he was joking or not. He wasn’t. You smile softly, heart thrumming in your chest at his words. You quickly change the subject, breaking the moment.
“What were you asking me? 20 of what?” You glance around the room, avoiding his eyes.
JJ snaps out of the daze, quickly turning to your tray of lip balms and holding them up to you.
“Oh I like all the flavors.” You take the tray off him, placing it back down on your dressing table, straightening them out.
JJ looks at you like you just grew another head, “Flavors?”
“Yeah, they all have different flavors.” You pick up a cherry cola one—your favorite—putting it on before stepping back to admire yourself in the mirror, doing a little twirl. JJ nods in understanding and can’t help the smile that comes to his face as he watches you.
You smack your lips together, closing the cap and placing it back on the tray. You look down for a second, and an idea comes to mind. You turn to JJ slowly, smirking mischievously. JJ’s eyes are wary, but still, he’s intrigued.
“I know that look, what are you thinking?”
“You want to try them? The flavors?” You’re leaning back on the dressing table, arms crossed over your chest, waiting for his response.
JJ furrows his brow, “You mean like put one of them on?”
You step towards him, hand coming to trace the collar of his shirt, looking up at him. JJ’s heart speeds up at how close you are. Your smell wraps around him like warm socks from the dryer—something sweet and floral, mixed with the faint smell of smoke and strawberry bubblegum. He inhales sharply, suddenly very aware of his arms. His fingers twitch at his sides, wanting to place them on your waist.
You shake your head, “No, more like…you close your eyes…I’ll put on a different one each time. Kiss you. Then you guess the flavor. Like a game.”
JJ feels his breath get heavy, his chest rising and falling quicker as your eyes glance over his lips. His mouth goes dry. You’re joking, that’s what this is. Trying to get him worked up to see his reaction. It had to be. Still, JJ couldn’t help the way his heartrate picked up, or the way his eyes dropped to your lips—plush, cherry red, parted—the perfect gap for his lips to slip between. His hand comes to rest on your waist. He doesn’t realize the shift—too focused on the way your tongue quickly flicks out over your top lip, dampening it.
JJ laughs, rough and low before clearing his throat, looking into your eyes. You’ve still got that mischievous glint, taunting, teasing. You were enjoying this way too much. You saw the way his body moved towards yours like a magnet, the way his jaw tightened, his fingers landing delicately on your waist. Your skin burned under your top, wanting nothing more than to push yourself into him, kiss him, taste him.
“Alright princess, stop messing around, let’s go.” He goes to move away from you when you gently tug on his hand, fingers slipping between his like they belong there. JJ looks down at your joint hands, before his eyes land on your face, questioning.
“I’m not messing around, you wanna try them?” You bite your lip nervously, heart thudding at the thought of kissing him. He was so close, his eyes twinkling in that way they did when he looked at you. You step a little closer, breathing him in — all salt and smoke mixed with cheap cologne and something that felt like home.
“Wait, you’re serious?” JJ’s fingers twitch between yours, his thumb absentmindedly coming to draw circles on the back of your hand. You sigh happily at the gentle touch, leaning into him further.
You bite your lip again, smirking, looking up at him through your lashes, giving a small shrug.
“Yeah, why not?”
JJ could barely control his excitement, the thought of kissing you—finally—after all these years, sending his heart into overdrive. Well, he obviously wasn’t going to say no — not when you were offering it so freely. He leans into you, lips parted, eyes soft as his hand slips out of yours, coming to rest on your jaw. You close your eyes in anticipation, waiting for the press of his lips to yours. You feel his nose nudge yours, so gentle, so soft. His lips brush yours slightly and your body melts into him, molding to fit perfectly against him.
He kisses you soft and slow, thumb tracing your jaw. Your hands move to his neck, tracing lazy circles to the skin there, tugging softly at his hair and JJ feels it run through him like no high he’s ever felt before. He pulls back, smiling, running his tongue over his lips.
“Guess the flavor.”
“Fuck princess, I have no idea, I can barely think straight after that kiss.”
You giggle softly, smirking at the effect you have on him. He’s dazed, eyes flitting between your lips and your eyes, before they flutter closed at the feel of your nails scratching gently at his scalp.
“Come on JJ, you have to guess, that’s the whole point.”
“Fuck, okay try a different one and kiss me again.” He closes his eyes as you turn to pick up another, quickly swiping it across your lips.
Your hands return to their place on his neck, leaning in to kiss him again. JJ’s hands come to your waist, pulling you into him before his lips catch yours in a heated kiss. His mouth moves against yours, tasting, teasing. He’s so soft—in a way you don’t expect. Your knees almost buckle when he tilts his head and deepens it, pressing your body into his further.
You pull away slightly breathless, head still spinning from the way he had kissed you. It was supposed to be a game; a few quick pecks that you could both laugh off. JJ’s eyes are wide, pupils blown and you can’t help looking at his lips—wet and parted as he rolls his lower lip between his teeth. God, you want it to be your teeth.
“Tastes like mango,” JJ murmurs. His voice is rough, deep, like he’s holding himself back from flipping your skirt up and taking you against the wall.
“Yeah, s’mango.” You smirk at him, turning in his hold to put another one on. JJ groans in protest when you pull away from him. You giggle. His hands grip the sides of your waist, refusing to let you go. Your lips go straight back to his—JJ gripping your jaw hard as he guides your mouth along his.
You don’t know how long it goes on, which lip balm you’re up to, if you’re even still playing the game. JJ has you on your back now— your head resting against your pillows as his hands trail down your body. You can’t help the way your thighs rub together, heat pooling low, feeling him hard against you. You roll your hips up involuntarily as JJ’s hands move under your skirt, gripping your thighs, fingers softly tracing the edge of your lace panties. You gasp as he pulls the band back slightly, letting it snap back against your skin.
“I get why you like all the different flavors. Fuck baby, can’t get enough of you,” he mumbles against your lips, groaning softly when you pull him back into you, lips moving against his once more.
It’s intoxicating, the way you kiss. Soft and slow like you want to be claimed, taking over just when JJ thinks he has any control—kissing him hard, possessive, daring him to try and claim you—teeth sinking into his lower lip before your tongue darts out to sooth the sting. JJ groans as your hands tug gently at his hair, running your other hand back and forth across his jaw.
“Strawberry.” He’s breathless, lips kiss bitten and swollen as he pulls back, his blonde strands splayed out under him like a halo. You had flipped the two of you over at some point, straddling his hips, moaning at the hard press of him between your thighs.
“Mhm,” you barely get your words out before he’s kissing you again — game completely forgotten.
a/n: this is honestly the silliest thing I've written but I had so much fun with it eeeeee. I really struggle to write kiss scenes (just doesn't come as naturally to me as writing other scenes) so I basically wrote this to practise writing different kisses lol, would love to know what you think!!
read my other works here: masterlist
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JJ reluctantly agrees to you giving him a haircut, but will things stay platonic when he moves too close, touch lingering?
“Man, I really need a haircut, this shit keeps getting in my eyes.”
JJ's voice cuts through the thick summer air, breaking the trance-like state you had been in, slightly high from the weed you had smoked an hour ago, worn from the day of swimming, skin still warm from the sun. You sit up slowly, untangling your bare legs from JJ's, skin sticking slightly.
JJ runs his fingers through his blonde locks, eyes widening as he sees the wheels turning in your mind, realizing the mistake he's just made. Your eyes light up, a mischievous smile appearing on your face.
"HAH no way.”
"What? I haven't even said anything yet.” You shrug innocently as he gets up from the hammock, walking towards the front door of the chateau.
"JayJaaayyy.” You follow close behind, determined to get your way.
“I know that look. You're not cutting my hair.” He turns to look at you, walking through the front door into the living room where John B and Kiara had been sitting.
"Pleeeeeaaassseee JJ.”
"No, get away from me,” he half teases as he walks away from you faster, pushing your hands away from him.
John B and Kiara exchange a look, sighing, used to the drama you and JJ tend to bring.
"Come on, I'm really good at it, I've cut JB and Kie's hair heaps of times – guys tell him.” You look at your friends, pleading.
JJ can't help but smile at the look on your face, eyes big, pouting as you wait on your friends’ help to convince him. JJ didn't really need convincing anymore, the second he saw your face pleading with him, he had folded, never knowing how to say no to you – but he played along, loving the fact that you wanted to do this for him so badly.
“It's true, she always cuts my hair, and my hair looks great.” Kie flips her hair to the front with a dramatic flourish.
"John B?” JJ looks at his best friend waiting for an answer.
"She's good man, 'sides she did a whole shampoo head massage thing last time and it felt soo good,” John B says as he tilts his head back and does an exaggerated eye roll.
A flash of jealousy passes through JJ at the thought of you running your hands through John B's hair. He looks at you and sighs dramatically.
"Fiiineee you can do it.”
You squeal in excitement, doing a little happy jump as you rush over to the bathroom, JJ hot on your heels. JJ can't help but grin as he sees just how happy this has made you.
"Not cutting it short, yeah?”
"Never.”
You smile as you remember the last time JJ had cut his hair short; almost a buzz cut, but not quite – you had pouted and tried quickly to cover it up with a smile, adding a weak It looks good Jay. JJ's face dropped so quickly at your apparent disapproval, vowing to himself to never cut his hair short again. He didn't know when your opinion had become so important to him, but it had, and without realizing, everything – from the way he cut his hair, to the clothes he picked out, and the perfume he wore – had slowly become catered to your taste.
You had once casually mentioned that he looked great in red and suddenly – unconsciously even – his wardrobe had gained 5 new red pieces. You hadn't really noticed – at least not the connection between him wearing red more often after you had complimented him – you had just noticed how good he looked wearing it. Your friends on the other hand, had noticed – Kie, Pope and John B all exchanging looks when JJ's eyes lit up at the compliment.
The next day, when he showed up to the chateau in his red muscle tee grinning like a kid who just got their allowance, Kie had to slap a hand over her mouth to stop the laugh from escaping. John B and Pope gave her a questioning look before she subtly pointed to JJ. Pope chuckled to himself while John B smirked and walked up to him, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “Nice shirt, man.” JJ would have picked up on the teasing if he hadn't immediately been distracted by you running up to him and hugging him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
"Hey princess.” He buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping around your waist, hands resting on your lower back, all but inhaling you and closing his eyes softly, never being the first to pull away. His hands lingered on your lower back as you reached for his hand and pulled him towards the dock, turning back and smiling at him, “I like your shirt, you look so nice.” JJ was beaming so hard that the others had decided to let him live for today, adding it to their mental tally of things to tease the two of you about.
───♡───
“I swear to god, if you mess up my hair...”
"You'll what?” you look at him, eyebrow cocked, challenging.
“I'll cut your hair – into a mullet.”
"You wouldn't dare.” You narrow your eyes at him.
"Try me princess.”
You roll your eyes playfully, pushing him into the bathroom.
"Relax princess, I'm not going to mess up your precious hair.”
"My hair is precious, my one beauty,” he teases in a mock high-pitched voice, feigning flicking his hair behind him with his hand.
You laugh as you move to the room, picking up a chair for him to sit on. You place it in front of the bathroom sink, looking at him expectantly.
"Sooo...”
“Oh shit, yeah how do we do this?” JJ shakes himself from whatever thought he was having, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Take your shirt off.”
“Trying to get in my pants, are you?” He raises his eyebrows at you, smirking.
“If you wanted to see me shirtless, could've just asked you know?” He says, rougher, lower, as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.
You inhale sharply, the skin behind your ear tingling from the warmth of his touch.
"No you idiot, I'm going to wash your hair and I don't want your shirt to get all wet, besides, you're the one who's always pulling your shirt off every chance you get.” You roll your eyes, sighing.
"You love it.” He winks before grabbing his collar, pulling his shirt over his head in one quick motion, tossing it to the floor.
You can't help but let your eyes drop quickly, gaze casting over the defined lines of his abs, never getting enough of seeing him like this.
You snap out of it, looking up at him, ready for him to tease you endlessly for so shamelessly checking him out. The universe had granted you a reprieve – he hadn't noticed – instead getting himself situated on the chair with his head leaning back into the sink.
You pull a towel off the hook behind the door, placing it between his neck and the hard edge of the sink. JJ's gaze drifts from your neck to your collarbone to your chest, smirking slightly at the position you're in standing over him as you shampoo his hair. His eyes don't stay open for long, fluttering closed as a soft groan escapes his lips, melting into the way your hands feel massaging his scalp.
"Fuck that feels soo good,” he groans, heat pooling low in your stomach at the small sounds he was making. He had to know how that sounds, right? Then again, JJ could be pretty clueless sometimes.
You swallow hard, stepping between his legs as he sits up, eyes locking on yours, water droplets travelling down the sides of his neck, down his chest and slowly disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. You avoid his stare, concentrating on trimming the ends of his hair evenly. You can feel his breath on your collarbone, warm and heavy, overwhelming your senses. You didn't think cutting his hair would feel so intimate.
JJ's hands come to the small of your back, not being able to resist touching you any longer. You're consuming him – your heavenly scent, your hands in his hair, your shirt barely covering anything – he could so easily place a kiss on the swell of your chest or reach his head up just a couple of inches and his mouth would be on yours. He could pull your legs down ever so slightly to straddle him and roll his hips up into –
JJ stop that's your best friend.
He lets out a sigh of relief as you move from between his legs, focusing on the back of his hair. JJ didn't know how much longer he could go not giving in to his thoughts. He can't help but feel disappointed though, wanting nothing more than to be consumed by you.
His disappointment is short lived as you return to your previous position, JJ not being able to control himself anymore – he needed to touch you, needed to feel the soft give of your skin under his calloused hands. You gasp as his hands come to the back of your thighs, legs clad in nothing but bikini bottoms, pulling you in closer. He rubs up and down, hands going higher each time, touch featherlight.
He whispers your name, voice coming out low and rough as he squeezes the backs of your thighs gently. You're still avoiding his gaze, feeling his eyes bore into you as you pretend not to hear him, focusing hard on keeping his hair even, breath shaking.
“Almost done, just a bit more to go right here.”
You put the scissors down with a shaky breath and start raking your fingers through his hair. He says your name again, louder this time, punctuating his words with another squeeze of your thighs. Your eyes meet his, just for a second before you go back to inspecting his hair.
“Uh, wha – what are you doing?” his voice falters, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries desperately to gain some semblance of normalcy.
“Just making sure it's all even.”
He nods slowly and moves his hands higher up the backs of your legs, almost cupping your ass but not quite. His thumbs start rubbing circles on the sides of your thighs and your eyes flutter closed as his breath fans over your chest.
“Don't close your eyes, princess, you're going to mess up my hair.” His hands continue caressing your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer, placing a soft, barely-there kiss to your collarbone – you bite back the sound threatening to escape – he feels so good being this close to you. You're suddenly very aware of the fact that he's not wearing a shirt.
His hand gently traces the scar on the back of your leg, knowing exactly where it is, the quiet intimacy of it making you long for him.
"JJ,” you breathe out, hands reaching for the sides of his face, cupping his jaw. You look at him carefully, searching, his chest is flush against yours now, fingers gripping the back of your legs gently. His eyes drop to your lips, parted around a gasp as his thumbs press into your thighs. Your hand tightens slightly on his jaw, thumb moving to trace his bottom lip. You feel him sigh against your hand, warm and soft, eyes closing.
Just as you swear you can feel his lips softly trace yours, the door slams open, John B's voice cutting through the quiet tension in the room as you and JJ jump apart, JJ almost falling back on his chair as your heart beats out of your chest.
He has a knowing look on his face, eyes drifting between the two of you. “We're ordering pizza, you guys want anything?”
“Uh yeah... I'll come with you,” you offered quickly as you tried to gather yourself, following John B out of the bathroom.
You feel a familiar hand wrap around your wrist, pulling you back.
“Wait, princess.” JJ lets go of you, hand coming to rub the back of his neck. You wait for him to continue, eyes darting around not wanting anyone to overhear.
“Um, thanks for the haircut,” he mumbles.
“S all good, do you like it?” you breathe out, half relieved that he didn't bring up the almost kiss.
"Yeah, yeah I do, do you like it?”
“I love it Jay.” You smile as your hand comes up to his hair, ruffling it.
“Alright come on then, let's go have some pizza.” He grins, pulling you down the hall as you laugh softly.
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you're obsessed with your boyfriend's biceps and jj wants to test just how obsessed
cw: sexting, self-pleasure (f and m), sex toys (dildo), rough sex, slight choking, headlock, mirror sex, unprotected p in v, fingering, hair pulling, biting (duh, it's jj's biceps hehe)
It was no secret that you were obsessed with your boyfriend’s biceps — constantly asking JJ to send you pictures of him flexing, wrapping your hand around his upper arm and holding on while the two of you walked. Your favorite had to be watching his biceps strain when he’d hold himself over you as he fucked you into the mattress. Your eyes would roll back, the sight enough to have you coming around him.
So when JJ walks out of the chateau wearing a red muscle tee, arms on full display, you can’t help the way your words trail off mid-sentence or the way your eyes trace down the length of his arms. JJ’s oblivious, talking to John B, trying to convince him that he can be trusted with the twinkie for the day.
He raises his arms, pointing to his chest as he pleads with John B, “Come on man, s’me, you can trust me.”
You’re not paying attention to what the girls are talking about — Sarah and Kie rolling their eyes playfully when Cleo nods her head in JJ’s direction with a smirk, silently explaining why you’d gone bye-bye. You were practically salivating at the sight of his arm flexing, skin stretched tight around the ripple of muscle. He looked too good in that tee. You wanted to rip it off him and climb him like a tree.
JJ looks over at you, smirking when he notices the way your eyes haven’t left his arms, or the way you gulp when his eyes meet yours. You look away, smiling nervously as JJ comes to sit next to you. He pulls you onto his lap, arm wrapping around you as he rests his chin on your shoulder. You feel the hard press of his chest to your back — warm and steady. He smells like the cheap cologne you bought him that you’d come to love. It smelt like safety and love and pure want.
JJ notices the way you shift against him — trying and failing to pay attention to what the group is talking about. He knows the effect he has on you— pressing himself closer, moving his lips to the shell of your ear.
“What’s wrong baby? You seem like you’re on edge,” JJ whispers into your ear.
“Nothing’s wrong Jayj, just missed you,” you mumble as you turn your head, nuzzling your face against his upper arm and placing a soft kiss to the skin. JJ shakes his head in disbelief, letting out a chuckle as his heart swells, completely in awe of his beautiful girlfriend so head over heels for him.
He knows it’s more than that, knows you’ve been wanting him for days, sending him texts of all the things you wanted him to do to you when you see him.
I miss you so much JJ, want your fingers in me so bad
You had sent a video a couple minutes later — fingers sliding in and out of yourself, the sound of wet squelching heard along with your soft moans.
Mine don’t get the spot like yours do. Want to hold onto your arm while you push them in knuckle deep
JJ had watched that video on repeat, groaning at the sounds of your wet pussy, sending you a video of his hand stroking his cock, arm flexing in the mirror before coming all over his hand, moaning your name.
It had been all you needed to reach your orgasm, coming hard as you pictured him hovering over you.
The next day it was a video of you fucking your dildo into yourself, moaning his name as your thighs shook.
Need your dick deep inside me JJ please
Want you to wrap your arm around my neck and fuck me from behind
JJ could barely think straight when he opened your message, hand running down his face in defeat as he pulled his hard dick out of his shorts.
Fuck baby, you’re going to be the death of me, i’m so fucking hard you have no idea, want to fuck that pussy so bad
You’d been going back and forth for the past week, both of you working late and well — busy. Today however, your schedules had lined up and you had your place to yourself for the night. Your panties were already soaked as the messages you had sent to each other played through your mind. You could barely care that you hadn’t seen the rest of your friends for two weeks — needing JJ more than ever.
“I know how much you love when I wear this shirt. Know how much you love looking at my arms. You wanna take it off me?” JJ’s voice is low and rough in your ear, sending warmth down your spine.
You nod slowly, pressing your thighs together, heart beating out of your chest at JJ’s words. You’re so aware of the group sitting so close, of your ass pressed to JJ’s dick. You feel him push his hips up — just the slightest bit — the movement so small it could easily be mistaken as JJ shifting his weight.
“Yeah I know you do baby.” He kisses the back of your neck, brushing your hair out of the way gently. His hand comes to rest on your thigh, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin as you try to hold back a moan at the feel of him kissing your neck. You look around frantically — no one has noticed a thing, everyone too focused on John B and Sarah talking.
You gasp when you feel him do it again, the feel of his dick hardening against your ass almost too much to bear. You can feel yourself dripping, panties sticking to you almost uncomfortably, pussy practically throbbing with need now.
“JJ, pleaseee, let’s go.” You whine softly, head turned towards him so the others don’t hear.
“Not yet baby, want to have you so ready for me, you’re trembling before I even fuck you.” JJ chuckles as you whine in protest, tugging on his hand.
JJ continues tracing maddeningly soft circles to your bare thigh, hand going higher and higher until his thumb is under the hem of your skirt. He places a kiss to the back of your neck every now and then, shifting underneath you, his hard dick pressing into your ass every time. You try to shift so that your pussy presses against his thigh — needing friction more than air, but JJ catches it — holding you in place, arm flexing against your stomach.
“Want me to fuck you now baby?”
You could cry as you nod — desperate for him to take you home.
JJ groans when you push your ass into him, finally snapping and getting up, waving a quick goodbye to the pogues, not at all subtle about the way he drags you away — you giggling as he pushes you against the door of the twinkie, arm braced next to your head, lips catching yours in a heated kiss. His hands are all over you, groping at your chest, gripping your jaw hard as he guides your mouth along his.
“Fuck, get in, get in.” JJ rushes to the other side, turning the ignition on and getting to yours in record time. He had almost pulled over to the side of the road to fuck you then and there when you had started palming at him through his shorts, your other hand rubbing over the wet spot on your panties, moaning JJ’s name as he drove.
You’re in your bathroom now, completely naked, sitting on your sink with your legs wrapped around JJ’s waist, his fingers curling into you over and over as you hold onto him, watching the way the muscles in his arm flex with every movement. You’d already come once— JJ refusing to stop, the heel of his hand pressing into your clit.
“You mean all that shit you sent me? You really want me to put you in a headlock and fuck you from behind?” JJ’s breathless as he pulls away from your neck.
“Mhm, please JJ.” You grind your hips forward, chasing your orgasm.
“Fuck baby, you sure?”
You smirk before turning your head to his other arm, biting down on his bicep as JJ groans, rutting his hips against your leg.
“M’sure, want it wrapped around me, pressing into my cheek while I watch in the mirror.”
“If it’s too much or you need me to stop, tap my arm twice, okay?”
“I will, now please fuck me JJ.”
“You asked for it baby.”
It’s so much — the stretch of him, the drag — every inch of his cock pushing through your warm wet walls.
He thrusts hard. Deep.
You cry out—his tip hitting that soft spot inside you that has you shaking, knees threatening to give out. Your head falls forward — limp — eyes rolling back, not a single coherent thought running through you.
You come back to the room when you feel a soft sting — JJ tugging at the roots of your hair — hard. His bicep presses into your cheek, arm tightening around your neck. You let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a gasp.
“Look at me, baby. You’re gonna watch me fuck you, watch me ruin you.” His lips brush over your ear, your eyes fluttering closed at the feel of his hot breath.
JJ places a soft kiss to your cheek, smirking at you in the mirror, watching as your eyes struggle to stay open. His dick nudges that spot inside you again — hard, steady and then again.
And again.
And again.
Your head threatens to fall forward, mind going dumb on the pleasure rolling through you. You let out a soft, almost broken sound. It’s so small, barely a whimper, a moan of JJ’s name. The sound runs down his spine, settling at the base, his hips thrusting forward even harder.
“Oh my god JJ! Fuuuck JJ — that’s — you feel—” Your words cut off with a loud moan as JJ fucks you harder, your hips jutting against the hard sink, sure to leave bruises. You can barely care when JJ’s fucking you so good, you see stars.
Your hands scramble for purchase, landing on the edge of the sink and gripping tight before quickly moving to hold onto his arm as it tightens around your neck.
JJ’s eyes snap to yours in the mirror, slowing his thrusts and loosening his grip for a second to check that you’re okay. You push your ass back onto him, and push your cheek into his bicep, giving him a small nod and smiling wickedly as you watch his eyes roll back when you fuck yourself back onto him. You turn your head in his grip, and bite down on his bicep — hard.
“Fuck, my filthy girl, you’re so perfect.” JJ practically growls, grip tightening, locking your head in place. His other hand digs into your hip as he pounds into you — the sounds of skin smacking filling the room once more.
“Fuck JJ, m’gonna come again, fuck fuck fuck, please JJ please.” Your eyes close as you feel yourself get close, snapping open when you feel JJ pull your hair.
“Watch, don’t take your — fuckkk ahh baby — don’t take…your eyes off me when you come.” JJ grunts as he fucks you impossibly harder.
Your orgasm crashes into you like never before — your vision going completely white as you babble JJ’s name incoherently, clenching around him again and again.
“Fuck baby, m’so close, where do you want me — shit baby, m’coming.”
“Inside JJ, please, please,” you beg as you push your hips back to meet his thrusts, desperate to feel him reach his high. He comes with a loud groan, spilling inside you as his hips falter. You feel the rush of him, warm and wet, and push your hips back harder, fucking him through it. You come again — hot and fast — gushing around him and JJ’s breath stutters, head falling limp to your shoulder.
“Fuck baby, did you just come again? That quick?” JJ’s breathless, eyes wide as he feels you clench around him, sucking him in — unable to let out anything other than a loud moan.
Your body is trembling, legs like jelly and brain turned to complete mush, whimpering as he pulls out of you. You can barely breathe, eyes still fluttering shut, head falling limp onto JJ’s shoulder. He turns you in his hold, holding you to his chest as his hand rubs up and down your back.
You pull back slowly, looking up at him — soft, dazed, worshipful. His hand comes to rest on the side of your face, thumb brushing back and forth across your cheek as he gazes down at you with pure adoration.
“Fuck baby, are you okay?”
You giggle softly, “More than okay, JJ, that was perfect.”
His lips find yours in a soft kiss, smiling against your lips, before pulling away laughing.
“Did you really come again just from me coming inside you?” JJ teases.
Your hand swats at his chest, gasping in mock offense. “Shut up, you love it.”
He chuckles as he kisses your forehead, “I do love it, and I love you.”
You turn away from him to turn the shower on — smiling wide, teasing.
“I love you too, but not as much as I love your biceps.” Your hand wraps around his right arm, squeezing tight as you fake moan.
JJ rolls his eyes playfully, shaking his head at you.
God, you’re perfect, he thinks. His girl.
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Synopsis: When you're forced to move in with your aunt on the figure eight after your mothers passing, you struggle to fit in. You're not quite a Kook, but you can't call yourself a Pogue anymore either. When you meet JJ Maybank, he makes his dislike for you clear, at least until you spend some more time together. requested here!
Word Count: 12.1k
Warnings: not spellchecked, Grief and loss of a parent, rafe cameron, mentions of abuse. Em dashes used but I just love them so much guys istg this is not ai
The house feels empty. It's too big and void of people compared to your old place, and sound seems to echo through the halls. You moved to the outer banks a few months ago after your mothers passing and haven't been able to get used to the changes. Your aunt is what people on this island call a "kook" which now, you guess, by extension makes you one too.
It sounds cool in theory. Living in luxury, having enough money to buy and do whatever you want. But you're more alone now than you were before.
Before this you lived in a small, shabby house in what felt like an even smaller town. But you're mother made it feel bigger than it was. She had people over all the time, cooking meals for strangers with the little that you had, inviting neighbors with holes in their roofs over when a storm was coming. There was always noise, and nothing was ever dull.
Somehow, surrounded by rich kids and boats and holiday homes, the silence is deafening. Grief seems to expand here, with nothing left of your mother to remember. And nothing of your old life to keep close. Maybe that's why, despite your newfound Kook status, you enjoy hanging around in the cut.
It reminds you more of home, of the people you left behind and of the mother you lost. There's an older woman that works in one of the small shops in the cut, who always calls you honey and sweetie pie when you come in. She reminds you of your old neighbor Mrs. Davis. So much so that you accidentally called her that once.
But the woman didn't take it personal, introducing herself as Trudy Bills. She then laughed through a joke, "guess that's why I'm always paying 'em." and you tried for a smile when she added "guess you don't have to worry about that so much, do you honey?"
Not now you don't. Your aunt and her boyfriend seem to pay for everything without a second thought. It's not how it was 3 months ago when you had a secure job at the gas station, working nights to support you and your mother while she worked days at a local laundromat.
Despite the struggles, you know you were happier back then than you are now.
As you walk through the cut you wonder if you'll ever fit in. Maybe you could find a place on this side of the tracks, the one that seems a little more familiar despite not being home. You hear one of the Cameron girls made a place for herself with some Pogues, and even though she's more outcast from the Kooks now, it sounds like the grass might be greener for her.
Maybe it could be greener for you as well.
You've got a bag of sour candy in your hand that you bought from Trudy's store minutes before. You pick through it now, trying to find the good flavors and avoid the bad. That's when the group appears. You've seen one or two of them around before, but now it seems the gang is all here.
And amongst them is none other than Sarah Cameron. And Kiara Carrera. You've only heard her name in whispers before, and maybe this is why. She's found her way to the cut just like Sarah. Your heart beats faster in your chest at the thought of making friends, or even just being a part of something at all. You've been wandering the cut and the figure eight alone for three months now, and you're tired of it. Maybe that's what gives you the confidence to extend your bag of candy out to the group as they pass.
"You guys want some?"
Whatever conversation they were having comes to a halt. A blonde boy, steps forward, pushing past his bandana wearing friend to stick his hand into the bag of candy. "Don't mind if I do." he takes out a handful, but you let him. You offered after all.
You try for a smile, as the boy with the bandana around his neck sticks his hand into the bag and takes out a singular sour peach ring, unlike his friend.
"Do you guys know any good places to eat around here?" You say it mostly just to open up conversation, your throat feeling tight from the awkwardness of it all.
"Yeah," a small relief swarms you when you catch sight of Sarah's warm smile. "Kie's dad owns a place, the wreck? I don't know if you've heard of it." She gestures to Kiara, and you nod along as she continues. "Otherwise there's Mrs. Bills convenience store if you're just looking for a snack, or a bar and restaraunt called Salty dog back that way." She waves behind her and you follow her hand despite the fact you can't see the bar from this distance.
You hold up your bag of candy, now almost empty thanks to the blonde boy munching away in front of you. "I got these from Mrs. Bills earlier. But thank you for the other options."
Sarah's smile is so unbelievably disarming, and you force yourself to keep your gaze on her, if only to keep your nerves at bay. Kiara takes a sour bear from the blonde boys palm, popping it into her mouth. "Are you just visiting?"
This is going well, you think. Shaking your head, you clutch a little tighter to your bag of candy. "I just moved here actually. I think I live two houses down from you. Kiara Carrera, right?"
As soon as you say it, the mood of the group changes. The only person that doesn't seem to take this news like a personal threat, is Sarah. Kiara nods at your mention of her name.
"So you live on the figure eight?" she asks, cautious despite the fact she too has a white two story mansion in the area. You nod, trying to keep your head held high despite the change in energy.
"Yeah, I do."
The blonde boy throws the last of his candy into his mouth, and through chews says, "You probably shouldn't be asking us for restaurant recommendations then princess. We won't have what you're looking for."
You stutter, trying to change the perception of you the group already seems to be building. "No, I think Sarah's recommendations were—"
The blonde cuts you off, "Were you planning on talking to the rest of us or just the Kook's you recognise?"
His harshness has you taking a step back. There's a bite to his tone you don't like at all, and it has you on the defense before you can think the better of it. "What is wrong with you?"
The blonde laughs, looking to his friends in something like disbelief. "What's wrong with me? Really? Ask any one of your kook buddies and they'll give you a list Sweetheart."
"I was being nice to you!" you push back the wobble in your voice, taking a step toward the blonde.
A third boy, one with a backwards cap and striped button up, steps forward. "JJ's just not a fan of Kooks." he says, extending a hand to you. "I'm Pope."
You tell him your name as you scan the group "I'm not a Kook." you say, giving his hand a quick shake before shifting your eyes back to JJ. But even as you say it, you know it's not true. You are a rich kid now, even if you weren't before. You have privileges that people on this side of the island don't have.
"Yeah, not a Kook." JJ mumbles, "tell that to the pool in your backyard."
"JJ, stop." It's Sarah, the only person here you think might be on your side. Maybe you are best to stick with the Kooks. Especially if the Pogue's treat you like this.
"JJ?" you step forward, keeping your shoulders back and head up despite the fear of confrontation in your beating heart.
He tilts his head condescendingly, "yeah, princess?"
You reach out and grab his hand, shoving the almost empty bag of candy into his palm. "Keep it, since you're so fucking sour already."
You turn back to Sarah, gesturing behind her "You said the bar was this way?"
She nods, and you can see the apology in her eyes. "Yeah, just round the bend. You can't miss it."
"Good," You breathe, already moving. "I need a fucking drink."
-
The next day you try a different approach. You walk around the figure eight, trying to get a lay of the land as best you can. If you're stuck here you may as well find ways to enjoy it.
You walk past Kiara's house, and then Sarah's the farther you go, but you don't see either girl in sight. You do however see a boy on the balcony of the Cameron house, scrolling through his phone with a scowl. You don't wave or say hi. He doesn't seem all that approachable, and after yesterday's fail, you don't feel like making any more enemies.
You've almost made it to the next house on the street when a somewhat booming voice calls out to you. "I haven't seen you around before."
You turn to find the scowling boy from before at the edge of the balcony, looking you over from head to toe.
"Do you always keep tabs on people walking down the street?" you reply, lifting a hand up to cover your eyes as the sun beats down on you. It's hot out today, and you've heard the marsh is nice, but you don't want to risk running into Sarah's group of friends again.
"Are you a Pogue?" the boy asks, and you want to roll your eyes. What is it with this town and their classist bullshit?
"No, at least not according to them."
The boy frowns leaning on the railing. It's painted a bright white, reflecting the sun back onto him.
"I just moved in a couple of blocks down the street." you say, to clarify. Maybe you should just accept it. You are a Kook.
The boy nods, gesturing to himself. "Rafe Cameron."
Sarah's brother, you note. You call your own name back up to him, and he seems to realize how unpractical this conversation is.
"Did you want to come inside?"
Under any other circumstance maybe you would have declined, but it's scorching out and you don't feel like trekking all the way home in this heat without a rest. Plus, you're so fucking lonely that you'll take any company that isn't your own.
So that's how you end up inside the Cameron house, gawking up at the ceilings, the paintings on the walls and the size of the kitchen. You thought your aunts house was impressive, but it's no match for the Cameron mansion.
"You like it?" Rafe asks, and you can tell he's a little confused by your awe of the place. You're supposed to be a kook after all.
"Yeah, it's just...huge."
"Yeah." he says it more like 'no, duh.' and that makes you want to curl in on yourself a little.
"Sorry, your place is just way cooler than my aunts." it comes out weirdly misplaced, and you have a feeling you should just leave before you make things worse for yourself.
"You said you live in figure eight right?"
You feel the interrogation starting. This won’t end well.
_
And it didn’t. You tried explaining that you just moved here, that you were still adjusting to a life of luxury after years of going without. You thought the boy might find it endearing, to hear about your family, and where you came from. But no. He in less than kind words labeled you as a poser, a Pogue in sheep's clothing. And you left before anything more could come of it. It's a shame really. Not just because you wanted to make friends so desperately that it was getting hard to breathe. But also because Rafe Cameron was kind of cute. Or was, until the real him came shining on through. You wonder if he's the reason why Sarah ran for the hills. If maybe her whole family acts that way, and so she tried to distance herself before she could become like that too. Or maybe you're just looking too far into things that aren't your business.
You wander slowly back home, not wanting to return to that empty house. Your aunt spends as much time as she can drinking wine with "her girls", always out on a yacht somewhere you aren't invited. Which is fine. It's her way of coping with the loss of her sister. Or at least that's what you like to think. Sometimes it's better to make excuses for those who don't see you, rather than admit you're invisible.
You're sweating by the time you make it back to your street, and as you round the corner to another set of large and expensive houses, you wish you'd walked just a little bit slower. Or maybe a little faster, if it had helped you avoid the situation in front of you by a minute or so. As you come up toward the Carrera household next to yours, you see the blonde boy from the other day leaning against a pretty beat looking pickup truck.
He catches sight of you around the same time you do him, so there's no walking back the way you came.
"Well if it isn't the new Kook on the block." he pulls off his cap, and runs a hand through his hair as you move closer.
You try your hardest to act unaffected, giving him a pitying frown. "Sorry, I don't have any change."
JJ scoffs, and there's a show of his teeth as he does, like a predator ready to leap on prey. Despite this, he doesn't look scary to you at all. "That was a good one, Princess. I'll give you that."
You give him a nod, ready to move past this. For the first time all day you can't wait to get back in the house. Away from him, and the heat of the sun beating down on you. You're not looking to impress but you can't lie and say you aren't self conscious about the sweat clinging to the back of your neck. It's hard to make yourself feel superior when you don't believe it, let alone when you're not looking your best.
Still, JJ doesn't look all that pristine either. His hair is slightly damp, likely from sweat of his own. There's dirt under his fingernails and mud on his boots. There's a stain on the hem of his shirt and a rather impressive shiner on his left eye.
"Who'd you piss off this time?" You say, gesturing to the bruises littering his face.
JJ seems to wince at the memory, putting his cap on backwards and covering the blonde of his hair. "One of your Kook friends probably. Why? D'you wanna kiss it better?"
You roll your eyes, "forget I even asked." You begin the short trek to your front door but your feet only manage to graze the grass of your front yard before JJ speaks again.
"Rafe Cameron and some of his buddies. Topper and Kelce. You'll meet them soon enough. But a little advice if you haven't already?" He pushes off of the pickup truck to get better look at you as you turn around. "Keep 'em at arms length if you can."
You allow yourself a moment to examine the expression on his face. The black eye looks so painful you wonder how his eyes are even open. You take a few steps back toward him, and he stays where he is. "I've met Rafe Cameron, and it went worse than our little interaction yesterday. So trust me when I say I'm staying well away from him." You reach into your back pocket and pull out a twenty, looking up at him with the sweetest smile you can muster. "Looks like I do have change after all." You tuck it into his shirt collar, fingers sparking against the light touch of his skin. "Buy yourself something nice."
You turn and walk back to your yard, just as Kiara slips from the front door of her place. You give her a small wave of greeting, despite her lack of assistance in your defense yesterday. You have no problems with her, and you refuse to be the maker of one. She gives you an awkward smile and waves back.
You don't look over your shoulder to see if JJ watches you go.
-
Two days pass where you sit alone in the house. You lurk by the pool, but the water doesn't entice you other than for a quick cool off when the sun is on the attack again. Every time you look at the glittering blue water you think of what JJ said. "Tell that to the pool in your backyard."
You're aware of the privilege you have now, but you can't take advantage of that privilege without feeling guilty. You think of your old neighbors, the power outages and the lack of hot water in their showers. You think about how you used to babysit the other kids on the street for no money at all, when the woman couldn't afford daycare on the weekends. It's not that you don't deserve to feel financially secure. You know that after everything you deserve more than just that, but it's hard to accept the gifts given to you when you know what the other side of the coin looks like. You don't want to be one of the rich folk that forgets about the little guy, or worse, become someone who looks down on them.
Your mother would leave you out on the street if you ever did such a thing. You look to the sky above you, squinting at the sun, and ask her "What do I do?"
-
You don't have to wonder for long before a sign shows up on your doorstep. There's a knock on the door two hours later, and you make your way quickly through the house to answer it, not before the person on the other side rings the doorbell as well, announcing their presence twice over.
You pull open your door to find Sarah and Kiara standing there, both of them bickering quietly before you come into view. "Hi!" Sarah says, snapping to attention mid argument with Kiara.
"Hi," you say back, a little cautious. You try and snap out of it. This is your chance, you think. To make friends, and to make amends.
"We were wondering if maybe you'd like to come over tonight for some drinks? Just to say sorry for the way things went down last week."
Sarah seem so sincere, but you've got a suspicion Kiara isn't entirely set on the idea. You force the biggest smile you can and try for an enthusiastic tone. "You don't have anything to be sorry for," Not entirely true, you think, at least in terms of JJ. "But I'd love to."
"Great!" Sarah claps her hands together once, "Does 4:30 work for you?"
You don't even think about it, you don't have to. "Yeah, I'll be there." You haven't had plans for months, and the thought of something to do, no matter how daunting is enough to have to agreeing to anything. "Where am I headed by the way? Just next door or—"
"The chateau. It's John B's place, in the cut. That's okay with you right?"
Kiara seems to be digging for a reason to make you the enemy here, but you refuse to be. You don't mind at all, you prefer being in the cut actually. "That's fine! If I give you my number can you send me directions?" you smile wide to seal the deal, and Sarah is already handing her phone over to you before you can end the sentence.
You are going to make friends tonight, even if it kills you.
-
JJ answers the door when you knock, and you can tell by the fact that John B is running right behind him that he wasn't supposed to. He frowns as he notes your appearance, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Keeping your head held high you answer, "I was invited."
JJ gives an exaggerated look over his shoulder at John B, who stands behind him with a sheepish smile. "Sorry man, Sarah's idea." That stings a little, but you try not to show it. Is Sarah the only one who actually wants you here? If so, you already feel the itch to leave.
You allow a quick glance up at the sky, I'm doing this for you, mom. You think. "Are you gonna invite me in, or do I have to solve a riddle first?"
JJ turns back to you with a scowl. "You calling me a troll, princess?"
Folding your arms over your chest, you school your expression into one of neutrality. "If it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck..."
JJ frowns, ignoring John B's firm grip on his shoulder. He still hasn't stepped aside to let you in. "What does that even mean, bro?"
"It's a duck, JJ." John B mutters, but it's clear your comeback still doesn't quite land. Not the sharpest tack in the box, apparently. "Come in." John B says, pulling his friend to the side. You slide through the door before anyone can change their minds about you being here.
You manage to figure out where to go from there, because you can hear conversation creeping through the house. Everyone is in the kitchen, whispering harshly, and you can guess what the conversation is about by the way they all go quiet as you enter.
"You actually came." Kiara says, and you can tell she wasn't meant to say it out loud by the way she startles when you respond.
"I said I would, didn't I?"
"What she meant to say is, we're glad you came!" Sarah covers, smile ever present on her lips. You're grateful to her for trying, and it does make you feel that little bit better.
"Speak for yourself," JJ mumbles from somewhere behind you, and you look over your shoulder despite the fact every bone in your body tells you not to. He stands there with John B, who gives JJ a slap on the back hard enough to make the blonde boy cough.
"Sorry about him, he hasn't had his afternoon nap. Baby's just cranky."
You nod once, pursing your lips. "Are you sure he doesn't just have like a permanent malfunction or something?"
JJ smirks, and you mimic the expression back at him, distain in your eyes. "Okay kids, let's not fight, okay?" John B pushes JJ towards the fridge, opening it and grabbing out a six pack of beer.
"Yeah, get baby a bottle." you mutter under your breath, not expecting anyone to hear. But Pope, who you didn't realize had moved up beside you, snorts.
You glance at him and he smiles back. In an instant you're taken back to the previous week, where Pope was the one to try and keep things civil between you and the group. You like him so much already that your chest feels like bursting.
"Hey, catch!" You look toward the voice just as John B throws a beer your way. It comes toward you with an alarming speed you weren't ready for, and instead of catching the can, you dodge it out of pure instinct. It hits the floor with a unsatisfying smack, but luckily doesn't split open and make a mess.
"Ooof, man down!" JJ calls out, already reveling in your failure. "I'm gonna take a guess here and say you were picked last, for like, every sports team ever, am I right?"
You ignore him and move to pick up the can before any more damage can come to it. "I'm gonna open this outside," You say, gesturing to the porch. "Just in case it, you know..." you make an explosion gesture with your free hand, a little sound effect slipping from your lips to go with it.
"Good idea, maybe you can take yourself on home while you're out there." JJ drawls as you push open the door and head outside. His words hurt, and the feeling of being unwanted is starting to consume you.
Before you can overthink it though, a hand is placed on your shoulder. Pope stands beside you, an apologetic look on his face. "I'm really sorry about JJ," he starts, but you don't allow him to finish.
"How many of you knew I was coming?" You crack open the beer and hold it away from you as it fizzes over the edge of the can a little.
"We took a vote on it. Not including JJ."
"Why the hell not?" you put down your beaten beer on the makeshift table on the porch, and wipe your hands, sticky with alcohol, on your shorts.
"Because he'd never agree if we let him vote, you can figure that part out yourself. We needed it to be unanimous." His words come practiced as if he was planning to use this same speech on JJ, but found you instead.
"I hate to break it to you Pope, but it's not unanimous if someone doesn't get a vote." You glance back inside, and through the screen door you can see JJ having a similar conversation with Sarah, John B and Kiara. "I appreciate you having me over Pope, but I'm looking to make friends who are honest with each other. If JJ doesn't want me around, I'm not gonna plant my feet here and ruin his summer."
You pick your beer back up off the table, and take a swig of what's left in the can. "Tell Sarah I appreciate her trying. And thank everyone else for at least wanting to give me a chance." You smile at Pope, though you feel less than joyful as you step off the porch with your beer in hand. You make it all of three steps before you think of one last comment, something you just can't help but add as your frustration comes to boiling point.
"Oh, and Pope?" He looks hopeful as you turn back around to face him and the house. "Tell JJ he can go fuck himself."
-
You make it halfway up the street before a dirty van pulls up slowly beside you. For a second you think you're about to be kidnapped, or at least jumped, until you see John B at the wheel.
"Hey!" he honks the horn of his van, and it sings to you as you come to a stop on the side of the road.
"Yeah?" you glance into the van and catch sight of JJ in the passenger seat. He doesn't look too happy to be there, and you wonder if they had to force him into the vehicle to begin with.
"Come back to the Chateau," John B calls as he puts the van in park. "JJ says he's sorry." He tries for a smile, and then glances to JJ in the passenger seat, as if hinting that this is his cue.
JJ leans forward, so he can see you better. "I'm sorry, now get in the twinkie."
You raise an eyebrow, both at his abrupt tone and also with confusion. "The what now?" your arms fold over your chest as you watch John B clarify.
"The Twinkie. It's our name for this old girl." He reaches a hand out the drivers side window and gives the roof of the van two taps with his palm. This group of kids keeps getting stranger by the second.
"So it's like your mystery machine?" You ask, eyes scanning over the beaten and bruised Twinkie. How the thing is still running is beyond you.
"Pretty much." John B laughs, and it's such a disarming sound that you take a step toward the van and the boys inside it. "So what d'you say? You wanna spend a day with the Scooby gang?"
Despite the way JJ's apology doesn't feel genuine, and you can still feel the irritation radiating off of him, you nod your head. "Sure."
You reach for the sliding door of the van, and hop on in.
-
Back at the chateau for the second time that day, you feel a little more at ease. Even if JJ doesn't, the others must want you here in some capacity and that's enough to keep you sitting still on the porch, with a new beer in hand.
They ask you questions about yourself, some of which you avoid answering as best you can. Questions like "so what brings you to the OBX?" make you want to curl in on yourself a little more than usual. You answer as plainly as you can "Needed a change of scenery," avoiding the true depth behind your relocation.
It makes you sound a little snobby, which doesn't help JJ's already tainted perception of you. But you can't bring yourself to tell the truth and watch as the room goes quiet with pity.
"What do you guys do for fun around here?" taking a sip of your beer, you tuck your legs up beside you on the couch. JJ sits in an armchair at the other end of the porch, flicking the cap of his lighter back and forth.
"Same shit you and your Kook friends do, probably. Minus the fancy golf clubs and thousand dollar whiskey."
You spare him no more than a glance, noting that he isn't looking your way. He's stopped giving you the time of day, and you don't blame him. You're not giving him any attention either.
"JJ, can you just let it go, man?" John B pleads, and while you're grateful for the defense, you wish they'd just ignore him. JJ finally looks up from his lighter, his gaze landing on you with burning intention.
"What did Rafe say to you?" he asks and the question leaves you stunned for a second. The others look to you suddenly, Sarah in particular has a rather deep frown at the mention of her brother.
"What?" you shuffle your position on the couch so you're facing only JJ, and he repeats himself, leaning forward in his chair.
"What did Rafe say to you? You told me you met him and that it didn't go so well. Is that why you're here? They kick you out of the country club, Princess?"
You stiffen, not allowing your gaze to fall away from his. You will not show weakness, especially when things have been going so well up until now.
"He said a lot of things. He told me his name, he invited me in. He talked about the weather. It was a real scorcher the day we met. You'd know JJ, since you were sweating like a pig outside Kiara's that very same afternoon."
JJ sucks on a tooth, a look in his eyes that portrays something like touché. But still, he keeps pushing you for answers.
"You told me you were planning on staying, and I quote, well away from Rafe Cameron? Why is that I wonder?"
You untuck your legs from beside you and plant your feet back on the floor, the wood of the porch protesting as you do.
"You're the one who warned me against him, so no, JJ. Why don't you tell the class why it is that you think Rafe Cameron is the big bad wolf down the block? Tell them why you think I might have decided to keep my distance."
JJ looks to his friends for backup here, as if he expects them to jump in on your interrogation. But they all stay quiet, eyes flicking between you and him cautiously. JJ stands, gesturing to you wildly with open hands. "Do you guys not see how she's deflecting? Everything we ask her she pushes back onto us! She's untrustworthy dude, I'm telling you!"
"I'm untrustworthy?" You push yourself to your feet, trying to gain some ground against him. "I haven't done anything to you!"
JJ rolls his eyes and that infuriates you more. "She hasn't done anything yet."
"Hey, so what happened to innocent until proven guilty?" It's your turn to look around the group for backup. You lock eyes with Kiara, who for the first time, steps in to help you.
"JJ, I think you should just give her a chance. We all have beef with Rafe, it's not odd that she does too."
Pope nods along to her words, "Exactly. JJ, let it go."
JJ lets out a harsh laugh, and it echoes over the lawn before you, silencing everyone in an instant. You're starting to understand that this is something JJ does. He latches onto things in an irrational way, making enough of a scene that the others have to try and pull him from the invisible ledge of his actions. It's becoming clear that you are the new ledge he stands upon.
"You guys are taking the side of a Kook, over me?"
"She's a person, JJ." Sarah says, but there's a level of caution in her voice. She doesn't want to be the one that pushes him over the edge.
"What happened to Pogue's for life, huh?" He looks right at John B as these words slip, and the brunette boy opens his mouth to defend himself.
"We're not kicking you to the curb man, we're just getting to know someone new." He reaches out, as if to grab JJ's arm, but the blonde pulls away so fast that you can hardly see him move.
"She's a Kook, man! A fucking Kook is in your crib right now and you don't even care." He glances at Sarah and Kie, looking between them with accusatory glances. "And don't say some bullshit about how you two are the same as her, because you're not. You proved yourselves, and Kie, you were never one of them, not really. But her," JJ gestures to you, and there's so much distrust and anger behind his eyes, you wonder how he can hold it all. "She came here for a change of fucking scenery, born and raised a fucking Kook, just like the rest of the people that spit on us every day."
"Then why don't you go and tell them that!" Your voice is so loud that it manages to quiet JJ for a moment, a shocked expression littering his features as if he didn't know you had that much volume inside you. "If I'm such a Kook, then you can go and tell Rafe and all his buddies. Go to the country club with your megaphone and tell them all that they should invite me over for golf, and brunch and all the other bullshit they get up to. The bullshit that I don't know anything about, because I'm not fucking Kook enough for them. I wasn't born and raised like this, JJ. Three months ago I was just the same as you. So please, spare me the bitching and moaning about who you think I am. Because you're dead wrong, and if you took the time to look at me, instead of yelling in my face, maybe you would see that."
Your words land right where you need them to, leaving a deafening silence in their wake. You suck in a deep breath, holding it in your chest so tightly that it burns. As you walk towards JJ, the others on the porch seem blurred out in favor of your despondence.
"I know you think I've got it good over on the figure eight, but I don't belong there. I'm not Kook enough for them, and I'm not Pogue enough for you. What you think is so great about my little life, is actually the worst thing that ever happened to me, so please. Just shut the fuck up."
You're so close to JJ now that he's looking down at you, but even so, you feel bigger than you did before. You can still see the heat radiating beneath his skin, and you know he's not done even before he opens his mouth. "If the worst thing that ever happened to you was getting filthy rich, I'm not going to stand here and feel bad for you. Sorry princess, but some of us have bigger problems."
"JJ, stop." Kiara's voice is a sharp hiss of disapproval, and you take a step back, as if shot by JJ's words. He seems smug about it, for all of a second.
Your lip quivers as you try and keep composure, looking at him through unblinking eyes to keep the tears at bay. "My mom died, JJ. That's the worst thing that ever happened to me. And I would give you every cent of my aunt's money if it would bring her back, but it won't." you quickly wipe at a stray tear with the back of your hand, coming back to the realization that there is more than just you and JJ hear right now. Your teary eyes move around the space, landing on each and every pitying gaze. Sarah looks like she has tears of her own, a hand cupped over her mouth in shock. Pope and Kie hold a thousand apologies in their silence, and John B looks at JJ with newfound hostility. His eyes pan to you and you see recognition there, understanding.
You don't wait to see if he'll explain why. You turn on your heel as the barbed wire in your throat tightens, and leave before they can see you cry.
-
You make it to the main road before you break down. Leaning against a tree you make your best attempts at breathing deeply, as the tears push their way past the barriers you forced them behind. Your chest heaves with the weight of finally free sobs, your knees bending as you crouch down into the leaves below.
It hurts to let it out, but it's been tearing you apart for months trying to keep it in.
You sit there in the shrubbery, clutching handfuls of leaves in your fists, until some of the ache subsides. The permanent pain that festers in your chest when you lose someone, the constant stabbing that grows duller with time but never leaves.
"Hey,"
You startle, falling backward into the leaves.
"Oh shit, my bad." JJ stands before you, his workman boots crushing twigs beneath them. He's the last person you want to see right now and also the last person you expected to follow you down the road. You wipe your face with your forearm before looking up at him.
"Why are you sitting in the dirt right now?" he asks, before examining your face and getting the gist of it. "Shit, you were having a moment. I ruined it didn't I?"
"I wasn't having a moment," you snap, pushing yourself up and back on your feet. JJ extends a hand to help too late, and it becomes almost comical.
