Love.Bites.Harder.

“They’re not even being subtle.” You whisper, rolling your eyes. Meghan gives you a sympathetic smile before glaring at some of the girls whispering.

Rafe leans back in his chair, amused, more unfazed than you. “They’ll get over it.”

But really, he just ends up adding fuel to the fire, walking out of class with you, his hand on the small of your back. He keeps up that routine all week, even inviting you over to study: and you both actually study. To the point where you doze off on his couch and wake up to your head on his shoulder, his arm around you as he watches highlights from the recent Bruins hockey game.

Although, in the morning, you wake up in his bed, with him next to you, and he starts your day off with eating you out like you’re all he wants for breakfast. And he won’t let you do anything in return. It was like he was scared you’d leave.

“Arcade round two?” You suggest after next week’s class, and his blue eyes light up.

“’Bout time, huh?” He agrees.

You both meet up that night, the memory of running into him here a few months ago replaying in your mind. So much had happened between you two. So much that you never expected, from a boy you had no intention of talking to.

Rafe suggests the racing car game the two of you never got to play that night. He lets you pick the course on the screen, and as soon as the race starts, both of you go quiet. The two of you are perfectly matched when it comes to competitiveness. The moment a game starts, all either of you can focus on is winning.

Which is exactly why Rafe catches you off guard when he reaches over and grabs your steering wheel with one hand, still strong enough to control your wheel no matter what you do. You protest and playfully insult him and try to veer back onto the course. But he’s too determined, too amused at your reaction.

“You’re such a cheater.” You sigh when he wins the race.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” He smirks, playfully nudging you when you roll your eyes. You pick skee ball next, warning Rafe not to cheat. He behaves and you manage to win.

“Think we’ve played just about every game in here, partner,” Rafe takes a look around for good measure.

“Round two Mario Kart? Your place?” You suggest, raising a brow.

“You sure you wanna lose when your clothes are on the line?” He gets that glint in his eyes again. Now a little darker with lust. As much as you’re used to it, you still feel your cheeks flush anyway.

“I remember winning at least once.” You counter, shrugging.

“Once. Gonna need to do better than that.”

“I’ve seen you naked before, Cameron.” You stick out your tongue, but you let him walk you home. There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you now. A walk that’s familiar. The way your hands brush against each other’s until you make the move to hold his hand in yours, and he doesn’t pull away.

Mario Kart starts the same as the last time you were here. Rafe wins the first round, smug as can be, taking off your top with ease. But little does he know he’s inspired you a little. If he can be mischievous, so can you. During the next race, you innocently reach a hand across to him. You let it rest in his lap, inching along until you find his bulge.

“What’re you-” He starts, exhaling sharply and cursing when you grip him. He blinks several times, trying to focus on the screen. “That’s not fair.” He breathes out a laugh.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” You reply innocently, reaching up to his jeans and unbuttoning them. Once you manage to unzip him, you reach in greedily until you’re wrapping your hand around his already hardening cock. The second you pull it free and start to stroke, he stifles a groan and drops the controller.

“You’re gonna kill me.” He rasps, tucking himself back in so he can lift you up just like he did before. He carries you to his room, capturing your lips with his in a searing kiss. Once on his bed, he tears off the rest of your clothes impatiently while you do the same with his.

The second his lips move down to your neck, his fingers find your clit. He’s relentless, like he’s trained for this, like he wants to win. He’s going to leave marks on your neck. Again. But the moment you even think about complaining, he growls something that makes the words die in your throat and send heat pulsing through you.

“Mine.”

And the combination of adrenaline and his words and memories of him swirling in your brain sends you over the edge in record time. How much he protects you, how much he wants you, how easily he makes you comfortable.

Rafe uses the time it takes for you to come back to earth to put on the condom, eager but with an ounce of patience as he gauges your expression. But it’s like every time you’re with him, your need for him is stronger. You reach out a hand, and he knowns to come closer.

“Please.” You beg, not even caring if he mocks you for it. And surprisingly he doesn’t, looking at you with a mixture of desire and excitement, kissing you again as he lines up with your entrance.

He pushes in, slower and gentler this time, like he’s trying to savor it. Heavy-lidded eyes locked on yours, you can see them flicker every time you moan as he stretches you, pushing deeper. When he starts to thrust and you watch his hips roll, something about this feels different even if it’s happened before. Your body warm, mind cock-drunk and consumed by him.

“Rafe.” You whine, the coil in your core tightening in a way that made you dizzy.

“Mine,” He says again roughly. “You’re mine.” That makes your coil snap, pussy clenching as you cry out, your body shaking as pleasure rolled through you. He curses, thrusts getting sloppy as your body mellows.

“I’m yours.” You tell him, watching his eyes roll back as he groans. You repeat it like a mantra until your name tears from his throat and he collapses on top of you, fully spent. He tosses the condom and is the one to clean you up this time, his touch so gentle. You both lay there quietly for a while, recovering while you cuddle. It’s Rafe that breaks the silence, tensing beside you.

“You know how you said you’re bad at this fuck buddy shit?” He clears his throat awkwardly, eyes trained on the ceiling. You nod. “Well, I’m really bad at like, the whole exclusive, real relationship shit. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” You assure him quickly. “Remember how you insisted I talk to you if I ever didn’t like something or didn’t want to do something?”

“Yeah,” He murmurs in reply.

“Well, same applies here. We can talk if we don’t like something or whatever. We’ll work it out.”

“Okay.” He lets out a breath, his body relaxing just slightly.

“It’ll be okay, Rafe. Don’t overthink it.” You smile when he finally looks at you again.

“You’re just…” He swallows hard, like the words are impossible to get out. “The first good thing I’ve had in a while. I don’t wanna fuck it up.” You feel that hit your heart, making it swell and ache all at once.

