planetneptune

The photos found you before he was able to explain—or rather—excuse himself.

You were mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, a terrible habit of yours. Suddenly, you came across a blurry picture of Jude outside an expensive restaurant, then another from inside. Jude sat across from a woman you recognised immediately, the same woman he’d mentioned the night of the gala: “I was supposed to bring someone tonight… but she cancelled.”

Evidently, she’d made it up to him. Wow.

Your manicured thumb hovered over the screen, refusing to scroll any further. Instead, you found yourself reading the comments beneath the post. There was complete strangers picking apart every detail, convinced they knew exactly who she was to him. Some called her his girlfriend. Others insisted she was just a friend. Others called her all sorts of horrible names. A few were already congratulating him, saying how pretty she was.

You exited the app before you could read another word. Because the truth was, it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter whether she’d been a date, a friend, or someone Jude simply shared dinner with. It didn’t matter if the internet had gotten it completely wrong.

What mattered was how easily your stomach sank. How quickly every conversation you’d had with Jude over the past few months came rushing back. Every lingering glance of his. Every touch that lasted a little too long. Every time he’d found you in a crowded room as though there was nowhere else he’d rather be, touching the small of your back so intimately as he did so. Every time you had made love to each other. Every time you had left his warm embrace in the morning when the consequences of your actions caught up to you. You knew this, yet kept running headfirst into a brick wall.

After the party, you’d walked away convinced that would be the last time. The last time you’d let yourself mistake his attention for affection because you knew better now. The last time you’d convince yourself that maybe he’d changed his mind. That, maybe, the boy who swore he didn’t want anything serious had finally realised he wanted something more. Then, the gala happened; you were thrown back back to square one.

Looking back, it made you cringe. You found yourself doing that a lot more recently.

You’d spent months clutching pieces of Jude because they felt better than having none of him at all. A hand on your thigh beneath a dinner table, arm wrapped around your shoulders in crowded rooms. Pillow conversations that blurred into early mornings, with you making eggs for yourself while Jude fixed his premade nutritional bowl. The little moments that felt far too intimate to mean nothing, yet never enough to mean something of fruitfulness.

Jude gave you just enough to keep hoping, then reminded you, without ever having to say it again, that hope was all it would ever be. And the worst part was that you let yourself become content with it.

You convinced yourself that being a footnote in Jude’s life was enough, even when he had somehow become the centrefold of yours. You were willing to exist in the margins of his world, to take whatever pieces of him he was willing to offer, while he occupied every corner of your thoughts without even noticing it.

He’d told you from the beginning; he didn’t want a relationship. Jude didn’t want commitment, didn't want to make promises he couldn’t keep. So why had he spent months making it impossible for you to leave?

Your phone buzzed against the comforter, the sound breaking through your thoughts. It's almost like he knew you had found out, that you had been thinking about him. You eyed your phone with disdain as his name lit up your screen before it disappeared again. Another message came through less than a minute later, then another.

Normally, you would’ve answered by now. Even if it was hours later. Even if you wanted to be angry with him. Somehow, you always replied to Jude because you cared about him.

However, not this time.

You turned your phone over, burying his name against the mattress before it had the chance to taunt you again.

You were sick and fucking tired of his bullshit. Tired of trying to decipher someone who had already given you his answer months ago. Tired of letting his actions convince you of one thing while his words insisted on another. Tired of being pulled back into his orbit every time you finally found the strength to walk away.

Maybe this was exactly what you needed. To be disappointed enough to finally believe Jude; he truly didn't want anything, and it didn't mean anything to him.

Jude knew he screwed up big fucking time. The worst part was that he couldn’t even pretend he didn’t understand why.

At first, Jude brushed it off. Maybe you were busy; you had a tendency to sleep for long periods of time. Or maybe you were finally giving him a taste of his own medicine. But after the fifth unanswered text and the third missed call, something in his chest began to tighten. You never ignored him before. You might’ve been frustrated, you might’ve needed space, but you always came back to him. You were always so understanding.

It wasn’t difficult to piece together what had happened. The photos had been everywhere before he’d even made it home. One dinner with a woman he’d known for years, someone he’d promised he’d make it up to after she cancelled on the gala, and suddenly the internet had decided he had a new girlfriend.

The thought would’ve been laughable to Jude under any other circumstances. She was nearly ten years older than him, someone he’d always viewed as a close friend and nothing more. There had never been anything romantic between them, nor would there ever be.

Jude could only imagine what you thought when you’d seen them. The explanation sat on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill the second you answered his phone calls. But the longer you ignored him, the more he realised the explanation wasn’t really the problem; the problem was him.

After the gala, Jude convinced himself everything had finally settled into place. The two of you had started talking more than ever before. Good morning texts became routine, calls that were supposed to last ten minutes somehow stretched past midnight. He found himself reaching for his phone after training without thinking, itching to tell you about another ridiculous argument that had happened in the dressing room or to tell you another funny story about Mastantuono or something Kylian had raved on about during ‘team meetings’.

Jude genuinely enjoyed your presence. The constant pressure that followed him—the cameras, the expectations, the endless rollercoaster that is football—disappeared whenever it was just the two of you. You never asked anything of him besides his company, and somehow that became the thing he looked forward to most. In fact, you really didn't even care about Real Madrid or football, nor did you bring it up unless he did first.

He’d convinced himself he finally had his feelings sorted. Or, at the very least, under control. Jude told himself there was no rush to put a name to whatever the two of you were. Things were good as they were! That eventually, when the timing was right, he’d figure the rest out.

Looking back, it was beyond selfish of him. Jude was asking you to wait for an answer he wasn’t willing to find because every time things edged toward something real, he’d retreat behind the same sentence he’d repeated from the very beginning: I don’t want anything serious.

But, at the time, Jude believed he was doing the right thing.

Football had to always come first. The scrutiny that followed him everywhere was relentless, and he knew better than anyone what happened when the public got hold of someone’s private life. Every relationship became a headline, every minuscule move was analysed for entertainment on social media.

Jude told himself that keeping you in the grey area was protecting you from all of it. If there was no label, there was nothing for the media to destroy; there was no way they could take you away from him as they had done to so many others.

It sounded noble in his head, but, really, it was just a shitty excuse. Because while he’d been trying to shield you from the outside world, Jude had been hurting you himself.

You’d become the person he wanted to tell everything to. The first face he searched for after a good match. The opinion that mattered more than thousands of strangers praising him online. Being around you never felt like another obligation. It felt like home, and he’d grown so used to having you there that he’d stopped appreciating how much of yourself you were giving him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He was selfish.

Jude accepted all the parts of a relationship that came naturally, your company, your comfort, your unwavering support, while refusing to give you the one thing you deserved in return: certainty.

He thought back to the gala more than he’d care to admit. The way you had fit beneath his arm as though you’d always belonged there. The way he’d found himself looking for you in every room, wanting you beside him even when he was surrounded by people. Asking you to be his date hadn’t been planned.

And that, he realised, should’ve been enough for him to face the music: Jude Bellingham wanted to be yours, and he wanted you to be his.

Maybe some part of you had always known Jude would eventually reach out. He never stayed away for long, even if you were the one that sought him out moreso. There was always a text after a few days of silence, some excuse to start a conversation again, some small reminder that he was still there. You had gotten used to him finding his way back into your life before you had the chance to fully convince yourself he was gone.

But you hadn’t expected to open your door and find him standing there.

The knock had been quiet, his knuckles barely making enough noise against the wood to announce his presence. It was almost like Jude wasn’t sure he wanted to be heard, as if some part of him was still giving you the chance to ignore him. Had you not been home, had you not been standing close enough to hear the faint sound, Jude probably would’ve convinced himself that it was a sign and gone back to his car. He would’ve told himself he tried, that showing up unannounced was too much, or that you deserved space from him and his selfishness.

Yet, you were home.

It wasn’t that Jude was someone who avoided difficult conversations. He was passionate by nature, someone who felt everything deeply and never did anything halfway. Jude knew from an early age that he couldn't get what he dreamed of in life without that. But standing outside your door, knowing there was a chance you might not let him in, was different. This wasn’t a conversation he could charm his way through. There was no crowd to distract him, no confidence to hide behind, no easy smile that could make everything feel alright.

For once, the mature Jude Bellingham had no idea what to say.

When you finally pulled the door open, he looked nothing like the man you were used to seeing. He wasn’t carrying that effortless, nonchalant confidence he wore around everyone else. There was no teasing remark waiting on his tongue, no playful grin to soften the tension between you.

Jude just stood there, framed in your doorway, looking more nervous than you had ever seen him. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, shoulders tense as his dark eyes immediately found yours. They were red around the edges, a little swollen. You could tell Jude had spent the entire drive over fighting back tears or had already lost that battle before he reached your door. It was unsettling seeing him like that, to say the least.

“Can… we talk?”

You stared at him.

For a second, you hated that your first instinct was still to let him in. You hated that even after everything, after seeing those photos and convincing yourself you were finally done, some part of you still softened at the sight of him looking this lost. Stop, you won’t give in.

You didn’t move, instead, your face hardened. “You came all the way here just to fucking talk?”

His expression tightened slightly, and his lip trembled. “I know—I know how this looks.”

A quiet laugh escaped you. Not that anything was funny, but because you couldn’t believe his audacity.

“No, Jude. You don’t.”

The words left your mouth before you could soften them. Jude’s eyebrows pulled together immediately, a small crease forming between them as if he genuinely couldn’t understand why you were pushing back. His lips parted, ready to argue, but there was no confidence behind it.

“I do.”

You shook your head slowly. “No, you really don’t.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the edge of the door, the only thing keeping you from crossing your arms or stepping back completely. You needed the barrier. And needed the reminder that he was standing on the other side of it for a reason.

“Because if you did,” you continued, your voice growing steadier despite the ache building in your chest, “you wouldn’t be standing here acting like this is just a misunderstanding.” Jude’s expression shifted. You watched the realisation settle in his face. “You wouldn’t show up whenever you decide you’re ready to have a conversation and expect me to just forget everything that happened. Or that it’s okay to treat me like shit.”

As you spoke, you realised you knew Jude too well. You knew every small change in his expression, every hesitation, every moment where he looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“That’s—that’s not what I’m doing.” His voice was quieter now. You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was no amusement behind it.

“Then what are you doing?”

For a moment, Jude just stared at you. His mouth opened slightly; he had an answer ready, but nothing came out. His eyes flickered away from yours for half a second before returning, and somehow that frustrated you even more.

Because Jude always had something to say. He was quick with his words. Always knew how to lighten the mood, how to make you roll your eyes when you were trying not to smile. He could talk his way through almost anything.

But now, when he was standing in front of you, seeing the hurt he had caused and realising there wasn’t a simple explanation that would make it disappear.

For once, Jude didn’t have the right words. And maybe that was because, for once, there wasn’t an excuse good enough.

“I was worried.”

You blinked slowly, raising an eyebrow in confusion. You hadn’t expect him to disregard you. “What?”

“I was worried when you stopped answering me.”

The words almost made you laugh again. “You were worried?”

“Yes.”

“You were worried!?” You repeated it, shaking your head. “Jude, do you know how many times I was worried about you?” That shut him up. “Listen, you don’t get to just come to my fucking house and act like you’re the one who got hurt because I finally stopped putting up with your bullshit. You just can't.”

“I know what you saw.”

The words came out suddenly, almost like he couldn’t keep them trapped inside anymore. You looked at him, and Jude immediately shook his head, taking a small step forward before catching himself. His hands slipped from his pockets, fingers dragging through his hair in frustration as he tried to find the right way to explain himself.

“The photos,” he said, voice strained. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Jude watched as you didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. “She wasn’t what you think.”

A bitter laugh left you before you could stop it. “Jude—”

“No, please. Please. Just let me explain.” There was something different about the way Jude said it. No confidence. No attempt to brush it off, but rather pure desperation. He was begging you to hear him out. “She’s my mate. That’s it.” The words spilled out of him quickly, like he was afraid you’d interrupt before he could finish. “She’s been my mate for years. She’s, like, literally ten years older than me, and I have never looked at her like that. Not once. There has never been anything romantic between us.”

His eyes searched your face, looking for any sign that you believed him.

“The dinner was exactly what it looked like. Dinner.” He swallowed, settling on that. “I told her I’d make it up to her after she couldn’t come to the gala. That was all it was. I swear, I swear.”

You stayed quiet, and the longer you did, the more unsettled he became. He was worried you’d leave him alone one and for all, that this was the nail in the coffin. That you’d never talk to him again, never forgive him, never let him back in over a miscommunication. That you’d would never accept one more idiotic action of his. And Jude couldn’t blame you one bit.

“I know how it looks,” he rushed out. “I know, God, I’m fucking daff. I know you saw those pictures and the first thing you probably thought was that I’d been leading you on.” His voice faltered, his expression twisting sour; he was fighting back tears. “And I—I understand why you would think that.” For a second, he looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to compose himself. “But please don’t think that.”

His eyes found yours again, all red and glassy. “Don’t think that I was sitting there with someone else while you were just…” He stopped, shaking his head. “While you were nothing to me.” The last sentence seemed to hurt him more than anything else he’d blurted out. “Because you were never that.”

His voice cracked, trembled and shook. “God, you were never that.”

Jude dragged a hand down his face, frustration and regret mixing together until he looked like he didn’t know what to do with either.

“I know I’ve given you reasons to doubt me. I know I’ve made you feel like you weren’t important enough, like you were just someone I could come back to whenever I wanted.” His voice shook as he spoke. “But it was never because of someone else. It was me being a fucking right dickhead.”

You watched him for a moment, taking in the way his breathing had become uneven, the way his fingers kept flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with all the guilt he was carrying. Jude had always been someone who held himself together. The person who found a way to keep going, even when things got difficult. He was stubborn like that, always convinced he could handle everything himself. Right now he looked completely worn down. And honestly, it had worried you. Deep down, you always would love and care about him, which is why you took everything so hard. And also why you kept coming back.

“Jude,” you sounded quietly, his eyes frantically lifted to yours. “Hey. Look at me, it's alright.”

For a second, Jude didn’t move. Then he shook his head, dragging a hand over his face as he let out a rough breath. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched, like he was trying desperately to pull himself together.

“No, no,” Jude pursed his lips. “It's not alright.” You frowned slightly at the correction. His eyes flickered back to yours, red around the edges, his expression twisting with frustration. “It’s not fucking alright because I know what I’ve done.”

His voice cracked slightly, and you could hear how much he hated admitting it.

“I know I can explain the dinner. I know I can tell you she’s just a mate,” He shook his head quickly, almost like he needed to make sure you understood. “But that’s not even the point, is it? I was a proper idiot.” The words were so simple, so unlike him, that they almost hurt more. “I should’ve realised sooner. I should’ve seen what was right in front of me instead of convincing myself I was doing the right thing.”

Your expression softened slightly. “Jude…”

“Stop!” He shook his head immediately. Not angry, rather desperate. “Don’t do that.”

“Wh—Do what?”

“Make it easier for me.” Jude’s voice dropped. “I know I hurt you. I know I messed this up. I fucked up.”

You reached for him slowly, your hand resting against his arm. “Jude, please, it’s okay.”

He looked down for a second, breathing out shakily before looking back at you.

“It’s not.” His fingers curled around your hand carefully. He felt like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold onto you anymore. “I don’t want you to forgive me because you feel sorry for me. I don’t want you to just forget because I’m standing here apologising.”

His eyes searched yours. “I want to actually fix it. Let me make it up to you.” His voice was quieter now, almost a plea. “Please.”

You faintly smile and it’s so, so sad. He feels his heart crack and his eyes burn. He wants to make the warmth of happiness touch your features once more. He has let you down so much lately. Jude wanted to make it right, wanted to show you how much he did really care about you. And something in him shifted, you could tell. His gaze held yours, darker now, not with anger, but with a kind of certainty you hadn’t seen from him before. Slowly, carefully, his hand lifted, sliding up and down your shoulder.

Jude feels like he’s sinned and you are the only one who can absolve him of it.

“I—I need to make it up to you," he chokes out, and he is painfully aware it’s not that late and that the two of you are standing in your apartment doorway. Therefore, anyone could walk out of their door and see Jude Bellingham was begging for forgiveness. But he couldn’t give a shit. You need something to soothe the hurt. He can give that. He would give anything. His pride is minimal when it comes to you, especially now.

"Just tell me what to do," he breathes as he steps closer, toe to toe now, large hands cradling the sides of your face.

“Be only mine,” you whisper, and there isn't even a warble in your voice. That’s all you could say, that’s all you wanted him to do. And he could grant that wish. He can see it from the heat and challenge in your eyes. So, he kisses you.

He kisses you with that need that burns him from the inside out every time he sees you, with long and possessive sweeps of his tongue that make your knees weak. He steals your breath greedily and you moan in response. Then when your fingers curl into his shirt, he knows immediately where he needs to take you next.

The two of you barely stumble in through the door of your apartment before he grumbles, “Hold on tight.”

He hooks your thighs around his waist, the deep timber of his voice has you doing as he commands without hesitation. Your teeth latch onto the tendon in his neck as he jumps you against the bulge of his cock. The two of you make it down your narrow hallway to the bedroom. He hisses his approval as your mouth worries that sensitive area, bruising him for the future.

"Mine," you growl against him, and Jude quietly chuckles. He loved this sudden possessiveness you had over him—perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was relief that you knew he had let you into his heart.

You don't want him to think about anything right now; you felt rather selfish. You want his thoughts to be only of you. That's the least Jude could do after all of this shit he put you through.

Suddenly, he groans before he drops you on the bed; you know that sound by heart. It’s the sound he makes when everything is too overwhelming and you have him wrapped around your finger. It’s the sound he makes when he is trying to control himself, when his cock is kicking and threatening to spill. You knew it all too well.

You sigh, your fingers eagerly making work of his T-shirt. Meanwhile, his hands snap the elastic of his sweats, making you shiver as he slowly peels them off himself.

You bite your lip as you fall back against the mattress, watching him slip out of his boxers easily and prowl towards you. Seeing Jude naked and his cock hard, flushed at the tip and sticky with precum, is such a fucking beautiful sight to behold. You could never get tired of this.

No matter how many times you promised yourself you would walk away, you always ended up back here, because, really, you couldn’t get enough of Jude.

Not the version everyone else saw, but this one. The one who let his guard down with you. The one who showed up on your doorstep, begging for your forgiveness. The raw, authentic Jude Bellingham.

And maybe that was your fatal flaw. Because slowly, you began to forgive him as you realised this wasn’t Jude trying to keep you as something convenient. He was just a man who had been too stubborn, too afraid, and too blind to recognise what had been right in front of him the entire time.

Jude undresses you slower. Each sliver of skin he exposes is blessed with his mouth, kisses, licks, bites, and scrapes of his teeth. He worships you just like you wanted, just like you deserve. He spells his apology out in silent words against your sternum. He whispers his love against the softness of your stomach, he says how beautiful you are with deliciously slow kisses on the inside of your thighs.

"You are so perfect. More than I ever fucking deserve, I swear," Jude huffs, dragging his cheek along your pelvic bone. “Thank you, thank you.”

Light and teasing touches were only tolerable for so long, you could deal with Jude’s fingers dancing around your clothed folds while his lips stayed on yours—but when he pulled away your breaths became irregular, clinging to every ounce of patience you had.

You were about to whine when his hand pushed your panties to the side, slipping a digit inside of you without warning was enough to have you choking out a moan. Your hand flew to grip his bicep to ensure your legs wouldn’t give out on you.

Jude was watching you as if you were God’s gift to the earth, thumb settling on your clit naturally that within seconds of him getting to work your eyes were fluttering shut, head falling back against the wall.

“You’re soaked already, baby,” his words were barely audible; too in awe of you, but you still managed to catch them as you nodded ever so slightly.

“For you,” you breathed out—not that it needed clarifying, but the reassurance had the footballer smirking proudly, even rewarding you as suddenly a second finger slipped inside of you.

Suddenly, it was becoming hard to keep quiet, with strings of moans and whimpers escaping you in succession. Which made Jude’s hard-on strain against the bed. But that was the last thing on his mind, preferring to hold you against the mattress with the only goal of having you come undone in his grasp.

His name sounded heavenly as you moaned it, so much so Jude thought no one else should ever speak it again—nothing could compare to you. He got it now, God, he was stupid.

“Look at me, please,” Jude’s demand was so gentle you almost missed it, eyes still fluttering shut as your thighs squeezed around his hand. Despite hearing him you couldn’t act, control of your body slipping away ever so quickly with the way his thumb was circling your sensitive bud.

Jude’s breathy laugh wasn’t enough to capture your attention either, his touch was all your mind could focus on. So it was when his free, large hand trailed up your body to wrap around your neck that’s when your eyes shot wide open.

His eyes were inquisitive, clearly attempting to gauge a reaction to the action. Your lips parted despite having no pressure applied. Though it was the way you clenched around his fingers that told him enough.

The slight squeeze of your neck was enough to draw a moan out of you, and Jude could only hum in content. Jude could die right here, and he'd die a happy man, he thought. You were so fucking perfect.

It was quickly becoming overwhelming, pleasure suddenly building so quickly. Your eyes poured into him as you struggled to form words. “S’close,” was all you managed out; Jude’s nod was in sync with his curled fingers, your nails digging into his skin as he brushed the spot that had your legs almost giving out.

You were holding onto him for dear life, moans growing louder and whinier as your vision started to become starry despite having your eyes open.

“Let go baby,” his words were enough to push you over the edge, releasing onto his fingers as you practically panted his name like it was a prayer.

Jude had concluded a long time ago that he couldn’t fall for you more than he already had; but as he watched you come undone, he realised he’d been wrong. Your beauty truly knew no ends—and he was now more eager than ever to watch your face contort in pleasure again and again.

Admiration filled your own eyes as they opened once more to peer down at him, flushed cheeks and a sheepish smile spreading on your face as you attempted to catch your breath.

“You’re incredible,” Jude couldn’t stop the praise from escaping him, and watching the way your smile grew had him feeling no regret either; no shame like he usually would when a compliment perhaps too sentimental slipped passed his guard. “You are so perfect—so patient with a right idiot… I—I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

The sight above you rendered you speechless, no shame in your eyes raking over his toned frame as he stood again at the foot of the bed. You quickly felt overdressed, seeing Jude’s naked body. Your own hands found the hem of your shirt, peeling it off your body, no bra meaning your upper body was exposed to the Brit.

You could visibly see him gulp, his eyes dancing over your naked body as he took a few deep breaths; tongue flicking over his bottom lip. The man even shook his head in disbelief, unable to help himself when you invitingly leant back on your elbows. No matter how many times he saw you, you never ceased to render him utterly speechless.

Jude was on top of you within moments, situating between your spread legs as his head found the exposed skin of your chest, open mouth kisses pressed to your neck, slowly making their way to your breasts.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he’d practically whined, your fingers finding the back of his head once more. You could only whimper as his teeth tugged on your skin momentarily.

“Want to make you feel good,” you whispered, unable to ignore his hard on pressing into your hip—the feeling had you squirming, keen to feel more of him. Even when he swore this was about you, you felt the need to make him feel oh-so good.

Jude simply shushed you, however, not being derailed as his kisses moved to your stomach now, your head smacking against the pillow as you tried to control your breathing—left to stare with wide eyes at the ceiling momentarily.

“I feel amazing already,” Jude spoke matter of factly, his hands spreading over your thighs as he parted them to his liking. Your eyes flickered down, not expecting to meet his brown ones. He looked like he was ready to devour you, it made your core ache. He offered no relief as your legs could only squeeze against his hold.

“Jude,” you whined, using all your strength to ensure you could keep your eyes on him, a pretty sight that was rendering you impatient. “Please,” the plea left you in desperation.

“Oh, baby,” Jude just clicked his tongue in reply, leaning up to give you a delicate, sensual kiss to silence your pleas. He pulled away, eyebrows twisted exasperatedly. “I should be the one begging you.”

Then, his tongue follows, tracing a flat path down your lower stomach to your throbbing clit. He nips sharply at your hip and relishes your breathless squeal. This time when he licks you, the tip of his tongue presses inside your fluttering walls. Then the width of it slips all the way up to your mons. He laps over every pearl of your slick; he savors every moan and sigh he pulls from you.

“Oh, fuck, Jude! S—so good,” you groan while you twist beneath him. Jude’s strong grip latches onto your arms, pinning you down.

“Ah, don’t run away from me, babe, please,” Jude whines against you. He sounded so inebriated, so desperate, so needy. All for you. It made your mind spin—you could feel your sanity slipping away. Everything. The photos, Jude showing up and sobbing at your door, his admission, his devotion to you, the way his tongue felt against you—it was all too much for you to handle right now.

Jude’s lips wrap around your aching nerves and pull blood to the surface with a strong suction. It makes you squeak and gasp, trembling. Your skin dances with heat that spreads across your body. With each roll of his tongue and suckle of his mouth you feel your mind whirl away just a bit more. You are fracturing under his guidance. He coaxes you with touches and murmurs, all languid.