"I was just taking a breather."
"With tears." JJ adds, gesturing to your face. "A lot of tears."
"Fuck off."
You turn away from him, moving toward the road. Sticking out your thumb, you walk down the edge of the asphalt, trying to ignore the boy trailing like a lost dog behind you.
"I came to apologize."
You nod, but don't respond, unable to find the right words through the burning embarrassment. He just caught you crying in a pile of leaves and dirt. And you're humiliated. You would have preferred his apology to come when you were back home, done up all nice and looking like something he could never afford. Unfortunately that's not how the world works. It's never worked that way for you, at least.
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
His words cause the ache to return deep in your chest. It makes your stomach sink and your eyes begin to sting again. You push it back, shaking your head. “It’s fine, but thank you.” It is so unbelievably not fine that it’s getting hard to breathe again, but you don’t say that out loud.
“Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t trust your Kook ass, but I am sorry. Really.”
You would argue that you’re not a Kook, if you had enough air in your lungs to do so. But all you have left to give is a breathy laugh as you purse your lips and look up at the sky. You hope to use the blinding sunlight as an excuse for the tears that again threaten to fall.
JJ keeps talking to fill the heavy silence. If you didn’t know any better, you might say he was trying to distract you from the burning hole in your chest. “You know, I used the twenty you gave me to buy some weed.”
You look back at him incredulously. “If your weed costs twenty bucks it’s probably the worst weed of your life.”
JJ nods, pulling a blunt from his pocket with a growing smile. “You’re right, but luckily I dipped into the Maybank savings and put in a little of my own hard earned cash for this bad boy.” He waves the blunt in front of you, his canines flashing with his smile. “I think, since you covered half the costs, we should split it.”
The tears don’t feel close anymore, and the weight on your chest is beginning to ease. “You want shared custody of our weed?”
JJ winks, “Some might call it joint custody.”
That genuinely does make you laugh, and you realize it’s the first real laugh you’ve let out since you moved here. You reach out to JJ, smiling. “Hand it over.”
-
To say you're friends with JJ now isn't exactly true. You still bicker constantly, and he does tell you to "go on home to the figure eight" when he's tired of you hassling him, but things are better. Like now, as the group piles into the twinkie. Kie and Pope take up the long booth seat of the van, leaving only the single seat or a space on the floor for you and JJ. And instead of pushing you out of the way like he's done a few times before, he steps aside, offering you the final seat. It's not much of an improvement but it's something, and the others are starting to notice it too.
"Who knew JJ Maybank could be such a gentleman." Kie teases as you duck your head to enter the van, sitting on the decrepit red seat. Still, JJ doesn't give you much space, despite having the floor of van all to himself. He leans against the side of your seat, and his hair tickles your arm every time he moves his head.
After a while his hair grazing over the skin of your arm begins to get annoying, and you push his head forward with the palm of your hand.
"Woah, what'd I do?" JJ says, looking at you over his shoulder. He then glances toward Kie and Pope, "Did you guys see her try to break my neck just now?"
"I was not trying to break your neck you big baby." you prod the back of his neck with your pointer finger, and his shoulders shoot upwards like a defense mechanism.
"Do you guys see how mean she is to me? I'm minding my business over here and she's all up in my face. Pushing and shoving me and shit." He prods you back, a little harder than you did to him, on the side of your thigh.
You scoff, swiping at his hand. "I am not all up in your face you literally have your back to me right now. And your hair was touching me for like ten minutes."
JJ nods his head sarcastically, looking over his shoulder at you once more. "Oh my hair was touching you? So you tried to break my neck because my hair was touching you?"
"I wasn't trying to break your neck!" you say exasperated with him. You can't be in confined spaces with this man, it never goes well for anyone involved.
John B, still looking at the road calls out to you from the drivers seat. "Kids, stop fighting or we won't get ice cream later." Sarah chuckles at his joke, but it doesn't stop JJ from continuing.
"You're just jealous you don't have luxurious these blonde locks." JJ tilts his head back, now intentionally brushing his hair against you.
"Guys stop," Pope mutters more to himself than to anyone in the van.
You don't listen, and grab JJ's head with both hands, tilting it back until it's rested on the side of your leg. You see a glimmer of shock in his eyes that fades quickly as he schools his expression to neutral again. "Careful Rapunzel, I won't hesitate to buzz that hair off while you sleep."
A smirk slides smoother than ever onto JJ's lips, "Anything that gets me in bed with you is a win in my book." He keeps steady eye contact as he says it, even as Kie throws her sandal at him. "Ew, JJ. Don't be fucking gross."
For a second you sit in stunned silence, unsure if he's being serious or just fucking with you, before you shove his head off of your leg. "In your dreams Maybank." you mumble, folding your arms over your chest to keep JJ's hair from grazing them again.
JJ hums quietly on the floor of the van, and while you can't be certain, you think you hear him say. "You sure are."
-
Your first bonfire on the island doesn’t go entirely to plan. The night air is still warm despite the sun’s departure, and after your first few drinks you start to feel the familiar buzz of calm drifting through your veins.
But it doesn’t last long. You’d been informed about your new friend’s bad track record at these sorts of events. Though JJ assured you that the Kooks always started the fights, and JJ was only the one finishing them.
“Yeah by resorting to more violence.” Pope had uttered “which definitely helps.” The sarcasm in his voice was so thick you could have drowned in it.
Now, the beach is packed with Kooks and Pogue's alike, all with red solo cups or beer bottles in hand. And just as Kie predicted earlier, the Kooks are looking for a fight. About an hour into the bonfire, Rafe Cameron and who you can assume are Kelce and Topper, the other boys JJ warned you about, come sauntering your way.
You glance toward Sarah, stood beside you as her brother inches closer. "He's drunk." she whispers, a cautious tone to her voice.
"They all are." You murmur, keeping your eyes locked on the approaching boys. You want to glance around to see where the others are, but you know never to turn your back to a predator. John B went to get Sarah another drink, and with luck he should be back soon. You can only hope that because you and Sarah are technically Kooks, you'll be left alone.
"I see you found your people." Rafe's voice is a sneer as he speaks to you, nodding to Sarah. "I should have known you'd find refuge with the traitors."
"I didn't betray anyone." You speak calmly but still Sarah places a hand on your arm.
"Don't take the bait, he's just trying to get you riled up."
Topper lets out a short laugh, the blonde sneering at Sarah, as Rafe continues. "I'm just trying to have a nice conversation here Sarah, why d'you always gotta assume the worst of me?"
She takes a step forward holding her ground and ignoring Topper's burning gaze. "I'll stop assuming the worst when you get yourself some redeemable qualities."
From behind you, a warm set of hands land on your shoulders, and you flinch, head turning fast before you realize that it's JJ and not something worse. He gives your shoulders a light squeeze that sends a shiver down your spine. You didn't realize just how tense you were, but JJ must have seen it, his thumbs running down the back of your neck.
"Rafe, I was actually hoping to see you here tonight, man!" JJ's voice sounds upbeat, but it has a sharp edge to it, like a guard dogs warning hum before it growls. "You know, since we're just best buds and all." JJ proceeds to swiftly place an arm over your shoulders, coming to stand beside you. He looks away from Rafe for a split second, "You alright?"
His voice is the lowest mutter against your ear, and you nod, your arm sliding around his waist without so much as a conscious thought from you.
"Get out of my face Maybank." Rafe takes a sip of the beer in his hand, eyes falling back to you. "It feels good being right." He sounds so smug, and it turns your stomach.
"What are you talking about?" you're wary of asking, Sarah nudging you again as if to repeat her statement from before. Blood roars in your ears as Rafe answers.
"You're just as cheap as I thought you were."
You stiffen, fingers pressing into JJ's side a little as Rafe gestures between you with his beer. A poisonous smile taints every word he says. "If Maybank can afford you then it's clear you aren't worth much. But I'm curious, what's your hourly rate?" Rafe's gaze flicks to JJ, "Does she give you a discount? Two bucks a ride?"
Like a miracle, John B shows up, moving quickly to deescalate the situation. He's behind JJ in a second, pulling the boy back by his shoulders. "Hey, hey. Can't we just be civil for once?"
There's a silence that flows between everyone, and then JJ looks over his shoulder at you. You don't know what he reads on your face before he turns back to Rafe. "Yeah, we can be civil." John B's grip is still strong on his friend, like JJ is a horse that could bolt at any moment.
"Rafe?" John B asks, prodding for an answer.
Rafe's gaze slips to you, as he takes a final sip of his beer. "Yeah, I'll be civil." He chucks his empty bottle to the sand as John B forcefully turns JJ around, pushing him forward to walk back to you.
You find yourself taking JJ's hand as he comes closer, reeling him in from the deep end. "Let's go." It's said quietly, but still Rafe seems to catch it, laughing lighting. His boys join in, though you doubt they know what exactly they're laughing at.
JJ turns, and you tighten your grip on his hand.
Rafe raises his palms in surrender, "Don't look at me, JJ. Your second rate girlfriend wants to go, so you should go."
The words sting, and JJ looks back to you, head tilted. He smiles, almost reassuringly "I'll be right back." And then he's moving so fast that you struggle to register it.
The same hand you were holding seconds before is now balled into a fist and ploughing into Rafe's face. Your own hands come up to your face in shock, covering your mouth as he swings again. JJ only gets two hits in before Topper and Kelce get a hold on him, their fists landing hard onto his torso. JJ doubles over, but gets up quickly, ducking under Rafe's incoming punch and managing to come up behind the boy. You watch stunned, as JJ manages to get Rafe into a headlock, his arm tight around the Rafe's neck.
Sarah is calling out for JJ to stop, and John B is now jumping into the fray to assist. Whether he's trying to stop JJ, or help him you're unsure. Maybe, when it comes to JJ that's the same thing.
Topper lands a blow right on JJ's jaw, and he releases Rafe long enough for the Kook to get the drop on him. Rafe grabs JJ by the shirt and you watch as he gets in hit after hit on JJ's face.
You spare a look to John B, who is now tied up wrestling Topper in the sand. Next to them, lies Rafe's empty bottle, and without thinking you run to it. The glass is cool against your hand, and you grip it tight by the neck without a plan.
"Don't," Sarah's voice barely registers as you come up behind Rafe and put as much force as you can into hitting him over the head with the bottle. His fingers release from JJ's shirt, a hand coming to the back of his head. The bottle doesn't smash like it does in the movies, which would be disappointing except for the fact you now have the chance to use it again. As Rafe turns you swing again, the glass hitting the side of his face with a loud thwack.
You hear JJ laugh from behind him, and then he appears, darting out from behind Rafe and grabbing your free hand. "Go, go, go." He crows, though he's already dragging you along behind him. You spare a glance to John B, who got the better of Topper and is now running beside you with Sarah's hand clutched tight in his own. Both boys look worse for wear, but there's no time to dwell on that as you race past Kie and Pope.
"What did y'all do?" Kie yells, but the two of them are already close behind without hesitation.
-
Once far enough away from the chaos, you all stop to catch your breath. “Can you not go a day without starting shit, JJ?” Pope asks, hands on his knees. He’s a mathlete not an athlete.
“I didn’t start anything,” JJ snaps, hand coming up to his split lip.
“You threw the first punch.” Sarah mumbles, running a hand through her hair as she checks on John B. He’s got a growing bruise just under his eye but it’s not too bad. JJ on the other hand looks a little worse.
You stumble over to him, still out of breath. You grab his chin gently and move his head from side to side, examining the damage. He’s beaten pretty badly, but has the audacity to ask, “are you okay?”
“Me?” You scoff, running your fingers lightly over his darkening skin. “How many blows to the head did you take?”
“I know how to take a punch.” Despite his defensiveness, he doesn’t push your hands away, allowing your hands move over his jaw.
“Clearly.” You mutter, before letting him go.
“You didn’t answer my question.” JJ takes a step toward you, his voice lowering. He’s so close that you can feel the heat of his body.
“I’m fine,” your eyes scan over him even as your hands stay at your sides. “I’m more worried about you.” He doesn't respond to that, but something in his eyes shifts almost like he's a dog that at long last has been rescued from the pound.
"We should get a move on guys, it looks like there's rain incoming."
You look to the sky, and John B is right. It is now gently spitting droplets of water down upon you, a warning before the downpour. You glance around the group, everyone once again getting ready to run for cover. You don't fail to notice that JJ doesn't take his eyes away from you. Not even once.
-
By the time you get back to the chateau you are all soaking wet. You didn't make it in time before the rain came down, but running in the rain with your newfound friends felt more freeing than anything you'd done before. In that moment, everything that usually worried you, that held your brain captive, seemed to disappear. For twenty minutes you weren't a grieving girl. And despite the earlier events, you were happy.
John B fumbles with the key in the front door, and JJ makes a joke that has you howling with laughter as you all stumble inside. As Sarah and John B head to his room to change, and Pope and Kie move towards the clothes they keep here for the nights they stay over, your steady steps take you to the kitchen. You flick on the switch by the door and the room becomes illuminated with shoddy yellow light.
You shuffle over to the sink, slipping your shirt over your head and twisting it in your hands. You wring the fabric out over the sink and watch as the rainwater swirls down the drain. It has a soothing rhythm to it, and you get lost in watching the water disappear over and over again.
"Hey, you in here?" You jump at the sound of JJ's voice, and he jumps at the sight of you, "Shit sorry."
You're standing in nothing he hasn't seen before, just your shorts and a bra which is basically the equivalent of a bikini top, but somehow this feels far more intimate. You bring your damp shirt in front of you as coverage, as JJ speaks again.
"I got you this." he extends a hand and balled in it is one of his t-shirts. It's got the Heyward seafood logo on it, and you remember it from the day you first met him. "You don't have to wear it, but just in case."
You reach out and take it, shaking it out of it's scrunched state and pulling it over your head without hesitation. "Thank you." His hair is dripping water onto floor, but he doesn't seem to notice, his eyes firmly locked onto you.
"No problem."
He doesn't turn to leave, and you don't ask him to.
"Why'd you do it?" You ask, filling the silence.
JJ's brow creases, and he runs a hand through his wet hair, before wiping his hand on his shirt. It's dry and clean, and he must have changed before coming to find you. "I'm gonna need a little more to go on than that. I do a lot of shit.":
"You know what I'm talking about." Your arms fold over your chest, the fabric of JJ's well worn shirt soft against your skin. It smells like him, and it never registered how nice that might be. How familiar he has become to you.
"Rafe's got a big mouth." JJ states, as if that can be the end of it.
"I know he made fun of you, and I get it, he's an asshole. But you could have walked away."
JJ shakes his head, a gentle laugh leaving his lips. "I don't give a shit what he says about me."
"Really?" Your head tilts to the side, questioning. "Because your fists seem to say differently."
JJ keeps his focus on you, regarding you as if you're stupid. He stands the short distance from you as if waiting for something in you to change. Waiting for you to make a realization. "It was what he said about you that mattered." JJ clarifies.
"JJ," your heart beats a little faster as you process.
"He said you were cheap, second rate. Talking about you like you were worthless." You can see the anger boiling back up in him as he recalls it all.
"Do you remember everything he said to me?" you ask. The words were burnt into your brain, but you would never expect them to imprint on his own.
"Of course I do because it pissed me off." His voice raises slightly, and you gesture to him with raised brows.
"Yeah I can see that, but you didn't have to hurt anyone."
"He hurt you first." There's a shake to his voice, as if he's containing something within the words. Like there's something trapped in there he isn't saying. You deny the claim, rolling your eyes to brush it off, despite the fact the lie stings your throat.
"He didn't hurt me JJ, I'm fine. I told you I was fine."
JJ steps closer, his voice lowering. "You weren't fine. I saw it, shit, I felt it. And you put on a brave face in front of them, because you couldn't let them see you like that. You can't, I get it. But Rafe hurt you, and that hurt me."
Your breath hitches in your throat, his words seeping through your skin and right to your heart. It pounds against your chest, and you wonder if JJ can hear it.
"I don't regret it, so don't bother asking."
Finally you manage to suck breath into your chest, "I wasn't gonna ask. I could already tell."
JJ reaches out, but just as his hand is about to make contact with your waist, a voice calls from somewhere in the house. "JJ, you're dripping water everywhere!" By the way Kie sounds this isn't the first time. JJ turns, suddenly snapped out of whatever trance he might have been under.
"How do you know it's me?" he shouts back, accusatory.
"Because it's always you, JJ!." this time it's John B that calls out, and you try to hide a smile as JJ turns back to you. His hair, still drips water onto the floor and you reach up to touch it without thinking.
"It is most definitely you."
JJ's grin is like a flower blooming, and it spreads warmth through your chest. He shakes his head like a dog after a swim and water droplets fling onto you. You squeal, pushing him back "And to think I was just about to thank you!"
JJ raises a brow, still grinning but curious now. He takes back the space you took, stepping forward despite your previous push. "Thank me?"
You hate how smug he looks—how beautiful. "For noticing how I felt. For paying attention."
He lets those words sink in, and there's a flicker of deep emotion on his face before he switches back to his goofy facade. "Don't tell my teachers I can do that. Or Heyward. He's always on my case about attention span bullshit. Thinks I have ADHD or something."
You're beginning to see JJ in a new light. A light that makes you feel warmer and safer. You smile, "Your secrets safe with me."
-
"Are you staying over?" Sarah asks once you and JJ leave the kitchen. Kie throws him a towel as soon as she sees him, and it hits him in the face.
"Think fast." she mumbles through a choked laugh. JJ pulls the towel off his face, before scrubbing his hair with it.
"Bro, you're supposed to say think fast before you throw the thing, not after." He's ignored as you focus on Sarah and Kie goes back to fiddling with the strings of her ukelele.
"Do you guys have room for me?" you reply, looking around at the already taken up couches. Pope and Kie seem used to this, and they already have themselves set up. Sarah will most likely sleep in John B's room, but you have doubts about how much sleeping they actually get up to.
"She can take my bed." JJ grunts, and when you look over your shoulder at him, his got his eyes in his phone as if it's no big deal at all.
"Where will you go?" you ask, and he looks up for a second not bothering to address the eyes of the whole group on him. "I'll take the floor. I've slept in worse places."
It seems that everyone has noticed the change in JJ's behavior towards you in the last month, but no one says a word. "Okay tough guy." John B mumbles, taking Sarah's hand and leading her off toward his room.
"Goodnight!" she calls to you, and she's got a pep in her step that suggest you were right. Those two are not sleeping just yet.
"Night." you say, though you doubt it matters. Both of their minds are filled with other things right now.
You look over at Kie and Pope, both curled up on opposite ends of the pull out couch. Kie is now scrolling her phone, surrounded by pillows, and Pope has a book in hand, eyes scanning over the pages.
"You coming?" JJ asks, bringing your attention back to him. You follow him down the hall without a word, and he opens the door to a moderately messy bedroom. He kicks some stuff into the corners as you look around. "How come I never knew you had a room here?" You ask, thoughts racing through your brain of all the times you've been here in the past few weeks without noticing.
JJ answers nonchalantly, "I guess it just didn't come up. I got a room here for when things get bad with my dad. John B's good like that."
The words echo in your head. When things get bad with his dad. His comment from earlier comes back to you, making so much more sense now that it did before. I know how to take a punch. Your stomach sinks. JJ seems to notice the change in your mood, smiling as if it's nothing. "Don't do that. Don't feel bad, it's all good."
But you do feel bad. Because the more you get to know him, the more space he takes up in your heart. "Okay." you say, though you wish you could say anything else. JJ throws a pillow to the floor, making his bed on the floor with finality.
"I can sleep on the floor JJ. I don't want to take your bed."
He shakes his head, flexing his knuckles. "Nah, it's good."
It doesn't feel good to you though even if it's okay with him. "you literally got beat the shit out of earlier." you say, hoping the point will make him reconsider. JJ just grins, head tilting like it's all comedic.
"You should see the other guy." He pulls his shirt over his head, throwing it into the corner. You try not to gawk.
"I did, and he looked a lot better than you."
"Not after you and that bottle he doesn't."
At the mention of your part in the fight you freeze. You've never hit anyone before tonight, and the worst part is that you don't feel any remorse for it at all. Your only thought had been protecting JJ, and even now that seems to be all that matters. Maybe you and JJ are more alike than you once thought.
He turns around, and that's when you see the bruise spreading across his abdomen. It's fresh by the looks of it, and it seems painful. "Is that from tonight?" You ask, eyes wide with horror.
JJ looks down at himself, as if he hardly noticed. "I think so." He pokes at it, then winces. "Yeah, gotta be."
"Jesus, dude." your feet carry you quickly over to him, and your hands land on his bare skin in seconds, gently turning him to examine the bruise. "Do you think anything's broken?"
"No, and your hands are cold." But again, just like before, he doesn't force your touch away. When you finally pull back, looking up at him, tears you weren't expecting burn your eyes.
"I am so sorry."
"What?" JJ seems genuinely confused, not yet registering your tears.
"This is my fault. I am so sorry." your voice shakes with shame that you can't hide as you apologize again, and in seconds JJ's mood is switching up.
"Hold on, wait. Don't do that."
"I'm sorry." You say again, unable to think of anything else.
"Quit apologizing, This isn't on you." his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, pressing down gently. "You said it yourself, I could have walked away. There's no one else to blame but me. Good old JJ Maybank, trouble extraordinaire."
"Can't I be sorry anyway? Please just let me be sorry." You feel a single tear fall, trailing a path down your face. JJ's eyes track the tear, before he darts away toward his discarded shirt on the floor. He pulls it over his head quickly before turning back to you. "Look, we don't have to think about it okay? Let's just think about something else. Let's do something else."
You shake your head, brows furrowed with sadness. "I can't just stop thinking about it. You could have broken a rib, or—" Your thoughts start to spiral and your hand comes up to cover your mouth. "You could have a concussion. Do you feel dizzy?"
"Okay, fucking stop that." JJ takes large steps that cover the ground of the room easily, and as soon as he's close enough his hands come out rest on both sides of your face. "Stop doing that. All your crazy talk will give me a concussion if you keep it up."
"That's not how concussions work." you breathe, your voice shaky with the weight of guilt. JJ shakes his head.
"Don't care, I came out the womb with a concussion. It's in my blood baby, don't worry."
"Again," you mumble, "not how concussions work."
"I do not have a concussion." JJ leaves a pause between each word for emphasis, pressing his forehead to yours, "So stop talking about it."
You are suddenly aware of his breath, his closeness, but you don't feel any distaste for it. "Okay." you speak in a whisper, no need for volume when the word practically leaves your lips and goes straight to his. You feel JJ's thumb move against your temple, soothing back and forth motions.
Your brain tries to remind you of all the times he made you feel like shit. The first day you met, and outside of Kiara's place. You try to take yourself back to the porch outside, where he brought you to tears with his words. But you can't make it stick. The feelings you felt back then are gone, replaced with the fondness of everything else.
Of sharing a joint on the side of the road, of him helping you learn to surf when the waves were just right. Of his hand on your back, guiding you to the counter of Mrs. Bills store. Of His hair brushing your arm in the twinkie, no matter how annoying it was at the time.
And of him holding you now, your body so close to his.
"If I kiss you, will you hate me?" his question is genuine, and you've never heard anything this real from him before.
Your heart is beating so fast in your chest, and you wonder if he can feel it. Your beating heart shaking the earth, letting the world know how you feel about JJ Maybank. "I hated you once before, it was boring."
JJ huffs a laugh, "I hear loving me is a lot more fun." he pulls back a little, the softness of his gaze caressing you. "You wanna test it out or...?"
You allow your hands to travel over his shoulders, until your arms are around his neck. It feels natural. It feels good. "I'm willing to give that a try."
His expression changes from one of admiration to that of his usual mischievous grin. But it's happier than usual, a dimple in his cheek winking at you. "Okay then."
He leans down, head tilting and smile still wide. He's close enough to kiss now, and you'd give it a shot if he weren't all teeth.
"If you wanna test the theory you're gonna have to keep the grin in check." you tease, a short laugh trickling from you.
His eyes flick to your lips, and stay there. "yes ma'am."
JJ stifles the grin as best he can, though the memory of the smile can be felt in the way he kisses you. It's like electricity, not the kiss itself, but him. He shares his nature, his humor, his energy, with you through the kiss, and that in itself makes this the best kiss you've ever had. His hands move away from your face to wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer. And then he's smiling again, his nose bumping with yours and his teeth accidently grazing your lips.
"JJ," you whisper, out of breath. "stop smiling."
He squeezes you tighter, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your cheek. "Sorry baby, can't help it."
OUTER BANKS TAGLIST: @scenesofobx
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @s00buwu
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every year after fourteen
part two / part three / part four
WARNINGS: emotional manipulation , toxic relationship dynamics , childhood trauma parental emotional abuse/neglect , alcohol/drug use , violence/fighting , possessiveness/jealousy , self-destructive behavior, abandonment issues , anxiety/panic responses , unhealthy attachment/codependency , degradation of mental health over time eventual dark themes depending on later eras , would estimate as a 10k+ word count
PAIRINGS: childhoodbsf!rafe x sweetheart!reader ➜ frat!rafe x sweetheart!reader
SUMMARY: as rafe slowly unravels under the weight of love, anger, addiction, and abandonment, reader becomes the only person who remembers who he was before he learned how to turn pain into cruelty.
the thing about figure eight was that everybody already knew who you were before you got the chance to become it.
the pogues grew up barefoot and loud, saltwater drying on their skin beneath the sun. the kooks grew up behind gates and golf carts and houses so big they echoed when nobody was talking.
and the camerons were the richest people on the island. which meant they were also the loneliest.
ward cameron owned half the coastline, or at least acted like he did. people lowered their voices around him at country clubs and charity dinners. adults smiled too hard when he shook their hands. every magazine spread about wealthy families in the obx somehow circled back to the camerons eventually — their boat, their house, their perfect christmas photos where nobody looked directly at the camera for too long.
from the outside, they looked untouchable. inside the house, it was quieter than a church especially after their mother left. nobody talked about that part: not openly, if you were in your right mind.
not in the way kids are supposed to ask questions when something disappears.
sarah adapted first. she smiled easier, learned how to make herself lovable in ways people understood. wheezie became invisible whenever possible. and rafe became loud. not all at once.
at eight years old, it existed in flashes. slammed doors. quick tempers. the way his jaw locked whenever ward spoke too sharply but before he became difficult, before people started describing him with words like troubled or angry or unstable, he was just a little boy who hated being alone.
which was how she ended up in his life.
her mother worked events sometimes. catering mostly. planning if people paid enough.
summer parties on yachts. fundraisers. country club dinners where rich women wore linen and diamonds at the same time which meant, occasionally, she got dragged along.
she remembered the first time she saw tanneyhill like something out of a dream. white columns, massive windows, golf carts lined in the driveway. the smell of ocean air curling through expensive perfume.
she’d been seven, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of sprite somebody handed her while adults rushed around carrying trays.
“don’t wander,” her mom warned. “and don’t touch anything.”
she lasted maybe twelve minutes.
the camerons’ house was too big not to explore. hallways stretching forever, framed paintings staring down at her, polished floors she nearly slipped across in sandals.
and somewhere upstairs, somebody was yelling. not screaming, just enough to make her stop walking. a man’s voice first, sharp.
then another crash. she should’ve turned around. instead, she kept going. the upstairs hallway was colder somehow, air conditioning biting against sunburnt skin. one of the bedroom doors sat halfway open, and through the crack she saw a blond boy shoving clothes angrily into a closet.
he couldn’t have been much older than her. maybe eight and yet he noticed her immediately with the awareness of an adult, blue eyes snapping toward the doorway. “who’re you?”
she froze. “nobody.”
“then why’re you in my house?” his tone wasn’t mean exactly. defensive, maybe. like a dog growling before deciding whether to bite.
she should’ve left. instead she pointed behind him. “your lamp’s broken.”
the ceramic lamp beside his bed lay shattered across the floor. the boy looked at it for a second before shrugging. “yeah.”
“are you gonna get in trouble?”
“already did.” he said it casually. too casually for a kid. then he squinted at her. “you’re not a kook.”
she frowned. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“means your shoes are dirty.”
“your attitude’s dirty.”
for one horrible second, she thought he might actually get mad. instead, his mouth twitched. just a little, the beginning of a smile. “what’s your name?”
she told him. he nodded once. “i’m rafe.” like she should already know that. truthfully, everybody on figure eight probably did. there was another silence after that. awkward in the way only children could make things awkward — too honest to fake politeness yet. then, downstairs, somebody shouted: “rafe!”
his entire expression changed instantly. shoulders stiffening, mouth flattening, something shuttering behind his eyes so fast it almost didn’t look real. “you should go,” he muttered.
she hesitated. “okay.” she turned toward the hallway.
“wait.” when she looked back, rafe was digging through his desk drawer. he pulled out a handful of candy — probably stolen from downstairs — and walked over before dumping it into her hands.
a peace offering or maybe a bribe for silence. “don’t tell anybody you saw me.”
she blinked. “why?”
another yell from downstairs. louder this time. rafe looked toward the door and for the first time, she realized he looked scared. not of getting caught with candy. not of breaking the lamp but of whoever was downstairs. “just don’t, okay?”
she nodded slowly. “okay.”
that was the beginning of it. not dramatic, not fate and certainly not love at first sight. just two lonely kids inside a house too big for either of them.
after that, rafe started appearing everywhere. not in a creepy way but more like a stray cat deciding somebody belonged to him.
the next time her mother worked at tanneyhill, she found him waiting near the driveway with scraped knees and a tennis racket dragging behind him. “you came back.”
she frowned. “i don’t really choose that.”
“still counts.” he said things confidently even when they didn’t make sense. before she could answer, he grabbed her wrist and started pulling her toward the backyard. “c’mon.”
“where?”
“you ask too many questions.”
“you’re rude.”
“yeah, well.”
he didn’t finish the sentence. she noticed he did that a lot. started thoughts and abandoned them halfway through like he didn’t know what to do with them once they became real.
the backyard looked like a resort.
pool glittering bright blue beneath the sun. huge stone patio, private dock stretching into the marsh. she slowed near the edge of the pool. “are we allowed out here?”
“it’s my house.”
“that doesn’t answer the question.”
rafe snorted. “you sound eighty years old.” that made no sense, and before she could ask, he dropped onto one of the lounge chairs dramatically, legs hanging off the side because he was still too small for it.
“my sisters are inside doing dumb rich people stuff.”
“what’s dumb rich people stuff?”
“sarah’s making wheezie play wedding with her again.”
“that sounds normal.”
“they made me be the dog last time.”
she stared at him. “the dog?”
“exactly.”
she laughed before she could stop herself. a real laugh, loud enough that rafe blinked at her for a second like he hadn’t expected it then he grinned too and suddenly he didn’t look like the angry boy from upstairs anymore.
he looked eight. just eight. sunlight in his hair. freckles across his nose. swimsuit half untied at his hips because apparently rich kids never wore clothes correctly.
“you wanna see something cool?” he asked.
before she could answer, he stood up on the lounge chair. “rafe—”
he launched himself into the pool like a missile and water exploded everywhere. she yelped as cold droplets soaked her shirt while rafe surfaced laughing hysterically.
“oh my god!”
“did you see that?!”
“you splashed me!”
“because you were standing too close!”
“because you JUMPED AT ME!”
full-body laughter, messy and uncontained. she realized then that rafe cameron laughed like somebody who didn’t get to very often. he swam toward the edge of the pool, blond hair dripping into his eyes. “c’mon in.”
“i don’t have a swimsuit.”
“so?”
“rafe.”
“what?”
“normal people don’t swim in their clothes.”
“normal people are boring.”
she crossed her arms. “easy for you to say. your dad owns this pool.”
for a second, his smile faded but then he shrugged one shoulder. “he doesn’t really care what i do.”
the words sounded exciting at first like freedom but something about the way he said it made her stomach twist. before she could think too hard about it, rafe reached out suddenly and grabbed her ankle.
she screamed as he yanked. “RAFE —”
she hit the water fully clothed while he cackled loud enough for birds to scatter from nearby trees. when she surfaced sputtering, he was grinning so hard his dimples showed. “you’re the worst person alive.”
“yeah, but now you’re swimming.”
she shoved water at his face. he splashed her back immediately. and somehow that became the rest of the afternoon. swimming until their fingers wrinkled, arguing over nothing. rafe trying to hold his breath underwater long enough to “die dramatically.”
her timing him while sitting at the edge kicking her feet into the water. it felt easy.
which surprised her because most rich kids on figure eight treated people like her strangely — either invisible or temporary but rafe talked to her like they’d known each other forever like it had already been decided.
at one point, they ended up laying on the dock side by side, drying beneath the late afternoon sun.
“you ever think about running away?” rafe asked suddenly.
she turned her head toward him. “what?”
he shrugged, staring up at the sky. “i dunno. somewhere else.”
“why would you wanna leave here?”
“because everybody’s annoying.”
“that’s not a real reason.”
“is too.”
“where would you even go?”
he thought about it seriously. “california.”
“why california?”
“they surf there.”
“people surf here too.”
“yeah, but in california nobody knows your dad.”
that quiet feeling returned again. the weird one. the one that always showed up whenever ward cameron entered a conversation. she glanced toward him carefully. “is your dad mean?”
rafe went still. not visibly, not enough for most people to notice but she did because kids notice things adults think they hide well. his expression flattened toward the sky. “sometimes.”
she waited. eventually, he mumbled: “mostly when i screw stuff up.”
“everybody screws stuff up.”
“not like me.” he said it matter-of-factly like he already believed it completely. before she could answer, he sat up abruptly. “wanna go steal ice cream from the freezer?”
the conversation ended there. that was another thing about rafe. even as a kid, he knew exactly how to run from things before they could catch him.
by the time summer ended, rafe had decided she was his person. he never actually said it like that.
eight-year-old boys didn’t have the language for things that deep yet.
instead, he showed up at her house unannounced with sand all over his feet and demanded she come outside immediately because he “found a dead stingray and it looked cool.”
or he called the landline six times in a row just to ask if she thought sharks could smell fear through boats. or he sat way too close to her during movies and stole food directly off her plate while acting like it was legally his. it happened gradually enough that neither of them noticed it becoming permanent.
until one day everybody else did.
“that cameron boy likes you.” her mother said it casually while folding laundry. she nearly choked on her juice.
“he does not.”
“mmhmm.”
“mom.”
“he called here three times today.”
“because he’s annoying.”
“sweetheart, he asked if you were sick because you didn’t answer.”
she groaned dramatically and buried her face in the couch cushion. secretly, she liked that rafe noticed when she disappeared. most people didn’t.
school started again in september. figure eight elementary mixed kook kids and pogues together just enough for rich parents to pretend they cared about community.
rafe hated school immediately. not because he was bad at it. actually, because he was actually smart. that was the problem. he got bored fast.
he finished worksheets too early and started bothering everybody else afterward. teachers constantly told him to sit still, lower his voice, stop talking back.
he treated authority like a challenge. especially the male teachers and especially when they raised their voices. “rafe cameron, hallway. now.”
their third-grade teacher sounded exhausted already. rafe slumped back dramatically in his chair. “i didn’t even do anything.”
“you threw an eraser at timothy.”
“he was talking.”
“so were you.”
“yeah, but i’m interesting.”
half the class laughed. the teacher pinched the bridge of his nose. “hallway.”
rafe stood slowly, muttering something under his breath before grabbing his notebook. on the way out, he glanced toward her, winked, like getting in trouble was funny.
except she noticed the way his shoulders tightened once the classroom door shut behind him. noticed how he stopped smiling the second adults couldn’t see him anymore.
he came back from lunch with a split lip. small and still fresh enough to shine red. she stared at him across the table. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
he peeled open his milk carton aggressively. “tripped.”
“you don’t get punched-looking lips from tripping.”
“you don’t know that.”
she narrowed her eyes as he refused to look at her. finally, he muttered: “some fifth grader shoved wheezie.”
her anger disappeared instantly. “oh.”
“so i shoved him back.”
“and?”
“and apparently fifth graders hit hard.” he said it proudly like losing the fight didn’t matter because he’d fought at all.
she studied him quietly. “did you win?”
rafe grinned then, bloody lip and all. “kinda.”
that was the first time she realized rafe would throw himself into a fight even if he knew he couldn’t win it especially for people he loved.
october brought storms to the obx, the kind that rattled windows and turned the ocean mean.
she hated thunder yet rafe found this hilarious. “it’s literally just noise.”
“okay, then you sit outside in it.”
“i would.”
“you absolutely would not.”
“would too.”
another crack of thunder shook the house hard enough to flicker the lights. she jumped violently from where they sat on the living room floor.
rafe burst into laughter. “you looked like a cat.”
“i hate you.”
“no you don’t.” he said it immediately. without thinking and maybe that should’ve scared her a little — how sure he always sounded about her staying — but instead she just rolled her eyes and threw popcorn at his face.
another boom echoed outside. this time closer. her smile slipped and rafe noticed instantly. he always noticed instantly. perks of being someone with a father that a mood he always had to manage.
without saying anything, he scooted closer across the carpet until their shoulders touched. then, quieter: “it’s not gonna hit the house.”
“you don’t know that.”
“yeah i do.”
“how?”
“because if it did, my dad would sue god.”
she laughed despite herself. mission accomplished. rafe leaned back against the couch afterward like he hadn’t intentionally comforted her at all but a few minutes later, during another loud crack of thunder, she fel his hand tap twice against hers on the floor.
still there.still here. safe. even then, rafe loved through contact. small touches. shoved shoulders. knees bumping under tables. messing with the strings of her hoodie while pretending to listen like if he kept physical proof of people nearby, they couldn’t disappear unexpectedly.
sometimes she wondered if that started when his mother left. sometimes she wondered if he even remembered a version of himself before that happened.
that winter, ward cameron forgot to pick rafe up from school. at first, rafe acted like he didn’t care.“he’s probably busy.”
he kicked at the curb while everybody else slowly disappeared into cars and golf carts around them. thirty minutes passed, then forty.
the office secretary kept glancing outside with tight sympathy adults got when they didn’t know what to say. “we can call your house again, honey.”
“don’t.”
too fast, too sharp. she looked surprised. rafe swallowed. “he’ll come.”
except his voice sounded smaller now. eventually her mom arrived instead. “c’mon,” she said gently. “i’ll drive you home.”
rafe immediately shook his head. “m’fine.”
“rafe.”
“i said i’m fine.”
anger flashed across his face so quickly it almost looked painful. not at her. at himself like embarrassment curdling into fury before anybody could pity him. her mother ignored it completely. “okay,” she said lightly. “then i guess i’ll have to eat all the mcdonald’s fries myself.”
silence. rafe blinked. “you got fries?”
“yep.”
another pause. then: “large?”
“obviously.”
he got into the car after that quietly and halfway through the drive, while rain tapped softly against the windows, she noticed him holding the fry carton in his lap like something fragile like nobody had remembered to take care of him all day.
winter on figure eight always made everything feel emptier. the tourists disappeared, the beaches went gray. even tanneyhill looked colder somehow, stripped of summer light and party noise.
and rafe changed during winter. not completely. just enough for her to notice. he got quieter after christmas break started. moodier. sometimes she’d come over and find him sprawled upside down on the couch watching television at full volume, talking a mile a minute like he needed noise filling every corner of the house.
other days, he barely spoke at all. those were the bad days. the house felt different then too. stiffer.
rose smiled too brightly. wheezie stayed upstairs. sarah vanished to friends’ houses whenever possible. and ward became impossible to miss.
he wasn’t loud all the time. that was the strange part. sometimes he was perfectly charming. laughing at dinner, asking questions, resting a hand on rafe’s shoulder like a normal father.
those moments confused her more than the angry ones because rafe would spend the entire time trying to earn them.
sitting straighter, talking faster, watching ward’s reactions like they held the answer key to his entire existence. it made her chest hurt in ways she didn’t understand yet.
one friday afternoon, she found rafe outside near the dock skipping rocks violently across the water.
well. trying to skip rocks. mostly throwing them hard enough to sink immediately.
“those are supposed to bounce.”
“i know that.”
“clearly not.”
“shut up.”
she smiled a little and sat beside him anyway, pulling her knees to her chest against the cold. for a while, neither of them spoke. wind curled across the marsh grass. somewhere far off, a boat engine hummed. rafe picked up another rock. threw it hard. splash.
“you’re bad at this,” she informed him.
“maybe the water’s stupid.”
“yeah. definitely the water.”
another rock. another angry splash. then suddenly: “my dad thinks i’m an idiot.”
the words landed strangely between them. casual tone serious meaning. she looked over slowly while rafe kept staring at the water. “he didn’t say that.”
“did too.”
“when?”
he shrugged. “not exactly.” another rock. “but he thinks it.” kids weren’t supposed to sound that certain about things like that.
she frowned. “you’re not an idiot.”
“you kinda have to say that. we’re friends.”
“i don’t have to do anything.”
finally, he looked at her. blue eyes sharp even at nine years old. “then why do you?”
she opened her mouth. closed it again because she didn’t actually know how to explain it.
that being around rafe felt like standing too close to lightning sometimes — unpredictable and bright and dangerous in ways you couldn’t describe yet.
that even when he was mean or loud or impossible, she still understood him better than anybody else seemed to. that she worried about him constantly. instead she just nudged his shoulder with hers. “because somebody has to.”
his expression changed for half a second. softened. small enough that she almost missed it then he looked away again quickly, jaw tightening like he regretted letting her see anything real. “my dad says i get emotional over stupid stuff.”
“well your dad sucks.”
rafe barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. a real one but it faded fast. “don’t say that.”
“why not? it’s true.”
his face closed immediately. “just don’t.”
there it was again.
that invisible line nobody in the cameron house crossed. ward could yell. ward could forget him. ward could make rafe feel two inches tall with one look but nobody else was allowed to notice.
a week later, she learned what happened when someone did.
she’d come over after lunch, shoes damp from rainwater, only to hear shouting the second she stepped through the front door.
not normal arguing.
worse. the kind of yelling that made the entire house hold its breath. ward’s voice thundered somewhere upstairs. “you embarrass me constantly!”
silence. then rafe shouting back. not words she could understand.
just anger. another crash echoed through the hallway.
rose appeared almost immediately. “sweetheart,” she said too quickly, intercepting her near the stairs, “why don’t you wait outside for a little while?”
she hesitated. upstairs, something shattered. her stomach twisted. “is rafe okay?”
rose’s smile strained painfully at the edges. “of course he is.”
another lie adults expected children to accept. she backed toward the front door slowly and right before she stepped outside, she heard ward yell: “why can’t you be more like your sister for once?”
the silence afterward felt worse than the shouting. she found rafe an hour later sitting beneath the big oak tree near the edge of the property. knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves covering his hands.
he looked up when she approached. one side of his face was red, not bruised just flushed enough to make her chest tighten.
“rose said you left.”
“she lies a lot.” his voice sounded flat.
she sat beside him carefully. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
“drop it.”
normally she would’ve argued, teased him until he cracked and waited him out but something about him felt different today. too still like all the loud parts of him had collapsed inward. so instead she just sat there quietly beside him while wind rustled through the branches overhead.
minutes passed. finally, rafe spoke without looking at her. “do you ever feel bad all the time?”
she blinked. “what?”
he picked at loose thread on his sleeve. “like even when nothing’s wrong.”
her heart hurt suddenly because no nine-year-old should know how to ask that question. “sometimes,” she admitted softly.
“how do you make it stop?”
she didn’t have an answer and maybe he knew that already because he laughed once under his breath. bitter in a way kids shouldn’t know how to be. “yeah,” he muttered. “me neither.”
another long silence. then, quietly: “my dad says there’s something wrong with me.”
anger flashed hot in her chest. “there isn’t.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do actually.”
for the first time all afternoon, rafe looked at her fully. his eyes were red around the edges not crying now which somehow meant he already had. “how?”
she swallowed. because the truth was simple. because even at nine years old, she already knew this with terrifying certainty: if something was wrong with rafe cameron, it was because the people around him kept teaching him he was impossible to love.
by thirteen, rafe cameron had learned two important things:
anger made people listen. and pretty people got forgiven for almost everything. he grew into himself unfairly fast after twelve.
all sharp cheekbones and long limbs and sun-bleached hair falling into blue eyes that looked softer than they actually were. girls at school started orbiting him without meaning to. teachers gave him too many second chances. parents laughed nervously at things that weren’t funny because ward cameron’s son smiled afterward.
he carried himself differently now too.
less frantic. more dangerous like he’d discovered exactly how much space he could take up in a room if he wanted to.
and still he showed up at her window throwing pebbles at two in the morning because he was bored.
some things never changed except she changed too. not suddenly more like the island itself shaped her over time.
summer-browned skin, saltwater-soft hair, hoodies stolen from friends and tied around her waist. a laugh people turned toward before realizing they were staring.
she became prettier in the quiet kind of way. the kind that snuck up on people. boys started finding excuses to talk to her at school. older girls copied the way she did her eyeliner. people remembered her name now instead of just recognizing her face beside rafe’s.
and rafe noticed all of it immediately.
every glance. every lingering conversation. every boy who stood too close. he never said anything directly. instead, he’d appear out of nowhere draping an arm across her shoulders while staring somebody down lazily. or interrupt conversations with: “you ready to go?” even when they’d arrived separately.
at first, she thought he was being annoying on purpose. then she realized rafe looked genuinely irritated afterward. which honestly made it funnier.
“you know you act insane, right?” she told him one afternoon after he scared off another freshman boy from talking to her outside school.
rafe blinked innocently from where he leaned against his truck. “what’d i do?”
“you stared at him like you wanted to kill him.”
“maybe i did.”
“rafe.”
“what? he looked annoying.”
“you didn’t even know him.”
“didn’t need to.”
she rolled her eyes, but secretly, part of her liked that rafe still looked for her first in every crowd like no matter how much they changed, some instinct inside him still circled back to her automatically.
except that instinct was starting to become something else now. something sharper. harder to name.
“if my dad catches you out there, he’s literally gonna kill you.”
she whispered harshly, shoving the window open anyway. rafe grinned from where he stood balanced on the roof outside. “nah. he likes me.”
“that’s because you lie to adults professionally.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
he climbed through the window like he owned the place, smelling like seawater and expensive cologne he definitely stole from ward. “c’mon.”
“rafe, it’s two in the morning.”
“exactly.”
“normal people sleep.”
“normal people are boring.”
he’d been saying that since he was eight. only now it sounded different coming out of his mouth. less childish and more intentional.
she narrowed her eyes at him. “where are we even going?”
“the beach.”
“for what?”
“you ask too many questions.”
“and you answer none of them.”
he just smirked and grabbed her hoodie off the chair before tossing it at her face. “move, princess.”
the beach at night felt enormous. waves crashing black against the shore. cold wind tangling through their hair. rafe walked ahead of her barefoot, carrying a six-pack he’d stolen from somewhere with casual expertise that concerned her deeply. “you know beer tastes disgusting, right?”
“you sound eighty.”
“you sound like you’re trying too hard.”
that got his attention. he glanced back over his shoulder. “trying too hard at what?”
she shrugged. “being cool.”
he scoffed immediately. “i am cool.”
“rafe, you got suspended last week for setting a paper towel dispenser on fire.”
“allegedly.”
“there were witnesses.”
“snitches.”
she laughed despite herself and for a second he smiled too — real and easy, dimples flashing briefly beneath moonlight. then it vanished again.
that happened more now. moments where she saw the old rafe before he covered him back up. they settled near the dunes eventually. rafe sprawled across the sand dramatically while she sat beside him pulling her knees against her chest.
for a while, they just listened to the ocean. comfortable silence. their version of peace.
then: “kelly morgan asked if i’d hook up with her.”
she snorted. “you’re thirteen.”
“and?”
“that’s disgusting.”
“you’re just jealous.”
“of kelly morgan? absolutely not.”
he laughed quietly at that. then took a sip from the beer before grimacing. “this tastes like shit.”
“wow. shocking development.”
“shut up.”
she smiled a little but when she looked over at him again, he’d gone distant. staring out at the water with that familiar tension in his jaw.
“what?” she asked softly.
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
he rubbed a hand over his face and suddenly he looked older than thirteen. “my dad’s been on my ass lately.”
there it was. always circling back to ward somehow. she leaned back onto her hands. “about what?”
“everything.” he kicked sand aggressively. “grades. golf. sarah getting into honors classes.” his voice sharpened slightly. “breathing wrong probably.”
she stayed quiet because by now she understood that interrupting rafe when he actually talked about real things usually made him stop altogether.
he scoffed under his breath. “he keeps saying i’m wasting potential.”
“that’s not the worst thing someone could say.”
“you didn’t hear how he said it.” the words hung there.
she looked over at him carefully. “you know parents are supposed to make you feel good about yourself, right?”
rafe barked out a laugh and not a happy one. “according to who?”
she didn’t know what to say to that. because honestly the older they got, the more obvious it became that something inside rafe was changing.
hardening.
he got angry faster now. meaner sometimes. more reckless. last month he’d bloodied a kid’s nose at a bonfire because the guy made some joke about sarah. afterward, rafe laughed while his knuckles bled like violence had thrilled him more than scared him.
that terrified her a little. mostly because part of him had looked relieved during it like hurting somebody finally matched the chaos already living in his chest.
“hey.” she blinked. rafe was watching her now. closely. “where’d you go?”
“nowhere.”
“liar.”
“you literally lie for sport.”
“yeah, but i’m good at it.”
she rolled her eyes and then, before she could stop herself: “sometimes i worry about you.” silence. the ocean crashed somewhere behind them. rafe’s expression went unreadable immediately. guarded. she regretted saying it almost instantly. “forget it.”
“why?”
“because.”
“because why?”
she looked away. “you’re different lately.”
the words came out quieter than intended. rafe went still beside her. “different how?”
dangerous question. she could feel it immediately like stepping onto thin ice. “i dunno,” she said carefully. “angrier.”
he stared at her for a long moment then smiled except it wasn’t really a smile. more like something sharp pretending to be one. “maybe you just didn’t notice before.”
her stomach twisted.
because somehow that felt true. and worse: some small part of her thought rafe wanted it to be true like if he convinced everyone he’d always been this way, nobody could mourn the version of him that used to be softer.
after that night, things between them shifted slightly.
not enough for anybody else to notice just enough for her to feel it. rafe started looking at her longer than he used to like he was trying to figure something out.
sometimes she’d catch him staring from across bonfires or hallways at school, expression unreadable until she noticed him — then suddenly he’d smirk or say something sarcastic to cover it up. other times he got weirdly irritated over nothing.
especially boys and especially when they touched her. “why was he hugging you?”
she blinked at him across the gas station parking lot. “because i’ve known him since kindergarten?”
rafe leaned against his truck with his arms crossed. “looked unnecessary.”
“it was literally a goodbye hug.”
“yeah, well. i didn’t like it.”
she stared at him. “you hear yourself, right?”
“all the time.” he said it without shame. that was the dangerous thing about rafe. he rarely hid the uglier parts of himself once they surfaced. he just smiled like daring people to call him on it.
that spring, he got into his first real fight.
not schoolyard shoving. not roughhousing. a real fight.
it happened at a beach bonfire packed with high school kids trying too hard to look older than they were. somebody brought vodka. somebody else brought fireworks. music blasted from cheap speakers while people stumbled through the sand laughing too loudly.
she found rafe near the waterline already drunk enough that his words blurred together around the edges.
“there y’are,” he said immediately when he saw her, grabbing her wrist. “been lookin’ for you.”
“you smell awful.”
“that’s mean.”
“you stole ward’s liquor again, didn’t you?”
“allegedly.”
she rolled her eyes then noticed blood on his knuckles. her stomach dropped. “rafe.”
he glanced down lazily. “oh. yeah.”
“what happened?”
“nothing.”
“you are literally bleeding.”
he shrugged like it was boring. “some guy was talking shit.”
“and?”
“and i told him to stop.”
she stared. “you punched him over talking?”
“nah.” a grin spread slowly across his face. “i punched him because he touched you earlier.”
silence. the ocean roared somewhere behind them. her chest tightened painfully. “what?”
rafe looked genuinely confused by her reaction. “he had his hand on your waist.”
“that doesn’t mean you get to hit people.”
“felt like i did.”
the words should’ve scared her more than they did. instead she just looked at him standing there beneath bonfire light — pretty and drunk and bleeding and looking at her like this all made perfect sense like she was something that belonged to him instinctively.
“you’re insane,” she whispered.
his grin widened. “yeah.” but then his expression softened slightly. just for her. “he shouldn’t’ve touched you.”
there it was again. that terrifying sincerity underneath all the arrogance. she hated how much it affected her. later that night, she sat beside him in the bed of his truck while everyone else ran through the surf screaming over fireworks. rafe leaned back against the cab beside her, shoulder pressed against hers.
drunk quieter now. thoughtful. his knuckles were swollen. she cleaned them anyway using napkins and water from somebody’s cooler.
“ow.”
“stop being dramatic.”
“i could be dying.”
“unfortunately you’re surviving.”
he laughed softly under his breath then went quiet again. she focused on wrapping one of his scraped fingers carefully.
“you know,” he said eventually, voice rougher now, “you always do that.”
“do what?”
“take care of me.”
her hands paused briefly. rafe stared out toward the ocean. not looking at her. “even when i’m an asshole.”
she swallowed. “you’re not always an asshole.”
“yeah?”
finally, he turned toward her. blue eyes heavy beneath half-lowered lashes, windswept hair. mouth split slightly at the corner from fighting. beautiful in the way storms were beautiful. “what am i then?”
the question felt bigger than it should’ve. she looked at him for too long because she honestly didn’t know anymore.
you’re my best friend. you’re exhausting. you’re lonely. you’re angry all the time. you’re still that little boy waiting upstairs for someone to come back for him.
instead she just tied off the makeshift bandage around his hand and muttered: “trouble.”
rafe smiled slowly at that. “yeah,” he said quietly. “probably.”
and for one dangerous second, sitting there beneath exploding fireworks and salt-heavy air, she realized something terrifying: she would probably love every version of him. even the ones that hurt her.
summer hit the obx hard that year.
everything felt overheated. the air. people’s tempers, her friendship with rafe. especially rafe.
because fourteen-year-old rafe cameron became impossible to ignore. he shot up another two inches over the summer, shoulders broadening, voice roughening unexpectedly. girls stared openly now. older girls too. waitresses smiled at him too long. boys either wanted to be him or punch him.
and rafe noticed every second of it. he started carrying himself with lazy confidence that didn’t quite fit yet, like he was testing out versions of himself to see which one people reacted to best.
some days he acted almost academic — sprawled beside her with books open, explaining random facts he’d memorized just because he liked the look on her face when he knew things she didn’t. “did you know sharks can smell blood from like a quarter mile away?”