“I don’t want to, either. It’s my job to make you happy, too. We do this together.” You pull him closer, rubbing his back.

“Together.” He repeats.

Despite Rafe’s uncertainty, he does a great job being there for you. He studies with you. Orders you food when you don’t have time to eat. Remembers your finals and texts you after, asking how they went. Calling you his girl at bars and parties so that everyone gets the message.

Rafe’s also the first person you call when you ace your Accounting final, letting you pass the class. You thank him, almost squealing because you’re so happy. And he matches your excitement, his voice bright.

“Knew you could do it, baby.” He says like it’s easy.

And you try to be there for him just the same. Assuring him when he needs it. Packing him healthy snacks for practices and games. And finally waiting for him in the tunnel after every home game. You can always see in his eyes that he’s so happy to see you, win or lose, as if the crushing hug he always gives you wasn’t enough. He still kissed you like he’d been waiting too long, even though he fully had you now. And you felt like you’d finally, truly won.

This fucking sucks, you think.

A pit yawns into existence in the depths of your stomach, and you kiss your teeth. The night managed to be ruined before it even began. Truly a new record in a string of shitty luck. The only thing left is to decide how to respond.

While in the past, you used a plethora of options (each more inventive than the last), this time you're stumped. Bereft. Left standing on a foundation of shifting sand.

How do you correlate the sting of this offensive to the nature of your not-relationship — could you?

In the end, he owes you nothing.

You scrub a hand over your chest with a frown. This should be a non-issue, and yet... And yet.

What the hell's wrong with me?

Beside you, the bartender averts his gaze. Pretends the task of polishing smudged pint glasses is of the utmost importance while you suffer through an existential crisis.

You appreciate the curtesy, clumsy as it is.

Not like there's much else for him to do.

It's a slow night, the locals more interested in the newest blockbuster than sticky floors and cheap drinks with a heavy pour. The music's decent and the strobe lights they kick on after 10 PM aren't offensive enough to induce a migraine.

Moreover, it's quiet as far as bars go - one of the many reasons why it's a favorite meeting place of yours.

Because while its changed hands several times over the years, some things forever remain the same. Like the trashy, half-naked mermaids hanging from the rafters or the bright splashes of graffiti painting the walls in swaths of color... or the low booth crammed into the back corner; a hidden, tell-tale heart hosting an aged carving of yours and Jack's initials on the underside.

The lone vigil of a bygone life filled with coursework and exams, laughter shared over watered down lagers and the pressing clasp of warm palms.

Will we ever be like that again?

Nostalgia's a dangerous thing as you glance at your secret keeper. Makes it harder to avoid the lurch of your heart and the churn of your stomach; the tangled mess of strangleweed emotions threatening to steal the breath from your lungs.

You've been stood up.

Again.

Abandoned in a monument of your youth and surrounded by bittersweet reminders of a time when Jack cared. When he was tender and kind. When the distance between you didn't throb like an open wound.

This isn't the first time. It won't be the last.

Humiliation burns white-hot, sinks its fingers into the apples of your cheeks. It used to be so easy not to take his flakiness personally. He was a busy man with important things to do, even back in college.

When did that change? When did he stop saying sorry? When did he stop caring?

The desolation is much harder to shake off this time. You used to be so understanding but now it feels as if Jack's plunged a hand into your chest, scooped out any tender, soft thing he could find.

Goddamn it. What did you expect?

Jack Abbot is a screaming red flag.

He likes getting shot at for fun, plays cop by listening to a police scanner in his free time, flirts with death to a concerning degree, and bends the rules when it suits his needs.

A loose cannon, wild and untamed since his youth.

He reminds you of Icarus, constantly soaring to new heights. And like the boy with hope in his heart and wings made of wax, you live in fear of the day he'd get burned for flying too close to the sun.

However, you didn't expect to be plummiting towards the earth in his stead. And you don't share his knack for compartmentalization, instead thrown off-kilter by this recent disappointment in a long line of tragedy.

What’s going on with me, you think, regret bitter on your tongue. This is nothing new. Jack's doing what he's always done.

Hell, even after you fuck he never acts differently - as casual with you between the sheets as he is lounging on your couch with a carton of greasy Chinese food and beer.

It's been great.

It's been enough.

Why is now different?

Just the thought of going back to your empty apartment makes your skin crawl, knowing he'll swing by after his next shift with a half-assed apology and your favorite drink since you were a sleep deprived undergrad in hand.

Then he'll coax you into bed where you'll get lost in each other's bodies for hours.

He'll continue to take-take-take.

You'll continue to give-give-give.

On and on, a distant star orbiting a black hole - losing little bits of itself until there's nothing left but dust.

Then he'll leave your life.

First in inches, then in miles; a blurry after-image there and gone in the blink of an eye. You might be lucky if you get a check-up call once every three months.

After all, your lives went in separate directions before - what's stopping that from happening again?

Fuck, I - I can’t do this anymore, you realize, a shiver rattling down your spine, Because I —

An errant thought gains teeth.

Sinks deep and refuses to budge as an awful truth, one buried so well you forgot it was there - ever lurking in the shadows - rises to the forefront of your mind. Hysteria swells. A cold chill rakes gnarled fingers down the nobs of your spine.

Oh.

It’s because I love him. Because I’m in love with him. I always have been.

Suddenly it hurts to breathe, your lungs burning as you drown on the air itself. A steel band cinches around your ribs, threatens to crack you open. Your heart lurches. Despair follows on swift wings, and you have no one to blame except yourself.

Fuck, you scrub a hand over your face with a wane smile. How could I…

It'll never work.

Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection. Besides, there are too many hurts to soothe, and too many disappointments to name.

Should’ve known better — should’ve done a lot of things, I guess.

Now, you're in too deep.

Waiting without ever realizing you began to do so in the first place; a life on pause, surviving off of half-measures and maybe's, what-ifs, if-only's.

No more.

It's time to muster up some semblance of self, untangle the threads of connection so you can rediscover the pieces of your heart you left with him all those years ago. Relearn how to live without the taste of his kiss, the clench of his muscles, the thrust of his cock. Content yourself with his friendship and nothing more.

And it starts with a simple reply in the face of everything else you really want to say: Ok.

After, you grab the bartender's attention (not that it was ever on anyone else but you).

He pretends not to notice the tears brimming along your lash line."Ready to order?" he asks. "What'll ya have?"

"Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…"

The screen of your phone lights up with a notification. His mouth twitches. You waver, refuse to look. Everything is still too fresh, emotions scraped raw and tender.

A simple flick of your finger turns on DND, then you place the device face down where it'll remain until you call it a night. You're far too fragile - and sober - to think about reading Jack's reply.

“Vodka cranberry, double shot. Please.”

Maybe if you get drunk enough, you'll forget about the home he carved in your bones.

Bottoms up, bitch.

In hindsight, having this conversation with Jack face to face the day after you realized you've spent a significant chunk of your life in love with a man who'll never love you back isn’t the brightest idea.

But if last night showed you anything, it's that every choice you’ve made lately is a disaster waiting to happen. What’s another mistake to add to your long string of misfortune?

It doesn't matter if there's a tremor to your hands when you unlock the door to let him in. It doesn't matter if your stomach churns when he leans in for a kiss only for you to duck aside, his lips catching on the slope of your cheek. It doesn't matter even when he pauses and gives you a long, searching look before pro-offering the drink he picked up on the way.

It can't get any worse.

Right?

(It can. It does.)

When he heads towards your bedroom with a slanted quirk of his lips and a playful wink, his crow's feet crinkling, the hungry, molten mixture of rage and rebellion fueling you sputters before fizzling down to embers.

Your heart stutters.

In that moment, he reminds you so, so much of the fresh faced older boy you knew.

The one who dragged you out for pancakes at 3 AM after you crammed for an exam, soft eyes and tender hands. The one you explored your sexuality with, curled against his chest as you kissed and groped each other, lips clumsy and palms sweaty. The one who stole your heart before you realized how empty he'd leave you.

Anguish and despair nip at your heels when you follow him.

You step into the room. This is all you’ll ever be to him, you remind yourself. A fun time. Nothing serious. You have to break it off for the sake of your friendship.

“Did you have a good night?”

Any attempt at smiling falls flat; ill-fitting, the corners stretched too wide, teeth bared like a dog.

Jack shrugs and shifts his weight onto his good leg, glancing around at the decorations littering your dresser. “Nah, not really.” His gaze slides to you, traveling from your head to your bare toes in a slow once over. “I definitely would’ve had a better time with you.” He flashes you a smile. "Always do."

Swallowing roughly, you rub your hands over your arms and feel far too exposed in the light summer dress you haphazardly threw on, skin too sensitive for anything heavier.

“Hah,” you intone without humor, awkward and stilted. “Probably not. I was out by 11:30.”

Jack hums. “Mm, that’s not like you.” He steps forward, only stopping once he's in front of you. "You're acting weird."

Hands reach for your wrists, broad palms a heated brand as fingers encircle the bone like they're cradling precious china. A rough thumb strokes over your pulse point. Shivery sensation whispers at the touch, awareness dripping down your nerves.

"Is there anything you want to talk about, sweetheart?"

When you stitch together a chuckle, its mirthless.

Of course he'd notice.

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Jack grins, his eyes crinkling. "Nothing," he agrees.

With every inhale, your chests brush. The scant few inches between your bodies heats, electric. His torso is a tempting line of hardness begging to mold itself against you just like it has time and time again. It’s torture. It’s too intimate.

The glow of your overhead lamp highlights the glints of spun silver in his hair, the curling sweep of his lashes as he blinks slow and happy, his eyes the shade of kerosene and broken amber beer bottles. He's blinding - like looking at the sun.

Clearing your throat, you shrink back.

“Don’t do that. Where are you going?” He pleads with you to stay, his body curved towards you. A palm settles over your shoulder. “Stop hiding. You can talk to me about anything. Come on, I want to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

Oh, his expression is so open, so soft.

What a terrible thing to destroy.

If only this moment, this memory could last forever suspended on a string.

Maybe once you beat your feelings back into submission…

Better to be quick otherwise you fear the words will get stuck around the bend of your throat like a noose. Resolved, you inhale and muster your courage. Steel your heart and do your best to ignore the ginger stokes of his fingertips.

You exhale, "We need to stop."

The world grinds to a startling halt.

Silence descends but for the rigid exhale through his nose, and all you can do is watch as Jack's eyes darken, scalpal sharp in the dim overhead light. Even still, his half-smile never wanes. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. He's always been a greedy man. Wants what he can't have, and destroys what he does.

"What do you mean?" Jack asks (but he knows, there's no way he doesn't). "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetie."

You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. "Jack, you know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"I just - I can't do," your voice cracks, your free hand motioning helplessly at him, "this anymore."

A vein throbs on the side of his neck, his stubbled jaw working side to side. Muscles bunch and release with every grind of his teeth. Tension impregnates the air, crackling between you like bottled lightening. The calm before the storm.

"You gonna tell me why? Or are you just going to ditch me - act like we," he catches himself, and re-phrases his sentence, "like it didn't fuckin' mean anything?"