"C'mon, baby. Y'know what I want. Tip over that edge for me," he smirks in a dragging purr, looking up at you through your legs.

It pulls your breath from your strangled lungs; it makes your hips buck futilely against his hold. You’re shaking with the sensations he is bringing to the surface now. Your hands move from grasping at the sheets to gripping his coiled hair. You think about pulling Jude away, but rather you instinctually hold him still while you grind softly against his mouth, shoving his face further down. Jude groans with approval and takes it. He flattens his tongue against you and instead of pinning you, he holds your waist so he can provide leverage for you.

You shudder and tremble at his allowance. At the way he bends and molds for you to take your pleasure from him. Normally, when you both had run-ins together, he would be in control, rough and leading. Though, that's not what tonight is about. Tonight is about you, and giving you everything you want and how you want it on a silver platter.

Jude realised what worshiping you means, he knows he is begging for forgiveness for dragging his feet when it came to you. And he will do everything in his power to lift you higher, even as you come for the first time that night on his tongue. Because you gave him everything—and, well—ignored his naivety. But at last, Jude finally understood what that meant to you, and what you meant to him.

It was a blur, the next few moments, you were not really present while Jude shifted your legs off of his shoulders and back onto the bed. Though once you realised the sight in front of you, it didn’t take long for you to push yourself up the bed so you were sitting up.

“You good?” Jude’s voice was soft now, ensuring you were okay; not oblivious to your tired body. You nodded however, a lazy smile spreading on your lips in reassurance, hooded eyes taking him all in. You just wanted to feel all of him.

“Perfect,” you breathed, leaning forward to connect your lips without another word. It was greedy, a few moments of no contact and you were drawn to him again, tasting yourself on his mouth. You just wanted more and more, and the way Jude’s hands flew to your waist showed it was truly reciprocated.

You pushed him slightly to sit down, switching positions so he was resting against the headboard now—it didn’t take much force; Jude was letting you guide him, hands delicately roaming your fatigued frame.

Jude moaned into your mouth the moment your hand wrapped around his length, pumping a few times was the relief he’d been ignoring since you both entered your room.

Jude struggled to kiss back for a mere moment, causing your eyes to flutter open, lips curving upwards at the sight of his face contorted in pleasure. Fuck, you could get used to that image.

“C’mon baby,” Jude rasped out as his hands found a home on your hips, guiding them upwards ever so slightly. “Fuck yourself on my cock, yeah? Would you do that? For me?” Despite his usual dominance, his gentle, submissive voice laced with his northern accent made you shiver with thrill. Your arms moved to hold onto his shoulders, enough to help steady you as you guided your hips on top of his, lowering yourself down onto his cock.

The pair of you gasped in sync, your forehead resting against his as you took him all in at once, jaw going slack from the stretch.

You stilled, needing time to adjust to his size, even after being with him for so long—and Jude had no complaints, the feeling of you wrapped around him making him content.

“You feel s’fucking incredible,” the man rasped, lips brushing against yours as he spoke; and you could only whimper at first, a few deep breaths escaping you.

“So—ah—fucking big,” you moaned; having to swallow intently before mustering the energy to begin moving. You gazed at him hard, slowly riding him.

The closeness and intimacy would usually scare you. Hell, it would normally terrify him.

The vulnerability of it. The weight behind every lingering touch, every confession, every moment where there was no room left to pretend this was something casual. Jude had spent so long convincing himself that keeping things undefined was safer, that putting distance between what he felt and what he admitted was the only way to protect both of you.

But now, Jude accepted it. In fact, he wanted it.

He wasn’t pulling away when things started to feel real. He wasn’t searching for a reason why it couldn’t work or finding some excuse to keep you at arm’s length. For once, he wasn’t fighting the feeling that had been there all along.

He was letting himself have it. Letting himself choose you.

Your nails dug into his skin once more as you shifted up and down, Jude’s hands only on your skin to ensure he had a hold on you—letting you set the pace as he watched, jaw tense and eyes adoring.

“Fuck, Jude,” you whined when he’d bottom out once more, hitting a spot so deep inside of you that your toes were curling. The sound of his own grunts and moans only added to the pleasure.

“Doing so good for me, baby,” his praise only encouraged you, words so delicate. You sped up as much as you could, not too fast but with more urgency than before; as much as your sore body would allow. “So fucking good.”

It wasn’t long before you started to tire, your moans grew whinier but you didn’t need to say anything, a choked moan escaping your throat when his hips suddenly thrusted up to meet your movements.

You hadn’t thought you could feel more full but you were wrong, and Jude didn’t relent as he started fucking up into you.

You were like a doll in his hands, as he started to practically move you up and down his cock; his own hips continuing to thrust up you couldn’t keep up, eyes screwing shut as your mouth fell agape.

“Oh—Oh my God, Jude, fuck,” you were practically chanting; a string of curses and his name; it all felt too good. So perfect, you couldn’t comprehend any of it.

“Take it baby, y’doing so well.” Jude grunted, and you nodded so quickly, like you could ever disappoint him. Fingers reaching to his back and nails dragging across the skin—his thrusts harsh, not slow, but not too quick that you wouldn’t have time to feel every inch of him.

Your head was thrown back, exposing your bare chest further to him, which Jude made the most of for the time being, lips ducking down and attaching to one of your nipples for a few moments. But as your sounds got louder he needed to be able to see your face clearly, hand moving up your back and tangling in your hair to force you to look at him.

“Open your eyes, please,” he practically insisted, and at this point you’d do anything he said without question; eyes blinking open to look at him.

His stamina was still so impressive, unsurprising, especially anymore, as he bounced you on his cock like you weighed nothing. Though the way Jude’s breaths got shaky and his hooded eyes revealed he was feeling the pleasure like you were.

“Who’s making you feel this good?” Jude’s question escaped him without much thought; he just needed to hear you say it. Wanted to revel in the fact he had you in such a state, that you still wanted him. Your praise and reassurance held such a high value to him.

“You, Jude, you,” you whined out in response. You felt his hand move back to your hip, needing to use your own strength now to keep your head upright. “Feels so good,” you told him, squeezing him as you did so.

Jude groaned at the feeling, almost having cummed on the spot; thankfully he didn’t, because he needed to see you fall apart one more time.

“Y’want to cum again, yeah? That you want?” his mouth seemed to know no ends, the taunting only making your stomach grow tighter as you nodded to the best of your ability.

His breaths were heavy now, hands travelling to your bottom. He used the plush of your ass as his grip on your body instead.

“Wanna hear you say it,” Jude begged, head ducking into the exposed skin of your neck, more kisses pressed onto your skin and the thought of marks being there from the amount of attention he’d paid to it was the last thing on either of your minds.

You were struggling now, too fucked out to process his words as quickly as he’d like, so much so a harsher thrust upwards had you aware you needed to answer him, yet you already forgot what he said. Instead, you just screamed out a moan.

“Too fucked out to form words baby?” Jude teased now that he knew he had your attention; and he chuckled once more when you shook your head quickly. You had your Jude back. “Want to hear you say it.” he repeated, eyes piercing yours.

“Wanna—oh, fuck—cum, agh, again,” your words were laced with desperation, needing to take a breath between sentences as his cock spread you open. “Please—please let me cum.”

The man’s hum of satisfaction turned into a moan of pleasure at your plea, sounding and looking so pretty for him, it was clear you’d done enough as you felt his hand snake down between your bodies to your clit.

Your vision went white practically immediately, almost yelping from how sensitive you were; thrown over the edge with little warmth as you came on his cock, practically screaming his name as you did so.

Jude came inside you merely a few seconds later, jaw slack from the sight of you and the way your walls squeezed him once more, only now was his thrusts sloppy as you both rode out your highs.

You were practically limp in his lap, forehead pressed against his bare shoulder as his own head rested against the headboard; loud, heavy and irregular breaths filling the silence.

Jude’s hand gently moved to your head, fingers running through the strands of your hair comfortingly, the action causing you to hum in appreciation. Both of you were content with the silence, purely because neither of you knew exactly what to say, what to do. This was unexpected, to say the least.

After everything that had been said, after all the apologies and truths that had finally been dragged into the open, neither of you really knew what came next. It was strange, sitting here with the person you had spent so long trying to let go of, only to realise that neither of you had ever truly wanted the distance.

Jude’s fingers slowed slightly, his eyes dropping to where his hand rested before looking back at you.

“I’m sorry.” The words were softer this time, though his voice was hoarse after everything. Not rushed, not desperate. Just honest. “I’m so sorry.”

You could hear the weight behind it. Like no matter how many times Jude said it, he still felt like it wouldn’t be enough. His thumb brushed lightly against your hair as he looked at you.

“I know I’ve said it already—and I’m probably ruining the mood—but I mean it.” There was a small pause as Jude chuckled. “I should’ve done this sooner.” His gaze softened, “I should’ve stopped being scared and just told you what I wanted.”

His thumb brushed against your hand, clearing his throat. “So… would you be mine?”

And finally, you heard the words you wanted to hear all along from his lips. You didn’t have to think about it. Not because everything that happened suddenly disappeared. Not because the hurt wasn’t real or because forgiving him had been easy.

But rather somewhere along the way, you had realised Jude wasn’t asking you to forget what he’d done but he was asking you to believe he could do better. And that was the difference.

You squeezed his the nape of his neck gently, watching the tension slowly leave his shoulders as he looked at you.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

A small, boyish smile beamed across his face, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Yes. Yes, Jude.”

And for the first time in a long time, there was no uncertainty between you. No wondering where you stood. No trying to decipher what his actions meant.

Just him. Just you. And finally the quiet understanding that this time, you were finally choosing each other.

© SINFULPETAL. // all rights reserved. do not copy or repost any original content from this blog.

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You heard him shouting from the pitch, emotions raw,  just before he covered his face with both hands and started pacing in tight, frustrated circles. The Argentinians were celebrating wildly right in front of him, cheering, bodies jumping. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically willing himself to not explode publicly. Then one of the opposing players said something in Spanish – you couldn’t hear or understand what –and Jude lashed out, slapping the back of the player’s head in a flash of blind frustration.

You and Denise both shot to your feet at the same time. His mum muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like “for fuck’s sake, Jude,” her hand flying to her mouth as you all watched the brief altercation unfold. Luckily the England lads were quick, pulling him away, keeping him wrapped up and shielded from the cameras as best they could.

He finished his post-match interviews and finally made his way over to the family section. You could tell from the way he kept hiding his face under the brim of his cap that he was pissed off he couldn’t stop the tears. Pissed off he couldn’t stop those late goals. Pissed off he couldn’t score more, contribute more, do whatever it took to push England over the line. He would have sacrificed almost anything tonight to get them to the final.

He hugged his parents first. Denise held him tight, rubbing his back in slow circles, whispering things only a mother could say. Mark gripped him hard, proud even in defeat, murmuring quiet words of reassurance. But their comfort seemed to ricochet off Jude’s body. He was vibrating with anger, with frustration, with a deep, burning disappointment that lived in his chest after every loss with England.

When he finally sat down next to you, his hand automatically latched onto your thigh, gripping like you were the only steady thing left in his world. You watched as his knee bounced restlessly, as he ran his hand over his face again and tugged his cap even lower, trying to disappear under it.

“Jude, hey… hey… look at me,” you said softly.

He turned his head slowly, propping his chin on his fist. The muscles in his jaw ticked hard. He was devastated, that much was clear in his red-rimmed eyes. But underneath it you could see the anger simmering; at himself, at the way it had slipped away again, at the fact that no matter how hard he ran, how much he gave, it still wasn’t enough to cross that final line for England.

You reached out and gently wiped under his eye with your thumb. He turned his head and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your palm, lingering there for a second like he needed the contact to soothe his very soul. Then his eyes drifted away again, distant and unfocused, staring down at the now-empty pitch where the Argentina celebrations had finally started to die down.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and painful. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth absently, like he needed something to anchor him to reality and not let him get lost inside his head.

“Can you come to my room later?” he muttered eventually, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

You nodded instantly, heart twisting at how small he sounded. “Yes… yeah, of course, baby. Whatever you need. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He let out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. “Don’t wanna keep crying out here,” he admitted quietly, almost embarrassed. “Not with everyone still watching. Just… need it to be you. Need it to be quiet.”

You squeezed his hand, leaning your head against his shoulder for a moment. “I’ve got you. I promise. As soon as you’re back at the hotel, I’ll come straight to you. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Jude turned his head slightly, pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head. His voice was barely audible when he spoke again.

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you tonight.”

You got to his hotel room just after the sun had set, the sky outside still bleeding orange and pink. He’d texted you very bluntly earlier, the way he got when the pain was still too fresh to soften for anyone, even you.

Consequently, you weren’t expecting him to be in a fantastic mood when you finally knocked on his door. He always came down to the lobby to collect you, no matter how tired he was. Not tonight.

“Who is it?” came his voice, sharp.

You could hear him moving inside, pacing, up and down the room like a caged animal.

“It’s me, bab–”

You hadn’t finished your sentence before the door swung open. He pulled you inside and shut the door behind you before you could even blink. His chest was heaving. The second you were over the threshold he let go of you, stepping back like he needed space but also couldn’t stand being far away from you. There were fresh tear streaks down his face that he was angrily wiping away with the heel of his hand. He was being so hard on himself. It broke your heart all over again.

“Do you think I had a shit game?” he asked bluntly, voice a little cold, eyes burning with more tears.

“What? No, I—”

“Good. Because what more could I have fucking done?” He started pacing again, hands tugging at his hair. “I ran until my legs felt like they were going to snap. I covered every blade of grass. I created chances. I defended when I had to. And it still wasn’t enough.”

You sat on the edge of his bed, watching him, heart aching as the words poured out of him.

“Jude… you gave everything out there. Everyone saw that. I saw that.”

“Yeah?” He stopped pacing for a second, eyes flashing. “Well it wasn’t enough, was it? The second goal was right in the middle of the fucking goal. Right there. We had six defenders on the fucking pitch. Six! I’m not a defender! How did we let that happen? How did I not see it coming? I should’ve been there. Should’ve been closer to the ball. I should’ve done more.”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “You can’t carry the whole team on your back every single—”

“I wasn’t trying to carry the whole team,” he cut in, voice rising. “I was trying to win! And we were winning. We were in control. And then it just… slipped. Again. Like it always fucking does–”

He cut himself off with a bitter laugh, shaking his head. His eyes were glassy again, angry tears threatening to spill over. He wiped them away roughly, like they personally offended him.

“Baby, you’re being too hard on yourself—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, but there was no real anger directed at you, just frustration spilling out of him any way it could. “Don’t tell me I’m being too hard on myself. I know what I saw out there. I know what I felt. We were better than that. I was better than that. I always think I can do more and then it’s the same story. We get so fucking close and then—”

You stood up slowly, reaching for him. “Jude, hey… look at me.”

He shook his head, running a hand over his face, body shaking with the tears he was trying to hold back.

“I’m so fucking tired of this. Tired of getting to the last stages and watching it slip away. Tired of the ‘nearly men’ narrative. Tired of people saying we don’t have the mentality when we just went toe-to-toe with the world champions for ninety minutes. What more do they want from us? From me?”

His voice cracked on the last word. He stopped pacing for a second, chest rising and falling fast, fists clenched at his sides. The room felt too small for all the fury and grief rolling off him.

You reached for him again, and he let you pull him in, but his body stayed rigid, vibrating.

“What can I do to make it better then?” you asked softly, stroking his back. “If you don’t want me to criticise the self-blame, then how can I help?”

“I don’t know!” His voice cracked, frustration and pain mixing together. “You can’t. I’m just– I’m so fucking angry and–and–”

He cut himself off, breathing hard. For a second it looked like he might pull away. His face crumpled, eyebrows knitting together as a choked off sob escaped him.

“Baby…baby it’s okay–”

“It’s not okay. Nothing feels okay,” he sniffled, tucking his head into your neck. You stroked his back, not sure what to do next. He was so fragile but so angry. You’d never seen him like this before.

“I know and I’m so sorry, Jude,” you whispered, kissing the top of his cheek as you held him close. “Tell me how to help you. I’ll do anything to make you feel a little bit better. Just tell me what you need.”

He lifted his head for a second, wet eyes meeting yours. He looked over your face slowly, like he was searching for something, before his gaze lingered on your lips. You wanted to say something else, anything to help pull him out of the spiral, but he was so focused on your mouth that the self-deprecating words had finally stopped pouring out of him.

“Baby?” you breathed softly.

His grip on your waist tightened almost painfully within seconds. He pulled you flush against him, mouth crashing down on yours in a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. It was desperate, angry, hungry, like he wanted to drown how he was feeling out with how good your lips felt against his.

You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, walking you backwards until your back hit the wall. One hand slid into your hair, tugging hard enough to tilt your head back as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with desperate need.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with emotion, almost apologetic even as his body pressed harder against you. “I’m not trying to take it out on you. I just…”

He broke off, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were still glassy with frustration and leftover tears, but there was something else burning in them now – a desperate, almost feral hunger he only had for you.

“I need you,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I need you to remind me who the fuck I am. Need you to make me feel like me again. Strong. In control. Not this… this version that keeps fucking up.”

His hand slid down to grip your thigh, lifting it around his hip as he ground his hardening bulge against you. “Want to fuck you so deep you forget every other name but mine,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping into the filthy, dominant tone he only used when he was desperate. “Want you screaming for me. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock so I can remember who I am. The one who takes what he wants. The one who always wins with you.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, biting your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathed, eyes dark and wild, hips rolling against you in a slow, filthy grind. “Tell me it’s okay to be rough tonight. Tell me you can take it. Because I need to feel like me again, baby. Need to feel like I own something. Like I own you.”

His fingers dug into your thigh, possessive and trembling with the emotions still raging inside him.

“Please,” he whispered, forehead still pressed to yours. “Let me have you like this.”

You hesitated for a second, searching his eyes. You weren’t entirely sure this was the healthiest way for him to process everything he was feeling…the anger, the grief, the powerlessness from the pitch. But this was Jude, and you didn’t think you could ever say no to him when he looked at you like that, desperate and aching and needing to feel something real.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear, and nodded.

“I can take it,” you whispered. “I’ll take anything you give me. You know I will.”

Relief and hunger flashed across his face at the same time. He squeezed your thigh again, leaning down to kiss you slightly softer at first, but quickly turning deeper, tongue sliding against yours with need and dominance.

“That’s because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips, his accent thicker with emotion. “My beautiful baby. Always know what I need. Always let me have you exactly how I want.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were already glazing over, the soft, submissive look he loved so much taking over. It didn’t take much when he spoke to you like that.

“Yeah?” he asked, almost teasing even through the emotions still raging in his chest. “You gonna let me fuck all this frustration out on you, baby? Let me remind myself who the fuck I am?”

You nodded, already a little breathless. “Yes, Jude.”

That was all he needed. In one smooth, powerful movement he spun you around, pressing your front against the wall. Your cheek met the cool surface as he yanked your jeans and panties down your legs in one rough tug, barely giving you time to step out of them. His big hands immediately palmed your ass, squeezing, spreading, smoothing over your hips like he was reclaiming every bit of skin for himself.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, pressing his still-clothed erection against your bare ass from behind, grinding slow and hard. “Perfect arse. So fucking pretty for me. Bet you’re so wet already and I’ve barely touched you.”

You whimpered as his lips attacked your neck, sucking and biting while his hands slid under your t-shirt, pushing it up so he could feel your skin. One hand stayed on your hip, holding you in place, the other moved up to cup your breast. “Tell me you’re my beautiful girl,” he growled against your ear, voice thick. “Tell me this pussy belongs to me. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I-I’m your beautiful girl, Jude,” you moaned, pushing back against him. “Belong to you… only you.”

He let out a low, satisfied sound and bit down on your shoulder, grinding his cock against you harder.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice dropping even lower. “Gonna fuck you right here first. Gonna make you take it so deep. I’m the only one, aren’t I? The only one who makes you scream.”

He shoved his own joggers down just enough to free himself, thick and hot, pulsing with the need to be inside of you. You felt the head of his cock drag through your folds, teasing your entrance.

“Tell me again,” he demanded, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me who you belong to while I fuck you against this wall.”

“I’m yours, Jude,” you gasped, pushing back against him. “Only yours.”

He wanted to tease you for longer, but how could he when you were so good and obedient for him? He thrust into you in one smooth, powerful stroke, burying himself deep. His hands stayed on your hips as he watched himself disappear inside you and groaned. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, and you cried out, hands bracing against the wall. Jude moaned as you clenched around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stayed still for a second, letting you adjust.

“Fuck… always feel so tight,” he moaned lowly. “My pretty girl.”

Then he started moving with deep, rough strokes that pressed you harder into the wall with every thrust. One hand stayed on your hip, gripping tight enough to leave behind red marks, the other slid up to wrap around your throat, a possessive hold that had your eyes rolling back already. “Say it again,” he growled against your ear, hips snapping forward. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours,” you moaned, voice breaking on every deep thrust. “It’s yours, Jude. All yours.”

He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest as he fucked you harder, deeper, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. His pace was relentless but never cruel.  Every thrust  was purposeful, like he was trying to fuck the frustration and self doubt out of his system and into you.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised, lips brushing your neck between strokes, his voice loving despite his actions being quite the opposite. “Taking my cock so well. Letting me use you like this. Fuck, I needed this. Needed to feel like I can still make you feel good. Still make you mine.”

You whimpered, pushing back to meet his thrusts, and he rewarded you with a particularly deep, grinding stroke that made your knees buckle.

“Tell me you love it,” he breathed hot against your ear. “Tell me you love when I fuck you like this. When I take what’s mine.”

“I love it,” you gasped, cheek pressed to the cool wall. “Love when you fuck me like this, Jude. Love being yours.”

He let out a long moan and wrapped a strong arm around your waist, pulling you back against him so he could thrust even deeper. His free hand slid between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, gentle circles.

The difference between his relentless thrusts, but slow and gentle hands made your vision start to cloud white with stars already. “J-Jude I’m gonna come–”

“No you’re not, baby,” he rasped, slowing his hips enough to tease you. “Not until I tell you to. Hold it for me. Good girl… fuck, you squeeze me so tight when you get close. You’re so fucking wet for me.”

“Please–” you whimpered, thighs trembling.

“Nuh-uh. Not allowed until I get to come with you,” he murmured, sucking on your neck. “You’re gonna hold it for me, aren’t you, angel?”

You nodded frantically, trying desperately to hold off your climax by squeezing your eyes shut. He gave you a small mercy, pulling his fingers away from between your legs and bringing them up to your lips instead.

“Open, baby. Taste yourself for me.”

You obeyed instantly, parting your lips and sucking his fingers into your mouth, moaning around them as his hips sped back up to the punishing pace. The taste of yourself on his skin only made everything feel more intense.

“Fuckin’ hell… just like that, baby,” he moaned, tilting his head to watch your pretty lips envelope his fingers. “Look at you. Sucking my fingers while I fuck you against the wall. My perfect girl.”

The sounds he was making, the low and desperate groans and breathy curses, were not making it any easier to hold back. You whimpered, opening your eyes to give him a pleading look. He exhaled through his nose as he bit his lip, eyes rolling back slightly, the look on your face nearly sending him hurtling towards his own orgasm. He suddenly pulled out, spinning you around to face him. Before you could protest, he kissed you hard, tongue sliding against yours as he lifted you up, pressing your back to the wall again.

“My beautiful girl is gonna make me come too quick,” he murmured against your lips, a dark chuckle vibrating through him. “Especially if you keep looking at me like that. We’re gonna change position so I can hold it a little longer. Yeah, angel?”

He spoke to you slowly like you were stupid, and you were, you suppose considering he’d just fucked you dumb against the wall. Normally you’d fight back, push against the power play because he loved when you were bratty, but that wasn’t what he needed tonight. He wanted complete submission, and you’d give him anything he wanted.

“P-please,” you whined, chasing his mouth when he pulled back slightly, hands clutching at his biceps. “Need you back inside me, Jude…”

“Oh, my needy little baby,” he smirked wickedly, nuzzling his nose against yours, eyes still burning with a mix of frustration and hunger. His hand smoothed up your arm, and wrapped loosely around your throat. “Open your mouth for me,” he whispered. You parted your lips straight away at his command, tongue out, eyes locked on his. His gaze darkened, pupils blown wide as he looked at you, waiting for him. He leaned in closer, hovering above you, and let a slow, thick string of spit fall from his mouth onto your waiting tongue. You moaned softly as it landed and swallowed it down without hesitation, eyes never leaving his.

Jude groaned deeply as his thumb stroked up and down your throat, feeling you swallow.

“Fuck… that’s my good girl,” he praised, voice hoarse. “Swallowing for me so pretty. You’d take anything I give you, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, lips still parted, breathing a little faster. 

