🪽

you're fifteen minutes early. you're never early.

the waiting room is empty, which is good because you don't think you could sit here making small talk with another patient right now. the white noise machine hums from somewhere behind the reception desk, a constant static that's supposed to be soothing but just makes you more aware of every sound your body makes. your breathing. the rustle of your clothes. the tap of your shoe against the floor that you can't seem to stop.

you left your hair down even though you always tie it back for sessions because it feels too vulnerable otherwise. but today you want to feel vulnerable. you want him to notice.

you check your phone. 6:47pm. his last appointment of the day is always at seven. you know this because you've been coming here every thursday at seven for six months and you've never seen anyone leave after you.

six months.

you remember the first session. how you sat on that couch and couldn't look at him while you explained why you were there. "i have a problem with sex," you'd said, and the words felt stupid coming out of your mouth. so clinical and detached.

"tell me about it," he'd said, and his voice was so calm that you actually looked up at him. he was leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, pen in hand but not writing anything yet.

so you told him about the compulsion. about the way you'd fuck someone and feel nothing and then do it again the next night hoping it would be different. the way you fixated on people... strangers, mostly, and built entire fantasies around them until the reality of actually being with them shattered everything. how you were chasing something you couldn't understand or begin to grasp.

he'd listened to all of it. didn't flinch, didn't judge, didn't try to fix it right away. just asked questions. "what do you think you're looking for?" and "how do you feel in the moment, right before?" and "what happens after?"

you'd left that first session feeling raw.

the second session, you noticed his hands. the way he held the pen, the way his fingers moved when he gestured while talking. you told yourself it didn't mean anything.

by the fourth session, you were thinking about his voice at night.

by the eighth session, you realized you were dressing differently on thursdays.

and then one night, session eleven, maybe twelve, you were fucking some guy you'd met at a party and you weren't thinking about him at all. you were thinking about dr. cameron. about what his hands would feel like instead. about whether he'd be gentle or rough, whether he'd talk to you the way he does in sessions, that calm steady voice asking you questions while he—

you'd came so hard you scared yourself. that was a rarity. you never came.

after that, it was over. every hookup became a placeholder for him. every confession in therapy became a way to see if he'd react, if you could make him break that professional mask even for a second. you started telling him more explicit details. not because you needed to for therapy, but because you wanted to see what he'd do with the information. if he'd really look at you.

you're pretty sure he does. you've caught him sometimes, when you're in the middle of a story, and there's something in his eyes that doesn't really feel like clinical interest.

or maybe you're delusional and maybe this whole thing is just another fixation.

but today feels different.

last weekend you fucked someone in a bar bathroom and the entire time you were imagining it was dr. cameron. you’d said his name so quietly, barely a whisper, but the guy heard it. asked "who's rafe?" and you'd lied, said it was your ex, but the truth sat in your chest like a bag of heavy rocks.

you can't keep doing this. you can't keep coming here every thursday and confessing everything except the one thing that actually matters.

the door to the inner office opens.

dr. cameron steps out, holding a file. he's wearing a light colored button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and you hate that you notice. the way his forearms flex, and how his long fingers grip the file. he sees you and something flickers across his face. surprise, maybe, but it's gone so fast you might have imagined it.

"hey," he says. "you're early."

"yeah." your voice sounds normal. "is that okay?"

"of course. come on in."

you follow him into the office and the familiar space feels different today, even though its all the same. the couch where you always sit with his chair angled toward it. the desk in the corner with his laptop and stacks of files. the lamp that casts everything in warm light. the door closes behind you, and you hear the lock click into place like he always does, for privacy, but today the sound makes your stomach turn.

"how was your week?" he asks, settling into his chair.

you sit on the couch, your usual spot. nothing feels normal. your skin is too tight.

"it was fine," you say. "i mean, not fine. i don't know."

he waits. he's good at that. letting silence stretch until you fill it.

"i hooked up with someone last weekend," you say, and you watch his face for a reaction, but there's nothing. just that calm, attentive expression. "met him at a bar."

"okay," he says. "tell me about it."

so you do. you tell him about meeting the guy, about how easy it was to fall into that classic pattern—drinks, flirting, the bathroom with its flickering fluorescent light and the smell of cheap soap. you tell him about fucking the guy against the sink, your jeans around your ankles, his hands on your hips, and how the entire time you were somewhere else. you were here. in this office. with dr. cameron's hands on you instead.

he's leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and he's listening the way he always does, but there's something else underneath it. the lamp casts shadows across his face and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers are pressed together.

"and after?" he asks. his voice is steady but there's something underneath it now, something that wasn't there before. "how did you feel after?"

"empty," you say. the word sits between you like a stone. "like always."

"but you did it anyway."

"yeah."

"why?"

you shrug, but the gesture feels wrong, too casual for what you're about to say. "because... because i wanted to feel something? i guess? anything." the words come out uncertain, like you're testing them as you speak.

there's a pause that stretches way too long. it makes you aware of the distant sound of traffic outside muffled by the closed window, the fact that you're alone in this room with him and the door is locked. you can hear your own breathing. his too, if you listen closely enough.

and then you say it.

"i've been thinking about you," your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. "since session six. maybe earlier. i don't know."

session six is definitely a lie. you’d been thinking about him since session two. but there’s no way you could admit something like that. telling him at all was more than enough.

his face changes. it's subtle, just a flash of something raw crossing his features before he can stop it. he looks away, down at his hands where they're pressed together between his knees, and for a moment he's just a man sitting in a chair. not a therapist. not someone in control. just a man who's been caught.

when he looks back at you, his jaw is tight, and whatever argument he'd been having with himself is over. you can see it in his eyes.

"session six," he repeats, and his voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. "that's... that's a long time."

"yeah."

he's quiet for another moment. you watch him process it, watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it should. his fingers unclasp and he runs one hand through his hair, messing it up in a way you've never seen before.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

"because i thought it would go away," you reply. the confession feels like peeling off skin. "i thought if i just... maybe if i kept coming here, kept talking about it, it would stop. but it didn't. it got worse."

he nods slowly. you can see the conflict playing out on his face, the way his mouth tightens, the way he looks at you and then away and then back again like he can't help himself.

he stands up. the movement is sudden enough that you flinch, and for a second you think he's going to ask you to leave, going to tell you this was a mistake and that you need to find another therapist. but he doesn't. he walks away from you, toward the window, and stands there with his back to you, one hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way they're drawn up tight. the way they rise and fall with his breathing. the office feels smaller suddenly, the walls much closer.

he's pacing now. not frantically or anything, just a few steps back and forth in front of the window, looking at the floor like he's trying to work something out. his hand falls from his neck and he shoves both hands in his pockets, then pulls them out again. you watch him, and you realize this is it. this is the moment where he decides whether to cross the line or send you away.

he stops so abruptly it almost looks like something catches him. his hand falls away from the back of his neck again and when he turns, he doesn't say anything right away. he just looks at you, and there's something in his eyes you've never seen before. something hungry and raw and completely unprofessional.

the way he looks at you... it's not the way a therapist looks at a patient.

"stand up," he says.

you do. your legs feel shaky, unsteady, but you stand anyway. your hands are trembling at your sides.

"come here."

he sits back down in his chair, and the distance between the couch and where he's sitting is barely a few steps, but it feels way longer now. each one gives you another chance to turn around, another chance to pretend none of this happened, to walk out and find a new therapist and never come back. you don't take it.

your shoes are silent on the carpet. you're standing in front of him now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to. close enough to see the way his pupils are dilated, the way his chest is rising and falling faster than normal. there's no trace of the careful distance he'd kept for six months. it's gone completely.

"sit," he says, patting his lap.

"dr. cameron—"

"sit."

you do. you lower yourself onto his lap slowly, your back settling against his chest. his thighs are thick and solid and warm beneath you, the muscle firm under the fabric of his pants. you can feel his cock, already hard, pressing against your ass through the denim of your jeans. the knowledge of it sends heat flooding through you. you want to shift, to grind back against him, but you force yourself to stay still because part of you still can't even believe this is happening.

his hands settle on your thighs. warm and heavy, the weight of them grounding you.

"keep talking," he says, his voice low in your ear. you can feel his breath against your neck, warm and slightly uneven. "tell me about the compulsion."

"i—i don't know what you want me to say."

his hands slide higher, fingers tracing the inside of your thighs through your jeans. the touch is light, almost teasing. "tell me what it feels like. when you're with someone. what are you chasing?"

you can barely think. his fingers are moving in slow circles on your inner thighs and it's making it hard to form words. "i don't know... validation, maybe? proof that i'm wanted."

"and do you get it?"

"no. never."

his fingers pop the button on your jeans. the sound is loud in the quiet office, the snap of metal against fabric. you lift your hips slightly so he can pull the zipper down. the rasp of metal teeth separating sounds almost deafening in the silence.

"why not?" he murmurs, sliding his hand inside your jeans, over your underwear. you're already wet, soaked through the fabric, and you know he can feel it. his fingers press against you through the damp cotton and you gasp, your hips jerking forward involuntarily.

"because... because it's never enough," you whisper. "it's never—fuck—"

he presses against your clit through the fabric and your hips jerk forward again. his other hand comes up to grip your jaw, fingers splaying across your cheek and throat, holding your head back against his shoulder. the grip is firm and feels like a gentle anchor.

"keep talking," he says. "you're doing so good."

"dr. cameron, please—"

"please what?" his thumb catches the edge of your underwear, easing it aside. his fingers find you almost absently, like he's waiting for your answer more than your reaction, but you can hear the wet sound of it when he slides through your folds. "use your words."

you can't answer. your eyes are squeezing shut and it feels like you're hardly breathing. he circles your clit once, twice, and you're already shaking. the jeans are tight around your hips, constricting, and his hand is trapped inside them, the denim pressing his knuckles against you in a way that's almost uncomfortable but also perfect.

his fingers stop circling. they just rest there, warm and still against your clit. the sudden absence of movement makes you whimper, a sound you didn't mean to make.

"the guy from last weekend," he says. not a question. his breath is against your ear, warm and steady. "tell me what he did."

"he—" your voice cracks. you can't think. his fingers are right there but not moving and it's worse than if he'd pulled away completely. the stillness is torture. "i don't—"

"you don't remember?" his fingers slide lower, just barely, teasing your entrance. you can feel the tip of one finger pressing against you, not pushing in, just resting there. "or you don't want to tell me?"

"no, i—he fucked me. in the—" you're breathing too fast. the words won't come out right. your brain can't form complete thoughts with his hand between your legs. "backseat. i was—"

his fingers push inside you. just the tips, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the intrusion. you gasp and lose the sentence completely, your mouth falling open.