“Jack…”

There’s a certain grief that can’t be spoken, gnarled roots burrowing deep in your chest. You wish this wasn’t happening. You wish you could take it back but this pantomime of a relationship isn’t fair. Not to you. Not anymore.

Though while you knew this conversation wouldn’t be fun, Jack's staunch denial still manages to surprise you.

“It didn’t mean anything though,” you say.

At least, not to you, you think. To me, it meant the world.

— And that’s the problem.

You need to stop whatever this is between you from building. He’s already shown he doesn’t share your desire for more in a multitude of ways. He’s been avoiding you for a reason, whether he was consciously aware of your feelings or not.

Undoubtedly, you trust him with your life but not your heart.

As sweet as he is - has been - he won’t treat it gently. He can’t contain his own commitment issues let alone make room for yours.

No, it’s better this way.

Let's what you have - had - stay a memory unmarred by the ugliness of your hurt feelings and bitter disappointments. At least, that's what you thought.

Except Jack's shoulders draw up towards his ears and his hands fall away from you. His gaze is glacial as it pins you in place. There's a shadow that lurks in the depths of his eyes, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.

Everything about him looks weighted down, adding years to his face.

If you didn't know better, you'd think it was heartbreak.

"Well, is there? I mean, shit, I think I deserve a fuckin' answer after all the years we've known each other." He scoffs. "At the very least."

“I’m not done with you,” you say. “I would never do that, Jack. I just - I can’t be with you like that anymore. I need space but I’ll still be around, I promise.”

He glares, a snarl rumbling from the depths of his chest. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me the reason.”

"Why does that - I -"

Words fail you when you need them most. Left scrambling for a reason to give while Jack looks so… God, you want to reach out and comfort him (the urge so strong you have to shove your hands under your arms to stop yourself). And then it comes to you, unbidden.

At the beginning of this mess, you only had one rule.

If there's someone you're serious about, you stop fucking. While made for your benefit more than his - barring the few flings after the passing of his wife - it comes as a handy lie. A believable excuse that'll stop any further questioning and save you from incriminating yourself. The last thing you want to do in this moment is be honest, and if he doesn't relent soon, you fear you'll crack under the weight of your grief and the fury in his eyes.

“I think I - I think I want to start looking for a boyfriend again.”

An expression flashes across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But there’s no doubt he recognizes this for the goodbye it’s supposed to be.

This is it, you think.

You can put what you had to rest and move on, a memory on a shelf you’ll dust off years down the line when the hurt isn’t so prevalent. And hopefully, with time, you can relearn how to be his friend. Though the strange gleam to his eyes sends a prickle of apprehension down your spine, and then you find yourself being manhandled as he snaps forward, a snake coiled to strike.

Air flees your lungs as Jack shoves you with a firm palm, your feet stumbling over themselves as you trip backwards into your bed frame. Wood knocks into the backs of your knees, and you fold like a stack of cards. The sheets puff out around you, the scent of your laundry detergent tickling your nose.

You blink at the textured ceiling, mouth agape as you try to process what happened. This was supposed to be an amenable end to a dubious affair. It's quickly turning into anything but.

How? Why?

The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant.

Jack quickly crowds you into the mattress with his weight as he settles over top of your body. The softness of your body knows the hardness of his, every curve has a matching divot. He molds himself to your front, his firm hips slotting themselves between your thighs as broad palms skim your sides. Warm and calloused, they ruck up the skirt of your dress.

"So that's it, huh?

"What—"

Reaching beneath you to grasp at the soft globes of your ass, Jack yanks you into him. Your pelvises slot together in a harsh clash of friction. Before you can stop yourself, a whine breaks free. The heat of his body sinks into you, and your lashes flutter. A bolt of awareness slices through you as your body responds to his proximity, liquid desire a slow kindling fire behind your navel.

He feels like home - like you're right where you belong beneath him.

Senses overwhelmed as he surrounds you, the heady, pleasent scent of his cologne flooding your lungs with every stuttered inhale. When teeth scrape along the delicate skin of your throat, sharp pinpricks of pleasure-pain lighting sparking sudden and bright, you squirm.

Then he's speaking, low and husky, "My girl's going to leave me for someone else? Think again, sweetheart."

“I’m not your girl. Never was.”

He doesn't need to know how your heart aches at your reply, every beat thrumming in your ears, screaming: it's you, it's always been you, only you.

A cruel mouth latches onto the corner of your jaw, teeth worrying at the flesh as blunt nails dig into the soft fat of your ass. "That right?" Jack asks. His voice rumbles through your torso, your nipples pebbling as they drag over the plains of his chest. "You think you're not my girl?"

The line of his cock ruts into you, dragging wickedly over your swollen clit. It's almost enough to make you swallow your tongue, retract every hasty word and beg for his forgiveness. "I know I'm not your girl," you bite out.

"Ah, so if you're not my girl," he grinds into the cradle of your hips taunting - teasing, "tell me what's got your pretty little pussy so fucking wet, sweetie. C'mon, let's hear it - I'm curious."

"Jack!"

Keening, you rock up into the firm pressure of his shaft. The angle's just right, spreads your folds beneath the thin cotton of your panties to expose your soaked core to the chill of your room. Mortification hooks behind your navel, a warm flush creeping from your crown down to the tips of your toes.

"Don't you know it's rude not to respond when someone asks a question." Jack presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your neck, following up with a stinging nip. His stubble drags over your skin, a path of raw tenderness left in the wake of his attention. "Should I take a guess?"

"I can't — ffuck!"

Blood thrums through your veins, rabbit fast. You're steadily losing all sense of control and rationality, the aborted rolls of your hips increasing in frequency the longer Jack keeps himself pressed against your pussy.