“I want all your clothes off. Get on all fours on the bed. Now.”

You nodded again, still too drunk on submission to speak, stripping off your T-shirt and bra as fast as you could. Jude kicked his joggers and boxers off, throwing his own T-shirt across the room. He was leaking as he stroked himself slowly, watching you climb onto the bed.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice softer than it was before. “Can’t believe you’re all mine sometimes. Look at you… arching that pretty back for me already.”

The second you were on all fours, you automatically arched deeper for him, presenting yourself. Jude climbed onto the bed behind you, leaning down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine. His big hands settled on your hips, squeezing gently as he lined himself up. You were trembling with need now, feeling cold and empty without him inside you.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, dragging the thick head of his cock through your soaked, oversensitive heat again. “You love when I use you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, pushing back against him desperately.

He didn’t make you wait this time. In one powerful thrust he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open again so suddenly you cried out louder than before. Jude moaned loudly, the sound almost animalistic as he bottomed out.

“Fuck– so tight. So fucking good,” he growled, pulling back almost all the way before slamming back in. His pace was brutal from the start – deep, hard thrusts that rocked your entire body forward with every snap of his hips. The sound of the headboard hitting the wall echoed through the room.

He reached forward, fisting your hair and pulling your head back to arch your back more.

“Scream my name, baby,” he demanded. “Want to hear you. Want the whole fucking hotel to know who’s fucking you this good.”

“Jude– oh my god, Jude!” you cried out as he hit the specific spot inside you over and over. He knew your body better than you did. You could’ve sworn you could feel him in your stomach.

“That’s it. Louder. Let me hear how much you love my cock,” he groaned, one hand coming down hard on your ass with a sharp smack. The sting made you clench around him, and he moaned loudly. “Fuck yes. Again.”

He spanked you again, harder this time, the sound echoing as he kept pounding into you relentlessly.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice breaking with pleasure. “Say it. Tell me who this pussy belongs to again while I fuck you stupid.”

“It’s yours!” you sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure spilling down your cheeks. “It’s yours, Jude– only yours– fuck!”

He let out a wrecked moan and leaned over you, chest pressed to your back as he fucked you even deeper, one arm wrapped around your waist to hold you in place while his other hand reached down to rub your clit again in tight, fast circles.

“Come for me,” he ordered, rough and desperate. “Come on my cock like the good little slut you are for me. Let me feel you. Scream my fucking name when you do.”

You shattered hard, screaming his name as your orgasm crashed through you, walls clenching violently around him. Jude fucked you through it, hips never stopping, groaning loudly as your climax milked him.

“Fuck– that’s my girl. So good. So fucking good for me,” he panted, voice breaking with pleasure. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside you. You’re gonna take every drop, yeah?”

“Yes– please, Jude– please come inside me,” you begged weakly, still shaking from your orgasm.

With a final, deep thrust and a loud, broken moan of your name, Jude came hard, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering with the force of it. He kept grinding through it, like he couldn’t bear to stop, whispering filthy praise against your ear the whole time.

When he finally stilled, he stayed buried deep inside you, chest heaving against your back, arms wrapped tightly around you as he pressed soft, reverent kisses along your shoulder.

“God… I  fucking love you,” he whispered, his voice shaky. 

“I love you too baby,” you manage to get out, body feeling limp and hazy with the come down. 

The switch happened so quickly you could barely keep up. The anger drained out of him at once, probably with his orgasm, you’d tease him later when you spoke about it. All Jude felt when he heard your soft voice was exhaustion and a sudden wave of nauseating worry. He carefully pulled out, a soft hiss escaping both of you, and immediately turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. His hands were gentle now, too gentle, as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, voice cracking. His eyes were wide, searching your face desperately. He was so expressive with his face, eyebrows furrowing in the sweetest way. “Baby, tell me the truth. Was I too rough? I didn’t mean to– fuck, I was so angry and I just… I needed you so bad.”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, but he was already looking you over, hands sliding down your body with careful tenderness. He turned you slightly, eyes scanning your hips, your ass, the places he’d gripped hard.

“Shit… there’s marks,” he whispered, sounding devastated as his fingers traced the faint red imprints of his hands on your hips and the light handprint on your ass. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be that rough. This time it wasn’t just…it wasn’t just dominance or playing. I was actually angry and I took it out on you and I–”

“Jude,” you said softly, cupping his face to stop his spiral. He looked up and met your eyes, bottom lip between his teeth with worry. “I’m okay. I wanted it. I wanted you. You didn’t hurt me. You’ve been more rough before, you’ve left marks on me before. Don’t worry. You’re okay…I'm okay..”

He still looked torn, eyes glassy again but this time with guilt instead of rage. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it was almost crushing, burying his face in your neck like he could hide from what he’d just done.

“I know I’ve been rough with you before,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice shaking. “But that’s always been… playing. Power play and acting and shit. This time it was real. I was actually angry and frustrated and I took it out on your body and I– fuck, I’m scared I hurt you because I couldn’t control it. I never want you to feel like you have to take my bad days. I’d never hurt you just because I’m upset or angry. You’re the one person who makes everything better and I just used you like that and I feel sick about it.”

You stroked his back slowly, pressing soft kisses to his temple and the side of his head.

“Jude, listen to me,” you whispered. “I wanted it. I wanted all of you – the anger, the need, everything. You didn’t use me. You let me be there for you in any way I could. And I’m okay. I promise. You know I like it when you act like that.”

He made a small, upset sound and held you even tighter, legs tangling with yours as he pulled you fully on top of him. His hands roamed gently over your body now, soothingly checking every place he’d been rough, pressing soft kisses wherever his fingers found faint marks.

“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering between kisses. “I’m so sorry, baby. I love you. I love you so much. You’re everything to me.”

You kept holding him, fingers running through his hair, letting him cling to you until the guilt slowly started to ease and he could finally breathe again. He eventually settled with his face buried back in your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen, one hand still gently rubbing your hip where he’d gripped you earlier.

“Stay like this,” he murmured. “Don’t let go. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I love you, you’re okay Jude.” He let out a long, shaky breath, finally relaxing completely in your arms. "I love you more," he whispered, voice slurring with sleep. "M'sorry baby..."

He was still feeling bad about how rough he was. In reality, you think it could've been the best sex you'd ever had. You were going to tell him that, but the change in his breathing told you he'd already fallen asleep. You press one last gentle kiss to his forehead, "there's nothing to be sorry for, my love."

tags: @chabelitalace @thesizzler @hvnsinureyes @harryskissies (let me know if u want to be added/removed from the taglist)

You’d stood in your bathroom one week ago, staring at your own reflection deeply. You were done settling for half-hearted conversations and a version of Jude that barely seemed to have room for you anymore. Granted, he was a high-performance athlete dealing with the pressures that came with the title… But still, that wasn't fair to you!

But… It also wasn’t your fault you were terrible at keeping your word.

“Where are you going?” Jude’s voice pulled you from your drowning thoughts. You glanced over your shoulder, finding him stretched across the bed, watching as you wandered around the room collecting your things.

The wadded sheets that caressed his lower half did little to offer modesty, his taupe skin glistened with sweat across his abdomen, decorated in red lines left moments ago by your nails.

You ignored his words as you shifted your lace underwear up your trembling, tired legs, your eyes scanned the room in search of all of your clothing. Jude had never been too considerate or precise when discarding them across the floor; he was always so needy and desperate with you.

“Oh, come off it,” Jude scoffed jokingly, not understanding why you’d been in such a hurry after fucking. “We are well past this.”

Touché—you raised your eyebrows in agreement. You had always stayed back, cuddled up in Jude’s arms until he checked out of the hotel the next morning. And that was the issue.

“Jude, you know this was a mistake.” You grumbled out, not offering him a second glance. You know if you did, you wouldn’t want to leave. And that made you annoyed. Especially with yourself.

Jude laughed. Laughed! God, you sometimes envied how unbothered he could be. You rolled your eyes, turning away to find your skirt crumpled on the floor. With an irritated sigh, you shimmed it back up your legs while Jude pushed himself off the bed, tugging on his boxers as though nothing had happened.

“Ouch,” his lip came to a pout, acting as if your words had stung him. He didn't believe you, so they didn't affect him. Damnit!

“I told you last time this wasn't happening again.” You volleyed out an explanation, sounding more like you were convincing yourself rather than him. And you were—Jude didn't even ask for an explanation.

“Ah.. And yet, here we are.” Jude exhaled a chuckle through his nose; and your annoyance was beginning to spread due to his inability to take you seriously.

“Well it's not happening again.”—Famous last words. You looked at Jude and hoped your expression was enough to persuade him to believe your words. But he didn't; maybe because you were the one who sought him out tonight. Or maybe because he didn't want to believe you deep down. Regardless.. He’d prefer to avoid such conversations.

You groaned when you couldn't find your shirt while Jude watched in amusement. He didn't bother to help you—why would he cover up the red and purple marks that caressed your skin thanks to himself?

“Have I lost my touch or something?” Jude knew that wasn't the case. Not when you had just cummed around his fingers and cock three times.

You took a sharp inhale and spun on your heels to face him fully, “Listen, I'm no longer fine with just being a fuck of convenience.” You admitted, shoulders shrugging defeatedly. Only then did you capture the falter on Jude’s face—or rather—his deep eyes. Oh, his eyes. You could get lost in his expressive, gorgeous eyes.

His eyebrows pinched together in confusion as his lips tugged into a small frown.

“That's what you think this is?” His question almost sounded accusatory, but you knew better when it came to Jude. He was just so unintentionally animated, that anything he said came out ten times more passionate.

Jude bent over and scooped up your shirt off the floor but refrained from forfeiting it just yet.

Come to think of it, you didn't want to answer his question, even though it had the most obvious answer. You didn't need it rubbed into your face that your needs didn't align. So, instead, you went to grab your shirt from his grip, but he was quick to draw it back; eyebrows curling in question. Jude really wanted an answer.

“How else would you describe it, Jude?” You tilted your head to the side.

Jude faltered once more, his lip trembling. He hadn’t signed up for this. He avoided this question the last time when you had ‘ended’ the arrangement that had been going on for far too many months now.

“Fun,” Jude settled on. And when you let out a dry, disbelieving laugh, he shuddered. “You.. You know what I mean,” he attempted to follow up.

It startled him. Jude was usually good with words. People had always told him he was mature beyond his years, that he always knew the right thing to say. But when it came to you, he felt like the stupidest man alive.

He searched for a better word, but nothing came. Convenience wasn’t right. It made you sound temporary, interchangeable. You were anything but that.

“I know what to expect from you, Jude.” You successfully grabbed your shirt this time and yanked it over your head. “I'm not going to ask for more. But this isn't enough for me anymore.”

Your explanation was fair; he couldn't complain. Jude couldn't throw it in your face, tell you that he already warned you that he didn't want anything serious. Couldn't make it your problem, or tell you that you were wrong, or your expectations were wrong.

Because they weren't wrong. And that was Jude’s problem. You made sense, you were doing what was right by you. So why did it make him feel like shit? He should be grateful you weren't putting him in an awkward position he had been in far too many times, forced to let others down. He really couldn’t find the words to say anything.

“Thanks for the fun night,” you smiled sarcastically, being able to throw his words in his face. Jude had to refrain from scoffing in disbelief.

You knew damn well it wouldn’t be the last time you saw Jude, but you’d hoped it’d be the last time you were that close to the footballer. Given that the last time you melted beneath his touch and came undone from nothing more than a few whispered words and lingering touches.

You prayed that was the case, and it seemed more and more likely that it was as the months flew by.

Jude knew you were in Madrid; he always knew what clubs you were attending despite never telling him. The smarter side of your brain screamed out danger but the impulsive side made you miss the little game you two had.

Honestly, he barely crossed your mind, it wasn't like it was hard to avoid a footballer. Hot property, especially in Madrid. There were fans chomping at the bit to get their hands on any Real Madrid player, thus security crowded around anyone with any sort of status. It was impossible to stumble across the man.

But ignoring his presence was a bigger feat than intended, especially when he scored the winning goal against Barcelona. As if the posters of his face and name everywhere weren't enough!

Suddenly, Jude’s face was plastered everywhere all at once, and only his name dropped from everyone's lips. You'd like to think there was no bad blood; but he was so hard to resist and you resented him for it. Suddenly he was everywhere—yet not in reach. Perhaps it was a good thing.

So you were optimistic. If getting near Jude was hard before, it'd be ten times harder now. Man of the moment; you felt that you'd be in the clear.

So.. How the fuck did you manage to be only five people back in the front of the line for the exclusive after party club? Your VIP pass decorated your neck as Jude walked past the front doors. He was ushered through the crowd, no need to pay or wait like every other eager party-goer, hoping their name made the list with cash in hand to pay for entry.

Jude shouldn't had spotted you, not with the gaggle of paparazzi that snapped enough pictures to blind a person or the slew of people cheering for him for a shred of attention. But, of course, Jude did.

“Hey, hey, they’re with me.” Jude stopped in his tracks; fishing you and your friend out of line towards him. The second your eyes met his, your expression hardened. Jude only snickered, looking far too pleased with himself.

You wanted to stay where you were and tell him you would wait like everyone else and get in yourself. Your pride was too strong to spare yourself ten minutes and a couple of hundred euros. Yet, your best friend, however, was far too pleased to get in for free. She didn't know your guys’ history, and you couldn't blame her for wanting to be a part of the attention. Hell, you knew Jude was hot as much as she did.

Deep down, it almost felt shameful, as if you were just some pretty girl Jude picked out to entertain himself with. But you only viewed it that way because you feared that had been true in the past. And knowing him, it probably was.

“Would you believe me if I said this is almost the highlight of the day?” Jude spoke to you with a wide grin, head ducked down towards you to ensure you heard him over the music growing in volume as you entered the venue.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes even; it appeared opting to be cold was the easiest option. Friendliness never lasted long with you two; being friendly became flirty. Flirting leads to touching and suddenly you'd be trapped beneath the nearest surface and his fiery body.

"No." Your answer was short, 'forgetting' to mumble the obvious, a congratulations, you'd feel bad if he wasn't getting it from every angle, but he was.

Jude’s grin only widened, regardless, bemused at your words. You weren't surprised, you doubted anything would wipe the shit-eating grin off his face right now. A breath of relief escaped you when someone grabbed at his arm and tugged him along, turning his attention elsewhere as you turned to your friend. Drinks were an absolute need tonight.

In hindsight, deciding to stay in the secluded area reserved for the Real Madrid player was definitely a bad idea. But with the rest of the venue packed shoulder to shoulder, you stood by your decision.

The free drinks and friendly faces proved to be enough of a distraction; music and alcohol flowing through your veins, so much so you’d join in on the cheers every time someone toasted to the footballer, or his name popped up on a board with bottles of champagne arriving.

An arm slithering around your waist should’ve been alarming, but shamefully you recognised the muscular grip immediately, your body naturally welcoming such action instead of pulling away.

“You still haven’t congratulated me.” Jude’s voice was low and in your ear, Birmingham accent thick, making you have to take a sharp breath. It was stupid, ridiculous the way such an action could have your mind growing hazy.

“Haven't I?” You posed the question innocently, bringing your drink to your lips as if it would offer you refuge from the temptation behind you.

You’d lost your friend ages ago, and suddenly you couldn’t recognise many people around you. Or maybe you didn’t make an effort to, because the company you quietly craved was the man behind you.

“Nope,” Jude popped the ‘p,’ lips lingering next to your ear momentarily before he pulled away to also bring his drink to his lips, you taking the moment to turn around and face him. “Not very nice of you, you know?”

You’d rolled your eyes again, a small laugh escaping you. Wanting to point out the fact that everyone was dropping to their knees to sing his praise. He didn’t need it from you. Not to mention how pesky his little Britishisms can be.

Did it make your heart skip a beat that he wanted it, though? Of course it did, despite your brain screaming that it shouldn’t. It was far too easy to cling onto anything this man did.

“Well done,” you spoke, voice laced with sarcasm despite there being truth to your words. “I’m so, so, so proud of you!”

Jude chuckled and his face lit up in amusement once more; a vast contrast to every other conversation he had tonight. This very reason he’d sought you out. Jude thought it spoke for something, the fact his mind had been consumed with so many thoughts of you despite the win he’d just accomplished with the team.

“Thank you.” Jude grinned from ear to ear, and it was as if on cue, he was being tugged away once more; and suddenly, you could breathe again.

You took the time to grab some much needed air, a balcony not too far. The next hour or so ended up being a bit of a blur. You ended up back on the dance floor, familiar faces all around, drinks continuously flowing—reunited with your friend whose lipstick was now smudged and hair slightly tangled, your hands quick to fix it up with small giggles.

You were loosening up, so much so that when Jude next appeared with two drinks in hand and daring eyes… You couldn’t help but accept. You were practically dying by your own hand, you knew you should politely decline and slip back into the crowd. But Jude Bellingham was always so hard to ignore, especially in a black button-up and white slacks.

Both of you toasted and raised the glasses to your lips, somehow still moderately sober in comparison to those around you. You knew your limits and you didn't want the night to end prematurely.

“You're not mad at me, are you?” Jude had to shout for you to hear, your eyes narrowing as you shook your head. You were somewhat surprised at his efforts. His ability to seek you in a crowd that was there for him and his team. All for what? To ask you that question?

“Why would I be mad at you?” You deflected, because you knew he had a point. You weren’t mad at him, obviously. He hadn't done anything; you’d been the one to… get attached. But you were quite clearly being distant and cold and you didn’t feel like explaining why.

Jude shrugged his shoulders, face scrunching up like he was thinking momentarily, giving you time to admire how pretty he looked. How his large hand wrapped around the glass, the way his arms looked with his sleeves rolled up.

“You’re avoiding me,” his brow shot up and you were rolling your eyes once more, like a broken record. The grin on his face showed he didn’t care to sound desperate; that he was well aware why you were acting in such a way. He distinctly remembered the last conversation between the pair of you. How you swore off the two of you—much to his dismay.

“I’m not! I’m keeping a friendly distance,” you corrected playfully, eyebrows raising as he nodded unconvincingly, lips parting in fake shock.

It was pathetic, you already could feel it. Your self restraint slipping away. Suddenly, posing yourself the question, would it be that bad if you entertained yourself with the idea of him just one more time? Just once?

“Right,” Jude practically sung, a laugh following suit as he downed the rest of his drink. “There’s no fun in that.”

All you could do was shrug at his words and give no answer because you agreed. This wasn’t fun, it was hard. It would be so much easier to let yourself take the usual reckless route. And why live life the hard way?

So, there, you chose easy, and when someone appeared to place a drink in Jude’s hand and capture a few minutes of his attention, you allowed the footballer to throw his arm over your shoulders; tugging you closer to his body. He didn’t want you slipping away into the crowd again.

You let yourself stay in his grasp, mindlessly swaying to the music and awaiting for him to finish shooting the shit. You should’ve taken this precious time to realise this was what you were meant to avoid. Take this precious time to duck out from his hold and busy yourself with someone else once more.

But instead you found yourself leaning into Jude; admiring the way his calloused yet gentle fingertips danced on your collarbone—oblivious to prying eyes and jealous gazes from those who were hoping to be in your place. His cologne was intoxicating, his touch was familiar and inviting and the way he was keeping you close while still paying you attention despite everyone trying to get their two cents in with him had your stomach flipping and fluttering.

“I really, really missed you,” Jude whispered; your head tilting aside invitingly. Contrast to your initial and intended behaviour. Regardless, the moment his lips met your skin, all rational plans were out the door with a relieved sigh.

“Good.” you answered back, knowing to not grow excited by such a confession. Not needing to say the words back because Jude already knew you missed him. You were always missing him—and he loved that.

Another kiss was pressed to your skin, and another.

“I mean it,” Jude mumbled, your eyes fluttering shut briefly at the feeling of his lips still peppering your skin. Heat spreading across your cheeks, which you later blamed on the temperature inside the venue.

You were glad you’d made your mind up, having come to the conclusion that one more night with him couldn’t be that bad. Your thought process was definitely influenced by your sexual desires rather than rationality or consideration for your aching, breaking heart. But it meant you weren’t dwelling on his words and picking them apart, instead focused on the way his hand was now resting on the side of your leg.

“Is there a bathroom near?” Your question was all Jude needed to hear as the pair of you were not so subtle as you weaved through the crowd.

His lips were on yours the moment you were in the bathroom, your back being pressed against the door to shut it—his fingers fiddling around to find the lock and the moment he heard it click, his hands were all over you.

It was messy, and rushed; adrenaline pumping between the pair of you much like the muffled music seeping through the door. Your hands were pawing at each other, his at your waist, then your hips, then your legs; touching what he could of you over the silk of your dress.

Your hands were gripping the back of Jude’s head, then running down his chest; attempting to pull him closer despite his body pressed tightly against yours. His hands then moved to grab yours, before lifting them up and over your head; pinning them to the door as his lips moved to your jaw, then to your neck.

“Jude,” you breathed in need. Your eyes shut as you attempted to push forward off the door, wanting to touch him in any way. Excitingly, you were no match for his strength.

He tutted and smacked his lips quietly, kissing at your skin with such intent that made you whimper.

“What do you want?” Jude’s question was almost a taunt while his knee was pushing between your thighs. Jude knew exactly what to do to have you squirming. It made you feel helpless, needy and desperate. Nonetheless, not one bit regretful or ashamed you found yourself here again.

“You—fuck—anything,” you breathed, hips rutting against his leg slightly; the action not unnoticed as a cocky smirk grew on Jude’s lips.

Your eyes poured into his, watching as he bathed the sight of you in. You were so flustered and worked up already, and he barely touched you.

“Yeah?” he hummed, releasing your hands now so he could cup your cheek, which made it hard for you to nod but you attempted to regardless.

“Want you to fuck me,” you elaborated; taking the chance to touch him, hand going straight to the huge bulge in his trousers. Jude gritted and hissed through his teeth with a curl of his eyebrows.

You two would often take your time. Jude liked to have you spread open for him, a few orgasms deeply thanks to his fingers or tongue first before fucking you sensually. Taking his time in kissing every inch of your body, exploring your mouth, kissing you and touching you all he could. He loved to memorise your body like a map.

However, the both of you had a sense of urgency tonight. Keen to feel him inside you, aware there were plenty of people awaiting the footballer; that the night had barely begun in the grand scheme of things. The fact you’d avoided him for so long. The fact you promised, but God, it’d been too long. Jude would struggle to draw this out the way he wanted to.

“Barely touched you, baby,” Jude pointed out with a smirk as if he was not feeling the same burning desire to be with you.

You normally would’ve paid more attention to the way your stomach flipped at the casual drop of the nickname, but his actions captured your attention before you could dwell too hard.

It was a relief as he moved you to the sink counter, pressing on your back to bend you over the surface. Behind you, your hands scrambled to grip on the counter as your eyes settled on him in the mirror. A position you’d only be in for him, and Jude knew that.

Spreading your legs was easy as you watched Jude, flipping the skirt of your dress up and merely pushing your panties aside; fingers swiping through your wetness, entering you once, then twice.

“Gotta make sure this isn’t a mistake, hm?” Jude’s inquiry was a taunt, quoting you, hands leaving your figure. He then unzipped his pants and freed his cock, leaving you to whimper and watch in the mirror.

Jude didn’t make the move to touch you, prolonging your torture; hips swaying slightly as you dwelled on his words. His big doe eyes were pouring into yours through the mirror and your cheeks only grew more hotter. His reminder that you had once claimed you didn’t want this anymore had you speechless, not suddenly rational.

“What changed your mind?” His hands moved to squeeze your ass, cock pressing against your entrance which left you with nothing but anticipation and emptiness. “Cause we finally won? Am I good enough for you now?”

You would’ve rolled your eyes if you weren’t in such a compromising position, his wicked grin enough to show his words were simply throw away comments, not an insight into his actual assumptions.

“Jude… please,” you whined, all you could muster. Your hips attempted to push back onto him but his hands on your ass held you directly in place; chest rising at the sight of you so needy for him. A sight he’d never, ever get sick of.

“Your words, not mine, babe,” Jude reminded you; tongue flicking over his bottom lip as he took in the sight of you momentarily, your laboured breathing and inability to keep still due to your need for him always something he loved to be witness to.

He was usually gentle with you at first, would warm you up; start off slow and build up to the pace that would have tears streaming down your pretty face. But he was insanely eager tonight, adrenaline still pumping madly through his veins. And by the way you were looking at him in the mirror told him you reciprocated.

“Gotta fuck some sense into you, yeah?” Jude’s question was matched with his hand tangling in your hair. He grasped a few strands before tugging you up harshly which made your back meet his chest and a gasp escaped you. “Yeah?” Jude repeated when you failed to answer.

You tried to nod quickly, hips pushing back once more to little success with the position he had you in. His lips were next to your ear now and the chuckle he let out had your thighs attempting to squeeze tightly together.