"you were what?"

"on top," you manage. "i was on top."

he pushes deeper. not all the way, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the promise of more. his fingers are thick and you can feel every ridge, every knuckle as they slide into you. then he stops again and holds still inside you, buried to the second knuckle.

"did you cum?"

"no."

his fingers don't move and he’s silent for a moment. you can feel your pulse around them, can feel yourself clenching involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper. the stillness is maddening.

"why not?" he asks, and his voice is so calm, so steady, like he's asking about the weather while his fingers are inside you and you're falling apart in his lap.

"because i—" you're shaking. "i never—with them, i can't—"

"can't or don't?"

"both? neither. i don't know." the words come out frustrated, desperate.

his thumb brushes your clit. once. the lightest touch. you jerk against him and he pulls it away immediately, denying you.

"but you want to," he says.

"yes—fuck—yes."

"what do you think about?" his fingers curl inside you slightly, pressing against that spot. not enough pressure. just enough to make you aware of it. "when you're with them. when they're inside you... what's in your head?"

you don't answer. you can't. your breath is coming in short gasps and his hand is still gripping your jaw, holding you in place, and you can feel the heat of him against your back, the solid weight of his chest. the hardness of his cock pressing into you through your jeans, and you wonder if he's as desperate as you are, if this is killing him too.

"answer me," he says, and his fingers push deeper, all the way now, buried inside you to the knuckle. you cry out, the sound echoing in the small office.

"i can't—"

"yes you can." he starts moving them. slow, methodical thrusts that make you see stars. his thumb finds your clit again and circles it once, twice. the dual sensation is overwhelming. "tell me what you think about."

"i—" you're climbing already, way too fast. the pressure building low in your belly, spreading through your thighs. "i think about—"

he stops. completely stops. his fingers buried inside you but motionless, his thumb lifting off your clit.

this broken and desperate sound falls from your mouth, something you'd never even heard before.

"say it," he says.

"you," you gasp. "i... i think about—fuck—i think about you."

"me." his voice is rough now, the professional veneer cracking. "you think about me while some stranger fucks you in a parking lot."

"yes."

"what am i doing?" his fingers move again, just slightly, just enough to remind you they're there. "in your head. what am I doing to you?"

"this," you whisper. "you're—you're doing this."

"yeah?" he pushes deeper, curling his fingers inside you. you can feel every ridge, every knuckle, the stretch of it. his thumb finds your clit and he starts moving in a rhythm that has you climbing fast. too fast. your hips start to move, grinding back against his cock, and you can feel how hard he is, can hear the way his breath catches. his other hand tightens on your jaw, fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

"stay still," he says.

you try. you're shaking so fucking badly, your thighs trembling. you're right there, right on the edge, the pressure building and building and—

he stops. his fingers stay inside you but they don't move. his thumb lifts off your clit.

"no—please—"

"tell me more," he says. his voice is steady but you can hear the strain in it now. "you think about me. what do i do? in your head?"

you're gasping. you can feel tears starting to form, burning in your eyes. "i can't—"

"yes you can." his fingers move slightly, just a tiny curl, pressing against that spot inside you. "tell me what i do to you. in your fantasies."

"you—you touch me like this," you say, your voice breaking. "you make me—you don't stop. you let me cum."

"do i?" his fingers curl inside you again, harder this time, and you cry out. "what else?"

"you fuck me," you whisper. "you fuck me and you—and you tell me i'm good."

"you are doing good," he says, and his thumb presses against your clit again. you're climbing again, faster this time, the pressure building impossibly fast. "you're being so good for me right now."

"dr. ca—"

"tell me why you chase validation," he continues. meanwhile his fingers are moving inside you, pumping in and out, and you can hear the wet sound of it, obscene in the quiet office. you can feel yourself dripping, soaking his hand, soaking through your jeans. "what are you trying to prove?"

"i don't—i can't think—"

"try."

you have actual tears on your face now, hot and wet and streaming. "that i'm worth something. that someone wants me."

"and do you feel that? with the men you fuck?"

"no—never—please—"

you're right there again. your whole body is tense and shaking and his fingers are moving faster and his thumb is circling your clit and you're so close, so fucking close, the pressure building to an unbearable peak and—

he stops again.

you actually sob, the sound wrenching out of you.

"not yet," he says. "we're not done talking."

"please," you beg. "pleaseplease let me cum. i can't—"

"you can." his voice is firm. "breathe."

you try. the jeans are soaked now, the denim dark with wetness. you can smell it, the smell of sex starting to fill the office, mixing with the scent of his cologne and the faint smell of coffee from earlier.

"why do you think you fixate on people who can't give you what you need?" he asks.

"i don't know."

"yes you do."

"because—because it's safe," you gasp. "because if they can't give it to me then i can't be disappointed."

"and me?" his thumb brushes your clit, so light it's almost nothing. "am i safe?"

"no."

"why not?"

"because you could actually—fuck—you could actually hurt me."

"how?"

you're crying. "because i actually want you. not just—not just the sex. you."

his fingers start moving again. slow, and you're climbing again, faster now. you grind back against his cock and he doesn't stop you this time. you can feel him hard and thick against your ass, can hear the way his breathing has changed, rougher now.

"say it again," he says.

"i want you."

"louder."

"i want you," you say, your voice breaking. "i want you so fucking bad. please- please let me cum. i'm so close. please."

he's building you up again. his thumb on your clit, his fingers inside you, and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. his other hand is still on your jaw, holding you in place. you can feel his breath against your ear, the slight hitch in it, and you realize he's as affected as you are.

"that's it—" he whispers quietly. "take what you need."

you're right there. right fucking there. the pressure is unbearable and—

his fingers go still.

but this time he doesn't pull away. just... stops. his fingers stay buried inside you, his thumb resting against your clit. completely motionless. completely silent.

the silence is worse. you're right there, right on the edge, and he's not moving and he's not saying anything. you can feel your pulse in your clit, can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body begging for more. the stillness is psychological torture. you need it so bad you could honestly cum right then and there without him touching you anymore. your pussy is clenching around nothing, beggining for it. but god, what a waste that would be.

so you wait. five seconds. ten. fifteen. your breath coming in short gasps.

finally, he speaks.

"why do you think you're here?" he asks, and his voice is quiet. "really here. not the answer you gave me in session one. the real answer."

"i don't—"

"yes you do." his fingers curl slightly inside you, just enough to make you gasp, but then he goes still again. "why are you here?"

"because..." you whisper. "because i don't know how to want something without destroying it. because i'm afraid if i let myself actually have something real, i'll ruin it."

"and me?" his thumb presses against your clit, just barely. "what am i?"

"real," you say. you're crying again. "you're real. and i'm terrified."

"good," he says, and his fingers start moving again. slow at first, then faster, harder, and his thumb is circling your clit and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. "you should be terrified. because i'm not going to let you run from this. i'm not going to let you turn me into another fantasy you can chase and never catch. this is real."

"yes—fuck—yes—"

"knowing you go home and touch yourself and imagine it's me?" his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot, and he doesn't stop this time. his thumb is relentless, circling and pressing and you're climbing higher and higher. "knowing you're so desperate for it you'll fuck anyone just to feel something?"

"oh my... god, please—"

"you don't need them," he says. his fingers are relentless now, pumping in and out of you, the wet sounds loud and sloppy and obscene. "you need someone who knows what you need. someone who's been listening. someone who's been paying attention for six fucking months."

"i—i'm—i'm gonna—"

"then do it," he says. "cum on my fingers. right here in my office. show me what you look like when you finally get what you need."

and you do. you cum so hard you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel. it hits you like a wave, starting deep in your core and radiating outward. your body convulses in his lap, every muscle tensing and releasing. your hips grinding back against his cock, and his fingers don't stop moving, drawing it out, prolonging it. the orgasm tears through you in waves, each one crashing over you harder than the last. you can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, rhythmic pulses that seem to go on forever. the wetness gushing out of you, soaking his hand, soaking your jeans, probably soaking through to his pants.

you're aware of everything and nothing—the way your thighs are shaking uncontrollably, the way your breath is coming in broken gasps, the way you can hear yourself making sounds you've never made before, desperate and raw. his fingers keep moving, keep curling, keep hitting that spot inside you, and just when you think it's over another wave hits and you're crying out again, your back arching, your head thrown back against his shoulder. it goes on and on, longer than ever before, until you're begging him to stop, until it's too much, until you can't take anymore.

when you finally come down, you're crying. actual tears streaming down your face, your breath coming in gasps. he pulls his fingers out slowly and you whimper at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. your jeans are soaked, the denim dark and wet, clinging to your thighs.

"shh," he says, wrapping his arms around you. "you're okay. you did so good."

you're trembling. you can still feel his cock hard against your ass and you want to turn around, want to touch him, want to make him feel what you just felt, but you can't move. your body won't cooperate.

"that's what you needed," he says quietly. "someone who knows you. someone who listens."

you nod, still trying to catch your breath.

"next session," he says, and his voice is back to that calm, professional tone, like he didn't just make you come apart in his lap, "we're going to talk about why you keep choosing people who can't give you what you need. i think we made some progress today on identifying the root of the compulsion."

you almost laugh. the absurdity of it.

"okay," you whisper.

"good," he says. "now go clean yourself up. there's a bathroom down the hall."

you stand on shaky legs. your jeans are dark with wetness and you have to button them with trembling fingers. when you look back at him, he's watching you, his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. the sight of it sends another jolt of heat through you.

"same time next week?" he asks.

"yeah," you say. "same time."

you walk out of his office on legs that barely work. in the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. your face is flushed, your eyes red and glassy, your lips swollen. there's a mark on your neck from where his hand gripped your jaw, dark and obvious. you reach up to touch it. the skin is tender, slightly raised. you stare at it for a long moment, and then you notice something else in the mirror's reflection: your therapy appointment card, sticking out of your back pocket. the next date is already written on it in his handwriting. thursday. same time. you pull it out and look at it.

he wrote it before today's session.

you tuck the card back into your pocket. look at yourself in the mirror one more time. the mark on your neck. your flushed face.

W E E K T W O // T H U R S D A Y 6 : 2 2 A M

Great.

That was... REALLY FUCKING GREAT, WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE, OH MY GOD.

Not only had you somehow managed to come off genuinely passive-aggressive and kinda rude to Sarah last night, no, you’d also made the mistake of engaging in that conversation at all.

That entire chat should’ve ended the second you confirmed that you’d made it home safely. A simple “It was nice seeing you, heading to sleep now” could’ve prevented everything that followed.