“why do you know that?”
“because i read.”
“that’s deeply nerdy of you.”
“shut up.”
he’d grin afterward, all bright and boyish again. other days he became something sharper. louder, cockier and reckless in ways that made adults nervous.
he liked attention now. needed it, maybe. especially hers and whenever he didn’t have it he got mean.
“you flirting with him?”
she looked up from her towel on the beach. rafe stood over her dripping seawater, surfboard tucked under one arm, expression already irritated.
she blinked. “what?”
“that guy.” he jerked his chin toward some tourist boy she’d spoken to for maybe thirty seconds while buying drinks.
“i ordered a coke, rafe.”
“you were smiling.”
“people smile during conversations.”
“not like that.”
she stared at him incredulously. “what is wrong with you lately?”
his jaw tightened immediately. there. that switch, always so quick now. “nothing.”
“you act insane every time i talk to another guy.”
“maybe they should stop talking to you then.”
she laughed once because honestly what else was there to do except rafe didn’t laugh back. he looked serious. completely serious and suddenly the joke stopped being funny.
“rafe…”
“forget it.” he grabbed his board again before turning toward the ocean. angry now. at her, at himself, at things he didn’t know how to name.
she watched him paddle out too aggressively through the waves and felt something cold settle in her stomach because lately every conversation with rafe felt like standing near exposed wires. one wrong move and everything sparked.
the kiss happened two weeks later which was honestly the problem.
there was no lead-up, no confession, no grand realization like she'd seen and learned to yearn for in those movies her mom loved. instead, it was just years and years of something building quietly until one reckless moment cracked it open.
it happened at tanneyhill. ward and rose were hosting another party downstairs — music echoing through the massive house, adults drinking expensive wine while pretending their marriages worked.
rafe hated those nights.
she found him upstairs in his room sitting on the floor beside his bed with a physics textbook open beside him and music blasting through headphones.
“you’re studying voluntarily?” she asked dramatically.
he looked up immediately and softened. he always softened for her first. “failed my last test.”
“nerd.”
“bitch.”
“language.” she kicked his foot lightly before dropping beside him on the floor. for a while, things felt normal again. safe. he explained formulas while she doodled nonsense in the margins of his notebook. occasionally he’d shove her shoulder when she distracted him on purpose. easy.
until downstairs ward started yelling. muffled through floors but still loud enough. rafe went completely still. it happened instantly like somebody pulled all the warmth out of him at once.
she looked over carefully. “you okay?”
“mhm.”
lie. downstairs, another burst of angry voices echoed upward. then silence. the worst kind. rafe ripped his headphones off too harshly.
“i swear to god,” he muttered.
she watched him stand abruptly and start pacing. “rafe—”
“he’s drunk again.” his voice carried no surprise, just exhaustion.
“maybe don’t go down there right now.”
“it’s my house.”
“and he’s angry.”
“he’s always angry.”
the words snapped out sharper than intended. she stood slowly. “okay.”
rafe scrubbed both hands down his face and suddenly he looked young again. not the cocky beach boy. not ward cameron’s golden son just a kid trapped inside a house that never felt safe. “sorry,” he muttered quietly.
“you don’t have to apologize.”
another shout downstairs. rafe laughed once under his breath. empty. “you know what his problem is?” she stayed quiet. “i’m never enough for him.”
her chest tightened painfully. “rafe—”
“seriously.” he looked at her now, eyes bright with something dangerous. “i could get straight A’s, play golf, act exactly how he wants, and he’d still look at me like there’s something rotten inside me.”
“that’s not true.”
“it is.”
“it’s not.”
his breathing had gone uneven, agitated. he paced once more before stopping directly in front of her. “then why does everybody leave?”
the question hit like a slap because suddenly this wasn’t about ward anymore. it was about his mother, every fight, every bad thing he believed about himself. and somehow it was about her too. she swallowed hard. “i’m still here.”
rafe stared at her. really stared like he was trying to memorize the sentence. then his eyes dropped to her mouth. everything changed after that.
the air, the room, the space between them. she should’ve stepped back. instead she froze. and rafe looked terrified. not of her but of wanting something.
his voice came out rough. “you can’t say stuff like that to me.”
“what stuff?”
“that.”
before she could answer, he kissed her. messy, impulsive. too intense for fourteen. all the things rafe was becoming shoved into one moment. his hand cupped her jaw too fast, like he thought she might disappear before he got there. his mouth tasted faintly like mint and anger and summer.
for one impossible second she kissed him back because of course she did. she’d loved him in every version already. little boy rafe, angry rafe, lonely rafe, beautiful disaster rafe.
all of them.
his breath caught immediately when she kissed him back. a tiny sound, wrecked, like nobody had ever chosen him first before. and then the door downstairs slammed violently.
ward shouting. glass breaking somewhere below. rafe jerked back instantly like he’d been burned. his entire expression changed. panic replacing softness so fast it hurt to watch. “shit.”
she blinked at him, still dazed. “rafe—”
“we can’t.”
her stomach dropped. “what?”
he started backing away from her immediately. hands in his hair. breathing hard. “that was a mistake.”
the words hit harder than they should’ve because he looked like he meant them. or worse — like he needed to mean them.
“okay,” she said quietly, even though it wasn’t okay at all.
rafe looked sick suddenly. “i just—” he swallowed harshly. “you’re the only good thing i have.”
her chest cracked open because she understood immediately. he thought loving him would ruin her eventually. the worst part was that she wasn’t sure he was wrong.
after that, rafe disappeared for almost a week. not physically. she still saw him at school sometimes. hallways, parking lots, across classrooms but he acted like there was suddenly glass between them.
he stopped calling. stopped showing up at her window. stopped looking at her for more than half a second at a time which honestly hurt worse than if he’d just been angry.
because this felt deliberate like rafe had decided she was something dangerous now.
by friday, she was furious. she found him behind the gym after school sitting on the hood of his truck smoking a cigarette badly. he looked up when he heard her footsteps.
and for one split second relief crossed his face. raw and immediate then it vanished replaced by that careless expression he’d been practicing lately. “you stalking me now?”
she stopped in front of him. “what is your problem?”
he took another drag from the cigarette even though he clearly didn’t know how. “don’t have one.”
“rafe.”
“what?”
“you kissed me and then started acting like i died.”
his jaw tightened immediately. there. that panic underneath him now. “keep your voice down.”
“why?”
“because.”
“because why?”
he jumped off the hood abruptly. “can you stop doing that?”
“doing what?”
“making everything into a thing.”
she stared at him in disbelief. “you kissed me.”
“yeah, and it was stupid.”
the words came too fast, too rehearsed like he’d been trying to convince himself all week.
anger flashed hot through her chest. “wow.”
“you know what i mean.”
“no actually, i don’t.”
rafe scrubbed a hand over his face aggressively. he looked exhausted with those dark circles beneath his eyes, shoulders tense like he hadn’t slept properly in days. “i just…” he exhaled sharply. “i can’t do this with you.”
“do what?”
“this.”
he gestured wildly between them. helpful. “you’re my best friend.”
the sentence should’ve sounded sweet. instead it landed like a warning.
“and?” she asked quietly.
rafe looked at her then and suddenly all the anger drained out of his face, leaving behind something much worse: fear. “and people leave when i fuck things up.”
her breath caught. because there it was.
the real reason. not embarrassment and not regret. terror. pure terrified certainty that if he loved her the wrong way, he’d lose her completely.
“rafe—”
“don’t.” his voice cracked slightly. he looked away immediately afterward, ashamed of it. “i can’t lose you too.”
too. the smallest word possible and yet still devastating. she swallowed hard. “you’re not going to.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do.”
“how?”
because i stay. because i always stay. because i think i would let you break my heart forever if it meant you kept looking at me like that. instead she whispered: “because i’m here.”
rafe’s expression twisted painfully. for one dangerous second, she thought he might kiss her again. he stepped closer instinctively, eyes dropping to her mouth.
then somebody laughed nearby from the parking lot. the moment shattered instantly. rafe stepped back so fast it almost looked violent. walls up again. “forget it.”
she felt something inside her snap. “stop saying that.”
his eyes flashed. “saying what?”
“forget it. nothing. doesn’t matter.” her voice shook now despite trying to stop it. “you do all this shit and then act like i imagined it.”
“i’m trying to fix it.”
“fix what?”
“us.”
she laughed then. because suddenly she understood something awful: rafe thought loving her would destroy everything and he was so terrified of becoming the kind of person who ruined her that he was ruining her anyway.
“you know what?” she said quietly. “you’re becoming kinda mean.”
silence. wrong thing to say. immediately she knew it. rafe went completely still. his face emptied in that terrifying way he had now sometimes — all emotion disappearing at once instead of exploding outward. “mean?”
she hesitated but she was already here now. “yeah.”
his tongue pressed hard against the inside of his cheek. “right.”
“i didn’t mean that —”
“no, it’s fine.” except it very obviously wasn’t fine because suddenly he looked exactly like the little boy sitting on the dock asking if something was wrong with him. only now he was older and angrier and better at hiding the wound. “that’s what everybody thinks anyway.”
her stomach dropped. “rafe, that’s not what i said.”
“close enough.”
he grabbed his backpack roughly off the ground. she reached for his wrist instinctively. “wait.”
rafe froze. her fingers wrapped around his skin felt too familiar now. too intimate after the kiss. for a second neither of them moved and then quietly, without looking at her, he said: “you know the worst part?”
her throat tightened. “what?”
his laugh came out hollow. “i was actually trying really hard to be good for you.”
and somehow that hurt more than anything else he could’ve said. because if this was rafe trying his hardest what would happen when he stopped trying altogether?
they stopped talking in november. not all at once because that would’ve been easier. instead it happened slowly enough to feel like dying by inches.
first came the distance. missed calls. shorter conversations. days passing without seeing each other. then came avoidance. if she walked into a room, rafe found a reason to leave it. if she sat beside him in class, he suddenly needed to talk to someone else.
the absolute worst part was that she knew he was doing it on purpose because every now and then she’d catch him looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice and he always looked wrecked like avoiding her hurt him too.
he just kept doing it anyway. by fifteen, people started talking about rafe differently. not: “ward cameron’s son.” not: “that rich blond kid.” instead:
“did you hear what rafe did?”
“apparently he got suspended again.”
“he was wasted at the boneyard.”
“he punched somebody.”
“he hooked up with—”
his reputation arrived in rooms before he did now. and rafe leaned into it viciously. he started partying older, drinking harder, smiling meaner.
girls loved him. boys followed him around like satellites hoping some of the danger rubbed off. teachers gave up trying to “reach” him. even ward stopped pretending disappointment would fix anything.
sometimes she’d see rafe at parties surrounded by people and somehow looking lonelier than he ever had as a child. that hurt most because she remembered the little boy who used to wait by her driveway barefoot asking if she wanted to look for crabs on the beach.
and now he looked at people like he was daring them to leave first.
they officially stopped speaking after graduation. not because of a fight because by then they barely knew how.
she saw him once that summer at a gas station near figure eight. he leaned against a motorcycle smoking with two frat-looking guys beside him.
all broad shoulders now, gold chain around his neck, sunglasses hiding half his face. beautiful in a way that almost made her angry. he noticed her immediately.
of course he did. rafe always noticed her immediately. for one horrible second, everything around them seemed to pause. she saw it happen in real time: the old instinct.
his body straightening slightly. eyes tracking her automatically. that microscopic softening in his face.
then his friends said something and rafe smirked. just like that the wall slammed back into place. she looked away first. he never called after her. that night she cried so hard she made herself sick.
three years later, she saw him again and it felt like getting hit by a fucking monster truck.
unc chapel hill was crawling with boys exactly like rafe cameron. rich, loud, drunk on inherited money and cheap beer except none of them were actually like rafe because nobody else walked into rooms carrying that much destruction inside them.
the party was already packed by the time she arrived. music shaking the floors, girls in tiny dresses stumbling through crowds, frat boys yelling over pong tables.
she almost left immediately. until someone shouted: “yo, cameron!”
and suddenly every nerve in her body lit on fire. she turned before she could stop herself and there he was. older. god. older.
twenty-one looked devastating on rafe. his body had fully grown into violence now. broad chest beneath a half-unbuttoned polo, thick forearms veined from lifting, rings glinting beneath red solo cup light.
his hair was shorter. his jaw sharper. his eyes colder and people moved around him differently. carefully like they sensed something unstable underneath all the charm.
girls touched him constantly. guys laughed too hard at his jokes.
someone handed him another drink before he even finished the first.
he looked like every frat fantasy rolled into one and also like somebody moments away from setting himself on fire.
then he saw her. everything stopped. not around them. just inside him. she watched it happen. the shift.
his smile fading slowly. eyes locking onto hers across the crowded room. that terrifying intensity she remembered too well crawling back instantly.
for one second, one tiny awful second, he looked exactly like fourteen again. wrecked, hopeful and fucking terrified. then one of the girls hanging off his arm whispered something in his ear and frat-boy rafe came back immediately.
he grinned lazily. looked away first like she meant nothing. that should’ve hurt less after all these years. instead it felt surgical. she made it exactly forty minutes before he cornered her in the kitchen.
of course he did because rafe had always found her eventually. always.
“well,” he drawled, leaning against the counter beside her, “this is fuckin’ weird.”
his voice had deepened. rough now. whiskey-soaked around the edges. she refused to look at him directly. “hi, rafe.”
“that all i get?”
finally she glanced over. big mistake. he was even prettier up close which honestly felt unfair considering the emotional damage. his nose slightly crooked now from fights, faint scar near his chin, expensive cologne mixed with alcohol and smoke.
he looked like every bad decision a girl could make wrapped into one person and he was staring at her like he wanted to devour her alive. “what do you want me to say?” she asked quietly.
something flickered across his face. hurt maybe that was gone instantly.
“damn.” he laughed under his breath. “still mean to me, huh?”
the audacity nearly made her dizzy. “you stopped talking to me for three years.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
he took a long sip from his drink. then: “you stopped trying.”
that landed directly between her ribs because the worst part was part of her still carried guilt for it. for eventually getting tired. for letting him go. for not fighting harder against the tide dragging him under.
rafe watched her expression carefully. always observant underneath the chaos. always smarter than people realized. “there she is,” he murmured softly.
“what?”
“that look.”
her throat tightened because suddenly he sounded familiar again. not frat rafe. not party rafe. her rafe. the boy who used to know every emotion crossing her face before she said a word.
“you still do that thing,” he said quietly.
“what thing?”
“look at me like you’re mourning somebody.”
silence. the music downstairs pounded violently through the floorboards. neither of them moved.
rafe watched her for a long moment.
frat house lights flickered gold across his face. music thundered downstairs. people laughed somewhere beyond the kitchen like the world wasn’t ending quietly between them.
then he smiled, wrong around the edges. “you keep looking at me like you’re mourning somebody,” he said softly. her throat tightened. rafe’s laugh came out hollow. “you keep looking for the kid i used to be, but i think he stopped existing a long time ago.”
silence pressed hard between them. he took another sip from his drink without breaking eye contact. “you wanna know the fucked up part?” he asked quietly. “i think i became exactly what everybody expected.”
the words hit like bruises.
because standing in front of her was every version of rafe at once: the lonely little boy. the angry teenager. the beautiful disaster everybody wanted pieces of and somehow none of them looked happy.
“everybody here thinks i’m having fun,” he continued, voice rough now. “you’re the only one looking at me like you can tell i’m drowning.”
her chest physically hurt. rafe swallowed hard before laughing again under his breath. “i spent three years trying to become somebody who wouldn’t miss you this much.” another pause. “didn’t take.”
she looked away first because she couldn’t breathe correctly anymore. and quietly — so quietly she almost missed it — he admitted: “i think losing you made me meaner. i think,” rafe said slowly, eyes glassy beneath frat house lights, “you’re the only person who notices how bad i got.”
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, coercion, unhinged inner monologue from rafe continues, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, mentions of smut, MAJORR size kink, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, forced kissing, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe tries to win you back, no matter at what cost.
𝘼/𝙉: It's finally here! Final word count: 19.5k. READ CHAPTER ONE HERE. Enjoy :)
“You have any more, Rafe?”
She sounds so whiny. They all sound so fucking whiney to him. He wishes they’d just shut up. Let him use them and then leave. He’s got two of them in his bed now, and for a while he’d watched listlessly as they’d kissed, played around, snorted coke off each other’s naked bodies like the desperate whores they were. He’d called them as a distraction, but now he didn’t even have the heart. Fucking pathetic.
“Bottom drawer.” He mutters, picking up his phone for the tenth time. One of the girls crawls over him, rummaging around in his drawers and brushing her naked body enticingly against him. He couldn’t give less of a shit though. His thumb hovers over your name saved on his phone, and for the hundredth time since the whole fiasco last week, he considers calling or texting you.
Rafe hadn’t run after you that day, when you’d overheard him talking all types of shit about you to his dumb fucking friends. When he’d lied about fucking you, when he’d proclaimed you were no different from any other Pogue slut who’d spread her legs for him. All with a straight face like some type of robot, and you’d cried and run, leaving your books on the ground behind you.
And he’d wanted to run after you. He hates to admit it, but there was a part of him that wanted to chase after you, gather you in his arms and wipe your tears and tell you you’d heard wrong, that he didn’t mean any of it. That he’d just acted up in front of his friends for some stupid reason or the other. That he was sorry.
But he hadn’t. Because he was Rafe fucking Cameron and he never ran after anyone. Especially not a Pogue.
He had picked up your books, though. Once everyone was done laughing at the whole ridiculous spectacle and moved on, he’d grabbed your discarded books from the floor. A fat textbook and your cute binder with all the flower stickers and shit. Your name spelled out in swirly cursive pink pen on the front. So fucking cute, it made his insides hurt. Why the fuck did you have that effect on him?
“Is that your girlfriend?” One of the girls asks, looking at your name on his phone screen.
“You’re not getting paid to talk,” he growls, pushing her head down to his crotch. And he pretends it’s you, of course he pretends it’s you. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, crying and choking because he’s so big and you’ve never sucked cock before. And he’d coax you gently, stroke your hair back and tap your cheek condescendingly, tell you what a good girl you are for taking him like this. So brave and pretty, his good little girl. And you’d cry and cry, looking up at him with scared, devoted eyes…
He kicks the girls out the moment he’s finished with them. Tucks the cash into their underwear and sends them packing without another word. One of Ward’s friends had a high-end escort service. Rafe never really felt the need to indulge in it before, since he didn’t really have a problem hooking up with girls. But he’d been on edge and wanted a quiet distraction, a quick fix. It had not worked.
Rafe: Hey. I’m sorry about what happened the other day. I think we should talk.
His thumb hovers over the send button. He wonders if he’d be able to sweet-talk you into forgiving him. Because yes, he wants you to forgive him. He wants you to be his in every way possible, and to achieve that, he needs you to like him again. Fuck his friends and the stupid bet.
He sucks in his breath and presses down on send before he can stop himself. Waits one second, two, three, four, five. Heart lurches to his throat when an error message comes up:
Your message is unable to be delivered to the recipient.
White hot anger chokes him like a vice. You had blocked him. Fuck. Motherfucking shit.
Rafe’s always had issues with his anger. He couldn’t control it most times, and as a result he’d explode like a fucking volcano. He’d try to contain it, but the rage always found its way out. And he throws his phone across the room, where it crashes against the wall with a loud smack. How dare you fucking block him? How dare you? Who the motherfuck did you think you were?
Blindly, he searches his drawer for his coke. Hands shaking, he pours it out into a small heap and snorts it straight up, his heart already racing with an all-consuming rage. Fuck you for blocking him. Didn’t you know Rafe owned you? You were his property, and he had to have access to you whenever he wanted, however he wanted… He had to.
He makes a snap decision. Grabs your books and his keys, his actions fuelled by pure rage and drug-induced adrenaline. Stuffs his phone – now with a shattered screen – into his pocket and wipes any white residue from his nose. He was losing control of the situation. And that just wouldn’t do. He had to fix it. Now.
And Rafe wasn’t anything if not proactive.
Unfortunately, he runs into Ward on the way out.
“Rafe. We need to talk.”
“Not now, dad. I’ve got shit to deal with.”
Ward’s got a newspaper in his hands which he’s undoubtedly reading performatively, and he takes a moment before he folds it down on the kitchen island. “Shit to deal with, huh? Like trying to fuck every girl on the island?”
Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not doing this right now.”
“I’ve got business partners, investors coming in and out of here. Doesn’t look great when there’s coked out hookers limping out of my son’s bedroom every other day.”
“Your business buddies all do the same shit, dad–”
“Yeah? Well I don’t give a fuck what they do. I’m talking about you. I’m trying to push a clean, family-man image here–”
Rafe snorts. Ward ignores him.
“You’re getting too old for this shit, Rafe. You’re graduating soon, then you’ll take over the family business. You need to get your shit together, find a nice girl and settle down.”
Rafe rolls his eyes. He knows what’s expected of him. Knows his father wants him married sooner rather than later. Probably to some spoilt kook princess that he wouldn’t give two fucks about, a marriage built on connections and maximising power for the Cameron business. He figures being married wouldn’t be much different from being single. He’d still sleep around with the Pogue girls like he always did. But his mind’s too occupied by other things to really focus on this redundant conversation with his father.
“Look, dad, I have to be somewhere right now, so…”
“Who was that one girl you had over the other day? In the cute dress?”
Rafe stops short, feeling like he’s been injected with a dark, poisonous, all-consuming dose of sudden, icy-cold jealousy that winds him from the inside out. “What?”
“I was looking over the security footage. You had her on the patio. Cute, innocent looking girl. Now someone like that would be much better for your image, Rafe.”
Rafe’s jaw tenses, his fists clenched to his sides. He doesn’t want to react in front of his father, but it’s hard. The mere mention of you by another man – even if it was just his fucking dad – was making his blood boil. Boil in a way it never had before. He feels like choking someone the fuck out. Nobody was allowed to look at you. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck had you done to him? Now he’s even more determined to fix things with you, have you safely under his wing again so he could protect you from the lecherous gazes of other men.
He leaves without another word.
He takes his motorbike. It’s his preferred method of transport anyways. Quicker, less attention drawn to him than when he’s in one of his big cars. And he deliberately leaves his helmet behind, needing to feel the air whip on his face. Maybe it would snap him out of whatever crazed spell you’d put him under. He feels like ripping his fucking hair out – how dare you fucking block him? He was your only friend.
Rafe’s feeling no less crazy when he finally pulls up to your street. If anything, he’s even more incensed. His girl. His property. And he’d lost you? All because of some stupid shit he’d said to his dumb idiot fucking friend group? Fuck them – it was all their fault for making up that bet. All their fault for badgering him for private pictures of you. Fuck them.
He’s still reeling with rage when he knocks harshly on your front door. Which is why he’s caught off guard when someone opens it immediately.
At first, he thinks it’s you. No, this woman looks older. Not much older, though. It’s your mother.
“Is everything alright? Can I help you?”
He forces himself to calm down, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Switches on the charm, smiles down at the woman who gazes at him with an unreadable expression.
“Hi. I’m Y/N’s friend from school. Is she at home?”
Your mother blinks, doing that thing that he knows people from The Cut do. Takes in his expensive clothes, the Rolex on his wrist, his signet ring that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. People like her looked at him often with clear disdain simply because of his family’s wealth and where he came from. It was a good thing Rafe did not care much for what a Pogue thought about him.
He tries again when she doesn’t immediately respond; “I’m very sorry to show up unannounced, ma’am. She left her books on campus and I thought I’d return them.”
Your mother clears her throat, “I’m sorry, she’s not at home right now. But you can give her books to me.”
Rafe hesitates, not wanting to give up your things just yet. “Where is she? When will she be back?”
“Who are you?”
He tells her his name, watching as her eyes widen slightly. That was the usual reaction he got. The Cameron name was well known in Kildare. His dad’s company – soon to be his – was global, but notoriously well known around the Outer Banks.
“Thank you for bringing my daughter’s things back, Mr. Cameron.” There’s an air of formality in her tone as she takes your books.
“That’s okay. When did you say she’d be back?”
There’s a long pause.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be seeing you.”
It takes him aback, the frank way in which your mother speaks. He feels shock, and then a wave of anger.
“Well, I think that’s up to her, isn’t it?”
Your mother’s jaw twitches, and she steps back slightly, inching the door closed as if shutting him out. He gets the message but does not care.
“Look. My daughter hasn’t been the same for the last few days and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s because she got involved with the likes of you.” She sounds cold, distant, almost resigned. “I don’t know you personally, Mr. Cameron, but I know people like you. And I know my daughter is sweet and unassuming. So please, leave her alone.”
It takes everything in him not to lose it. He knows it’s best not to get into it with your mother of all people, and yet he hates when people assume shit about him. Nobody knew him, least of all some nobody-Pogue from the Cut. He wasn’t like Topper and them, but he couldn’t expect this woman to know that.
He forces a smile, “Just returning her books, ma’am. I’m her only friend.”
“As I said, thank you for bringing her things back.” She sniffs, closing the door till it’s only open a crack, “But please stay away from my daughter. It would be best for you both.”
The door slams in his face.
He has to physically retreat before he kicks your fucking door in. Her fucking audacity. As if she didn’t fully understand who the fuck he was. One meeting and a deal is all it would take for Cameron Development to buy this fucking dump of a street where your house was situated in. He’d like to see her slam her fucking door on his face then.
He does that thing his therapist taught him, breathes in and out but it doesn’t calm him down in the slightest. Instead, he clenches his fists by his side, his blunt nails digging into his palms till he knows he’s drawn blood.
Before he really knows what’s doing, he makes his way to the back of your house where he knows your bedroom window is. But the curtains are drawn. Fuck. Were you actually not at home? Or was your mother lying? He bets she was lying. If only he could get to you–
“What are you doing here?”
Rafe whips around, heart lurching to his fucking throat because it’s you. Standing right there in front of him. And he almost can’t believe it. Out here in this seedy little street on the Cut, dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a tank top. Face devoid of any emotion, stripped of any kind of makeup. Lips downturned and pouty, eyes narrowed yet still so big and pretty.
For a moment, you take his breath away.
“Go away, Rafe.”
Promptly, you turn on your heel. Well, you turn in your scuffed white converse, speed walking away from him faster than he can even wrap his head around what’s happening. You’ve got your earphones in, your arms crossed in front of your chest, going as fast as your legs can carry you. Down this dangerous fucking street, dressed like that.
Rafe catches up to you in two strides.
“Wait, I came to talk to you–”
“There’s nothing left to say… LET GO OF ME!”
You scream it so loud, he drops your hand like a hot coal. Taken aback by your fire, but he recovers quickly. Walks around till he’s facing you and blocking your path. Tries to catch your gaze but you look anywhere but at him. Your chest rises and falls, your lips pressed into a thin line as if your emotions are getting the better of you. He’s always seen you as pristine and perfect, but now you’re dishevelled, upset, won’t even look at him. Still so fucking beautiful though.
“I didn’t mean all those things I said, okay?”
You swallow harshly, “I’m not stupid, Rafe.”
“It’s my fuckin’ friends – hey, listen, it was my friends, okay?! They kept goading me about you. I had to say something to get them off my back.”
Finally, you meet his eyes. A look of incredulity on your face.
“You… You told everyone that you slept with me, Rafe! You lied! About everything!”
He sighs impatiently, running his hands through his hair, “I know, fuck, I know I lied, okay? But they kept asking. You need to understand that I only said those things to protect you.”
Silence. You just stare at him. He thinks he sees something break behind your eyes. That same look you’d had on your face when he’d locked eyes with you the last time he’d seen you on the campus courtyard. As if you’re looking at a stranger, and he hates it.
“I had to protect you, okay?” He repeats, trying to ignore how hollow and wooden his words sound, “they all want to sleep with you. I had to tell them I had, so that they knew that they couldn’t–”
You shake your head slowly, “Y-You can’t even accept responsibility for what you did…”
“Fuck, this is me accepting responsibility, don’t you get it?!”
He lowers his voice when you flinch. But he’s so fucking desperate, wants you to understand what he’s trying to say although even he doesn’t understand it. He feels fucking insane right now, and you’re seeing it all unfold first hand. “Look, I didn’t mean any of it. You need to understand that. Hey, hey don’t walk away from me!”
“I feel disgusting, Rafe!” You burst out. And he really sees you then, sees your face crumple up and yet you try to keep this false bravado, chin up, eyes blazing. “I-I trusted you. I did things with you that I… that I’ve never done before. And to think this whole time, it was all just a joke for you. I told you about my dad, and I told you all those things because this whole time I thought you genuinely wanted to be friends, and I trusted you.”
“You can still trust me–”
“No, I can’t! You were lying the whole time.” You swallow again, and through your glasses, he can see the tears welling in your eyes, “I was nothing more than a bet for you. And I… I can’t believe I fell for it, that I let you…”
Your voice breaks, and you wrap your arms around yourself, almost like you’re hiding your body from him. Like you can’t bear the thought of him even looking at you now, can’t bear the thought that you ever let him look at you. Makes him feel like a goddamned monster.
“I wish I’d never called you that night,” you whisper, “I wish I’d never let you see me like that. I wish I could… I wish…”
“You don’t mean that,” he reaches out, doesn’t know why but just wants to hold your arm, but stops himself when you flinch once more. You’re far away, lost in your own broken thoughts, and yet you step back when he tries to touch you. Like you’re scared of him, and it kills him, because you were the only one who wasn’t.
“I feel dirty,” you say, voice thick yet pitiful, “I-I feel like… Like I can’t get myself clean no matter how hard I try.”
It’s Rafe’s turn to swallow, and he’s got a huge lump in his throat, and it makes it harder for him to speak. Like there’s a boulder on top of his heart, weighing it down to the fucking pits of his stomach. Guilt and frustration like flames licking and growing inside him.
“You’re not dirty,” he says softly, wanting, willing you to look at him but you don’t. And he wants you to say something, anything. But you don’t. Like you’re done. And he can’t have that, he fucking can’t. The control is slipping out from under his fingertips, and it’s an all-consuming feeling that he hates.
“I like you,” he tries again, but he’s never been good with his fucking words. His mind’s screaming ten different things for him to say, brain feels like it’s about to explode with frustration because he knows no matter what he says, it won’t be the right thing. How could it be? When he’d done what he’d done and there was no way around it? “I never lied about that. It started out as a bet but I always liked you.”
“You don’t speak about someone like that if you like them.” You look defiant and deflated all at once, angry yet upset, those fucking lips of yours downturned in this crestfallen way that hits him straight in the chest. “I hate myself for being so stupid. Trusting you when all this time, you were probably just laughing behind my back, thinking I was beneath you because I’m just a Pogue.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t you just understand that I’m telling the goddamned truth?!”
He doesn’t mean to raise his voice. It just happens. It happens a lot with him, and he regrets it instantly when he sees your face morph in fear. Again, you flinch away from him, and he wishes to God you’d stop doing that. Stop being afraid of him because couldn’t you fucking see how insane you made him?
“S-Stay away from me,” you back away towards your house.
“Wait! Shit, I’m sorry, I– hey! Come back! Please, come back!”
You ignore him. Don’t even look back. In fact, you break into a run, as if you can’t stand being near him. And he can tell you’re crying in earnest now, with how your hands reach up and snatch your glasses off your face to blindly wipe away your tears. He calls out again, but his voice is lost in the wind. Fists clench to his sides again, and he hates how helpless he feels. The control he had, it’s dissipated like a cloud of fucking smoke and he hates it.
“Fine! Don’t fuckin’ listen!” He wants to punch something. The frustration of being unable to explain himself is slowly morphing into rage like how it often did. And he doesn’t know what to fucking do, and he’s trying to control his breathing, and he’s itching for a line, anything that’ll make him stop feeling whatever it is he’s feeling right now. “You think I can’t walk away from this shit too? Well, fuck you! I’m done too.”
Your front door slams shut. You don’t even look back once.
***
It’s a whole week before Rafe sees you on campus again. And in those seven days, he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t care. That you didn’t matter. That this was it. Whatever the fuck he’d thought he’d felt for you was clearly not real. And it never had been. He was just a fucking idiot who’d had a lapse in his judgement. Let a stupid Pogue fuck around with his feelings. Never again. Never fucking again.
And yet his heart skips a beat when he sees you. It’s been a whole week of you not showing up to classes, and a part of him had thought you’d transferred out. But there you are, bright and early on a fucking Monday morning. Books and binder clutched to your chest. In a blue top and matching skirt, looking every bit as cute as you always did.
For some reason, he’d half expected you to show up sad and forlorn, in a big hoodie or some other equally unflattering item that chicks wore when they felt depressed. Clearly not.
Rafe himself feels like shit and has all week. He’s got bags under his eyes and stubble he can’t be bothered to shave off. And he hates it, hates how he’s spent the past seven days at home, listlessly staring at his chat with you on his phone. Reading over your old messages again and again. Back when he still had control over what you thought of him. He also keeps staring at the pictures he took of you. He knows he should delete them but he can’t. You were his after all. He had every right to have those pictures on his phone. And you were so fucking hot…
“Look, it’s your little girlfriend,” Kelce snickers, and his entire group turn their heads in your direction. You’re trying your best not to make eye contact, quickening your pace as you speed-walk across the field.
It takes everything in him to keep his cool. “Change the fucking subject, man. If you know what’s best for you.”
They all straighten up, cough, look away. Like fucking clockwork robots responding to their puppet-master. They’d calmed down about the whole debacle, stopped begging for the pictures of you after Rafe had made it clear he wasn’t going to show them. Now, he just wanted to move on. Forget about it all. Pretend like he didn’t know you, just like he did with every other girl he fucked.
It was difficult, though. When you looked so fucking beautiful.
Rafe can’t help but try to meet your gaze, but you don’t look at him even once. And it incenses him. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you, discard and move on like he did with all the other girls he’d been with. And yet…
“Hey man, did you hear what I said? What do you think?”
Rafe blinks, forcibly peeling his eyes away, and trying his best to suppress the wild, innate desire to follow you, keep tabs on you, make sure he knows what you’re doing at all times.
Topper waves his hand in front of his face, “Rafe?”
His eyes narrow in irritation, “What?”
“The party. Saturday night. It’s at this abandoned beach house in the Cut. I’m pretty sure Sarah’s gonna be there, and–”
“No.”
Topper sighs, “I mean, I think you should go, man. There’ll be plenty of other Pogue girls there if you’re looking to hook up.”
The thought of that makes him sick.
“I’m not going to some Pogue-infested crack house on the Cut, Topper.”
“But I think the best way for you to get over her is to find someone else–”
“Get it through your thick fucking skull,” Rafe grabs him by the collar, a sudden rage coursing through his veins and he can’t even pinpoint why, “I’m not trying to get over shit, okay? There’s nothing to get over. Don’t fuckin’ project your shit on me just ‘cause you can’t get over my bitch of a sister.”
“Jesus Christ, alright!” Topper shakes him off, backing away and raising his hands in the air, “You shouldn’t speak about Sarah like that.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Everyone’s staring at him again. Like he’s the crazy one or some shit like that. Fuck them all. His nose twitches, and he wishes he’d brought some coke with him. But the last time he’d been caught on campus with drugs, Ward had to pay a shit ton of money for the faculty to forget it ever happened. Doesn’t help now, when he feels like he’s gonna implode. A part of him wishes he could go to you, because you’d make him feel calm and in control again. But that isn’t an option, and so he tries to control his breathing. He can’t.
Fuck.
Get you back or forget about you. Something had to give.
***
It’s on impulse, really. He doesn’t even remember doing it till it’s done. It’s after he’s spent a good twenty minutes lying on his bed and staring at your pictures on his phone. Fuck, you were so sweet and hot. He still remembers it, waking up next to you on your tiny pink bed, an assorted range of your stuffed animals surrounding you both. You, naked and in his arms. Right where you belonged. Sucking his thumb like you were his baby, and you trusted him with everything.
Before he realises what he’s doing, he orders a Chanel bag. A light pink one with a gold chain. Puts in your address so it can be delivered straight to you. He’d grown up with two sisters and a stepmother obsessed with shopping and designer labels, so he has an idea of what women like. And he’s used to girls from Figure 8, who’s love language was gifts and money. You were different, though, but he still can’t help himself.
He imagines you dripping from head to toe in gifts bought by him. Cute little designer dresses, all in pink or light blue or yellow or some pretty girly colour like that. Fur jackets and dainty, expensive jewellery. And he’d give you an allowance, hell he’d make you save his credit card details on your phone. And he’d pay for you to get your nails done, and your toes too. Pretty, gleaming white polished toes.
He’s jacking off now, picturing it so clearly in his head. He’d move you into his house, and you’d look at him with glowing eyes, so thankful that he’d saved you from the poverty you’d been so used to. And you’d be his little princess, draped in the gifts he’d shower you with. And in return, you’d let him do anything to you. Because you were his. Only ever his.
And he’d push you onto his bed, press your legs up against his chest while he fucked you so good and hard. Came inside you, filled you up till the brim, till his cum was leaking out of you. And even then, he’d push it back inside, stuff you so fucking full of him that you wouldn’t know how to act, and you’d cry and be confused. You’d beg him not to, but he’d do it anyways because he owned you. And if he knocked you up? Fuck, he wouldn’t even care because it would mean you’d be bound to him forever.
He cums at that last thought, the visual of it too fucking hot for him to even fully wrap his head around. High off the fact he’s bought something for you. It gives him a fucking power trip like no other. You were his. Completely and utterly his. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you but fuck it. Maybe, just maybe, he could buy his way back into your life.
It’s only two days later when he’s leaving his car in the campus parking lot that he feels a little tap on his shoulder.
“You can’t do things like this.”
It’s you. Looking all tiny and cute as ever, a fiery look on your face that’s about as intimidating as one of your stuffed animals. Your face that’s half hidden by the big Chanel box you’re carrying in your arms.
“Hello to you too.”
“You… You need to take this back.”
Rafe squints down at you, running a hand through his hair and trying to act nonchalant, “It’s rude to return gifts.”
You look genuinely upset. Distraught, even. It confuses him.
“I don’t want any gifts from you, Rafe. Why can’t you understand that I want nothing to do with you?”
Didn’t he know this would happen? He knew you weren’t materialistic like the girls he was used to. And yet he’d still done it. But at least you were speaking to him again.
“I thought you should have it,” he says. “I was thinking about you.”
“Stop. Don’t.” You swallow harshly, your chest rising up and down as if you have so much you want to say. “Please. Just take this back and leave me alone.”
I CAN’T! He wants to scream, but he knows he can’t risk scaring you away again.
“Take it as an apology,” he says, take a step closer to you except you instantly take a step back, a fearful look in your eye that he hates. “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? Let me make it up to you.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, “You lied, and now everyone thinks that we…” You gulp, pressing your lips together and trying to push the box into his arms, “My mom saw the bag. She-She thinks I’m sleeping with you in exchange for gifts.”
Rafe blinks, “Why would she think that?”
You gape at him incredulously, and he can’t help but think how cute and hot you look. All weepy and indignant, acting all upset but all it does is get him hard. The Chanel box is almost as big as you, and it makes you look even tinier. And you’re wearing this little buttercup yellow top trimmed with white lace. So fucking hot. He wants to grab you and push you into the backseat of his car. Lock the doors and have his way with you. Fuck you dumb, fuck that indignance straight out of you, till all you can say is thank you daddy for the pretty purse and the orgasm while you cuddle and cry into his chest.
When he doesn’t take the box back, you huff and drop it at his feet.
“I…I don’t care about expensive gifts, Rafe. And if you think you can just throw money at me and expect things to go back to how they were, then I guess we never really knew each other to begin with.”
Rafe sighs, reaches out to grab your wrist, “Look, wait–”
“D-Don’t touch me!”
There it is again. Don’t touch me. It’s the second time you’ve said that to him, and he watches as you flinch away from him again. Like you’re scared. Of him. And he fucking hates it so much, it’s like he can’t breathe.
“Wait–”
You scurry away without looking back at him even once. When all he can do is look at you. Like you’re a drug and he’s an addict. He can’t rip his gaze away. He feels so out of control of the situation, it makes his palms itch and his head hurt. He feels like throwing up. Like fucking punching someone. He wishes you’d just understand him, and he hates himself for not being able to explain himself to you. He’s so fucking obsessed with you, it’s insane.
How the fuck was he supposed to get over you?
***
His eyes follow you wherever you go. He memorises your schedule, your classes, everything. He doesn’t mean to, exactly. It just kind of happens. It’s like he has this innate need to know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re his property after all, so it was only natural.
And Rafe watches you all the time. Whenever he can. He knows it’s unhealthy as shit, this growing obsession he has with you. But he’s been like this as long as he can remember. Hyper focusing on one thing until it consumed him completely. His dad’s approval. Drugs. Alcohol. You.
And you’re putting on a brave front, walking around campus acting like everything between you and him never even happened. But Rafe likes to think he knows you, despite only interacting with you for a week. He knows it’s all an act, and on the inside you’re feeling just as shitty as he is. He watches you smile, nod, hang around the outskirts of some Pogue girl group who barely pays you any attention. And it’s sick of him, but he likes how you don’t have any true friends. All you had was him, and he was hell bent on getting you back no matter what it took.
Which is why he feels this cold, numbing feeling of pure rage when he sees you leaving your last class of the day walking side-by-side next to a boy. Talking to him. Laughing with him.
Rafe’s hands curl into fists.
He doesn’t want you speaking to any other man. Even what looks to be some sorry ass Pogue nerd who’s in your class. No, you were his. You weren’t allowed to even look at another man unless he approved of it. What the fuck could this clown give you that Rafe couldn’t? Nothing. What the fuck.
He waits till you part ways with the boy and make your way out of the building. That’s when he grabs him by the shirt and slams him into a locker, not giving a fuck who sees.
“What the fuck?!” The boy struggles, but it’s extremely easy to overpower him. Rafe’s used to being bigger than most people.
“Shut the fuck up, Pogue. I just want to talk.” Rafe shoots him a wooden ass smile, although it’s taking everything in him not to punch the shit out of this fucking guy. As quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets him go, straightening him up and smoothening his shirt while the boy stares at him like he’s insane. He’s used to that too.
“Why were you speaking to her?” He asks softly, keeping his tone cold and calculated.
“I don’t know what you’re taking about– OUCH!”
Rafe slams him against the metal lockers again before smirking, “Try again.”
The Pogue scrunches his eyes shut for a second before exhaling loudly through his nose. When he speaks, his voice shakes, “She’s in my class, man. We were put together for a project.”
“Mm,” Rafe’s thoughtful for a second, “You know who I am?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Who am I?”
When the kid doesn’t respond immediately, Rafe takes his head and slams it against the hard metal behind him. He cries out in pain, coughing with a stricken look on his face like he’s about to piss himself.
“You’re Rafe, OK?! R-Rafe Cameron! Please don’t hit me again!”
Rafe smiles, patting his cheek, “Relax, Pogue. You know who my friends are?”
“Yes!”
“Then you know you won’t speak to her again. You won’t even look at her again. Or else I’ll personally come after you. And my friends will too.”
“Look, I don’t know what this is about! We were just discussing our project, it’s worth a lot of credits–”
“You’ll do it yourself,” Rafe fixes the boy’s collar slowly, “You’re not going to say another word to her. If you do, I’ll know.”
The boy gulps, “O-Okay.”
Rafe smirks, patting the boy’s cheek again, “Good boy. And you let your pathetic little Pogue friends know too. She’s off limits to all of you. If any of you so much as look at her, I’ll personally break your fuckin’ legs myself. Got it?”
“Yes, I-I understand.”
Rafe lets the boy go before he pisses himself in fear. He knows the threat will be enough, and yet he still feels so fucking angry. Like he can’t believe you’ve found another man to talk to. He was supposed to be your only friend.
He hates this feeling of desperation that’s only heightening within him as the days go by. A pretty girl like you were bound to find someone else unless Rafe took action.
But what the fuck could he do?
***
He’s still stewing over it when he gets home that day. He’d threatened the kid but would it be enough to keep him away from you? Rafe bets that dumb fucking Pogue had requested to be partnered up with you, thought it’d be an easy way to get in your pants. He thinks back to you in all your cute, sexy outfits, flouncing around campus like you were a free piece of ass. Suddenly acutely aware of just how many men probably wanted to fuck you just like he did…
Over his dead fucking body.
In frustration, he whips out his phone and opens to your chat. He was still blocked. A wave of pure rage completely throttles him, and he throws his phone against his bedroom wall. Again. He’s surprised the damn screen doesn’t completely shatter from the impact.
You’re fucking losing it, he thinks to himself.
After snorting a few lines to calm his nerves (it doesn’t work) as well as downing half the bottle of Gray Goose that he’s got stashed under his bed, Rafe decides to pay you another visit.
“Rafe, we need to talk.”
He’s about to leave the house when Ward’s booming voice halts him. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Not now, Dad,” Rafe mumbles, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Yes, now. Come here, son.”
He resists the urge to roll his eyes, entering his father’s study. “Look, Dad. I need to be somewhere.”
“Yes, Rafe. You always need to be somewhere.” Ward is unperturbed as usual, stoic as he sits behind the grand desk of his study, barely even looking up from the papers he’s sifting through. “I don’t care where you’re going. But I need you to be here Sunday. I’ve got someone coming over to talk business.”
His ears perk up, “I get to sit in on a deal?”
“If you want. But he’s bringing his family over for brunch. He’s got a daughter your age whom I’d like for you to meet.”
Rafe loses interest immediately, not giving a fuck about whatever spoilt Kook slut his father was trying to set him up with this time. Instead, his mind wanders back to you again. He wonders what that slimy little dweeb in your class had said to you. Had you been impressed by him? Surely not, he couldn’t offer you what Rafe could. Why the fuck had you been talking to him? Laughing with him? God, he needs to see you now. Set the rules straight: you weren’t allowed to talk to any other man. He doesn’t give a shit if you’re mad at him, you’d still need to follow his rules, and–
“Are you listening to me, Rafe?”
“Mm.”
“I said it’s about time you settled down and got serious about your future. Cameron Development has always been a family-orientated business. There’s a certain image you need to build up and maintain, son.”
Ward drones on and on about “settling down” and “eventually starting a family” and some other bullshit along those lines. Rafe’s too busy thinking about you to listen. What if that stupid Pogue fuck didn’t listen to him? What if he was at your house right now? Using the excuse of “project work” to get close to you? In your bedroom? When the only one who’d been in your bedroom was Rafe, and he intended to keep it that way.
“Sure, Dad. Look, I’ll talk to you when I get back.”
He leaves, ignoring Ward shouting his name and calling him back. Usually, he’s pretty good with listening to his father but right now he couldn’t be fucked with it. He has bigger priorities to deal with.
And he knows he probably shouldn’t drive after he’s just inhaled half a bag of coke and chased it down with half a bottle of vodka. Which is why he takes his motorbike again, hoping the roads would be empty at this time of night.
He gets to your house in record time. He’s got the route memorised at this point.
He doesn’t bother with the front door. Knows if your mother answers, she’d probably call the cops on him or some shit like that. When really, she should be calling the cops on that dumb fucking pervert Pogue from your class.
He makes a beeline for your bedroom window at the back of the house. Luckily, your curtains aren’t drawn, and he can see inside. Your bed’s all made, pristine pink sheets with the same stupid stuffed animals arranged meticulously on your pillow. The memory of him on top of your naked body while you quivered underneath him is fast fading, which he hates. He can’t believe you still haven’t forgiven him. He’d give anything to have you look at him like that again, look at him with stars in your eyes as if he’s your saviour, your hero, your god.
“Leave me alone, okay?! Stop telling me what to do all the time!”
For a moment, Rafe thinks you’re talking to him. He steps back, allowing the sidewall to conceal him yet still having a perfect view through your window. You’ve got your back to him, dressed in this fucking insane pair of pink pyjama shorts that make your ass pop. You’ve got your hands on your hips, facing out your bedroom door.
“It’s that boy, isn’t it? Didn’t I warn you not to get mixed up with people like him?” Your mother’s voice.
“Why can’t you just trust me, mom? I’ve always done what you’ve asked, but it’s never good enough!”
You look so petulantly pretty, and it’s a side to you he’s never seen before. Sure, he’s seen you angry, hurt, upset. At him. But this is different. You seem… frustrated almost.
“You can’t afford to get distracted by boys who will just hurt you. You need to keep your head down and mind your own business.”
“That’s all I ever do!” You cry, stomping into your room and he gets a flash of your face, indignant and upset. “I just want to be normal, mom! I just want that normal college experience that everyone else talks about! And I want friends, I want freedom–”
“You’re too naïve.” Your mother appears in your doorway looking grim, “I don’t know what that boy did to you, but maybe now you’ll learn your lesson. Most people at that school are not your friends. You need to remember that, and be smart, and–”
“This isn’t about him!” You look helpless, as if you know whatever you’ll say won’t have any type of effect on your mother’s view. Rafe gets it, has that same problem with Ward. “I’m just so sick of being so good all the time. I hate that everyone thinks I’m so naïve, I-I wish I could show them I’m not.”
“You are.” Your mother says impassively. “And you will stay that way. I forbid you from talking to that boy or anyone like him.”
An incredulous pause, and then:
“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
You slam your door shut and throw yourself on your bed, crying your little eyes out into your pillow. And admittedly, it touches him a little bit. How sweet and soft you look, crying like that with such abandon. Thinking no one’s watching you, thinking no one understands you. Well, Rafe does. And ironically enough, he feels like he’s the only one who could comfort you when you’re like this.
And, despite how sick it sounds, a part of him likes how you’ve fought with your mother. If anything, that distance would only make you more likely to fall back into Rafe’s arms. As long as he was patient and bided his time.
Patience, however, has never been his strong suit. But even in his drunk and high current state, he knows that making his presence known to you right now probably wouldn’t be the best idea. You look equal parts upset and angry, if he added himself to that mix you’d definitely bite his head off. He’d find it hot though, but nevertheless…
He leaves, feeling slightly better. He doesn’t even fully understand why. Maybe it’s because he’s seen you now, and you’re not doing project work with that worm from your class. In fact, he’s not on your mind at all, which was reassuring. Or maybe it’s because the fight with your mother meant you’d slowly come back to him.
Maybe.
***
“Hey Rafe, you spoken to your girl lately?” Topper asks him the following day on campus.
Rafe frowns, “Why are you asking me that?”
Topper shrugs, looking oblivious and gormless as usual, “I don’t know, just asking.”
“Well, don’t.” He doesn’t like when other men talk about you, including Topper. Lately, he’s gotten a lot more paranoid about who’s watching you, who wants to fuck you. Which, he guesses, is most likely every male at this college. Makes him even more eager to publicly claim you, make it be known that you weren’t up for grabs. Sure, his friends knew better than to talk to you or look at you, but he wanted everyone to know. And he didn’t have time to go around personally threatening any man who looked at you.
“Look, there she is now.”
Topper cleanly points at you. Rafe slaps the back of his head and shoots him a dirty look.
“Don’t fucking do that.”
You’re standing on the fringes of that one Pogue girl group that you hang around with sometimes, pretending like they’re your friends. The same ones you were standing with the first time he’d ever seen you. And that was weeks ago, and yet your friendship with them hasn’t seemed to progress. They still ignore you, and you still stand there like you know you don’t fit in, but you try your hardest anyways.
“So anyways, it’s gonna be at this abandoned beach house.”
“Yeah, and Brittney, it’s still OK if we all get ready at your place, right?”
Their stupid chatter doesn’t interest him. But then you speak up.
“What’s happening at the abandoned beach house?” You ask politely, like you’ve rehearsed the line a million times in your head to make sure it comes out right. Tinged with nervousness, afraid they might ignore you as if you hadn’t even spoken.
There’s silence for a beat or two, and Rafe doesn’t miss how some of the girls smirk and exchange looks before one of them answers.
“It’s a party. We would’ve told you but… well, we know you probably wouldn’t be allowed to go.”
“Oh.” Hurt clouds your features for a moment before you force a smile, “I-I’d be allowed to go.”
One of the girls raises an eyebrow, “Really? You? Have you ever even been to a party before?”
They all burst into giggles. You join in too, despite the fact they’re all laughing at you and he bets you know it.
“I have.” You say, sticking your chin up so cutely. And Rafe knows you’re lying through your teeth, and wonders why you feel the need to impress these stupid Pogue sluts who were clearly being mean to you because they were jealous. Couldn’t you see that?
“Okay, well, then you should come too,” one of the girls says, her lips quirking up into a smirk, “Although I doubt Rafe Cameron’s gonna be there, if that’s why you want to go.”
Your face morphs in disgust, “I…I… No, I don’t care about him. I should’ve listened to you guys, you were all right about him.”
Stupid Pogue whores, spreading lies about him to you as per usual.
“Well, we warned you.” One of the girls says, looking like she’s about to burst into a fit of laughter, “But I guess you got a bit overexcited, and thought he was giving you attention because he actually cared about you.”
“Which he doesn’t,” another one chimes in, “I mean, let’s make that clear.”
You giggle nervously, but he can tell you’re hurt.
“Yeah, I mean no offence to you, you’re just so sweet and innocent,” one girl pats you on the shoulder condescendingly, “He probably went for you because he knew you’d be an easy target.”
“No offence,” another one emphasises, although the smirks they all exchange say otherwise. “But yeah, you should totally come to the party on Saturday. We’ll take care of you.”
It’s when they’ve all dispersed and you’re on your own, that he corners you before he can stop himself.
“You shouldn’t go to that party.”
You stare up at him in disbelief, “Get away from me, Rafe.”
“It’s not the type of place for someone like you.”
“Someone like me,” you echo, a cloud of hurt crossing your features for a split second before you cover it up with a brave attempt at a glare, “Y-You don’t know me.”
“I do. And those girls are not your friends.”
“Stop.”
“I’m just trying to help you.”
“They didn’t lie to me and pretend to be my friend,” you hug your books close to your chest like they’re a fucking shield against him or something, “that was you.”
You say it so quietly, in such a resigned way that it kills him. And then you turn and leave, and again you don’t even look back once. And he can’t take his eyes off of you.
He doesn’t waste time in texting Topper after that.
Rafe: Send me the location of that party.
***
Rafe fucking hates the Cut. Disgusting place filled to the brim with disgusting people. For the life of him, he doesn’t understand how Sarah had chosen this life over Figure 8. The beach house – if it could even be called that – is all rotting wood and peeling floorboards. And yet the Pogues here were acting like it was some kind of VIP beach club and the party of the century. Fucking losers.