“Please! Please,” you whimpered; desperation growing pathetically quickly. It was almost pathetic, how he could shorten your vocabulary to pleas and curses in such little time.

Jude would like to say he was one of those men who could do this all night, but that would be a lie. He groaned audibly at your whimper; chest now pushed forward towards the mirror beautifully, still with a perfect view of your face.

He gave you no warning as he slid inside of you, your jaw going slack as he bottomed out; letting go of your hair and pushing your back down once more. Your hands flew to the counter again, moaning at the stretch while he groaned at the way your walls hugged him so, so tightly.

He didn’t give you the usual time to adjust, moving immediately and thrusting deeply inside of you, hands using your hips to meet his movements.

“Swear you’re fucking made for me,” Jude groaned as his head fell back, pounding into your tight cunt repetitively, your moans escaping each time as your face contorted in pleasure.

It was too good—he was too good. You weren’t sure how you could ever actually give this up.

You attempted to keep your moans hushed, although with the volume of the music you weren’t at much risk of being heard; which was good, because you were struggling to keep quiet. In fact, failing miserably! Your eyes rolled back when Jude didn’t fail to hit that spot inside of you repetitively, hands still gripping your hips tightly.

His grunts and groans were addictive, so much so you wanted to open your eyes and bask in the sight of him but the pleasure was too much to do so.

Jude, however, wouldn’t settle for such, hand tangling in your hair once more. He tugged once and pulled your head up slightly, with clear intentions behind his actions.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he cooed breathlessly, and you did as he said, being met with his ones through the mirror; a lazy smile gracing his features as you whimpered and gripped the counter tightly.

You never expect to get off so quickly from pure penetration, but you were. Suppose it was made easier with the sight of him and his hands gracing your skin, plus his filthy, loud mouth.

“So good,” you whined out; not that you needed to vocalise such a thing, it was already clear. But Jude loved your praise as much as you loved his. He hummed in agreement, squeezing your ass in appreciation.

Suddenly, his groans began to grow in frequency.

Jude was close, but in no way would he ever cum before you. His hand sneaking around your waist and dipping in between your thighs, finding your clit with ease. Jude’s fingers circled your clit expertly, dancing and sliding around like he knew you like the back of his hand. Because he did.

“Come for me baby, go on,” his words of encouragement were all you needed to hear as he continued to thrust in and out of you. You released on his cock virtually immediately at his demand. Your walls squeezed him so perfectly, Jude’s name so pretty coming from your lips—his own high cascading him as he came inside of you with a loud groan.

It was oddly satisfying, a quick release; a new experience for the pair of you. The both of you panting and coming down as he slid out of you.

Jude was gentle again, a contrast to before, as he turned you round and sat you on the counter. Your breaths were heavy as you observed him and his hands reaching up your thighs and tugging your underwear down your legs before shoving them in his pocket, only then pulling your dress down for you.

“Pervert,” you mocked with a teasing smile, Jude’s own one growing as he rolled his eyes—hands shifting to rest on your thighs.

“Collecting all the wins today,” he shrugged; a boyish chuckle escaping him as your face screwed up—his humour never lost on you as you pushed against his chest.

“I should smack you for that,” you taunted, failing to pretend to be disgusted as you grinned at him. Your entire body flushed and chest still rising and falling as you caught your breath, a small chuckle escaping you.

There were a few moments of silence as Jude adjusted himself, zipping his trousers back up and straightening out his shirt; your own hands moving to flatten your own hair.

“You gonna stay?” Jude’s question fell upon you with his intent gaze, eyes showing genuine interest. Your own eyebrows quirked in interest, unexpectedly. You'd assumed this was it for the night. Jude got his fix, you got yours.

“…Maybe,” you raised your shoulders slightly, not in a teasing way, but genuinely. You weren’t going to overstay your welcome. You were sure the casual party goers would be falling off the next couple of hours, the ones who just wanted to get a glimpse of the footballer.

You were assuming you fell into that category, not his inner circle.

“You should,” Jude hummed; and you couldn’t help the scoff that escaped you and the man almost frowned.

“You need to celebrate out there,” you hummed, patting his chest lightly with a small laugh.

His eye roll was one of sass, like you should’ve expected. What you didn’t expect was for him to insist on you staying.

“Yeah, I did already,” Jude retorted, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, his thumb moving absentmindedly against the warmth of your skin.

And maybe that was the problem. Because somehow, somewhere between every warning you’d given yourself and every promise you’d made, you’d ended up right back here.

Still close enough to him to forget why you were supposed to leave.

© SINFULPETAL. // all rights reserved. do not copy or repost any original content from this blog.

“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?”

“I’m sorry I called you, I just… How are you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “I’m fine. You wanna talk?”

“No. I mean, yes. Oh, I… Rafe, I’m sorry. You’re probably busy.”

“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?

You were laughing at something Kelce said. Rafe hadn’t been listening, too busy tracking the way the June sun caught your hair, turning colours that probably had names that sounded like they belonged on paint chips. They were sprawled across the Thorntons’ perfectly manicured lawn like they were in some Ralph Lauren ad. Topper, Kelce, Ruthie, you, and Rafe. He’d shown up because Topper had texted him and what else was he supposed to do? Say no? Admit he’d rather be literally anywhere else than watching his best friend play house with his girlfriend of two years? Sitting at Tannyhill waiting for Ward to notice him long enough to be disappointed? At least here he could pretend he had friends; had a place; had something resembling a normal fucking life. 

But lately he couldn't stop cataloging the small things. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking; it was always the left side. How you always brought those homemade cookies to parties, the ones you always wrapped in the same blue cloth each time. The kind that actually tasted like they were baked in a home oven rather than in a commercial kitchen that used bleached flour and measured everything with no real meaning behind it. You used real butter and too much vanilla, and he supposed that was the imperfection that came from someone who actually gave a fuck. The little gold anklet you wore that caught the light when you moved. Stupid things. Things that shouldn't matter. Things he noticed anyway and filed them away into what started as a small nook in his brain and turned to an overpowering compartment. 

Two years. Christ.

“—and I told my Dad there’s no one behind me, what does it matter?”

“It matters because you could hit someone,” Ruthie said, barely looking up from her phone.

“I passed my driver’s test—”

“Then why are we talking about this?” Ruthie’s thumb moved across her screen, nails clicking. She was always bored, yet she always showed up. How much is there to do here?

Topper laughed, genuine, and shifted so you could lean back against his chest. You fit there like you’d measured for the space. His arms came around your waist, casual and propriety, the way someone would hold something they knew was theirs. Something nobody else would try to take. 

Rafe took a pull from his beer. It was warm and disgusting now. He was nursing the drink slowly given that Kelce’s parents were home. If he stopped focusing on drinking slowly, he’d be on his fifth by this point because Rafe had never learned moderation.

“Rafe, back me up,” Kelce said. “You’ve seen me drive—”

“You drive like shit,” Rafe said, and there was the stupid, perpetual edge in his voice he couldn’t smooth out. It always made the people around him shift uncomfortably and that reminded him why Ward always kept him at arm’s length. 

“Wait, what?”

Rafe shrugged. “You drive like shit,” he repeated, then picked at the label on his beer bottle, watching it tear in damp strips. “You almost hit a mailbox on Sea Breeze last week.”

“The mailbox was in my blind spot—”

“The stationary mailbox? The mailbox that couldn’t move was in your blind spot?”

You, Topper’s girlfriend—god, even in his head he couldn’t call you by your name, like saying it would make this whole thing more real—made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. It was soft and musical and Rafe briefly felt something crawl up his throat that was most likely disgust at the way he’d begun thinking. Your head was tipped back against Topper’s shoulder, face turned toward the sun. You looked like you were exactly where you wanted to be.

You probably were.

“I’m a great driver,” he said, but he was grinning now, playing it up. “You’re all just jealous of my Jeep.”

“We all have Jeeps,” Ruthie said, raising a brow.

“Yeah, but mine’s nicer.”

“It’s literally the same car,” Ruthie said, voice lowering towards the end like she couldn’t be bothered to argue. 

From inside the house, Mrs. Thornton appeared at the French doors, waving with enthusiasm Rafe was sure he’d perfected from Junior League training. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect everything. “Lunch is ready, kids! Hope you’re hungry—I made way too much pasta salad.”

“You’re a saint, Mrs. T,” Kelce called back.

“Oh, stop,” she said, but looked pleased. Her eyes lingered on you and Topper, together, appropriate, and exactly what a mother would want for her son. The look on her face was satisfaction. Pride, even. 

Rafe had seen that look before. On Rose’s face when Sarah did something worth bragging about at the club. On Ward’s face when he talked about Topper getting into Chapel Hill, about how good a kid he was, how he had his head on straight. Never on Ward’s face when he talked about Rafe. 

"Come on," Topper said, standing and pulling you up with him in one smooth motion. You stumbled slightly—the grass was uneven or maybe you'd been sitting too long—and he steadied you with a hand at your waist. He was laughing, and so were you, and your fingers were tangled together like they were stitched together. "Careful."

"I'm fine," you said, but you were smiling, and your fingers were still linked with his.

Rafe watched the stumble, the catch, the laugh. He watched the way Topper looked at you like steadying you was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd do it forever if you needed him to. And you looked up at Topper with this expression Rafe couldn't quite name. So unguarded and soft like this trust didn’t have to be earned was so uncomplicated, and the thought of earning it had never even occurred to you.

What the fuck would that be like? To look at someone and just—trust them? To not have to calculate every word, every move, every expression to make sure you didn't give too much away? For someone to look at Rafe, of all people, and feel that way?

Rafe stood too, brushed grass off his shorts. His hands were shaking slightly—not from the beer, barely half-finished—but from something else. Something that felt too much like anger but wasn't. Couldn't be. What did he have to be angry about? Topper was his best friend. You were Topper's girlfriend. This was how it was supposed to be.

You and Topper walked together, shoulders touching, your sundress—pink today, always some shade of soft—swishing around your knees. Your little gold anklet caught in the light. You looked like something out of a catalog selling a lifestyle Rafe’s family already had but somehow always felt a little out of reach. He was twenty and only just realizing that—truly—some things couldn’t be purchased in the same way Ward bought boats and houses and buildings. Some things you had to deserve. 

“You good?” Topper said, dropping back to walk beside Rafe.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, man. You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

Topper laughed shortly. “No, you’re always talking shit. Quiet’s different.” His brows furrowed, concerned and probably genuine. Girls like you made boys like Topper genuine, made sure he didn’t want to be anything other than what he appeared to be. “Everything good with Ward?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “It’s fine.”

“Cool. Cool. Just—you know you can always talk about stuff, right? If you need to.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed and shook his head. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Topper chuckled, shaking his head too. He had lost that quality of getting defensive and irritated too quickly when he started dating you. “Don’t know. But I mean it, yeah?” 

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” Topper clapped his shoulder, reassured, and jogged ahead to catch up with you. You’d stopped to wait for him, leaning against the doorframe, and when he reached you, you smiled. It wasn’t the polite smile you gave everyone else, it seemed more private. Just for him. For Topper. Rafe filed that away without meaning to, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when it was real.. 

Inside, Mrs. Thornton had set out enough food for thrice their number. Pasta salad, finger sandwiches and normal-sized sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies that looked homemade. The kind of spread that said she cared and wanted them to feel welcome and that this was a home where people were fed and happy and safe.

They loaded their plates and settled around the Thorntons’ dining room table. Real plates, cloth napkins, and a lunch with structure. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rose tried, sometimes. She’d set out cheese boards when Ward had important colleagues over, she arranged things the way magazines told her to. But Ward was always working. Sarah was always out. Wheezie was always watching TV in her room with the door closed. Rafe was usually too high to sit through a meal, or too angry, or just too something. The Camerons ate in shifts, quietly, or not at all.

“So,” Mrs. Thornton said, perching on the edge of the chair with her own plate, “what are you kids up to this summer? Besides laying around my backyard like a bunch of lazy seals.”

“Mom,” Topper said.

“What? You are.”

“Not much,” Kelce said seriously. “It’s important we don’t get burned out too early.”

“Burnt out of what?” Ruthie asked.

“Of… summer. Having fun.” 

“You can’t get burnt out of summer. It’s not a race—”

“Everything’s a race—”

Rafe tuned them out. He was watching you, sitting across from him, carefully spreading mayo on your sandwich. You had this way of doing things, and even making a sandwich required your complete attention. Or maybe Rafe was just imagining things? Your nails were painted the same pink as your dress. You wore a little gold necklace with your initial on it; it was delicate enough that Rafe hadn’t noticed until now. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate.

"What about you, sweetheart?" Mrs. Thornton asked, and it took Rafe a second to realize she was talking to you. "Any fun plans?"

"Oh, just the usual. Volunteering at the library on Tuesdays. Hanging out with friends. There's that charity thing at the club next week—"

"The children's hospital benefit," Mrs. Thornton said, nodding. "Your mother mentioned you're on the planning committee."

"Just helping where I can."

"She's being modest," Topper said, squeezing her hand where it rested on the table. "She basically organized the whole thing."

"I didn't—there's a whole committee—" Rafe watched the fluster creep into your cheeks. 

"You made all those decorations yourself," Topper insisted. He looked at his mother and said, "She stayed up until like 2 AM cutting out paper flowers."

"They're for a good cause," you said, and there was something in your voice that sounded firm. Like you needed them to know you weren’t doing it for praise and that the doing itself was enough. 

Rafe took a bite of his sandwich. It was good. Everything in this house was good. That was the problem.

"That's wonderful, honey," Mrs. Thornton said warmly. "We need more young people who actually care about giving back. Don't we, Topper?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Rafe, what about you? Are you helping with the benefit?"

Every eye at the table turned to him. He swallowed his bite of sandwich and took his time with it, feeling the bread stick to his throat. "Haven't really thought about it."

"You should come," you said, offering. Your eyes met his across the table and Rafe’s gaze involuntarily froze on you. Something uncomfortable and scalding set in his ribs. "We could use the help. It's next Saturday, six to nine."

"I might be busy."

"Doing what?" Kelce asked, taking a bite of his pasta salad. 

"Stuff."

"Stuff," Ruthie repeated flatly, one eyebrow raised.

"Come on, man," Topper said. "It'll be fun. Open bar for the parents, which means nobody's paying attention to what we're doing—"

"It's for charity," you said, shrugging slightly like you weren’t sure if it was your place or not.

"It can be for charity and fun. Multitasking." Topper grinned slightly, shameless, and you rolled your eyes but you were smiling. You were always fucking smiling.

Rafe watched. The easy back-and-forth, the way you’d developed your own rhythm after two years together. The way you let Topper be annoying and he let her be serious and somehow it worked. Somehow you’d figured out how to be two people who actually liked each other.

"I'll think about it," Rafe said, even though he wouldn't.

"That's a yes," Kelce decided.

"That's a 'I'll think about it.'"

"On Figure Eight, 'I'll think about it' means yes. It's like when your mom says 'we'll see'—also yes."

"Sometimes 'we'll see' means no," you said quietly.

"Only if you've been bad," Mrs. Thornton said, reaching over and patting your hand gently. "Which I'm sure you never were."

You smiled down at your plate. "I had my moments."

Rafe tried to imagine you having ‘moments.’ He couldn't quite picture it. You seemed like the kind of kid who'd colored inside the lines and done your homework without being asked and never talked back. The kind teachers loved, parents bragged about, boys brought home to meet their families.

You were the kind of girl Ward would approve of.

The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. Rafe shoved it away, took another bite of sandwich. Fuck. He knew that Ward would approve, because when Ward had seen you with Topper, he’d said to Rafe, “Now that’s a nice girl. Why can’t you find someone like that?

They ate and talked, but it was mostly Kelce and Ruthie bickering, you and Topper sharing food off each other's plates like you’d been married for twenty years, Mrs. Thornton interjecting with questions and comments that kept the conversation moving. It was painfully normal and painfully nice.

Rafe's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it under the table: Barry asking where he was, if he was coming by today. Three texts, actually, each more impatient than the last. 

He should go. Should make an excuse and get out of here and go pick up what he needed to take the edge off this feeling, this crawling, itching feeling that said something was wrong, that he was in the wrong place, that everyone here was playing a game where they knew how to navigate and he didn’t.

But Topper was laughing at something you had said, and Mrs. Thornton was offering seconds, and Kelce was stealing a cookie before he'd finished his sandwich, and for a second—just a second—Rafe let himself imagine this was his life. That he was the one with the uncomplicated girlfriend and the mother who gave a shit and the kind of problems that could be solved by showing up to a charity event.

The phone buzzed in his hand again. bro?? He locked it and pushed it into his pocket. 

"Rafe?" you said. He realized you’d asked him something—were still asking him something—and everyone was sitting around him waiting for his response again. 

He swallowed nothing. "What?"

"I asked if you wanted more pasta salad. You've barely eaten."

You were looking at him with those eyes he’d memorised, head tilted slightly, concerned in that soft way you had. Not pitying—you were too careful for that—just genuinely wondering if he was okay. Like you cared and like you actually gave a shit whether or not he ate lunch.

"I'm good," he said.

"You sure? Mrs. Thornton made a lot—"

"I said I'm good. Stop asking.” 

It came out harsher than he’d meant. You blinked, drew back just half an inch, and Topper’s arm came around your shoulders automatically, protective like Rafe was a predator and you were his next meal. 

“Dude,” Topper said.

“What?”

“She’s just trying to be nice.”

“I know.” His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. “I’m good. That’s all I said.”

The table went silent. Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat, Ruthie studied her phone, and Kelce suddenly found his sandwich fascinating. You were looking at him from the corner of your eye with what he assumed was hurt or concern. Your hand moved to your necklace and twirled the initial around once, then back around twice. 

He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at you. “Sorry,” he said, eyes meeting yours, almost shamefully. “Didn’t mean to—sorry.”

Your eyes widened slightly. Maybe you were surprised he’d apologized at all. He didn’t blame you. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, gently, which somehow made him feel worse. Were you that forgiving with Topper, too? Would you forgive Rafe that quickly if you were his, because he knew he’d fuck up a lot. “I didn’t mean to push.” 

“You weren’t.”

𖦹

Rafe almost didn’t go. He had his truck pointed towards Barry’s and everything with his cash in pocket and the familiar itch under his skin that said he needed something to take the edge off Ward’s recent disappointment (this morning delivered over breakfast like a side of shitty cold eggs  (“I assume you’re not going to the L/N’s charity event tonight”)) But then he’d driven past the country club on his way and seen the parking lot filling up with cars that cost more than people’s houses (Range Rovers, Mercedes, that asshole Jenkins’s new Porsche) and something in him—maybe it was boredom, maybe spite, or just the kind of restless energy that came from doing too much coke the night before and not enough today—made him turn in. 

He told himself it was to prove Ward wrong. And also because Topper had texted him three times, ever the supportive boyfriend. Or because he had nothing better to do on a Saturday night in June when the whole island felt like it was suffocating under humidity.

He did not tell himself it had anything to do with you. 

The country club itself looked like someone had thrown up pastels all over it. Pink and yellow streamers twisted around the columns, balloons clustered by the entrance in a way that was almost scary, and those fucking paper flowers—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—strung up everywhere, the ones Topper had mentioned you stayed up until 2 AM making, which Rafe had filed away without meaning to because apparently his brain was keeping track of shit like that now. 

He was adjusting his shirt—had put on something with buttons for once, though he’d left the top two undone because he wasn’t a complete fucking sellout—when he saw you. 

You were outside the main entrance with a clipboard, which was so perfectly on-brand it almost made him laugh. Your hair was pulled back in something already falling apart, little pieces sticking to your neck in the heat. You wore a lavender dress that hit just above your knee and clung in ways that made Rafe’s mouth go dry. It was fitted enough that he could see the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and the line of your legs. 

You were talking to two guys in catering uniforms, gesturing with your free hand—sharp and short moments that weren’t like you—and even from across the parking lot Rafe could see you were stressed. He could see it in the set of your shoulders and the way you kept pushing those loose pieces of hair out of your face and the rigid way you were holding the clipboard. 

You looked like you could use a drink. Or a Xanax. Or someone to tell you it was fine. Or maybe just someone who could fuck the tension out of you until you remembered how to breathe normally. 

Not that he was volunteering. His hand tightened on the steering wheel. Except he was apparently walking toward you instead of toward Barry’s, so maybe he was.

“—by five-thirty at least,” you were saying as he got closer, voice strained but still disgustingly polite. “That’s what we were told. So I’m not sure why—”

One of the catering guys—older, maybe forty, with a mustache—cut you off with something that Rafe didn’t catch but could guess from the gesture; you were just a kid to him with a shit-ton of money playing event planner (in other words: absolutely nothing to take seriously). 

“I understand that,” you said, and there was a barely perceptible edge to your pageant voice now. “But we have a hundred-and-fifty people arriving in forty-five minutes and we don’t have—” You stopped, closed your eyes briefly, took a breath, and when you opened them you looked steadier, as though you’d shoved everything messy into whatever box you kept it in. 

Rafe felt something uncomfortable watching you pull yourself together in real time. 

“Okay. Can you at least tell me when—”

“Problem?” Rafe said.

You turned, surprised. You blinked at him like you couldn’t quite place why he was there, which was fair because he wasn’t supposed to be there. 

“Rafe,” you said, and he liked the way his name sounded in your voice. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“I wasn’t, either,” he said honestly, and your mouth twitched like you found it funny. He looked at the catering guys, who were both studiously avoiding eye contact now that someone else was there. “You having problems?”

“No, there’s just been a miscommunication about the time.”

“So, yes.”

“Rafe—” you said, slightly flustered at his presence and the situation. 

“What’s the problem?” The catering guys looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

“No problem, man,” one of them said. “We’re just waiting on—”

“Half the equipment is missing,” you cut in, and yeah, there was definitely an edge now. You were pissed now. Trying very hard not to show it, but pissed. “The tables are wrong, the setup’s behind schedule, and nobody mentioned it until thirty minutes ago.”

“So fix it.” Rafe shrugged.

You looked at him. “I’m trying to fix it.”

“Try harder.”

The catering guys looked between them like they were watching a tennis match. You opened your mouth—to tell him to fuck off, maybe, which was very unlikely but would’ve been incredibly hot—then closed it. Then looked down at your clipboard, back at the guys, then Rafe.

“Can you give us a minute?” The catering guys couldn’t leave fast enough.

When they were gone, you turned to Rafe fully and stepped closer, close enough to smell your floral perfume that probably cost more than his expensive coke habit, he got a better look at you up close. The dress was even better at this distance; thin straps, sweetheart neckline, the kind of thing that was technically modest but didn't feel that way when you were looking at it. Or when he was looking at it. At you. 

You weren't wearing much makeup, just enough to look polished, and there was a small stain on the hem of the dress that you probably didn't know about yet. It was probably coffee or those tiny chocolates they served at these things. You’d be horrified if you noticed, so Rafe kept the stain to himself. You looked stressed and like you'd been running around in heels for too long, which you had, judging by the way you kept shifting your weight.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

"You invited me."

"That—I didn't think you'd actually come. You said you’d think about it.”

“Thought about it,” he said. “Decided to show. Here I am.”

“Why?” Your eyebrows knitted together, like you were sure he had an ulterior motive like ransacking the entire place as soon as guests began walking in.

"Guess I'm full of surprises." He pulled out his cigarettes, offered you one out of habit more than any expectation. You shook your head, predictably. He shrugged. "So what's actually wrong?"

"I just told you—"

"What's the actual problem?"

You stared at him for a second, and Rafe watched you recalculate. Decide whether to bother explaining or just tell him to leave. He could see it happening behind your eyes, the cost-benefit analysis, the weighing of options.

"The DJ canceled," you said finally. "Last minute. And the tables they sent are the wrong size, which means we have to completely rearrange the layout, which means the floor plan I spent three weeks on is useless, and everything else has to shift, and the photographer's going to be here in thirty minutes and we're supposed to start in forty-five and I still have to check on the auction setup and make sure the kitchen has everything they need and—" You stopped, pressed your fingers to your temple. "Sorry. You don't care about any of this."

"Not really,," Rafe agreed. "But this seems like it'd be bad for the sick kids or whatever."

You almost smiled at that. Almost. "Very compassionate."

"I try." He lit his cigarette, took a drag, buying him a second to think. "You got a backup DJ?"

"My phone and a speaker from 2015."

"That'll work."

"It won't—"

"Nobody's here for the music. They're here for the open bar and the tax write-off. You could play the same song all night as long as the drinks keep coming and nobody would notice."

"That's very sad."

"Doesn't make it wrong."

You looked at him like you were trying to figure out if he was fucking with you or actually trying to help. Rafe wasn't entirely sure himself. "The tables—"

"I'll move them."

"You don't have to—"

"Jesus,” he breathed out, letting some annoyance creep in because you were exhausting and Rafe couldn’t keep playing at this for much longer. This would’ve been his one good deed of the year. “You want help or not?"