But no, you’d entertained her questions. Sure, you hadn’t outright confirmed her suspicions—ones that were way too close to the truth—but the way you answered had basically done it for you.

You’d known that Sarah and the other girls had already been talking about the Ruthie situation after the open-air movie night, had even gotten close to the truth back then, but...

But what?

Sarah wasn’t stupid. She was Rafe’s sister, and even if they barely got along, she still cared about him. It only made sense that she’d want to understand what was going on, even if it didn’t directly involve her.

Her reasons were completely understandable and SHE WAS EVEN RIGHT. That was the worst part. From her perspective, the entire situation had to look suspicious as hell. She probably genuinely just wanted to help and make sure you and Rafe weren’t digging yourselves even deeper into shit.

Did that justify her pushing and prying after you’d already made it clear—politely, even—that you didn’t want to talk about it, only for her to keep pressing anyway?

No.

Sarah hadn’t respected your boundaries, but at the same time, maybe you could’ve responded a little more... well, a little less pissed.

Because now, rereading the messages, you were honestly a little taken aback by yourself. And of course, snapping back at her, all defensive, had only made you and Rafe look even more suspicious.

Cool cool cool cool cool.

I’m doing great. Truly, absolutely fantastic. It’s not like I completely let my overwhelmed emotions take over AND BASICALLY VALIDATED ALL OF SARAH’S CONCERNS WHILE ALSO PROBABLY PISSING HER OFF AND WORRYING HER ENOUGH THAT SHE MIGHT GO TELL WARD ABOUT THE WHOLE THING.

Like, what kind of messed-up little minion stepped in last night and thought, yeah absolutely, let’s answer like we’re personally responsible for defending Rafe with our life?

Oh.

Of course.

That little Rafe minion that had gotten itself way too comfortable living in your head. There it was, the culprit.

And speaking of Rafe. Hahahaha. FUNNY THING.

The guy still had absolutely no idea.

Yeah, you’d typed out a message to him right after. Yeah, you’d been seconds away from panicking and telling him about your mistake. Yeah, you’d almost sent it, hoping he’d calm you down afterward.

But you hadn’t.

The fear that he’d see it as a betrayal and maybe pull away from you was too much. Rafe liked you, he trusted you, you knew that. And you also knew that, surprisingly, he could let a lot of things slide, but talking to his sister—his sister, whom he very openly despised—behind his back about the deal and Ruthie at all? That alone would make his blood boil.

So instead, you’d... acted like Sarah had never texted you, like she hadn’t basically spent the whole night interrogating you.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

This fucking guy, man. Like, he’d nearly given you a freaking heart attack with those first few messages.

“You know exactly what.” At that sentence, you nearly threw up on your phone (no kidding, okay, maybe a little), because sure, okay, you had realized he was kind of joking, being a little dramatic on purpose, but why the hell did it line up so perfectly with everything that had happened last night?

Gosh, just the thought that Sarah might’ve brought it up to him again and told him about your conversation made your nerves vibrate in the most unpleasant way.

But apparently, she hadn’t told him—or Ward—anything, because at the first hint that Rafe was involved in some kind of shit, Ward would’ve absolutely torn him apart.

Okay, girl, breathe. Everything was still fine. The world wasn’t ending.

Yet.

For a moment, you debated whether to reply to Sarah, and apologize for snapping at her, but first of all, a certain level of pride held you back from apologizing for something where you’d simply stood your ground and protected your boundaries, and second, you really didn’t want to make things worse by suddenly panicking and trying to smooth everything over.

No.

It was okay to have a temporarily strained relationship with a girl you’d barely known for a week. There was no need to let the people-pleaser inside you take over and try to fix everything.

Had she apologized for pushing you into a corner? No.

Case closed. Brain off, get dressed.

Rafe would be here soon, and you really didn’t need to look like a frightened hare that had just escaped a pack of wolves. Though Sarah definitely wasn’t a wolf, more like a—

DOESN’T MATTER, STOP THINKING ABOUT SARAH AND THE CONVERSATION. The more you did, the worse your head got.

Maybe if I slam my head hard enough against the wall, I’ll knock all the minions in there out. But then again, you probably wouldn’t function at all.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

“Guess what!” Rafe exclaimed as you finished buckling yourself in.

That boy had shown up twenty minutes later than agreed.

You met his gaze, all excited and wide-eyed—in a good way—like he’d just won the lottery, or well, gotten a hug from his dad, which would probably be even crazier for him than anything else.

You fumbled with the strap of your bag in your lap and managed a curious smile, desperately trying to hide your nerves. “What?”

“Beautiful, it’s called Guess What because you have to guess,” Rafe said with a sweet chuckle, pressing the start/stop button of his Benz.

With a loud rumble, the engine came to life, vibrating through your very core.

BOY, I DO NOT HAVE THE STATE OF MIND FOR TEASING RIGHT NOW.

“I…,” you started, but shook your head, your brain too overloaded with everything else. “I don’t know. You found a cheaper way to buy levels for Cacty?”

Rafe snorted as he drove out of your driveway, grimacing. “What? No. Do I look like I care about that fucker right now?”

You only chuckled in response. “You should. That’s our son.”

“Yeah, well, he’s watered and fed. Halfway at least,” he replied, his tone shifting as he shot you a quick, questioning glance. “His mommy’s attention has been rather lacking this morning.”

Shit.

Between the Sarah drama, Rafe texting you, and your completely unnecessary overthinking spiral, the poor plant-child had been the last thing on your mind.

And wow.

You really did not need another reason to feel guilty today.

So you let out another chuckle that sounded more like a shaky breath and fished your phone out of your bag. With two quick taps, you brought the little guy’s mood bar back to a smile, the status now reading “Content” instead of “Hangry.”

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

You blinked and looked up from your screen to meet his gaze. “Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me.” A frown settled on his face as he gestured vaguely toward you, shifting his attention back to the road. “You’re being all weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” you countered a little too quickly, a little too defensively.

“Yes, you are.”

“That’s not true.”

Rafe’s frown deepened into a full scowl. “Are you seriously trying to lie to me?” His blue eyes locked onto yours at a red light, missing nothing. “I know your little ticks and shit by now. I can tell you’re anxious.”

Of course he knew.

He wasn’t stupid, and he’d learned to read your body language and your whole demeanor quickly, to know when the minions in your head started panicking and when they were seconds away from setting the whole system on fire.

And right now, you were physically incapable of hiding it. The guilt and fear about texting Sarah behind his back—even if she had been the one to reach out first and corner you—was clawing at your chest, desperate to get out. To tell him everything.

But how?

“I… yeah, you’re right. I am,” you admitted, starting by confirming his assumption. From there, you could maybe work your way toward the truth.

Rafe’s features softened just a fraction, the car still idling at the red light. “Okay, but why? The dinner went well, you were fucking amazing, and my dad was very impressed by you. Just this morning he—”

“Sarah texted me.”

SLOWLY, GIRL. WHAT PART OF THAT DIDN’T YOU UNDERSTAND?!

His lips snapped shut, confusion flickering across his face. And you could tell his mind immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion, even though he was clearly trying to keep his composure at just the mention of his sister.

“And what did the nosy princess want?” His gaze shifted back to the road as the light turned green, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Exchange dinner recipes?”

Welp, he was pissed. Like, pissed pissed.

And the dry humor in that last sentence made it very clear he knew damn well what the conversation had been about. Not surprising, considering Sarah had tried approaching him about the deal that same night.

You gave a tense smile, fidgeting with your fingers. “No, she…” Could you just say it? Was being direct the best option here? “She asked me about the deal. Apparently she’s confused.”

“Confused.” The disdainful scoff that left Rafe’s lips summed up his stance toward his sister pretty well. “Sure, yeah. That’s a nice way of saying she’s being a snooping little bitch.”

That word again. And this time, about his sister.

A part of you wondered, just for a second, if he’d ever called you that too before you got closer. Like at some party, maybe, surrounded by frat assholes, taking shots or doing lines, laughing about how the “shy little bitch from his economy class” was trying to socialize.

And the fact that this could’ve been a possibility—even if it had just been an unconscious part of his everyday language back then—made something heavy settle deep in your chest.

But spiraling over what-ifs that hadn’t even happened was the last thing you needed right now. Especially when the actual issue at hand was something entirely different.

“Maybe let’s not call your sister that,” you said, your voice lacking real firmness. You knew he was pissed, you knew he was dealing with withdrawals that were doing god knows what to his body, and the whole situation with the deal and the blackmail was already a sensitive topic.

And honestly, you were also lacking the courage to really call him out on it and make it seem like you were taking Sarah’s side when… yeah, maybe you kind of were, but also not, because she had pushed too far, and GOD WHY WAS THIS ALL SO COMPLICATED I HATE IT.

“What? A bitch? Well, if she acts like one—,” Rafe shot back, meeting your eyes with a cold expression before pressing his lips together as he studied your face. He nodded, frustrated, cutting himself off mid-sentence. He was visibly trying to steady himself. “Fine, okay, just… what exactly did she say? She brought it up to me after dinner too.”

You nodded, gathering your own composure. “Yeah… I know. She said you told her to fuck off.”

“At least that rat’s not a liar.” A wry smile touched his lips before it faded back into a frown as he pulled into the parking lot of Kildare Academy.

“Yeah, well, she… tried to understand your sudden interest in the deal,” you explained, still treading on relatively safe ground while his anger was directed at her, not you. “And tried to get some answers out of me.”

WAS THE FUCKING BRAINDEAD MINION CONTROLLING YOUR BRAIN RIGHT NOW OR WHY WOULD YOU JUST HAND HIM A REASON TO DOUBT YOU?

A muscle ticked in Rafe’s jaw, and he was very likely already connecting the dots about the real reason for your nerves. OH GAWD.

“And did she?”

It was a simple question, and yet the tension in his voice was impossible to miss. Even worse, the fear laced underneath.

“No, I… of course I didn’t tell her anything,” you said, your pulse skyrocketing at how tightly he was clenching his jaw. “I’d never risk your position like that.”

Rafe let out a scoff, parking the car with a rough stop. As the engine died down, he turned toward you, his full attention now locked onto you. And wow, he looked one second away from murdering someone.

His eyes flicked down to your fidgeting fingers before settling on your face. “So, you didn’t respond at all?”

“What? No, I—”

“You just said you didn’t tell her anything,” he cut you off, smiling in irritation.

You nodded, frustration rising. “Yeah, but I meant anything about the deal or Ruthie. I didn’t— I mean, it’s rude not to respond at all. At first she just asked if I got home safe, and then she started with the other stuff.”