Topper is all smiles, though. Scanning the crowd for Sarah and her little Pogue group. Rafe’s already surveyed the whole sorry property for you, but you weren’t here. And a part of him is relieved, because maybe you’d taken his advice after all. He’d give it another fifteen minutes before leaving.
“You think Sarah decided not to come or something?” Topper asks, plopping down on the couch next to Rafe and handing him a beer.
“Do I look like I know what goes on in her head?”
“Jesus, man. It was just a question.”
“You both need to get a grip,” Kelce leans forward, a scantily clad girl already in his lap and a drink in his hand, “There’s too much fresh meat here for you to still be hung up on anyone else.”
“I’m not hung up on shit,” Rafe seethes.
“Prove it, bro.”
“Shut up before I knock you the fuck out.” He’s not in the fucking mood for this bullshit. The girls here all looked like typical Pogue sluts. Of course, you wouldn’t be here. Either you’d come to your senses, or he’d gotten through to you, or hell, your mother probably didn’t give you permission.
The music is loud and pulsating, making the creaking floorboards vibrate. This beach house might have been considered luxurious once upon a time – by 1960s standards probably – but now it lies in complete desolate disrepair. With way too many sweaty bodies filled to the brim inside. Rafe can’t believe he made the mistake of coming here.
He’s getting up to get the fuck out of here, and that’s when he spots you at the entrance.
And he almost doesn’t recognise you. Yet at the same time, it’s like his heart does because it does this weird fluttery shit the moment he sees you. Walking through the door with that Pogue girl group, except you stand out from them in so many ways, and he knows he’s not the only man in the room who notices.
You’ve got some smoky black shit on your eyes. That’s the first thing he sees, because you’ve never done that kind of makeup before, and you’re not wearing your glasses either. It looks… different. Still so fucking hot, though. Like black eyeshadow smeared over your eyes in the sluttiest way, and your cheeks tinted this sexy, flushed pink with glitter. Lips glossy and berry-coloured, lined with something darker – something else you’ve never done before.
And your dress. It makes him clench his beer so hard he’s surprised the bottle doesn’t shatter. It’s the sluttiest thing he’s ever fucking seen, and it’s almost like the sluttiness of it is amplified because you’re the one who’s wearing it. And he’d never pictured you dressing like this, he didn’t think you could or ever would. In his head, you were the perfect picture of innocence in your cute pastels and flowery prints.
But this. It’s like you’ve taken a dress from your mother’s closet and cut it as short as you possibly could, and he can tell that’s what you’ve most likely done, because the bottom looks slightly frayed, like it’s been cut last second with a pair of kitchen scissors. Barely reaches the bottom of your ass, and it makes him want to audibly growl. Make his way over to you and tug it the fuck down, and then drag you out of here for daring to look so slutty.
You look like you’re cosplaying as a goddamned whore.
But it’s still you. And he can’t tear his eyes away. Like you’re so fucking compelling, so different from any other girl in here. Like there’s a spotlight on you and just you, and you look so deliciously uncomfortable. Like you know you don’t belong here, like you know this dress and that makeup just isn’t you, and yet you smile and try and act confident. But he knows you. He knows you better than anyone here.
“Who the fuck is that?” Some guy Rafe doesn’t know whistles loudly, “Never seen her before.”
And suddenly, it’s all around him. The whole fucking room buzzing as if they all see you like how he sees you. Like every man in here has his eyes on you and solely you. Like you’re some type of fresh meat, a beautiful girl who looks innocent enough to manipulate into hooking up with, despite what you’re wearing.
He’d beat the shit out of anyone who tried.
For a moment, he just watches. Watches as you follow your little girlfriends into the kitchen. To the counter where all the booze is. He notes how your eyes widen, how you take a deep breath before smiling and accepting a drink some fucker offers you. And Rafe’s hands are shaking with rage.Half of him wants to cause a scene right the fuck now, let everyone know who the fuck it is you belong to.
But he knows it would be best if he kept his cool. Figured out what to do in a calm and calculated manner.
“Sarah’s still not here,” Topper’s whining snaps him out of his rageful thoughts.
Kelce groans, “Man, stop talking about Sarah for just two seconds. There’s so many other options here, you know how easy these Pogue sluts are.” He snickers, “Rafe definitely knows.”
“Shut up.” Rafe says warningly, his eyes still locked on you.
“Bro, just get on top of another one to get over the first one. They’re all the same anyways–”
“Shut the fuck up, there’s nothing for me to get over.” He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell his friends that.
Kelce shrugs, “If you say so.”
He knew so. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from making his way over to you, pushing past the crowd and not missing how he’s definitely not the only one staring at you right now.
“That’s some dress.”
He comes up behind you, and you jump despite him making a conscious effort not to touch you. Your eyes widen, but he thinks he detects a brief flicker of relief, as if you’re happy to see a familiar face.
“R-Rafe, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I came with my friends.” You gesture loosely, but it’s clear as day your little girl group has already dispersed without a trace, all but throwing you to the wolves. “Uh, I think they went to the bathroom or something.”
Rafe snorts, but the look on your face pulls at something inside of him, makes him want to just grab your hand and take you back home and keep you happy in a way he knows only he could. If you’d let him. But then it’s like he can’t stop himself:
“Well, homeschool, I barely recognised you in this little outfit. Maybe your friends don’t either.”
You blink up at him with black-rimmed eyes, and he sees a flash of hurt glimmer within them. And he wishes he hadn’t said it, sees how you shrink in within yourself, step back and cross your arms over your chest protectively. Tug your dress down except it’s so short it didn’t even matter.
“Homeschool,” you repeat softly “I used to think you called me that as like a cute nickname. Now I know you were just making fun of me.”
“I’m not. I wasn’t. Look, I–”
“Please, just leave me alone.” You try to push past him.
“I’m surprised you were allowed out of the house in that. You’re a walking target here with a dress that short,” He moves to block your path.
“Well, it’s a good thing I can take care of myself!”
“Yeah? How’re you gonna do that when you can’t even see? With all that black shit smeared all over your eyes?”
He wants to kick when he sees the hurt on your face. It’s like he’s so used to being the asshole version of himself that everyone knew him as, like it’s so easy to slip that mask back on now that things aren’t going his way. Fuck, why couldn’t you just give in and stop fighting him?
“I can take care of myself.” You repeat, although your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers.
“You can’t do shit dressed like that,” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “Look, trust me, this party sucks. Just let me take you home.”
You push past him without another word, and it fucking angers him so bad he wants to punch the goddamned wall. Instead, he watches you with dark eyes as you weave through the crowd. How naïve of you to think you could take care of yourself. When every single man in here was staring at you like you were some hot fucking commodity. Well, he was officially done trying to help you out.
“What’re you doing here, Rafe? Thought this was beneath your country club ass.”
Rafe watches you join back up with your girl group before forcibly turning away, “Barry. Tell me you got some shit on you right now.”
“Is that how you say hello to all your friends?” Barry grins, “You look like shit by the way.”
“You obviously do have some, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“You sound like an addict, country club.”
Rafe rolls his eyes, looking beyond Barry’s shoulder at you sipping on another drink. Who’d given you this one? How many had you had? Jesus fucking Christ, was he going to keep tabs on you all night? He felt like he had to, and it’s putting him on edge.
“Who’re you lookin’ at?”
“None of your business,” Rafe snaps, “Just…Please, if you have anything on you.” He wants to snatch the drink from your hand, scold you for accepting drinks from anyone that wasn’t him. Instead, he watches helplessly as you sip it, scrunching up your nose all cutely because he bets it tastes awful. Like cheap liquor and dollar store soda.
“She’s cute,” Barry says.
“Shut up.”
“Her brothers would kick her ass if they knew she was here.”
That catches his attention, “You know her?”
“I know her brothers.” Barry snickers, patting him on the shoulder, “You might be a little out of your depth with this one, country club.”
Rafe doubts it. Pogues did not intimidate him in the slightest, and he doubts your brothers would be any different. Hell, they could be military-trained mercenaries and it wouldn’t stop him from making you his.
“I wasn’t out of my depth when I fucked her.” It comes out before he can stop himself. He just needs Barry to know. Hell, he needs everyone here to know. Even though it’s technically a lie, but he may as well have fucked you with how close he got.
Barry whistles lowly, “And yet here she is, clearly unclaimed.”
Rafe clenches his fists, eyes trained on you once more. He’d looked away for barely a minute and now you’re surrounded by men. Like a bunch of sorry ass losers vying for your attention, and it’s like you don’t even know how to react to it. You keep looking down, opening your phone, sipping your drink, pulling at your dress. Smiling awkwardly. Reaching up to adjust your glasses before realising you’re not wearing them. Fuck, you were so cute. So different from all the other girls and so fucking cute.
“Hey country club, do all the girls you fuck act like they don’t know you?”
“Don’t fuck around with me, man. I’m not in the mood.”
He runs a hand through his hair, watching like a hawk as you tug your dress down again. God, the way it hugged your ass was insane. You look so fucking hot, and despite the less than stellar interaction he’s just had with you, he still can’t help but think of fucking you. In that slutty fucking dress, but he’d push it up to your waist, rip your panties off and pocket them before jackhammering his cock inside you with such force just so you’d know never to wear something like that in public again. Maybe he’d drag you to his car, maybe one of the rooms upstairs. Or maybe right here in front of everyone while you cried because you were shy but he wouldn’t give a fuck because he’d be showing you who you belong to.
Maybe that’s what you wanted, maybe that’s why you’d dressed like this.
Barry pulls out a baggie, “You wanna push this to your preppy crowd?”
Rafe snatches it up quickly, “Sure, whatever.”
Just then, he sees you being cornered by some idiot who’s talking all animatedly with you, pushing you away from your friends, clearly trying to get you alone. Rafe sees red, pushing Barry aside and making a beeline for you.
“Hands off, asshole.” He seethes, physically putting himself between you and the guy.
The guy raises an eyebrow, “What are you, her bodyguard?”
“Meet me outside and I’ll show you exactly who the fuck I am.” Rafe grabs the guy’s shoulder when he tries to leave, “No, no, where you going, pussy? Come outside with me.”
“Rafe, stop! You’re acting insane.”
Your voice cuts through all the other noise, and the guy takes that moment to scurry away into the crowd like a little rat.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckin’ pussy ass bitch.” Rafe barks out a hollow laugh before turning back to you. “Are you okay?”
“Why did you do that, Rafe?!.”
He scoffs, “Are you kidding me? He had his hands all over you.”
“No, he didn’t! And even if he did, I could’ve handled it.”
Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Were you deliberately being obtuse just to make him out to be the bad guy again?
“Just stick with your girlfriends. You shouldn’t be talking to these kinds of men anyways.”
You look up at him indignantly with engorged pupils, clearly already half tipsy when you’d barely had a drink or two, “Stop it. Please. You’re not my dad!”
That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed, he wants to shoot back spitefully. Instead, he rolls his eyes, “I’m the only one here looking out for you.”
“And I’m telling you; I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself so just leave me alone, okay?”
“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Rafe hears himself say, gesturing loosely at your body, “This… This shit isn’t you.”
Again, hurt flashes across your face.
“You don’t know me, Rafe. You never did and you never will.”
You push past him and rejoin your girlfriends and whatever group of men they’re talking to. Making him look like a gormless fucking chump when he’s the one who was trying to save you. Well, fuck you too then.
That’s how he finds himself back with his friends, at a table snorting up line after line like it’s his fucking job. It’s a distraction really, from all the conflicting thoughts swimming around in his head. Fuck you, protect you, forget about you. You, you, you. He needs this escape. He needs to stop thinking completely.
“Some for me?” a girl sinks down on his lap, her cleavage right in his face. He feels numb to everything, barely even registers her. But nods anyways, pours out a neat line for her. She’s all over him after that, but it’s like a blur to him. The music, lights, this girl’s lips on his, his friends cheering him on. He bets this slut would let him fuck her right here on this couch in front of everyone. And what was stopping him?
She’s pressing kisses down his neck, her hands up his shirt when he opens his eyes almost on intuition. Looks straight across the room and locks gaze with you. The shock is frozen on your face for just a moment or two, before you quickly look away.
The mask was truly off now. You knew who he really was.
Forcibly, you turn away from him. And he wants to look away too, just fuck this girl to forget all about you. But then he sees you bump straight into the chest of someone else. Some stupid fucking punk ass Pogue, different from the other one. More intimidating, larger too. He grins at you, his hand pressing down on your lower back. And it plays like slow motion in front of Rafe’s eyes, and he feels like someone’s put his heart through a fucking shredder.
He pushes the girl off him, gets to his feet. The guy’s talking to you now, talking to you like he knows you. Rafe’s hands shake; he balls them into fists. Shoves his way through the crowd of bodies, keeping his eyes glued on you. The drugs in his system have made him a bit sluggish, but he can still make out the two of you, how the guy’s got you cornered against the wall now. He sees you laugh nervously, and the punk tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.
That’s when Rafe sees him start moving you. Towards the stairs. And he sees your face twist in fear; sees you swallow and try to act brave. Sees you looking around for your friends but they’ve ditched you again. The guy’s gripping you tightly by the arm, no doubt sweet talking as he pulls you up the stairs. Rafe sees your chest rise and fall rapidly; sees you try and talk your way out of it. But he also knows how men think, knows how much stronger they are, and the guy keeps pushing you up the stairs.
Rafe feels like he’s a million miles away. By the time he gets to the stairs, the two of you are long gone. There’s this tightness in his chest, and it won’t go away. He pushes people out of the way, takes the stairs two at a time. Gets to the first-floor landing and grabs some fucker by the shirt.
“Where’d they go? The girl in the black dress and the guy?”
“What the hell!? I don’t know!”
He throws the guy aside, stumbles into the first door that opens. Empty. Then the second. Not them. Fuck.
He finds you behind the fourth or fifth door he throws open. And it’s almost like an out of body experience. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such visceral rage before. The guy’s got you up against the wall, trying to kiss you. His hands all over you. Your tiny fists trying to push him off, and for a split-second Rafe feels like his chest is about to explode.
He doesn’t think before he throws him off you.
“What the fuck, man?”
“Get out.”
The guy snorts, “How about you get out? We were in the middle of something.”
Rafe’s not in the mood to fuck around. He looks at you, sees you sniffle, readjust your dress. Your face is usually expressive, but he can’t read it now. And usually, beating up on Pogues like this guy is an amusing pastime for him, maybe even a hobby. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes with it, a certain rush of adrenaline. But one look at you, and he knows now isn’t the time for that.
“Get out. I won’t ask you again.”
The guy – all tattoos and burly chest – chuckles, tries to grab you again, “I ain’t leaving bro. Hell, you can stay too if you wanna watch.”
That’s when Rafe pulls his gun out.
You gasp. The guy stops short. Holds his hands up.
“Hey, c’mon man, it’s never that serious–”
“You don’t want me to ask again.” Rafe points the barrel straight at him. The coke’s coursing through his veins, pumping through his blood. He’s never entered the Cut without his gun, and in the state he’s in right now, he’d risk getting thrown in fucking jail because he can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t shoot this fucking pervert right now.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” The fucking pussy leaves quickly after that. Once he’s gone, Rafe tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. He feels completely calm in the moment. Eerily so, but he knows it’s that certain type of calm that only comes before a storm.
He locks eyes with you, and there’s a moment of absolute silence. All he can hear is your shallow breathing, short and rapid. Glistening eyes looking up at him in what he could only describe as fear. Or reverence. He can’t tell, and it bothers him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s trying so hard to keep his voice level, but it almost shakes with anger. Anger at the situation, at what he’s just seen. Anger at that punk that he knows, he knows, he’s gonna take out on you.
You swallow, “I…I…”
“You realise what the fuck would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here?” He takes one step towards you, for once not giving a fuck when you flinch. “I know you’re innocent but you can’t be that fucking stupid.”
Hurt flashes across your face, “I could’ve taken care of myself–”
“You wouldn’t have been able to do shit.”
You shake your head, “Yes, I could! I can handle myself just fine, and my friends knew I was up here, they saw me, so they would’ve come–”
He stares, incredulous as it dawns on him just how naïve you actually were, “they’re not your fucking friends.”
“Neither are you!”
“I saved you.”
Your face crumples up like a piece of paper, your chest rising up and down. Like you’re trying your hardest not to burst into tears, “I’m not some naïve little girl who needs saving, Rafe.”
“Yeah? Is that what you were trying to prove tonight?”
“No! I wasn’t trying to prove anything, I just… I just…” your lower lip quivers, and yet you still will yourself not to cry, “I’m just… I’m not naïve, okay? I’m not some stupid little girl that men just... take advantage of.”
He runs his hand through his hair, “Do you even realise what you’re saying? He was going to take advantage of you.”
“I wouldn’t have let him!” Your eyes are wet with tears, and it’s smudging the black makeup, making it smear and run and you look so hauntingly beautiful like this, “Not how I let you.”
And there it was. It all came back down to Rafe. He was always the bad guy in everyone’s eyes, even yours. Even after he’d saved you. He was evil, through and through – isn’t that what he always knew deep down? Isn’t that what his father saw when he looked at him? And his stepmother? And Sarah? Even now, you look scared like a little fucking mouse. Scared of him, and not the fucker who’d just tried to force himself on you. It was always Rafe who was the villain in everyone’s story, no matter how hard he tried to protect them.
“I stopped.” Rafe steps closer, knowing you’ve got the wall behind you and nowhere to run, “I stopped when you asked me to. He wouldn’t have.”
“You lied about everything.”
He remains silent, not wanting to rehash this shit with you right now. Instead, he closes the gap between you both, pressing you against the wall. You push against his chest, but it’s ineffectual. He needs to touch you, lay claim on you. It’s like an innate, animalistic desire to mark his territory after that fucker’s had his hands all over you.
“G-Get away from me.”
“No.”
“Rafe. Don’t.”
You’d already made up your mind that he was the bad guy, no matter what he said or did. And it would be so easy to be the villain you clearly thought he was.
Gently, he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You gulp, half-heartedly attempt to bat his hand away when it lands on your hip.
“He shouldn’t have touched you.”
“I could’ve gotten away–”
“Nobody else is allowed to touch you.” He says it quietly, but he knows you’ve heard him.
Your eyes widen, “R-Rafe–”
“Only me.”
His lips press against yours in a kiss so possessive, it almost knocks you off your feet. But he’s got you, holding you steady and pressing you against the wall with all his weight. And he’s dreamed of this moment, dreamed of kissing you again. And your lips are so soft, so perfect, exactly how he remembered. Yet all he can think of is making you forget that other man had ever even touched you. His tongue is in your mouth, claiming you like he’s swallowing you whole from the inside out. And he’s so much bigger than you, so much stronger that he doesn’t even notice or register if you’re trying to push him off. It’s ineffectual, irrelevant. He needs this. Needs you to know you’re his.
“Stop!” You finally manage to push him off you, and your lips already looked bruise from his kiss. Bruised and so fucking pretty. Another mark of him on you.
He’s staring at your lips when you slap him hard across the face.
Immediately, your face crumbles, like you’re horrified at what you’ve done.
“I-I’m sorry, I’m… I’m–”
You burst into tears. Like waterfalls flowing down your cheeks. You reach up to blindly wipe at your face, smearing your black eyeliner all over your eyes. And he just watches you, the sting of your ineffectual little slap already fading. Watches how you sob, how your whole body shakes. Watches as your wild eyes look somewhere beyond him. At the mirror in the corner side of the bedroom. Watches you stare at your reflection like you’re looking at a stranger.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper like it’s a confession, but more to yourself than to him. “I-I don’t know who I am, I don’t… I don’t…”
In that moment, he sees something broken inside you. Something he’d never seen before. Maybe it wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s only here now. Maybe he was the one who’d broke you. The thought makes him sick to his fucking stomach.
Rafe hoists you up, slings you over his shoulder without another word. You pound against his back.
“No, no, let me go! Let me go!”
He ignores your cries. All he knows is that he needs to get you out of here. You didn’t belong in a place like this. You were too soft, too sweet to be corrupted. He had to save you again, even if he was the villain in your eyes.
He carries you out the bedroom, past the landing, down the stairs. Everyone stares; he doesn’t give a fuck. He weaves through the crowd of writhing bodies, the pulsating music drowning out your cries. One of his hands firmly holding your dress down over your ass while you wiggled and squirm against him.
He only puts you down when he’s got you outside in the back where his car’s parked. It’s a hot summer night, sticky and humid. The stars look huge, almost like they’re weighing down on his shoulders. And reflecting in your eyes, making them shine with indignance and that fierceness he’s only recently learnt you possess.
“Get in the car.”
Incredulously, you shake your head, “I’m going back to my friends.”
“Don’t fuck with me right now. Get in the car.”
You try to storm past him, but he’s already so much quicker than you. The copious amounts of coke he’s snorted tonight paired with the pure adrenaline and determination of wanting to get you out of here makes you no match for him. You, in your heels which you weren’t used to walking in, and that tiny, tight fucking dress. Fuck, he needed you out of here. Now.
Your lips press into a thin line, and your eyes look so big as you stare up at him pleadingly, “I can’t, Rafe. Please. I can’t go with you.”
His face softens, “I’m gonna take you home.”
“I don’t trust you.”
His jaw tenses. I FUCKING SAVED YOU! He wants to scream. Instead, his features grow stoic, the mask slipping back on.
“I don’t care if you don’t trust me. You’re not going back in there. You should’ve never gone to a party like this to begin with.”
“I can handle myself–”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, don’t start with that again. You can’t handle shit, okay? I handled shit back there. God knows what would’ve happened to you if it weren’t for me.” He grabs your wrist, ignoring your sharp intake of breath and yanking you back towards his car. He opens the door, tries to push you inside.
It’s when you’re fighting against him that he realises how drunk you are. God knew how many cheap drinks you’d been given tonight, and you’d been polite enough to accept all of them. Probably thought drinking them would help you fit in better, socialise easier. And now your movements are sluggish, slow, erratic.
He easily throws you into the backseat of his car, child locking the doors so you don’t escape.
He half expects you to launch yourself at him the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. But surprisingly, you’ve gone quiet. Gathered yourself in the corner at the back, hugging your legs with your face buried between your knees as you sobbed to yourself.
And there are so many things he wants to say, now that he’s finally got you alone. But it’s like there’s something lodged in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to say or how to even speak. He’s angry, concerned, buzzing from everything that’s just happened. Silence ensues, with just the gentle hum of the car as he drives into the night.
He pulls up to the now familiar dirt road that is your street and unlocks the doors. Waits a handful of seconds, surprised you don’t immediately jump out of his car. Instead, he watches silently through the rearview mirror as you rummage drunkenly through your little purse.
“I, uh, I don’t have my keys.”
“What?”
“I must’ve dropped them at the party… your voice trails off before you clear your throat, “It’s okay, I’ll just–”
“Your mom can’t let you in?” Although Rafe bets your mother would have a fucking heart attack if she saw you being dropped off in his car.
You swallow, “She’s not at home. She’s… working.”
For the whole night? This was the second time your mother was away from home for the entire night. He wonders what exactly she does for work.
You sit up and open the door, jumping out of the car and immediately teetering in your heels. You were still very drunk, and it shows. Rafe sighs, getting out too.
“You got a spare key under the doormat or something?”
You hold on to the side of his car to regain your balance, blinking rapidly. Your pupils are so dilated, he can see his own reflection in them. And in that moment, it’s like all the frustration and anger he’s feeling at you for how stupid and naïve you’d been tonight, it’s it all dissipates because of how cute and lovely you look in the moonlight. Drunk and fumbling and innocent and away from that party.
“I… I think I’ll just camp out on the porch. The sun should rise soon…”
Rafe stares at you as if you’re deluded. It was only a little past midnight; the sun wasn’t going to rise for a while. And even if it was, there was no way he was leaving you out here in the open on this seedy little street on the Cut.
“Get back in the car.”
Of course, you choose now to be stubborn again, “N-No! I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah? I know the kind of people that crawl around out here at night. Get in the car.”
You stick your chin out, “Stop trying to help me, Rafe! I’ve lived here all my life, I know what I’m doing–”
He hauls you back into the car. It isn’t too hard, considering how much smaller you are than him. Weaker. Drunk, too. You try to fight against him again, but not too much. Like you know making a scene right now wouldn’t be the best thing to do.
“Where are we going?” You ask timidly once he’s revved the car back up and driven off your street.
“My house.”
You don’t say anything and for once, he’s glad.
*
Tannyhill looms big and shadowy in the moonlight. Rafe watches you gape drunkenly, probably drinking in how big it is just like you had the first time he’d brought you here. You’d remained quiet for most of the drive here, just staring sorrowfully down at your shoes. Once or twice, he’d caught your eye through the rearview mirror, but you’d looked away every time.
“Wait.” He orders before getting out of the car. He opens the door for you and hoists you up into his arms. He means to put you down on your feet, but decides to just carry you. And by some miracle, you let him. And he can’t make sense of this hot and cold behaviour, how all night you’ve been switching between two different characters. Loud, outspoken, angry, not letting him touch you, to then soft, docile, weepy and innocent.
“I’m scared,” you confess quietly, your pupils dark, glassy and shining in the moonlight. You’re just laying limply in his arms now, as he carries you down the cobblestone driveway of Tannyhill.
“You’re just drunk.”
“No I…” You twist your face to look up at him, and he feels it, so he meets your gaze, “I’m scared of you, Rafe.”
It hits him like a bullet, but he ignores it. Buries it down, deep down in the recesses of his mind where he buried all the other shit. Like his dad not loving him, like the memories of his mother. Buried deep down and abandoned, because he couldn’t deal with that shit. He can’t. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of him. He had saved you.
He doesn’t say anything, expects you to fall back into whatever drunk stupor you’ve been drifting in and out of.
“I didn’t know you had a gun.”
Hadn’t he known you were going to bring that up? He’s surprised it’s taken this long, but he can still remember the frozen shock and fear on your face when you’d seen him point his gun at that guy.
“You don’t know a lot of things.”
He waits for you to bring up the other things you’d seen him do tonight. All the drugs, or maybe the girl he’d been kissing in front of you. In fact, he half hopes you bring up the second part because it would show that you’d cared, that it had affected you.
But you don’t say anything else, just stare off into the distance. And yet you’re still allowing him to carry you, you’re not trying to get away from him despite being scared. He doesn’t want to cling to that, but a part of him does.
He’s somehow able to fish his keys out of his pocket and unlock the front doors, all while holding you steady with one arm. You’re just so small, and slot perfectly into him, like you were made for him. He’s glad it’s gone well past midnight; means he doesn’t have to deal with his family and their questions. Not that they’d even bother questioning him – they no longer cared enough to.
It’s when he’s carrying you up the marble staircase that you start struggling against him again.
“Not your bedroom–”
“Where the fuck else do you want me to take you? The couch?” Rose would damn near have a heart attack if she woke up to you sleeping on her precious antique furniture imported straight from Paris or wherever the fuck. Not that Rafe cared, but he’d rather have you in his room.
You keep protesting softly, but he takes you to his bedroom anyways. Closes the door and locks it. Places you gently on his bed. And he’s dreamt of this moment for a while, and would’ve savoured it had it been under different circumstances. But he feels a weird mix of leftover anger and a sort of bittersweet sadness. You didn’t want to be here at all. Like any feelings you may have developed for him in that one week had so easily been switched off, and yet he couldn’t switch anything off no matter how hard he tried.
“You should, uh, get some sleep,” he says, quickly turning away lest you think he’s trying to get into bed with you. Rummages through his closet, tosses you one of his shirts, “Here.”
“I’m okay, thank you.” You’ve pulled yourself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of his king-sized bed. You look even smaller than usual, and you’re doing that thing again – hugging your arms protectively around yourself as if he’s some fucking predator who’s kidnapped you, instead of the guy who’d just saved you from sexual assault.
“Just put it on.”
“I’m fine in this.”
Rafe sighs, pacing the room for a second to get his thoughts straight. Then he makes a beeline for you, kneels down in front of you before thinking. Reaches out to touch your legs before he sees you flinch and pulls back.
“Look, I’m not gonna try anything, okay? I know I lied and manipulated you before, but I’m not doing that right now.”
You stare at him for a long few seconds before swallowing, “I can’t tell when someone’s lying.”
He nods, “I remember. And I told you I’d be straight up with you.”
“But you weren’t.”
He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know, but I’m not doing that shit anymore now, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you so just put it on.”
Your dress looks uncomfortably tight now, the straps digging into your shoulders and the bottom riding up. Again, you tug it down, and bite your lip before sighing, accepting the soft shirt.
“O-Okay. But you need to turn around and close your eyes.”
He huffs, but he does it. Stares at the wall for a good ten seconds. Then fifteen. Twenty. Huffs again. “You done?”
He turns back around when you don’t respond, only to find you struggling with the zipper. The dress is so goddamned tight, it may as well have been painted on. And you’re drunk, can barely locate the zip to begin with, and it’s pathetic how you keep tugging at it. And so fucking cute.
“Stand still,” he orders gently, and by the grace of whatever the fuck, you obey for once. Breathing shallow as he comes up behind you, and then your breath hitches with a cute little squeak when he places a hand on your hip to steady you. Easily undoes your zipper, and he likes how he’s the one who’s done it. He likes taking care of you, wants to help you out of it and put his shirt on you himself.
But all too quickly, you pull away, holding the dress taut against your body. He rolls his eyes and turns around again, listens to you shuffle around as you change.
When he turns back the second time, his heart almost leaps up into his throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so pretty, so precious, so innocent. His shirt is huge on you; makes you look so small and cute. Eyes so big as they blink up at him, and you look so vulnerable. Like you were done playing the part of a whore for the night and you were yourself again.
He finds himself swallowing hard, “You look…”
“Don’t.” You cover yourself with your arms again. Words can’t explain how much he hates when you do that.
He clears his throat, eyes trailing down your bare legs. Somehow, you’ve managed to change out of your dress without even taking your shoes off. And now you’re standing there teetering in your heels, looking at him with those big eyes of yours.
“Sit.” He orders you again, gently pushing you down to the edge of his bed. Again, he kneels in front of you. His hand on your smooth calf, stroking down before he can stop himself. You squeak again, but this time you don’t stop him. He doesn’t know why sometimes you let him touch you, and other times you don’t. But he’s not one to question it.
Your heels have ribbons that criss-cross around your calves, and he works to untie them. Deliberately slowly. And it’s getting him so hard, despite everything, to be the one taking care of you like this. How you’d huffed and puffed and gone to this party, pretended to be an attention-seeking little slut, all for you to end up in his bedroom anyways.
“You really had to wear these?” He murmurs, although he’s secretly glad you wore such complicated shoes because you’re letting him help you take them off.
“I… I thought I looked pretty in them.”
He feels a growl emanate from somewhere in his throat, remembering all the men who’d been staring at you so brazenly tonight, “You do. That’s the problem.”
Silence. And then:
“Why do you care?” It comes out like a genuine question, rather than a spiteful remark, “I…I saw you kissing that other girl tonight.”
“That was nothing.”
“I see.”
He wants you to ask him more, maybe show that you’re jealous, that you wished he’d been kissing you instead. But you don’t.
“She came onto me,” he feels the need to explain, “and she didn’t mean anything to me.”
You nod, “Okay.”
It irritates him, how you’re not at all fazed. When every time he’d seen a man approach you at the party, he’d wanted to throttle them with his bare hands. As for the guy who’d taken you upstairs? He deserved to be shot. Point blank. Maybe the only reason Rafe hadn’t done it was because he didn’t want to traumatise you.
And yet… you don’t seem to care at all. Or maybe you’re too drunk to care. You look so fucking adorable, sitting on his bed in his shirt, letting him undo your heels for you like a good little girl.
“I didn’t mean anything to you either.” You say it so softly, he almost misses it.
Rafe flinches, “That’s not true.”
“But you said it. You said I was just another Pogue who spread her legs for you.”
“Yeah? Well, I say a lot of shit I don’t mean.” He slips your heel off, and he can’t help but stroke your dainty, bare foot before moving on to your other shoe.
“That’s what I’ve realised,” you stare somewhere beyond his shoulder, “Everyone keeps saying things they don’t mean. And I keep believing them.”
He glances up at you, “Who are you talking about?”
“My friends. They said they wanted to be friends with me, but they… they haven’t even asked if I’m okay.”
He almost snorts out loud, but stops himself just in time.
“And it’s not just them, or you, it’s everyone. Even this guy I was supposed to do my project with. I thought we were getting along fine, but now he won’t even look at me. He asked to join someone else’s group, so now I have to do it alone.” Your voice breaks, “I don’t even know what I did to make him hate me…”
Rafe clears his throat and looks away for a second, “You can’t count on everyone, baby.” The pet name just slips out naturally, but you don’t even notice.
“I know. I wish college came with a manual, because I keep messing up and trusting the wrong people.”
“You can trust me.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He takes his chance, sits up on the bed next to you and grabs your hand, and hurriedly keeps talking, “I know I fucked up but I saved you tonight. That should count for something.”
Your lower lip trembles as you look at your tiny hand in his much larger one, and yet you don’t pull away.
“Y-You confuse me so much, Rafe.”
He could say the same thing about you. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t do words and all that shit. He’s never been good at it and he’d just mess things up even more than he already has. He knows what he is good at. And he knows he shouldn’t do it. And yet...
Rafe presses his lips against yours. Softly. Cautiously. Yet with determination. You don’t respond, and it’s like he wants you to so bad. He can’t stand it. His hand goes up to cup your jaw, thumb gently stroking your cheek. He thinks he feels you sigh, or he could just be imagining it.
“Stop,” you beg against his lips, but you don’t push him away.
“Just let me,”
“Rafe, no–”
“Please.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. And he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he promised you he wouldn’t try anything tonight and he’s going back on his fucking word but he doesn’t care. He needs this. Needs this more than you know. More than he himself knows. Because kissing you feels like he’s been parched his whole life and you’re the only thing that can quench his goddamned thirst. He can’t let you go. He doesn’t know why but he just can’t.
He pulls you into his lap, and you squeak into his mouth, your little hands grabbing on to his shoulders and it feels so familiar. He increases the pace of the kiss, slowly slipping his tongue into your mouth, and you taste so fucking sweet. He’s missed this so much, despite how he’s only kissed you a handful of times before this but you fit so perfectly on him. Like you were made for him and him only. And he deserves this. He’d saved you.
“I can’t,” you whisper brokenly, “I can’t let you take advantage of me again.”
“I’m not,” he says between desperate kisses, “I promise you I’m not.”
“You-You’ll tell all your friends. And you’ll laugh like how you did before.”
He kisses down your jaw, your neck, your skin so sweet, “I won’t, baby.”
“You’re just using me. Y-You’ve probably made another bet.”
Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he tell you that all he can ever think about anymore is you? That it makes him sick, the fact that he’d hurt you? That he’d do anything to take that stupid bet back, to get you to look at him how you used to. What the fuck was stopping him from saying it?
But he can’t, so he just keeps kissing you, and hopes you’ll accept it. Hopes you’ll get him, which was wishful thinking, because nobody got him. His hands curl into your hair, pressing you closer to him, and it feels visceral, it feels desperate. And yet, it almost feels unreal, like he’s kissing you on borrowed time, and it would be over soon and he wouldn’t get his fill.
Sure enough, you pull away, “Why are you doing this, Rafe?”
“Because I want to.” He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “And I think you do too.”
You press your lips together, words coming out hushed and shaky, “No one would respect me if I went back to you, knowing how much you lied and everything you said about me.”
“Fuck what everyone else thinks.”
You slip off his lap, “I wouldn’t respect myself.”
He wills himself to say something, anything to reassure you. But nothing comes out. It’s like his mind is frozen, betraying him once again because he’s shitty with words and can’t think of the right thing to say. And it’s getting too much for him… Too emotional, too vulnerable. He can’t.
“You’re thinking about this too much,” he says finally, and his bedroom’s dark except for the dull lamplight, and you look so fucking pretty that he’s in awe.
You sniffle, “M-My mom said I’m not allowed to see you.”
He exhales, “And yet here you are.”
“Here I am,” you echo weakly. “She doesn’t even know I was at the party tonight. I snuck out.”
He’d figured as much, “She’s kept you in a cage for long enough, don’t you think?”
You shrug, but he can tell you’re mulling over what he’s said.
Rafe pulls you back into his lap, “I don’t care what your mom says. I don’t care what anyone says.” He pauses, the words I like you, I want you to be my girlfriend on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t be vulnerable like that, he just can’t, “You’re mine. And you need to understand that.”
“I don’t wanna be yours. I want to be my own person.”
“Shhh,” he kisses you again, “Remember how I said I’d take care of you? It’s because you’re someone who needs taking care of. Your mom’s coddled you all your life, so you have no idea how the real world works. That’s why you need someone like me.”
You swallow, looking up at him with those shining, imploring eyes. You’re so sweet and naive, you don’t even realise how much, “I want to figure out how to take care of myself.”
“But you can’t. You keep trusting the wrong people and getting yourself hurt.” The irony of his statement isn’t lost on him, but he hopes the alcohol in your system will make you ignore it.
“That’s what my mom says.”
“Forget about your mother. Let me take care of you. I’ll make all the tough decisions, you won’t even have to think about it.”
Rafe lays you down on his bed, right in the centre where he knows you won’t scurry away. He hovers on top of you, much like how he did in your tiny bedroom weeks ago. But this time, you’re in his territory. And he has complete control. And maybe, just maybe, you’re drunk enough to trust him again.
He grabs your hand, pressing his much bigger palm against yours, “Look how little you are. You really think you could’ve protected yourself tonight without me?”
You blink up at him with big, dark, sad eyes. Bite your lip like you’re unsure but he thinks it’s so sexy.
“Mm, that’s what I thought.” He strokes your hand, his thumb grazing his initials on your palm over and over again, “You’re so small and cute, and completely out of your depth. You need me.”
“N-No…”
“Yes.” He kisses the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands knotting into your hair. You whimper, but you lie there and let him do it. It’s because you want him too. He knows it. And he allows himself to imagine it again. You under his wing, quietly allowing him to make all your decisions for you. Chanel bag on your arm, a dozen more in your closet. All gifts from him, to let everyone know who exactly was taking care of you.
And there’d be no more parties, especially not in the Cut. He wouldn’t allow you to attend them because you were simply too naïve and sweet. He’d take you to drinks at the country club, or maybe to a game of golf. You’d sit pretty in his lap, like a cute little ornament. His little girlfriend that he’d rescued from poverty, his little doll, that he’d dote on and dress up. All his.
“I don’t want that, Rafe. Please stop.”
YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT! He wants to scream. Sure, he’d wronged you but you were too fucking naïve to understand how he was your best bet right now. That he would take care of you, and no one would ever fuck with you again when you were under his wing, because he’d kill them.
“Just kiss me back,” he whispers against your lips, his hands itching to slip under his shirt you’re wearing. He kisses you again, hoping you sense his urgency, sense how badly he wants you.
“Please stop, I can’t let you, I can’t…”
Rafe huffs in frustration, a few choice words on the tip of his tongue. Stop being such a tease, or you owe me for tonight, or you wouldn’t have agreed to come to my house if you didn’t want this.
But he realises you’re the only girl in the world he doesn’t want to say those things to. He can’t say them, can’t bring himself to utter a single spiteful word despite the fact had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated even for a second.
He’s about to pull away when:
“R-Rafe? I… I think I’m gonna…”
He draws back at your abrupt shift in tone. The room’s dark, but he can see you’ve suddenly gone a shade of green. Your chest heaves underneath him, your eyes widening. Realisation dawns on him in a millisecond and he scrambles off you. Pulls you upright, debating whether to point out the bathroom to you. That’s when your whole upper body lurches, your hand going to cover your mouth. Without another thought, he picks you up and carries you into his bathroom himself.
He barely gets you to the toilet in time before you start throwing up. Hunched over the toilet bowl, barely holding your hair back. Letting it all out. And he just stands there and watches, never having been in such a situation before.
“I’m sorry,” you sob drunkenly between heaves, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, this is so rude of me.”
Despite everything that had happened tonight, despite how mad you were at him, here you were apologising to him. It makes him feel it again, that weird feeling in his chest. It comes in waves so strong he’s almost knocked off his feet. Instead, he crouches down behind you, gently holds your hair back.
And it feels so alien, because Rafe hasn’t done this for anyone ever. He wasn’t some pussy ass bitch who went soft on the girls he dated. But this… you… it was different.
“It’s alright,” he hears himself say softly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back. And it almost feels like he’s no longer himself, like he’s someone else. Affection had always felt unnatural to him, like he was putting on an act any time he tried to show it. And so he never did. It was easier to just to have everyone be scared of him.
But this right here, sitting on the gleaming floor of his bathroom with you, it felt… it just felt like something. Something he can’t quite put his finger on, except he likes the feeling. And you look so sweet, so vulnerable. He feels almost a sense of pride, because he’s the one taking care of you right now.
You keep apologising. Even once you’re done throwing up, and he helps you to your feet. Takes you to the sink, lets you clean yourself up. Hell, a part of him wants to sit you down on the marble countertop and clean you up himself. But it seems too… intimate. And Rafe doesn’t really know how to be like that.
“I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup once he places you back down on his bed. You make a move to get back up, “Just let me go clean it up, I can’t bear that I left your bathroom in such a state–”
“No, don’t.” Rafe gently pushes you back down, and you’re so little and cute and tipsy that you fall right back on your butt, “The maid will clean it tomorrow.”
You blink as if you don’t understand, “But it’s my mess.”
Rafe rubs his temple, “It’s her job. Now get back into bed.” He goes over to his mini-fridge, thanking his lucky stars there’s a bottle of water in there amongst all the beer and other bullshit. “Here.”
Obediently, you gulp the water down like a good girl before carefully setting the bottle on his bedside table. Your makeup’s almost all washed off now, face scrubbed clean and you look so innocent it makes his head hurt. Like there’s so much he wants to say to you but he can’t figure out how to get you to understand him.
He sighs, “You should get some sleep.”
“Where’re you gonna–?”
He nods at his leather armchair on the other end of the room. You look over and swallow.
“Oh, uh, I could sleep on the chair. It’s not right that you have to–”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. It’s your bed…”
Drunkenly, you try to get to your feet again. It’s amusing, and he gently pushes you back down a second time before grabbing the duvet cover and throwing it over you.
“Go to sleep,” he repeats, ignoring how his heart thrums and that feeling manifests again. That weird, bubbling feeling under the surface of his chest that seemed to appear every time you did something cute or enamouring or sweet. “I’ll drop you home in the morning.”
You’re too inebriated to argue any further, which he’s thankful for. His thoughts feel all jumbled up, like he can’t understand for the life of him how this is the second time he’s had you alone in a bedroom and he hasn’t fucked you. But now, he settles down on his armchair and watches you slowly make yourself comfortable on his sheets. Shuffle around a bit before tucking the covers till your chin.
It doesn’t take you long to knock out. And he just keeps watching you, how sweet you look, how perfectly you fit into his room, his house, his life. And he hates how he can’t completely read you – can’t tell how you feel because you didn’t want him to touch you and yet you’re sleeping on his bed, and not anyone else’s. How you kept saying you wanted to take care of yourself and yet you’d let him take you home tonight, let him change you and tuck you in. Take care of you.
Rafe decides you have no idea what you want. You’re too naïve. Which means it’s his job to teach you. Teach you that you belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let you go.
He tries to sleep after that. He really does. But the armchair is fucking uncomfortable, and it’s his room. And he’d saved you tonight.
It doesn’t take him long to get back into bed next to you. Gently, he pulls the covers back over you both, his heart skipping a beat when you immediately cuddle into him. It only further affirms that you wanted this — you just don’t know it yet. He runs his hands up and down your body, from your waist, to your ribcage, to your arms. You mumble, shuffle around sleepily, and somehow end up with your head on his chest.
He kisses the top of your forehead, before allowing himself to fall asleep too.
***
It’s all too soon that he’s woken up to loud, incessant knocking. Rafe swears under his breath, rubbing his eyes and immediately checking his phone. Fuck. It was past noon. The sunlight streams in through the large windows, landing perfectly across your face. It scrunches cutely as the knocking continues, but you’re still asleep.
So fuckin’ pretty, he thinks as he gazes at you, all serene and adorable and still very much in his arms. Slowly, he detangles himself from you, sits on the edge of his bed. His phone’s filled up with texts he’d ignored from the night before.
Topper: Bro, are you okay? People are saying you tried to shoot someone.
Topper: Everyone saw you leaving with the homeschool girl.
Barry: You pull a gun on a guy??? You can’t fucking do that shit.
Barry: You don’t know how dangerous these people can be.
Barry: ??? You’re fucked.
If pulling guns on Pogues meant he was fucked, then Rafe would’ve been fucked a long time ago. But most Pogues were stupid and inept, and so he was not worried. In fact, he fucking dares that punk from yesterday to show his face now. Rafe would murder him for real, and he wouldn’t even need a fucking gun.
The knocking increases, growing louder and more rapid. Rafe swears again, glancing back at you. You shuffle and turn on your side, lips all pouty as you cuddle into his pillow.
He makes his way over to the door, unlocking it only to see Ward staring back at him in disbelief.
“Don’t tell me you’re just waking up now.”
Rafe yawns, but straightens up at the same time, “I was out late.”
Ward blinks, does that think where he exhales loudly through his nose. He does that whenever he feels disappointed, which was all the time whenever Rafe was around him.
“Everyone’s waiting downstairs for you, Rafe.”
Rafe blinks before it dawns on him. The brunch. The business meeting. The random girl he was being set up with.
“Shit, that’s today?”
A beat of silence. Ward looks like he’s about to choke him out, “Well, son, you’ve proven again how you can’t fucking be trusted. With anything.”
Rafe rubs his forehead before running a hand through his hair and looking back at you. He can’t be fucked with this shit right now, not with his headache and the fact you’re in his bed and all this yelling would wake you up.
“I’m sorry.”
“You get your ass down there in five fucking minutes, you hear me?”
Rafe doesn’t think he has it in him, to sit through some fuck ass brunch right now. He glances back at you again. This time, Ward sees and narrows his eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got another hooker in there. Jesus Christ, Rafe. It’s like me talking about this family’s image means nothing to you, the way you bring these hookers into my house in fucking droves.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“No?” Ward looks fucking livid, Rafe wonders how he has the energy to be like this so early in the day, “You think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“Does it go over your fucking head every time I tell you it’s time for you to stop this bullshit and settle down? People are watching us, Rafe. Potential investors, business partners. They see all this shit, okay? And yet you insist on going around and–”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“What?”
Rafe coughs, again looking back at you to make sure you’re still sleeping, “Uh, she’s my girlfriend.”
“You have a girlfriend? Since when?”
Rafe doesn’t quite know why he’s just thrown this lie out in his father’s face. Maybe because in his mind, it’s not really even a lie. You weren’t just some random girl, you were his girl – even if you didn’t realise it just yet. Or maybe he’s lied because he wants his father to just take him seriously for once.
“Since a while now.” He clears his throat, “She was out late last night and I went to pick her up.”
“How come I’ve never seen her before?”
“It’s serious so I was trying to keep it under wraps,” lying has always come easily to Rafe, and so he speaks smoothly, quickly gaining traction, “And you’ve seen her. On the security footage. She’s the one I had on the patio.”
Ward nods thoughtfully, “The one in that dress? The cute one?”
A strong wave of irritation courses through Rafe’s body, he takes a few quick, deep breaths to keep it at bay, “Yes.”
There’s another long pause as Ward takes it all in. At one point, he looks beyond Rafe’s shoulder and into the bedroom as if to get a glimpse of you. Rafe’s quick to subtly shut the door and step outside of it. Fuck if anyone else saw you right now.
“Fine. You can skip the brunch. We have a business meeting afterwards though. Join us for that, if you can clean yourself up in time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Rafe? I expect a formal introduction with her. If she’s to be a part of this family then you can’t keep her a secret for too long.”
“Okay.”
Rafe breathes a sigh of relief when his father leaves, and he returns to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.
You’re still lying there, in the middle of his king-sized bed with sunlight dappled all over your face. Completely asleep and so serenely sweet. It makes his heart lurch, but he swallows that feeling quickly.
Your phone’s glowing dimly beside you. He doesn’t hesitate at all, whipping it up to see who exactly was texting you. It’s your mother. Multiple messages. He can’t see what they say without unlocking your phone first, but he can guess she probably wouldn’t be too happy with you right now. In a sick way, the idea of that makes him glad.
And Rafe just sits there on his bed, watching you sleep. Strokes your cheek with his thumb, watches as you lean into his touch. That’s when he consolidates it in his head. After last night, you were his. Completely. And now everyone would know. His family. His friends. Your mother. The whole of fucking Kildare would know you belonged to him. You’d know too. And you’d accept it. He’d make sure of it.
Even if that meant turning you against your mother completely.
A/N: Okay. There we go. Rafe's lie counter is through the roof lmfao - how many times did this man lie throughout this chapter???
Anyways, please PLEASE let me know what you thought of this chapter. Any opinions/predictions/thoughts/ANYTHING. Feedback means the world to me. I'll be honest, I am very very nervous about posting this chapter bc I don't know what people will think of it. Like genuinely. And it's a bit scary. I really did try my best to get this out for you guys as quickly as I possibly could write it. Your feedback would mean the world - so please, if you read this and like it, do also consider dropping a comment or reblog or sending me an ask on what you think!
Also, some questions! You don't have to answer, these are just for fun!
Do YOU think reader could've protected herself at the party if Rafe hadn't been there?
What exactly does Rafe feel for reader after this chapter?
What do you think Ward will think of reader?
Do you think reader will go along with Rafe's plans or keep fighting against him?
ANYWAYS. that's it. i'll try to sleep now. please please let me know what you think. thank you so much for your patience and ily <3
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, unhinged inner monolog from rafe, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), oral (female receiving, fingering, MAJORR size kink, spanking, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.
𝘼/𝙉: It's here! The full fic. Word count: 23k. Please let me know what you think - reblogs and feedback mean the world to me. Read the warnings before you read, and enjoy!
“Her.”
Rafe looks over at the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”
Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”
“And?”
“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.
“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”
“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”
Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends stare at him in disbelief. He sometimes wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.
That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies” money. Yeah, they didn’t pique his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.
Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.
“Well, what about that one?”
Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single slut he’d ran through.
Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.
You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self-conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.
“Who is she?”
“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.
“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.
“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”
“I heard she was home-schooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”
Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.
Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
He licks his lips.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?” He nods in your direction.
Topper raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”
Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”
They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—
“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—
“A week.”
“Mm?”
“A week to fuck her. With proof.”
Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.
“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”
“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.
“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”
Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.
You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.
He’d have fun ruining you.
***
“You sure do love reading, don’t you?”
It’s the following day when Rafe finds you sitting by yourself in the corner of the library, with nothing but your book to keep you company.
You jump like a little mouse, pushing your glasses up your nose and gulping up at him, fear briefly flitting across your face before you force a small smile. And he likes his girls jumpy, he likes them slightly afraid of him. He knows he has that effect on people in general, but he wonders who’s told you about him.
“Sorry, were you — uh — were you talking to me?”
Rafe smirks, “Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Oh, of course,” you look embarrassed, and he watches you squirm under his gaze for a good few seconds. “I… um…”
“You find books more interesting than people?”
“Huh?”
He chuckles, pulling up a chair next to you, noting how your eyes widen as he takes a seat, “Why are you always reading?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just like to read,” you shrug.
“You sure do.” He wonders if he could get you to read your precious book out loud while he went down on you, licked your virgin cunt while you cried because it felt too good. And then he’d spank you if you stopped or messed up a word, and like a stupid dumb fucking baby, you’d sniffle and wail through each paragraph, hold back your moans while he went to town on your little pussy till you wet yourself, and he’d suck your—
“Are you making fun of me?”
You pose the question so innocently— hell, you practically whisper it, and it knocks Rafe straight out of his daydream to find you blinking up at him with Bambi eyes.
“What?”
You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not so good at understanding if someone’s joking or not. I’m not… uh… I’m not used to being around so many people, and it makes me nervous and I can’t tell if someone’s being genuine or if they’re making fun of me.”
“You were homeschooled, huh?” Rafe stares at you intently, noting how you play with your hair nervously, and your fingers tap against the hard cover of your book. How you can barely make eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds.
“Yes. My mom taught me and my older brothers.”
Rafe nods, taking his time to answer. He looks at you some more, enjoying how it makes you uncomfortable. You fidget nervously, and it amuses him every time you peek up to meet his gaze before a look of alarm crosses your face and you divert your eyes down to your book once more.
“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He says finally, chuckling at the embarrassed look on your face.
“I… I guess. I do want to make friends but it’s pretty overwhelming.”
“I’ll be your friend.”
He does a good job of hiding his predatory, wolfish smile. And he wonders if you can see the glint in his eye as he mentally undresses you. You look so small and weak, especially compared to him. Gullible too. Too innocent for your own good, the way you gape up at him as if he’s offered you gold on a platter. It makes him want to stroke your soft cheek, pat it and tell you what a good little girl you are. For being so naive.
You shake your head as if trying to straighten out your thoughts. He can tell, he has that effect on women too.
“Oh, you don’t have to, I uh—”
“Rafe Cameron?! In the library?!” An annoying, high-pitched voice shrieks, making you jump as it cuts you off mid-sentence.
It’s a kook girl. A cheerleader. Rafe can’t be fucked to remember her name but he’s sure he’s hooked up with her. She’s one of those ones, the ones that hang out at the country club and try to catch his eye. One of the desperate sluts who thinks if she spreads her legs enough times for him, that he’ll make her his girlfriend or some stupid shit like that.
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” The cheerleader sidles up to him, her hand on his chest and batting her lashes in his direction in some pathetic form of seduction. She ignores you, and you shrink into yourself, hastily burying your face in your book.
“What do you want?” He asks, not quite as interested in her answer as he is in continuing to stare at you. How you try to act like you don’t care, but he knows you’re hurt from being ignored, from being treated like you’re invisible.
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re up to.” But she flashes him her fuck me eyes, her nails scraping suggestively against his chest. Rafe yawns, considering it. He has time before his next class (not that he could be fucked to turn up to class half the time) and his dick’s hard from talking to you. And since you probably don’t even know what the word blowjob means…
“Go in there,” he nods at one of the private study rooms in the far end of the library, and the fucking slut nearly trips as she scrambles to obey him. Rafe takes his time, stretching his legs before slowly getting up.
You peek up from your book, “Are you guys gonna go study in there?”
He could’ve bust a nut then and there from how fucking innocent you sound. Batting your little eyelashes at him like you’re trying to seduce him without even realising it. He knows he’ll be thinking about you, weepy and on your knees, while the kook girl blows him. Fuck, and if he plays his cards right, he’d have you by the end of the week. And he always plays his cards right.