That made you stop. Blink. "You're offering to help."

"Don't make it weird."

"It's already weird. You hate events like this. You’ve said that.”

Had he? Yeah. Probably. At the club, or at one of Top’s things, or somewhere else where you’d been in earshot and he’d been running his mouth. 

Well, you’d been listening. Something about that—about you paying attention to what he said, filing it away the way he filed away everything about you—made his chest feel tight. 

"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." He took another drag, watched you process this. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Or keep going crazy. Your call."

You bit your lip—nervous habit, probably, or maybe just the lip gloss was bothering you—and Rafe's eyes caught on it. On your mouth. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip and the little indent it left when you released it. He wondered if you did that during sex. If Topper had ever noticed. If—

Stop.

"Okay," you said, and Rafe refocused, eyebrows moving slightly up. "Okay. The tables need to go along the back wall, but first we have to move everything that's already there, and then rearrange the chairs, and—"

"Got it."

"I didn't finish—"

"Don't need you to. Tables go there, chairs go somewhere else, I can figure it out."

"Are you always this—"

"Helpful? Yeah,” he said sarcastically.

You shook your head, but you were almost smiling again, and Rafe decided that was worth more than whatever he would've gotten from Barry anyway. He didn’t feel completely useless. "Come on. I'll show you."

He followed you inside, where the situation was exactly as much of a shitshow as you'd described. Tables stacked wrong, chairs everywhere, decorations half-hung. The guys who were supposed to be setting up looked like they'd collectively given up on life. Rafe could relate.

"Okay," you said, clipboard up, and Rafe noticed your nails were painted the same color as your dress. Coordinated. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate and probably planned three weeks in advance. "So we need to—"

"I got it," Rafe said, because you were about to go into a detailed explanation complete with diagrams and he could see the basic problem from here. Tables needed to go there, chairs were in the way, move the chairs, move the tables. Easy.

He grabbed a stack of chairs. Started hauling them to the side.

They were heavier than they looked—real wood, not the cheap plastic shit—and by the third trip he'd worked up a sweat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Could feel you watching him from across the room where you were directing someone else, and when he glanced over he caught your eyes on him. Specifically, his arms, on the way his biceps flexed under his shirt sleeves as he carried the chairs. You looked away quickly when you realized he’d caught you, face flushing.

Interesting.

Rafe smiled to himself, guilty but satisfied, and moved another stack of chairs. Then another. Fell into a rhythm of lifting, carrying, setting down, repeat. Simple. Clear.

"You're really good at that," you said from somewhere behind him. 

He turned. You were closer than he'd expected, making him straighten his back too quickly.

"At moving chairs?" Rafe asked, setting them down because holding them with you being this close felt awkward. 

"At just doing things." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. It immediately fell back out. "I would've spent twenty minutes thinking about how to move them.”

"Sometimes you just gotta move the fucking chairs." Rafe said simply.

You laughed, surprised.

You were standing close enough now that Rafe could see the mascara was slightly smudged under your left eye. Could see a small scar on your collarbone he'd never noticed before. Maybe from childhood. 

You were watching him too, your eyes tracking over his face, his shoulders, down to where his shirt was sticking to his chest.

"You got something—" He reached out without thinking, thumb brushing under your eye where the mascara had smudged.

You went very still. "What are you—"

"Mascara. Hold still." He wiped it away, the pad of his thumb against your skin, and felt you inhale sharply. Your eyes were locked on his, pupils dilating, and for a second neither of you moved. He was close enough to see the texture of your lip gloss and count your eyelashes if he wanted to. Close enough to kiss you. 

Then you stepped back. "Thanks."

"Mhm."

You touched your face where his thumb had been unconsciously, your hands slightly shaking. 

"I should—" You gestured vaguely toward the rest of the room. "There's still so much to—"

"Go. I got this."

You hesitated, then nodded and disappeared to handle something else. Rafe stood there for a second, thumb tingling where he'd touched your face, then went back to moving chairs because that was easier than thinking about why he'd touched you in the first place.

Tables next. Heavier, but he'd rather work alone than try to coordinate with the setup guys who all looked like they'd never seen a table before. He got the first one moved, then the second, then—

"Jesus, Cameron, you trying to give yourself a hernia?"

Kelce's voice. Rafe looked up to see him standing in the doorway with Ruthie, both of them dressed like they were here for the event rather than the setup.

"Should you be doing this?" Kelce asked, gesturing at the tables. “Like actually. Isn’t this what we pay people for?”

"They were being useless,” Rafe said. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

"Yeah, usually not you." Kelce looked genuinely confused now.

"Fuck off."

"No, seriously." Ruthie came closer, studying him like he was a science experiment. "Where's Rafe? What'd you do with him?"

"I can help without it being a whole thing—"

"It's definitely a thing," Kelce said, grinning. "You hate events like this."

"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." Rafe moved another one into place, wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm. "You gonna stand there all day or help?"

"I’m here for moral support," Ruthie said, examining her nails. 

"Useless, got it."

But Kelce did grab one end of the next table, and together they got the rest moved in half the time. Ruthie mostly watched from a chair she'd pulled over, occasionally offering commentary that ranged from unhelpful to actively detrimental, but whatever. At least it was entertaining.

And Rafe could keep half an eye on you as you moved through the space, fixing things, directing people, climbing onto a chair in your dress and heels to adjust a banner that someone had hung crooked. He watched you wobble slightly and had to physically stop himself from crossing the room to steady you. You were fine. You got it fixed and climbed down and immediately moved on to the next thing.

“Dude,” Kelce said quietly so Ruthie couldn’t hear. “You’re staring.”

“Shut up.”

“Like, really, obviously staring.”

𖦹

You’d been to enough Figure Eight parties to know the entire song-and-dance. Ruthie would alcohol that could feed Figure Eight and The Cut, but three times over; people would set up a station to play very wrong, ruleless beer pong; someone would get in a fight; someone would call the cops and Ruthie would socially exile them for the next six months or until she conveniently forgot about it. Tonight was tracking perfectly to schedule: the handles were half-finished by eleven, there were red Solo cups floating in the pool, and you’d watched two guys argue about whether a bounce shot counted as a double for the past ten minutes even though there was literally no one keeping track. 

You were nursing the same drink you’d picked up off the counter half-an-hour ago. The Truly can—Wild Berry, the only flavour that had been left by the time you arrived—was getting warm in your hand, condensation making the label peel in little strips. You kept picking at it without thinking, rolling little soggy pieces of tissue and dropping them into the can where you imagined they floated like dead flies. Topper was in the middle of some story about golf. Something about his swing, the ninth hole at the club, and his dad’s advice; you’d stopped tracking the details about seven minutes in. The thing about dating Topper was that all his stories had the same shape to them; something happened, his dad had an opinion about it, and he agreed or planned to prove it wrong. The details changed—golf, school, Jeep—but the shape, as a whole, was identical. You’d memorized the blueprint. 

You were good at this, at least. You nodded at the right moments, you made small affirming noises, and laughed when his voice lifted in that way that indicated something was funny. You could do it in your sleep at this point. You were worried that you had been, that you’d actually been asleep for months and it had gone unnoticed because you were always nodding at the perfect times.

“—he won’t listen. He’s convinced it’s my follow-through—” Topper took a pull from his beer, gestured with the bottle, nearly hit Kelce in the face. “Babe, you’re not listening.”

You blinked, refocusing. “I am.”

“What did I just say?”

“Something about your follow-through.”

“Before that.”

You didn’t know. You were watching Ruthie across the room, the way she was laughing at something with her head thrown back, completely unselfconscious, and not worried if her laugh was too loud or fake or if the angle made her head look wrong. She was just laughing. When was the last time you laughed like that? You didn’t know. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, touching Topper’s arms lightly, apologetically. It was the kind of touch you’d learned said that you were there, you cared, and that you were paying attention now. “I’m just so tired. The week was long.”

“You feeling okay?” He shifted immediately to boyfriend-mode, which was sweet, and was one of the first things you’d learned to love about him in the first place. He cared. He worried. He made sure you’d eaten, had water. Most times it felt like being cared for. “We can leave if you want.”

“No, I’m fine. Keep telling your story.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

He kissed your temple—quick, casual, and the kind of kiss that marked you as his in public—and turned to Kelce, picking the story back up from wherever you’d lost the thread. You took a sip of your drink; it was warm and disgusting, but drinking gave you something to do with your hands. 

You loved Topper. You did. You loved him the way you loved Outer Banks summers and Sunday dinners at the club and the worn-in comfort of your childhood bedroom that looked like it belonged to a 30-year-old woman with very specific specifications for her interior design. You loved him in a way that felt familiar, safe, and exactly what was supposed to be.

He was kind and reliable and everyone loved him and your mother almost cried—shed a tear—when you’d brought him home for dinner junior year. He was exactly the kind of boy you were supposed to end up with. Figure Eight royalty, good family, going places. He talked about the future like it was something you’d built together brick-by-brick: UNC next fall, he’d major in finance, you’d major in something you hadn’t decided, but everyone assumed something that involved helping people because that’s what you were good at. After graduation, you’d move back here, get a place on the water, start planning a wedding. His mother already showed you the venue book. Twice. 

It was perfect. All perfect.

“I’m getting another drink,” you said, even though you weren’t. 

“Want me to come?” Topper asked, turning back to you, ready to follow. 

“No, I’m good. Keep talking. I’ll be right back.” 

He nodded, already turning back to Kelce. You could’ve said you were going to the moon for a second and he would’ve believed it.

You pushed through the crowd of Figure Eight kids, mostly. They were all people you’d known since elementary school, plus randoms from The Cut who’d heard about the party and showed up anyway because Ruthie didn’t check who walked through the door. The house was too hot, too loud, the bass from whatever song made the windows rattle in their frames. Someone had spilled beer on the hardwood that nobody bothered to clean it up, and your sandals kept sticking to it slightly with each step. 

You dumped your drink in the sink in the kitchen and grabbed a red solo cup that you filled up with water from the fridge dispenser. You drank half of it standing there, forehead pressed to the cool stainless steel. When you turned around, Maddie was there, drunk, hanging on your shoulder.

“Oh my god, you look so cute tonight,” she said. “Is that new?”

“No, I’ve had it—”

“I love it. We should go shopping next week. There’s a new collection at that place on the Mainland. The one with the dresses? You look so good in dresses. You should wear dresses more.”

“Sure,” you said, the word noncommittal, because the thought of stores with fluorescent lighting and their helpful salespeople and their pleasure to find things that fit you right made you want to crawl out of your skin.

“How are you and Top? You guys are so cute. Like actually. I was telling Cas the other day, you’re like the perfect couple.”

“We’re good. Thanks—”

“Are you guys thinking of schools together? Because I heard he got into Chapel Hill early and you’re obviously going to get in. You’re so smart—”

“Hopefully.” You smiled tightly; you hadn’t finished your applications yet, every time you sat down to work on your essays you ended up staring at the blank screen until your eyes hurt.

“You will. And then you’ll get married and have the cutest babies—”

“Madi—”

“What? You would! Could you imagine? Little Topper running around—”

You excused yourself before she could finish the thought, pushed back into the main room where the party was getting louder, messier, more of what was always going to become. Someone had turned up the music. Someone else was doing a keg stand in the corner and people were counting—”Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen”—and you felt tired. So tired. 

You found Topper right where you’d left him. Still talking to Kelce. Still gesturing with his beer. You slid back under his arms like you were supposed to and he kissed the top of your head without pausing his sentence and you realized—for the hundredth time—this is your life now, and this is it. The thought should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

“You okay?” Topper asking, looking down at you with those eyes that were genuinely so concerned that it made you feel guilty for not being okay. “You look weird.” 

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? Because we can really leave if—”

“I’m fine.” It came out harsher than you’d intended. His face did a combination of something complicated (hurt, confused, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong). “Sorry, I’m just—it’s hot in here.”

“Let’s go outside then.”

“No, you’re talking to Kelce—”

“Don’t care. Come on.” He was already steering you towards the back doors, hand on your lower back, and you let him because that was easier than arguing. Outside the air was cooler but not by much, humid and thick with that almost-rain feeling. The pool was glowing blue, and there were people in it even though nobody had suits on, just jumping in with their clothes because that’s what you did at Ruthie’s. 

“Better?” Topper asked.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been kind of off all week.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m just—” His lips flattened, like he was trying to find the right words for a moment. “Are you stressed about your school stuff? Your mom?”

“A little.”

“It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna get in everywhere you apply. You’re so fucking smart.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “And we’ll be together. That’s what matters, right?”

“Right.”

“UNC is gonna be perfect. We can get an apartment off campus junior year. Somewhere with two bedrooms so your parents don’t freak out but we both know—” He laughed, squeezed you tighter, and his hands moved from your waist to hips, pulling you further back against him. “It’s gonna be so good, babe. I can’t wait.”

You could hear it in his voice, he meant it all. 

You could feel him getting hard against your back. Of course. Topper had a one-track mind at parties. A few beers in, and suddenly everything translated to being foreplay. Your hand in his. You laughing at his jokes. Existing in his orbit. All of it translated, in his mind, to we should have sex now.

His lips found your neck, kissing that spot below your ear that he’d decided early on was your spot, even though you’d never actually told him it did anything for you. It was fine. It didn’t not work. It just—it was fine. Which was the saddest way you could describe your boyfriend’s touch. Fine, really? Not electric or the kind that made you forget your own name. You were so tired of just fine, but you were also not courageous enough to admit that. 

“Baby—” you started, but his hand was already sliding under the hem of your tank top, thumb brushing the underside of your bra.

“Ruthie’s got that pool house,” he murmured against your back. “Nobody’s in there. We could—”

“There’s like seventy people here, Top.”

“So? That’s never stopped us before.” He turned you around, and his eyes had that look he conveniently gets when he wants something. “Come on, it’s been like a week.”

Had it been a week? You tried to remember the last time. Lask weekend, maybe. At his house, in his bed, with the door locked and the lights off because you always asked for the lights off even though he always wanted to see you. It had been fine. Good, even. Topper was considerate in bed, always asking if you were okay, if this felt good, if that made you finish even though sometimes you faked it just to move it along. Sometimes your brain wouldn’t turn off long enough to get there and it was easier to pretend.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I’m kind of tired.” 

“I’ll do all the work.” He grinned, hands sliding down to your ass now, pulling you closer. “Come on, I’ve been thinking about you all week.” 

You smiled, even though that only made you feel tired. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” His whole face lit up. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

He grabbed your hand, started pulling you toward the pool house, and you followed because what else were you going to do? Explain that you didn’t want to but couldn’t articulate why?

The pool house was unlocked, dark, smelling like chlorine and the musty scent of furniture that spent too much time in humidity. Topper flicked on the lamp in the corner—dim, throwing everything into shadow—and pulled you to the couch.

He kissed you immediately, hands everywhere, enthusiastic in that golden retriever way he had about everything. You kissed back, let your hands go to his hair, his shoulders, the places you knew he liked. This was familiar. Routine. Two years of practice. You knew exactly how he liked to be touched and the sounds he made when you did it right. There was a rhythm and choreography to it.

He pulled you down onto the couch, climbed over you, and his mouth moved to your neck. Started kissing, then sucking, and you knew he was leaving marks. He always left marks when he was drunk, got possessive in this puppyish way that should've been endearing. His hand slid up your shirt, palm hot against your ribs, and he was grinding against you now, hard through his shorts.

"God, you're so hot," he murmured against your collarbone, kissing lower. "I love you so much."

“I love you too.”

He sucked harder at the spot where your neck met your shoulder—definitely leaving a mark there, you’d have to cover it tomorrow—and his hand was working the button of your shorts when his phone started to ring. He ignored it. Kept kissing. The phone stopped, then immediately started again.

“Babe—” you said.

“It’s fine. Just—” 

It rang again.

“Topper, just check it.”

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, pulled back, fumbled for his phone in his pocket and squinted at the screen. “It’s my dad. Again.” He sat up, ran a hand through his hair like his dad could see him through the phone. “Shit. He called earlier and I—hold on. I’ll just.”

He answered it. “Hey, Dad… Yeah, I know. Sorry, it’s loud here… What? No, I can—” He stood up, walked to the door, and you could hear his dad’s voice on the other end, irritated and tiny. “I know. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow… Yeah… Okay… Yeah, she’s with me… Okay…”

You sat up, buttoned your shorts back up, and tried to fix your hair. Your neck felt hot where he’d been sucking, and when you touched it, your fingers came slightly damp. Great. That would be purple by morning.

Topper hung up, turned back to you, and his face had a guilty look. “I’m sorry, babe. My dad’s pissed about—there’s this thing with the club. I was supposed to call someone back—” He stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I gotta call this guy really quick. Five minutes, I swear.”

This happened a lot. Topper’s father calling, needing something, and Topper drowning in everything to handle it. You understood it and resented it in equal measure.

“It’s okay.”

“You sure? Because I can—”

“No, it’s okay. Make your call. I’ll just meet you back outside.”

“You’re the best.” He kissed you quickly, already distracted and mentally somewhere else entirely. “Five minutes. Then we can—” He gestured vaguely at the couch with a tip of his head. “—continue?”

“Sure.”

Outside, you noticed a crowd dispersing and before you could try to make sense of it, Ruthie’s palm grabbed your shoulder and pulled you aside.

“This is the third fight he’s started this month,” she said, sentence coming out quickly like she was in the throes of stress.

“Who?”

“Rafe.” 

You swallowed quickly, shaking your head. “Is he okay?”

“What? Rafe? He’s fine. He’s always doing this shit.” But she was frowning, scanning the crowd. “Where’d he go?”

“Maybe inside?”

“Great. He’s probably bleeding all over my mom’s white couch.” She sighed, then looked at you. “Can you go check on him?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. He’s Top’s best friend. And you’re like, good at the whole—” She gestured vaguely. “Thing.”

“I really don’t think—”

‘Please? I need to find the guy he beat up and make sure he isn’t going to make it a big deal. Rafe’s probably in one of the rooms. Just make sure he’s not dying or bleeding anywhere that isn’t expensive or visible.”

Given that Ruthie lived in an open-space concept house with nothing that cost less than four figures and very few doors to hide behind, that narrowed the list down to the bathrooms and maybe her dad’s office. The latter goes with the assumption that Rafe had the good sense to pick a room with wood or tile instead of white linen and glass.

She was already walking away before you could argue with her. You could find Topper, tell him what happened, and let him deal with his best friend. That’s what you should do. That’s what made sense. But your boyfriend was on the phone with his dad; Ruthie had asked you, and something about the situation made your chest twist uncomfortably.

𖦹

Rafe needed to get laid. Or high. Or hit something until his knuckles split. Twenty years of his life had taught him that when there isn’t one thing wreaking havoc over his life, he hyperfixated on the impossible. Self-sabotage, probably. The impossible being, currently, his best friend’s girlfriend the image that had been burned into his retinas and showed no signs of stopping no matter how much cocaine he shoved up his nose or how many drinks he threw back or how many times he told him he was just being a fucking idiot. 

So, he picked a fight. With who? Didn’t matter. Some guy. A random fucking guy who had the misfortune of existing in Rafe’s vicinity at the exact moment Rafe had watched you disappear into Ruthie’s pool house with Topper, watched the door close behind you both, and felt something ugly and acidic rise up in his throat that tasted like very cheap vodka because he’d spent two years wanting something he couldn’t have. Two fucking years of seeing Topper touch you like it was easy, like you were some cosmic lottery he’d won just by being himself. 

Now he was sitting on the closed toilet in Ruthie’s upstairs bathroom with blood drying on his knuckles and his face throbbing and the bass from downstairs making the floor vibrate under his feet, trying very hard not to think about what you and Topper had been doing in the pool house. The bleeding had mostly stopped. His right eye was going to swell shut by morning. His lip was split. Could've been worse. Had been worse, plenty of times. This was manageable. He was trying and failing, because his brain—traitorous, obsessive, completely fucked—kept supplying images; Topper’s hands on your waist, your hips, your head tipped back, the sounds you probably made, whether you’d let him keep the lights on, whether you were any good at it or whether you just laid there perfect and pretty while—

The door opened, and his eyes snapped up and there you were, standing in the doorway like a fucking hallucination, like something his substance-soaked brain had conjured because it hated him, too. You were backlit by the hall light in a way that should’ve been corny but wasn’t. You looked real solid there. Rafe thought there was no fucking way this was happening. 

“Get out,” he said.

You didn’t get out, and Rafe was mad at the world because this was probably the first fucking time you didn’t do what someone else asked of you. Of course you chose right now, when Rafe was barely holding himself together, to stop being obedient. 

You stepped inside instead, and the bathroom suddenly felt about three sizes too small, and Rafe could smell you, that perfume you wore, floral and clean and so aggressively innocent it made him want to break something. He could smell it all over the metallic tang of blood and the chemical burn of Ruthie’s fancy hand soap and his own sweat. 

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“Yeah, no shit.” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant, but what-fucking-ever. Harsh was good, and that would make you leave. “Where’s Topper?”

“On the phone with his dad.”

Right. Topper. Your boyfriend, the guy whose hands had been all over you. The guy who got to touch you whenever he wanted because you were his, officially his, had been for two years while Rafe stood on the sidelines watching and acting like he didn’t care.

“Cool. Go wait for him somewhere else.”

“Ruthie asked me to check on you.”

Obviously she fucking did. Of course Ruthie—who’d watched Rafe watch you for two years, who’d made pointed comments Rafe had ignored, who definitely knew more than she should—would send you up here like a deer to slaughter. She would put you in a room alone with him when he was high and drunk and had just beaten someone bloody because he couldn’t handle himself in his body like a normal person. 

“Mm, you checked. I’m fine. Door’s right there.”

But you were closing the door instead behind you. Locking it. The lock was so obscenely loud that Rafe’s body went rigid and his head snapped in your direction. Every muscle in his body tensed and coiled. You’d locked yourself alone in a bathroom with him. What were you thinking?

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“You need help.”

“What I need is for you to leave.”

“Rafe—”

“No, I’m serious. Get the fuck out.” He stood up too fast, the room tilted, and he had to brace one hand against the wall while his vision did something complex and unstable. Everything went bright and sparkly around the edges the way it did when he mixed uppers and downers; his body was in a constant state of figuring out whether he should be flying or crashing. The coke was hitting him all weird, and that probably meant he had to do a bump in less than five minutes, mixing with vodka in ways that made everything bright and too close. He probably looked like shit. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

Because Topper probably had just fucked you. Because Rafe could still see that middle-school-hookup-hickey on your neck, all red and obvious and making him want to punch a hole through Ruthie’s bathroom mirror. Because you were standing there looking at him with genuine concern on your face like Rafe was someone worth for you to worry about, like you hadn’t spent the last hour with your boyfriend, like you had any business being so close to him when Rafe was barely holding onto his self-control with both hands, bloody and beat-up.

“Because I’m telling you to.”

You were already kneeling down though, opening the cabinet under Ruthie’s sink, and Rafe watched your ass in those jean shorts and thought that this was hell. This was actual hell and he was in it.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice coming out gruff. “I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”

“Your face is bleeding.”

“Really.”

You ignored him, and pulled out Ruthie’s first aid kit. It was the expensive kind that came in a hard plastic case with actual organization inside, not just a jumble of Band-Aids and expired Advil, and stood up with it tucked under your arm. You wet a washcloth at the sink—one of Ruthie’s monogrammed hand towels—wrung it out, and looked back at him. You met his eyes for just a second, long enough for Rafe to catch the stubborn determination on your face. 

And then—holy fuck—you stepped between his legs.

Just fucking stepped right between his legs like that was a normal place to be, like you had any fucking idea what that did to him. You, standing right between his legs, so close that if she shifted about two inches forward, you’d be pressed right to him. His jaw clenched tight. 

You didn't know. Of course you didn't. Because you thought Rafe hated you. Thought he'd been an asshole to you for two years because he didn't like you, not because liking you was the problem, had always been the problem, would continue to be the problem until Rafe died or moved to another country or developed severe amnesia.

"Sit down," you said. Soft. Like you were talking to a scared animal.

He should say no. Should physically remove you from the bathroom. Should do literally anything other than what he did, which was sink back down onto that toilet seat like his legs stopped working. He even let you step closer, close enough that your knees bumped his, close enough that he could see the freckles scattered across your shoulders like someone had flicked a paintbrush at you.

"This might sting," you said, and reached up to touch his face.

Your fingers made contact with the cut above his eyebrow—gently, so fucking gently—and Rafe's entire nervous system went haywire. Every nerve ending firing at once. Every muscle in his body locking up trying to keep still, keep from grabbing you, keep from doing something catastrophically stupid that he couldn’t take back. He felt like he’d forgot how to breathe. Your touch felt branded, like every place your skin met his was burning.