"Do you think some nobody can fuck you better than me?" A hand slaps the outside of your thigh. "Answer me."

A sharp burst of copper floods your mouth, your skin splitting open with how hard you’re chewing on it. Blood clings to the swell of your bottom lip, a ruby red bead you lick away with a nervous tongue.

Sweat dapples your brow, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the molten desire curdling your stomach.

“Shit, Jack, please,” you beg, hands tangling in the sheets by your head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

You’re not sure what you’re asking for but at the same time, you’re not sure how you ended up here.

Again.

“I want you to tell me who your pussy belongs to.”

Fingers inch down to tease along the soft flesh of your inner thighs and play with the elastic of your panties. You tremble, gooseflesh dimpling the exposed skin of your arms as knuckles brush over the length of your soaked pussy. Your clit pulses, the pressure enough to tease.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack coaxes, working his way beneath the fabric clinging to your dripping folds, “tell me you’re my girl - always have been ever since college.”

His cock nestles into the crook of your hip, hot and heavy through his jeans as a darkened patch blooms across the denim crotch. The sticky wetness of his pre-cum smearing into your skin as arousal swells. A brief flicker of worry for his leg snakes through you before being knocked loose by the harsh rut of his hips.

“You just have to say it - say you’re my girl and I’ll be so, so good to you.” His breath warms the shell of your ear. “All you have to do is say it, and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars."

Jack doesn’t give you a chance to cobble together a response, sliding a thick finger through your sticky folds and into your needy pussy just as your lips part to reply. All words leave you, your mind wiped clean as a low, broken cry echoes out into the room. Swallowed up by the sounds of city life outside your apartment as he works to stretch silken flesh open.

You clamp down at the sudden fullness, walls tight and puffy as they flutter around his finger. You can't help but wish it was his cock fucking in so deep the tip kissed your cervix with every thrust, hitting that spot just right to make you cum so hard you soak the bed.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Always so soft n wet n pretty for me.”

Whining in agreement, you give up any pretense of resistance, letting primal desire chase away the despair, the guilt that threatens to choke you. Wiping your mind clean of any thoughts until the only thing that remains is the stretch of his fingers and the ache in your cunt.

Your hands slip, scrambling for purchase with sweaty palms. “J-Jack!”

Your knees tremble where they dig into his sides, air rushing from you in heavy pants as the space between your bodies heats up. You know you won’t last long, already hanging on the edge.

Never in a million years did you expect to be so turned on by Jack's rough behavior. He usually treats you like something delicate.

Though he holds no such compunction now, raw in his desperate desire to make you cum.

Jack peppers kisses onto whatever skin he can reach, spreading your thighs wider with his torso. His knuckles strain against the fabric of your panties, stretching out the cotton and ruining them forevermore as he slips another finger into you.

Then his head bows, catching your gaze, and he says, “Hold on.”

Barely seconds after you anchor yourself to his shoulders, he starts finger fucking you to within an inch of your life. His forearm ripples with strength, the movements of his fingers pressing and rubbing against all the right spots. Curling up to massage at your g-spot until you’re shaking beneath him with hitched breaths.

“Shit, shit,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as your toes flex against his side, “Jack, baby, please don’t stop.”

He huffs a laugh, dark and amused. “Wouldn’t ever do that to you, sweetie.”

“S’good - I - I’m close.”

You sob, tears brimming along your lash line. The sloppy, squelching sounds of him fucking your pussy ring in your ears, as embarrassing as it is arousing. He’s making you gush, slick wetting your inner thighs, dribbling down your ass to stain the sheets.

“So close, gonna - hnnng - gonna cum.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Give me that squirt.”

You shake your head. “I can’t - I can’t!”

If you could, you’d suspend time so this moment never ends. The finality of your arrangement hovering just on the other side of pleasure. In the back of your mind, you know Jack's only behaving this way because he’s jealous. Angry.

He doesn’t mean it, and this is a mistake.

It’ll only hurt you in the long run but you’ll take what you can get.

After all, this is the last time you’ll be together like this.

“No,” he shushes, dropping a kiss to your sweaty brow, “No, don’t lie. I know you can. I’ll make you.”

There’s no escape.

He refuses to let you escape, using his weight to keep you pinned as he spreads his fingers open inside you, twisting and fucking so deep you feel a twinge behind your navel. And then you’re right there, crashing over the edge as the bubble of pleasure bursts, crackling through your limbs.

You cum harder than you ever have before. Nails sinking into his shoulders with a hiss as a wounded, broken wail scrapes its way out of your throat. Your pussy throbs, gummy walls sucking him deeper as a rush of cum gushes from you in spurts. Your ears ring with white noise, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact your hands have gone numb.

For several long moments, you float with a head full of cotton, only rejoining the atmosphere when warmth dribbles down your ass in sticky rivulets of squirt.

Jack's arm is curled around your waist, holding you close as his nose nuzzles into the side of your head. Tender lips dust kisses over your crown. His cock is still a heavy weight digging into your hip but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to relieve himself.

“Jack,” you sigh, a wave of fatigue crashing over you. Your eyes sting when you close them, a lump building in your throat. You ache all over pleasantly, satisfaction settling deep into your bones. In spite of that, a rift opens in your heart. “Jack, I--”

He kisses your shoulder, shushing you. “Don’t ruin it. Just let me hold you for a little while longer… please.”

The tears are almost impossible to stop. “It’s already hard enough, don’t make me -- I can’t just…”

Jack squeezes you gently. “I love you,” he says, “but I swear to god you can be so fucking stupid sometimes.”

You jolt, eyes swinging up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. “What did you just  - I - I  don’t. ..Jack?”