“You could call it studying.”
You nod, “OK, well, goodbye then.” You look back down at your book, but risk a glance up at him again, which he finds very amusing.
“What’s your name, homeschool?”
You tell him.
He sounds it out, before shooting you one last smile, “Well, I’ll see you soon. Won’t I?”
You give him a puzzled look, but it’s replaced by your usual wide-eyed Bambi stare when he pats your hand, his thumb lingering, stroking your skin. He wonders if you’ve ever even touched someone of the opposite sex before. Judging by how your breath hitches softly, he doubts it.
Fuck. He can’t wait to ruin you. Play the slow game and enjoy that sweet virgin snatch before any other man ever could.
That’s what he’s thinking of when he’s got the cheerleader on her knees in front of him. That sweet little look on your face, the look of curiosity mixed with shyness and that little hint of indignation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you. And he would. With proof.
***
Day two. Rafe finds you walking down the hallway, your books clutched to your chest and eyes trained to the floor. Cutest little skirt making your perky ass pop, winking at him enticingly with every step as if you’re deliberately seducing him. Makes him want to slap your cute little ass, reprimand you for teasing him and half the men on campus without even realising it. He wonders what you’d say if he just did it. Spanked you in front of everyone. You’d probably start blubbering like a little baby. He has to forcibly stop picturing it before he gets uncomfortably hard.
You’re alone. As usual.
“Hey, homeschool,” he falls into step beside you, eyebrow raising in amusement when you don’t slow down nor look at him.
“Oh, h-hello, Rafe.”
“What’re you up to today?”
“Nothing, just going to my next lecture.”
He grabs your wrist, watching as your breath hitches, and yet you still don’t look at him. Damn, what had gotten Bambi so scared?
“You’ve got time to talk to me, don’t you?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. And you know it, judging by how you swallow harshly.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t want to be late—” You attempt to tug your little hand out of his grasp but you’re so small and weak that it barely has any effect.
“C’mon, homeschool. That’s no way to treat your one and only friend.”
He’s walks you into a corner, and he likes how you gape at the wall before turning and looking up at him. He’s so much taller than you, bigger than you in every single way.
“Rafe, I…” you sigh, shifting from one foot to the other, “My friends said some things…”
“Friends?” You don’t have any.
“Some of the girls I know. They saw us talking yesterday at the library and they…” you sigh, “They said you were probably just playing a joke on me.”
Fuckin’ jealous pogue bitches.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. They said there’s no way you’d talk to me for any other reason apart from as a joke. And they…” you bite your lip, looking so cutely distraught and it goes straight to his dick. “They said some other things… about you.”
Of course they fuckin’ did. Always talking behind his back, but never to his goddamned face. Nothing but a bunch of jealous, gold-digging whores.
He doesn’t say anything, just merely looks at you as if he expects you to tell him. And he knows you will. You’re too innocent to keep secrets.
“They said that you… that you’re scary sometimes.”
Rafe remains impassive, waiting for you to continue.
“That you… that you pick on a lot of us Pogues. E-Especially the boys. That you and your friends bully them.”
He snorts. Bully. What a juvenile word. Sure, he pushed the dipshit Pogues around here and there. They deserved it for all the trouble they ran around town causing, disrupting the natural order of shit. And he could fuck their girls better than they ever could. Especially that fuckin’ idiot JJ Maybank…
“They also said that… never mind.” Again, you try to tug away from him but to no avail.
“Tell me.” He likes how you struggle under his scrutinising gaze.
“It’s… it’s not appropriate.”
“Say it. Now.”
You lower your voice, “They said you like to use the girls. The pogue girls. Th-That you have a kink for them.”
The scandalous words have hardly left your mouth before you duck your head down as if embarrassed. God, you were so fucking innocent. Rafe wonders how he should play this.
“Huh. Is that so?”
“Y-Yeah. One of the girls I talk to… She said that you…” you swallow, biting your lip, “that you’ve been with her and all her friends too. That you tell them all the same thing but it’s always a lie and you just end up using them.”
Rafe nods, “Hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I don’t think we should—“
“That’s funny. I thought you were smart. You know, with all your books and the glasses and shit.”
You blink, “What?”
He shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d go ahead and pass judgement on someone without even getting to know them first.”
“It’s not that–”
“I mean, here I am, wanting to be friends with you. And I’ve been nothin’ but nice, haven’t I?”
He’s still got you backed into a corner, and he watches as you flinch when he emphasises his words. He knows people get intimidated by his intensity, but there’s nothing he hates more than people talking shit behind his back. Especially low-life Pogues. And he likes how scared you look right now, pouty lips all downturned and alarm in your eyes.
“I asked you a question, homeschool.”
“Yes, you’ve been nothing but nice! It’s just, I heard all these things, and–”
“And you chose to believe them.” He steps back abruptly, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He walks away, about to count to three in his head but you beat the count before he can even begin.
“Rafe, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to judge you.”
He stops, allows you to catch up.
“You’re right, I…I shouldn’t listen to other people.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rafe agrees, easily taking your heavy textbooks from where you’ve been balancing them in your arms. You gape, but he just continues smoothly: “Where’s your next class?”
You tell him, “But you don’t have to walk with me or anything–”
“I’m your friend, homeschool. That’s what friends do.”
*
Day 3. You’re eating your lunch on a bench outside all by yourself. Rafe’s heading to his car with his friends. They usually cut classes most days to hit the beach or the country club. Rafe doesn’t see the point of college anyways, not when he was poised to inherit all of his father’s businesses, money and property. And with the ideas he had, he’d expand tenfold on whatever Ward was doing now, make a shit ton more money than his old man ever did. That would show him…
”How’s the bet coming along, Rafe?” Topper asks.
“Wait till the end of the week.” Is all Rafe says. He doesn’t need to give progress reports to his dumb fuck ass follower friends.
“That means he’s nowhere near cracking that virgin pussy.” Kelce chuckles. “No worries, brother. She looks like she’s got a stick up her ass anyways. Not loose like the rest of the Pogue whores.”
He ignores them as they laugh. But they’re right. You’re not like the rest of the Pogue girls. They’d grown up wild, promiscuous, loose. Trained to catch the attention of a rich Kook like himself, filled with self-serving motivations to marry into money. But he can already tell you’re different. With your cute little outfits and respectful, quiet demeanour. You look like you’d fit in where he was from.
Too bad he was only going to fuck you before discarding you like he did the rest of them.
“I’ll catch you guys later.” He says, making a beeline for you.
“Hey,” he chucks you under the chin, smirking when you jump.
“Oh, hey Rafe.” You look beyond his shoulder, “Your friends are all leaving.”
“Yeah. The waves are good this time of day.”
You gape, “But don’t you have classes?”
He takes a seat next to you, making sure to stretch out while you shrink into yourself. Still so nervous around him. He snickers, “You gonna tell on us?”
You look aghast, “No! I would never–”
“I’m just kidding, homeschool.”
“Oh,” you look embarrassed, “Sorry. Sometimes I–”
“Can’t tell if someone’s joking or not,” Rafe completes, “I remember. I’ll be more straight up with you.”
You nod, and he can tell you’re trying to think of something else to say. But you’re too nervous, too awkward. And so you just bury your head in your book again, all while he watches you. You’ve got a bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich of some kind on the table next to you. Cut up into little triangles. He bets you’ve done it yourself. Fuckin’ cute.
“You dress cute.” He says, and again, widened Bambi eyes stare up at him. He chuckles, “You know, the little skirts and plaid and shit. It’s cute.”
“Thank you.”
“You do it on purpose?” He can’t help but ask, because he wonders if a part of you knows what you’re doing. Knows you’re dressing like a sexy little angel out of his wettest dreams. All little and cute and innocent, so much smaller than him. Weak. All pastel and pretty, like you’d look so fucking sexy on the back of his bike. On his arm. On his dick.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say, sounding every bit as innocent as you look. Damn, homeschool must’ve done a number on you. But he likes how sheltered you sound. It gets him so fucking hard, and a part of him almost feels sorry for how primed you are to be taken advantage of. “I wear my mom’s old clothes, or stuff I find in the charity shops.”
He’d had maids and housekeepers who shopped in places like that. He remembers him and his siblings giving them their old clothes once they’d grown out of them.
He nods, “You look pretty.”
Your breath hitches, and you really don’t know how to respond to that, because you slam your book shut and stand up, “I, uh, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
He watches you leave, distracted by your ass again but not enough to miss the little smile that quirks on your lips as you bid him farewell and walk away.
*
On day 4, Rafe walks up behind you in the busy hallway, pressing his huge hand on your lower back and pushing you into another secluded corner. He smirks when you squeak, but he likes how easily he can push you around because of how weak and small you are.
“Hey.” He told himself he’d take it slow (well, as slow as he could take it in the span of one week) and yet he can’t help but press into you a little bit. It’s innocuous enough, but your eyes widen as per usual, and the feel of your hot little body against his much larger one is enough to give him a boner. It’s how he could easily push you into an empty lecture hall and have his way with you if he so wanted to. Sure, you’d cry and resist at first, but they all gave in in the end. And if someone caught them, he’d pay them off.
Rafe Cameron owned the world. Nothing could stop him.
“Hello, Rafe.” You breathe, and he loves how his name sounds when you say it. He imagines you moaning it when he has you on his lap, pressing you down on his dick while you cry and whimper because it’s too much, it’s too big. But your greedy little virgin pussy would take every inch of his fat dick, and he’d do all the work, of course. You’d be too busy crying, and he’d bounce you up and down on his dick while you grabbed at his arms, his hair, his face. He’d tell you to scrape your nails down his back, leave a fucking mark or two so daddy could remember you.
“Come for a drive with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
Despite your shyness, a fire flashes in your eyes, “I can buy my own lunch!”
He raises an eyebrow. As if on cue, you lower your gaze.
“Sorry, I mean… thank you for your offer, Rafe. But I can buy my own lunch.”
Surprisingly though, you agree to the drive. And he still has his hand pressed against your back, guiding you out to where his car’s parked. You ogle at it, probably never having seen anything as expensive. He wonders if your family even owns a car, or if you even know how to drive. It would be hot if you didn’t, it made you look even more helpless. In need of someone like him to protect you, take care of you. Someone powerful and wealthy like himself.
“Wow, I’ve never been on this side of the island before!” You say, oohing and aahing as you stare out the window. Rafe’s never seen anyone so easily excited by the neighbourhood he’d grown so used to. But he supposes the mansions, sports cars, country clubs and private beaches would be impressive to anyone who hadn’t grown up with easy access to all of that.
“No?”
“No, but my brother’s friend works there, I think.” You point to the vast golf course at the back end of one of the clubs. “He says the tips are really good.”
Rafe frowns. You were talking to other men? No, not you. You were too sweet, too innocent. He was sure he was the only man you spoke to. Or even if you were speaking to others, he doubts a golf caddy pathetically running after balls would be much competition. And yet, he bristles, wanting to change the subject.
“Do you have a job?” Rafe asks.
You shake your head, “No. I sometimes tutor some kids in the neighbourhood but nothing permanent. I’d love to have a part-time job with proper wages like the country club or library or something, but my family’s kind of protective of me.”
“Mm?” He’s deliberately being quiet, wanting to hear you talk, wanting to learn more about you.
“Yeah. That’s why I was homeschooled. My mom’s scared someone’s gonna take advantage of me.” You pause, before giggling, “It took a lot to convince her to let me apply for colleges, but I think she’s finally starting to see me as an adult who can make my own decisions and protect myself.”
The irony isn’t lost on Rafe, but he finds himself leaning closer. You have this way of talking, so soft and breathy, yet energetic and full of life at the same time. Like you’re a storybook character, like you’re someone out of this world. Like an angel dropped down from heaven and sent just for him. You’re his type to a tee. God, he wants to fuck you so bad.
“What would your mom say if she knew you were out with me?” His hand creeps up to rest on your knee. You’re wearing jeans, which he doesn’t approve of but he decides to give you a pass since it’s windy today.
You don’t notice his touch anyways; you’re too busy pondering over his question. But there’s a glint in your eye, “Sh-She wouldn’t approve. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t know you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of your jeans. “And you do?”
You swallow, finally realising he’s got his hand on you. Surprisingly, you don’t move. It’s almost like you’re frozen, those big fuck me Bambi eyes making a comeback, “Uh…I…We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He smirks, “Yeah. Friends.” His hand creeps up higher, stroking your thigh softly, wishing you were wearing one of your little skirts so he could feel your bare skin. But it’s thrilling anyways, touching your quivering body while you’re defenceless inside his car. He could lock the doors and have his way with you right now. Hell, people outside would get quite the show but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked in public.
Poor little you. Losing your virginity in the front seat of his car. He’d drag you into his lap, bounce you up and down on his cock. But not before making you beg for it first. And you’d cry so fucking bad, because it would hurt. Because he’d promise he’d be gentle but he knows himself, he knows he’d lose control like he always did. Fuck you so goddamned hard, he’d have to lay you down in the backseat afterwards because you wouldn’t be able to stop shaking. Then drive you back to his house, carry you into his bed and have his way with you again. And again. And again.
“Rafe?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not hanging out with me because you feel sorry for me, are you?”
That grabs his attention, “Why would you think that?”
You shrug, “No reason. I just… Well, you have so many friends. I guess I don’t quite understand why you’re hanging out with me.”
“I like you.” He shifts even closer, his hand steadily stroking your leg while you remain stiff, “Do you like me?”
“H-Huh?”
“You heard me, homeschool.” And yet he knows you’re distracted by his fingers tracing shapes on your thigh. Not random shapes, though. It’s his initials. Over and over again. R.C., he wonders if you can tell.
“I, uh, y-ye–” You’re having trouble getting your words out, and it amuses him. He can see you visibly shaking, and he wonders if it’s out of fear or anticipation. Or both. He leans down, bringing his face close to yours.
“I didn’t quite get that.” He licks his lips at how weak and intimidated you look. “Say it again.”
It’s an order, and you clear your throat, shake your head as if to clear your thoughts.
“Yes,” you whisper, as if it’s something scandalous, “Y-Yes, I like you.”
He pulls back abruptly, leaving you gaping at him.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He buys you a panini from a little artisan bakery, with a strawberry iced tea and a packet of chocolate hearts with a cherry cream filling. You protest at first, unzipping your bag to pay for yourself, but he’d sooner roll over and die than let a woman pay for anything.
“Toss me one,” he says, and you throw a little cherry-filled truffle at him. He catches it between his teeth, and your eyes light up, clearly impressed.
“Wow, that was cool!”
“C’mere, you’ve got a little something…” He grabs your chin gently, pulling you forward before rubbing his thumb against the side of your lip, wiping away a bit of chocolate. “Messy girl.”
Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him like a good little girl. His thumb lingers, and he wants to press it into your mouth, make you suck the chocolate off it. Then tell you he had something else for you to suck on. Push you down and make you warm his cock with your mouth while he drove you back to campus. One hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing your head down, making you take his big cock despite you whimpering and panicking because you can’t breathe.
He rubs your lower lip with his thumb for a moment before pulling away. You clear your throat, snapping out of whatever reverie you’ve been in, straighten up against the seat and put your seatbelt on. You still look like you’re in a daze, however, and he wonders if you’re wet from him wiping your face clean.
“I-uh-we should head back please, if that’s okay?” you say, voice slightly shaky as you avoid eye contact with him. “I don’t want to miss my afternoon class.”
He grins, “You a teacher’s pet?”
That makes you smile, and you shrug shyly. It almost enamours him.
He gets you back to campus on time, and you give him a little wave before you jump out of his car and walk inside. And god, it’s insane how hot you are. Even in your jeans, which have cute little embroidered flowers on the butt. Makes your ass look insane. Like it’s begging to be grabbed, smacked, fucked.
He breathes out heavily through his nose, slumping back against his seat. His dick is uncomfortably hard. God, you didn’t even realise how much you’d teased him tonight. Sitting tight and pretty in the passenger seat of his car, so quiet and pretty. So innocently impressed by Figure 8, and by him. How shy you’d been when you’d admitted that you liked him…
He gets his phone out, blindly texting one of the desperate girls on his phone. He needs a release. And he’d be thinking of you the whole time.
*
On day 5, Rafe tells you to give him your number. From his peripheral, he can see a bunch of Pogues whispering and watching while he takes your phone and puts his number in.
“Have your little friends been talking more shit about me?”
You flinch. He can’t help the intensity of his tone sometimes, and he’s noticed you never swear and, like a jumpy little mouse, probably feel intimidated when he does.
“No, I haven’t really spoken to them in a while.”
Rafe grins, “Yeah?”
“Yes. I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”
He saves his number on your phone before pressing it into your back pocket for you. You gape, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. He wonders just how prim and proper you are, and how quickly he could get you to come undone once he got you comfortable and behind closed doors.
“You’re not too busy to text me, right?”
You smile, looking down and fidgeting with your binder. He notices you’ve got little stickers on it, like cupcakes and hearts and shit. What a fuckin’ baby.
“Text you? I don’t really– I have to a test tomorrow that I need to study for.”
But he knows you’ll text him. They always did. You weren’t any different.
“What are you smiling at?” Kelce asks, pulling up beside him as Rafe watches you head into your next class.
Immediately, he straightens his face, “Nothing man.”
“You falling for that homeschool freak Pogue?”
He snorts, “You wish. I have standards.”
“You sure about that?”
He whips his head sharply to stare down at his friend, “You want me to repeat myself?”
Rafe doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Kelce’s eyes. They’d never admit it, but he knows his friends are afraid of him. Of his mood swings, his unpredictability. He doesn’t care. In fact, he prefers it this way. They weren’t like him, they were weak-minded, beneath him. He kept them around because of semantics, because of who their parents were and who his dad was. And because they proved to be minorly useful sometimes when he needed help to get shit done.
All the girls he’d been with had been afraid of him too. When he fucked them, he often lost control. But it turned him on, how they’d swallow their fear in case they offended him, or set him off. Once, he’d fucked a girl who just wouldn’t stop shaking. Sure, he’d showed her his gun right before he’d bent her over, but it was her problem if she was frightened by something as mundane as that.
You weren’t scared of him. Yet. Intimidated, sure. But he’d kept that side of him well under wraps when it came to you. You were too sweet, too pure. And you were a good girl, incapable of crossing him in any form. He didn’t have to scare you to get what he wanted from you. No, you’d give it to him, like the good little girl you were. Naïve, innocent little girl.
*
Rafe: Hey.
Y/N: Hi, Rafe. How are you?
He finds himself smiling at his screen. There’s a party going on downstairs, but Rafe couldn’t care less. It’s the same thing every other night. His friends showing up at his house and bringing along a whole entourage of people he doesn’t give a fuck about. Sarah used to do it a lot before she moved out, invite her fuck ass Pogue friend group into his house as if they were ever welcome there.
Rafe didn’t want any Pogues inside his house. Unless they were girls that he intended to sleep with. But he appreciated it when they showed themselves out once he was done using them.
Rafe: What are you up to?
A minute passes by, then another one. Fuck, he hates that you’re making him wait. What a fuckin’ tease. He wonders for the hundredth time if you’re doing it on purpose. No, not you. You’re too innocent.
Y/N: Nothing, I just finished cleaning my room. Wbu?
It’s insane how the visual of that gets his dick hard in less than a second. The thought of you doing something as domestic as cleaning. The good little college girl, who went home straight after school and spent her evenings dusting and vacuuming or whatever it was that cleaning entailed. Unlike the Kook sluts his friends were probably fucking downstairs. They were pathetic party girls who’d easily spread their legs for a line or two.
He calls you, losing patience with this texting bullshit. He runs a hand through his hair impatiently when you don’t immediately pick up, huffing and gulping down the remaining whiskey in his glass. Slamming it down on his desk when you still don’t pick up. Fucking tease. He grabs a baggie from one of the drawers, prepares a neat line; despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it tonight. Fuck that. Ten seconds have passed; you still haven’t picked up. He snorts it quickly, about to throw his phone out the fucking window, except you choose that moment to pick up.
“H-Hello?”
“Hi,” he sounds slightly breathless, but who the fuck cared. He refills his glass with more whiskey, taking a sip to calm himself down. “Took your time to pick up, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say hastily, “I got distracted.”
He feels a sudden surge of jealousy so violent, he doesn’t know how to act for a moment. Distracted by fucking what?
“The lights went out, so I had to go reset them,” you explain, and he barks out a laugh. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Y-You sound kinda breathless, Rafe,” you say, “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He downs his drink and sets it aside before his hand slips down. God, you sound so hot. All breathy and innocent, even just over the phone. “Tell me what you were doing.”
A pause, and then you force out a chuckle, “I told you, I just finished cleaning.”
“What like vacuuming and shit?”
“Yes.”
Over the years, Rafe had slept with a number of maids Ward had hired on multiple occasions. He’d fucked Wheezie’s babysitter a few years ago, the housekeeper too. His father had a knack for hiring hot Pogue girls, and maybe that’s where Rafe’s kink for them started.
He could imagine you working for him – he’d make you wear the sexiest little barely-there maid outfit. You wouldn’t question it because you were too innocent. With your little feather duster, trying to clean except you’d be too small to reach certain areas. Fuck, he wouldn’t last five seconds in the same room as you. And he wouldn’t have to because you’d be his hired help, his property. He’d have you bent over his desk, fuck you so hard till you couldn’t stop shaking, till you were crying like a baby and apologising for not focusing on cleaning all while he carried you up to his bedroom. Locked you up in there so nobody else could see you. His girl. All his.
“Uh, Rafe?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
A pause.
“Really?” You clear your throat, “Where are you? I can hear music.”
“Shit, yeah. Like, there’s a party or whatever going on downstairs. My friends came over unannounced.”
“Oh.” He can sense a level of dejection in your tone. He bets you’re thinking about it, thinking how it’s just a reminder that he has his own group of Kook friends. And you’d never be one of them. You’d never truly fit in. You were either one or the other. Hell, Sarah had proven that when she’d transitioned into the slums. But maybe there was a way to bring you into his world, a way that would stick.
He has to forcibly shake his head to remind himself you’re just part of a stupid bet.
“I’d rather speak to you than them.”
“That’s not true, Rafe.”
“I like how you say my name.” He’s palming his dick now, knowing he’s treading over the line and could easily scare you off now if he’s not careful. But fuck being careful. He’s never really been careful before in his life. He hasn’t had to be. “An’ I’m serious. I told you, I like you.”
“Rafe, I… I just can’t shake the feeling that–”
“That what?” He spits into his palm before resuming touching himself. And shit, he doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or if it’s really just the sound of your voice that’s got him so goddamned horny. He wonders if you’ve ever touched yourself before. If you even knew how to.
“That you’re just playing a big joke on me. I mean, even the people from the Cut think I’m this weird, homeschooled freak.” You laugh, but he can tell you don’t find it funny, “It’s just hard to believe that you’d want to be my friend.”
“They think I’m a freak too,” he says, being honest for once. “Only difference is they don’t talk shit about me because they know I’d kill them.”
“You’re funny, Rafe.”
You’re too innocent to realise he’s not kidding. Not in the least.
“And if anyone says anything about you, I’ll kill them too. I’m serious.” Fuck, he feels like his dick’s gonna goddamn explode. The thought of protecting you like that, like he was responsible for you. Like you were all cute and helpless and he was the one taking care of shit, the one protecting you. That’s all he’s done his whole life, take care of shit and get shit done. And nobody’s ever fucking appreciated him for it.
“Well, thank you, Rafe. I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that.”
He likes how you keep saying his name now that he’s told you he likes it when you say it. Means you’d be real good at taking instructions. He can imagine telling you what to do when he finally has you in his bed. Order you to get on your hands and knees. Then he’d spread your cute little ass, eat you from the back while you moaned his name over and over, thanking him for taking care of you, weeping how much you appreciate him, how much he means to you. How much you need him.
“A-Are you still there?”
“Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am.” His dick’s red and painfully hard, and he’s still trying to pump it steadily but now he’s imagining your tight little virgin cunt wrapped around it. Soft like velvet, warm and wet. Pulsating around him. Never had even a finger up there but you’d take his big dick, because he owned you, because he was your protector, because you were too weak and helpless without him, and–
“Could you, uh, fuck, say my name again,” he orders you, not caring in the least if he scares you off.
“Rafe?”
He cums into his fist like a goddamned teenage boy, biting down to keep from making any noise. God fucking dammit, you’d listened again. What a good fucking girl. He wants to tell you that, tell you how good you were for him just now, how obedient and submissive you were without even realising it.
“If you’re busy, it’s okay and you can go,” you say softly.
“No, wait…” he clears this throat, grabbing a bunch of tissues from his desk. He can’t believe you hadn’t caught on to him jacking off. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come over tomorrow? To hang out?”
“Like, uh, at your house?”
“Yeah.” He needs you in private, needs you on his turf where he can control just about everything. God, was it even about the bet anymore? Or just this newfound fucking irrevocable need to fuck you just for his own personal satisfaction? Maybe both.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a guy’s house before.”
That just makes him even more determined to be your first.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go after your classes finish or whatever, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
“Rafe…”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, savouring the sound of your voice. He wonders if he can get you to call him daddy. God fucking dammit, just the idea of that was getting him hard again.
“Look, we’ll order some food, watch TV. Whatever you want. It’ll be fun. And it’s what friends do.”
That last part gets to you. He can tell. He knows how badly you want to have friends. He knows you’ve never had any. Not good, permanent ones like you saw in movies and TV shows. Hell, Rafe’s not sure he himself has real friends. But he doesn’t care. The idea of friendship means nothing to him. He’s best when he’s on his own because nobody else could be trusted. But what is important is having a girl like you in his bed. A girl like you who looks up to him with shining eyes, like he’s your goddamned entire world. A girl he plucked up from poverty and saved, and you’d appreciate him more than anyone in his dumb fucking family ever did.
“Say yes,” he all but orders you, but he already knows the answer before you say it.
“O-Okay, yeah. Yes, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come.”
*
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Topper frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “You were supposed to bring the, you know…”
Rafe rolls his eyes, wondering why he’s friends with a fucking loser who can’t even say the word coke. That’s why nobody on the goddamned island wanted to sell to Topper. Hell, even Barry refused to.
“I have plans.” Rafe answers, checking his watch for the tenth time. Your final class of the day was due to end any minute now, and he couldn’t wait to get you into his house.
“What plans? You were gonna help me with Sarah tonight.” Topper was a whiny fucking bitch, but even Rafe had to admit he was a better fit for his sister than that lowlife John B.
“I’m not helping you with shit, man.” He mutters disinterestedly, although he had promised a few nights ago that he’d help him. He’d been high as a fucking kite, though. So it didn’t exactly count. “Look, she’ll get bored eventually when she realises his broke ass can’t provide shit for her. Then she’ll come crawling back.”
Topper shakes his head, “No, Sarah’s not materialistic like that.”
Rafe smirks, “You don’t know her.”
“Well, speaking of broke, how’s it going with that homeschool girl? You guys sure seem to be hanging out a lot.”
“Do you have brain damage, Topper?”
“What?”
Rafe corners his friend against a wall, relishing the immediate fear in his eyes, “I seem to remember you placing a bet a week ago.”
“Well, yeah, but –”
“So why the fuck,” he hits the locker lightly behind Topper’s head, “are you asking me about hanging out with her a lot?”
“Chill, dude. It’s just,” he looks hesitant, scared as he’s barely able to make eye contact, “It’s okay if you like her, you know?”
Rafe feels a wave of emotion, something he can’t quite pinpoint. And that makes him mad, because what the fuck was he feeling? He has to clench his fists by his side to stop from slapping the taste out of Topper’s mouth. Why did him bringing you up irritate him so much? Jesus, reign it the fuck in.
He takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing a chuckle, “You think I’m gonna slum it like that?”
Topper grins nervously, as if Rafe hadn’t had him pinned against a locker like a little bitch just a second ago. He straightens up, “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret what your type is.”
Rafe laughs, and Topper relaxes and joins in after a moment or two. That’s when Rafe slams him against the locker again.
“Get it through your thick fucking skull, Topper. I may fuck a Pogue but I’d never date one. Got that?”
“Yes, okay, Jesus Christ, man.” Topper pushes Rafe off him and backs off, “Do whatever the fuck you want.”
That’s when Rafe starts laughing again. “I will, pussy.”
Topper fucks off after that. Sometimes, Rafe wonders what his deal is. He acted up in front of the rest of the group, then tried to act all sensitive and understanding in private. Like Rafe had time for that shit. And how dare Topper insinuate that Rafe had feelings for you? Hell would freeze over before he ever caught feelings for a Pogue.
He realises a bunch of people are staring at him. Goddamit. Fuck all of them. When he was younger, Ward had sent him to see a therapist once a week. He’d quit going once he’d realised it was everyone else who was the problem, and not him. But one thing the shrink had taught him that had stuck was to breathe slowly and count to ten whenever he felt angry or overwhelmed.
That’s what he’s doing when you arrive.
“Hey, Rafe. I’m sorry I’m late. The professor held me back.”
“Why?” He barks out before he can contain himself. He’s already on edge, and now some dumbass professor is keeping you back in class because you undoubtedly get his old, shrivelled dick hard and you’re too innocent to even realise it.
You blink, “He really liked the essay I submitted last week. He even said he wants to use it as an example for his other classes!”
“That’s great,” Rafe plasters a smile on his face but he’s only half listening, “Let’s go.”
He calms down some as he guides you out of the hallway and toward the parking lot. He almost grabs your hand when it gets a bit too crowded, but remembers himself just in time. He couldn’t be caught holding hands with a Pogue. It was too intimate, and like he’d said to Topper, he’d never let it get to that point with a Pogue. Instead, he places his hand on your lower back and pushes you forward. You smile at him, and it goes straight to his… well, not his dick, surprisingly. But it goes somewhere within him, and he feels it again. Something he doesn’t really recognise or know how to deal with. So he forcibly pushes it back inside himself.
“You look cute,” he says once he’s got you outside and there’s more room to breathe. You look like an angel in the afternoon sunlight, dressed in the cutest little sundress he’s ever seen. It’s this pinkish-orange, like the colour of the sunset, and you’ve got matching ribbons in your hair. Like you’ve really made an effort to get all dressed up just to go to his house.
“Thanks,” you look down as if you’re embarrassed, like you don’t know how to take a compliment, “It’s my mom’s dress.”
“It’s really pretty,” he says softly, before clearing his throat and looking away.
He gets you to his car, lifting you up by your waist and helping you into it. And that turns him on so much, how small and sweet you look. Like a little fairy in his arms. None of the other girls were like you. Not at all. He wonders what you’re wearing underneath, and feels his cock thicken in his slacks with anticipation when he realises he was probably going to find out today.
You don’t say anything when he pulls up into the driveway of his house. Ward had fucked off on some business trip and taken Wheezie and Rose with him so he had the place to himself. That’s how he liked it best, it gave him space to think and breathe without the constant noise of his family. Well, Wheezie was an exception. He didn’t mind her too much.
“Wait here,” he says, getting out the car and walking around to open the door for you. You allow him to lift you out again, this time your hands landing on his shoulders. And it’s fucking insane how that tiny, voluntary touch does things to him that no other girl has ever done before.
Now, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to the large, ornate wooden double doors. You’re distracted anyways, eyes wide as saucers as you ogle the mansion that Rafe’s never thought twice about. But he reckons it’s a step or two above whatever shacks the people from the Cut lived in, so he allows you to remain silent and let it sink in.
Finally, you exhale slowly, “This is… uh… wow. I can’t believe there’s people in this world who live like this.”
Rafe smirks, squeezing your hand, “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”
He leads you to the bar in the corner of the living room, again lifting you up and placing you on one of the stools. You giggle, “I can climb on myself, you know.”
“Yeah? You seem to like it when I pick you up, though.”
He winks, and notes how you duck your head and smile shyly, your hands wringing together on your lap like you’re nervous. God, you were so fucking cute.
“What’s your usual drink of choice?” He asks, going behind the island to inspect the liquor. His friends had gone through a lot of it at the party the night before, but the house help had restocked everything this morning.
You blink, “Um, water?”
He stifles a laugh, pouring himself his usual whiskey with ice, “You’re a good girl, huh?”
“I tried some of my mom’s wine once but it tasted horrible,” you shrug, “I don’t know why people like it so much.”
“Try this.” He pours you a Peach Schnapps with lemonade and ice, “It’s sweet like you.”
You hesitate, but end up taking it. And he watches as you take a tentative sip, and he knows you like it because you take another one. And then another. He can’t help but feel proud for introducing you to your first alcoholic drink.
“You’re not as bad as people say you are,” you say out of nowhere, and his expression immediately sours.
“People have been talking about me to you?”
“No, it’s just the stuff I’ve heard. Like what I told you before. But it can’t be true, because you’re so nice to me so it just doesn’t add up.”
He grips his glass tight, about to lose it because yet again people were talking shit about him behind his back and never to his fucking face. Because they were all a bunch of pussies who knew he’d beat the shit out of them or kill them if they said anything to his face. But then you speak again.
“Do you always drink after school?”
“Huh?”
“Like, alcohol. Do you drink a lot? Like every day?”
“No.” He lies. “Only sometimes.”
He takes you out to the patio, where the sun is shining and you look so fucking pretty in your little sundress. Like you fit right into his world, next to the pool with a drink in your hand, sat next to him and looking at him with sparkling eyes as if he was your god. He wonders if you’ve naturally grown more comfortable with him through the course of the week, or if it’s just the alcohol. Probably the alcohol, since no one was ever really comfortable around him.
Either way, he puts his hand on your leg just like he had a few days ago in his car. Your breath hitches, but you don’t make a move to stop him. Instead, you opt to take another sip of your drink, and he wonders if he can get you drunk tonight. Shit, did he even want to? It was no fun fucking a drunk girl.
“Tell me more about you,” he strokes the soft skin of your bare thigh, feeling your goosebumps underneath the pads of his fingers. “You ever had a boyfriend or anything?”
Your eyes widen, “No. I, uh, you don’t tend to meet any guys when you’re homeschooled.” Embarrassed, you giggle before looking away. He reaches out, grabbing your chin lightly and making you look at him again. Fuck, your lips were so sexy. So pouty and perfect, begging to be kissed. “What about…what about you? Have you had any girlfriends?”
He shrugs, “A few.”
You nod, “Of course you have. That was a stupid question. Sorry, I forget not everyone’s as far behind in life as I am.”
“You’re not far behind.” He says, although you are and he prefers it that way.
“I am. Every other girl my age has had all the experiences you’re supposed to have. Drinking, partying, boys, all of it.” You sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch up.”
Rafe inches his hand upwards, till he reaches the hem of your dress halfway up your thigh. He plays with the fabric, and he can tell you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You don’t make a move to stop him, but you do press your legs together.
“There’s still plenty of time to catch up,” he says softly, “I can help you.”
You smile up at him, holding up your drink, “You already have. I’d never drank with friends before now.”
“Congratulations,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, “To one of many firsts.”
He downs his drink and so do you, and he’s quick to get a refill for both of you. He’s guessing you’re a lightweight, and again the thought of getting you drunk crosses his mind. But that would be way too easy.
“I’m capping you after this one,” he says, handing you your second Peach Schnapps.
You giggle, “Are you gonna cap yourself too?”
“No.” He chucks you under the chin again, “But, see, I’m not a baby.”
“Hey!”
He kisses you. And shit, he hadn’t planned on catching you so off-guard. Hell, he’s caught himself off-guard. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help how kissable your lips looked, all pouty and bitten. And you taste like cherry lip gloss mixed with peaches and lemonade, and you’re so pliant underneath him, and he’s kissed a shit ton of girls but it’s never felt like this.
You pull away with a start, shocked as you stare up at him. Breathing hard and biting your goddamned lips before they turn into the shape of an o.
“I’m sorry,” Rafe says, although he’s not, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I first saw you.”
Your breathing is shallow, and with a shaky hand you put your glass down on the crystal table in front of you. “I’ve never, uh, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Well, it’s easy. I could show you.”
You swallow, “I don’t want this to be like, a pity thing.”
Rafe exhales slowly, “You’re here in front of me in this tiny fuckin” dress, acting all cute and innocent and you think I want to kiss you out of pity?”
Your jaw drops, “Hey, it’s not tiny!”
He kisses you again. And sure, maybe he should’ve asked permission since it’s, well, your first kiss. But frankly he’s never had to ask permission to do anything in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to start now. The way he sees it, you wouldn’t have worn a slutty dress and agreed to come to his house if you didn’t want him to make a move on you.
Again, you pull away, “Rafe, I– don’t… I don’t know how to kiss, I’m sorry–”
He cups your face in his hands, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours again. Just to feel your soft, quivering lips against his confident ones. He kisses you once, twice, three times. Coaxing you to open your mouth, to let him in. Fuck, a part of him just wants to shove his tongue down your fucking throat, show you what it means to really be kissed. But he’s already pushing his luck right now.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, “But you need to do exactly what I say, okay?”
He can’t believe his goddamned luck when you nod. God, you were just so fucking hot, prancing around his house in your little dress, all impressed by his riches and shit, drinking your drink he made you like a good little girl, and now here you were, agreeing to whatever he said.
He taps his leg, “Get on my lap.”
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Wh-What?”
Rafe smirks, “Didn’t you just agree to do exactly what I say?”
He’s surprised with the amount of patience he has with you. If you were another girl, he’d have thrown your ass out to the curb for asking too many annoying questions. Or bent you over, shoved your face into a pillow to shut you up and had his way with you. God knew he’d done that more times than he could count over the years. He was aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than you and every other girl, and that fact turned him on more than anything. The fact that he could, if he wanted to, completely take advantage of you however he wanted. And all you’d be able to do is cry and beg him to stop, which would just turn him on more.
“I did, I’m sorry, but I don’t–”
Easily, he grabs your hips and lifts you up onto his lap, makes you straddle him with one leg on either side of him. Your dress is just about long enough to still cover your modesty, but now he’s acutely aware of your panty-covered pussy just inches away from reach. Fuck, he wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing, and if you’d let him look…
“There. Comfy?”
“Well, I guess, but…”
He pulls you into another kiss, this time catching you mid-sentence so he’s able to slip his tongue into your mouth. And you’re so fucking shy, just rigid while he explores your mouth. But he doesn’t mind. You taste so fucking sweet, and it’s getting him so hard, knowing he’s the first man you’ve let touch you like this, kiss you like this.
He can feel your breath hitch as he strokes your face, his thumbs running across your cheeks before his hand tangles into your hair. He yanks you closer, grazing his teeth against your plump bottom lip. You gasp, and he chuckles into your open mouth. His tongue plays with yours, coaxing you to kiss him back, but not really caring too much if you don’t.
And god, he wants to thrust up into you so bad. You’re sitting right on top of his fucking hard dick, and you don’t even seem to realise it. In fact, you shift around, that cute little peachy ass rubbing against his boner, and he wonders if you even know what a boner is.
When you pull away this time, your eyes are bright and excited. And he loves how he’s kissed the gloss off your lips, and how he can still taste you on his tongue.
“Wow, that was…” you giggle, breathless yet excited from finally having your first kiss, “I don’t have anything to compare it to, but that was good!”
Rafe has to crack a smile at your innocence, and his hand lands on your bare thigh, tracing his initials on it again, “Yeah? You like kissing me?”
“I…um… yeah I do,” you say shyly, before closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, “Could we uh, could we try again? Could I try?”
Well, shit. He’s never devoted this much time and energy into just kissing a girl, but his dick grows even harder at how you’ve plucked up the courage to ask him that. And so he simply nods and sits back, lets you figure out what it is you want to do.
Your cute little hands hold on to his broad shoulders shyly. And you lean up, fluttering your eyes closed like it’s some kind of fairytale for you and you’re the little princess kissing her prince charming. It’s part enamouring, part pathetic. But Rafe feels it again, that unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest. He shakes out of it, focusing on your plump lips that hesitantly press against yours.
He sits still; lets you explore his mouth. Your tongue pokes out, swipes against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick. And then he’s kissing you back, because he doesn’t have the goddamned willpower to just sit there and do nothing. There’s an animal inside of him and you’ve awoken it, more than any drug or alcohol ever could.
And he gets rougher, biting your lip till you gasp into his mouth. His hands slip up and down your bare arms before he takes your hand, squeezes it before pressing it down on his chest, wanting you to touch him, feel how much bigger he is than you.
“Good girl,” he mutters when you don’t move your hand, and then he fingers the hem of your dress. “Gonna let me touch you a little bit?”
“Rafe, maybe not too much–”
“C’mon, princess, you have to touch while you’re making out, right? That’s lesson number two.” He distracts you with another rough kiss, grabbing your jaw and squeezing while he brings you closer to his mouth. Kissing down your jaw and neck before returning to your lips, smirking when you squeak out a little involuntary moan. That’s when he slips his hand up your dress and cups your ass. Perfect little handful of your bubble butt, and he gives it a little squeeze to test the waters. You’re too distracted with kissing him, and so he squeezes harder. God, so fuckin’ soft and pliable, just like how he’d imagined.
“Nice ass,” he murmurs against your lips, and that’s what jolts you out of it. He curses inwardly when you pull away, pushing against his chest when he doesn’t immediately stop. And a part of him knows how easy it would be to just pin you down on this fucking sofa and have his way with you. Tell you how it’s your fault for wearing this fucking dress, your fault for seducing him in his own home, acting so sexy and innocent and getting him so riled up. Teasing him with your shy little kisses and squeaks till he had no choice but to hold you down and fuck you.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you slide off his lap, straightening your dress, “I just… I got overwhelmed.”
He blinks, and he’s this close to pulling you back on top of him, telling you he didn’t give you permission to stop, that you had to listen to him because this was his house and he’d been kind enough to invite you over. And he could make you feel so good, if you just stopped being a goddamned little prude.
Instead, he forces a smile, “You’re a pretty good kisser for someone who claims she’s never done it before.”
You beam, relaxing immediately, “Oh, you’re just saying that. I bet I was really bad.”
“My memory’s kinda foggy, I think you’re gonna have to remind me,” he pulls you back into him, and you giggle as he presses light kisses on your lips, his arm going around your shoulders while your hands tangle into his hair.
It doesn’t go any further than that, though. You stop him when he tries to touch you again, and a part of him wants to slam his fist down on the glass patio table in frustration. And yet, something stops him from just overpowering you and taking what he wants. No, that would be too easy. He’s about to crack you, he can tell from the way you look at him with those big eyes, now full of trust and comfort. He just needs more time.
Too bad he only had one day left to complete the goddamned bet.
“You should come over again,” he says when he’s done up your seatbelt for you in his car. He finds he likes doing all that shit – opening the door for you, lifting you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt into place, all of it. A stark difference from other girls, where often he’s tossed their clothes at them and motioned for them to leave after he’s done hooking up with them.
“That sounds nice,” you say, waiting for him to come round and get into the driver’s seat, “And I told you; you don’t have to drive me all the way home. I could’ve just got the bus.”
He blinks. He didn’t realise buses even functioned in Figure 8, but either way, he can’t have you on a public bus. Especially not in that dress, where every man would be leering at you and you’d be none the wiser about it. The control freak in him is itching to be let out, to tell you exactly what you were and weren’t allowed to wear in public, tell you how you weren’t allowed to speak to any men except him. And you weren’t allowed to argue or contest any of this, because he was in charge of you now, and–
“No buses,” he says firmly, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh as he drives, “Anyways, come over again tomorrow. We can go in the pool or whatever.”
He feels you go rigid, “Th-The pool?”
He glances at you, “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
You laugh nervously, “Uh, I’m not too great with water. I don’t really swim or anything.”
Rafe has to do a double-take, “You realise you live on an island?”
Even he knew that every child born in Kildare could swim before they could even walk. It’s just the way it was. They were surrounded by water. Rafe doesn’t even remember learning how to swim; it was almost like he knew how to do it by default.
“I know how to swim, I just don’t like water,” you say, and there’s something off about your tone. Something he can’t pinpoint, but you turn to the side and look out the window. Silent for the rest of the drive. Rafe doesn’t push it, although your odd behaviour has piqued his curiosity.
It’s only when he’s pulling up into the pitiful dirt road of a street where your house is situated that you clear your throat.
“Look, Rafe, you’re my friend now. And I don’t really like keeping secrets from you. I’m sorry I was so quiet just now.”
Cute. He likes how much you apologise to him. It shows how respectful you are, how much you respected him as an authority figure.
“That’s okay,” he says.
You take a deep breath, “I used to go out in the water a lot when I was younger. With my dad. He had a boat, and I would help him. But…”
Your voice trails off for a moment. Rafe thinks he knows where this is going, and a part of him is touched you’d share something like this with him. A tiny, obscure part of him, that is. He can’t help but squeeze your leg reassuringly, and you clear your throat again and blink several times. Like you’re trying not to cry. And Rafe’s never had the patience for emotional chicks, but it’s different with you.
You force out a little laugh, “I don’t want to go into details. But one time we were out pretty far, and the weather was bad. Like, really bad. The waves were rough and…” You swallow, looking down into your lap and wringing your hands together, your chest rising and falling rapidly, “And… Well, I was fine but… my dad…”
Shaking your head, you don’t say anymore. You don’t have to. Your eyes are wet and glistening, the muscles in your face working overtime to stop the tears from coming out. He parks the car in front of your house, turning to face you. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he’s not sure how to act.
Fiercely, you wipe away the one or two rogue tears that have escaped down your cheeks, “It happened so long ago, I barely remember it. But I’ve been scared of the water ever since.”
He nods, “It’s just you and your mom now?”
“Yes. And my brothers. But they’re always working, so it’s just me and her. That’s why she’s so protective of me… I, uh, I don’t have a dad anymore.”
Rafe knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he can’t fathom ever talking about it or voicing his feelings on it or some shit like that. His loser therapist had tried to get him to talk about his mother, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was just muscle memory at this point, to force any thoughts of her straight out of his mind. It was easier that way. And now, it was like he could barely remember her. And he hated it, but it made it easier too.
He’s never been good at comforting anyone else. And a part of him is glad you’re not sobbing your eyes out right now, because he’s not sure how he’d handle that. So he’s happy when you clear your throat again and smile up at him.
“I’m not sure why I told you that, I’ve never had a friend to tell that to before. I guess I just feel comfortable with you, Rafe.”
What the hell had he done to make you so trusting of him in the span of less than a week? God, you were like an innocent little angel, sitting in his car all tiny and vulnerable. Making him feel like a goddamned fucking monster for the thoughts he had towards you, what he planned to do with you. Suddenly, the bet feels so stupid and insignificant. God, this was why Rafe didn’t speak to the women he fucked. They went all emotional on him, and now he wasn’t sure how to act.
“I feel comfortable around you too,” he says carefully. He’s never been great with his words, but he grabs your hands that continue to wring nervously together. His big, warm hand dwarfing your tiny ones, and he realises you’re shaking. And there’s a part of him that wants to protect you against everything. Take you back to his place, lock you up in his room so he could keep an eye on you and keep you away from anything and anyone who could ever hurt you and make you cry.
Even if the only person who could hurt you the most right now is Rafe himself.
You leave after that, thanking him again and again for giving you a lift home. He wants to walk you to your door, but you run off quickly, and his mind’s too distracted to follow you. He drives off once he sees you’ve safely closed your front door behind you, his mind moving a million miles per minute.
Jesus Christ, why’d you have to go and open up to him like that? This would be so much fucking easier if you hadn’t done that. He hates that he should know better, that he knows that he should leave you alone. You were too innocent, too vulnerable for his bullshit; to be caught in the middle of some dumbass bet he’d made with his friends. God dammit, he hates himself for agreeing to that stupid bet, seems so fucking juvenile looking back. Wished he’d picked a different girl at the very least, someone not as lovely a you.
Most of all, he hates himself because he knows that despite everything he’s just found out about you, he still has every intention of fucking you. Daddy issues and a phobia of water. It was almost like fate was handing you to him on a silver platter. He had to fuck you. He’d figure out the rest later.
*
Kelce: One day left, loverboy.
Topper: Can’t wait to see the pictures.
Rafe mutes the groupchat before throwing his phone aside. He’d goddamn throttle his friends if they were in front of him right now. Sometimes, he gets these violent tendencies. He doesn’t really know what to make of them except it feels good to have some kind of release. Usually that comes in the form of pushing around a sorry ass Pogue, but that option’s not really available right now.
Instead, he searches blindly for the coke he’s stashed in his bedside drawer. Again, he’d promised himself he’d cut down, but this was just to take the edge off. It didn’t count. Not really.
He wonders what you’d think if you knew how often he took drugs. Well, you wouldn’t because he’d keep you well away from that part of his life. Even when he made you his girlfriend, he’d keep you separate from all the partying. And he’d never allow you to even look at any type of Class A drug. And who knows, maybe he’d become better for you, maybe he’d go stone cold sober if you wanted him to.
That makes him laugh. Going sober for a Pogue. It was insane of him to even consider it.
Again, he has to remind himself to take his emotions out of it. All you were was a stupid Pogue, and a part of a bet he was going to goddamned fulfil. And he wouldn’t allow himself to think anything more of it. He may have had a momentary lapse of judgement yesterday, but today was a new day, the last day of the week he had to fuck you.
How? He wasn’t too sure. Reports of a storm meant you couldn’t come to his house again like how he’d planned. Even now, Rafe could hear the harrowing winds outside. Like a goddamned cyclone. And the rain pelting down unforgivingly, and the distant roar of the sea, waves crashing like they’d taken on a life of their own.
The weather on the island was usually all sunshine, but once in a blue moon a storm would hit like now. Residents were always told to wait it out and stay inside. For Rafe, that meant copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes a girl or two to keep him company. But the idea of fucking anyone that isn’t you right now makes him sick.
He thinks about texting you, but what would be the goddamned point? If he couldn’t physically be with you today? He knows the weak, pussy part of his mind just wants to talk to you in whatever form he can. But he needs to bury that bullshit down deep inside him and never back, and–
His phone vibrates. It’s you. And he hates how he feels his heart jump to his fucking throat. You’ve called him all on your own, which means you were thinking about him like how he was thinking about you.
“Rafe?” You sound sexy like you always do, all breathy and weak and needy. A bit panicked too.
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, “What’s up?”
“Hey, calm down.” Rafe barely recognises the gentle quality of his voice as he straightens up, “What’s wrong, princess?”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so softly, with an air of embarrassment and shame, that at first he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying. But then he does, and something kicks in inside him. This innate need to protect you. You sound so small and needy on the phone, and you called him. You need him.
“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“No, no. Oh, Rafe, it’s the storm. It keeps getting worse.”
He chuckles in relief that you weren’t in any immediate danger, “Well, shit. Yeah. Looks pretty wild, huh?”
“I hate it,” you whimper softly, “and I’m sorry I called. But my mom’s stuck at work, and my brothers are crashing somewhere else. So it’s just me, and, and…”
“Hey, calm down. It’s okay, you’ll be okay.” He’s never had to comfort anyone before, but it comes naturally with you. “As long as you stay inside, the storm should pass. Just watch TV or something.”
“The lights are gonna go off any second,” you sniffle, “They always do when the weather gets bad.”
They did? Rafe never noticed shit like that. Then again, he doubts you had the luxury of backup generators where you lived. He pauses.
“Gimme twenty minutes. I’ll come over.”
“No!” You say quickly, “Rafe, it’s too dangerous.”
He snorts. He’d been in far more dangerous situations than a little bad weather. But the less you knew about that, the better. “I think I’ll be okay, princess.”
“B-But we’re not allowed out. You’ll get a fine.”
Rafe can’t count on one hand how many times he’d been fined by the dumbass police on this goddamned island over some petty bullshit reason or another. A fine meant nothing to someone with money. He was above the law, and most people on this island knew it.
“Stay put. I’ll see you soon.”
Rafe actually enjoys driving in the storm. The roads are deserted, and he can speed without worrying about anything else. And he does speed, and he runs more than one red light too. Gets to your house quicker than he thought he would. Past all the other tiny shacks all boarded up because they weren’t built well enough to withstand the storm.
“Rafe! You came!”
You sound like a fucking needy little baby, but something pulls at his heart when you hug him harder than you ever have before. And you’re so small, on your tippy toes so your arms reach around his neck. Automatically, his arms wind around your waist and he holds you close, and he can feel you trembling, your face buried in his chest as you hold on to him tightly.
“Yeah. Roads were empty. Didn’t take long.” He mutters, looking around the inside of your house. Pitiful. And pitch black, because you were right, the power had gone out. He hates that you live here. You’d fit in so much better at Tannyhill, in a pretty pink silk dressing gown and dripping with diamonds he’d buy for you. And you’d be so thankful for him, tell everyone that he saved you, how well he took care of you. How he gave you everything you could ever want, and how much you appreciated him.
At that moment, a clap of thunder makes you jump and squeal. Quickly, you pull him inside and shut the door. That’s when he notices that you’re crying.
“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He pulls you into another hug, and he’s never seen another human being look so scared, so vulnerable. It makes him feel so powerful, like the man he knew you needed. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”
It feels natural, his lips pressing a kiss into your hairline. Like you’re his little baby, like he’s been trusted with something so precious and now he has to protect you. And you’re too scared to be your usual jumpy self, and you just snuggle closer into him. A flash of lightning lights up the whole room, the storm relentless against the weak confines of this sorry excuse of a house.
“Maybe we should head back to mine.” He suggests, but you whimper again.
“No, no, we can’t go out there. It’s not safe. Rafe, please.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen another human being so scared before. Not even when he was fucking that one girl after he’d showed her his gun. Even now, he consciously tucks his gun further down the waistband of his chinos. Of course he’d brought it with him, he wasn’t going to enter the Cut without a piece on him.
“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here. When’s your mom coming home?”
“Not till tomorrow once the storm’s died down.”
He licks his lips. It was too good to be true.
You’re still holding on to him as you lead him into your bedroom. He wonders why you’d take him straight there, but he guesses it’s your safe place. And you’ve got candles lit up, and they brighten the room enough for him to notice how small it is. The size of a shoebox, with a single bed covered in pink sheets and a bunch of stuffed animals.
Despite everything, his dick hardens.
“You’re a really good friend, Rafe.” You say honestly, “Nobody else would’ve come over like this.”