Nothing about this was sexual. That was the fucked up part. Yeah, there was the fact that Rafe's brain had a one-track mind when it came to you and that track involved significantly less clothing than you were currently wearing, but this was worse. This was your hand on his face, gentle and careful like he was worth being gentle with. Like he was something other than Ward Cameron's greatest disappointment and the guy who got too fucked up at parties and picked fights for no reason.

"Sorry," you murmured when he flinched. "I'm trying to be gentle."

Rafe let out something between a laugh and a choke at how oblivious you were. “Yeah, that—” He swallowed, cleared his throat, then tried again. “I know.”

Stop talking. Seriously, stop talking.

His hands were gripping his thighs. He was gripping them hard enough to hurt, hard enough his knuckles—already fucked from the fight—were screaming at him. But it was either grip his thighs or grab you, and grabbing you was not an option. Grabbing you was the opposite of an option.

“You don’t have to do this.” His voice came out tight and strained. Nothing normal.

“I know,” you said quietly.

“Then why are you?”

You dabbed at the cut again, concentration evident in the way that you were biting your bottom lip. “Because you’re hurt,” you said like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

Was that reason enough for you to do this? “So?”

“So, someone should help.”

“And it had to be you?”

“Ruthie asked—”

“Ruthie’s not here.” His fingers were going numb now from how hard he was gripping his legs. “It’s just us. You can leave. I don’t think Ruthie meant you had to do all of this.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Because you were Topper’s, and Topper was Rafe’s best friend, one of his only real friends, if Rafe was being honest, the only person besides Kelce and Sarah who didn’t see Ward’s DNA walking around making the wrong choices. Because twenty minutes ago you’d been in a pool house with Topper doing things Rafe had no right to think about, and now you were touching Rafe’s face with fingers that probably still smelled like Topper’s cologne. Because if you didn’t leave right now, Rafe was going to do something unforgivable.

He opened his mouth to say some version of that—to say anything that would make you leave—when you spoke first.

“Because you don’t like me, right?” you said quietly after a moment, and Rafe’s brain stuttered to a complete stop.

“Huh?”

“You don’t like me. You never have.” You weren’t looking into his eyes anymore—and Rafe realized he missed having your eyes on him—and were focusing very intently on the washcloth. “Since I started dating Topper, you’ve been—you act like I’m annoying you all the time.”

Rafe stared at you. At your face, all concentration and hurt poorly hidden, and felt something in his chest twist sideways. You couldn’t meet his eyes, like you were embarrassed to have said it out loud.

You thought he didn't like you. You actually, genuinely thought that the reason Rafe had been cold and dismissive and sometimes cruel was because he didn't like you. Not because he'd spent two years watching you be Topper's perfect girlfriend and wanting you so badly it made him physically ill. You didn’t think it was because every time you smiled at him or laughed at something he said or looked at him like you were looking at him right now, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to cross whatever line existed between being Topper's best friend and being the asshole who wanted his girlfriend. You had zero idea liking you was so much worse than not liking you that Rafe had chosen cruelty as the easier option. If you were anybody else, Rafe would’ve been irked at how much having one person dislike you hurt you. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," he managed.

“Don’t I?” You pulled back slightly, met his eyes. “Because I’ve spent two years trying to be nice to you and you act like I’m—I don’t know. Like I’m a problem.”

"Maybe you are."

You flinched. Good. Flinching meant distance meant you'd leave meant Rafe could get his head straight and stop thinking about all of this. You put an inch of space between the two of you. Good. Except it also made him feel like the piece of shit he was and suddenly, he wanted to apologize, take it back, and explain.

“I’m trying to help you,” you said, and there was an edge to your voice now. Your hurt was bleeding into anger. “The least you can do is not be an asshole about it.”

“Nobody asked you to help.”

“Ruthie—”

“Fuck Ruthie.” Rafe leaned back against the wall, putting more distance between his face and your hands because if you touched him again he was going to lose it. “I don’t need your help. Don’t want it. So you can go back to your boyfriend—” He paused at the word to make sure you could feel the weight of it, even though he knew your intentions were all innocent, “—and your best friend and tell them I’m fine.”

You were still standing there, between his legs, and close enough that Rafe could see the way your pulse was jumping in your throat right below that hickey Topper left like a fucking brand. Like he pre-anticipated all of this, and wanted to plaster a reminder on your body to remind Rafe whose you were.

“Fine.” Your voice had gone flat. “Bleed, then. I don’t care.” But you said it while standing between his legs without moving, your hands still hovering over him like you were fighting the exact same battle he was: stay or go, touch or don’t touch. 

Someone pounded on the door. Hard. Three times in rapid succession. You jumped—actually jumped, startled—and stumbled slightly backward, and Rafe’s hands moved before the circuits in his brain caught up. They shot out and caught your hips, steadying you, pulling you back between his legs where you’d been standing. 

His hands were on your bare skin. He pushed down the groan forming in his throat.

“Yo. Yo. Someone in there?” A guy’s voice, drunk and completely impatient. 

Rafe’s hands were on your hips. On your bare skin where your tank top had ridden up slightly. His fingers were spread, wide, thumbs pressing just above your hip bones, and he could feel you breathing fast—with your whole body—underneath his palms. This was the first time he’d touched you—he thought—skin-to-skin, and it felt like every bad decision he’d made in his life had led him to this one final straw.

“Occupied,” he called out. His voice came out steadier than it should’ve. 

“How long you gonna be, man? I gotta piss—”

“As long as I fucking wanna be.”

“Dude, come on—”

“There’s a fuckin’ bathroom downstairs. Use that one.”

The guy on the other side muttered, groaned, and they heard the footsteps retreat down the hall. Silence. Rafe’s hands were still on your hips. Neither of you were moving. Rafe could feel your pulse underneath his thumbs, he could feel it racing, jackrabbit-fast, and his own wasn’t much better. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, the softness of it, the way you fit perfectly under his hands like you’d been designed for them.

This was bad. This was so, so bad. He should let go. He should move his hands back to his thighs where they belonged. He should laugh it off and put distance between you to pretend his hands weren’t burning where they touched you. 

“Rafe,” you said quietly, almost breathless.

“Yeah?” he said quickly.

“Your hands.”

“You’re good,” he said, and his thumbs moved fractionally, just a tiny shaft to see if you’d pull away. 

“Rafe,” you said again, voice on the edge of concern.

He tilted his head to look down, and he could feel your body jerking slightly as his hair brushed against your torso. “Just—give it a second.”

A second for what? Why were you giving him a second? You weren’t pulling away, and you weren’t telling him to let go. You were just standing there, looking down at him with your eyes too wide and lips parted slightly and that hickey on your neck that Rafe wanted to cover with his mouth, wanted to replace with his own mark, wanted—

Rafe’s thumb moved just slightly. A small circle against your hip bones. He tilted his head up slightly to meet your eyes, watching your face to see if you’d pull away, if you’d slap him, if you’d do anything to stop him before it became something neither of you could take back. He had to see if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. 

You inhaled sharply but you didn’t pull away. 

“What are you doing, Rafe?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay,” you said, but your voice was unsure.

His thumb kept moving. Small circles. Hypnotic. He could feel the exact moment you stopped breathing normally. Your body tensed underneath his hands. Your hands had come up at some point, were hoving near his shoulders like you weren’t sure what to do with them, like you wanted to touch him but didn’t know if you were allowed. 

And that—that fucking uncertainty, that unnamed want—that was going to be Rafe’s undoing.

Because he could keep his hands on your hips and pretend it was nothing. He could tell himself he was just steadying you, just making sure you didn’t lose your balance. But if your hands touched him—if you made the choice to touch him back—then this becomes something else. It would become something mutual. Something that couldn’t be explained away by the cocaine or the alcohol or the general fucked-upness of the night. It would become a choice and it would be your choice. 

Your fingers brushed his shoulders lightly and tentatively. Rafe’s breath stopped short, and the realization that you were indulging him hit him like a fucking brick. If he didn’t let go right now—right this second—he was going to kiss you. Your fingers pressed slightly harder against his shoulders.

And Rafe let you go.

He dropped his hands like your skin had burned him. He pushed himself up the toilet so fast his vision swam, the bathroom tilting sideways in that way that said he’d moved too quick, that the drugs were still very much in his system. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the wall. He put three feet of space between you and him in the span of three seconds. 

“You gotta leave,” he said. His voice came out all wrong. Too rough, too raw, like he’d swallowed glass.

You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Your hands were still raised slightly, frozen in the air where they’d been about to touch him. He wanted to tell you to put your hands down, but he also wanted to grab them and pull you closer. Your face was doing something Rafe couldn’t look at, because your confusion was bleeding into hurt once again. 

“What—” you started.

“Just go.”

“But you—”

“Go.” He couldn’t look at you right now. He looked at the wall instead. He focused on the expensive floral wallpaper that probably cost half the price of the house as a whole. “You need to leave. Right now.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Topper’s probably looking for you.”

“He’s on the phone—”

“He’ll be off the phone soon. And he’s gonna wanna know where you are.” Rafe made himself look at you, and he made himself see the confusion on your face, the way you’d wrapped your arms around yourself like you were cold even though Ruthie’s bathroom was stuffy and warm. He tipped his chin in your direction, feigning as much carelessness as he could. “What are you gonna tell him?”

You blinked. “What?”

“When he asks where you were. What’re you gonna say?”

“I’ll—I’ll tell him I was checking on you. Because Ruthie asked me to?”

“That’s it?” He heard himself push; he was being cruel again because that was safer than being honest.

“That’s it, yeah. Yeah.” But your voice wavered slightly on the words. “That’s all that happened.” He could hear the uncertainty in your words, like you were trying to convince yourself.

“Good. Tell him that.” 

You were still standing there, still looking at him with those eyes that saw too fucking much, and Rafe could see you trying to working through it, trying to figure out what had just happened, what it meant that his hands had been you, that his hands had been moving in circles against your skin, that maybe for a minute there something had shifted between you that couldn’t be unshifted.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question hit Rafe in the chest all wrong. You thought you’d done something wrong, like any of this was your fault. Like you’d been the one to grab on, to hold too long, to move your thumbs in ways that had nothing to do with steadying and everything to do with wanting. 

“No,” he said, having to push the word out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then—”

“Because I’m high.” His voice came out flat now, matter-of-fact. He’d found his voice again, the one that made everything sound meaningless. The lie was easier when he didn’t look at you, he realized. “I’m high and drunk and not thinking straight. That’s all this is.”

“Okay.”

Maybe it did make sense to you; you wanted it to be that simple. If 1+1=2, then high+drunk=temporary insanity. Nothing more complicated than chemistry and bad decisions.

𖦹

A week had passed since the party at Ruthie’s, and you’d gotten very good at pretending nothing had happened. You’d seen Rafe twice—once at the country club when your families had overlapping dinner reservations, once at Topper’s house when you’d shown up and he’d been leaving—and you’d smiled politely, said hello, and acted like everything was completely normal. Both times, he’d barely looked at you. He nodded in your general direction, mumbled something that might’ve been a greeting. And left as quickly as possible.

Which was fine. Good, even. Exactly what was meant to happen. Except you couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on your hips, the way his thumbs had moved in small circles. About the look on his face when he’d let go, like he’d done something he couldn’t take back. You wished you could try talking to Ruthie about it, but you also knew that if you slipped on the wrong word or revealed the tiniest detail, she’d catch onto it like a vulture and somehow figure out exactly what happened. 

And now you were at Sunday brunch with Topper and both set of parents, and your mother kept looking at you like she could tell something was wrong. Topper kept reaching for your hand under the table, and all you wanted was to be literally anywhere else.

“—so, we’re thinking late April for the engagement party,” Topper’s mom was saying. She had her phone out, scrolling through her calendar with one hand while cutting eggs Benedict with another. “That gives us plenty of time to plan something before you two leave for school.”

You looked up from your untouched fruit salad. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The engagement party, hon.” Mrs. Thornton smiled at you warmly. “Nothing official, of course. You’ll do the actual engagement after graduation, I’m sure. But we thought it’d be nice for both of you to have a celebration before you head to Chapel Hill. Really cement things.”

Your mother made an approving sound. “That’s a lovely idea, Cynthia.”

“I just think it’s important to acknowledge these milestones,” she continued. “Topper and—” She said your name like it was already hyphenated with his. “—they’re so good together. And with our families being so close together, it just makes sense to start planning now.” 

“Mom,” Topper said, and there was a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “We haven’t even—I mean, we’ve talked about it, but—”

“Oh, I know, sweetie. I’m not trying to rush anything. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page about the timeline.” She looked at you expectantly. “You are planning on going to Chapel Hill, aren’t you?”

Four sets of eyes turned to you. Topper's parents. Your parents. Topper himself, looking hopeful and nervous and so certain that the answer would be yes because of course it would be yes, why wouldn't it be yes?

“I haven’t decided yet,” you said.

Everyone went very still. 

"What do you mean you haven't decided?" your mother asked. Her voice was light but there was an edge to it. "Your applications were due weeks ago."

"I applied to other schools too."

"Yes, but—" Your mother set down her fork with a soft clink. "We've discussed this. Chapel Hill makes the most sense. It's a good school, it's close enough to visit, and—" She glanced at Topper. "—well. It makes sense for other reasons too."

“I know what reasons you mean, Mom.”

You could feel Topper’s hands tighten around yours under the table. You could feel the anxiety radiating off him even though his face stayed neutral. “Babe,” he said quietly. “I thought we talked about this.”

“We did talk about it.”

“And I thought—” He stopped. Started again. “You said you were fine with Chapel Hill.”

"I said I'd think about it."

"That's not—" He stopped again. Glanced at his parents, at yours, clearly not wanting to have this conversation in front of an audience. "That's not what it sounded like."

"Maybe you heard what you wanted to hear."

That came out sharper than you'd meant. Topper's face did something complicated. His hurt bled into frustration bled into confusion. Your mother made a small sound of disapproval. Mrs. Thornton looked like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if she should.

𖦹

You were drunk. Not falling-down drunk, not blacking-out drunk, but drunk enough that the bonfire had halos around it and the sand felt unsteady under your feet and when Topper talked it took you both an extra second to process what he was saying. Topper was drunker. He had been drinking since before he’d picked you up, had kept drinking in the Jeep on the way there, had been working his way through a twelve-pack since you’d arrived at the beach an hour ago. His movements kept getting looser and more expansive, and he’d told the same story about the golf tournament twice in the past twenty minutes.

You were sitting in the sand near the bonfire, backs against a piece of driftwood, Topper’s arm heavy on your shoulders. The party was in full-swing around you. Sixty kids scattered across the beach, music thumping from someone else’s truck, the ocean dark and loud behind all of it. Someone was taking shots. Someone was throwing up behind the dunes. Madi was making out with some guy from The Cut. It was all normal. 

"I don't get why you're being so weird about this," Topper was saying. Or had been saying. You'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere around your third drink. "It's not a big deal."

“What’s not a big deal?” 

“Chapel Hill,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re acting like—it’s all this huge thing. It’s just college.”

Oh. This again. The conversation from brunch wasn’t over despite both of you pretending it was for the past eight hours.

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?”

“This. The college thing. I’m really tired of talking about it.”

“Well, I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on with you.” Topper’s arm over your shoulder tightened. Insistent. “You’ve been weird for like a week.”

“I haven’t been weird.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause it feels like you’re mad at me.”

"I'm not mad, Top. I'm just—" You stopped. Tried to find words through the alcohol fog. "I'm just trying to figure stuff out."

"What stuff?"

"School stuff. Future stuff."

"Our future?"

"My future."

“Same thing.” He said that, too, like it was obvious. There was no version of future that didn’t have you and him together. “Right?”

You took another sip from the drink in your hands. Was it? It couldn’t be the same thing. You were a person separate from him, separate from “you and Topper,” separate from everyone else’s plans. You did exist outside your relationship, right?

“Right?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” He pulled his arms away from your shoulders. “What does that mean? We talked about this. We made plans.”

"You made plans. And I just—I went along with them because everyone was so happy about it and I didn't want to—" You gestured vaguely. "I didn't want to ruin it."

Topper stared at you. "Ruin what?"

"This. Us. The whole—" You stopped again. Nothing was coming out right. "Everyone's so sure about everything. You're sure, my parents are sure, your parents are sure. And I'm just—I'm not."

"Sure about what? About me?"

"About everything."

"That's not—" He stood up suddenly, swayed slightly, caught himself. "That's not an answer. Do you want to be with me or not?"

"I do—"

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is I don't know if I want everything else that comes with it! The engagement party planning, the apartment hunting, the whole—" You stood up too, because this conversation felt wrong sitting down. "Everyone treating us like we're already married when we're nineteen."

"So you don't want to marry me."

"I didn't say that—"

"That's what it sounds like."

"That's not—Topper, you're not listening—"

"I am listening. You're saying you don't know if you want a future with me."

"I'm saying I don't know what I want for my own future! Period! Not just the part with you in it—the whole thing!" Your voice was getting louder. A few people nearby were starting to look over. "I don't know what I want to study or where I want to go or who I want to be. And everyone keeps acting like those are already answered questions and they're not. Not for me."

Topper ran both hands through his hair. "Okay. Okay. So you need time to figure it out. That's—I can give you time."

"It's not just time—"

"Then what is it? Just tell me what you need and I'll—I'll do it. Whatever you need."

"I need space." The words came out before you could stop them. "I need room to think without everyone—without you—asking me what I've decided every five seconds." 

The second the words came out, you wanted to take them back. You did mean them, but you could see what they did to Topper’s face.

His face did something awful and twisted. Like you'd physically hit him. "Space."

"Not—I don't mean—" You stopped. The vodka was making everything harder. "I just mean I need to figure this out on my own. Without everyone weighing in."

"Everyone meaning me."

"Everyone meaning everyone. My parents, your parents, you—"

"So you want to break up."

"That's not what I said—"

"That's what space means."

"No it's not—"

"Then what does it mean?" He was angry now, genuinely angry. Topper never got angry. "Because from where I'm standing it sounds like you want to break up but you don't want to say it."

"I don't want to break up!" You were yelling now. "I love you! I just—I need time to figure out what I want that's not about us. That's just about me."

"But I'm part of your life. We're—we're together. You can't just—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You know what? Fine. You want space? You got it."

“I love you,” you said, because that was meant to be grounding. That was supposed to fix things. Love was supposed to be the answer to it all, wasn’t it? And you needed him to hear that. You needed him to understand that this wasn’t about not loving him. “I love you. Isn’t that what matters?”

Topper looked at you for a long moment, and his face was doing something you'd never seen before. He looked hurt and frustrated and something that looked almost like resignation. "I don't know anymore," he said quietly. "Maybe it should be enough. But right now it just—it doesn't feel like it is."

His words hit you like a physical blow. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. 

“I need a break,” Topper said. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He sounded like he was just tired. “Not from you. Just from this. This conversation and this night. I—I can’t do this right now.”

"Okay," you said quietly.

"I'm gonna stay here. At the party. But you should go home." He looked at you, and there was something almost gentle in his expression despite everything. "You look exhausted, babe. You should go home."

"I can stay—"

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think both of us need to cool off. Think about shit. And we can’t if we’re both here drunk and—” He gestured vaguely between you two. “—doing this.”

“How am I supposed to get home?” you asked, because he had drove you and apparently he was insistent on being the one that stayed at the party.

“I’ll figure it out. Just—give me a second.” He turned his back to you, looking around the area. “There.” He pointed. “Rafe’s here. He’ll drive you.”

Your stomach dropped. “He doesn’t have to—” Your voice came out wrong, high and panicked. Topper didn’t notice. 

“He can drive. He’ll drop you off.” Topper was already walking toward Rafe standing at the bonfire. “Yo! Rafe.”

Rafe looked up to see Topper, then you standing a foot behind him. 

“What’s up?” he called back.

“Do me a favour?” Topper reached him and put a hand on his shoulder. You followed him close behind, hesitant of your steps. “Can you give her a ride home?”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to you, an eyebrow raised, then moved back to Topper. “Something wrong with your car?”

"Nah. I just—we had a thing. She needs to go home and I'm staying here and I don't want her to drive." Topper's voice was still doing that too-casual thing, that trying-to-hold-it-together thing. "You're good to drive, right?"

"Yeah." It came out too quickly.

"So can you take her? Please?"

Rafe looked at you again and held your gaze for a beat too long. Or maybe you were imagining that?

"Yeah. Sure. No problem." He shrugged.

"Thanks, man. I owe you." Topper turned back to you, and his face softened slightly. "Get home safe, okay? We'll talk tomorrow. When we're both—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "—not like this."

"Okay," you said.

"And I do love you. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good." He kissed your forehead—quick, careful, almost formal. "Text me when you get home."

And then he walked back toward the bonfire, toward Kelce and the others, and left you standing there with Rafe.

The silence stretched out. You could hear the ocean, the music, people laughing somewhere down the beach. Could feel Rafe not looking at you, determinedly staring at something over your shoulder.

"You don't have to—" you started.

"My truck's in the lot," Rafe said, cutting you off. His voice was flat. Careful. "You ready to go or do you need to say goodbye to people?"

"I'm ready."

"Okay."

He started walking and you followed, and the distance between you felt like miles even though you were only a few feet apart. Neither of you said anything as you crossed the beach, as you climbed the short path up to the parking lot, as you reached his truck.

He unlocked it. You got in. He got in. Started the engine. He quickly pulled out of the lot and onto the main road.

The silence in the truck was suffocating. You could hear your own breathing, could hear the road under the tires, could hear the distant thump of the bonfire music fading behind you. Could feel Rafe's presence next to you like a physical thing; it was too close and too far away at the same time.

“Thanks for doing this,” you said finally.

“It’s fine.”

You watched streetlights pass through the windshield, painting the cab of the truck in alternating light and shadow. Rafe's hands on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. Everything about his body language screaming that he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this, didn't want to be alone in a truck with you.

Which was fair. You'd both been doing a good job of avoiding each other all week. And now here you were, trapped together, and the air between you felt electric and dangerous and wrong.

“You guys good?”

“Yup.”

Your throat went tight. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to breathe evenly and tried to think about what on earth had just happened. The fight. Topper’s face. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t anymore either. Your eyes were burning; you blinked and felt the wetness on your lashes. Great. Perfect. You were crying now; drunk-crying in Rafe Cameron’s truck after fighting with your boyfriend who you loved but maybe didn’t love enough or maybe loved in the wrong way completely. You didn’t even know anymore.

A tear slid down your cheek, and then another. You tried to wipe them away quickly but they kept coming, and your breath was hitching in that embarrassing way that meant you were about to properly cry, and you turned your face more toward the window so Rafe wouldn’t see.

“Hey,” he said, his voice was flat and careful at the same time. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice cracked on the words.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“I can see you crying.”

“I’m fine. I’m just—” You wiped at your face again. “Drunk. Just drunk. It’s stupid.”

Rafe remained silent and kept driving. His jaw was doing that thing it did, and his hands stayed on the wheel, and you thought maybe he was just going to ignore it and drive you home in silence while you cried quietly in the passenger seat like some pathetic drunk girl who couldn’t keep her relationship in check. 

But then the truck slowed and his turn signal clicked on. He took a right down a side road you couldn’t place in your haziness, one of those residential streets that branched off the main drag, lined with scrub pine and chain-link fences and houses set back from the road. It was dark and quiet and empty. He put the truck in park and cut the engine. 

You could hear every single thing now; you could hear your breathing, still hitching and uneven, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant sound of the ocean even though you were blocks away from the beach. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, and your words came out shaky. “I didn’t mean for this to—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—I’m fine. Really. You can just take me home. I’m sorry.”

Rafe let you talk without interrupting.

“I’m just drunk,” you continued, because in your mind stopping would mean actually feeling and sitting in the silence and acknowledging what had just happened with Topper and what was just happening in the truck. “And I got into this argument with Topper, but it’s fine. We’re fine. We fight sometimes. It’s normal. I love him. I do—”

Your voice cracked again. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they kept coming anyway.

“He's such a good person. And he loves me and he's never done anything wrong and I love him but sometimes I feel like I can't breathe around him and I don't know if that's normal or if that means something's wrong with me or if I’m just crazy—"

You were rambling. You knew you were rambling. But you couldn't stop. The vodka and the tears and the week of avoiding thinking about any of this had cracked something open and now it was all spilling out in Rafe Cameron's truck and you couldn't make it stop.

Rafe still hadn't said anything. Was just sitting there listening. Which was unusual. Rafe didn't listen. Rafe interrupted, Rafe made snide comments, Rafe left the room when conversations got uncomfortable. But he was just sitting there. Letting you empty it all out.

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I shouldn’t be saying this. You’re—you’re his best friend. I shouldn’t be—”

“I don’t think you’re being crazy,” Rafe said, almost shrugging. 

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “Anyone would feel like that. He doesn’t wanna deal with shit he doesn’t wanna hear. It’s about him, not you.”

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m not trying to make him the bad guy.”

Rafe let out a short laugh. “I know.”

“He’s not. He’s good. He’s—”

“I know he is.”