“How could I not feel the same?” he asks rhetorically, tone resigned and wary. “Have since... since college - it just took me a little longer to realize it, that's all. Honestly scared the shit out of me.”

Me too, you think softly as something unfurls in your chest. Lighter than air; ridiculously buoyant with happiness - with hope.

Oh, how stupid.

He averts his gaze. “I almost fucked everything up too, but Robby helped me get my head on straight.”

“We're idiots, huh?”

Jack hums noncommittally, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a sheepish smile on his lips. “You said it, sweetheart.”

feedback is always appreciated

Rafe didn’t seem to be sleeping either. His breathing was too shallow, and he was still fidgeting now and then. You turn toward him, placing a hand on his back. He flinches at first, either from pain or surprise. Slowly, he starts relaxing as you rub his back gently. Your plan was to distract yourself with that until you fell asleep, but your touch seems to have convinced him it’s okay to touch you despite everything that happened earlier. He takes you into his arms, rubbing your back like you did his.

“Can’t sleep?” He mutters.

“No.” You reply softly. Even though the adrenaline had long faded, your body physically exhausted, your mind was still alert. Worried. Sensing for danger. Trying to figure out if you could ever really be ‘casual’ with Rafe anymore. If all of this had to end, even though you didn’t want it to.

You must have dozed off at some point, because the weight of Rafe getting off the bed forces your eyes open. Sunlight is drifting through the window, birds chirping. You stir, noticing him putting on his shoes.

“Sorry,” He whispers, turning toward you. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Going to the rink.”

“What time is it?” You ask, your voice groggy.

“8ish. Go back to sleep.” He gives you a small smile, but something in his eyes snaps your mind into focus. It’s Saturday. A football game day. Why would he go to the rink? But before you can get the words out and hoist yourself up, he’s already gone.

You change quickly, wanting to follow him out when your phone rings. It’s Meghan. The second you answer, she’s asking how you’re doing. If you’re okay.

“I’m fine,” You assure her. “Weird night. I’m so sorry. I had no idea Mike would do that.”

“I don’t think anyone did.” Meghan’s voice is gentle.

“I should have paid more attention, or been more wary-”

“No, he shouldn’t have done what he did,” She interrupts. “Thank God Rafe saw it. How’s he doing, with the injury and everything?”

“I don’t think either of us slept well. But his head seems fine. Won’t tell me otherwise.”

“Is he still with you?” She asks.

“No. He went to the rink. Practically ran out of here. I’m not sure if he just needed to blow off some steam or if he’s worried or what.”

Meghan is quiet for a moment, and your mind spirals again. You speak before she can.

“Meghan, I think I might like him. More than I should.” You admit.

“Yeah,” She says with a sigh. “I don’t blame you after yesterday.”

“I don’t think he feels the same way, though. That’s what sucks. He’s always been clear this was just casual, that this is all he does.” You try not to sound too sad. He’d set the rules, and you’d agreed to it.

“How do you know unless you talk to him about it?”

“Why would I be any different from all the other girls he’s already seen?” You almost scoff.

“Well, I can answer that,” She laughs easily. “You didn’t seek him out. He had to pursue you. And he’s not often the one pursuing. Girls throw themselves at him all the time. Myself included, like at the arcade.”

“Okay, maybe he just liked the challenge. I’m still not that different.” You counter.

“Disagree,” She snips. “People either put Rafe on a pedestal because he’s a rich athlete, or they keep him at a distance because they’re scared of him. You didn’t do either of those things. I saw. I think he liked that you treated him like anyone else.”

“Hm,” You mutter, pondering her words.

“I can ask Miguel when he gets out of the shower, but I’m pretty sure he agrees with me.” Meghan insists, and you know she’s smiling.

“No, I believe you.” You tell her, but you still had some doubt. Friends saw the best in you and wanted to hype you up.

“Go talk to him at the rink, okay? And if it doesn’t go well, I’ll buy you breakfast.” She promises.

“Thanks Meg, talk to you later.” You hang up, urging your body to go to the rink before your mind can talk you out of it.

Somehow, the cold of the rink bites through your jacket and jeans. And your nerves weren’t helping. When you open the closest set of double doors, you can see your breath. You nearly jump sound of the doors closing behind you reverberates across the empty arena. Rafe is skating back and forth on the ice faster than you’ve ever seen him, taking shots that snap into the goal.

“I got 20 more minutes on the clock, Pete!” He calls out, not looking your way as he keeps doing drills. You glance at the timer above the rink, glowing red, as you lean against the barrier. Rafe’s skates scrape against the ice as he stops in front of you, chest heaving. “Oh, what’re you doin’ here?”

His voice isn’t harsh. His eye’s aren’t cold. But something is still off.

“Wanted to check on you. Something wrong?” You keep your voice soft.

“Uh, shit night.” He mutters the obvious answer.

“Understatement of the year,” You say, and that gets a smirk out of him. “But I’m asking if there’s something wrong with us. What are you thinking?”

“Just wanted to clear my head, nothin’ wrong with us. I just…you were right. About how it would feel to see you hurt. I couldn’t stop thinking about what could have happened. And the second I saw those drinks, I…I saw red. I lost control. I didn’t…I didn’t mean…” He trails off, looking away from you now. “I scared you.”

“You didn’t scare me, Rafe.” You reply, shaking your head. You could feel your heart aching for him. The pain in his voice, in his face.

“I did. I saw it in your eyes.” He insists, voice breaking. “I try not to lose control. I’ve worked so hard. Got into hockey. Pushed myself. I tried so fuckin’ hard.”

“Rafe,” You make your voice louder like that would drown out his thoughts. “I wasn’t scared of you. You startled me, but I understood what you did. If I’d seen that I don’t know if I would’ve had as much control as you. The only time you’ve ever scared me was when you got hurt on the ice. That’s it.”