The way he looked at you made it impossible to tell whether he was more angry at you, at Sarah, or just trying to keep his own irritation in check.

“Right.” That didn’t sound like he believed you. “Let me guess, she played the victim card and got you to talk.”

“No!” you shot back quickly, brows pulling together. “Rafe, I swear I didn’t tell her anything. I even asked her to drop it and talk to you instead because I feel uncomfortable discussing this behind your back.”

Rafe’s hard expression didn’t shift. He nodded toward the phone in your bag. “Show me.”

Ouch.

That actually stung. You could physically feel the wave of hurt hit your chest, dragging everything down with it.

“You don’t believe me,” you said, the softness you’d been holding onto fading into something quieter, more wounded.

And Rafe noticed. His brows twitched, the harshness in his expression cracking for a split second before snapping back into place just as quickly.

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth pulling down as he tapped his chest with both hands. “I just don’t see the problem with showing me if you’re telling the truth.”

In theory, that made sense.

But it was about the principle of him not trusting your word.

“Yeah, well, I do see a problem with you apparently not trusting me enough to just believe me,” you replied, still relatively calm, even though irritation was tugging hard at your nerves.

Rafe exhaled, still unconvinced. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, okay?” His hand gestured vaguely toward you. “It’s that you didn’t think to tell me after she texted you, and now you’ve been acting like a nervous hamster all morning. And the fact you’re getting this defensive right now tells me you’re hiding something.”

He tilted his head, a mocking smile pulling at his lips. “So yeah, I’ve got a fucking reason to question your sincerity.”

You hated that he was right. You hated that he actually had a reason to doubt you, to demand proof or at least clearer answers.

And yet, it still felt bitter that he reacted like this. The mockery, the guarded edge, it didn’t match the Rafe who had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around you.

But then again, you knew by now that Rafe had layers. And it probably wasn’t even his intention to attack or mock you; this whole situation just brought out the version of him that had learned to distrust first and bite before getting hurt.

You couldn’t expect him to just drop all those insecurities because you wanted to be someone who made him feel safe enough to.

A heavy exhale left your lips, your gaze dropping to your phone as your thumb traced over the case. “I’m not trying to be defensive or give you a reason to doubt me. I was just—”

Your voice cut off as the movement of your thumb lit up the screen for a second, showing the time.

7:21.

“You were just what?” Rafe asked, raising his brows. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, if you actually—”

“Can we talk about this later?” you interrupted, guilt gnawing at your chest alongside rising panic. “Art starts in four minutes.”

Rafe’s head snapped up, a frown settling in. “What are you talking about? School starts in twenty-five.”

Had he ever paid attention in that class?

“I know, but Smith made an exception today to fit all the project presentations into the period,” you said, already unbuckling your seatbelt in a rush. “He sent an email on Tuesday.”

“Do I look like I read fucking emails?” Rafe complained, though he was already grabbing his stuff. “I’m just gonna believe you on this and pretend it’s not a distraction tactic.”

Boy.

You shot him a sharp side-eye. “I’ll print out the entire chat if you finally shut up about my trustworthiness.”

“Damn, chill out.” He raised his hands in a placating gesture as he grabbed the keys from the center console, though a faint smirk played on his lips. “All cool.”

I’m gonna kill you, “it’s all cool.”

You could tell his synapses were finally calming down, the edge in him easing into something closer to amusement. Still, he really had a talent for pissing people off enough to drag them down with him.

As you shoved the box with your art project into his arms, the two of you hurried across the parking lot toward the main building.

And even though the tension had eased slightly, the dynamic between you still felt off. Mostly because the argument hadn’t actually been resolved, and the thought that you’d only get back to it after class—worst case, not until after school if your friends intercepted you—sat uncomfortably in your chest.

You hated unresolved conflict. Especially now that you had to present something together in front of the entire class, like a united front. Sure, it wasn’t like you were filing for divorce, but the silence between you still felt charged.

At least you weren’t the only pair who had almost missed the earlier start. Two girls walked in two minutes late with you, and another guy showed up a full twenty minutes late but at least still in time for his presentation.

Though, honestly, he probably just hadn’t read his emails either, like the brooding guy next to you, and assumed school started at the usual time.

Smith just waved him in, his full attention focused on the presentation happening.

Which, to be fair, was actually impressive.

The pair had created a short animation about Hermes in modern times, delivering packages in a tiny postal car. The style was cute, and while the animation itself was only half-finished—more like rough sketches since they’d run out of time—it still worked.

It made your and Rafe’s collage feel like child’s play.

Another pair had built Olympus as a corporate building, which was actually pretty close to the original idea Rafe had pitched during your first project session.

“Looks like shit,” he muttered to you, and you kicked his foot in response even though he wasn’t entirely wrong.

The concept was good, and their explanation made sense, but the execution was… bland.

“Why are you making that face?” Rafe asked as you skimmed over your presentation notes again. “Did we forget something?”

You shook your head, brows furrowing with anxiety. “No, I just…” A quiet sigh left your lips as you glanced around at all the projects. “I feel like ours is… I don’t know… underwhelming?”

Rafe followed your gaze—noticeably the first time he’d actually looked around the art room at all—and then looked back at you, completely unbothered (YEAH WE GET IT YOU’RE A NONCHALANT KING).

“What do you mean by underwhelming?” he asked, frowning slightly like he genuinely didn’t understand. “We have a fully finished project.”

“Yeah, but… it’s just a collage,” you said, trying not to sound too disappointed, even though it was hard.

Everyone else had these creative, ambitious projects, and you had… a colorful piece of paper that could’ve technically been done in a day.

Rafe stared at you. “It’s finished and it looks good. What’s the problem?”

Ugh, why didn’t he get it?

“Because we just cut out pieces of paper and glued them together,” you said quietly, staring at your notes, frustration finally creeping in. “It’s not really special.”

Maybe if you hadn’t spent half your time overthinking how you came across to him—wondering if you were making a fool of yourself—you could’ve come up with something better. Something that actually felt like effort.

“So, you think we did a bad job?”

Your eyes snapped up, panic rushing through you at his words, expecting disappointment or hurt. But instead, he looked at you… patiently? Like the question was genuine, not some indirect jab.

“Because I think we did perfectly fine,” he continued, not giving you time to answer. His gaze held steady. “You wanna know why?” Again, he didn’t wait for a response, nodding toward the rest of the class. “Not a single group has actually finished this stupid project.”

Your shoulders slumped. “You keep saying that, but this—art—it’s not about delivering a fully finished result, it’s…” Another tired breath slipped out. “It’s about the potential of a concept. Creativity. Presenting an idea or sketch that lays the foundation for a vision and—”

“You’re wrong,” he cut in, a slow grin spreading across his face like he knew something you didn’t.

Now it was your turn to frown. “Uh, no I’m not. Smith always says—”

“Yeah, yeah, gimme your iPad,” he said, already grabbing it himself, his sudden shift from grumpy to almost excited confusing the hell out of you.

Nervously, you watched him scroll through your art class folder, terrified he’d somehow magically click into Procreate and find the cringe drawings and comics you’d made of him and you when you were younger.

And now that you thought about it, you realized you were either a manifestation queen or straight-up Joe Goldberg 2.0. But let’s not dive too deep into how obsessed you were with him in fifth grade HAHAHAHHA.

“There.” He tapped a few times, used the Apple Pencil to highlight a paragraph, then slid the iPad back to you. “Read.”

You stared at him for another second before lowering your gaze to the screen, noticing he’d opened the document Smith had shared at the very beginning of the class, the one outlining the content and projects for the year.

Aka a document you hadn’t bothered to read.

The highlighted text belonged to the section “Requirements and Criteria for Evaluating Group Work”:

…primarily considered in grading is the students’ ability, within the given time frame and in collaboration with one or more partners, to deliver a fully completed result that aligns with the project’s guidelines and is feasible within the temporal and organizational structure of the assignment.

Further down, it stated: …evaluation also includes time and project management skills, as well as the conceptual execution of the theoretical idea.

You read the text once, then twice, then a third time before your brain actually caught up with what it meant. Then you finally looked up, meeting Rafe’s stupid, smug grin, practically glowing with pride and arrogance, probably ready to brag for the rest of his life about reading a school document you hadn’t.

“Did you just pull that out of your ass, or?” you said flatly, still in disbelief that Smith actually cared about any of those criteria.

And somehow, that deadpan delivery made Rafe snort so loudly that half the class turned to look at you. A faint blush crept onto his cheeks just as Smith called the two of you up next.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

“That was a lovely presentation,” Smith said, clasping his hands together with a pleased smile after you finished. “Thank you, Y/n and Rafe.”

And gosh, you’d done perfectly.

The way you stood there in your cute little outfit, holding onto your stupid little handwritten notes because you thought you needed them—even though you absolutely didn’t—while explaining your concept with that pretty little smile of yours.

Rafe had been so focused on listening to your voice and watching you come alive in your element, he’d almost missed his cue.

Unlike you, he hadn’t used any notes. You’d insisted he make his own cue cards—“Rafe, this is important”—but he’d done enough presentations in his life, learned enough from his dad, to know that later on, holding little notes would make you look like a loser.

Of course, you weren’t a loser. Not even close.

He knew you needed those cards to hold onto something, to give your hands something to focus on. You needed them to ground yourself, not because you couldn’t speak freely.

There was a difference between a smart girl who needed an anchor and an idiot who was just a fucking idiot.

So when it was Rafe’s turn, he focused on the execution, explaining the process, the planning, the parts he actually understood and could back up with his own experience.

And yeah, he did exceptionally. He knew that.

He might not have paid attention to the other shitty presentations (like who even cared, you two clearly had the best project anyway), but he’d picked up enough to notice that none of them had really addressed the time management or organizational structure.

He applied his business mindset, explained how the two of you developed a concept that was actually realistic within the given timeframe, and why something bigger—like that half-finished animation or the 3D model—was just shitty planning.

He didn’t say it like that, obviously, but come on, his dad would’ve fired someone for not delivering a finished result within the given timeframe.

I’d give them all an F. Not a single fucking finished one.

“Thank you,” you said in response to Smith’s praise, that soft smile still on your lips as you held onto your cards.

Smith studied the two large collage pieces for a moment before adjusting his glasses and turning to the class. “Any questions for the two of them?”

I’ve got one: why are your projects so shit?

Rafe was already preparing himself to shut down anyone who dared ask something stupid—

And oh, someone did.

A girl with a colored buzzcut raised her hand, and Smith called on her.