“Then why—”

“‘Cause good doesn’t mean he’s right,” he said. 

You felt your breath hitch slightly and felt more tears coming. You hugged yourself without realizing it. You wrapped your arms around your middle like if you could just hold yourself together physically, you can keep it together mentally.

Rafe’s hand left the steering wheel and settled on your thigh assuredly. Not brushing the hem of your shorts, but close. His hand was close enough that you could feel the heat of his palm through the denim. His fingers spread, thumb, resting at the edge where the fabric ended and your bare skin began. Suddenly you thought that the shorts were too short, too much leg showing, too much everything. You should tell him to move his hand. 

“Are you okay?” he asked again, but you had a feeling he didn’t mean your situation with Topper as much as the situation with your bodies touching.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. 

“Good.”

Rafe didn’t know what he could blame his actions on. He didn’t have a reason in Ruthie’s bathroom, but now, he had no reason. None. You were crying to him about Topper; he wasn’t catching all your words because you were rambling more than talking, but he could’ve sworn you mentioned the word love and loving Topper about three times throughout your entire monologue. But was it his fault when you turned to meet his eyes—was it his fault when you looked at him like that?

Because you did. Because you looked like everything he'd been trying not to think about for two years, everything he'd been mean about and cruel about and dismissive about because acknowledging it would mean admitting that Topper's girlfriend was the prettiest girl Rafe had ever seen and also the one girl on this entire fucking island he couldn't have.

Your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, mascara smudged underneath that should’ve been messy but only made him think you were letting him see something more real and something nobody else got to see. Your cheeks were flushed from crying and probably the alcohol, that pink spread down your neck to your collarbone, and Rafe’s eyes followed it without permission. He cataloged and memorized it. Your lips were glossy; it was probably the lipgloss you always wore that Rafe had watched you apply about a hundred times at parties, that you reapplied obsessively like it was a nervous habit. It was now smudged at the corner from where you’d been crying and wiping your face and Rafe wanted to fix it.

Or ruin it more. He hadn’t decided. Both maybe. Fix it by ruining it. Ruining it by touching it.

Your hair was falling out of whatever you’d done to it earlier and you looked vulnerable in a way that made Rafe’s chest twist uncomfortably because he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t be cataloging the way your tank top had rode up slightly when you’d turned toward him, showing a strip of your skin that was rising and falling too fast. He shouldn’t be noticing that your breath was still uneven, and your chest was rising and falling too fast, and the strap of your bra was visible under your top (white, lace-edged), and Jesus Christ, he needed to fucking stop. But his hand stayed exactly where it was. 

But Rafe couldn’t stop because you were looking at him in a way he couldn’t name. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He only knew you were looking at him with those eyes—red and wet and too wide—and your lips were parted slightly and you weren’t pulling away from his hand on your thigh and this was so fucking dangerous.

“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” he said through a rough chuckle.

Your throat moved when you swallowed. “Like what?”

Like you want me to kiss you. Like you’ve forgotten Topper exists. Like I’m not the worst possible person you could be alone with right now.

“You know.”

And he knew you knew. It was evident in the way your breath caught, the way your eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. He could tell in the way you didn’t pull away when his thumb moved against your thigh. He should move his hand. He should drive his truck and take you home and never be alone with you ever, ever again. He should do literally anything other than sitting here in the dark with his hand on your thigh thinking how easy it would be to slide it higher, to find out if your skin was as soft as it looked, to make you make a sound that wasn’t crying.

But you were still looking at him and not pulling away. You were sitting there with your lips parted and eyes glassy and that fucking lip gloss catching the light from the streetlamp and Rafe’s brain had officially short-circuited.

This was Topper’s girl. Topper’s perfect girlfriend who baked fucking cookies and volunteered and lead charity events and smiled at everyone. She was soft and sweet, everything Rafe wasn’t. And now you were here, in Rafe’s truck, looking at Rafe like that, and Rafe was only human. He was only twenty and fucked up and good at making horrible decisions. 

His hand moved again higher this time. Just enough to feel where denim ended and skin began. It was enough to make you inhale sharply.

“Rafe,” you said. You only said his name, and he was sure he’d heard you say it about a hundred times before, but the way you said it breathy and uncertain made every rational thought in Rafe disappear. Not stop. Not don’t. Just his name.

“I know,” he said. “We can’t. I know this is—” He stopped. His hand involuntarily tightened on your thigh. “I know.” He took in a sharp breath. “You’re crying. And you’re looking at me like that. And you’re—” He shook his head. “Fuck.”

You only looked at Rafe and he watched you try to figure out what to say, how to respond, what any of this meant.

“Rafe,” you whispered finally. “We can’t.”

“Iknow.” The words came out quickly. “I know all of it. I should move my hand and drive you home and never be alone with you again.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna.”

The words hung there. Too honest. Too raw. Rafe watched you process them, watched your face do something complicated, watched you bite your bottom lip—that nervous thing you did—and his eyes locked on your mouth.

On that lip gloss. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. On the little indent it left when you released it.

God, he wanted to kiss you. Wanted it so badly he could barely think straight. Wanted to know if you tasted like strawberries or if that was just the gloss. Wanted to know if you'd kiss him back or push him away. Wanted to know if you'd been thinking about him the way he'd been thinking about you.

Wanted to know if that moment in Ruthie's bathroom had meant something or if he'd imagined the way your breath had caught when his hands were on your hips.

“We’re gonna regret this,” you said quietly.

Oh, Rafe wasn’t sure about that part. Rafe's thumb moved again. Slow. Deliberate. Drawing a circle against your skin right where your shorts ended, right where he could feel how warm you were, how soft.

"Rafe," you breathed.

His voice came out low. Rough. "Tell me to move my hand and drive you home and I will."

“You should—”

“Not what I asked.” His eyes locked on yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rafe watched you struggle with it and watched you try to find the words, try to be good, try to do the right thing.

"I can't," you whispered finally.

And that was all Rafe needed. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. He wanted to give you time to say no, he almost needed you to say no. He wanted to give you time to remember you had a boyfriend because the time he got (two years) was enough to make him not care about your boyfriend being his best friend. You didn't pull away. 

You weren’t even breathing. He could tell because his chest had stopped moving and you’d gone completely still under his hand like a deer that didn’t know whether to run or stay.

You only sat there frozen as Rafe closed the distance between you, as his free hand came up to cup your face, as his thumb brushed across your cheekbone right where the mascara was smudged.

"Last chance," he murmured. His lips were an inch from yours. Less. "Tell me no and I'll stop." His thumb traced your cheek once, and then again. He wanted to give you time. He wanted to give you an out.

Your eyes were huge and locked on his. Rafe could see you warring with yourself and he could’ve sworn he saw the moment you made the decision, the moment you stopped fighting it.

"I don't want you to stop," you whispered.

Good. He kissed you, slow at first. Like he was testing, giving you one more second to change your mind. His hand rested on your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone because he couldn’t stop touching you. His other hand tightened on your thigh. You made a small sound, maybe it was surprise, but he hoped it was want. Your body turned further toward him, and his fingers rested between the skin of your thighs, warm and soft and fuck.

Then you kissed him back, and something horrible in Rafe snapped. His lips worked harder and his hand slid from your face into your hair—fisting it, tangling in it—tilting your head back to get a better angle, so he could kiss you better, the way he’d been thinking about for two years. You made a small, surprised sound, and Rafe swallowed it whole. 

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “We’re so fucked.” 

Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go in the cab of his truck. The center console dug into his ribs but he didn’t care. He would’ve climbed over it if he could.

“Rafe—” you gasped when his lips moved to your neck. 

“Hm?” His teeth grazed your pulse point. 

“Rafe,” you said again, voice breathy and all perfect.

He hummed against your skin. “Yeah, baby?”

You shivered against him. 

“I’m sorry.” Your hands went up his back and landed on his neck, nails softly grazing against the skin under his hair. The touch was so light it almost hurt Rafe, as though you weren’t allowed. 

“Don’t.” Rafe’s lips met the corner of your jaw before he pulled back just enough to look at you. He rested his forehead against yours, breath uneven, and his hands stayed in your hair, fingers still tangled like he’d forgotten how to let go. Maybe if he held on long enough, this moment wouldn’t end and tomorrow would never come. “Don’t apologize to me. That’s not what this is.”

Your hands stilled on his neck, and the barely-there touch made all hairs on his body rise. 

“What is it?” you asked softly.

Rafe laughed once, but all humor was devoid. What was it? Fuck if he knew. A really, really good mistake. He’d wanted this so long that it didn’t even feel real now that it was happening. His thumb slid along your jaw, tilting your face back toward him so you had no choice but to meet his eyes again. “You’re upset.”

He leaned back and in, kissed you again. It was shorter this time, firmer than before, like he was reminding himself what it felt like rather than losing himself in it; he would likely never have you in this position ever again. So he memorized it, your taste and the way your mouth fit against his and the sounds you made. 

When he pulled away, his hand slid back down to your thigh, thumb pressing there, grounding both of you.

“You gotta breathe,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re one to talk.” Rafe liked your voice too much.

“Hey,” he said, voice now slightly playful. “I’m not the one crying.” He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond. “You okay?”

You nodded. 

“Good,” he said, and forced himself to pull away. Your hands stayed on his neck—fingers still curled there, warm—and he had to physically remove it. He took your wrist and gently guided your hand back to your own lap. “Because if we keep going like that, I really can’t take this back.”

He forced himself to start the truck because he wasn’t sure how true his words rang. His body felt like it was boiling about twenty emotions together at once; how could you take this back? He’d made you cross a line. He’d pulled you across it, really. The engine turned over. The headlights cut through the dark. Rafe put his truck in drive because if he sat there one more second looking at you with your swollen lips and smudged mascara and his fingerprints still visible in your hair, he was going to do something even more unforgivable than what he'd already done.

The drive to your house was silent. It was heavy and loaded with every single thing that had just happened and couldn’t happen again. Rafe kept both his hands on the wheel this time because he couldn’t trust himself to do anything else. 

You sat with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring out the passenger window, and Rafe couldn't tell if you were crying again or just thinking. Either way, he didn't ask. He didn't know what he'd say if you were. He’d have to acknowledge what he’d just done if he asked. 

Your street appeared too quickly. The familiar houses, the broken streetlight, your driveway with your parents' cars parked in it. All the normal pieces of your normal life that had nothing to do with what had just happened in Rafe's truck on some random side street.

“I should—” you started.

“Yup.”

You reached for the door handle. Stopped. Your hand just rested there on the metal, not pulling, not opening. “This didn’t happen?” 

“Okay.” He kept his eyes on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling a hundred times smaller. “Didn’t happen.”

“We can’t—this can’t happen again.” 

“I know that. So go inside.” His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Text Topper. Tell him you got home safe. Forget about this.”

“Will you forget about it?” 

No. Absolutely fucking not. He’d probably remember this for the rest of his life; he’d remember the way you tasted, the sound you made, the way you’d kissed him back. He’d remember all of it and it’d torture him everytime he saw you with Topper, every single fucking time he had to pretend this never happened, every time he had to be Topper’s best friend and not the guy who’d kissed his girlfriend in a parked truck after she cried. 

“Yeah,” Rafe said, nodding. “I’ll forget about it.” For some reason, the lie tasted worse on his tongue than the truth would’ve.

You stared at him for a long moment before opening the door. You climbed out onto the sidewalk, and Rafe watched you smooth down your shorts, fix your hair, try to put yourself back together into the girl you'd been before you got in his truck. You leaned in before closing the door. “Thank you,” you said. “For the ride and listening and—” You stopped yourself. “Just thank you.”

Rafe nodded once, sharply. You turned away from him and went inside. He sat there for a long time. Staring at your dark house. Trying to process what he'd just done. Trying to figure out how he was supposed to look Topper in the face tomorrow knowing that he'd had his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours and you'd kissed him back.

His phone buzzed.

Topper: she get home okay?

Rafe stared at the text. His best friend's name on the screen. At the trust implicit in that question, the assumption that Rafe had done exactly what he'd been asked to do and nothing more.

yeah, he typed back. got her home safe.

Whether it was directed at you, or himself, or the world—he wasn’t sure.

To Topper, Kelce, and anyone else, Rafe looked the best he ever had. 

The erratic, twitching energy that had defined his final years on the island was gone, replaced by control. His jaw was sharper, his frame thicker, his eyes clearer. He smiled when he was supposed to smile. He appeared, by all superficial measures, completely fine. Put together.

But only when he was surrounded.

The second the crowds thinned, and he was left alone with the buzz of the refrigerator in his apartment or the empty passenger seat of his truck, the facade came crumbling.

Your absence was a ghost, haunting him. And the memories didn't trickle in, they flooded—heavy, hard, breaking through whatever walls he tried to build. He would sit on the edge of his mattress in the dark, staring at his hands, and suddenly he wasn't twenty years old in a college away from Kildare anymore.

He was eight, standing under the massive live oak at the country club, watching Sarah run away and looking down at a girl in a pleated dress. He could still feel the exact lightness of that afternoon—the way your small voice had sounded when you whispered that ‘hate was a strong word’, the way his own chest had eased the moment you agreed to go look at the crabs by the dock, feeling like he’d finally managed to make a friend.

Then the timeline would twist, warping into the memory of fifth grade. He would see you sitting beside him in the school cafeteria, your small fingers wrapping around his wrist after his mother had gone. He remembered how your skin had felt, warm against his own, and how you hadn't asked him a single stupid question, choosing instead to just hold onto him. He remembered the weight of his own vow to protect you then, a vow made long before either of you had words for what you were to each other.

He remembered everything he had ever done for you. The lies he’d told your mother to cover your missed assignments, the fights he’d picked with guys who breathed too close to you, the way he’d destroyed his own standing with the island’s elite just to ensure your name stayed clean of rumors while you were gone that summer. And he remembered what you had done for him—the way you had walked him to the nurse’s office with bleeding knuckles, the way you had lied to the principal, the way you had snatched the silver flask from his hands at the country club banquet and thrown it out the window because you were terrified he would destroy himself.

You were woven into the very foundation of his identity. To tear you out meant ripping away the only parts of himself he actually liked.

Dozens of times a night, he would pull up your contact, thumb hovering over the screen, his heart aching in a way that made his breath catch. 

He would draft messages, but he could never send them.

Rafe Where are you?

Delete.

Rafe Are you okay? Just tell me you're okay.

Delete.

Rafe I'm sorry I said it. We can pretend like I didn't. Just come back.

Delete.

Every word looked pathetic. Every sentence felt like a confession of how completely powerless he was without you, how the foundation of his “new, clean life” depended on a girl who had looked him in the eye and told him that neither of them knew how to love. 

So, he would lock the phone, throw it face down onto the mattress, and press the palms of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to blot out the lingering sound of your footsteps running down his apartment stairs.

YOU, meanwhile, had faded into a shadow…again.

You had turned into a ghost, moving through, keeping everyone at a distance. Your roommates, Kat and Janae, watched you with a growing, silent concern that you intentionally ignored. You stopped going out to the diner for breakfast. You stopped sitting on the benches in the quad to watch the sunset. Your existence had shrunk down to a repetitive loop—your dorm room, the lecture halls, the library, and back.

You felt hollowed out, as if Rafe’s confession had stripped away everything. You had spent years hiding yourself behind a wall of perceived perfection, and behind the haze of euphoria. But now, without the pills, without the smoke, and entirely without him, the world felt sharp, and the corners were starting to stab you again.

You spent your nights staring at the ceiling, your fingers curled into the fabric of your blanket. Rafe's voice lived in the corners of your room, repeating those eight devastating words over and over. 

Fuck, I did it because I love you. 

Every time the memory hit, your chest would constrict, so much so you could barely breathe. You loved him. You knew that with a certainty that terrified you, but your love had always been a dangerous thing—born from the wreckage of your families, nurtured in empty parking lots and hospital waiting rooms. 

To admit it, to actually step across that line and be his in the way he wanted, felt like inviting a hurricane into a house already built on a weak foundation.

So, you ran.

But the campus wasn't big enough. Nothing, no place, ever would be. 

Rafe felt your presence long before he saw you. It was a tingling static in the air, a sudden tightening in his chest. He would be walking with Topper and Kelce, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, and his head would snap around on instinct.

He would catch the ghost of a shadow against the brick walls, see the unmistakable glimpse of your hair whipping around the corner. He would freeze, turning toward the space you had just occupied, lungs burning with the urge to run after you, to grab your arm, to force you to look at him as you hadn’t in weeks.

But he never did. 

He would stand there, his fists clenched deep in the pockets of his shorts, watching the empty corner until Topper would shove his shoulder and ask him what the hell he was looking at.

And Rafe would just shake his head, face straightening out. "Nothing," he’d mutter, voice flat. "Thought I saw someone I knew."

THE breaking point for the whole group came on a random evening, after classes. Rafe, Topper, Kelce, Kat, and Janae were crowded into a corner booth at the local bar.

The table was cluttered with empty beer bottles and baskets of cold fries. Usually, the energy was overtaken by Topper’s brainless political arguments or Kelce’s complaints about his classes. But tonight, the space next to Rafe was empty, and the silence it created was…suffocating.

Kat let her glass drop onto the wood of the table, her eyes darting toward Rafe, who was mindlessly peeling the label off his Bud Light bottle with his thumb.

"Okay, seriously," Kat announced, her voice cutting through the ambient musical thrum of the jukebox. "Where the hell is she, Rafe?"

Rafe didn't look up, his thumb continuing its slow scraping, a small curl of white paper dampening against his skin. He knew she was talking about you. 

"How should I know?" He answered, voice low, shrugging lightly.

"Um, because she’s like your best friend?” Kat shot back. 

“And she hasn't been to breakfast with us in three weeks," Janae stepped in, her tone sharper, leaning forward over her folded arms. "She doesn't answer our texts unless it's a one-word reply about whether she locked the door. She’s living like a hermit, Rafe.” She emphasized, cocking an eyebrow his way. “And every time someone mentions your name, she looks like she’s about to throw up."

Topper exchanged a look with Kelce, a knowing expression crossing his face. He leaned back in the booth, throwing an arm over it, his eyes locking onto Rafe's rigid profile. "Yeah, man, and you’ve been acting crazy at the gym, too…dropping weights like you’re trying to break the floorboards.” He throws out. “What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Rafe muttered, his voice dropping into that low tone that usually signaled the end of a conversation. He finally raised his eyes, fixing Topper with a cold stare. "Maybe she’s busy. I’m busy.” He snapped. “It’s not a big deal that I don’t know where the fuck she is every second of every day."

"Bullshit," Kelce snorted, taking a sip of his beer. "You two haven't gone twenty-four hours without speaking since we were in middle school.” He scoffed. But little did he know. “You think we're blind? You act like her personal bodyguard everywhere we go, and now you mean to tell me you don't even know if she's breathing?"

Rafe’s jaw ticked, the muscle along his cheekbone flexing, grip tightening around the neck of his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.

The table went quiet, tension rising. 

Topper leaned forward, his voice dropping, replaced by something uncharacteristically serious. "...You told her, didn't you?"

Rafe froze. His thumb stopped scraping the label. "Told her what?"

Topper pursed his lips, tilting his head. "That you love her," he said plainly. "...You did, didn't you?"

Rafe let out a short, mocking laugh, turning his head away toward the bar window. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about..."

"Oh, please," Kat rolled her eyes, throwing herself back into the seat of the booth. "We've known it since we met you two,” She points between her and Janae, “And we’ve only known you for two years!” She scoffs, leaning to look at Rafe. “You’re not exactly subtle.” She deadpans, an unamused expression on her face. “So…did you? Tell her?"

Rafe’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He looked at Kelce, then at Topper, looking for a way out, but their faces were waiting for an answer as well.

"...Yeah," Rafe sighed as he leaned forward, his voice a harsh, shaky whisper. "Yeah, I told her. Alright? Is that what you want to hear? I told her."

Janae blinked, her face softening. "And...what did she say?"

"She didn't say anything," Rafe spat, his eyes welling with an angry rush of tears that he desperately tried to blink away, rubbing a hand against his face. "She…fuck, she ran. She pushed me off her, said some shit about how neither of us knows what love is, and ran out of my place. I haven't heard a single word from her since..."

He let out a ragged breath, leaning his head back against the booth, staring at the ceiling tiles. "I don't know what the fuck to do. I’ve never... I’ve never really had to live without her.” He kept going. “I know there was a period of my life where she wasn't around, I know that…but I can't see it anymore. When I look back, she’s just... she’s always there."

He swallowed hard, bitterness coating his tongue. "But I can't force her to…love me.” His voice, not really used to being vulnerable with anyone but you. “If she wants to be away from me, to pretend I don't exist because I apparently ruined everything by opening my fucking mouth... then I guess that's it."

"...Are you an idiot?" Kat asked, all eyes shooting to her. "What?” She looked around at everyone, eyes landing back on Rafe, narrowing. “You're just going to let it go? Just like that?"

"She doesn't want to talk to me," Rafe snapped, his voice cracking, drawing looks from the nearby tables. He didn't care. "What do you want me to do? Go drag her out by her hair? There’s no point.” He hissed. “She didn't even say it back."

"Well, she can't," Janae said softly.

Rafe frowned, his brows pinching together as he averted his gaze to her. "What?"

"Rafe, think about it," Janae continued, her voice gentle, as if she were explaining something to a child who had missed the obvious. "You know her. Have you ever heard her say those words to anyone? Ever?"

Rafe opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat. He stared at her, his mind flipping through over a decade of memories. 

He’d heard you laugh, he’d heard you scream, he’d heard you cry on the cold of a bathroom floor, he'd heard you plead before your hand struck him across the face for being stupid. He’d heard you tell him he was your best friend, that he was the only one who mattered. But as he searched the archives of his brain, that was when he realized.

He had never heard you say 'I love you'. 

Not to your mother.

Not to your brothers.

Not to your friends.

Not even about yourself.

"She’s never said it, Rafe," Kat reinforced, leaning across the table to touch the back of his trembling hand. "To anyone. The fact that she didn't say it back to you isn't because she doesn't feel it.” She said softly. “It's because she's fucking terrified."

THEY were right, but Rafe didn't get the chance to find you first. 

You’d actually found him.

It happened in the middle of the night—12:42.

The storm had been raging all evening, a downpour that rattled against the glass of Rafe’s bedroom window. He was lying awake, flat on his back, arm thrown over his eyes, listening to the thunder when the sudden buzz of his phone on the nightstand made him sit up. 

He didn't even look at the caller ID, his hand shooting out, fingers gripping the device.

He flipped the screen over and your name flashed at him in the dark.

His heart jumped, and he answered before the second ring could finish, pressing the phone to his ear. 

"Hello?"

"...Rafe?"

Your voice was a tiny, meek sound, nearly swallowed by the static and the rain. You sounded cold, and smaller than he had ever heard you.

"What's wrong?" Rafe demanded, pushing every negative feeling to the side, his feet already swinging off the bed, bare soles hitting the cold floor as he stood up. 

"My... my car," you stammered, your teeth chattering over the line. "The engine just... it just died. I was coming back from... it doesn't matter.” You sighed. “I’m on that narrow road behind the old salt marsh. The dark one. Rafe, it’s pouring, and no one else is answering their phones, and I—"

"I’m on my way," he cut you off, his voice entirely absent of the anger or hesitation from the past weeks. He didn't wait for you to finish the sentence, and he didn't care why you were out, or where you had been.

He shoved his feet into his sneakers, grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter, and yanked a hoodie over his bare chest as he sprinted out of his apartment, the door slamming behind him.

He drove his truck through the storm like a mad man, tires hydroplaning across the flooded blacktop as he took corners at speeds that should have flipped the large vehicle. The windshield wipers were on their highest setting, slapping violently against the glass, barely clearing the sheets of gray water that were falling from the sky. His heart was beating violently against his ribcage, a familiar, terrifying rush of adrenaline burning through him. 

He was late once before.

And despite everything...he promised you, and himself, that he’d never be late to you again.

HE made it to you in record time, The road completely black. The only illumination came from the yellow glare of your car's headlights, which were cutting weak lines through the rain. Your vehicle was pulled halfway onto the muddy shoulder, the hazard lights flashing.

As Rafe pulled his truck up, his high beams flooded the scene, and, through the downpour, he saw you.

You weren't inside your car. You were standing out in the open, completely drenched, your clothes plastered to your skin and your hair hanging around your face. The hood of your car was jacked open, and you were leaning over the engine bay, your hands buried in the wires, trying desperately to fix something he knew you didn't understand.

Rafe slammed his truck into park, threw the door open, and stepped out. The cold water hit him, soaking through his hoodie in seconds, but he barely registered it as he marched over to you.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he roared over the sound of the thunder, squinting his eyes from the water trying to leak into them, leaning in until he was directly in your field of vision. "Get in the truck! Now!"