He shrugs, sitting on the edge of your bed and patting the mattress next to him. It’s not even his house and yet he feels like he needs to take control. And you obey, taking a seat next to him. But you’re preoccupied with your own fear, doing that thing where you fidget with your hands in your lap.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, biting your lip like you can’t quite believe what he’s said, “I-I’m not special, Rafe, I–”
You’re cut off by another clap of thunder, this one so loud it makes the whole house shake. You scream bloody murder, and honestly, if you were anyone else Rafe would’ve laughed. But it’s you, and so he just watches. It’s fascinating, the way you clutch onto him like he’s your saviour, and he wonders just how this opportunity had basically just fallen into his lap.
He pulls you into his lap, knowing you won’t protest. Not in the state you’re in. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a little white tank top. No bra, because he can feel your nipples, hard and poking out from the fabric of your top. He can feel them against his chest as he hugs you again, and he can also feel you shifting on top of him. Your peachy little ass rubbing against his dick like you’re a fucking tease except he knows you’re none the wiser, that you have no idea the effect you have on him.
He’s so turned on, it feels like he might explode.
“I’m sorry,” you apologise for the umpteenth time, “It’s just so scary. Wh-What if the storm gets worse, Rafe?”
“It probably will,” he says, feeling slightly wicked. He holds you tighter against him, wanting to feel the brush of your breasts against his chest again. Fuck, he wants to cop a feel so bad. “They were saying something about a severe weather warning on the news. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”
“Noooo,” you moan like a goddamned baby, cuddling into him even more.
“It’s okay,” he says, running his hand up and down your back, “You ever, uh, you ever think of distracting yourself from the storm?”
You hiccup and blink up at him with wet eyes, “Nothing works, Rafe.”
He smirks, “I could distract you.”
“H-How?”
He runs his thumb over your lips. They’re wet with your salty tears, and yet like muscle memory, you part them for him. You watch him in wonder, your breathing shallow as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, his other hand holding you in place by your hip.
“Suck.” He instructs gently, and your eyes are as big as saucers. But in your frightened, vulnerable state, you obey immediately. And it feels like he’ll bust a nut right there, watching as you suck his thumb on command like a little fucking baby. Like he’s your daddy.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking your hair out of your face so he can watch you better. “Now listen to me, I can help you. I can distract you so that you forget all about the storm. Do you want that?”
You nod slowly, almost like you’re entranced by him. Not that he needs the green light from you, but it’s hot to see you agree so easily to whatever he’s saying. Fuck, you really were just like an angel fallen straight from heaven and into his lap. Perfect for him in every single way. So soft, so impressionable. Completely untouched. Ready to be ruined.
“That’s good,” he mutters vaguely, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. He takes his thumb out of your mouth, noticing how you pout involuntarily, like you’d gotten used to the feeling of sucking on it. Fuck, he could give you something else to suck on. “Give me a kiss.”
“H-Huh–”
“Do it. Just like how I taught you yesterday. You remember our lesson, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yeah, but will that really work? I mean–”
It’s like God himself is on Rafe’s side because there’s a loud boom of thunder at that exact moment. And you jump in his lap, tears welling in your eyes. Your chest rises up and down, and you bite your lip again, your gaze zeroing in on his mouth. Slowly, you lean up, shyly pressing your lips on his. But there’s a desperation to it, and Rafe’s returning kiss completely envelopes you whole.
He makes out with you for a while, smirking through your little pants and moans mixed with a whimper every time the weather gets especially brutal outside. He’s never been with such a goddamned scaredy cat baby before in his entire life, and it turns him on beyond belief. In the state you’re in, he could get you to do anything.
Rafe’s hands slip up to grab your little top, tugging it upwards. And this time, he almost loses it in frustration when again, you stop him.
“Rafe, Rafe no stop.” You push his hands off, straightening your top back over your midriff. “Couldn’t we just… just kiss?”
He presses his lips together in a thin line, “You trust me?”
“Of course, I just don’t know if I want to–”
“Look, didn’t I say I would distract you? I mean, shit, I could just leave.”
Your jaw drops, a flash of fear glimmering in your eyes. Instinctively, you grab onto his bicep with your tiny hands, a pleading look on your face, “No, don’t!”
He smirks, “I won’t leave. But you need to trust me to do what I need to do to distract you. Because the storm’s just gonna get worse.” He grabs your chin when you avert your gaze, forcing you to look at him, “Hey, c’mon. Who has more experience with this shit, you or me?”
“Y-You.”
“Yeah. And who’s older?”
“You are.”
“That’s right. Which means you need to trust me to make these kinds of decisions, because I know what’s best for you. That’s why you called me over, right?”
You don’t say anything, but this time when he tries to take your top off, you don’t protest. And Jesus fucking Christ, he was right. You’re not even wearing a bra, almost like you were deliberately trying to seduce him. Acting like a whiny little damsel in distress, pulling him into your pitiful little pink room, all candlelit and shit, on your little bed with your stuffed fucking animals.
Your nipples are hard, and he can’t help but cup your breasts. They’re so tender, so soft just like you. He’d imagined this exact moment many times over the course of the week whilst he’d jacked off to you, but nothing could compare to now. The way you tremble beneath his touch, knowing no one’s ever touched you like this before. He squeezes gently, watching how your breath hitches.
He’s overcome with animalistic instinct in just a second, and leans down to take your breast into his mouth. Sucks your nipple sweetly, before biting down. You cry out, arching your back so prettily, feeding him more of your nipple as you push it into his mouth. He bets you probably don’t even understand why it feels so good, having never been touched like this ever before.
He pinches your other nipple and you gasp. He smirks and does it again, looking up at you to see you gazing imploringly down at him.
“Th-That hurts,” you say pitifully.
“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” He takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his hair. Like a good little girl, you get the message. Your hands fist into his hair as he continues to play with your tits, licking and sucking all over them, pushing them together, biting your nipples and sucking the sensitive skin around them, wanting to leave his mark everywhere.
“Rafe, I, that… oh… oh my–”
“Stand up, baby.”
You squeak at the pet-name that falls so naturally from his lips, and he can tell you like being called that. It’s from the way your eyes widen, and how you scramble to obey. God, you were a little tease but you took instructions so fucking well.
You stand between his legs, and it gets him so fucking hard that you’re still barely eye level with him even when he’s sat down.
“Take your leggings off.”
You open your mouth to argue, but this time he just flashes you a look and you’re quick to shut the fuck up. That, and he distracts you with his hands running up and down your sides, squeezing your waist, then your hip. Finally landing on your ass with a light slap as if to tell you not to keep him waiting.
You push your leggings down and step out of them, till you’re standing between his legs in just your pink flowery panties and nothing else. And he feels a hunger he’s never ever felt before, looking down at you ravenously as if you’re a piece of meat and he’s a goddamned starved lion. A part of him just wants to grab you and stick his cock inside you while you scream and thrash and beg him to stop while you secretly enjoy it and cum again and again.
“Turn around,” Rafe says slowly, because despite his animalistic thoughts, he wants to savour this. And you do, letting him see your sexy butt adorned in just your panties. He hooks his thumb under the elastic, snapping it against your skin and laughing crudely when you yelp. “God, you’ve got such a perfect ass. I knew that since the moment I saw you.”
“Wh-What?”
“You heard me. You’re always wearing the cutest little outfits, like you were showing it off just for me.” He grabs your left ass cheek, squeezing it hard while you moan in pain or pleasure, right now he doesn’t really give much of a fuck. His other hand palms his cock through his pants at the sight.
“I wasn’t!” You say indignantly, as if he’s accused you of the absolute worst. “I wasn’t showing off, Rafe!”
“Sure you weren’t,” he snorts, “Now bend over, lemme see it better.”
He can’t believe it when you don’t hesitate this time, almost like you’re seeking his approval. Like you’re under some kind of submissive spell now, making everything even easier for him. You bend over, and your cute little ass is directly in his face. He pushes your panties to the side, gives the soft flesh a feather-light kiss before spanking you again. You yelp all cutely, but stay in position for him. What a good fucking girl.
“Stand up straight, look at me again.”
You turn back around, biting your lip as you look at him anxiously. Around you, the whole room seems to vibrate as another boom of thunder strikes. You make a noise in your throat, before grabbing onto his bicep again. You keep doing that, and it makes him feel strong, big, important. Like you’re a little baby seeking protection from her daddy.
“I’m gonna take your panties off now, okay?” He doesn’t know why he tells you before he does it, but he watches as you relax. There’s a war going on behind your eyes, he can tell. He knows part of you is liking how he’s making you feel, and part of you is desperate to distract yourself from the storm, and it’s battling the part of you that wants to keep your modesty, the part that knows this is a bad idea, that itching fear that he’s not a good guy, that he’s taking advantage of you.
Slowly, he slips your panties down your shaking legs, and you keep holding on to his arm like you’re scared to let go. Like the storm would come and get you the moment you stopped holding him like a little baby. He lets you, liking how weak you feel against him.
And then you’re completely naked in front of him, stepping shyly out of your panties that are left on the floor in a heap along with the rest of your clothes. And he’s still fully dressed, and that juxtaposition turns him on beyond belief. He can smell your pussy, and it’s driving him crazy. Makes him want to just pin you down and have his way with you. It incenses him in a way he’s never really experiences before.
His hands grab your hips, yanking you closer. He feels a wave of impatience, pushing you down till you’re sitting on the bed. He gets up, pushing your legs apart with one of his own. You gasp, and he sinks down to his knees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your belly button.
“It’s time for lesson number three, baby,” Rafe murmurs softly, “this is how I’m gonna distract you, okay? Shit, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget all about the storm. You gonna let me do that?”
You swallow, “H-How, Rafe?”
God, you were absolutely clueless. Made him feel like a fucking monster for taking advantage of you like this. But he liked it, liked how good and sweet and innocent you were, even now when he had you naked on your pretty princess bed with your legs spread for him.
“I’m gonna kiss you down here for a while, alright baby?”
“Down there?” You suck in your breath prettily, as if the very idea of that sounds so insane to you. God fucking dammit, just how much had your mother sheltered you?
Instead of explaining further, Rafe spreads your folds with two of his fingers, smirking when he sees you glistening and wet. And God, what a pretty and perfect pussy you had, all slippery and wet, like it was begging to be fucked. And even now, as you sit there breathing heavily, your pussy seems to get wetter just by him spreading it. You’re leaking down onto your pretty pink sheets, and it’s all because he’s merely touched you there.
You’ve gone silent, the storm seemingly already forgotten as you just watch him. Your chest rises up and down, and it’s like every other part of you is frozen in place. In awe, until he notices a slight movement in your pelvis. Involuntarily, you hump the air, like your poor pussy is begging for some type of contact or friction. He smirks.
“You have an accident, princess?”
You look absolutely aghast, “No!”
Rafe leans forward, inhaling deeply. And you smell so goddamned sweet, and he can’t wait any longer. He lays his tongue flat against your virgin cunt, and he can feel you throbbing with anticipation. He licks upwards, and you grab onto his hair, tugging hard as you yelp.
“Oh my God–”
He looks up, “Not God, baby. Just me.” Absentmindedly, he flicks your clit with his thumb and your entire body jerks. He chuckles, “And there’s another thing I’m going to need you to do.”
“What?”
“You’re going to call me daddy while I eat your cunt, okay?”
For the fifth time this evening, your jaw drops, and you gaze down at him in indignance, “What? But Rafe, you’re not my–”
“Your daddy? I mean, you do want me to take care of you, don’t you?” He smiles when you don’t immediately respond, “That’s why you called me today. Because you felt unsafe, like how you’ve felt your whole life ever since you lost your real daddy, isn’t that right?”
He half expects you to shove him off you, scream, lose it, slap him, kick him out of your house for going there, for trying to take advantage of your obvious daddy issues. But it’s like you’re in a trance, and he keeps going, “You want someone to take control, to reassure you that everything’s gonna be okay. That’s why you’ve let me take care of you this whole week, right? Because you need me, you like how I make you feel.”
He softly strokes your bare thighs, noticing that you’re shaking under his touch. And you look like you’re about to cry, in your most vulnerable state in front of him. And yet he keeps going, his voice like a calm lull, almost hypnotic with how you look at him with your huge, unblinking eyes.
“I can be your new daddy, princess. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”
Rafe doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he grips your thighs harder, spreading them as far as they’ll go. He spits on your mound, watching his saliva drip down to your pussy. You’re watching too, with stricken, hooded eyes. Like you’re frozen in time and space, and he’s the only constant.
Leaning forward, he envelopes your clit between his lips, giving it a harsh suck. Your entire body convulses, and you moan the loudest he’s ever heard you. Thunder claps at the same time, but you’re louder than it, and your hands grab on to his hair, and you press your cunt into his face, practically smothering him but he fucking loves it.
“Tell daddy to lick your cunt,” he orders, his voice deeper and lower than it’s ever been, and a slight threat in his tone, “say it, or else I’ll stop everything.”
“L-Lick it, please,” you beg so prettily, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. Rafe sits back, looking at you expectantly till you make the prettiest little noise of impatience. You shoot him a pleading look of desperation, but he doesn’t let up. You cry out, gripping his hair harder before ducking your head in shame, “P-Please, okay? Please lick my cunt, daddy.”
Rafe could’ve orgasmed right there at the sound of your sweet, delicate voice pleading with him, finally addressing him as daddy. Instead, he sucks hard on your sensitive, engorged clit, and you scream bloody murder. He snickers against your soaking folds, grabbing your thrashing hips, stilling them slightly but allowing you to rock them against his face till it’s shining with your wetness.
“Messy little girl,” he mutters, “excited, aren’t you? Never had this virgin pussy eaten, huh?” he grows sloppy, messy with his licks. Tonguing your sensitive nub till you’re a writhing mess above him, incoherent little gasps and moans tumbling out of your mouth as you continue to hump against his face because you’re a goddamned virgin who doesn’t know how to act because you’re feeling so good.
Rafe’s practically making out with your pussy, and he’s never enjoyed going down on a girl as much as he is right now. It’s how responsive you are, it’s how this is all so new to you so you don’t even know nor care to hold anything back. You’re rubbing your pussy on his face like all you can think of is how good he’s making you feel. And he fucks you with his tongue, unable to quite believe how sweet you taste. Like an angel, his angel. All his.
“It’s…It’s too much, Rafe!” you cry out, and yet you’re rolling your hips with abandon, riding his tongue while he sucks and licks you out like he’s starved.
“You can take it,” his voice is muffled, and you try to wrap your thighs around his head except his grip on them is too strong. It’ll leave bruises in the shape of his fingers all over your soft skin, but he likes that. He wants to bruise you, mark you, make you his in every way possible. So next time when you wore a slutty little sundress, every goddamned man on this island would know you’re taken. Fuck, he’d get his name tattooed on your goddamned pussy, and–
You cum, squeaking so prettily he wants to bottle up the sound and keep it safe in his memories forever. Your first orgasm, and all it took was a couple of minutes of him eating your cunt. And your muscles squeeze around his tongue, and you cry and moan like you don’t even know what’s happening. Your grab at his hair, pulling so hard because you’ve probably never felt like this before.
And Rafe doesn’t stop, his tongue swirling circles while you hump and grind against his mouth, riding out your orgasm, moaning his name over and over again. Outside, the weather gets worse, and at one point he notes the whole room shakes as if the goddamned roof’s about to blow off. You don’t give a fuck though, and he doesn’t either.
“Oh, Rafe, oh, oh oh, it’s too much!”
Now, you’re trying to push him off you, but selfishly he keeps tongue-fucking you. His thumb rubs your engorged, sensitive clit. He knows it’s too much for you, but he’s too fucking turned on to stop.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that. Lemme give you another one.”
“No, I-I can’t, I, oh fuck!”
He slaps your clit, and a squelching sound fills the room. You gasp, and he just snickers, having entirely too much fun with you. And again, you twitch your hips, inadvertently pushing your cunt into his face again. You’re out of breath and sensitive from your first orgasm, and yet your greedy little pussy wants to give him another one.
“You like it when your daddy slaps your cunt?”
You’re such a shy little thing, gaping at him as if he’s said the most insidious thing on earth. And yet, your cunt squeezes around his tongue, and he you up as you continue to leak into his mouth. He looks up at you, “Tell me you like it.”
“I, uh, I like it, uh… daddy, oh gosh!”
It takes just one more spank and you come undone, cumming all over his face and he licks you throughout. Long, languid stripes of his tongue flat against your wet folds, then he switches to fucking you with it, and your fuckhole’s so goddamned tight, his tongue barely even fits a little bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s got one hand slipped down his pants, jacking off because this is the hottest thing in the world he’s ever witnessed. Innocent little baby crying after orgasming from getting her pussy spanked by her daddy.
He feels like a lion closing in on the fucking lamb, forgetting himself for a second as he gets up. Aggressively pushing you down till you’re lying flat on the bed, surrounded by your stupid stuffed animals. In a second, he’s on top of you, breathing hard like a man possessed. God fuck, all he had to do was shove it inside you, hold you down and tell you to take it. Maybe press his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud. Not that it mattered. Nobody could save you from him tonight.
But you blink up at him so prettily, so unaware of his intentions, your eyelashes wet with tears. Your lips bitten and pouty, face shiny with sweat. Your hands grab his arms again, squeezing like you’ve grown used to doing.
“R-Rafe, that was… wow.” You say breathlessly, so blissfully innocent, not realising at all that he’s moments away from holding you down and fucking you, that he’s planning how he’ll do it in his head this very moment. “I never… I never thought it could feel that good.”
Rafe finds himself feeling that again, that weird feeling that kept bubbling up inside his chest from time to time whenever he was with you. He still doesn’t have a name for it; he can’t even properly describe it. But looking down at you now, watching you stare up at him with those shining eyes of yours. All he can do is push a piece of your hair out of your face, and smile slowly down at you.
“What do you even know about sex, baby?” He breathes, his face so close to yours.
“Oh, well, uh… Not that much. I mean obviously I know how it works. I just… I didn’t know you could call someone da– that.”
He smirks, tapping your cheek condescendingly, “You mean daddy?”
You look embarrassed, “Yeah.”
“I need you to keep calling me that, okay?” Rafe says gently, “It’s completely normal and I told you I’d take care of you from now on. You want that, don’t you?”
Again, he nudges at your lips with his thumb, making you suck it. Which you do, and the feeling goes straight to his dick. He wants to fuck you while you suck his thumb, gently rock his hips into you, your tight pussy squeezing his huge cock while you whimper around his thumb, sucking it while you cried and just took it, took whatever he gave you and then said thank you, daddy like the good little girl you were.
He starts kissing you again, unable to help it. And your response is so enthusiastic, he feels like he might explode. You’re getting more confident with all the kissing stuff, and Rafe likes that it’s all because of him.
“You ready for the next lesson, baby?” He asks between kisses, his hands everywhere all over your naked body. Squeezing your breasts, playing with your ass. Loving that you’re naked beneath him and so willingly too.
You swallow harshly, “I don’t think I’m ready–Oh!”
He takes your hand, pressing it inside his slacks. Right on his hard, throbbing dick. And fuck, it feels so small, so weak against his pulsating cock. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting into your hand.
“Take it out.”
“N-No!”
He exhales loudly through his nose, holding your hand tight against him when you try to snatch it away. “Baby, what did I tell you about doing what I say?”
“I-I know but… but I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, “but you need to do this, alright? Didn’t I make you feel good just now?”
“Well, yes, but–”
“So just trust me. I’ll make you feel good again, okay baby?” He kisses you lightly once, twice, three times till you smile, “You’ve been such a good girl tonight. So brave for me....”
You hiccup, looking up at him with those goddamned saucer-like eyes again, “R-Really?”
He strokes your cheek, innately aware of your hand relaxing against his cock, “Yes. Such a brave, good girl. You forgot all about the storm outside, didn’t you?”
As if on cue, you whimper and cuddle into him more. He smiles like a goddamned wolf, feeling evil yet desperate at the same time, “Call me daddy again, princess.”
You don’t even fucking hesitate, “d-daddy, I–”
“Take daddy’s cock out, baby. It’ll distract you, I promise.”
You do exactly what he says, and he helps you. He can’t help but hiss when you free his dick from the confines of his slacks, and you gasp too, dropping it immediately when you see it.
“Shit, gimme your hand,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait this time. Snatching your hand in his, he spits down into your palm before pressing it on his dick. “Stroke it.”
You pull back, “I don’t know how, I don’t–”
“Do it or I’ll leave right the fuck now.”
In your helpless daze, you whimper before placing your hand back on his dick. And it’s so red, about ready to explode the moment you touch him. He exhales slowly, and it feels so fucking good, and he covers your hand with his, guiding it, making you stroke him up and down.
“That’s so good, baby. You’re so good.”
“I am?”
“Shit, yeah, just keep doing that. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He notes how you grow more confident, rubbing his dick and jacking him off like a good little girl. His hand leaves yours, instead cupping your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. He can’t help kissing you, you taste so fucking sweet and it’s insane because he’s never particularly enjoyed kissing anyone this much before. But he loves kissing you, leading you through it, guiding you. Loves how responsive you are, loves how you listen to him even when you feel all scared and hesitant. As if you know that at the end of the day, he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. The only one who knew how to take care of you.
“You ever seen a cock before this, princess?” He asks crudely between kisses.
Your eyes widen, “N-No, Rafe– I mean, uh, daddy.”
“No? Good girl. That’s so fuckin’ hot.” He bites your pouty bottom lip, and you gasp, squeezing his dick in your hand and it makes him moan straight into your fucking mouth. What a naughty girl.
“It’s, uh, it’s so big,” you say quietly, so quietly that Rafe almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and he smiles, pulling back slightly.
“Yeah?”
Shyly, you duck your head, “Yeah, daddy.”
God, you were so fucking irresistible. He couldn’t take it anymore. He takes your hand, which was still steadily pumping his dick, and holds it tightly. Holds both your hands by your sides as he nudges your legs apart again, and watches as you take a deep breath, as if you know what’s coming.
Lowly, he whistles at how wet you are, your juices having leaked down to stain your pink sheets again. Rafe’s never had a virgin before but he knows how eager they are, how easily turned on they get. He can imagine how slippery wet and snug your snatch would be around his dick. Now, he swipes a finger down your slit, gathering your wetness while you squirm under him.
“Aww, look how excited your pussy is, princess.” He snickers, bringing his finger up to your lips, smearing them with your wetness, getting it all over your face too till it shines and you’re all messy. “Tell me, what’s got her so wet?”
‘I don’t know.”
SMACK.
Rafe finds he quite enjoys slapping your cunt, especially when it’s so wet and throbbing. You cry out, quivering and shaking underneath him. He flashes you a look, “Answer the question.”
“You,” you breathe, blinking up at him, “You, daddy.”
“Yeah? I get your pussy wet?” He’s working himself up, his dick nudging against your folds and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shove it in there. “Tell me why.”
You moan pleadingly, “R-Rafe, please!”
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it properly,” he says, enjoying himself a bit too much. It was payback for all the times you’d teased him without even realising it this past week. Flaunting your sexy little body, blinking up at him with those fuck me eyes, as if you were just begging for it in your own little innocent way.
You swallow harshly, and despite everything he can see you thinking carefully, as if you want to give him a real proper answer to impress him. Cute.
“I, uh, I like how big you are,” you stutter slowly, “you-you’re a lot bigger than me.”
He grins wolfishly, pushing his hair out of his face before pressing a greedy kiss to your lips, which you respond to fervently. But he pulls away all too quickly, looking down at you as if he expects you to continue.
“I like how strong you are,” you’re looking anywhere but at his face, he guesses because you’re too shy. He sponges kisses down your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. Kisses all over your tits, presses them together and licks them, bites at your nipples while you moan between your words. “You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Rafe pauses, and it’s there again. That stupid fucking feeling that he doesn’t understand, nor does he care to understand it right now. Nobody’s ever felt safe with him before. Everyone’s always been afraid of him or hated him or screwed him over because they didn’t trust him. No one’s ever looked at him how you’re looking at him and it makes him feel things he’s never felt before.
But he shoves those feelings straight back down, clears his throat before pressing his finger down between your folds. You shiver and moan, hips bucking up before he pins them in place. He tries pushing his pointer finger inside you, but is met with resistance despite how soaking wet you are. Fuck.
“Tightest pussy I ever had,” he mutters, “but she’ll take daddy’s dick, won’t she?”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and he ignores your soft cries as he forces his finger up your cunt. Till it’s finally knuckle-deep, and he bets you can feel the cool silver of his ring against your warmth. And your pussy’s so fucking snug, gripping his finger like a vice, and even he has to wonder how he’d possibly fit his big dick inside you.
“So full,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. But he shuts you up soon enough when he starts fingering you. One singular finger, because that’s all that fits. But he moves it in and out, curving upwards till you moan, thrusting your hips in rhythm like you can’t even help it.
“Gonna add another one, okay baby?”
‘W-Won’t fit, daddy.”
“Shh, yes it will. Daddy’s gonna make it fit.”
Rafe makes it fit. He has to hold you down while you cry like a baby, but soon he’s got his index and middle finger shoved inside you, finger-fucking your tight, virgin cunt while his hard dick slaps against his stomach, and he’s so fucking turned on. More than he’s ever been in his whole life.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He murmurs into your ear, nibbling at it, licking inside it and making you jump. And fuck, you’re so jumpy, and he has to keep you pinned down while he fingers you, and a sick part of him wonders if he’s drawn blood already.
“H-Hurts,” you whimper like the goddamned little cry-baby you are. “R-Rafe please slow down.”
“Come on, don’t tell me to slow down,” he continues pumping his thick fingers up your slippery wetness, feeling like you’re swallowing them up whole every time, “Not when you’re drippin’ all over your sheets like a little–”
“But it hurts!”
“That’s okay, it’s supposed to hurt,” he explains slowly, like you’re dumb, “it’s because you’ve never done this before, so that’s why I gotta stretch you out like this first, okay?”
A lone tear meanders down your cheek, “I-I don’t think it’s gonna fit, Rafe.”
“I made ‘em fit, didn’t I?”
“Nooo, you’re, uh, I mean your…” You sniffle helplessly, a wild look in your eye that looks half scared, half confused as he bets your body’s starting to betray you.
Rafe feels a smile creep up on his face, “You already thinkin’ about my cock, sweetheart? How it’s gonna feel when it’s up your virgin cunt?”
You shake your head vehemently, but you’re a little angel slut because your hips are bucking up to meet his fingers. “Rafe, no. Your f-fingers, they’re already too much, I don’t think I can take…”
“Didn’t I just tell you I’d make it fit?”
You grip his arm tightly, pleadingly “Y-You’re too big, I-I don’t think I can handle anymore…Oh fuck!”
He knows he’s hit that spot inside you because your whole back arches, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever fucking heard in his life. Complete abandon, head thrown back, digging your nails so hard into his arm that he’s sure you’ve broken through his skin.
“That’s right, baby girl. Just fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, increasing his pace, wondering if he can fit a third finger in. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. Taking your daddy’s fingers like a champ. God, look at your little virgin cunt, swallowing ‘em up like a greedy little slut. Didn’t think you’d turn out to be so fuckin’ slutty, baby.”
You clench around him, moaning his name and he can’t believe how much his dirty talk is having an effect on you. His thumb rubs at your clit while he continues to finger fuck you, wanting to draw another orgasm out of you because you’re so fucking gorgeous when you cum, and he wants you to make a mess all over his fingers before he finally takes you with his cock.
“Too much, too much, oh, oh, oh,” you’re half delirious, humping against his fingers, letting him fuck you with them, and he knows you must feel so full. And it feels like heaven for him, being inside you (even if it is just with his fingers). You feel so soft, so wet, so warm. Your muscles tensing and relaxing around him as he builds you up.
“Take it,” Rafe repeats, “bet it’s never felt this good huh? You ever finger yourself, baby girl? Touch yourself late at night when you think everyone else’s asleep?”
You gasp at his words, but he feels you clench around his digits.
“Mmm, not such a good little girl after all, huh? Fingering yourself when you think your mommy’s asleep,” he grins wickedly at the horrified look on your face, increasing pace, “but it’s never enough, is it? Your fingers aren’t as big as mine, so you could never make yourself cum.” He laughs, “this whole time, all you needed was a man like me to take care of you. Say it, say you need me. Say it.”
“N-Need you!” You cry out, delicious tears streaking your face, “I need you, daddy. I-I…Oh fuck, please! Please, I don’t… I just… I–“
You squirt all over his hand. And it’s insane; Rafe’s never seen anything like it before. He gazes in wonder, caught off-guard for once. You completely come undone, crying and panting his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your third orgasm of the night. And who knew it would take just a little bit of dirty talk to get you to squirt? God, you were so fucking hot, so full of surprises. So perfect for him, it was unbelievable.
“Good girl,” he strokes your head like you’re his little pet, taking his wet fingers and pressing them into your mouth, and you’re so hot when you automatically suck on them. “Such a good girl, baby. That was so fuckin’ sexy.”
All you do is clutch at him and cry, so spent and overstimulated from your orgasm. Rafe licks his lips, feeling both protective yet predatory at the same time. You’re at your weakest, most vulnerable state. Outside, thunder and lightning strike over and over again as if they were paid to do so, and the room lights up and goes dark, it shakes and shudders, and the winds howl like a pack of possessed wolves. And yet you look so pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight.
It's the perfect night for you to get ruined. His perfect little baby. Pristine and innocent and at his mercy.
Rafe’s cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing as he grabs it by the base, pumps it as he hovers over you. On his knees while you lie beneath him, looking so deliciously scared. He presses his whole length against your stomach, and watches your eyes almost bulge out of your head. He knows he’s big, but compared to your tiny frame, he’s massive. And he gets off on that, gets off on how much bigger he is than you. He smears his precum against your stomach, smirking as he watches you swallow and try to be brave.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “You like my cock, baby? You like looking at it, huh?”
The way you lick your lips gives it away, and he laughs cruelly, tapping your cheek like you’re his little pet. “Say it, then. Say you like it. Beg me to put it inside you. C’mon, baby, look at your pussy, she’s crying for it. Beg me.”
He knows you’re at war with yourself, and you shake your head tearfully, opening your mouth to speak. But a clap of thunder sounds just then, so loud it makes the whole room shake. You cry out so pitifully, it makes his heart throb a little. You grab at him, and he falls down on top of you, kissing you, kissing your salty sweet lips and your tears. Kissing you all over while your desperate hands tangle into his hair.
That’s when he nudges the tip of his dick against your folds. And it already feels like fucking heaven, your wet warmth practically begging him to shove it inside you. He presses his tip on your puffy, sensitive clit and you jump, your eyes widening and then you push at his chest.
“R-Rafe, please, I don’t think–”
“Shh, c’mon, baby. Let daddy fuck you,” Rafe urges softly against your lips, “gonna make you feel so good again, mhm?”
“Nooo…”
He tries to ignore your soft cries, the way your palms press weakly against his chest.
“Shit, just relax,” he coaxes, knowing he could just hold you down and force it in, and yet…
He kisses you, tasting salt on your lips. You try to kiss him back, but he can feel you gulping for breath. He can feel your heart hammering against your chest. He can feel your limbs pushing at his body, but he’s just so much fucking bigger than you that it doesn’t even make a difference, and yet…
“Rafe, I… please…”
“Baby…”
His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and he runs it up and down your soaking slit, and you moan. And your face looks turned on beyond belief, and yet scared at the same time. Nervous, frightened, vulnerable. It’s a heady mix, and he doesn’t know what to do, and–
“Please, Rafe. I’m not ready, I-I can’t, Rafe. Please…”
“Fuck.”
Something comes over him, and Rafe feels it again. That bubbling, intense feeling inside his chest. Like a rush of an emotion he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. All he knows is he can’t, he fucking can’t. You’re so sweet, so kind, pure like a flower and he just can’t bring himself to pluck it. Tear it apart. Ruin it like how he ruined everything else he touched.
He rolls over, lying beside you while you quiver next to him. Both breathing hard. And outside, the wind howls and howls almost like it’s mocking him. Laughing at him for being a goddamned pussy. And there’s another clap of thunder, and he hears you crying softly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Rafe finds himself gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“I-I thought I could but…” you hiccup between your tears, and your eyes look like there are a thousand stars shining wetly inside them, and he knows he’s never seen anything so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do it, I thought–”
“It’s okay,” he repeats, cupping your face and making you look at him, his thumbs swiping away your tears, “Don’t cry, okay? Shit, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“Y-You’re not mad?”
He strokes up and down your back, soothing you while he wonders whether he is. But the only thing he feels right now is this strange, innate need to protect you. To reassure you. Hold your quivering body close till you stopped shaking. It’s insane, because he doesn’t feel like himself, because he’s never felt this before. It’s alien. Completely, utterly fucking alien.
“No,” he answers quietly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, “No, I’m not mad.”
“You pr-promise?”
“I promise.”
He feels like a different person as he tucks his dick back into his slacks. Like someone else, like someone he doesn’t recognise. But it feels so natural, holding you so close that your heartbeat feels like his. And the storm outside feels like a million miles away. Like it’s just you and him on a different planet and nothing else exists, nothing else means anything except you.
You fall asleep in his arms, spent after everything. And Rafe doesn’t even feel frustrated in that moment, because all he can focus on is how peaceful you look. Your tears dried on your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. You trusted him with everything. And it made him feel like someone important.
The wind laughs and laughs all night.
*
The morning is calm, tranquil. Almost like the storm never even was. And Rafe wakes up well rested, with you cuddled on his chest, his arm around you and his thumb in your mouth. The room dappled in sunlight, the candles all blown out or melted away.
Slowly, he detangles from you, making sure not to wake you up. You look so peaceful, so innocent. So soft and pretty, in your little shack of a house on the Cut. He frowns as he looks around. In the morning light, your room looks even more pitiful. It’s clean, and you’ve made it pretty with notes and posters and fairy lights. But he can see the paint peeling off the walls, the fact it’s smaller than his closet back home.
Rafe can’t believe he’s woken up on this side of the island.
He has the sudden urge to leave. To run. Hastily, he types out a text to you.
Rafe: Hey. I thought I’d leave in case your mom came home and saw us. Didn’t want to wake you. Talk to you later.
He has to get home. Gather his thoughts. Recalibrate. Think about what the fuck came over him last night, when he’d had you right where he fucking wanted you. And then he’d pussied out of it. Rafe Cameron never pussied out of anything.
What the fuck did that mean?
His gaze shifts to you again, so pretty and sound asleep. Naked because you’d so willingly shed your clothes for him, spread your legs for him. And he could have had you. Hell, he could have you right now. Force himself into you while you were still asleep, and you’d wake up crying and sobbing, all confused and sleepy while he held you down and ordered you to just take it.
That’s what he should’ve done last night. So then what the fuck had stopped him?
Now, he lightly runs his fingers over your bare thigh, humming lightly at how smooth you feel. So soft, like an angel. A powerful, almost all-consuming feeling overtakes him. A wave of possessiveness coursing through him like a tidal wave of dark poison. You were his. All his. He could do what he pleased with you. Your body was his. You’d all but served it to him on a silver platter last night, in your pathetic little room with the candles.
Rafe feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He gets his phone out, ignoring any small, decent part of him that was sending warning signals to his brain. You were his. He had every right to do this.
Silently, he takes the pictures. And a sick part of him gets off on it, gets off on the fact you’re asleep and none the wiser to what’s happening. But this was the least you could do, you’d left him hanging last night. After he’d been so patient, so understanding. Fuck that. Why had he been like that? Like he was weak?
“You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Your words from last night ring in his ears, bouncing around in his brain till it gets too much, till they start to echo and get louder and louder. Till he feels the urge to punch the shit out of your bedroom wall. It was all too much. He had to get out of here.
He tucks his phone into his pocket, pushes the cotton covers up till your chin, and then leaves without looking back.
*
“There he is! The loverboy himself!”
His friends gather around him the next morning like he’s the second coming of Christ himself.
“How was she, Rafe?” one of them slaps him on the back, “That is, if you fucked her.”
“Yeah.” Kelce stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Rafe expectantly. They all are. “Did you fuck her?”
Rafe scoffs, “Is that even a question.”
He’d waited all day yesterday for you to respond to his text. Like a pussy ass little bitch, he’d waited for you to say something. Growing angrier and more paranoid by the second when you didn’t. Staring at the pictures he’d taken of you like a man possessed, his thumb hovering over the delete button a handful of times before he’d thrown his phone angrily across the room. Hating how you were making him wait. Hating how his heart had leapt up to his fucking throat when you finally had replied: I’m so sorry for being such a scaredy cat yesterday. Thank you for coming over.
He'd discovered something then. He was obsessed with you. And he hated it.
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Kelce grins, cutting straight to the chase. Next to him, Rafe sees Topper’s eyes light with interest, as well as the others too. Fucking desperate losers, trying to catch a glimpse of something that belonged to him. Because they’d never get to see you like that, ever. No one else would. He’d make sure of that.
“It did happen.” Rafe says calmly, “Like I said it would.”
“Okay well, that’s great brother but we’re gonna need proof.” One of the clowns pipes up.
“You don’t need shit,” He shoots back.
“You didn’t take pictures?” Topper asks.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I did.”
“Then show us. That was the deal.”
He wants to beat the shit out of all of them for daring to ask to see intimate pictures of you. As if you were anything like the other whores he’d fucked in the past, the type of stupid girls him and his friends used every week. You were different, and you were his, and they had no fucking business looking at what was his.
“Look. I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me.” He mutters, completely over the dumb ass bet and over his friends too. They’d forget about it by tomorrow, ready to become his willing followers once more. They always did.
“C’mon man, you can’t bring our hopes up like that. Either you never fucked her or,” Kelce’s eyes glint when it registers, “Or you’ve gone soft for her. You’ve–”
Rafe grabs him roughly by the collar, a sudden anger coursing through him like he’s been electrocuted. “Listen, you fucking moron. Don’t ever insinuate I’ve gone soft for a goddamned Pogue.”
He spits that last word out like it’s venom, and yet he tried to ignore how hollow it feels. When he realises people are staring, he quietly lets go, smoothing Kelce’s shirt while his friends stare at him fearfully in that way he’s grown used to people looking at him.
“I fucked her,” Rafe says plainly, his tone switching from aggressive to calm in a split second, almost like he’s slipped on a mask, “I fucked her just like I’ve fucked every other Pogue bitch who’s thrown herself at me before her. And it wasn’t anything special. She acts all innocent, but it was easy to get her to spread her legs for me just like I told you it would be.”
He hears a thud, and then a little gasp behind him. So soft, it barely registers. Except it does, and he turns around.
And immediately locks eyes with you.
And then it feels like it’s just him and you. And nobody else is there. And there’s no sound, like both of you have stopped breathing. You stand there, frozen, stricken. Your books on the ground in front of you. Only a few steps behind him, well within earshot. And he sees something break in your expression, porcelain features twisting in hurt, shock, dismay, disbelief.
“Oh shit,” Topper mutters from somewhere behind him. A few of his friends snicker, but Rafe can’t hear them. No, he’s frozen, staring at you as if he can’t quite believe it. And he sees the tears welling in your eyes.
A little broken sob falls from your lips, and then you turn and run. And Rafe wants to chase after you but it’s like he’s frozen in time and space. Watching you run off while he just stands there.
Stands and watches as you run away from him, your hands reaching up blindly to wipe at your face. And that feeling returns tenfold. That feeling that Rafe can’t quite put his finger on, that feeling which he wants to push back down because it suffocates him, and he doesn’t understand it. The feeling consumes him from the inside out, till he feels like he can’t breathe.
And he just stands there and watches until you’re gone.
𝘼/𝙉: OOF. Okay, I finally posted it! Please let me know what your thoughts! Literally any reaction, predictions, favourite parts etc. All of it, ANY of it would be so appreciated! Also please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Here's some questions in case you want to answer them (you don't have to!! you can comment/reblog whatever you want, i just always post questions at the end of my fics)
Does Rafe genuinely care for reader?
Should reader forgive Rafe?
Favourite scene/part?
Anyways, that's it. Now I'll anxiously wait to see what you guys think. PLEASE PLEASE consider reblogging this fic if you plan on liking it and want me to continue it. Thanks so much for all your support when I posted the sneak peek. I hope this lived up to your expectations! <3
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 orbiter // part fourteen - the girls' trip .✦݁˖
it's no secret that where garrett graham is, you're likely close behind. and everyone knows where you are, garrett graham is too. that’s the outcome of growing up best friends.
throw in the messy deal between garrett and hannah, it has you wondering if your so called ‘best friend’ even realizes he's left you behind.
⤷ aka off campus social/text au! - garrett graham x fem!reader
series masterlist
--
Your heart is racing.
Allie made some fancy reservation somewhere on the water, and while you should be getting ready, your eyes haven’t pulled off the text message in the last three minutes, even with Allie and Hannah singing loudly from the bathroom.
The text shouldn’t hit this way. It’s not like you and Garrett haven’t said I love you before.
This one feels different.
Things have been good over the past few weeks. The distance had been good for you, and good for Garrett, and you loved this feeling too; this co-existing in your own space. Having experiences that you’d seen alone but could still go back and share with him if you wanted. It was refreshing, and it made your time together more special than just an expectation.
Things were good. You weren't mad at him, but you also didn't feel like running back to him full speed. Allie had said it was okay to miss him, and you do, but not in the way you used to. Not in the way where you didn't know how to function until he was back.
“What are you smiling at?” Hannah emerges from the bathroom, gloss on her lips and her cheeks rosy with color. She’s got a pep in her step from your day
You glance back to see that your phone screen had turned off, hiding the text messages from view. “Uh, nothing, just an edit I was watching. What time do we have to leave?”
Hannah moves to the kitchen area to pour a fresh glass of wine. “Um, soon, I think? Come on, come get ready with us!”
“Yeah, be there in one sec.” You smile in her direction and wait for her to head back into the other room before taking a breath.
It wasn't that you didn't love Garrett because you knew you did. You just didn't know if these things were being said because he felt them, or if he was trying to make up for what happened.
--
Meanwhile, back at the hockey house, the boys are having a much different conversation.
"Dude!"
Garrett groans loudly, burying his face in his hands as Dean reads the conversation out loud for Logan and Tucker to hear.
"You were supposed to leave her alone!"
"I don't know how!" Garrett argues back, frustration winning in his voice.
Logan reads the messages over Dean's shoulder, letting out a low whistle. "Jesus, G. You're really digging in deep now."
"Don't say that shit unless you mean it." Dean's tone is more aggressive than anyone anticipated as he drops the phone back in Garrett's lap. "Seriously, dude. Not cool."
"Who the fuck says I don't mean it?"
"The version of you that stood in the parking lot and told her she was hovering."
Silence falls across the room, Tucker even pausing the video game as they all stare at each other. Because yeah, Dean is right. But Garrett doesn't say shit he doesn't mean, either.
"Dean."
The blond shakes his head. "Don't explain it to me. Explain it to the girl who would've dropped everything to get to you because she cared more about you than she did herself."
Dean takes a breath, rubbing his hands across his face. "Sorry, that was intense. But seriously. Do you like her? Like like her? Or what the fuck is going on?"
"Of course I like her, she's--"
"Graham."
It's Logan that shuts down the sentence. He's got a stern, knowing look in his eye. "You've gotta feel your emotions, dude. This isn't healthy. If you like her, then like her. But quit hiding what you really want because you're confusing everyone. Especially Bug."
"They're right." Tucker shrugs. "I mean, I don't know when the hell you guys got more mature than I did, but color me impressed."
Tucker points a finger in Garrett's direction. "You hide behind walls because that's what your dad taught you to do. Be open about it all, be honest. Yeah, it's gonna be embarrassing and awkward, because that's where the growth is."
Garrett takes a second to sit with their words and tries to understand this teasing game he's been playing with you for so long without realising. Because yeah, he'd been leading you on in his actions, and while he does love you, it's not a phrase to throw around lightly.
In every good memory he has, you're there. In all of the hardest parts of his life, you held him through it. Somewhere along the line, Garrett fell in love with you and didn't ever realise it because he's never really known anything different.
"So, let me ask you again, Garrett Graham. Are you or are you not in love with your best friend?"
Garrett presses the heels of his palms into his eyes before he looks back at all three of them, the most honest he's been in his entire life:
"Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I am."
--
--
Allie convinces you guys to go out after dinner because who doesn’t want to visit a beach bar! So, you find yourself watching said girl twirl her heart out under the string lights while the sunset reflects across the sky.
The ocean breeze is warm, and your skin tingles from the sunshine throughout the day. You’ve always loved the beach. It was one place where things would refresh and give you a clear mind before heading back to reality.
“Is this seat taken?”
You’re met with bright eyes and an unfamiliar face when you look up. There’s a guy standing in front of you with his hand motioned to the open barstool next to you.
You shake your head, motioning toward it politely. “Not at all.”
Hannah’s trying to subtly tap you from her spot on your other side, but it’s definitely obvious to anyone who’s looking. She politely excuses herself, and you take the chance to pull her drink into your palms to hold while she goes to dance with Allie.
“Where are you visiting from?”
“Oh, uh, we go to Briar University, so just taking a small weekend trip.” You give him a smile, but small talk has never been your forte, so it probably comes off awkward.
The new guy lights up with the revelation. “Oh, me too. I’m visiting some family this weekend.”
You turn toward him a little further to avoid Allie’s obvious thumbs-up from the other side of the bar. “Do they live here? Everything’s gorgeous, I’m already jealous if so.”
He laughs, “Yeah, yeah, they do. Jackson, by the way.”
The guy, Jackson, offers his hand, so you take it. You expect to shake it, but he pulls it up to place a kiss on your skin instead, and you shiver as you tell him your name in return.
“Beautiful name for a beautiful face. What do you study at Briar then? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
--
"Alright," Hannah begins once the three of you are in pajamas and settled on the couch at the Airbnb. "Spill. What did that guy say!"
"That guy," You repeat teasingly, "Is Jackson. And he also goes to Briar, plays football, and he was visiting family for the weekend."
Allie squeals in excitement, bouncing on her cushion. "He was cute!"
You laugh, hiding in your hands. "Guys, come on. This is so embarrassing!"
Allie pulls at your hands to see your face. "No, this is exciting! You have to hang out with him when we get back."
"Allie!"
"Did you give him your number at least?" Hannah asks as she flips through movie options on the TV.
You open your mouth to answer her, but are cut off when your phone buzzes on the table and provides the answer for you.
a/n: not too much on my boy garrett ok he's realising he's got big feelings and he doesn't know what to do with them!! enter jealous!garrett tho
tags: MINORS DNI, exes to lovers, POV third person, no use of y/n for reader-insert, backsliding, smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex (fem receiving), squirting, semi-public sex, angst, jealousy
word count: 7.6k
summary: She and Garrett have been broken up for six months, and try as she might, she can’t seem to orgasm with other guys. So is it still backsliding if she’s really desperate?
notes: cross-posted on ao3; this was getting way too long so i decided to cut it and post the first part now lol. also i feel like i should make a separate garrett masterlist already?? cause i’ve been writing him like crazy lately; title from Audrey Hobert’s “Sue Me” ; banner from @uzmacchiato
The problem with having Garrett Graham as her ex-boyfriend is that she can’t escape him. Not in Briar, at least. Everyone in all her classes talks about him like he’s some kind of collegiate hockey god, especially when he finally got drafted by the Boston Bruins the summer before their junior year. No one else knows how they’ve been bugging him since he was a freshman–the same age his dad went pro. No one else knows how torn up he is between finishing his degree or giving in to the pressure. Or they might. But she would bet anything that no one knew the gritty details in the way she does.
Because she was there massaging his shoulders after every practice; icing his bruises from being slammed against the boards too hard; holding him as he talked through the pros and cons of his decisions; crying with him while he worked through his trauma from his dad.
That’s the most difficult part, she thinks. Knowing every little thing about somebody one second and having to act like they’re a stranger the next. She constantly reminds herself that she’s the one who broke up with him; she had taken the shears to cut their entangled strings clean. That was it. Two years of love and adoration undone by a measly “I can’t do this anymore.”
Now, six months in its wake, she can finally say that she’s okay. Mostly. Sure, some nights, she feels his absence like a limb and it gets so fucking lonely she has to physically stop herself from calling him, but her new routine without Garrett Graham by her side has been partly tolerable. The first few months were the worst. It’s like she sees him in every corner of the campus; some days, even when she stays locked inside her dorm, she hears a laugh in the hallways that sounds too much like him that she has to put on headphones at full blast to distract herself.
And it’s not like she can avoid him forever. Their friend groups overlap. She shares a class with half of his teammates. But the first time she had convinced herself it was fine to go to a party Garrett and his friends are also attending, she’s inside the random frat house for exactly three minutes when she sees him take another girl up the stairs. It’s the first proof that he really isn’t hers anymore. The pain hit her gradually at first, like everything is in slow motion. And then she drops her red cup to the floor and books it out of there, crying all the way back to her place and feeling like she’s taken a knife to the chest. That’s when she promised herself to do what she can to make sure their paths don’t cross again. Garrett’s moving on; she’s allowed to do that too.
So she tries going out. She says yes to every date offer, smiles at guys in bars, even lets some of them take her home. But the other problem with having Garrett Graham as her ex-boyfriend is that he’s ruined her for other men. And, for a reason only god and Garrett can probably answer, she can’t fucking orgasm with other guys.
The first time she hooked up with someone else, a little over two months after they broke up and just three days after seeing him with that other girl at the party, she had brushed it off as a fluke. One night stands were always hit or miss, anyways. So what if she had the worst sex of her life? What did she expect, letting Frank from Econ take her home? And so, a month later, at a frat party her friends dragged her into, she let another random guy go down on her in the upstairs bathroom and–nothing. She doesn’t finish again. She’s frustrated enough that she buys a whole drawer of toys. If other guys can’t do it for her, then she can do it for herself. She’s a strong, independent, modern woman.
But nothing.
Again.
It happens enough times that she has to call it for what it is: her new reality. A reality in which Garrett Graham is no longer hers, and in which orgasms have completely evaded her.
And now it’s six months later, and her friends are bugging her about going to another party. Only–
“You know why I don’t wanna go,” she says, pointedly flipping through another page in her history textbook. Her exam isn’t for another week, but who says she can’t do some advanced studying?
Anna drags the book from her. “Babe. It’s been six months. Why are you still letting him win?”
That makes her glare up at her. “Who said it’s a competition?”
“Everyone,” Dylan says with a laugh. “Break-ups always are. Besides, you’re the one who broke Garrett Graham’s heart. Why do you have to go into hiding?”
“Stop saying his full name like he’s some celebrity. And I’m not going into hiding,” she shakes her head, drumming her hands on the table lightly. “I just don’t feel like seeing my ex-boyfriend on the prowl. Is that so bad?”
They share a look before turning towards her. “Yes!”
She thinks she needs better friends.
“That means he won! You’re the one affected!” Anna says.
Dylan nods in agreement. “Why not turn it around on him? Pull a guy right under his nose at a house party he’s hosting. You’re hot; you can definitely do it.”
She almost spills the truth right there; how she’s given up on casual hook ups because they always end the same way–the other guy panting like a dog and her wishing she was literally anywhere else. Sex isn’t fun anymore. Now she’s just horny and alone with nothing to do about it. But even just thinking about her little (try: huge) sex problem is embarrassing enough; literally no one can know, and it’s with that in mind that she carelessly agrees to go to the hockey house party.
Just because she’s not looking to hook up doesn’t mean she can’t look like she is. And maybe some part of her hopes Garrett sees her from afar, the tight black cut out top that accentuates her breasts, the eye make-up that never fails to make her look sultry, the low-waisted jeans exposing her belly button piercing. Maybe it is a competition. And, she realizes while applying a final coat of her lipstick, she’s tired of losing.
The second the hockey house comes into view, regret pounds in her blood. The porch is too familiar. There’s that wooden bench she once sat on at two in the morning, drunk out of her mind, watching Garrett fumble with the keys. It had taken him a long time to coax her into sitting, his hands warm on her shoulders. When she finally obeyed, he had kissed her forehead for no reason other than because she was right there and he wanted to.
One quick glance at the driveway and she immediately spots Garrett’s jeep parked in its usual spot. The same jeep she had ridden in almost every day once, to class or to the rink or to whatever new coffee shop or restaurant she wanted to try out. She had kept a stock of her chapstick and emergency kit in the glove compartment; a mid-size pouch with her feminine products and a change of clothes. She wonders when he got rid of them. If he ever did.
The lump in her throat intensifies.
Some days, she feels totally okay. Like she’s completely washed him off. During those days, she even lets herself hope a little–that she’d have that kind of love again. That there will be other boys who will make her heart sing just as loud and make her skin vibrate against her bones. Because it can’t be just Garrett. Because if it’s just him then that means she already lost him and she’ll never get that again.
And then there were the bad days; the ones where one glance at a spot they once stood at all pressed together is enough to derail her entire week. That one corner of the library. The parking spot near the social sciences building. The tunnel at the rink. She’d spend hours in bed, locked in her dorm, staring at the ceiling as if the water stains there held the answer on why it still hurts. Why she still feels his absence like a gaping hole in her chest.
She had done the breaking, yes. Nothing new with a little self-harm.
The first thing she registers the second Dylan swings the door open is the pounding music, some techno club hit that works really great for running and other sweaty activities. The living room is packed, several people crowding the air hockey table and squeezing together on the couch. It’s a relief, honestly. The hockey house is more familiar to her when it’s just her and Garrett and his roommates; quiet mornings before they all drag themselves in the backyard for their workouts, warm coffee with her legs tangled with Garrett’s while they wait for Tucker to finish cooking breakfast.
Crowded is good. Crowded won’t make her think about cuddles on the couch and the candid polaroid picture Jules took of her and Garrett in sophomore year that used to be pinned to the fridge.
“All good?” Anna asks.
She smiles, a little too wide to be genuine. “Yeah. Totally. I just need a drink, stat.”
The kitchen is slightly less crowded, but the people occupying the space certainly aren't making things better.
Logan’s the first one who spots her, probably because Tucker is busy leaning over the stove and Dean is preoccupied being Dean (which means he has his tongue stuck down a girl’s throat with no care for an audience). He says her name in shock, looking at her like he’s imagining things other people can’t see. Valid, probably, since the last time he saw her here, she was frantically packing her things while trying not to collapse on her knees, Garrett trailing after her with his hair messed up and his eyes swollen. “You’re here.”
That makes Tucker look up at her. His eyes widens immediately. “Hey!”
“You’re back for real?” It’s Dean this time, pulling away from the girl he’s making out with just long enough to narrow his eyes at her playfully.
“This is an open-invite party, right?” She shrugs, reaching over the sink to get a bottle of beer.
Her eyes flicker to the fridge. Post-it notes. Practice times. Random magnets. Definitely no polaroid pictures. Logan gestures for her drink, holding up a bottle opener. She hands it over absentmindedly.