Rafe is quiet for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control. You wished he’d skate a little closer so you could reach out to him. Touch him. He says your name like a warning.

“You don’t know me. All the shit I’ve done. How many times I’ve lost control.” An edge of frustration builds in his voice.

“No, I don’t. You’re right.” You keep your voice calm, warm. “But all I see is someone trying to work on themselves. Someone who cares about people and wants to protect them. You told Evan about the campus counseling. That’s because you also go, right?”

“Yeah,” He nods, his mouth thinning into a hard line under his helmet. “Once every two weeks.”

“Your past is your past. I’m just glad you’re smart enough to work on yourself and find an outlet.” You promise. Rafe had never scared you, ever. You worried when he got confrontational, because he might get hurt. But you weren’t scared of him. You didn’t think he’d ever raise his voice or his hands to you. He goes silent again, the timer ticking down behind him.

“I still…you’d still…I think if you really knew me, you’d leave. Everyone leaves.” His voice is so quiet it breaks your heart. It makes him sound so small, so young. And suddenly you’re the one that feels protective over him.

“You don’t have to let me in. I get why you keep your distance now.” You assure him. The whole conversation you’d envisioned about telling him that you might like him too much felt like it wasn’t even needed, if he already wasn’t willing to get closer. If he needed more distance. But he shakes his head in response.

“I don’t wanna lose you.” He admits hoarsely. You could feel your cheeks flush. Stronger than ever, you wish you weren’t on the other side of this stupid hockey rink.

“Okay. Then you won’t.” You take a deep breath, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket like the arena had suddenly gotten too warm. “Go shower and let’s go to game day. Relax for a bit. And if we need to talk more later, we’ll talk. Deal?”

“Deal. Meet you there.” He agrees, ignoring the timer and heading back to the locker room.

You get ready quickly. Well, as quickly as you can. Showering, changing, doing your hair and makeup. When you get to Rafe’s it’s the same as always. Party in full swing. Music blasting. But nothing feels the same. Not between you two.

Rafe tries to get you to play beer pong again, but you weakly make up an excuse, ignoring his look of confusion. Meghan and Evan were there, thankfully, so you latched on to them. Trying to talk about classes and parties and whatever else. To your relief, Meghan doesn’t mention the chaos of the other night to Evan. The conversation stays light, so you can easily play along.

Your mind is still swimming. Trying to make sense of your feelings for Rafe. Could you really just stay fuck buddies after everything that happened? And if you really did like him too much, would that be the end of it? Would you never really be friends with him after that?

Rafe is surrounded by girls again, as he so often is. That has to be jealousy in your gut. He glances at you, eyes always drifting together like magnets, and you offer him a smile. But he’s not stupid. He can tell something’s wrong. Of course, he waits until later, when you’re grabbing another drink to approach you.

“Hey, you good?” He mutters, voice low. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Rafe,” You take a deep breath. “It’s nothing. But to be honest with you, as much as I understand why you want to keep your distance from people, I don’t think…” You stop yourself for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I don’t think I can just keep fucking you behind closed doors and pretend that I don’t give a shit in person. I thought I could do this, but I don’t think-”

“Don’t need you to pretend,” Rafe interrupts, brows furrowed. “Just…we are what we are. Is that not okay?”

“After last night, I don’t know.” You admit. “I want to be your friend. Stay being your friend. I don’t know if I can keep hooking up.”

“Oh,” His voice gets distant. “Okay.” The look on his face is making your heart clench again. Like he wants to be fine with it, for you. To do whatever you want. But he clearly didn’t expect this. And what’s a girl to a fuckboy if she doesn’t want to sleep with him? “You’re just done, then? That’s it?” Annoyance was slipping into his tone.

“Not done. I just-” The room suddenly feels hot. Stuffy. Claustrophobic. You pull the collar of your Duke jersey off of your neck, as if it was choking you. “I don’t…like I told you, this stuff is weird for me. How it feels like we get so close to each other sometimes and I’m supposed to act like it’s nothing. Like during the day, we’re nothing. But it’s fine, Rafe. Really. You were straight up with me. I’m gonna hang out with Meghan.” You tell him, slipping away as quickly as you can. Chest heavy, body still warm, tears pricking your eyes, you head back outside. You can hear his voice say something, call out to you, but you don’t register it.  

Tale as old as time. You should have expected this. Two people casually sleep together. One’s not sure if that dynamic works for them but does it anyway. That person develops feelings. It’s not Rafe’s fault. It’s not. It’s yours.

“How’s the party going?” Meghan’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

“Fine. Just still exhausted. Didn’t sleep much last night.” You answer, plastering on a smile.

“Same.” She sighs, Miguel kissing her cheek softly.

“Nobody’ll ever hurt you two while we’re around, okay?” He says to you both. His expression is so determined that a real smile breaks through for you, and you nod.

“Wow. Enough of that,” Meghan flushes scarlet, laughing nervously. “We only have a few game days left. We should get a group photo.” Her proposal is innocent, but you know what she’s doing. She wants to post a photo of Miguel, but doesn’t feel ready enough to post something with just the two of them.

Of course, Miguel is all for it. He drags you both out to the lawn, wrangling the boys, including Rafe. You try to keep your expression neutral, even when Rafe chooses to stand beside you like everything’s normal. One of the younger boy’s opts to take the photo, counting you all down and taking multiple angles for good measure. Once the photoshoot is over, you turn to go back to Meghan when a warm hand catches your wrist.

“C’mere,” Rafe’s voice says, pulling you back to him. “Holiday, take one for me.” He calls out, tossing his phone to his roommate.