“I understood the explanation for the large format,” she began, and Rafe already wanted her to shut up, “but I don’t really get why you didn’t just make everything on A4 and then print it larger. That would’ve saved a lot of paper, wouldn’t it?”

Shutting up would’ve saved us ten seconds of your annoying voice, but here we are.

Rafe was already opening his mouth to snap back, because if she’d actually listened, she’d know you’d already explained that—

“I get why that might be confusing,” you cut in, calm and composed, and Rafe immediately relaxed at the sound of your voice, “and you’re right, we could’ve reduced some paper usage. But like I mentioned earlier”—yes, baby, tell her—“we used 100% recycled paper for both the base and the copies.

“Also, we were working with a lot of small, detailed elements. Scaling them up allowed for much cleaner and more precise cutting. For example,” you gestured toward the Aphrodite collage, pointing at a delicate ring detail, “something like this would’ve been much harder to cut cleanly at a smaller size.”

You lowered your hand again, meeting her gaze with a small, confident smile.

“And in the long run, that actually reduced waste. Cleaner cuts meant fewer mistakes, so we didn’t have to redo as many pieces or throw things away. It made the process more efficient and resource-conscious overall.”

Shiiiit.

Rafe didn’t even bother hiding the proud smile tugging at his lips, because the way you just put that girl in her place was insanely attractive. Like, mentally bending you over the desk type shit.

And yeah, she shut up real quick.

“Well said, Y/n,” Smith added, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he chuckled. “Any other questions? No? Good. That was a very thorough presentation from both of you, and the result is just as impressive.” He gestured toward the collages. “It shows that sometimes a simple idea can lead to a beautiful and effective execution. Thank you both, you may sit down.”

Rafe took advantage of the teacher’s good mood, flashing him a charming grin. “Gotta be at least an A+ for that, right?”

Yeah, butter him up with a dumb joke. Teachers loved that.

And sure enough, Smith chuckled again, adjusting his notes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for an A as your final grade.”

Rafe didn’t giggle—he never did—but in that moment, he might’ve, because the last time he got an A in art was probably fourth grade.

“Bathroom stall later?” he murmured into your ear as you walked back to your seats, earning a disgusted look from a girl nearby who overheard.

You shot him a wide-eyed, flustered look, and honestly, nothing could’ve ruined his mood right now.

Nothing except…

Sarah.

He’d completely shoved that conversation from this morning out of his mind. But now that class was over and you pulled him aside with a quiet “Can we talk about this now?” before he could head to the dining hall—because damn, he was hungry—the irritation came rushing back.

He watched you pull out your phone, and it took serious effort not to just snatch it out of your hand and check for himself. His fingertips practically buzzed with tension.

The fact that you hadn’t told him the moment Sarah started questioning you... it pissed him off more than he wanted to admit. He trusted you to handle things, sure, but keeping it from him until the next day still felt like a kind of betrayal.

But he’d already suspected something was off, just from the way you’d been texting that morning. It hadn’t quite felt like you.

“Before I show you,” you said, gripping your phone tightly, your voice tense and nervous, so different from the light, happy energy you’d had after your presentation, “you have to promise you won’t go off on Sarah afterward.”

Rafe already opened his mouth to argue—because fuck that—but you rushed on.

“I know you’re angry. I know you’re pissed at her and at me, and I know it was shitty that I didn’t tell you sooner. I just… I didn’t know how, because I was scared of exactly this.” You gestured toward him. “That you’d get angry. And I didn’t want to tell you over text because it’s easier to deal with this in person. And you were so happy after dinner, I didn’t want to ruin that by telling you I might’ve messed up when I thought I was doing the right thing at first, but—”

“Y/n, baby,” he cut in, as gently as he could, holding out his hand, “just give me your phone. Please.”

Something in your expression softened a little, but you didn’t move.

Rafe sighed. “Fine, I promise. But that depends on what exactly she said.”

His patience was starting to wear thin. He liked you—fuck, he really liked you—but right now, the way you were stalling was getting under his skin. Badly. And it was getting harder by the second to keep himself in check.

“What else?” he asked, unable to fully hide the frustration in his voice.

You pressed your lips together, hesitating, then said, “I need to know: are you asking just to see what she wrote, or…”

He raised a brow, impatience clear. “Or?”

“You know,” you said, an awkward smile pulling at your lips, “is this about… checking if I’m actually telling the truth?”

Both, of course, Rafe thought, but the way you phrased that second question made him pause for a second. It seemed like the latter… bothered you?

Then he remembered the way you’d looked earlier—how hurt you’d sounded when you thought he was questioning your trustworthiness—and yeah, okay, maybe he had for a second because you were acting suspicious, but still. He figured confirming that now would just… hurt you again.

And he didn’t want that.

He shook his head, scratching at the irritated skin around the healing bruise on his face. “Nah, I believe you.”

“You sure? Because earlier it really didn’t seem like it,” you said, half-accusing, half-careful.

This felt like the car conversation in front of Barry’s pawn shop all over again. And he didn’t have the fucking patience for that right now, not when all he could think about was whether you might’ve accidentally said something that would push Sarah to go running to their dad.

And that thought alone made his fingers itch for a line.

“I know, I’m sorry for that, okay?” It was getting harder to keep his tone even. “Just… please, let me see. I need to know exactly what she said before she runs off to Dad. I can’t have her blow up the deal before the meeting.”

“What meeting?”

Rafe blinked. “The meeting with Mr. Whitmore this afternoon. I literally told you this morning.”

“No, you didn’t,” you countered, brows furrowing as you still held onto your goddamn phone. Then your expression shifted into something apologetic. “Or, wait, no, I think you tried, but then I brought up the whole Sarah thing and… yeah.”

Yeah… just give me the phone, Beautiful.

“That’s great news though, right?”, you asked.

One. Two. Three. Don’t snap at her. Four. Five. She’s precious.

Rafe nodded, forcing a tight smile as he exhaled through his nose. Six. Seven. “Yeah, my dad told me before I picked you up.”

“Oh, so that’s why you were late.”

“Dude, are you doing this on purpose?”

“What?”

He shot you a look, and you just gave him a sheepish smile before finally unlocking your phone and holding it out. “Okay, okay. Here.”

His frown returned the second he read the first couple messages from last night. Rafe’s driving can be questionable.

The fuck was that supposed to mean? He drove perfectly fine. If anything, she was the one who needed better insurance considering she’d already bumped their dad’s Porsche like three times.

Stupid bitch.

Rafe scoffed at the dumb picture you’d sent her, though your ugly-ass reaction pic was the only part that was actually funny. And yeah, he even agreed with Sarah about their dad’s questioning, but what did she expect? Of course, he showed interest in getting to know a girl like you.

But the further he read, the tighter something twisted in his stomach. It started the moment that snake played dumb, acting confused just to bait you into the conversation.

His fingers tightened around your phone, completely tuning out the noise of students laughing and heading toward lunch. His entire focus locked onto the screen, on the back-and-forth between you and his fucking sister.

“‘Worried about me.’” He practically spat the words, anger simmering under his skin. “Yeah, sure. The only thing she’s worried about is missing her chance to give Dad a reason to kick me out.”

Your bracelet shifted softly as your fingers played with it. “I swear I tried to make her back off, but she wouldn’t drop it.”

Rafe nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen. “I can see that.”

You hadn’t lied.

That alone calmed something in him, just a little. Not that he didn’t trust you—fuck no, that wasn’t it. You were probably the most trustworthy person in his life right now, maybe second only to Kelce.

But still. Your weird, nervous behavior that morning had thrown him off. A part of him had assumed you’d told Sarah something and were panicking because of it.

Turns out, you were just overwhelmed by the situation.

And Rafe couldn’t help the wave of relief that hit him. Relief, and something else—something like pride—at the way you’d defended him in those messages.

It was… attractive. The way you snapped back, setting aside that usual polite, careful tone of yours to put his nosy sister in her place.

Then he reached the part where Sarah laid out her whole theory. His heart started pounding harder with every line because she was way too fucking close to the truth.

He kept reading. How she’d overheard Wheezie, questioned her, questioned their dad, how she suspected blackmail, how she kept pushing herself deeper into something that had nothing to do with her.

FUCK.

NO.

Who the hell did she think she was? Dragging you into it too.

His chest rose and fell sharply, anger and frustration building under the surface, ready to snap. He wanted to hit something. Someone.

Instead, the hit landed on him.

“She thinks I’m trying to screw Dad or Wheeze over?”

He stared at Sarah’s message, calling him some kind of bastard who’d betray his own family. And suddenly, something unfamiliar twisted in his chest alongside the anger.

It tightened, like a punch to the gut, or something sharp driven into his back.

It felt like… betrayal?

But that didn’t make sense. Betrayal required trust, connection, shit he didn’t have for her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw your hand lift slightly, like you wanted to reach for him, but you let it drop. “That’s really messed up of her to say. I don’t even get why she’d think that.”

It was the same thing you’d texted her. But hearing it now didn’t do much to calm him down.

“Because she’s a stupid fucking whore,” he snapped, meeting your wide eyes with a dark scowl. It stung seeing the shock and disappointment in your face, but he couldn’t stop, and he wasn’t sorry. “I know you don’t like me saying that, but what she’s doing is fucked. You see that, right? Getting close to you just to snoop around and start shit.”

A crooked smile pulled at his lips, nerves burning under his skin. “She’s trying to pull you away from me. Making stuff up just to get you to doubt me or whatever the hell she thinks she’s doing.” He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling, and there was something almost like fear in his voice now. “And this?” He gestured weakly to the phone, panic creeping in. “Threatening to go to Dad. Fuck, if she does that—if she actually tells him anything—it’s over. The deal’s done. It’s—”

“Rafe, calm down,” you cut in, finally placing your hand gently on his upper arm.

He looked at you, trying to anchor himself in your calm, in your eyes, but even they held worry. You knew how bad this could get.

“Calm down?” he repeated, his voice rising for a second before he forced it back down, aware of where he was. “How the fuck am I supposed to calm down, Y/n? She basically knows everything. All she has to do is go to Ruthie and that bitch will spill the rest.”

Yeah. Even you didn’t have an answer for that.

Rafe shoved the phone back into your hands. “I need to talk to her.”

“To who? Ruthie?” Your grip tightened on his arm, eyes wide. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Yeah, as if.

“No, Sarah.” He grimaced, tapping his temples. “She needs to understand that she has to stay the fuck out of my business, or—”

He cut himself off when you shook your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? Give me one good reason not to put her in her place.”