“Yes,” Logan agrees, though she hears a catch in his voice. “It’s just. You know. You haven’t really been back since–”
“Since you broke our captain’s heart and cost us four consecutive games,” Dean butts in, lips pulled to a smirk.
She knows he means nothing by it, if only for the fact that he actually looks pretty delighted at her being there. For a time, she had tried avoiding Garrett’s friends as well, a combination of thinking they hated her for hurting him and just avoiding Garrett by proximity fueling her decisions. But in the two years that she was with Garrett, Logan and Tucker and even Dean had become her friends, too. Sure, they don’t exactly hang out anymore, but she still thinks of them as such.
“And after this welcome party, I probably won’t be back at all,” she says with a faux grin, taking back her beer from Logan and raising it up. “Cheers, guys.”
She squeezes back to the living room where her friends are already dancing on the makeshift dancefloor. If she’s proud of herself for not asking about Garrett, then that’s between her and the god currently playing with her life.
Dylan cheers once she reaches them, holding her hand up and jumping in place.
She laughs at how ridiculous her friend looks. “How are you halfway drunk already?”
“Talent,” she answers with a bright grin.
Anna tugs the both of them closer by their tops. “Hottie alert. 5 o’clock.”
They all turn in that direction, easily spotting a guy who looks so much like the textbook definition of frat boy it almost makes her laugh. “Cliche.”
“You hets are killing me,” Dylan mutters, taking a swig of her beer. “But since we are trying to find a hook up for you, I guess he isn’t that bad.”
Anna almost jumps in place. “His hair is so tall he’s giving 2012 One Direction a run for their money. And look at his little frat shirt.”
“You’re impossible,” she laughs, but lets her eyes trail over the guy’s figure anyway. He’s cute, she guesses, in that no-strings-fun kind of way. But she’s not really looking to get disappointed tonight.
Anna basically deflates at her lack of interest. “Oh, well. The night is young. Shots?”
“That, I can get behind,” she points, and with that her friends somehow manage to procure a bottle of tequila and tiny red plastic shot glasses.
The pour is messy, dripping over her hand in a way she knows will be annoying later when it dries sticky. But her friends are having fun. The music is loud enough to forget anything she wants to forget. With a reluctant smile, she raises the cup up and downs the shot swiftly.
Her face is still screwed up from the taste when the song abruptly changes.
Heavy 80s electric guitar fills the air. A few people groan at the vibe change. Most are too drunk to care. And she freezes on the spot, one hand still holding onto the empty plastic cup, the back of her head burning.
She doesn’t need to turn around to know who she’s going to see.
It’s not that Garrett Graham is predictable, or that he’s deliberately making an entrance. It’s just that she had spent a good part of two years knowing him like the back of her hand.
“Oh shit,” Dylan almost chokes on her beer, basically confirming her thoughts.
Her shoulders tense and then straighten. Her heart is pounding louder than the classical rock song on the speakers. With a clench of her jaw, she turns around, and there he is.
Garrett Graham.
The love of her life.
The man she left.
The annoying part is that he isn’t even looking at her. Probably has not noticed her yet. And how could he, with over four girls surrounding him, two of whom are holding onto either of his arms like he’s a messiah.
The annoying part is that she expected this. It’s his house, after all.
The annoying part is she’s strung like a bow, the past orgasm-free six months making her feel like her skin is melting off, and the only man she’s sure can solve her problem is looking way too good and forbidden in the low light of the party he’s technically hosting.
He moves his head slightly to the right, and the chain around his neck catches light. That fucking chain.
She takes another swig of her beer.
“You okay?” Anna asks, voice more careful and less on-the-verge-of-drunk this time.
“Fine,” she grits out. “Perfect.”
Garrett says something unintelligible and the girls around him burst in laughter, loud and screechy enough to reach her ears.
“I think we’re gonna need more shots,” Dylan says wryly, already tilting the tequila bottle in her hands.
It’s there, with her hand outstretched while her friend pours liquor into her empty shot glass, that Garrett looks in their direction. Their eyes meet immediately. She’s not even embarrassed about getting caught looking. He’s looking too. His eyes don’t widen. His body doesn’t tense up. From anyone else’s point of view, it’s like he doesn’t react at all.
But like she said. She once knew him like the back of her hand. And people don’t change that drastically in just six months. So she sees the falter; the movement of his Adam's apple; the twitch in his fingers against the beer bottle. She files these observations in the corner of her mind labeled in red capital letters: DO NOT THINK ABOUT HIM, even though she absolutely still does. Because no amount of time or distance will ever erase him from her flesh.
Dylan, because she was there when they broke up and had rubbed her back while she sobbed and had been around her and Garrett more than Anna ever had, clocks the barely-interaction with a grimace. “Yep. Definitely need more shots.”
She’s not drunk. Not yet. But she’s slowly getting there. There’s something about the loud music, the constant jump-dancing, and the sweat that makes it easier to let go. Most of it probably has to do with the fact that she feels the weight of Garrett’s gaze in the back of her head like a locked target.
“He’s still looking,” Anna says lightly, peering over her shoulders.
She brushes the comment off. “I need a drink.”
Her friends look at the still half-filled cup in her hand.
“I meant water,” she corrects with a roll of her eyes. “Be right back.”
She accidentally meets his eyes again on her way to the kitchen. Yep. Definitely still looking, though he’s still managing to converse with the puck bunnies all over him. Good to know he can still multitask.
The kitchen looks relatively the same as earlier, if a little messier. Dean’s disappeared; he’s probably upstairs with his puck bunny of the night already. Logan is nowhere to be found too. Only Tucker is there still, leaning against the counter and doing something on his phone.
She makes a beeline for the fridge. Like she expected, the mini bottles of water they always stock up on during parties are right there in the designated compartment. The familiarity is enough to make her pause.
“Cutting off already?” The voice makes her jump, one hand flying to her chest in an attempt to settle her heartbeat. She doesn’t want to turn around to see him. She doesn’t want to talk to him or hear his voice or even breathe the same air as him. That was the plan; that had been the plan since she saw him with that girl at that party and decided that if she ever wants to move on, then she needs to cut him from her spleen completely.
But that was before she let herself be dragged to his house. His party. She knew this was coming. Maybe a part of her wanted it, even, if only to prove something. She’s just not sure if it’s proving that she’s moved on or that she’s still stuck where she was six months ago, broken from the loss of him.
When she turns, she does so slowly, making sure her feet are planted on the ground. She closes the fridge behind her with her foot and uses it to steady herself, leaning her back against the cold metal, unmindful of the magnets digging into her skin.
This is the closest they’ve been since the break up, so she doesn’t punish herself much for taking her time perusing his appearance.
Black sweater tight around his biceps. Dark jeans. That fucking chain. Hair messy and curled and falling to his forehead. Neck slightly glistening with sweat. He looks good enough to eat. Not that she can do anything about that observation.
“And you?” She says when she finally finds her voice. Her eyes flicker to the crowd of girls he left behind in the living room. “Bored already?”
“No,” Garrett says, voice rough. Under his gaze, her clothes feel too much. The cut-out top feels too revealing, her exposed belly button too cold. She doesn’t want him thinking she dressed up for him, even if she technically did. “Not even close.”
They’re silent for a few seconds, just staring each other down. And she hates this. Hates that it feels this tense. That it’s this awkward. Silences between them used to be comfortable and peaceful. There was a time when they didn’t need words at all. He would raise an eyebrow at her and she’d smile at him. He’d give her a look and she’d kiss it off his face. Squeeze her hand and hold entire conversations in that touch. Now, it feels like a performance; like they’re two souls who used to know everything about each other meeting in another life with different bodies that are strangers.
If she knew it would be this devastating to see him again, she never would have come at all. Because underneath the bitterness and the pretense that she’s moved on, the love is still there, beating stubbornly in her veins. The care and the regret and the hurt. She wants to ask him how he’s been. She wants to know every single thing that happened to him in the last six months down to the minute detail. She wants to say sorry for breaking both of their hearts. She wants him.
His mouth twitches, like he’s about to say something. And then a girl stumbles into the kitchen, his name on her glossy lips and her hands reaching for his arms, and she realizes with a start that she can’t want him. Not anymore.
She looks at the girl’s manicured nails pulling at his sweater and feels a pang in her chest so violent she has to swallow back a gasp. Her eyes raise to his, and he’s already looking at her, eyebrows furrowed and his face pained.
“Yeah,” she whispers with a small smile. “Yeah, I can see that.”
She pushes off against the fridge and walks off, back to the living room where it’s safe because Garrett’s not there with his soft eyes and his unreadable face.
“You okay?” Dylan asks when she reappears. “You get your water fine?”
Something in her face must betray her, because Dylan and Anna share a concerned look before pulling her close. “Oh, babe.”
Anna pulls back enough to study her. “You wanna go? We can go.”
“No,” she shakes her head, letting out a shaky breath. Her eyes flicker towards the kitchen, where Garrett is talking closely with the same girl–Kendall, if she remembered correctly. She’s heard about her. They’ve been spotted together enough times that people think they might be seriously dating. Which is fine. It’s none of her business. “It’s a party. I want to have fun.”
Something catches her eye. Spiked up hair, frat shirt, tall and built and perfectly distracting. She lets herself smile slowly, giving her friends a knowing look.
After all, if Garrett can have his fun, then why can’t she?
Cliche frat boy almost makes it too easy.
He’s the one who approaches her, first of all, though she and her friends strategically chose to dance within his line of sight. He’s polite, a little shallow, and he keeps glancing down her boobs every minute like he’s afraid they’re going to be taken away. He’s pretty enough, she decides. She’s not looking for anything other than a distraction, anyway, and she’s not expecting him to blow her mind. Not with her track record the last six months.
Still, when he leans down to speak against her ear, her eyes cut to Garrett’s figure a couple of feet away, no girls around him this time, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his back leaning against the wall. He’s already looking at her. “You wanna dance?”
“Sure,” she grins, downing another shot before letting him lead her to the middle. She meets Garrett’s eyes again as they’re making their way to the dancefloor, and against her better judgment, she raises an eyebrow at him challengingly. His jaw tenses, the grip on his beer bottle tightening. Satisfaction pangs in her stomach, low and hot.
The bass is heavy and thudding, the perfect background noise to grinding under the guise of dancing. She immediately turns to press her back against cliche frat boy’s front, his hands falling to her hips and helping her sway in time with him.
She throws her head back, resting it on his shoulder and exposing the long line of her neck. He ducks almost immediately, lips brushing against her skin. “You’re so hot.”
“Thanks,” she laughs. The words do nothing to her as expected. But Garrett’s gaze feels heavy, and it’s enough to keep her going.
Cliche frat boy’s hands go higher, going from her hips to her stomach. She knows he wants her. Can feel it tenting against his jeans and pressing onto her back. Knows his hands are itching to cup her breasts. She’s debating whether the distraction is worth the disappointment when she feels a hand grip her wrist, gentle but firm and all-too-familiar.
“Come on,” Garrett says, voice a low grumble and eyes dark and muscles tense like he’s readying himself for a fight.
He drags her away from cliche frat boy, the hand on her wrist burning each second the contact lasts. From behind them, she hears cliche frat boy let out a noise of protest, but like always when Garrett is close enough to touch, everything else falls away, muffled and silent, her whole focus shifting on him and only him.
“What the hell, Garrett?” She manages to say, trying half-heartedly to tug her hand free.
“Let’s go,” he says again, still in that rough, final tone she shouldn’t find so sexy but somehow does.
He leads her to the coat closet, tugging gently until she’s safely inside and closing the door behind her with a flourish.
“What is your problem?” She hisses, finally snatching her arm away. Her other hand wraps around the wrist he held, not because it hurt, but because it singes with the memory of his touch.
Garrett turns away from her, hands on his hips, shoulders heaving up and down in time with his heavy breaths. The closet is cramped. She can’t remember the last time she’s been inside; probably the winter of her freshman year when she was still pretending she was a guest at the hockey house and not someone whose clothes belong in the spare drawer and hanging space her boyfriend provided for her. But the distance between them is small enough that her senses are assaulted with his scent. She’s suddenly all too aware of him; of how much space he’s taking up, of how she feels each breath he takes like a gunshot.
“Garrett,” she calls, finally making him turn back around. But he still doesn’t say anything, eyes dark and face pinched like he pulled a muscle.
Finally, after a few silent seconds, she sighs in defeat, announcing, “I’m leaving.”
He moves so quickly she barely registers it, and before she knows it, one of his hands is on the door beside her head, trapping her in place.
“Garrett,” her voice is low now, barely a whisper. She feels his hot breath fan against her face and almost closes her eyes.
She watches him swallow like it pains him to do so. His eyes are dark, a bit wild around the edges, like something inside him has been flayed open.
“You can be with whoever the fuck you want to be with,” he tells her quietly, voice rough and serious, making her pause in place. “But don’t do it in front of me. Don’t be cruel.”
A shaky breath leaves her mouth before she can control it. She reads the pain and anger and jealousy on Garrett’s face like a book. It’s the first glance of the real Garrett she’s had in months, the Garrett that was hers completely and encompassingly, and the sight goes straight to her core.
She feels weak and tired and not at all in control, and it’s with resigned acceptance that she throws her arms around his shoulders, gets on her toes, and kisses him.
She can tell that the kiss catches him by surprise, because she feels him inhale sharply through his nose. For a moment he just stands there, one hand still pressed to the door and another falling limply at his side, lips barely moving against hers. And then his brain finally catches up to him, and suddenly he’s backing her into the door even further, hips pressing into hers, his tongue darting out to trace her lips.
“Fuck,” he pulls away enough to mutter, both of his hands coming up to cup her jaw. When he presses their lips together again, it’s wet and messy and makes a whimper sound from her throat.
She hitches one leg up, anchoring it on his hip. He thrusts forward, and the feeling of his hardening cock on her center even through the fabric of their pants is enough to make her head fall back against the door, her mouth opening with cry.
“Are you drunk?” Garrett asks against her lips, like he can’t possibly pull away or else she’ll disappear right in front of him. “How much have you had to drink?”
She uses one hand to pull at his sweater’s neckline, kissing him chastely. “I’m not drunk.”
“How much have you had to drink?” He asks again, voice more serious, the hand he’s using to support her leg clenching against her skin. She feels the grip burn through the denim of her jeans.
She raises one hand to grip the back of his neck. “Enough to still know what I’m doing.”
She goes to kiss him again, but he pulls his head away, making her sigh in frustration. “What are you doing?”
Her hips shift against his, impatient and needy. She pulls him closer, until her lips are brushing against his again, not quite a kiss, but close enough. “Please,” she whispers. His other arm snakes around her waist. “Please, Garrett. I need you.”
“Yeah?” He asks, voice a little broken.
She kisses him, quick but deep, tugging out his lower lip with her teeth as she pulls away. “So bad. I haven’t–I couldn’t–”
“What, baby?”
The nickname makes her thighs clench together, an action that he doesn’t miss judging from the way his eyes go even darker.
“Don’t make it a thing,” she almost whines, her hand squeezing the back of his neck. “I haven’t been able to–not since you.”
The words are vague and confusing and embarrassing, but Garrett gets what she’s trying to say immediately. His eyes widen visibly. His chest puffs out. His face does something annoying–all smug and possessive and so Garrett she could almost cry.
“No?”
She shakes her head. “I tried, but I couldn’t–”
His eyes flash at that. “Oh, did you?”
She tightens her hold on him, throwing her pride to the window long enough to whimper out, “Please, baby–”
His mouth cuts off the words from her lips, one hand coming up to squeeze her breast. She moans out loud instantly, hips continuing to gyrate against the obvious tent in his pants. One of his hands began to fumble with the button of her jeans, another traveling up her back under her top and unclasping her bra expertly.
“You’ve probably been so frustrated, huh?” He says lowly, pressing a kiss to her cheek almost delicately, a huge contrast to the way his hands are now tugging her jeans and panties urgently down her legs. “All those boys not knowing how to handle you.”
She hums, kicking her jeans off one leg and not bothering to take it off completely.
He kisses her again on the mouth, all heat and confidence. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
And then he drops to his knees.
Garrett’s always been a generous lover. She had never felt like he was prioritizing his needs above her own. She was a virgin when they first got together, but their first time was a fairytale when compared to all the other first time horror stories she’s heard over the years. He never skimps on foreplay. He always makes sure she feels good, often double checking if she’s okay with what they’re doing even in the middle of doing it.
And Garrett, because he’s been made specifically to torture her and ruin her for other men, is ridiculously gifted in the art of cunnilingus.
He eats pussy the same way he plays hockey. Controlled. Focused. One goal in mind.
The first swipe of his tongue has her bracing herself with one arm to the wall and one hand pressed to her mouth to muffle the squeak that involuntarily leaves it. He looks up at her from in between her thighs, his lips pulled into a smirk so annoying it makes her roll her eyes, which only serves to make his eyes light up even more.
He guides one of her legs so it can rest over his shoulders, pressing soft kisses and nibbling at the skin of her thighs before going back to her center. She’s dripping, almost embarrassingly so. He gives another experimental lick, this time the tip of his tongue snagging on her swollen clit, and she jolts in place hard enough to knock her back against the door. Anyone walking by outside would know exactly what’s going on, and she can’t bring herself to care.
“You good?” He asks, eyes catching hers in the dim light of the coat closet.
The question does something to her chest. Melts it into something stupid. Makes her kind of want to cry for different, more pathetic reasons. She nods once, because she can’t trust her voice not to betray her. He looks like he sees through her, anyway, because something in his eye changes, the once dark and lustful look transforming into something warmer. More reverent.
When he leans down again, she thinks the world stops just a little. Nothing else matters more than his tongue licking up her cunt, the two fingers he suddenly thrusts inside that she greedily sucks up. He finds that sweet, spongy spot inside her instantly, because of course he does, because he’s Garrett and he knows her just as much as she knows him, even after six months of no contact.
For a moment, the closet is filled with the filthy, wet sounds of him eating her out and his fingers scissoring her open, her breath punching out of her throat with each stroke in quiet “oh’s” that only makes him more enthusiastic. And then his lips close around her clit and he sucks, and the world turns white.
The orgasm catches her off guard. After six long months without it, her body reacts before her brain can, and her mouth lets out the loudest screech she’s ever made, loud enough that Garrett’s eyes widen from below her, though he doesn’t stop with his ministrations. He laps at her like he’s been starving for it, fucks her with his fingers like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do it. It takes a couple more seconds, and then she’s twitching again, her cunt pulsing around his fingers for a second orgasm that’s even stronger than the first.
She can’t help it. Her mouth drops open with another cry and she squirts all over his face.
“Fuck,” she gasps, legs twitching, trying to move away. “I’m sorry. I–”
His hand grips her leg tightly, voice rough and broken with want. “Don’t. Fucking–don’t.”
He presses frantic kisses all over her thighs, her hips, her legs, her belly button piercing, spreading her wetness all over. He stands up with shaky legs and tugs her forward until his mouth is on hers and she’s tasting herself on his tongue.
“Fuck, baby,” he hisses, already turning her over and bending her, guiding both of her hands to brace at the door. “That was the hottest fucking thing–I can’t–I need to be inside you. Please.”
She hears his pants and belt hit the floor. She’s still trembling from her long-awaited orgasms, but at least she has enough sense to ask, “Condom?”
A pause.
He lets out a loud groan. “I don’t have any.”
“Are you serious?” She turns her head back to look at him incredulously.
He looks physically pained, his eyebrows knotted together and his jaw clenched. “I have some in my room.”
She looks down pointedly at their states of undress.
“Fuck, I know,” he hisses, throwing his head back in frustration. But they’re too close together, so the movement only serves to press her bare ass against his hard cock, making him choke on air. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What do you–I need you to decide because I can’t–”
His hips give an involuntary thrust that has her gasping out loud.
“I’m clean,” she says, and the words shouldn’t feel that heavy given the situation, shouldn’t sound as vulnerable as it does. But Garrett raises his head to look at her like she’s rewired his brain. Like what she said meant something different. “I’ve never gone without. Not since–well, you know.”
Her heart pounds in her chest heavily. Garrett looks wrecked; like the admission undoes him even more than the sex. When his hands find their way to grip her hips again, they’re trembling almost violently.
“Me too.” He shifts until he’s close enough to press a kiss on her shoulder. “Fuck. Me too.”
She bends over again, more purposefully this time. “Please, Garrett.”
He exhales through his nose. “Where do you want me?”
She wiggles her ass against him. “Inside, please. Need to feel you inside. ‘M so empty.”
Garrett makes a sound at that. Rumbling and raw from the back of his throat. He squeezes her hips again, once, then twice, and then one of his hands disappears to guide himself to her entrance.
“Like this?” He whispers, rubbing the head of his cock over her clit and making her bite her lips in an attempt at being quiet. “Are you sure?”
She nods, breathless. “Please.”
The first press inside has her eyes rolling back. Garrett groans, hands gripping her hips tight enough that the skin around his fingers go white. He goes slowly, making her clench around every inch like he’s branding his cock inside her permanently. He might as well have been. It feels like forever before he finally bottoms out, nudging against her cervix and making her choke out his name.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, the entirety of his torso pressed against her back. “You feel so good. Shit.”
She shuts her eyes tight if only to stop herself from tearing up. “Please move.”
He presses another kiss, this time to her jaw. And then he pulls out almost all the way before snapping his hips back.
“Ah,” she cries out, fingers flexing against the door. Her breasts bounce from the impact, and Garrett reaches up to cup one in his hand. They’re both still wearing their shirts, although her bra is unclasped and hanging loosely from her shoulders.
It’s never felt this good with anyone else, and some part of her itches to tell him exactly that. That she’s never felt so owned; that he’s the only one who can take her to this place.
He pinches her nipple, lips hovering close to her ear. “Fuck yes. Feel me?”
“Uh-huh,” she chokes out, her knees shaking and her cunt clenching even tighter around him.
“You’re perfect,” Garrett grits out, pressing another kiss to her jaw, his thrusts never missing the fast rhythm he set. “I’ve never—fuck. I missed you so bad.”
Her lip trembles at that. “I missed you, too.” Her voice is raw and wet and ugly and he hears it exactly for what it is. His hands turn gentle, until he’s pulling out just enough to get her to turn around.
He walks them backwards, one of his hands reaching for a random coat and throwing it on the floor. He doesn’t let go of her even as he guides them both down to the floor, the makeshift blanket out of the winter coat scratching their bare legs.
“Come here,” he rasps out, pulling her until she’s straddling his lap. “Ride me. Please, baby.”
This time it’s her that reaches down to guide his cock inside her. She sinks down on him fast and efficiently, their open mouths pressed together, breathing against each other. The stretch burns something delicious, the angle getting him so much deeper.
“You feel even bigger like this,” she gasps out, her arms hugging his shoulders for support. “You’re so deep.”
The familiar Garrett Graham smirk paints over his face. “Yeah?”
“Garrett,” she cries, hips faltering.
He holds her steady. “Shh. I got you.”
He begins lifting her up and down his cock, his hips thrusting up to meet her every time. She can’t even pretend to be quiet anymore. And Garrett can’t pretend he doesn’t love it; how out of control she is. How raw and genuine.
He shifts a little bit, and the change in angle gets another screech from her throat. “Fuck. Yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”
Garret kisses her, messy and wet, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth. She moans against his mouth, beginning to feel that familiar tightening in her stomach again. Garrett must sense that she’s close again too, because he pulls away from her lips to say, “Come on. You gonna squirt again? You know you want to.”
“I don’t—“ she grips his hair with both hands, head tossing back. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Of course you can, baby,” he tells her, voice almost condescending. “Here you go. Let me help you. Wanna feel you squirt around my cock.”
He reaches down and rubs his thumb against her clit. The reaction is instant: a scream gets caught in her throat, her open mouth pressing against Garrett’s forehead, her pussy pulsing and clinging onto his cock almost violently. She makes a real mess of it; her thighs and Garrett’s wet with her release.
It lasts longer than is probably healthy. And Garrett fucks her through it steadily, her entire body twitching with aftershocks. His jaw is cinched tight, lips pursed in concentration. She clenches her pussy around him, and a broken groan erupts from his chest.
“I’m– close,” he grits out, pace unrelenting and making her feel lightheaded from overstimulation. “Where can I…?”
She drags him by the neck for another messy kiss. “Inside. Please. Wanna feel you fill me up.”
“Jesus,” Garrett chokes out, the words doing their intended effect. His thrusts falter once, twice, and then he’s painting her insides with his cum, so deep she’s convinced her stomach bulges with it. “Yeah. Take it, baby. Take it all.”
Her eyes closed shut at the feeling, the warmth of it, the closeness she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel again. For a moment, none of them move, even as she feels him softening inside her. Her arms are still around his shoulders, hugging him to her, and his have moved to close around her waist.
“You good?” Garrett asks after a few seconds, one hand coming up to rub her back gently.
She nods, still lightheaded and breathless. “Yes. Just. I need a second.”
His chest rises up and down harshly as well, evidence of how winded he is, but Garrett only tightens his arms around her and pulls her even closer. “Okay.”
The music from the party continues to thrum outside the closet. She doesn’t know how they can get out with their dignities intact. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever find the strength to pull away from him. It was hard enough the first time.
Garrett moves his head, and then he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Listen—“
A loud knock comes from the closet door, making the two of them jump. “Yo, are you guys done? I need my fucking coat.”
She doesn’t recognize the voice, but the interruption is enough to startle some sense into her.
“Oh my god,” she says, fighting back a whimper when she shifts her hips to pull herself off of Garrett.
He looks at her, face blanched and eyes trying to catch hers. “Hey, wait—“
But she’s already hopping around to put her pants back on. It’s uncomfortable; her thighs are still messy with their combined release. But her fingers are trembling and her chest feels like it’s caving in and she needs to get out of this damned closet and this damned house.
Garrett stands slowly, tugging his pants in place. He runs a hand through his messed up hair, silently watching her panic. Her lips are as swollen as his is, both their necks painted with bites and their skin littered with bruises invisible to the eye but ones they both know will last even longer.
Another loud knock.
“Hold the fuck on,” Garrett snaps, letting one hand pound back on the door once to highlight his words.
She finally stops fumbling, her jeans and her top firmly put in place, her hair finger-brushed, looking as put together as she can manage. She still can’t meet his eyes when she croaks out, “I’m sorry.”
Garrett exhales loudly, tilting his head to the ceiling and closing his eyes in defeat. “You’re running again.”
The fact that he doesn’t pose it as a question stings even more. Like he should have known better. Like she had already hurt him once, so this one’s on him.
She wraps her arms around herself. Her eyes burn, tears clouding her vision. “This shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t—Garrett.” The helpless way she says his name makes his face twitch. “This was a mistake. We’re supposed to be moving on.”
“Stop,” he rasps out, face all screwed up and refusing to look away from her. “If you’re leaving, just go. You don’t need to say anything else.”
“I’m sorry,” she ducks her head, crying softly now. She still feels his touch and his kisses like they’re ironbranded on her skin. Garrett still doesn’t look away; that’s the part that gets to her.
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summary. You learned to bottle your feelings for John Logan, ever since junior year of high school. Because you knew you would always be just friends, and out of fear of not ruining your friendship, you kept these feelings on ink and paper, locked in a box, first in your room, and now in your dorm, hidden away until you would put another letter in.
It was supposed to be a secret that you would take to the grave. Until a mistake has your box of unsent letters, spanning from your high school days to present college years, tumbling right in front of him, and now his curiosity is piqued.
pairing. John Logan x Reader
tags. Hurt/comfort, angst (it’s not really angst) with a happy ending, yearning, yearning, yearning but its reader yearning SO bad
ice time. 10k (woops)
notes. @ladynaviamin hi babes.
The first letter was on the day you realized you liked him.
It was a messy jumble of words, ink stains obvious on the fading paper, the emotions spilling out before you could even register what you were writing. All you knew was that you needed the whole thing out of your system and onto the only thing you knew what to do and that was to write.
Before you could stop, or be smart about it, everything was poured on the paper. Lengthy, descriptive, and full of the things you wanted to say, and things you know you can’t say, because even at that age, you knew that liking John Logan was a beautiful terrible idea.
Because he was your best friend. And you aren’t supposed to like your best friend. At least, in your head. Who are you to ruin the friendship, you know?
You remember folding it in half. Then again, then for a third time, like you were trying to make it as small as possible. Like diminishing it physically would diminish what the words on the paper meant.
You'd been looking for somewhere to put it. The trash felt too final, too much like admitting it had existed, and you were halfway on just stuffing it under your pillow when you'd found the box. Your grandmother's, handed down at the end of summer with a kiss on your forehead and the words for letters you mean to send someday. Wooden, old-smelling, with a brass latch that stuck a little if you didn't press it just right.
You'd tucked the letter in and shut the latch.
That was the beginning of it.
-
It had been a random tuesday, back in junior year of high school.
John – he had always been John to you before he became Logan – had after school hockey practice. You'd been draped over the boards for the past ten minutes, watching from the bleachers the way you always did when you had nowhere better to be, which was most days— something you'd never quite admitted to yourself until recently. Because the walk home was shorter from this direction. You had a whole catalogue of reasons, and not one of them was true.
John had been the last one off the ice.
That in itself was not unusual. John Logan was always the last one off the ice. The coach was nice enough to lend him that extra time, considering that he had always been the kid that loved hockey more than anything else.
And you would always wait in the bleachers. Sometimes on your phone, most times watching him as he skated. You count the amount of times he circled it, especially when you felt bored but didn’t have the strength to look away. Because something about him was magnetic to you. You wondered what it was, every time you stay that extra ten minutes in the rink.
Then after his usual rounds (at most, seven rounds), he looked up, and caught your gaze.
John grinned. The stupid, lopsided grin that suddenly made your heart skip. Then he skated all the way over to the boards, where you were, and leaned on them as he grinned. His helmet was tucked under his arm, hair damp at the temples, “You just got here?”
“Yep. Passed by after practice.” You tried to keep your tone as casual as possible, like the sight of him didn't make your heart skip.
“You really didn’t have to come by, you know. It’s late.”
“I wanted to.” You smiled. You didn’t say anything else as follow up. Because adding something else after that would mean that you were admitting something that you weren’t ready to admit. And you would have to explain everything else that you didn’t name yet.
He looked at you for a second, searching for something in your face, and then he looked down and smiled again. It was softer this time, private, the one that felt like it wasn't for anyone else, the one he wore when something surprised him in a way he found pleasant, and tilted his head.
"Sure. Thanks for that.”
You just shrugged.
John nods over at the locker rooms. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll get you hot chocolate at the cafe nearby.”
You huffed, lips curling in amusement. “There? Really? Last time we went there, you said you didn't like the hot chocolate they made.”
John just grinned at you. “Yeah. But you like it.”
He skated away after that. Like those words didn’t make you freeze, your eyes trailing after him, heart stuttering and your brain finally naming that warmth that spread on your cheeks.
And that was it. That was the whole thing. That was the moment that broke you open.
You'd gone home that day and picked up the closest paper and pen, and the words just started coming, because they didn't have anywhere else to go. You wrote about how his smile was the most disarming thing he could have. You wrote about the way he'd leaned on the boards and looked at you like looking at you was just a natural extension of breathing. You wrote about how his curls fell perfectly on his face.
You wrote about how the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store nearby had been terrible, watery and too sweet for him, and even when you told him he didn't have to drink it, he'd laughed and drank it anyway and said that it was fine with all the cheerfulness of someone who genuinely didn't mind, and how that had somehow made everything worse.
You wrote, hesitantly, but filled with everything in your chest— I like him.
You folded the paper into thirds, tucked it into your grandmother's box, and pressed the brass latch shut.
You didn't open the box for three weeks after that. Not because you were over it, but because you were hoping, very determinedly, that if you didn't look at it, the feeling would dissolve on its own.
It didn't.
-
The letters accumulated the way all things do when you are trying not to notice them: gradually, and then all at once.
By the end of junior year, there were ten. By senior year of high school, fifteen.
They were not all long. Some were barely a paragraph, dashed out on notebook paper in the middle of class when something happened that you had no one to tell except him, which was the problem, because he was the person that you would usually go to about these things… so you tell the paper instead.
Junior year, you wrote about how naturally John seemed to do things for you. Carrying your bag, buying things in the cafeteria when you didn't want to get up from the bench. But at the same time, it was always the question if he liked you, or if he was being nice
You remembered I hate raisins in things. You picked them out of the muffin before you gave it to me. You've been doing that since seventh grade and I only just noticed today that it's something you do on purpose.
Jealousy would often seep into your letters, as well. Because you knew he was well liked. That John had a future of having girls that would throw themselves at him, and he would always entertain it with his smile and pretty curls and—
— but you act like I’m special, and that they don't matter. But I don't have the right to even stop them from liking you, so all I could do is watch and wish that you would instead look at me.
You kept those folded five times.
--
Senior year, anger would sometimes seep into them.
I should tell you. I should tell you that I lie in bed until 3 am wondering if anything would happen between us. I should— but you are so unfair. You act like you care, and then I'm left hanging again.
I still have your jacket. That stupid, gray jacket that you gave me. The damn gray jacket that was your favorite and you don't let anyone wear but you handed it to me when I was cold. And at the same time, you turned and smiled at Kaia like she mattered and.
I hate that I like you and I hate that it feels like you do too— but then you turn around and act like you don't.
Some were the soft, bewildered variety, written in the margins of homework you’d never turn in, about something small he'd done that shouldn't have meant as much as it did.
You know how everyone else talks over me when I'm telling a story and moves on before I'm done? You always wait. You just… wait. You wait until I'm finished, and then you respond to what I actually said, not what you were going to say next. I don't know if you know you do that. I don't know how to tell you that it matters.
When you both got into Briar University, John on a hockey scholarship, you on a Merit Scholarship— you celebrated together in the parking lot of the ice rink, his arms around you, lifting you a full two inches off the ground, and you laughed and said “John, put me down!” even if you knew that deep down, you didn’t mean any of it, wanting him to keep his arms around you longer.
You'd gone home that night and written four pages.
I keep telling myself I'm not following you. And I'm not. I worked for this, I studied late into the night and doubled my efforts whenever I would fail because I wanted Briar before you got in.
But some part of me is terrified that the reason I want it so badly is mixed up with the reason you're going, and I can't separate them cleanly, and that scares me.
What if I didn't want Briar so much as I wanted to be wherever you were going to be? What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with that?
I don't have an answer. I'm going to go to sleep. I'm going to not think about it.
I'm going to go to Briar, even if I can't solidify why I am.
You went to Briar.
You don’t address it after the long four page letter, and somewhere between orientation week and prelims, the box had gone from a strange habit to a necessity, a pressure valve that kept everything from building to critical mass.
You'd gotten good at it. At the translation of feeling into ink, at the sealing away of things that had no business existing in the open air. The box lived under your bed, behind your extra blankets and a stack of Intro to Lit anthologies you kept meaning to donate. The latch, temperamental from the start, had gotten worse with age.
You'd meant to fix it.
You kept meaning to do a lot of things.
The letters still ranged from two lines to four pages, even when you entered Freshman Year in Briar. They still kept the same amount of yearning and thoughts you would never find the courage to say, or even send to Logan– and soon after, you started signing them too.
John – or maybe Logan?
You started being called Logan after you teamed up with Tucker and the rest. So maybe I should change it up to. Adapt and change, you know.
Though it would be weird to start calling you by your last name.
– With love, and judgement.
You tried to call him Logan. He looked at you then with such offense that you back tracked and went back to calling him John. He said it made him feel better. Special, because John was a name only you could use.
You wrote another letter that night, trying to reason out the butterflies and the implications of what he meant. Because rationalizing it away makes it easier than admitting it out loud.
They kept piling up. Letter after letter.
This sucks. You remembered my coffee order even after I changed it three times in two months. I can’t blame you for how well you treat me. It’s just how you are.
I should just stop putting meaning into things, but the other part of me just wants to believe that maybe it did mean something.
UGH. John Logan you fucking suck. I hope you trip on the ice during practice.
Actually, no. That was a joke.
Maybe.
– With love.
You called the longest ones your pathetic, yearning lovergirl letters. Late-night things, written when the distance between what you felt and what you were allowed to say felt too wide to sleep across. Those ones you sometimes read back in the morning with a kind of horrified tenderness, like finding a diary from a younger self.
They were overwrought.
They were honest in ways you couldn't quite access in daylight.
John,
I've been thinking about the thing you said last week, that you don't know what you'd do without me. You said it so easily. Like it was just true, just a fact of your life, the way you'd say it's cold out or practice got cancelled.
I don't know what to do with that. I've been turning it over and over in my head trying to figure out what it means and I think the honest answer is that it means exactly what it sounds like and nothing more and I need to learn to be okay with that.
I'm working on it.
– With love.
P.S. You should stop handing me your hoodies when I get cold and letting me keep them. It messes with me and my late night 3 am delusional thoughts.
John,
You have this thing you do when you're listening to someone — you get very still. Most people, when they listen, they nod, they mm-hm, they start formulating their response and you can see the moment they stop actually hearing you. You don't do that. You just go still and you look at the person and you listen, like it costs you nothing, like you have all the time in the world. I don't think you realize you do it. I don't think you realize what it does to people.
What it does to me.
I'm going to stop writing now. Before I start turning into the 3 am yearner I was last night. Again.
— With love.
By freshman year of college, there were thirty letters.
Sophomore year is when it all cracked.
Classes started to weigh on you in a way freshman year hadn't warned you about. Rehearsals that ran until midnight, choreography notes bleeding red ink across marked-up scores, tech week for the department showcase bleeding into finals week, the constant ache in your calves and the tape on your feet that never seemed to come off in time — a dance major was not a degree that let up, and you were running harder than you ever had, barely sleeping, more often than not with Logan being the one thing keeping you sane, showing up with food you hadn't asked for and quiet company at your desk — or in the studio doorway — at midnight, watching you run the same eight counts until your body finally understood what your brain already knew.
And then there was the puck bunny thing.
You didn't have the right to say anything about it, not really. You understood why. John Logan was hot. He was charming, easy to talk to, easy to fall for — and there was always a rotating cast of girls finding excuses to linger near him after games. You watched it happen the way you'd always watched it happen, except now you were closer to it, in his dorm, at his games, in the middle of the aftermath. And you had no claim to any of it. He wasn't yours. He'd never been yours. You just got to watch, the way you always had.
So you stopped writing. You shoved the box into the dark crevice under your bed and didn't take it out again. You prayed it would stay there. You told yourself you were moving on.
Meeting Davis was almost spontaneous — a late night out at Malone's, small talk with a guy from your gen-ed class that turned into something steadier. He was easy. Uncomplicated. He didn't make your chest hurt the way John did, and for a while, that felt like a relief instead of a warning sign. The letters stayed buried. Things between you and Logan went back to what looked, on the surface, like normal. Friends. Best friends.
Because that was all it was going to be.
-
"So how are things with Davis?" Logan asked, leaning against the kitchen counter while you hunched over a marked-up piece of choreography notation, notes scattered across the counter in purple and yellow highlighter, counts and spacing diagrams bleeding into the margins. Gen ed notes scatter on top of them, but you seemed more preoccupied with the scrawls of markings for your major.
"Things are fine." You tried to keep the annoyance out of your voice, but Logan had always been perceptive, and it showed in the way his brows drew together.
"Yeah? Then why do you sound like that?"
Your pen dug a little deeper into the page. "Sound like what?"
"Like things aren't fine."
Your head snapped up, an evident frown pulling at your mouth. "It's none of your business, John."
Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, and you winced, immediately regretting it. "Sorry. That was — sorry."
He didn't push on the apology. Just crossed his arms and softened his voice instead. "What's wrong?"
You hesitated, pen hovering over your notes, and then you let out a long groan and dropped your forehead against your textbook. "I don't want to start venting."
"Vent anyway."
"He keeps asking when I'm free. Wants to hang out constantly, and I get it, I do, but callbacks are in two weeks and I have a showcase piece I'm not off-book for yet, and I told him that, and he just —" You sat up, dragging a hand down your face. "He said it's kind of pathetic that I care this much about a theater degree. That I don’t have a future in this and that I’m only wasting my time."
Logan's jaw went tight. He would also do that when something pissed him off, and you knew him enough to know that he was also pissed off at what you said. "He said that?"
"Basically."
"That's not — " He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, clearly working to keep his voice level. "You've wanted this since we were sixteen. You used to run your combinations for me in your driveway at eleven at night in the middle of winter because you couldn't get the phrase to feel right, and I stood there freezing my hands off holding your phone so you could film it."
That got a small, watery laugh out of you. "You always came outside, though. Even when it was that cold."
"Because it mattered to you." He said it so plainly, like it wasn't even a decision he'd had to make. "Anyone who makes you feel stupid for caring about the thing you've wanted since we were in high school doesn't get to also get your time. That's not — that's not how it should work."
You didn't have an answer for that. You just nodded at your notes, throat tight, and went back to studying, and Logan stayed leaning against the counter a while longer before he finally pushed off it and went to make you tea you hadn't asked for, the same way he always did.
-
Things ended with Davis not long after that — quietly, without a scene (an irony you did clock, even mid-breakup), the kind of ending that comes less from a single fight and more from a slow accumulation of moments where you'd chosen your scripts, your late rehearsals, your friendship with Logan, over him, and he'd finally said out loud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks. You didn't wallow in it. It hadn't felt like losing something so much as setting something down.
Allie, your dorm neighbor across the hall, caught you in the laundry room a few days later, sorting a basket of mismatched socks.
"Wait, so you and Davis are actually done?" Allie asked, propping her hip against the dryer.
"Yeah." You shrugged, feeding a quarter into the slot. "It didn't work out." She knew about what he said, and she made the same face as you the moment you told her. She was the friend you made in one of the early collaborations your major did with hers, and she was the one who knew well how taxing it would be on your body and to have someone just brush it off? She had also pushed for you re-evaluating your whole relationship before you even talked to John about it.
"Huh." Allie studied you for a second too long. "You don't seem that broken up about it."
"I'm fine," you said, and mostly meant it, which felt strange enough that you didn't examine it too closely.
Allie didn't push, but she gave you a look on her way out that said she'd clocked something you hadn't said out loud.
Your roommate and best friend in all things best friend, Jai, was less subtle about it. She came in that night to find you cross-legged on your bed, not doing anything in particular, just sort of staring at the wall.
"Okay, what's actually going on with you?" Jai said, dropping her bag and sitting across from you. "You broke up with Davis, which you knew most of us had been telling you to, but usually break ups have the whole grieving process. And right now, you look like you're thinking about a math problem, not a breakup."
"I don't know. I think I just — I didn't care as much as I should have. The whole time. I feel bad about that." You fiddle with your fingers. “That maybe I feel this apathetic because I didn’t care as much in the beginning.”
Jai considered you for a moment, tilting her head the way she did when she was about to say something you weren't going to like. "You know what I think?”
You looked up at Jai, who nodded over at the space under your bed. “You never wrote about him.”
You blinked. "What?"
"The letters." Jai said it like it was obvious, like she'd noticed the box's absence the same way she'd notice if you'd rearranged the furniture. "You've had that thing since I've known you — you disappear into it when something's actually gotten to you. You didn't write a single letter about Davis. Not one, in like four months."
You opened your mouth to argue and found you didn't have anything to argue with.
You hadn't written about Davis. Not once. Every single letter in that box, every one you'd ever written, had one name on it, and it wasn't his.
The realization hit you like cold water.
You hadn't moved on. Not even a little.
That night you pulled the box out from under the bed — dusty, a stray cobweb clinging to one corner — wiped it down, and wrote the first letter in months. You didn't let yourself think too hard about what it meant that your hand knew exactly how to start again, like it had never really stopped.
I dated someone in hopes of getting over you– only to realize that every time I sit across from him, I imagine its you. It’s not fair on him. Or myself.
But though he did deserve the break-up… he didn’t deserve someone who is still hung over a guy she liked since high school, It’s stupid. Terribly so, but I had four months of thinking that dealing with him was much easier than dealing with the constant ache in my chest every time I see you.
Maybe it’s more stupid of me to get back to writing to you and acknowledging the constant hurt i feel.
— With love, reluctantly, again, and always.
By Junior year, the letters slowed but never stopped completely. The program was, if anything, worse than sophomore year — a full-length ensemble piece now, not just technique classes, and you were buried in rehearsal schedules and rep notes, and the only thing that made any of it bearable was Logan, constant as ever, still showing up with food, still sitting on the studio floor with you at 1 a.m. while you both pretended you weren't exhausted, still somehow always exactly where you needed him to be.
Jai, who had appointed herself the unofficial keeper of your feelings since the Davis revelation, was relentless about it.
"You have to tell him," she said one night, apropos of nothing, while you were both supposed to be doing readings for your gen ed classes. "Junior year of high school, senior year, all of freshman and now half of junior year of college. That's — I did the math, that's four years, and you're going to keep writing it down instead of just saying it?"
"It's not that simple."
"It kind of is, though."
You'd relented eventually, worn down by her insistence and your own exhaustion at holding the same shape for four years straight. You told her you'd do it. You'd tell him. Maybe at the house party that weekend, when everything felt looser and easier and less like something you had to plan for.
You didn't get the chance.
You found him in the kitchen of the party, laughing with a girl whose name you didn't know, and before you could process anything, she'd leaned in and he hadn't leaned away.
You didn't wait to see more than that. You turned around and left before he ever noticed you'd been there, walked back to your dorm in the cold without your jacket, and didn't cry, exactly — just sat on your floor and wrote until your hand cramped.
I stopped hoping tonight. I think I needed to see it to actually believe it, because apparently telling myself wasn't enough. I'm not writing this one for you to ever read. I'm writing it so I stop lying to myself about what almost happened this weekend, and didn't, and isn't going to.
I keep thinking about how badly I wanted to walk over there and how I didn't, and how that's the whole story of us, isn't it. Me, standing a few feet away, wanting, and staying exactly where I am.
You told Jai it hadn't worked out. She didn't push for details, just sat with you until you didn't feel like crying anymore.
Things between you and Logan, in the weeks after, went quiet in a way that wasn't quite a fight and wasn't quite normal either — some instinctive retreat on your end that you dressed up as being busy. Eventually it faded, the way most things did when you were both incapable of staying upset at each other for long, and by the second half of the semester you'd settled back into something that looked, from the outside, exactly like it always had. You told yourself that was enough. You tried, in your quiet, determined way, to move on.
There was one more letter before the long silence, written the week after, when he'd shown up at your studio with soup because Jai had mentioned you were sick, and stayed on the floor doing his own reading while you slept on and off on the yoga mats, and woken you gently every hour to make sure you drank water.
You have no idea what you do to me by being like this. You have no idea, or you do, and you just don't care, because it's easier to be kind to me than to explain why you keep being kind to me. Either way, I am so tired of this constant wishing and wanting. I’ll move on. I have to. Or I’ll never get out of this stupid hole.
I love you. But it hurts to keep loving you.
By the second semester of junior year, there were forty-three letters. You left it at forty-three letters.
Ever since that night, where your anger and everything about you spilled into paper and ink– you didn't slip in another letter. It stayed at forty-three.
Forty-three letters, across four years, across the span of a friendship that had become the most important thing in your life and the most carefully guarded secret you kept. Forty-three letters that were supposed to go with you to the grave while you plan out your whole moving on shtick.
That was the plan. That had always been the plan.
The plan, it turned out, was not consulted before Thursday afternoon.
—
It was a fire drill that turned out not to be a drill.
You'd been on the floor beside your bed, hunting for your phone charger, having pulled the mattress out from the wall and tangled yourself in the extra blankets you kept stuffed behind it, when the alarm split the air — sudden, violent, the particular shriek of the Briar dorms that had never once not startled you no matter how many times you'd heard it.
Your elbow caught the edge of the blanket stack. The box, which you'd shoved back into place after re-reading that last letter just the other day, teetered on the edge of the mattress frame. You grabbed for it, fingers catching the corner.
The latch — that brass, temperamental, long-suffering latch you'd always meant to fix and never had — gave.
The box opened.
Forty-three letters, across the floor of your dorm room.
You were still on the ground, staring at them, trying to process the scope of the disaster, when you heard Logan's familiar voice, your name, followed by a quick, "It's me, don't freak out —"
You looked up. Panic set in immediately, your heart dropping to your feet.
John Logan stood in the doorway, your dorm key in his hand — the one you'd given him freshman year for emergencies and never asked back — the opening words dying in his throat as he watched the letters settle.
The alarm was still going. Someone in the hall was shouting about everyone needing to get out. The late-afternoon light came through the window, gold and slanted, landing on the scattered envelopes and the stunned expression on his face and every single letter that bore, in your own handwriting, his name.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you hit the floor on both knees, grabbing at the letters with both hands, stacking them against your chest with no particular order, your mind repeating the same panicked loop — collect them, get them back in the box, get them away from his line of sight.
"These are nothing — they're old, they're just — don't look at those—" You scrambled, but the panic made the ones in your hand slip loose again, and you nearly wanted to just sprawl over the envelopes and pretend they'd never fallen at all.
But John was crouching too. He wasn't reading them. He was just looking at the envelopes scattered across your floor, and you could see the exact moment he registered what they all had in common.
All of them. Every single one.
John Logan.
Your handwriting. His name. Over and over, in blue ink and black ink, and once in green, junior year of high school, when you'd been out of everything else.
His name on the front of forty-three letters you never sent.
He picked one up. He did it with the careful hands he used for things he wasn't sure about — the same way he picked up injured birds on his way to practice, the same way he handled other people's textbooks, and, twice, your feelings, on the two occasions you'd broken down in front of him and he'd gently cradled your face and helped you through the tears. Those were among the ten thousand other things written in your letters. Things you loved him for.
"These are addressed to me," he said. His voice was quiet. Unsure, tentative, like if he spoke louder he'd scare you off entirely.
"They're not —" you stammered. "I didn't send them. That's the whole —" You pressed the stack still in your hand to your sternum. "Please. Just — pretend you didn't see them."
"How many are there?"
His voice was doing something you couldn't quite pinpoint. Low. Careful. Something heavy underneath it, if you read between the lines.
You looked at him over the letters clutched to your chest, not sure what expression was on your face that made him soften even further. Maybe it was the pure panic. Maybe it was something else.
"Twenty — wait, uhm." You paused, blinked. "Thirty-four."
He lifted a brow. "You hesitated."
"...Forty-three."
The silence after that had weight. The alarm had stopped — someone had pulled it, or the drill was over, or building staff had caught up to whatever triggered it — and the sudden absence of noise made everything feel louder. Your heartbeat. His breathing. The soft scratch of the envelope he was turning over in his hands, not opening, just turning.
"How long?" he asked.
You didn't want to answer that. The answer was the part that would make it real. The part that would say out loud what had only ever existed on paper.
"Since junior year of high school," you said quietly.
You watched him absorb it.
He sat back on his heels, and you could see him doing the math. Junior year of high school. The end of the letter stack. The date on whatever letter he was holding. The span of years between then and now.
"You've been writing me letters," he said slowly, like he was learning the sentence as he spoke it, "for four years. That you never sent."
"It's not — it's a journaling thing. It's not —"
"Your journals have my name on them."
You winced and closed your eyes. "Yes."
"Why didn't you send them?"
You opened your eyes. He was watching you with an expression that made it very hard to think clearly, and you needed to think clearly to get through this conversation without losing something you couldn't afford to lose. Carefully, you thought. Be careful. He is your best friend and he is looking at you and you are not allowed to ruin this.
"Because I didn't want things to change," you said, which was the truest and most incomplete answer you had.
"What things?"
"Us." The word landed between you, bare, nothing around it to soften it. "The way things are. The way things have always been. I didn't — I wasn't willing to risk it. So I wrote it down instead, and I kept it, and I was going to keep it forever, and this was a mistake, Logan —"
"John." He interrupted quietly. You ignored the correction.
"— you were not supposed to see these."
"What are they?" he asked. "Just — tell me what they are. In plain English."
You looked at him. Then at the forty-three letters — the ones against your chest, the ones still sprawled on the floor, the one in his hands, the stupid brass-latched box open between you. You thought about every 2 a.m., every bleacher, every game, every borrowed hoodie you'd never given back. You thought about how long you'd been careful not to say a single thing. How much energy you'd spent on the not-saying, and how completely, catastrophically exhausted you were from it.
"They're everything," you said, "that I didn't know how to say to your face."
—
He was quiet for a long time after that.
You spent most of it looking at the floor, cataloguing the letters you could see from where you sat — the corner of the very first one, faded and ink-stained, from that Tuesday in junior year. The familiar blue pen of the one from a few months ago, the night of the game where he'd scored the tying goal in the final minute and looked up into the bleachers and found you immediately, like he'd known exactly where to look, like he always knew where to look, and you'd gone home and written four pages you didn't remember most of the next morning.
Then right by your knees was the latest letter. The one that was lengthy and full of hurt and anger and everything else that you poured out after seeing him make out with another girl– You push down the memory.
The afternoon light had shifted. It was later than you'd realized.
"I want to ask you something," Logan said, "and I need you to answer honestly."
"Okay."
"Is it —" He exhaled through his nose, tried again. You watched the struggle on his face — that particular Logan expression of someone who had something to say and was working out how to say it without saying too much or too little. You'd seen it a thousand times. You'd written about it. Letter fourteen, sophomore year of high school. The way he gets quiet before he says something he means.
"Is it the same thing I think it is?"
"Probably," you said, to the floor. "Unless you think it's a grocery list, in which case, no."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh — hoarse, surprised out of him.
"You've liked me," he said, still careful, "since junior year."
"Yes."
"And you didn't say anything because you didn't want to lose the friendship."
"Yes."
"And you wrote — forty-three letters. Instead."
"I was going to say forty-three seemed excessive, but honestly, given the timeline, I think it's fairly restrained."
"Hey." His voice changed. That made you look at him. He was watching you with something so open on his face it hit you square in the sternum. "Don't do that. Don't make it a joke right now."
You swallowed. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry either." He set the letter down between you, gently, the way he set down things he didn't want to damage, and ran a hand through his hair — the thing he did when he was thinking hard, when something had knocked him somewhere he hadn't planned to go. "I just need a second."
You gave him the second.
Outside, someone on the quad was playing music, drifting up through your open window without any particular hurry. Late afternoon light cut across the room at the angle it only ever hit in March — long and gold and slanted, the kind that made everything look like it was happening in the last good hour of something. The last hour before whatever came next.
He abruptly brings up Davis. "What about Davis?"
Your brows furrow. "What about him?"
"You dated him last year."
You hesitate. "It was a half-hearted attempt to try and get over you."
"Did it work?"
You deadpan. "Well, I broke up with him, didn't I?"