“W-what are you doing?” You stammer as he wraps an arm around you.

“Damn, alright. Everyone clear out. Rafe’s got a special request.” Holiday’s voice interrupts.

“Just shut the fuck up and take it.” Rafe snaps. You glance up at him, still unsure, but he’s already looking down at you. “Smile.”

Maybe it’s the way he’s smiling. Happier than you’ve seen in a minute, all of a sudden. But you do. Genuinely. Like it’s simple and easy. And then you pose for the photo. Because Meghan’s words about there only being a few game days left ring in your ears. No matter what happened with Rafe, at least for now it would be nice to have a photo.

“All set.” Holiday calls, and Rafe cups your face. You freeze, wanting to pull away. To say something. But with Rafe, your mind goes empty. He leans down, giving you a long, soft kiss. You feel your eyes flutter closed. When he pulls away, the sounds of the party coming back, you can barely think. “Okay, gross.” Holiday mutters, handing Rafe his phone.

“I’m not trying to hide you, if that’s what you think.” Rafe insists, still holding you close.

“Okay, good to know.” Your voice shakes. Your body betrayed you, heat pulling in your core. If you stayed much longer, you knew where this would go. He’d get you in his bed. Think that as long as he can seduce you, everything’s fine. Rafe would win. “I should go. I’m still exhausted. Send me the pic, okay?”

“’Course,” He murmurs, letting you go. “You can sleep upstairs if you want.”

“During a party?” You scoff. “No way. Need some quiet.”

“Fair enough. Text me when you get back.” He gives you a quick hug, reluctantly going back inside.

The whole walk back with Meghan and Miguel, you try to regulate your heart and your breathing. They’re being a typical, real couple. Hand in hand. Chatting about everything. And it makes you happy, but it’s also easy to tune out. And obsess over Rafe again. There was no way you could keep things casual anymore, even if he was the best you’d had. You liked him too much, you had to admit it, and you’d just get your heart broken if you stayed when he didn’t want anything more.

Your phone vibrates but you ignore it. It’s probably Rafe sending you the photo you asked for. But then it vibrates again. And again. You’re about to silence it when Meghan gasps, stopping in place, her free hand holding her phone closer to her face.

“Holy. Shit.” She breathes, turning the phone to Miguel. His dark eyes brighten and he grins widely.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He whoops as Meghan smiles.

“What?” You stop with them, confused.

“Open Instagram. Right now.” Meghan insists, flashing you a knowing smile. But unlocking your phone gives you enough of a hint. Your latest notification? Rafe Cameron had tagged you in a post on Instagram.

Your heart lurched into your throat, cheeks flushing pink. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. There was no way. You were dreaming. You were still sleeping, and this was a dream. You click on the notification, everything slowing like you were in a trance.

It was a picture from earlier, but Holiday had clearly taken multiple. The one that Rafe chose was at the moment where you’d finally smiled. And the happiness was all over your face. Eyes crinkled. Mouth a little too wide. But it didn’t even matter because Rafe stole the show.

The way his hand was on your waist was casual yet a touch possessive. His grip was clearly pulling you closer. And in this photo, he wasn’t looking at the camera yet. He was looking at you. His lips curving into a smile and his eyes…his eyes made it look like you were the only thing he ever wanted to look at.

And the caption? “partner>Clemson”

“Rafe never posts girls.” Meghan interrupts your thoughts, shaking your shoulders excitedly.

“Rafe rarely posts anything.” Miguel echoes. “You’ve made him a changed man.”

By the time you walked into your dorm building, the exhaustion from the day had been replaced with an excitement and nervousness that made you wired. You knew your room would still be empty with Katy gone, but all you’d wanted was to debrief with her. The past two days had your mind reeling. Girls passed by and it almost felt like they’d seen the post and were looking at you, talking about you.

And that made you realize something you hadn’t thought much about. Rafe posting you had made it so that a lot of Duke suddenly knew exactly who you were. The boys who followed hockey and thought Rafe was the best on the team. All the girls who waited for him outside the tunnel, who went to the games, who gossiped about him in the hallways.

For someone who spent most of their life as an outsider, blending in to the background, this amount of attention was surreal. And terrifying. You’d already felt like too many eyes followed both of you before. And now, it would get so, so much worse.

But for the first time since meeting Rafe, you were starting to feel like you didn’t want to run from him anymore. He was different than you expected in almost every way. Fun but protective. Working on himself. Taking action. So you pulled out your phone, opening Instagram and liking his photo. Then you opened your messages, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard as you thought about what to say.

You: got back safe. nice post btw.

Rafe: good. thought u might like it.

It’s in the name: the Punisher, well… punishes. Violently. As Marvel fans most recently saw in MCU Special Presentation The Punisher: One Last Kill, with Jon Bernthal taking centre stage once more as vengeful ex-marine Frank Castle – a role he originated in Netflix’s Defenders shows, and reprised in Daredevil: Born Again. Next stop for the Punisher? Spider-Man: Brand New Day, which is less likely to feature the kind of bone-crunching no-holds-barred smackdowns seen in One Last Kill. Still, it sounds like director Destin Daniel Cretton – along with Bernthal and Spidey himself, Tom Holland – has found ways to bring an authentic Punisher into Peter Parker’s world, without landing Brand New Day in hot water.

As Holland tells Empire, fans will see consistency with what’s come before from the Punisher. “I know that there are concerns about taking a sort of R-rated character and putting him into one of these movies, but the way that we’ve designed the world around him feels very authentic to the Frank Castle we know,” Holland explains. If the MPAA would look less favourably on The Punisher’s actions, the same goes for Peter Parker himself. “There are fun ways to get around the fact that he swears all the time and kills people,” teases Holland.