Your hand slid down into his, your warmth grounding him just a little. “You promised me. Like, two minutes ago, actually.”

Right. Shit.

His fingers instinctively laced with yours. “I know, but—”

“But threatening her or snapping at her won’t help,” you said, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “It’ll just make her more suspicious and push her to go to your dad. So let’s just… not do anything right now. We can figure something out later, after you’ve calmed down.”

Calm down?

Right now, all he could think about was a line. Just one. Snorting that clean, sharp powder and letting everything else fade away.

It was right there—the craving, the tingling in his fingers, the pull in his veins, the anticipation of that rush.

Fuck, he’d take even half a line. But he didn’t have anything on him, and somehow that just made everything worse.

“Rafe.”

He blinked, suddenly aware of how clammy his hands were. “Huh? Uh, yeah. Okay. Lay low. Fine.”

Shit. He’d promised himself he’d stop using. Dealing, yeah, but not using. Not anymore.

But one wouldn’t hurt, right? It didn’t last long. It wasn’t like it’d really matter.

You squeezed his hand, your eyes searching his face. “You okay? You look pale.”

“Yeah, just…” That bum Chris. Maybe he could hit up Reid later. “Tense. It’s been a lot this morning.” He gave your hand a small tug, forcing a smile. “C’mon, baby. Let’s go eat something. I’m starving.”

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

Rafe shoved his phone back into his jeans, pressing his teeth together so hard his cheeks started to ache. Sometimes he really wished he could strangle her. Not to kill her, just enough for her brain to reset, because apparently she really fucking needed that.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to shake off the thought, and stepped forward in the lunch line.

While you had already joined the others at a round table, Rafe had insisted on getting food for the two of you. And honestly, he needed a moment to himself. It wasn’t that he couldn’t stand being around you—nah, quite the opposite—it was just…

Rafe was fully aware of the mess going on inside him. He could name it: anger, frustration, the urge to lash out, punch a wall, or better yet, some dude who actually deserved it... or just do a line. But he also knew he was at school, and none of that was an option.

So standing in line was supposed to help him cool off. He didn’t want to risk snapping at you or letting any of this spill over in your presence.

Only he didn’t even get five minutes of peace, because little Miss Perfect had decided to text him, claiming she wanted to “help.”

Uh-huh. Right.

She was just looking for an excuse to run to Dad and screw him over. And he wasn’t about to let that happen.

“Next,” the lady behind the counter called.

Rafe ordered grilled salmon with rice and salad for himself, and your usual dish for his way too patient girl.

Walking back to the table, he had to squint; the lights in the dining hall suddenly felt way too bright. And the heat? What the hell was up with that?!

Cold sweat had already gathered along his lower back while he’d been standing in line. The air just felt… off.

“…and then he asked me to be his date for the Gloaming,” your friend finished, clasping her hands together in excitement.

Carefully, Rafe set your plate down in front of you and took the seat to your left. You thanked him with a soft smile.

While you congratulated Hall on being Topper’s date, Rafe leaned toward Kelce and muttered, “What the hell is wrong with the AC in here?”

Even his hands were sweating. What the fuck.

“Nothing, dude. Same as always,” Kelce said, though his expression shifted when he really looked at Rafe.

“What?”

Kelce took a sip of his orange juice and shook his head. “You look like you’re about to catch a fever.”

Honestly, Rafe kind of felt like it. Not sick, just… off. Restless. Wired. Like his body was too full of something and might just snap.

…That thought again.

Shit.

This was fucking Sarah’s fault. If she hadn’t gotten him this worked up, he wouldn’t even be thinking like this. But no, it was like she wanted him to spiral, like she was pushing him straight toward a line.

Fucking bitch.

“I’m fine,” Rafe muttered, scooping up a bite of rice. “Just tired.”

Kelce watched him for another second, but thankfully didn’t push. He just nodded and slid a bottle of water toward him. “Drink this at least. Helps.”

Quietly, Rafe took it and downed nearly half in one go. He met Kelce’s eyes briefly and gave a small nod of thanks.

Kelce knew. Of course he did.

He knew what this looked like.

It wasn’t the first time Rafe had gone through this. A few months ago, he’d tried to get clean, but on day five, he’d caved. Found no real reason not to.

And it just so happened that on day five, there’d been a party. He’d sold a bag to Peter and then said fuck it and did a line with him.

Stupid. Fucking stupid. He knew that now.

Around him, the conversation had shifted from Topper and Hall going to the Gloaming together to… yeah, still the Gloaming. What else.

Rafe didn’t get the hype. It was a boring school event with a strict schedule. The only decent part was seeing hot girls in dresses and maybe sneaking off with one into the garden.

And the food was okay. Sometimes.

But this year? He didn’t care about any of that.

He had you.

Which meant he got to see you dressed up, looking fucking incredible, show you off because you were his, and maybe convince you to sneak away with him for something a little more private.

Okay, maybe he did get the hype.

“And oh my god, I have new gossip,” your friend announced, leaning forward with excitement, her big-ass cleavage very much on display across the table.

Jesus Christ.

Rafe immediately dropped his gaze back to his plate, grimacing at himself.

You laughed at her enthusiasm, completely oblivious to where his eyes had—accidentally, alright?—landed for a second.

“Spill,” Molly urged. “Was Mr. Darren caught leaving Golding’s office again?”

Cara snorted. “Sadly no. I don’t think they realize what an inspiration they could be for doomed yaoi stories.”

Rafe had no clue what that meant, but apparently it was funny, because the others laughed.

“Anyway,” she continued, gesturing with her fork, “we all know Reggie’s been looking for a girl to take to the Gloaming.” Who the fuck is we? “And guess who she asked?”

“Romy?” Kelce guessed.

“Millie?” Molly tried.

“You?” you added with a chuckle.

Cara shook her head, grinning. “Gracie Malone.”

The table gasped. “No way!”

“Yes!” she laughed. “Crazy, right?”

More like stupid. Gracie clearly liked guys. Unless she was going for some platonic date thing, but knowing Reggie, she was more into hookups. Total female fuckboy energy.

That was actually crazy.

Molly smiled lightly. “Guess Ruthie being gone gave Reggie the courage to ask her.”

“Yeah, she acts like Gracie’s toxic boyfriend half the time,” Kelce added quietly.

“So what did she say?” you asked, politely covering your mouth as you spoke mid-bite. “Did Gracie say yes?”

Cara shook her head, smug. “Nope. And here’s the actual crazy part: she said she already has a date.” She paused dramatically. “Rob.”

The table went quiet. Even Rafe stopped chewing.

He frowned. “Rob? Topper’s fuckass surfer buddy? How the hell did that happen?”

“Ayo, dude, he’s not that bad,” Kelce said, chuckling when Rafe shot him a glare.

“Yeah, him.” Cara nodded, pointing her fork toward Topper. “She asked him for Rob’s number.”

Topper’s bruise still looked like shit, and Rafe couldn’t help the flicker of pride at how clean that hit had been.

Topper frowned slightly. “She did, but she didn’t say why. And she never confirmed to Reggie it was Rob. She just said she has a date.”

“Yeah, but come on,” Cara scoffed. “What kind of coincidence would that be?”

You shifted beside Rafe, looking at Topper. “When did she text you?”

“Uh… yesterday?” He looked confused. Honestly, Rafe didn’t get the question either. “Why?”

“Because on Tuesday, I suggested she could go with him,” you explained thoughtfully. “And she declined. Said she’d ask Ruthie.”

Another round of confused silence.

Cara blinked. “Okay, context would be nice. You and Gracie? Since when do you even talk?”

You smiled sheepishly, fidgeting with your bracelet. “Collins made me sit with her as punishment.” You glanced at Rafe shyly. “Got caught talking.”

“God, that must’ve been awkward,” your friend said, gesturing between you and Rafe. “Like, being his current while she’s—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Rafe cut in flatly.

Seriously, you were surrounded by way too many chatty girls. And your best friend might’ve been the worst of them all.

You just shrugged. “Yeah, kind of. But she was actually nice to talk to, and I felt a bit bad for her because she said she didn’t have a date yet. So I suggested Rob.” You frowned slightly. “So I don’t get why she’d decline and then go ask Topper for his number. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Ohhh, maybe it’s a pride thing,” Kelce suggested. “Like she didn’t want help from you since you’re… you know.”

Rafe exhaled sharply. “She’s not my fucking ex. We never dated. Stop implying that.” He shrugged. “She probably asked for Ruthie. Those two hooked up at your party, and she’s not exactly aiming for better options.”

Honestly, who even cared? Who took who to the Gloaming; who the hell gave a shit? There was nothing more boring to talk about.

“Maybe she just changed her mind,” Molly suggested calmly, arranging her cutlery neatly. “Gracie’s shy. Maybe she felt awkward accepting the offer in the moment.”

Rafe had had enough of this bullshit topic. He forced a tight smile. “Crazy idea—why don’t you just ask the guy? Problem solved.”

Seriously, this was starting to piss him off. The constant chatter, the meaningless gossip, it only made the craving worse. One more minute of this and he might actually—

Bzzrt, bzrrt.

With a deep scowl, he reached into his pocket, already expecting another message from Sarah, but somehow, all that talk about Ruthie had practically summoned her.

Fucking great.

Normally, he’d leave her on read. But he couldn’t afford to ignore her now. Not when she basically held his entire reputation in her hands.

That had to be a joke. A stupid fucking, fuckass joke.

No way in hell would that bitch show the coke video for no reason and get the deal canceled—the same deal she blackmailed him for.

Nah. That made no fucking sense.

Her dad was desperate. He had no other investor besides a Cameron.

This was just some stupid power play. Trying to make him understand she was serious if he didn’t get the deal done OR WHATEVER FUCKING BULLSHIT WAS GOING ON IN HER TINY BRAIN.

FUCK!

Rafe was fucked.

Because sure, yeah, she could be messing with him, playing her little game and watching him squirm. And you couldn’t rule out that she’d just drop the video randomly to ruin his life.

Like, that was fucking Ruthie. She was crazy, ruthless—hah—and absolutely insane. She’d probably go through with it just because she could. Maybe she didn’t even care about her dad or his pathetic little business. Maybe she just wanted to feel important and powerful and fuck him over.

Or maybe she’d somehow found out that you and him were planning to screw her over. Shit, maybe her stupid little sister had snitched about Wheeze asking for her help, or GOD KNOWS WHAT.

And the worst part?

There was nothing Rafe could do.

Not a single fucking thing.

Threaten her back? No chance. Talk sense into her? Please. Beg her not to fuck around? Way below his dignity, and he doubted that would even work.