You flinched, your head snapping up, your eyes wide and glassy under the glare of his high beams. For a split second, the weeks of silence disappeared, replaced by a look of relief at the sight of him looming over you. But just as quickly, your jaw tightened.

"I’m trying to check the alternator!" you shouted back, your voice shaking violently from the cold. "The battery light came on and then everything just went dark—"

"You don't know anything about an alternator!" Rafe yelled, his grip tightening on the hood as he stepped closer, his body blocking the wind from hitting your face. "You’re freezing to death, look at you!” He huffed. “Go get in my car,"

You stared at him for a long second, the rain streaming down your cheeks, mixing with the tears you were trying so hard to hide. 

“Go.” He urged, throwing a hand out.

Your shoulders slumped then, exhaustion taking over. You pulled your hands out of the engine bay, wiping the grease onto your wet jeans, dropped your keys into his palm, and walked around to his truck, pulling the passenger door open and climbing inside.

Rafe slammed your car hood shut, locked your doors, and ran back to the driver's side of his truck, sliding into the seat and pulling the door shut behind him.

The sudden silence that enveloped you both was soul crushing. The only sound was the thud of raindrops against the roof and the blasting of the truck's heater, which Rafe immediately cranked to its highest setting.

He didn't look at you right away, keeping his hands on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, breathing ragged as he tried to calm himself.

You were huddled against the passenger door, as far away from him as the small space allowed. Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, your knees tucked together, your teeth chattering. You were staring fixedly out the side window, drenched and shaking.

The awkwardness between you was evident, of course—heavy from weeks of unspoken words, anger, and the devastating memory of his confession.

Rafe turned his head slowly, his eyes scanning your shivering form. He immediately reached into the backseat, grabbed a dry hoodie he’d left on the floor, and tossed it into your lap. "Put that on."

You didn't look at him, fingers slowly uncurling, picking up the garment and sliding into it, burying yourself in the familiar scent of him. "Thanks," you whispered, voice raspy.

Rafe let out a long breath, shifting his weight in the seat. He looked back through the windshield at your dark car sitting in the mud. "Look, I looked at it. The belt is snapped. There's nothing I can do tonight without tools.” He tried to be casual. As casual as he could, anyway. “I’m gonna drive you back to your place, and we’ll handle getting it towed tomorrow morning—"

"No," you said instantly, your voice gaining an edge. "No, it's fine. You can just... you can go. I’ll just call a tow service or an Uber or something. I don't need you to drive me."

Rafe scoffed, letting out a humorless laugh as his restraint snapped. The irritation, the worry, the absolute agony of, nearly, the last month boiled over in a second. He whipped his torso around, his blue eyes flashing.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" he barked, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Look out the window. It is pouring down raining, it’s midnight, and you are on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere!” He reminded. “You’re gonna sit here and wait for a tow truck that’ll take three hours, at least, to show up, all because you’re too goddamn stubborn to sit in a car with me—"

"Yes, actually, " you shrieked, finally turning your head to face him, your eyes wild and brimming with tears. "Yes, Rafe! Just go! I told you, I don't need your help!"

"Then why the fuck did you call me?!" he roared back, his face inches from yours, contorted into an expression of complete frustration. "If you hate me so much—"

"I don't hate you—"

"If you can't stand the sight of me—"

"I never said that—"

"Then why was I the one to call when your car broke down?"

"I told you," you seethed, voice cracking as a sob escaped your throat. "No one else was answering their phone!"

Rafe froze, eyes narrowing. He didn't say a word, just slowly lowered his gaze to the passenger seat between you.

Unbeknownst to you, your purse had fallen over when you got in, the contents spilling out onto the leather. And there, sitting beneath the glow of the dashboard lights, was your phone. The screen was on, completely unlocked, displaying your call log.

Rafe reached down, his large fingers picking up the device before you could snatch it away. He held it up between your faces, his thumb tapping the screen to bring the log into full view.

"No one else was answering?" Rafe asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, terrifyingly steady whisper.. "That's funny. Because it almost looks like... you haven't called Kat today. You haven't called Janae. Or Topper. Or Kelce. Or anyone, for that matter."

He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours in a way that stripped away every single layer of your defense. "I am the only person you called all day.” He hissed. “You didn't try anyone else. You dialed my number first."

The phone fell from his hand, clattering against the center console as he let it go carelessly. You looked down at it, your breath hitching in your throat, lips parting. It wasn’t like you could deny it.

Rafe pressed his palms against the steering wheel, eyes boring into the side of your face. "...Why did you call me?"

You shook your head, your fingers clutching the edges of his hoodie. You tried to look away, to turn back to the window, but the air in the truck was entirely filled with his presence, a presence you had felt for nearly all your life, that you had rid yourself of for the last few weeks—his warmth, his voice, that fucking look in his eyes—

"Because I missed you." you blurted out, the words ripping from your throat.

A sob broke through your lips, shoulders shaking as the tears finally spilled over. You covered your face with your hands, your voice muffled and broken. "I missed you, Rafe.” You admitted, voice broken. “I’ve been sitting in that room for a fucking month, trying to push you out of my head, trying to pretend that if I just stayed away long enough, I could go back to normal. But I’m not normal. I never have been, and no matter what I do, no matter where I look, you’re just... you’re just there."

Rafe flinched, his expression softening. He reached a hand out, his fingers hovering inches from your shoulder before he pulled them back, jaw tightening as the hurt from the past weeks reintroduced itself.

"...You missed me?" he asked, a bitter sound escaping his throat. "You ran out of my apartment. I told you how I felt. And you couldn't even look me in the eye, wouldn't even walk on the same side of the street as me.” He criticized, though his own voice was shaking. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? You're all I have, and you spent weeks running from me."

"Don't...say that—" you winced, pulling your hands down from your face, your eyes red and wild as you stared at him through the dark. 

"Why?" he yelled back, his anger flaring. "My dad hates me, my family is a joke, I’m trying every single day to stay clean, and the only person who makes me feel like I’m actually a human being is you.” He emphasized. “You are all I have."

"I can't be all you have when I am literally nothing!" you screamed, the weight of your deepest, darkest insecurity leaking out.

The words echoed against the inside of the car. You leaned back against the passenger door, your chest heaving, your voice dropping into a broken whisper.

"Look at me, Rafe.” You scoffed, tears sitting at your waterline as your face fell. “I have nothing to offer you. I don't love myself. I don't even know what I am, who I am. I’m just a mess of...pills and emotions and expectations I’ll never reach that no one knows what to do with!” You sobbed, throwing a hand out as you let your eyes leave his. “... If I don't even know how to exist in my own skin, how can you expect me to love you back? How can I give you that?"

You wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, your face contorting with a bitter, self-loathing laugh. "I would be a terrible girlfriend, Rafe. An even worse wife o-or mother, if I ever even make it that far—”

“Don’t—”

“I would just bring you down.” You cut him off sharply. “Look at what you’ve done since we got to college—you got away from it.” You smiled sadly, choking on your own emotions. “But I can't.” You nearly whimpered. “...I don’t know who I am and I can’t be what people expect me to be, so I’m just...lost and unloveable—"

"Don't say that," Rafe whispered, his voice trembling, large hands coming up to grip your face, rendering you silent. His palms were warm against your freezing, wet skin, thumbs gently but firmly wiping away the tears that were pooling beneath your eyes. "Why do you always say that shit about yourself—"

"Because I am being honest," you sobbed, trying to pull your head back, but his grip was unyielding, holding you right there, forcing you to look at him. "I’ve tried so hard, Rafe.” You slumped. “I’ve spent years trying to figure out how to love myself, how to be normal, and I can't do it. If I can't even do it for myself, how the hell can you do? Huh? How can you look at me and see something worth loving?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your voice dropping into a heartbreaking whisper that broke his heart.

"I know what love is, Rafe. I do.” You told him, voice barely there. “I know because... I love you.” You admitted, finally. “I’ve loved you since I met you and you taught me what love was, when neither of us knew the meaning. And I’m sorry... I’m so sorry I didn't say it back to you. But I was... I am, so fucking scared."

Rafe’s thumbs froze against your cheekbones. His breath hitched, lips parting as the words he had waited a lifetime to hear finally met his ears. "Scared of what?" he whispered, looking at you like the most fragile thing in the world. “What could you possibly be scared of?”

"Of ruining the only thing I’m sure of," you cried, the tears spilling over his fingers. "Us, whatever this is, is the only real thing I’ve ever had in my entire life.” You cried. “I’m terrified that if we cross that line, if we try to be something more, our problems will just pull us both under.” You tell him, eyes locked on his now. “We’re both so broken, Rafe. What if we just destroy each other even more?"

Rafe shook his head, pulling your face a fraction of an inch closer to his. "You are my best friend," he reminded you, his voice thick, his forehead leaning in until it nearly touched yours. "That means something. Nothing about that has to change—"

"We were never just friends," you interrupted, a watery laugh escaping you. You reached up, your hands locking around his wrists, not to push him away, but to hold him right there against you. "Friends don't scream at each other until three o'clock in the morning in empty parking lots.  Friends don't look at each other the way we look at each other. They don't scare off every single person who tries to come near them until there's no one left but each other. They don't sit in your car and do this—"

“Exactly,” Rafe stared at you, his breathing heavy, lips trembling. "We’re basically already past whatever line you're so afraid of crossing. So, what are you so afraid of?" he asked, his voice a soft, a plea. "...Why are you so afraid of being in love with me?"

"I am not scared,” Your voice grew firm, a hint of anger seeping into your words. “To love you." you emphasized. "I’m scared for you to love me back. Because I’m still... Rafe, I’m still not sure that I fit. In this world, on this planet, in this timeline. Whatever’s wrong with me... it makes it so hard to just open my eyes in the morning. It feels like a weight pulling me down, and I don't want you to be stuck with me when you're finally doing so much better. I don't want to drag you back."

Rafe’s face twisted, shaking side to side as he slid his hands down to grip your shoulders, his thumbs digging into your skin. "Hey, I will always lay myself on the line for you," he said, voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone. "Every single time."

"Don’t you get it?” You breathed. “I don't want you to." you wept, shaking your head. "You shouldn't have to ruin yourself for me—"

"You’ve always done it for me," Rafe argued back, his voice breaking into a sob as his own tears finally spilled over. "Who stood by me when I was sniffing lines off coffee tables? Who lied to my dad? Who came to my bedroom when I was losing my fucking mind and held onto me until I stopped?” He asked, eyebrows pinching. “You."

"That’s different—”

“How?!”

“Because you're all I've ever had to live for!" you confessed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

You fell forward then, burying your face in his chest, hands clutching the damp fabric of his hoodie as you sobbed against him, turning your face so you could still speak. "I still hear your fucking voice, Rafe.” You admitted through an unrelenting sob. “Every single day when I wake up, I still hear you talking to me on that bathroom floor. And I carry that shit around.” You cursed yourself. “...I almost left you alone. I almost died and left you. And I’m so terrified... I’m so terrified that one day, another day will come and I won't be able to stop it, and neither will you."

Rafe’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you completely across the center console until you were sitting in his lap, your face buried in his neck. He held you so tightly it nearly bruised your ribs, his large frame shaking with his own repressed sobs that made is body shake every time he released a breath, struggling to hold it together.

"It won't happen again," he whispered into your hair, lips pressing against your temple. "I swear to you, it won't happen again."

"You can't promise something like that. Being with me will only drag you down," you choked out, your fingers tightening around his neck. "You got out of it, Rafe. You did the work. You got clean.” You sniffed, going numb—physically, emotionally. “But I never could. I’m still there."

Rafe pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hands coming up to cup your chin, forcing your tear-streaked face up. A sad, soft grin touched his lips.

"I’m still there, too," Rafe said plainly, his voice steady.

He leaned in closer, blue eyes zeroing in on your lips, his thumb brushing against the lower one. "I stopped the coke because you asked me to. I cut down the drinking because I wanted to be better for you. But I still have you.” He whispered. “That’s one addiction I’ll never give up. I can give up everything else, but I can't give up you."

You sighed, chest aching, unamused by his words. They only hurt more. "That's the problem," you whispered. "It shouldn’t be like that—"

"I don't care," Rafe disagreed, his voice dropping into a rough growl as his lips brushed against yours with every word he spoke. "You make me better. You make me want to be something. My mood, my day, everything about my fucking life depends on whether you're okay. So yeah, maybe we are toxic and overly co-dependent and forever fucked.” He mused, a small laugh escaping his lips, though it held little humor. “But, fuck it.” He shrugged, jutting his bottom lip out. “I’d rather be all of that than be without you."

He pulled his head back slightly,his eyes searching yours with an intensity that demanded everything you had left to give. He leaned in, his lips hovering mere millimeters from yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"So, love me back."

You shivered against him, your fingers tangling into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your defenses disintegrating under his gaze. "Rafe..." you whispered, your voice soft, breathless.

"Say it," he pleaded, his voice cracking as he leaned his forehead against yours, his grip on your waist tightening until you were completely flush against him. "Say it.”

“I—”

“Say you love me."

“...”

“I need you to—”

"I love you," you let out, the words finally breaking through. "Okay, I love you, Rafe.” Your voice shook. “...And I’m sorry."

A pained, breathless sound escaped Rafe’s throat—something between a sob and a laugh. 

He didn't say another word, simply closing the tiny distance between you, his mouth slamming down onto yours with a desperation that poured years of pain, longing, and emotion into you.

It was painful almost, riddled with a decade of unspoken words. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of rain and the salt of your tears, his tongue sliding against yours with a force that claimed every single part of who you were—the dark spaces, the shadows, and everything in between. You opened up for him completely, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling his large body down against yours until there was no space left between you, letting him anchor you in a way no pills or smoke ever could.

And when he finally pulled back, both of your chests were heaving, breaths coming out in short, ragged gasps. Rafe didn't let you go. He kept his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses against your collarbone while his breathing slowly evened out.

"I’ve got you," he whispered against your skin, his voice thick and steady. "I’ve got you, okay? We're gonna handle the car tomorrow. We're gonna handle all of it."

You nodded against his shoulder, fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw, the terrifying unknown of the future suddenly feeling somewhat manageable with one less weight on your shoulders. Because his chest was rising and falling beneath your cheek, and for the first time in your entire life, the dark felt like something you didn't have to carry all by yourself.

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

The professor introduced herself as Ms. Smith. A boring name for an easy class, but she seemed very sweet. Her voice was soft as she called out attendance. You almost missed it when she called out your name. She moved through the short list quickly.

“Ah, Rafe Cameron?” She widened her warm brown eyes, searching the room.

“Present.” The boy with the blue eyes muttered. Rafe. That’s right. He was the hockey player the girls in your dorm talked about. Well, they talked about a lot of the hockey players, but you had been to a few games last year and remembered him well. He was a forward. Aggressive, mouthy, fast, and very, very, good. And apparently very good in bed. You quickly looked away from him, like he'd catch you staring.

“Alright, I want you to introduce yourself to the people to your left and right. Take a minute to get to know each other.” Ms. Smith announced, taking a seat at her desk on the other side of the room.

“Hi, I’m Evan.” The blue haired boy next to you spoke before it could get awkward. You introduced yourself, mentioning your major in finance. He tells you he hasn’t picked a major yet, but he’s a freshman playing soccer at Duke.

Next up was the girl to your left, her dark curly hair piled into a messy bun. Her green eyes were striking against her tan skin. She tells you her name is Meghan, a sophomore in communications.

Ms. Smith starts her lecture on time management, her voice the perfect cadence to lull you to sleep. You would have, if it weren’t for the athlete boys next to you chattering under their breath and chuckling at every little thing. Evan seemed nice enough, but you’d heard enough about male athletes to want nothing to do with them. Egotistical assholes who only cared about themselves. No thanks.

Ms. Smith had other plans, though. She divided the class up into their first group assignment, pointing out every other person. That paired you up with none other than Rafe Cameron. And knowing that he was the only hockey player you remembered by name, he probably had an ego the size of North Carolina.

Rafe introduces himself to you with a casual confidence that you envy, like he doesn’t expect you to know who he is but he wouldn’t be surprised if you did. He takes a moment to learn your name, and then oddly enough, he gets started on the assignment. You expected some goofing off with his buddies, or a complete disinterest altogether. But he takes charge, asking for your input now and then.

At the end of class, it feels like it will be easy enough to get an A and that you made the right decision signing up. The rest of the week, you focus on your new routine for the semester. When to get coffee between classes. The café you like to eat at that still takes your student card and is cheaper than the dining hall, even if it’s a bit further away.

You had no intention of including Rafe Cameron in your routine, but he seemed to have other ideas. Any time Ms. Smith suggested pairing up for class, he would corral you and Evan before either of you could speak. His excuse was that there had to be one group of three with the 15 students, so it might as well be you three. Nevermind the fact that you had wanted to get to know Meghan a little.

Two weeks later, you tried to be quick when Ms. Smith asks you to pair up. You turned to Meghan, hoping she would turn to face you, when someone to your right cleared their throat. You turn to Evan, who looked at you sheepishly. Rafe, on the other hand, was faking a pout.

“Not gonna join us, partner?” He accused.

“I-” You looked over at Meghan, who was already pairing up to the blonde girl who always sat next to her. “Don’t you have a hockey friend you’d rather have in the group?” You nod at the ginger guy next to Rafe.

“Holiday? He’s my roommate. I see enough of him.” Rafe shrugs. Holiday. So, the guy with orange hair came from a hockey family. His dad definitely played: Roger Holiday. Maybe his grandpa, too, if you remembered right. You could bet his ego was worse than Rafe’s.

“Fine.” You say, crossing your arms. You give Evan a gentle smile, not wanting him to think your irritation was at him. The assignment was simple enough, and as soon as class was dismissed, you nearly sprinted to Meghan to chat with her. You hadn’t been out yet, and were craving a night out with some girls.

Lucky for you, Meghan agrees, and the two of you hit the bars on Friday night. Your roommate and few other girls from class are supposed to meet up with you at the only club on campus later, but you take Meghan to your favorite bar. It has a ton of retro arcade games, and you used to come here whenever you visited your older brothers before they graduated.

“Wanna play against me?” You ask Meghan, sticking some tokens in for the Mortal Kombat game.

“Um, sure,” She smiles hesitantly. “It’s like boxing, right?”

“Yeah. Those buttons say what they do when you press ‘em. But no pressure.” You tell her, sifting through the characters.

“Oh! The hockey team is here!” She practically squeals, turning her head to the entrance.

“Nice.” You comment, picking Kitana as your player.

“You’ve been talking to Rafe, right? He’s so cute.” She gushes, and you finally glance away from the screen. Meghan’s actually blushing, her cheeks matching the lip gloss she had put on.

“Uh,” You stammer, her enthusiasm catching you off guard. “Not really.”

“Oh, come on! He always picks you as his partner in class.”

“He picks me and Evan.” You remind her, shrugging.

“Well, I saw him make a big stink when you tried to match up with someone else.” She wags her eyebrows suggestively, making you laugh. “If you won’t talk to them, I will. I’ve got a bit of crush. Is it okay if I go say hi?” Her green eyes widen, glancing back at the screen for a second. You could tell she didn’t seem super interested in playing video games, and didn’t want to keep her from talking to any boys she liked.

“Yeah, go for it! Good luck!” You try to match her enthusiasm, and she grins before sauntering off. You turn back to your game, choosing to go against the computer this round. You were rusty anyway. You get into a rhythm, starting another match when a voice interrupts you.

“Now, what kind of guy would leave a pretty girl like you all by yourself at this game?”

You freeze. You knew that voice.

Sure enough, when you turn your head, Rafe Cameron is standing behind you. For a moment, he seems taken aback, like he didn’t fully recognize you in a full face of makeup. But then his smirk returns. His eyes quickly skim your outfit, and you try to stand a little taller and more confidently.

“Hey, partner. Mind if I join you?” He asks, nodding at the game.

“Sure.” You take a moment to let the computer win before adding some tokens for another match.

You can feel adrenaline starting to simmer under your skin. Growing up with two brothers had made you competitive, or you were born that way and never grew out of it with them around. You could feel your fingers tense in anticipation as Rafe chose his character. After an excruciatingly long time deliberating, he chose Sub Zero. You picked Kitana again, going with your most comfortable.

At the start of the first round, you landed a couple hits off the bat, getting your confidence up. Rafe cursed under his breath, noticing that you were all in. He cleared his throat, and landed a few kicks. You blocked one, and started to attack again.

“Jesus, do you just button mash?” Rafe commented, voice low.

“What?” You scoff. “I know what buttons I’m pressing.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not button mashing.” He replies, and your focus is so thrown off that he wins the round.

“You bitch.” You mutter, glaring at him.

“Watch your language.” He smirks, getting ready for the next round.

This time, you force yourself not to be distracted by him. He tries to make a few more comments, but you ignore him and win that round, and then the next. With the match won, you look up at him in satisfaction. You expect him to look angry or annoyed, but his bright blue eyes are glinting like you just stepped up to the challenge.

“My turf next.” He nods his head over to the air hockey table.

“Shouldn’t that be an easy win for you?” You raise a brow.

“Why don’t you find out? Unless you’re too much of a pussy.”

“Please, don’t say that.” You roll your eyes.

“Chicken.” He counters.

“You’re on, but I need to buy some more tokens.”

“I can-” He starts before you cut him off.

“Nope. I do not want to owe you in any way.” With that, you walk over to the token machine, eyes scanning for Meghan. She’s talking to another hockey player, a super tall one with tanned skin. When she catches your eye, she gives you a thumbs up, and you can’t help but smile. Once you scan your card and grab the tokens, you start to make your way back until shrill laughter stops you in your tracks.

A group of girls have surrounded Rafe at the air hockey table, all trying to talk to him and fiddling with the pieces of the game. They’re all fairly tipsy, but clearly happy to have run into a hockey player that they know. You find yourself standing there, tokens in hand as you hear some of them ask if they can play the game with him. And honestly, they’re stunning. Beautiful, confident girls that Rafe would probably be more than happy to drop you for. You start to head back to Mortal Kombat when you hear Rafe speak up.

“Actually, I was playing with her.”

You turn to Rafe, meeting his eyes as the gaggle of fangirls stares at you. He tilts his chin up, as if urging you to ignore them and come back. And for some reason, you do. The girls get flustered, saying goodbye to both of you and wishing him a good night as they scurry away. And then it’s just you two, facing off over the air hockey table.

Unsurprisingly, Rafe wins all three rounds. He’s too quick, his reflexes too fast. It’s not even close, and if he weren’t an athlete you’d be a little embarrassed. You roll your eyes when he celebrates like he just won the rival game in overtime.

“Okay, ready to get back to your teammates?” You try to bring him back to reality.

“What? No. They don’t give a shit. They’re down to leave without me.” He says dismissively.

“Watch your language.” You retort, and that gleam in his eyes is back.

“Besides, partner, we’re now 1 to 1 at these games. We gotta play at least one more to see the real winner.”

“Fine. Pick a game that’s not basically what you do for a living.” You tease, secretly loving the challenge. He pretends to be annoyed at you, shaking his head. Walking around the arcade, he slows in front of the basketball hoops. What he doesn’t know is that you played for a few years. Not good enough to be a college athlete, but good enough for high school. You try to play it off and act nervous.

“How about this one?” Rafe’s smile grows.

“I don’t know…” You trail off, pretending to scan the arcade.

“We’re doing this one. Give me the tokens or I’m buying.” He insists, and you do everything you can to hold back a smirk. Hook, line, and sinker.

You make the most shots each round easily, giggling at Rafe’s grunts of frustration. You shrug as if it was an accident, as if you got lucky. But he’s not buying it, his mouth set in a thin line.

“That how you wanna play, partner?” He growls in a way that makes your cheeks flush, and you work to keep your composure.

“It’s only fair. You made me play air hockey.” You bat your lashes, playing innocent. “Looks like I win.”

“Nah,” He shakes his head, marching up to a racing car game that’s nearly enclosed. “One more. Let’s go.”

“Rafe,” You hesitate, looking back at Meghan. She seemed fine talking to the other boys, and some of the girls from class had shown up. But you weren’t planning on ignoring them all night.

“What, afraid you’ll lose?” He already knows that’ll get under your skin. Of course it does. You sigh, taking a seat at the racecar next to him. Dropping in the tokens, you wait for him to pick a race course, but he’s just looking at you.

His blue eyes are still confident, amused, determined. But he doesn’t say anything. It’s like he’s finally taking you in now that you’ve both paused. Suddenly, you’re aware of how close together you two are in this stupid arcade game. And suddenly, it feels too hot, his gaze too intense, yet you can’t look away.

A loud smack on the back of the racecar seats startles you both. You turn to see some of the hockey boys peering in, and you try to look as unassuming and normal as possible.

“Cameron!” One of them calls. “Let’s go. Reyes is looking for you.” “Ah, shit. Sorry.” Rafe says to you, chuckling as he slides out of the racecar seat. “This isn’t over, okay? Find me tonight.” He leaves you with a wink.