John laughs through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah that makes sense."
Another beat passes, quieter this time, before he asks if you know why he's shown up to every single one of your performances since freshman year. Not just the winter and spring showcases. The studio showings nobody came to, the ten-minute improvisation pieces you took for the sake of getting better, performed to an audience of six, the Tuesday afternoon rehearsal run-throughs that overlapped with his lift block, when he'd shown up, hair damp, sitting cross-legged in the back corner of the studio so he could leave before anyone noticed a hockey player watching a modern dance rehearsal like it was the only thing happening in the building.
"That's practice, though," you say. "You're always busy."
"Not always." He says it like it's nothing, like it was never a real sacrifice, just a matter of arranging things around each other the way you'd both always done. "I never missed a lift block or a mandatory practice for it, if that's what you're asking. Coach would've had my head, and there goes the scholarship. I'm not that much of an idiot."
"So how—"
"I just used the time I actually had. Free blocks. The hour after morning skate before class. You'd be in Studio B until midnight running the same eight counts over and over, and I'd come sit in the corner with a granola bar and my laundry, because doing laundry at the machines by the dance building was somehow always more urgent than doing it in my own dorm."
You protest anyway, because your brain is still catching up, still trying to file this under good friend the way you have filed every other thing he's ever done for four years running. "You're just — that's just you being supportive. You did that for Summer-"
"I went to Summer's event once, and that was because Dean wanted us to. I have sat through you running the same eight counts eleven times in a row at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday because you couldn't get the turn right, and I have watched you mark a whole solo with a busted ankle because you didn't want to fall behind, and I still came."
"That was one time."
"I know. I counted the limps."
That gets you. Something in your chest cracks open a little wider.
He tells you about the incidents, then — the small things you never clocked because you were always mid-combination or too deep in your own head to notice him in the doorway, or slumped against the wall outside the studio with his bag still packed from practice. The night your partner dropped you a beat early in a lift and you both recovered it so smoothly the audience never noticed, and how he'd told Tucker after, unprompted, that he'd never seen anyone save a mistake like that mid-air, like it mattered to him the way his own game footage mattered.
The way he'd show up straight from morning skate, hair still wet, to walk you back to your dorm after a late rehearsal because he didn't like the idea of you crossing the quad alone at midnight, ice pack pressed to your shin, making conversation about nothing in particular just so you wouldn't have to walk in silence. The stretch of a week during tech for the fall showcase, when you barely left the studio, and he started just bringing his own homework to do on the floor during your five-minute breaks, so you'd have someone there without either of you having to say why that mattered.
"You did that the whole week," you say slowly.
"I did that the whole week."
"You never told me you had a physics midterm that same week."
"Didn't want you to feel bad about it." He shrugs, like this is a reasonable thing to have kept from you for two years. "It wasn't your fault. I wanted to be there."
You're quiet for a second, turning that over, and something about the quiet must give you away, because he tilts his head at you. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You've got a face on. That's not nothing."
"It's just—" You stop. Start again. "If you wanted to be there that badly. If you were doing all of that. Then what was with the girls?"
He blinks. "What girls?"
"You know what girls, Logan." Your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, two years of swallowed irritation finally finding a door. "The ones after games. Hanging off the boards. The ones who got to walk up to you, because they didn't have some — some rule in their head about not ruining anything."
"That's what this is about?"
"I'm asking."
He drags a hand down his face, and for the first time all night, he looks ashamed instead of careful. "Those weren't anything," he says. "You know that, right? They were never anything."
"They looked like something."
Logan lets out a hoarse laugh — short, not really about anything funny. It's the sound of a person getting cornered by their own bad decisions. "Yeah," he says. "I bet they did."
There's something almost shameful in the way his jaw works before he goes on.
"They were a distraction." He says it plainly, no dressing it up. "You didn't — I thought you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was the only one carrying this, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I did the dumbest possible thing, which was try to feel something for anyone else so I'd stop feeling this much for you. It never worked. Not once. I always ended up back at your door with food you didn't ask for, like an idiot."
"I did care," you say, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to, four years of carefulness still clinging to your voice even now. "I thought you didn't."
"I know that now."
You stare at each other for a second, and it lands on both of you at once — the sheer, staggering waste of it. Four years of two people orbiting the same unspoken thing, each one certain the other didn't want it, each one building elaborate, private monuments to a feeling neither of you would say out loud. You almost want to laugh. You almost want to be furious. Mostly you just want to sit in the wreckage of it with him and not move for a while.
That's when he tells you about the texts.
"There's something you should probably know, since, well– I just accidentally saw your very personal letters." he says, and something in his voice makes you go still before he even finishes the thought. "I've been deleting texts to you since October of junior year."
"What texts?" you said.
"The ones I wasn't going to send." A muscle in his jaw moved. "Different medium. Same problem."
You stared at him.
"You," you said carefully, "have also been —"
"Yeah."
"Since —"
"Junior year." He kept his eyes on you. "You did that solo — the contemporary piece, the one set to that stripped-down piano track, for the fall showcase. I only went because you asked me to come, and also promised to buy me free snacks right after. So I came. I sat in the back row not expecting to care, and then the lights came up on you and you just — you weren't you anymore, you were something else entirely, and I remember thinking, very clearly, that I had never seen anything move like that. Not the piece. You. I didn't say anything to anyone. I definitely didn't say anything to you. I just knew, sitting in that folding chair, that something in me had rearranged itself and it wasn't going back." He stopped. Shook his head. "I thought you knew, later, that something had shifted for me. I thought it was obvious. I thought you didn't feel the same way, and I figured I could live with that — be your friend, be fine. And I was mostly fine. I was fine until you and Davis started whatever that was, and I wasn't fine anymore, and that's when I knew I was a lost cause."
"There was nothing with Davis," you said. "It was just — a gen-ed class, and I thought it was something—" The words died on your tongue.
"I know that now."
"John." Something enormous was rising in your chest — too big for any letter, too loud for that box. "We've been — we've both been —"
"Catastrophically stupid," he said, with a short, helpless laugh. "Yeah. I'm aware."
"Four years."
"I know."
"I have forty-three letters —"
"I know, I can see them —"
You laughed, and it came out slightly broken, and he laughed too, and for a moment it was just that — the two of you on your dorm room floor, surrounded by four years of everything you hadn't said, laughing at the sheer, impossible absurdity of it. At how close you'd been the whole time. At how completely you'd managed to miss each other while never once being apart.
Then the laughter faded.
He was looking at you. The gold light had shifted, fallen across him, and he looked the way he always looked when he was done thinking and had arrived somewhere decided. You knew that look. You'd written about it. Letter twenty-one. The way he looks when he's made up his mind about something and nothing in the world is going to unmake it.
"What do we do now?" you asked.
John reached out slowly, giving you every chance to move away if you wanted to. He tucked a loose strand of hair back from your face, hand staying at your jaw, careful. His thumb traced, barely, along your cheekbone.
"I have a practice slot tomorrow morning," he said. "Early. Six a.m., the rink's usually empty." He paused. "You could come. Sit in the bleachers, like you always do. And after — I could buy you hot chocolate. And maybe this time I could actually say what I haven't been saying for four years."
You looked at him. His hand was warm at your jaw, and the room smelled like old paper and cedar and whatever that specific thing was that his jacket always smelled like, because of course he was wearing the jacket you knew best.
"And we're doing it at the rink," you said slowly, "because —"
"Because that's where it started," he said, shrugging. "It should start there too. Not the ratty ice rink back home, but it still counts."
The feeling in your chest crested, enormous and warm, nothing like the quiet ache you'd carried for four years. That ache had been private and careful, kept deliberately small so it wouldn't take up too much room, wouldn't crowd out anything else. This was not small. This was taking up every room you had. This was refusing, loudly and completely, to fit inside a box.
"Okay," you said.
He smiled — the full one, the private one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you. Maybe it had been. Maybe you'd just been too busy cataloguing reasons not to believe it.
"Okay," he echoed.
He let go of your jaw slowly, like he was in no hurry about it, then stood and started helping you gather the letters off the floor, stacking them with surprising care, not reading them, just collecting. You watched him do it and didn't say anything. There was something strange and sweet about watching his hands handle these things that had existed in secret for so long.
He asked a few questions. Simple ones. The things you could admit to. Small rants you'd written. How you didn't read back on some of them, out of fear of what you'd find. You mentioned the one where you'd hoped he tripped, and how the very next day, he actually had.
Logan laughed at that — bright, curls settling around his face. You had to stop yourself from staring too long.
"Which one's your favorite?" he asked, holding the stack against his chest the way you'd been holding it minutes ago.
"I'm not telling you that."
"Come on."
"Absolutely not."
"I'll find it eventually."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a promise." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "I have forty-three letters and the rest of my life. I'll get there."
When all the letters were back in the box, he set it on your desk and looked at it for a moment.
"You're going to have to let me read them eventually," he said.
"I really am not."
"The 'I hope you trip' one. I want to find that one."
"Absolutely not."
"I'm going to find it."
"Get out of my room, Logan."
"I thought I said you could call me John?"
You rolled your eyes. "I'm adapting to Briar. You're either Logan or John. Now get out of my room."
He grinned, the lopsided, lethal one, and you felt it the same way you always had — right in the sternum, like a bell being struck — and went, unhurried, toward the door.
"Six a.m.," he said from the doorway.
"Six a.m.," you agreed.
He left.
You stood in your room surrounded by the afterimage of all of it, then sat on the edge of your bed and put your face in your hands, staying that way for a while — not crying exactly, just feeling the full, enormous weight of something shifting into a new configuration, four years of tectonic plates rearranging themselves into something that finally made sense.
After a while, you got up, took the box from the desk, and put it back under your bed.
You set your alarm for five-thirty.
Hockey rinks always smelled and looked the same, no matter where you would go. It would always smell like ice and rubber and something underneath, though it didn't have the same ratty smell from the old hockey rink at home.
You climbed to your usual spot in the bleachers. Third row, center. You'd been sitting here since the first time you ever came to watch him practice. Even when you moved closer to Briar, you always gravitated to the same spot, before you'd known it was your spot, before you'd known you'd keep coming back. You'd just sat where the sight line was clear and the draft from the ventilation didn't hit as hard. You'd sat there every time after that, out of habit, out of something you'd told yourself was just habit.
John stepped onto the ice.
He didn't look up at the bleachers right away. That wasn't unusual. He rarely did, at first. He had a routine — you knew the routine, had watched it enough times to know it by heart — where he'd take a lap or two before he settled into the actual work of it, like he was reacquainting himself with the ice, reminding himself of the particular quality of this rink on this morning. Then he'd pick up speed. Then he'd look like himself.
You watched him. You were done pretending you weren't.
He skated the way he always skated — like it required nothing, like it was breathing, like the rink was just another place he lived and the ice was simply the ground beneath him. He did a lap, and then another, and then he started working through something, crossovers into a long sweep across the length of the rink, and you watched the way he held his weight, the clean economy of every movement, and felt the thing you always felt watching him, which you'd spent four years filing under aesthetic appreciation, nothing more, and which you were now allowed to call by its actual name.
After a while he came to the boards and looked up at you.
"You're in your spot," he said.
"I'm always in my spot."
"I know." He leaned on the boards, the same way he had the first time, junior year, helmet under his arm, and he looked up at you with that look you were done misreading. "I skate better when you're here. I don't know if you knew that."
"I didn't."
"I didn't either, for a while. I thought it was just that the bleachers were less empty, which helps. But then I figured out it was specifically you." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was just a thing that was true. Like it was weather. Like it was temperature. "Third row, center. Every time."
"You knew the seat."
"I always knew the seat."
You looked at him, and the rink was cold, and the light was just beginning to come in through the high windows, pale and early and new, and forty-three unsent letters sat in a box under your bed, and standing at the boards in front of you — in his skates, in his gear, on his ice — was the person they were all addressed to.
With a smile, you got up and headed down from your seat. The second you stopped in front of Logan, the only thing separating you being the rink’s wall, you smiled wider. "Hi," you said.
"Hi," he said back.
He reached for you, and you reached back, and when his hand found yours over the boards it was easy, the easiest thing, like something that had been waiting a long time to finally happen and was not going to make a fuss about it now that it had. His hand was cold from the ice, and you held it anyway, and neither of you said anything for a moment, because there wasn't anything that needed saying.
You got the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store. Different store, same franchise. It was, as promised, terrible. Watery and too sweet, dispensed in a thin paper cup that was already going soggy at the base.
He handed it to you and watched you take a sip and pull a face.
"Still bad," you reported. “It’s surprising how consistent the store is.”
"Still bad," he agreed, leaning against the wall, holding his own cup, looking entirely unbothered. He'd never minded the terrible hot chocolate. You'd written about that once. Letter seven. The way you seem genuinely content with things that aren't good. Like the contentment is the point, not the quality of the thing.
"You said you were going to say what you hadn't said."
"I was getting to it."
"It's been twenty minutes."
"I was working up to it," he said, and there was something almost shy in the way he said it, which was not a quality you'd had many opportunities to observe in him, and which was doing things to you that you weren't prepared for. "I've been working up to it for four years, give me another thirty seconds."
You giggled, but you still waited.
He looked at his terrible hot chocolate. Then he looked at you.
"I love you," he said. "I've loved you since I saw you performing on stage and I thought — I thought, that's her. That's the person. And I didn't say anything because you didn't, and I figured I was misreading it, and I kept not saying anything for four years and I had a phone full of deleted texts and a very long mental list of things I was not going to tell you, and then yesterday I walked into your room and saw my name on forty-three envelopes on your floor and I thought—" He stopped. Something moved across his face, somewhere between wrecked and grateful. "I thought: we are both absolute idiots."
"We really are," you said.
"We really are." He pushed off the wall and set his cup down on the machine and took yours out of your hands and set it next to his, and then he looked at you the way he had yesterday, with that decided, arrived quality, and said, "I'm done not saying it. I love you. Okay? I just — I love you."
You looked at him. This person you'd known since before you knew what it meant to know someone. This person who remembered your coffee order and picked raisins out of muffins and drove forty minutes in the rain and kept nine of your hoodies and showed up to every meet in every kind of weather and had, apparently, been composing and deleting texts to you since junior year of high school.
"I love you," you said. "I have loved you for a very long time."
He exhaled, slow, like something he'd been holding finally let go, and then he smiled — the private one, the full one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you because, you understood now, it had always only been for you — and said, "Yeah. We're definitely idiots."
"Monumental idiots."
"Historically unprecedented idiots."
"There should be a word for it."
"There probably is, in some language we don't speak." He reached out, and you let him pull you in, and he held you the way he'd held you before, the same arms, the same warmth, but with something different in it now, something that had been allowed to be what it was instead of being carefully kept at a certain size. You pressed your face against his shoulder. His chin dropped to the top of your head.
"We wasted four years," you said into his shoulder.
"Nah." His voice rumbled against your ear. "We just took the long way."
You thought about that. About the letters, and the bleachers, and the hot chocolate, and the forty-minute drives in rain, the deleted texts, and the space between what you feel and what you're brave enough to say. About all the things that had happened in the gap.
"The long way," you agreed.
Outside the rink, the morning was getting started. Inside, it smelled like ice and rubber and cedar and something new.
—
The forty-fourth letter was the last one. Written that night, because some habits deserve a proper ending.
John. Logan. Or whatever name you want to be called–
The hot chocolate was terrible. The one near our old school was better (I’m lying, but you know that), but it’s not like you would drive an hour just to get there. Still, you know hot chocolate is always terrible from that machine. You bought it anyway because I said I wanted it and you cannot help yourself.
I've been writing these since high school. I don't think I'm going to write another one. Not because I have nothing left to say — I think I'm going to have a lot to say, for a very long time — but because I'm going to say it to you from now on.
Out loud. In real time. Without a box to put it in afterward.
You told me today that you skate better when I'm in the stands. I wanted you to know that I run better when you're at the end of the finish line. I have never told you that. I'm telling you now.
I love you. I have loved you since a Tuesday in junior year in High school when you offered me bad hot chocolate on an empty rink and smiled at me like I was someone worth skating across the ice for.I loved you through every year after that, through every letter I wrote and sealed and tucked away, through every moment I talked myself out of saying something because I was afraid of what it would cost.
It turns out it didn't cost anything. It turns out you were over there deleting texts.
We were both such idiots. Though I guess it does make sense with our track record.
I'm done keeping it in a box, and I'll say it to your face from now on, and I'm sorry it took me four years and a broken latch and forty-three embarrassing letters, some of which you are never going to read, to get here. But I'm here. And so are you.
That's enough. That's more than enough.
— With love.
Synopsis: At Briar University’s winter masquerade, the quiet, bookish girl John Logan barely notices becomes the mysterious stranger he can’t forget. Hidden behind a borrowed dress and silver mask, she finally lets him see the parts of herself she usually keeps guarded, only to disappear before midnight. As Logan searches for the girl from the ball, familiar feelings leads him toward someone who may have been right in front of him all along.
John Logan Masterlist: here.
--
The first time John Logan asked what I was reading, I assumed he was making fun of me.
It wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion.
The tutoring center was almost empty that afternoon, the quiet was only broken by the occasional turn of a textbook page or the low hum of the vending machines near the elevators.
Rain hit the windows in thin sheets, leaving the campus outside blurred and gray. Most students had already abandoned their afternoon classes in favor of staying in their dorm rooms.
Logan had arrived twelve minutes late to our tutoring session, his damp, dark hair curling at the ends, and a dark blue Briar Hockey sweatshirt stretched across his shoulders. He dropped into the chair opposite of mine with a muttered apology and spent the next forty minutes working on economics, periodically stopping to ask me questions.
I’d been waiting for him to finish working through another practice worksheet when his attention drifted to the paperback book sitting on top of my things.
“What’s that?” he asked.
I glanced up, and he nodded toward the book. The cover featured a woman wielding a silver sword while a dragon burned an entire kingdom behind her. It was not subtle.
“A book,” I said.
The corner of his mouth lifted, “Yeah, I got that.”
I closed my fingers around the edge of it, resisting the instinct to slide it beneath my notebook.
“It’s a romantasy book.”
“Is it good?”
That was when I became suspicious. John Logan did not look like someone who wanted to discuss fictional kingdoms with me.
He was John Logan. Part of the famed ‘Briar University Hockey’ Four, consisting of him, Garrett Graham, Dean Di Laurentis and John Tucker. They were four of the most recognizable students on campus.
Even seated beneath the hall’s aggressive fluorescent lights, he seemed to occupy more space than everyone else. He was too tall for the chair, one long leg stretched beneath the table. His eyes were a soft brown with flecks of gold, and burned into your soul anytime he made eye contact with you.
I’d known enough about the hockey team (thanks to Fifth Line, the school’s gossip account) to recognize him before he’d introduced himself at our first session. Everyone recognized him.
Girls whispered when he passed them in the hallways, professors knew his name. Half of the campus seemed to have a story about him, though the details varied depending on who was telling it and how recently they’d been invited upstairs at one of their famous hockey parties.
I, meanwhile, was the girl stationed behind the tutoring desk three afternoons a week. People remembered me when they needed help calculating a grade or rewriting a paper. Otherwise, I tended to blend neatly into the background.
“It’s the fourth book in a series,” I told him.
He leaned back in his chair, “That didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes. It’s good.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“I’m trying to decide why you’re asking about my book.”
“Maybe I’m looking for recommendations.”
“You haven’t even opened the economics textbook voluntarily since you got here.”
“That’s different. Your book has dragons.”
I laughed before I could stop myself, looking down at my notes quickly, a little embarrassed. Logan smiled, but he didn’t point out my embarrassment. He only tapped the pencil against his worksheet and said, “All right, Dragon Girl. Tell me why my answer’s wrong.”
That should have been the end of it; a passing moment. A joke that he likely forgot as soon as he left the building.
Instead, it became a pattern. He started arriving on time… mostly. He asked about the book series. He remembered when I told him I’d stayed awake too late finishing one and asked the next week whether the ending had been worth the exhaustion. He complained about economics, stole gummy bears from my bag, and once spent a full five minutes trying to convince me that hockey players should receive extra credit because they sustained regular hits to the head.
He was easy to talk to when there wasn’t an audience. That was the dangerous part.
It would have been simpler if he’d been arrogant, or if he’d treated me like an employee whose name he couldn’t quite remember. It would have been simpler if he’d spent our sessions texting girls beneath the table or bragging about whatever party the hockey house was throwing that weekend.
Instead, he thanked me every time. He held the door open when we left at the same time. He noticed when I cut my hair, even though I’d only taken off an inch. Somewhere between the worksheets and the gummy bears, I developed the kind of hopeless crush that belonged in one of the novels that I spent my weekends reading.
I never did anything about it; I wasn’t delusional. Logan might have liked talking to me for an hour during our sessions, but there was a difference between liking someone beneath the fluorescent lights of the tutoring center and choosing them when the rest of the world was watching.
We were from different worlds. Different social standings. I understood the difference better than most.
Which was why, when my roommate dropped a gold-edged invitation onto my comforter one Thursday evening in January, I barely glanced at it.
“No,” I said.
Amber planted both hands on her hips, “You haven’t even read it.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Maybe it’s a summons from a faraway prince.”
“Then he should’ve emailed it.”
She snatched the invitation and held it directly in front of my face.
THE BRIAR WINTER MASQUERADE, the card announced in looping navy script. Beneath the title, smaller print explained that proceeds from the annual event would benefit a local children’s hockey program – The Hurricanes. The masquerade would be held in the ballroom of an old hotel near campus, with dinner, dancing, a silent auction, and a ceremonial unmasking at midnight.
I pushed the invitation away, “Still no.”
“You love masquerades.”
“I love them in books. Real-life formal events involve uncomfortable shoes and conversations with people pretending not to look over your shoulder for someone more interesting.”
“You’re exhausting,” Amber said, exasperated.
“So I’ve been told.”
Amber dropped onto the edge of my bed, “I won two tickets through the campus radio givway.”
“Take someone else,” I said.
“I want to take you.”
“You know I own exactly one dress, and it has tiny strawberries on it.”
“I have dresses.”
“You’re four inches taller than me.”
“I have safety pins.”
“Amber.”
She leaned in closer, “Everyone wears masks.”
“I gathered that from the word masquerade.”
“That means no one knows who anyone is. You can be whoever you want for one night.”
The words struck somewhere more tender than they should have. Amber must have seen it in my face, because her teasing expression softened.
“You don’t have to be the tutor girl,” she continued, “Or the book girl. You don’t have to worry about whether anyone expects you to say something clever. You can put on a dress, wear a mask, eat expensive food we didn’t pay for, and leave whenever you want.”
“I have to work early Saturday morning.”
“Then we’ll be hope by one.”
I looked at the invitation again. A masquerade. A night in which no one would know that I spent evenings shelving textbooks and my afternoons explaining academics to students who made more friends in a single weekend than I had accumulated throughout college.
It sounded ridiculous; it sounded dangerous. However, despite my better judgement, it sounded a little like magic.
“Fine,” I said.
Amber shrieked loudly enough that someone in the room above us stomped on the floor.
“But,” I added, raising my voice over her celebration, “we leave before midnight.”
Her excitement faltered, “That’s when everyone takes off their masks.”
“Exactly.”
She narrowed her eyes, “You know this is a fundraiser, not an actual fairy tale, right?”
“I’m serious. I don’t want to get stuck in the crowd and I have to work.”
“11:45.”
“11:30.”
“11:45.”
“11:40.”
She held out her hand, “Deal.” I shook it.
At the time, I thought leaving before midnight would keep the evening safely contained. One borrowed dress, one anonymous night. No consequences.
--
No one warned me that midnight only mattered when you were pretending that the spell had ended.
The dress Amber chose for me was dark blue. Not navy, exactly. It was more the color of the sky after sunset, when daylight had disappeared but the stars hadn’t yet emerged. The fabric skimmed my waist before falling in soft folds toward the floor, and the neckline rested slightly off my shoulders.
It was nothing I would have selected for myself. It was too elegant, too noticeable. When I told Amber that, she rolled her eyes, and continued pinning my hair into loose waves.
“You don’t have to apologize for taking up visual space.”
“I wasn’t apologizing.”
“You were thinking it. Loudly.”
She fastened a silver comb near the back of my head and stepped back. The mask was silver as well, decorated with delicate blue stones and tied behind my head with narrow ribbons. It covered my forehead, the tops of my cheeks, and enough of my nose to make my reflection appear unfamiliar.
I still recognized my mouth, and chin, but I looked like a version of myself that I had never met.
Amber appeared beside me in the mirror, dressed in green velvet with a matching mask covered in black feathers.
“See?” she said.
I laughed nervously.
--
The ballroom was already crowded when we arrived. Winter garlands wound around the columns, threaded in tiny white lights. Chandeliers cast golden patterns over the polished floor. A string quartet played near the front of the room, though the musicians had apparently agreed to perform orchestral versions of popular songs rather than traditional waltzes.
Everywhere I looked, I saw intricate costumes and people in masks. Gold. Black. White. Crimson.
Some were small enough to reveal most of the wearer’s face. Others were elaborate constructions of lace and feathers that nearly hid everything. Without familiar faces, the usual campus hierarchies became harder to recognize.
For once, I couldn’t separate the athletes from the honor students, the puck bunnies from the people who ate lunch alone hear the windows. The effect was disorienting, but liberating, too.
Amber linked her arm through mine, “Food first.”
We made our way toward the buffet tables lining once wall. I’d just taken a miniature pastry from a silver tray when Amber grabbed my wrist.
“The hockey team is here.”
My stomach tightened before I could stop it.
“Where?” I asked.
She subtly tilted her head toward the opposite side of the ballroom. It should have been impossible to recognize them beneath the masks, but it wasn’t.
Garrett Graham stood beside the silent-auction tables, tall and broad shouldered, gesturing animatedly as he spoke to someone in a black suit. Dean Di Laurentis was identifiable through posture and his blonde hair alone, leaning against the wall as though the building had been constructed solely to give him something attractive to pose beside. John Tucker stood next to Dean, his curly hair a dead giveaway.
Logan stood several feet away from them. His mask was black, edged with dark silver. It obscured the upper half of his face, but did nothing to hide his signature swooping hair, the line of his jaw, or the familiar shape of his mouth.
I looked away before he could catch me staring.
Amber’s fingers tightened around my wrist, “Is that your tutoring crush?”
“He’s not my tutoring crush.”
“Sure.”
“Please stop talking,” I begged.
“Are you going to say hello?”
“Not a chance.”
“He won’t know it’s you,” she said.
“That does not make it any less horrifying,” I added.
“It should.”
I reached for another pastry on the table, mostly so my hands would have something to do.
“I came here to eat free food and support the local youth team.”
“You came because I wore you down over a few hours.”
“That too.”
Amber opened her mouth to argue, but a man in a red mask appeared beside us and asked her to dance. She hesitated, looking at me.
“Go,” I said, “I’ll survive.”
“Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
“Don’t hide in the bathroom.”
“That I can’t promise.”
She pointed at me threateningly before allowing the stranger to lead her toward the dance floor. I watched until they disappeared into the crowd, and then let out a breath.
Being anonymous was easier with Amber beside me. Alone, I became aware of every movement, like where to place my hands, or whether I looked strange standing by myself next to the dessert table. I wondered whether the people around me could somehow sense that I didn’t belong in a ballroom wearing an elegant dress and shoes that pinched my toes.
I took a glass of sparkling cider from a passing waiter and moved toward the edge of the room.
The balcony doors of the ballroom had been opened despite the cold, allowing guests to step outside for air. I slipped through them and stepped out on the balcony, it overlooking gardens powdered with a light dusting of snow.
The music dulled behind me, and I rested my hands on the railing.
“You know,” a voice said behind me, “it’s like thirty degrees out here. Are you trying to get hypothermia?”
I knew the voice before I turned around. Logan stood in the doorway, holding a drink.
My heart lurched so sharply it almost hurt. Up close, the mask made him look older somehow. More mysterious. There was no mistaking him, though. He had the same crooked smile. The same unruly dark hair. The same broad shoulders.
I reminded myself that he didn’t know who I was. That was the entire point.
“I like the cold,” I said.
He stepped out onto the balcony.
“That sounds like something people say when they don’t want to admit they just wanted to escape,” he said.
The answer was so perceptive that I almost laughed. Instead, I lifted my glass.
“Maybe I’m both.”
“Fair.”
He moved to the railing beside me, leaving enough space between us that I didn’t feel crowded. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Snow clung to the hedges below. In the distance, lights glowed through the trees.
“Are you drinking champagne or cider?” he asked.
“Cider, for sure.”
He smiled, taking a sip of his own drink, “Me too. I can’t stand the taste of champagne.”
A laugh escaped me, because I thought the exact same thing. The sound made something shift in his expression. Not recognition, I think, but interest, maybe.
The mask helped. Without my face attached to the tutoring center, and the weight of every previous interaction between us, I didn’t have to measure each word before I said it. I didn’t have to worry he would compare this version of me to the quiet girl who wore old sweatshirts and corrected his practice quizzes.
To him, I was no one. For once, no one felt like freedom.
“Did you come here with someone?” he asked.
“A friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Very subtle,” I laughed.
“I’m wearing a mask, I figured subtlety was optional.”
“No boyfriend,” I said.
He nodded, though the answer seemed to please him more than it should have.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Came with teammates.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“A date?”
“Also no.”
“Entourage of devoted admirers?” I asked, teasingly.
He considered it. “They were unavailable.”
“Tragic.”
“I’m coping,” he said, smiling at me.
I smiled into my glass.
He turned slightly, studying me through the narrow openings of his mask. “Have we met?” he asked.
The question made my heart skip. I forced myself to not look away.
“This is a university event,” I said, “Statistically, probably.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?” I asked.
“You seem familiar,” he said, like he was trying to figure it out.
The safest response would have been to find an excuse to excuse myself. Instead, some reckless part of me said something else.
“Is that one of your usual lines?”
His mouth curved, “Do you think I need lines?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“You asked,” you said, laughing as you took another sip of your drink.
“I’m beginning to regret it.”
“You’ll recover.”
“I don’t know, my ego’s pretty delicate.”
“That must make playing hockey difficult.”
His eyes narrowed behind the mask, and I realized my mistake a second too late.
“You know I play hockey,” he said.
You panicked a little.
“The entire team arrived together,” I said, “You’re not difficult to identify.”
“Is it the shoulders?”
“It’s the humility,” you quipped back.
He laughed, and the tension eased.
“You know who I am,” he said, “That hardly seems fair.”
“Fairness is overrated.”
“Tell me something about you, then,” he said.
“No.”
“One thing,” he begged.
“You don’t even know my name.”
“Exactly, give me something else.”
I looked out over the garden. The obvious answers felt dangerous; my major, my job, the tutoring center. Any detail that could lead him too close to the truth.
“I like books,” I said.
“That’s vague.”
“You asked for one thing.”
“What kind?”
“Fantasy, mostly.”
His head tilted, and for one wild moment, I thought he figured it out.
Then he said, “The ones with dragons?”
I stared at him. He laughed.
“Lucky guess.”
My fingers tightened around the stem of my glass. He couldn’t remember a simple conversation about my book; there were dozens of girls on campus who read fantasy novels. It was one of the most popular genres.
Probably.
“Sometimes,” I said carefully, “Dragons. Curses. Impossible kingdoms. People who spend four hundred pages refusing to admit they’re in love.”
“That sounds frustrating.”
“It is.”
“So why read it?”
“Because eventually they admit it.”
The smile faded slightly from his face, but not in a bad way. He simply looked at me more closely.
“Worth the wait?” he asked.
“When it’s well written.”
The quartet inside shifted songs, the melody floating onto the balcony. Logan glanced through the doors.
“Do you dance?” he asked.
“Not voluntarily.”
“Neither do I.”
“You’re at a ball.”
“So are you.”
“I’m here to support a good cause,” you said.
“I’m here because I helped throw this fundraiser.”
My eyebrows raised.
“That’s really nice of you.”
He nodded and smiled slightly.
“Not really what someone would expect me to do, right?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to imply—”
He shook his head.
“It’s okay. I know I have a reputation.”
“I don’t really judge a book by its cover,” you said quietly.
You both sat there for a minute.
“Sometimes,” he said, “it’s nice talking to someone who doesn’t want anything from you.”
“I’m fairly certain everyone wants something.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
The answer came with embarrassing speed. You.
Not the version of him that people whispered about. Not the hockey player beneath the arena lights or the name everyone recognized. I wanted the man who complained about economics and stole my gummy bears.
I could never say that.
“Dessert,” I said.
Logan laughed, “That I can help with.”
He led me back inside. I expected the conversation to end there. For Garrett or Dean or Tucker to wave him over. For someone prettier and bolder to take my place the moment we crossed the threshold.
Instead, Logan stayed.
We sampled tiny slices of cake from the dessert table, rating each one with an absurd seriousness. We wandered through the silent-auction displays, Logan explaining each one, and trying to convince me that a signed hockey stick would look sophisticated mounted above my bed.
“Absolutely not,” I told him.
“You lack vision.”
“I have a framed map of a fictional kingdom above my desk, isn’t that enough?”
“The stick would balance it out.”
He didn’t ask for my name, and I didn’t ask him to pretend I didn’t know his. The absence of names created a strange intimacy. We could tell each other things without having to imagine what happened tomorrow.
He told me he didn’t know what he wanted to do after college, which surprised me. I thought it would be the NHL. Not exactly.
He spoke vaguely about obligations waiting for him at home, responsibilities he didn’t know how to escape without abandoning someone he loved. I knew enough from campus gossip to understand pieces of it, but I didn’t interrupt.
It was the most honest I had ever heard him sound.
“Everyone assumes I’ve got it figured out,” he said as we stood near the edge of the dance floor, “Hockey, graduation, everything after. But half the time I feel like I’m walking toward a life I didn’t pick.”
The ballroom lights moved across his mask as dancers passed.
“What would you pick?” I asked.
“Probably the NHL with Garrett,” he said, “But I’m not sure if that’s feasible. But I’m not sure. That’s the problem.”
“It’s not a problem to go after what you want.”
“It feels like one.”
“Maybe you’re unsure because you’re trying to figure out what everyone else needs from you.”
His gaze lifted to mine, and I was worried I’d crossed a line.
Then he quietly said, “You do that a lot?”
“What?”
“Make people like you can see through them?”
“I don’t think most people feel seen by me at all.”
Something in his expression softened.
“You’re wrong.”
I smiled, but it was sadder than intended.
“You’ve known me for an hour,” I said.
“Maybe that makes it easier.”
“Maybe.”
A faster song ended, replaced by something softer and slower. Couples moved toward the center of the ballroom.
Logan moved in front of me, bowing and making me laugh, before holding out his hand. I looked at it.
“You said you didn’t dance,” I questioned.
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you didn’t dance.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you said.
“I didn’t want you to think I was asking.”
“But you’re asking now?”
“I changed my mind.”
My heart beat harder. Dancing with him would make the evening feel too real. It would become a memory I carried long after he forgot the anonymous girl in the silver mask.
But, midnight was coming. The magic had an ending. I placed my hand in his, and Logan drew me onto the dance floor.
He wasn’t an especially polished dancer, but he was confident enough to compensate. One hand rested carefully at my waist while the other held my hand between us. I focused on his tie because looking directly at him felt impossible.
“You can look up,” he whispered.
“I’m watching my feet,” I said lamely.
“You’re wearing a floor-length dress.”
“Yep, just making sure I don’t trip.”
His hand tightened slightly around mine. “Relax.”
“That is universally terrible advice,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because no one in the history of being told to relax has ever relaxed.”
He laughed softly. I eventually lifted my gaze, and the room seemed to narrow around us.
Beyond his shoulder, masks and lights blurred together. The music vibrated beneath my feet. I became aware of every place we touched; the warmth of his hand in mine, the steady pressure of his hand at my waist, and the occasional brush of his leg against mine as we moved.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“I’m following you.”
For one song, I allowed myself to pretend. The mask and dress had allowed me to stop apologizing for wanting things. I wanted his attention. I wanted his hand at my waist. I wanted him to look at me as though the rest of the ballroom had disappeared.
And for one song, he did. When the song ended, neither of us immediately stepped apart. Logan’s thumb brushed once over the fabric at my waist.
“Come to dinner with me,” he said.
My breath caught, “We already ate dessert.”
“Not tonight.”
The answer I wanted hovered at the back of my throat. He didn’t know who he was asking.
Tomorrow, when the mask was gone, he might walk past me outside of the bookstore I worked at without looking twice. He might sit across from me at the tutoring center and mention the mysterious girl from the masquerade, not realizing I was in front of him.
“You can’t ask me that,” I said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m trying to.”
“You don’t know my name,” I said.
“Then tell me.”
The clock displayed near the stage read 11:37. My stomach dropped. I had lost track of time.
Across the ballroom, Amber caught my eye. Her expression shifted from delight at finding me with Logan to alarm as the pointed at the clock.
“I have to go,” I said.
Logan’s face became concerned, “Right now?”
“Yes.”
“You said you came with a friend. Is she leaving too?”
“Yes.”
“Wait,” he said, his hand closing gently around mine before I could step away, “At least tell me your name.”
The DJ appeared on stage and tapped the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re only twenty minutes away from midnight!”
Applause rose from the crowd as my pulse thudded in my ears. Logan looked at me, waiting.
I imagined telling him. I imagined recognition spreading across his face, followed by surprise, and maybe even disappointment. Maybe polite confusion as he connected the woman he’d danced with to the girl who reminded him to explain his answers thoroughly on his exams.
The courage the mask had given me evaporated.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I slipped my hand from his.
Then I left.
I didn’t run.
Real life rarely allowed for graceful escapes, and sprinting in Amber’s shoes would have probably ended with an ambulance ride. But, I moved quickly through the crowd, ignoring Logan when he called after me.
Amber followed me as we rushed through the hallway.
“What happened?”
“We have to go,” I said.
“But—” she started.
“Please.”
Something in my face convinced her. We collected our coats from coat check and stepped into the cold before midnight.
There was no lost slipper, no forgotten earring. There was nothing left behind except the girl I had been brave enough to become for a few hours.
--
Logan missed our tutoring session on Tuesday.
I told myself I was relieved, but the lie lasted approximately five minutes. I spent the empty hour reorganizing my notes and imagining every possible explanation.
At 4:55, while I was placing my books in my bag, he appeared in the doorway. His hair was damp from the snow, and his breathing was slightly uneven, as though he had hurried across campus.
“Sorry,” he said, “Practice ran late.”
“You could’ve emailed.”
“I did.”
I checked my phone, and there was a message waiting from ten minutes earlier.
Logan: Practice disaster. Still coming. Please don’t abandon me.
“I didn’t see it,” I said.
“Clearly.”
He dropped into the chair across from me. For one terrifying second, I thought he was studying my face. I resisted the urge to hide my face. Then, he looked away.
“You go to the masquerade?” he asked.
My heart stopped.
I slowly pulled the economics textbook back out of my bag and onto the table.
“Why?”
“Just asking.”
“Were you there?” I asked.
His mouth twitched, “Everyone knows I was there.”
“Right.”
He twirled a pen between his fingers. Normally, Logan filled every silence. He complained about the assignment, or told me something ridiculous that had happened during practice.
That afternoon, he seemed distracted.
I opened to the assigned work, “Did you read the text for the assignment?”
“No.”
“Logan.”
“I had a weird weekend.”
“Did the weirdness destroy your textbook?”
“No.”
“Then I’m struggling to understand the connection.”
He smiled faintly.
For the next half hour, I guided him through the material while pretending not to notice how often his attention drifted toward me. Each time I looked up, he seemed to be studying something; the way I held my pen, or the book protruding from my bag.
Finally, he nodded toward it.
“Another dragon book?”
I looked down.
“Same series.”
His pen stopped moving.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I knew what was happening. He was noticing similarities. Not enough to recognize me. The knowledge filled me with equal parts hope and dread.
A foolish part of my heart wanted him to know. The rest of me remembered how quickly I fled.
At the end of the session, I gathered my things. Logan remained seated.
“Do people ever surprise you?” he suddenly asked.
I glanced at him. “Constantly.”
“No, I mean…” he dragged a hand over the back of his neck, “Do you ever realize you’ve made assumptions about someone without knowing them.”
The question landed too close.
“I think everyone does.”
“Does that make you a bad person?” he asked.
“Depends on the assumption.”
“What if you didn’t think anything bad? You just didn’t think… enough.”
I held his gaze. For one suspended moment, the room felt like the balcony again.
“What happened at the masquerade?” I asked quietly.
His expression changed. He leaned back in his chair, looking almost embarrassed.
“I met someone.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know who she was,” he continued.
“You didn’t ask?” I said.
“I asked.”
“And?”
“She left.”
“Maybe she had somewhere to be,” I said.
“She was gone before midnight.”
I nodded. “What did she seem like?”
The question was a mistake. I knew that before he answered.
Logan looked out toward the windows, where snow had begun to softly gather against the glass.
“Real,” he said.
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.
“She was wearing a mask,” I said.
“I know.”
“You spoke to her for one evening.”
“I know that too.”
“Then how do you know she was real?” I added.
He looked back at me.
“Because she didn’t care who I was.”
The words should have made me happy, but instead, guilt pressed against my chest. I had carried every private detail that I’d learned during tutoring onto that balcony and let him believe we were strangers meeting on equal ground.
“She might have cared,” I said, “Maybe she just didn’t show it.”
“Maybe.”
His gaze fell to the fantasy novel in my bag again.
I forced a smile, “Good luck finding her.”
I left before he could see that I wasn’t sure I had meant it.
--
Over the next two weeks, Logan began appearing everywhere. At first , I assumed it was coincidence. Briar was a large campus, but routines created overlap. Students used the same pathways, got lunch from the same mess halls, and studied in the same buildings.
Still, I had never previously encountered Logan three times in four days.
He came into the bookstore during my afternoon shift on a Thursday and spent twenty minutes browsing a fantasy display that he clearly had no intention of purchasing from.
“You lost?” I asked from behind the register.
He picked up a hardcover and examined the back.
“Expanding my interests.”
“That’s the third book in a trilogy,” I said.
“So?”
“You should start with the first one,” I said, smirking.
“Which is?”
I stepped from behind the counter and selected another book from the display.
“This one.”
He accepted it, glancing between the cover and me.
“You’ve read it?”
“Yes.”
“Dragons?”
“Only one.”
“That’s disappointing.”
He bought the book anyway.
The following Monday, he was outside of the academic hall after the tutoring center closed and offered to walk me toward the dorms. He claimed he was heading in the same direction, though he lived off campus.
On Tuesday, he brought hot chocolate, which in passing I had mentioned I liked better than coffee, to tutoring.
“They gave me an extra,” he said.
“They accidentally gave you two separate cups?” I asked, my eyebrows raised.
“Call it a customer service miracle.”
I accepted it anyway.
Each interaction left me more and more confused. He was searching for the girl from the masquerade, that much was obvious. Somewhere during that search, he seemed to be discovering me. Not recognizing me, I thought. Not quite.
He asked questions he’d never asked before, like why I worked at the bookstore, why I was a tutor, what I wanted to do after graduation, and whether I had always been quiet.
“I’m not quiet,” I told him as we crossed the snowy quad after a late tutoring center.
“You are in groups.”
“That’s because groups are exhausting.”
“You talked to me,” he said.
“That’s because you were failing economics and you came to the tutoring center.”
He laughed. Our breath clouded in the cold between us.
“What are you like when no one knows you?” he asked.
I nearly stumbled. The snow crunched beneath our shoes.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A real one,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve never thought about it?”
“Have you?” I quipped back.
“All the time.”
I glanced over at him. His hands were buried in the pockets of his tan coat, shoulders a little hunched against the wind. Without the hockey crowd around him, or the constant awareness of other people watching, he looked almost like the man from the balcony.
Not Logan. Just… John.
“I think,” I said slowly, “I’m probably more brave when no one knows me.”
He stopped walking. I took another step before realizing he was no longer beside me. When I turned, he was staring at me. Snow was catching in his hair.
“What?” I asked.
His expression was unreadable.
“Nothing.”
“That’s clearly not true.”
He started walking again.
“You ever feel like people only notice you when they want something?”
My heartbeat thudded in my chest. The words were close to what I had told him at the masquerade. It wasn’t exact, but it was close to the same sentiment.
I looked out toward the dorm buildings ahead of us.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Like when they need homework help?” he asked.
I forced a laugh, “That’s oddly specific.”
“Is it wrong?”
“No.”
He waited. I understood he was giving me an opportunity to tell him, to admit I was the girl from the masquerade. I couldn’t do it.
“It’s not that I’d need everyone to notice me,” I said instead, “I just think It would be nice if one person did without being told.”
Logan’s footsteps slowed. For several moments, only the wind moved between us.
Then, he said almost too quietly to hear, “Yeah.”
We reached my dorm. I turned toward the entrance, desperate to escape before I revealed anything.
“Thanks for walking me,” I said to him.
“Anytime.”
I started to walk, before he spoke again.
“Hey.”
I looked back. His eyes were burning into me.
“Did I walk past you at the masquerade?” he asked.
The truth pressed hard against my throat.
“You probably walked past a lot of people,” I said to him.
“That’s not what I asked.”
His gaze moved across my face, searching for something hidden in plain sight.
“I should go,” I whispered.
He didn’t stop me.
--
The following Friday, I worked the closing shift at the bookstore. By nine, campus had emptied into bars, parties, and the hockey arena. Briar had a home game tonight, which meant most students had abandoned any stores or buildings hours earlier.
I listened to the game through one earbud while shelving returns.
Not because of Logan.
That was clearly a lie.
The announcer’s voice rose and fell as I climbed the small ladder near the back of the store. Briar was tied in the third period. Garrett had scored with four minutes remaining, and Logan added a goal near the end.
I smiled before I could stop myself. The final buzzer sounded as I finished locking the register.
The store manager had already left, trusting me to close up. I cleaned up around the store for about forty minutes, making sure everything was clean and ready for the opener. I switched off the front display lights, and pulled my coat from the staff office.
When I stepped outside, making sure to lock the door, snow had started gently falling again. Not heavily, but just enough to give a light dusting.
As I turned around, Logan stood on the sidewalk in front of the bookstore.
I froze.
He wore Briar hockey sweats underneath his coat. His hair was still damp, though I wasn’t sure if it was from being freshly showered or from the snow.
I took a second to collect myself.
“Nice game. You won,” I said.
“So you were listening.”
“The bookstore was empty, I had to do something to pass the time,” I said.
His mouth lifted slightly.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He held something in one hand that I hadn’t noticed. It was a black mask edged in silver.
My breath caught.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, Logan stepped closer.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what I remembered,” he said.
I looked at him carefully.
“About her,” he said, “the girl from the masquerade.”
Snow gathered on the shoulders of his coat as he stepped closer.
“I kept thinking it would be something obvious. Her voice. Her eyes. Maybe she had left something behind on her way out.”
I looked away.
“But it wasn’t.”
His voice softened.
“It was how I felt when she talked.”
My throat tightened.
“Logan…”
“She made me feel like she understood what I was trying to say, even when I didn’t know how to say it. It felt like she saw me.”
He stopped in front of me.
“And then you kept doing the same thing.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes. There was no accusation in them, only certainty.
“You don’t know that it was me,” I said.
“Yes, I do.”
“She was wearing a mask. You never saw her face.”
“I didn’t need to.”
A trembling breath left me. He looked almost nervous, an expression I had never expected to see on John Logan.
“You talked about seeing people,” he said, “At the ball, you said almost the exact same thing.”
The exact words I had said were different, but I knew then that it was similar. The feeling and intention was the same.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“I’m sure a lot of people feel that way.”
“Probably.”
“Other people read fantasy novels, I’m sure,” he said.
“Definitely.”
“It’s a popular genre, right?” he said, anticipating what I was going to say next.
A small laugh escaped me.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Your laugh.”
The smile faded from me.
“I knew it before I knew anything else,” he said, “I just didn’t trust myself.”
I stared at the mask in his hand.
“You were looking for someone else.”
“I thought I was.”
“That night wasn’t real.”
“It was to me,” he said.
“You didn’t know who I was,” I reiterated.
“I knew more than you think.”
“You knew a version of me who was wearing someone else’s dress and hiding under a mask.”
“No,” he said quickly, “I knew the version of you who wasn’t scared I’d decide you weren’t worth listening to.”
The truth of it hurt. I looked toward the empty pathway behind him.
“I left because I didn’t want anyone to know who I was.”
Logan went still.
“I knew that masks would come off at midnight. And then when we talked, I knew it was even more important I left before then. I thought you’d see me and realize I was just the tutor girl.”
“Just the tutor girl?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.”
I laughed once, without humor, “You’re John Logan.”
“So?”
“So everyone knows you. Everyone wants you. Girls go to hockey games carrying signs with your name on them.”
“Some of those are for my teammates.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is that girls like me don’t get chosen by men like you.”
His expression changed, and I wished I could pull the words back. They sounded childish and insecure spoken out loud. They were like the kind of belief that I should have outgrown years ago. But, the feeling beneath them had roots too deep to remove with logic.
Logan stepped closer.
“What does ‘girls like me’ mean?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Quiet girls. Girls who work on Friday nights and own more books than shoes. Girls people call when they need something from them, not when they want them beside them at a party.”
“I don’t want you beside me at a party.”
The words landed like a slap. I flinched. Logan swore under his breath.
“That came out wrong,” he said.
“It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t. I don’t mean I wouldn’t want you there. I mean it’s not the part I care about.”
I said nothing.
“I want you at the diner after a big game,” he said, “I want you making fun of me when I order the same thing every time. I want you tutoring me even after I pass the class. I want to know why you always carry three books when you can only read one at a time.”
“They’re for different moods.”
“I want to know what the moods are,” he said.
My eyes burned as he continued.
“I want to walk you home. I want to bring you hot chocolate and have you insult my taste in books. I want the version of you in the dress that night, and I want the version of you wearing that sweatshirt you’ve had for years.”
I looked down at myself. The faded Briar sweatshirt that had a small ink stain near the sleeve.
“I was afraid,” I whispered.
“What?”
“That you’d find out it was me and be disappointed.”
He stared at me as though the possibility had never occurred to him. Then, his shoulders lowered.
“You think I fell for the dress?”
“I think it helped.”
“It didn’t.”
“You didn’t notice me before.”
The words hung between us, and that was the part he couldn’t deny. Logan looked away briefly, jaw tightening.
“No,” he admitted, “Not enough.”
The honesty hurt me. He looked back at me.
“I knew your name. I knew you were funny. I knew you were smarter than me.”
“That’s a low bar.”
His mouth twitched, “See? That.”
I tried not to smile.
“I knew you were beautiful,” he continued, “But I only knew the pieces that you showed me during tutoring. I never stopped to wonder what else there was, and that’s on me.”
Snow continued to softly fall around us.
“The mask didn’t turn you into someone else,” he said, “It only made me shut up long enough to listen.”
My chest ached.
“What happens now?”
“Now, you stop trying to convince me I found the wrong girl.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“You are.”
He placed the mask on the windowsill of the bookstore beside us.
Then, he held out his hand. I looked at it.
“What are you doing?”
“Asking you to dinner.”
“It’s after nine.”
“Late dinner.”
“You just played a game,” I said.
“Exactly. I’m hungry.”
His hand remained extended between us. I stared at the familiar lines of his palm. At the masquerade, taking his hand had felt safe because the night had an ending. I could walk away and preserve the memory before reality interfered.
This was different. There was no mask, no borrowed dress. There was no promise that I could disappear without being known.
“What if this is different?” I asked.
“It will be.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
He moved closer, lowering his hand.
“It’ll be different because this time, I know your name.”
“And tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’ll still know it.”
“When the whole team is around?”
“Yes.”
“When people ask why you’re with me?”
His face hardened slightly, “They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I mean, they won’t ask why. Garrett already knows.”
I blinked, “Garrett knows?”
“He figured it out, too.”
“How?”
“I was talking about the books.”
I nodded.
“I’m not embarrassed by you,” he said, “I need you to believe that.”
“I’m trying.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t demand more. He simply stood with me beneath the awning while snow drifted through the darkness.
Logan’s gaze dropped to my mouth, and the world grew quieter. Or, perhaps, I only stopped hearing anything beyond the beat of my own pulse.
He stepped closer, leaving enough distance for me to move away. I didn’t.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
The question felt more intimate than if he had simply done it.
I nodded.
His hand rose to my cheek, warm against my skin that was chilled by the snow.
The first brush of his mouth was gentle, almost cautious. Then I curled my fingers into the front of his coat, and he kissed me again.
The second kiss held everything that the first had restrained. His hand settled at my waist, pulling me closer. I felt the warmth of his breath, and the way he smiled when I rose onto my toes to deepen the kiss.
There was no ballroom. No music or dress or masks. There was only us, the snow, and the darkened bookstore behind us.
This was so much better.
When we separated, Logan rested his forehead against mine.
His thumb brushed my cheek.
“Dinner?” he asked again, stretching his hand out again.
This time, when he offered it, I took it.
--
Three weeks later, Briar’s hockey team was back at home for an important game.
Amber sat on my left, and Garrett’s girlfriend, Hannah, sat on my right, patiently explaining penalties that I pretended I needed to hear explained.
The game, similar to the one she had listened to that night at the bookstore, was tied in the third period. Garrett stole the puck and slid it over to Logan, who was racing down the ice. With a flick of the wrist, Logan landed the puck in the top corner of the net.
The arena erupted.
I stood with everyone else, shouting and hugging Amber and Hannah.
After Logan celebrated with his teammates, his gaze swept the crowd, and found me. Even from several rows away, I saw the smile.
After the game, we waited near the tunnel while the stands emptied. The players eventually emerged, carrying equipment bags and talking over one another.
Dean spotted us first and called something to Logan that I couldn’t hear. Logan shoved him with one hand and kept walking. People greeted him as he walked, girls glancing up and someone calling his name from down the tunnel.
He didn’t slow down until he reached me.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You wore my number.”
I glanced down at the jersey he’d given me, “Pure coincidence.”
“Obviously.”
He dropped his bag and leaned down to kiss me. There was nothing dramatic about it; no one gasped. His hand settled at the back of my neck, and I smiled against his mouth while Tucker groaned beside us about public displays of affection.
When Logan pulled away, he kept his arm around my shoulders.
“Malone’s?” he asked.
“Malone’s,” I nodded.
We walked toward the exit together. Outside, the campus was covered in snow, the sidewalks shining beneath the streetlights. Logan kept my hand in his as we passed groups of students leaving the arena.
No mask. No borrowed dress. No reason to disappear before midnight.