No matter what he did, she had leverage over him and could drop that video at any time.

So all he could do was wait. Wait out the hours until this afternoon, counting every second until the meeting with her shitty dad.

And then...

Either she’d been bluffing or his life was fucked.

And right now, either option made him want to strangle her. Wrap his hand around her throat and just squeeze, slam her head into something—anything—but even that would be too merciful for a bitch like her.

God, he just wanted to grab a golf club and—

“Hey, you okay?”

He blinked, your soft voice pulling him out of his mental murder spiral.

The conversation around you kept going, but your attention was fully on him. Your eyes scanned his face before dropping to his hands, clenched into fists, trembling slightly against his thighs.

Rafe didn’t know what to say. His mind snapped back into the present, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the tremor inside him, the cold sweat on his back, the heat crawling under his skin, the pressure in his chest threatening to choke him.

The noise around him pressed in—students talking, laughing, cutlery clinking, chewing, the faint radio overhead—and then something inside him just snapped.

A line.

He needed a fucking line.

“Rafe, wait, what’s going on?” you asked as he abruptly got to his feet, his breathing uneven.

But all he managed was, “Stay here,” brushing off the attention from the table as he headed straight for the exit, his fingers already itching to punch someone or to pull a line.

Shit, probably both.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

This was a freaking nightmare.

The second day in a row where Rafe just mysteriously left school without telling anyone where he was going, whether he was okay, and, of course, apparently tossing his phone somewhere so he couldn’t be reached.

UGH. THIS GUY.

You’d already had a bad feeling about him all morning. At first, you’d chalked it up to your own anxiety about the whole Sarah situation, but now that you thought about it, you remembered how off he’d looked.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d caught food poisoning, or worse, like he had a brutal hangover.

Which, honestly, wasn’t that far off from what was actually going on.

Withdrawal.

If what he said was true, he hadn’t done a line since Sunday. And if he’d been using regularly before that… then yeah, that was concerning.

You didn’t know if Rafe had the mental strength to resist it if the craving hit.

And it definitely had.

The way he’d gotten up during lunch—pale, slightly shaking hands—you couldn’t ignore that.

You’d been caught up in conversation, only half-aware of him talking to Kelce, pulling out his phone, and then suddenly leaving without explanation.

And you had a gut feeling that either Sarah or Ruthie had texted him. You just didn’t know which one was more likely. And sitting in chemistry class, you didn’t exactly have the space to spiral through theories.

You would’ve gone after him, but he’d been too fast, already halfway across the dining hall by the time you reacted. And Kelce had told you to leave him be.

He’d mentioned withdrawals. And you didn’t want to cause a scene by running after Rafe like that.

Besides… you thought you’d reached a point—after, what, ten days?—where he’d swallow his pride and at least text you if he needed help.

But then again… this was Rafe.

He could get shot in the chest and still wouldn’t ask for help.

Could he PLEASE just answer?

You were this close to texting Sarah and asking if Rafe was currently trying to strangle her, but if she hadn’t been the one who texted him, you’d just be stirring up more questions.

And she already had enough of those.

So all you could do was sit through the painfully boring chemistry class with Ms. Wake and count the seconds until Kelce texted you.

But you couldn’t wait that long. You texted him yourself about twenty minutes later.

Great.

Not only had Rafe actually left school grounds, no, he was also driving somewhere, GOD KNOWS WHERE, AND HE HAD THE NERVE TO TEXT YOU WHILE DRIVING.

At least it was a sign he was alive, but he hadn’t answered a single one of your questions. If anything, you had more now.

What was going on? Where was he going? Had he taken a line? Had Ruthie actually texted him, and was he now on his way to her place to do something stupid?

Most importantly: WAS HE OKAY?!

His messages didn’t sound panicked, but that made no sense, because when he left, he had looked off.

Had Ward texted him? But what could his dad possibly say that would make him leave school immediately? And Kelce was right: Ward would never approve of skipping school, and Rafe wouldn’t risk getting punished.

The minions in your head were running wild, throwing out theories, and every single one made you more anxious.

Because if this had anything to do with Ruthie, Sarah, his dad, the deal, or the blackmail, he would tell you.

…Right?

He wouldn’t just go off and handle something on his own. You’d agreed on that.

So…

That left one option.

Please don’t be that stupid, you thought, hoping he wasn’t actually driving home to grab a hidden stash and do a line.

By the time the second chemistry period started, you couldn’t take it anymore. You texted him again.

And again.

That was it.

The lack of response was driving you insane.

You raised your hand, asked to go to the restroom, grabbed your bag, and hurried down the hallway. Once inside, you stood there staring at the “Call” button.

Was this psycho behavior?

God, you didn’t want to be clingy. Not at all. But you were genuinely worried. And yeah, he probably had his reasons for not answering, but something deep in your gut felt off.

And you trusted that.

Trust your gut. His words.

You bit the inside of your cheek, then pressed call.

It rang once. Twice—AT LEAST IT WAS RINGING—your heart pounding.

Come on. Pick up, you idiot.

But he didn’t.

Voicemail.

You hung up.

And then, because apparently you’d completely lost it, you called again. And again. Feeling your dignity slowly disintegrate.

Girl. What were you doing?

You’d given him the chance to respond. If he wanted to tell you where he—

You froze as the call suddenly connected.

“Lil’ Alley Cat, you looking for your hound dog?”

You blinked, startled by Barry’s voice coming from what was supposed to be Rafe's end.

And just like that, your worst assumption turned into reality.

You tightened your grip on your phone. “Is he with you?”

“What you think?” Barry chuckled. “Rolled up in that big Benz, looking like his daddy beat his ass.”

“Where is he? Is he okay?”

Barry snorted. “Kitty’s scared her dog got put down?” Before you could answer, his tone shifted slightly, more serious. “Nah. Dude was begging for a line like a baby. Said he needed it. Emptied his whole wallet on my coffee table.”

Your heart dropped.

This was worse than you thought.

“Please tell me you didn’t give it to him,” you said, your voice tight.

He snorted. “You think I’m turning down 300 bucks?”

THREE HUNDRED?!

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Barry, seriously?” You leaned your forehead against the cold wall. “He was trying to quit.”

A pause.

“…Well, shit.”

“Yeah,” you snapped. “Shit.”

You couldn’t even fully process what you were feeling. Anger at Barry, who technically hadn’t done anything wrong. Frustration, disappointment, and something heavier at Rafe for falling back into it so quickly. For not telling you.

And anger at yourself.

For not going after him earlier. For not stopping him. For not forcing him to talk.

Fuck.

He’d been doing so well.

And the truth was, he was his own worst enemy in this.

Still, the question remained: what had pushed him this far, this fast?

“Sorry, Lil’ Kitty Cat,” Barry said, a hint of guilt creeping into his tone. “I ain’t his babysitter. But for you, I won’t give him a second one.”

YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE GIVEN HIM THE FIRST ONE.

You exhaled slowly, lowering your voice as two girls entered the restroom. “Okay, but where is he now? Why do you have his phone?”

“Taking a shower in my camper,” Barry replied. “Dude was sweating like Anteater Milton down the street.” A low chuckle. “Phone kept buzzing, so I checked. Turns out it’s Miss Country Club calling. You wanna come pick up your dog?”

Every instinct in you screamed yes. Call an Uber, go there, drag Rafe out, yell at both of them, burn every bag on that island.

But you had school. Missing the rest of the day meant your parents would get notified. You could fake being sick, but realistically, you couldn’t afford that right now.

And the damage was already done.

It would have to wait.

“No. I’ve got school,” you said, forcing calm into your voice. “Just… please make sure he doesn’t do more stupid shit. Keep him there. I’ll come after class.”

Barry let out a quiet chuckle. “I don’t got a leash for that dog. If he wants to leave, I ain’t stopping him.”

“Then lock him in or something,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “He can’t drive like this.”

A loud laugh echoed through the line. “You want me to kidnap him? You’re as crazy as him, Alley Cat.”

“Barry, this isn’t funny.”

“Alright, alright.” You could practically hear him sigh. “I’ll keep an eye on him. But if he bites me, you’re paying the hospital bill.”

“I’ll cover it.”

For the next two periods, you barely absorbed anything. Your leg bounced under the desk, every second dragging.

You told Kelce where Rafe was. He offered to come with you later, but you declined. Rafe wouldn’t like that. And honestly, Barry probably wouldn’t either.

At least Rafe had finally texted you back after what must’ve been a full-body detox shower, over thirty minutes after your call.

And oh no.

You were not making this easy for him.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

At around 1 PM, after the last period had officially ended and you’d told your parents you’d be coming home later, you took the Uber you’d pre-booked. You made some small talk with the driver, who seemed very curious about why a Kook girl was heading to the swamp side of the Cut, but, well… you told her you had a relative who liked living there and made up some random story for no real reason.

Welp.

You could’ve asked Cara to drive you, but again, you didn’t want to bring anyone along. And more importantly, you wanted to talk to Rafe in private.

As you made your way across the gravel, you took in the smell. The air was humid and suffocating in this part of the island. Beneath the saltiness lingered something damp and rotten, definitely from the swamp nearby.

Luckily, you more or less knew your way around here. It wasn’t your first time at Barry’s place. You’d come here with Cara before when she picked up weed. Sometimes you’d hang around a bit and chat.

Out here, there was only Barry’s camper, his fire pit, and some random equipment scattered around. And, well, Rafe’s Benz parked right in the middle of it.

“…and I swear to god, Country Club,” you heard Barry’s voice from behind a cluster of bushes, “if you’re snitching on me, I’ll—”

“I know! Alright, dude, I fucking know.” Rafe. And yeah, he sounded seriously pissed. “This is so fucking fucked, like who the fuck does she think she is, huh?”

You heard a pebble get kicked—hard—rolling right up to your feet.

He froze when he saw you, eyes widening in surprise, fingers fidgeting before he exhaled and ran a hand through his already messy hair.

“Ayo, look who it is!” Barry beat him to it, his gold tooth flashing in a grin. “Little Miss Alley Cat kept her word. Good to see you.”

Your lips twitched into a small smile as you adjusted your bag and stepped closer. Rafe met you halfway, pupils blown wide, his whole body buzzing with restless energy.

Probably the aftermath of the first line… or the second.

“I told you not to come,” he said, but there was no real bite in it, just exhaustion.

You took him in fully. The faint scent of woodsy aftershave clung to him, but even though only a few hours had passed since you’d last seen him, he looked worse.

Behind him, Barry got up, muttering something like, “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it,” before disappearing into his camper.

“I know.” You nodded, not breaking eye contact, your brows pulling together. “But we’re a team, right? As your girlfriend, it’s kind of my job to make sure you’re okay. And you’re clearly not okay.”

The question sat right there on your tongue.

How many lines did you actually take?

For a second, he just looked at you—defiant, like he was about to snap back. But then he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“No, I’m not.” He shook his head, his eyes a little glassy. “I’m cooked. Like, actually cooked this time.”

Okay. So something definitely happened.

“Why? What happened?” Your fingers twitched, wanting to reach for him, but you held yourself back. “You looked really upset when you left. Did something happen with Ruthie?”

Either her or Sarah. But you doubted his sister would push him this far. He’d confront her, not run.

This felt more like the movie night situation all over again.

A muscle jumped in Rafe’s jaw. He swallowed, nodding sharply, and pulled out his phone. A few swipes later, he shoved it into your hands.

“Here. See for yourself.”

Your pulse had already been fast, but now it was in a full-on Formula 1 race.

Because now you got it.

Those messages—whatever they were—had pushed him over the edge.

And even if you didn’t approve of it at all, you could understand why he’d looked for an escape. Because if Ruthie actually went through with it, he was screwed. Completely.

“She’s bluffing,” you said almost immediately, looking back up at him.

Part of you refused to believe Ruthie would sabotage her dad’s deal just to mess with Rafe.

The other part knew she absolutely could.

Rafe’s fingers brushed yours as you handed his phone back. He scoffed, slipping it into his pocket. “Is she? For all I know, she’s adding some dumb slideshow effects to that presentation right now.”

“It’s more likely she just enjoys watching you panic,” you countered, tapping your temple lightly. “What you’re doing right now—panicking—is exactly what she wants.”

His expression twisted, defensive tension creeping in. “I’m not panicking, I’m just… fucking pissed. That bitch is lucky she’s got tits, otherwise I’d have smashed her face in with a golf club already.”

Violence. Yeah, probably not the smartest move when drug dealing and usage could already be used against him.

“Maybe let’s not do that regardless of gender,” you said dryly, finally reaching out and gently taking his hand. “We need to think clearly right now. Not about making things worse.”

He let out a weak breath, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. And for a second, he just looked… lost. Wide eyes, searching yours like you might have the answer.

The fact he was still coming down from the coke definitely didn’t help.

“I can’t.” His hand slipped from yours as he dragged both hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. “My head’s a mess right now. All I can think about is how fucked I am. My dad’s gonna disown me.”

Okay.

So this was basically your daily mental state just with substances added on top.

Overthinking.

You took a deep breath and begged the Rafe minion inside your head to get on stage.

“Rafe, listen,” you said, grabbing both his arms and urging him to look at you, “I know I’m the last person who should be saying this, but stop thinking.” So easy, right? “It doesn’t make sense to cling to all these what-ifs and convince yourself you’re fucked. Because in a way… you already are.”

So sensitive.

“The video already exists. It’s in Ruthie’s hands. And yes, if she publishes it, you’re fucked. There’s no sugarcoating that.” Okay, where is this speech even going? “But it’s not. It’s still saved on her phone, and all she’s doing right now is trying to make you squirm and get a reaction out of you. She’s playing some stupid game of ‘How much pressure can I put on him until he does something that actually gets him screwed?’”

Did any of this even make sense?

“Ruthie loves provocation and mind games which is, ugh,” you grimaced at the mere thought, “absolutely embarrassing, because she clearly thinks she’s some kind of bad bitch from Euphoria or some shit.”

Rafe looked lost. “What’s Euphoria?”

“A show,” you clarified, “and she’s—”

“What fucking show?”

“A stupid show, doesn’t matter, what I’m trying to say is—”

“You can’t just make a random-ass reference and expect me to—”

“Rafe!” You snapped your mouth shut at your own yell, surprised by the tiny outburst, and smiled shyly at his startled expression. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m just… this stresses me out too.”

A soft chuckle left his lips, his face easing. His hands slid to your hips—no, actually your ass—pulling you closer. “Nah, it’s hot.”

“Me being stressed?” Your cheeks warmed as his hands spread over your ass, squeezing slightly.

His smile widened. “You being pissed. Yelling, lashing out type shit.”

His taste in what was hot was kinda questionable, but okay.

“I’d barely call that lashing out but—” You stopped yourself, frowning, and tapped his chest accusingly. “Now you’ve thrown me off. I was trying to help you calm down.”

Another chuckle. “I am calm. You’re the one acting all crazy with your screaming.”

“I am NOT falling for that rage bait,” you said, challenging yourself not to actually snap at him. “And this isn’t funny, Rafe. You’ve used coke again.”

You raised your brows, concern settling in. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve been there for you.”

Rafe pressed his lips together, avoiding your eyes. “I know that. But the others were there, and I didn’t want them asking questions. Plus, you had school afterward.”

“So did you,” you argued, tilting your head to catch his gaze, “but you should’ve said something. I could’ve come up with an excuse. Missing one class wouldn’t have been the end of the world.”

Finally, his eyes met yours, scanning your face, guilt and uncertainty flickering in them. “It was better you weren’t there. I was so… so pissed, I nearly started a fight with Reid because he didn’t have a line on him.” His voice dropped, quieter, almost pleading. “I’m not sure I would’ve held back on you.”

“N-not physically,” he added quickly. “Shit, no, I’d never lay a hand on you, but… I say shit I don’t mean when I get like that. And I didn’t wanna lash out at you over nothing.”

So that was the real reason. He hadn’t told you because he was scared of how he’d treat you when everything boiled over.

That was… unexpectedly considerate. And it made your chest ache for this stupid boy who genuinely thought he wasn’t worthy of something stable.

“I’ve already experienced you lashing out at me,” you said, fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. “The movie night, remember?”

After Ruthie blackmailed him, he’d spiraled, left, snorted a line, punched Topper, and then tore into you verbally.

“And I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t affect me,” you continued, “and I’m not saying I’ll ever let myself be personally attacked, but…”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “I know your issues. I know you struggle with controlling your emotions, and I also know you’re actually trying to do better. And part of doing better means letting people be there for you, even when you’re not easy.”

You patted his chest gently. “And one of the perks of having a girlfriend is exactly that.”

The words seemed to settle slowly, like gears clicking into place in his head.

His hands moved from your ass to your waist, thumbs resting in the dip of it. At the same time, his gaze dropped to your lips for a second before flicking back up.

JESUS.

He smiled lazily. “And I appreciate my pretty girlfriend very much.” Then his tone shifted, turning more serious. “But I’ve been on edge. Not just because of Ruthie. Sarah’s been on my ass too, blowing up my phone.”

His scowl returned, fingers tightening slightly at your sides. “Saying she wants to talk and help. As if she’s not just looking for a reason to rat me out to Dad.”

You couldn’t help but frown a little. Sarah really was pushing it, whether she meant well or not. First, interrogating you, now cornering him directly. Again.

She was his sister. Family. But even that came with boundaries.

GIRL SHE’S JUST WORRIED AND WANTS TO HELP. God, his mindset was rubbing off on you, and you didn’t like that.

Still, now wasn’t the time to defend her. That would just set him off again. And honestly… part of you understood his perspective.

So, redirect.

“I’m sorry you felt cornered today,” you said softly, letting your hands move up to rest against the warm skin of his neck. “And I hope next time you come to me first instead of going through it alone. Doesn’t matter if I’m your friend or your girlfriend, or if I have school. I’d rather deal with you frustrated than watch you cope like this.”

Embarrassment flickered across his face, and it looked so soft on him.

For a second, he looked like he might argue. Instead, he pulled you closer, pressing you flush against him. “Yeah, alright. Fine. What I did was stupid. I should’ve told you she was texting me.”

His jaw tightened again. “But what difference would it have made? There’s nothing you could’ve said to change the fact that she might ruin my life in a couple hours.”

Yeah… he had a point.

You didn’t have counter leverage. You hadn’t gotten rid of the video. And when you really thought about it, you hadn’t made much progress at all.

“But maybe I could’ve talked you out of doing a line,” you said, frustration slipping into your tone.

Because this whole situation was fucked. He wasn’t wrong about that.

“And I still stand by the fact that she’s just playing with you,” you continued. “She wants you to panic. To mess up. To ruin things yourself.”

You sighed, not loving where this was going. “And let’s say she actually shows the video in front of your fathers. Do you really think your dad would just let that happen?” You grimaced inwardly for defending Ward Cameron. “He’d be furious, yeah, but you’re still his son. He’s not going to let some girl humiliate his family like that. He’d react. And her dad wouldn’t just sit there either. She’d be sabotaging his deal.”

You could practically see it clicking in his head—his expression sharpening and sobering slightly.

So you leaned into it.

“I’m pretty sure Ruthie knows that too,” you added, more confident now. “So my guess? She won’t actually do anything. She just wanted to remind you that she can. That she hasn’t forgotten about the blackmail, and that she can pressure you whenever she wants.”

Your fingers idly played with the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck. “The real question isn’t whether she’ll share the video. It’s why she’s even coming to a business meeting she’s not part of.”

Rafe frowned instantly. “Playing daddy’s princess, I guess. Or—shit—who knows, maybe they’re working together.”

Okay… that was a possibility you hadn’t considered.

A father-daughter setup.

You didn’t know enough about Mr. Whitmore to judge that properly, just that he was a cheating asshole and some rising businessman.

So maybe… don’t spiral there.

BZRRR BZRRT BZRRT.

The buzzing from your bag snapped you back into the present.

Normally, you’d decline the call but that ringtone meant your mom, and you weren’t ignoring her.

“It’s my mom, I have to take this,” you said quickly, slipping your hands from his neck and stepping back to grab your phone. Rafe’s hands fell from your waist, his expression tightening—guarded, maybe even a little annoyed.

“Hey, Mom,” you answered, confused. “What’s up?”

The silence before she spoke made your stomach drop.

“Honey, where are you right now?” she asked, her tone carefully controlled in that way that immediately meant something was wrong.

Your heart rate spiked, but you matched her calm. “I’m out with Rafe. Why, is everything okay?”

It wasn’t a lie. You had told her you’d be out longer.

“Rafe?” she repeated, a faint edge of dismissal in her voice. “Right, you mentioned that.” A pause. “Are you two far from the Eight?”

COULD SHE JUST SAY WHAT WAS WRONG?

“No,” you answered, worry creeping in. “Do you want me to come home? Did something happen?”

Another pause. Then her voice sharpened, more serious.

“You should come home. Yes.”

Uh.

That did not sound good.

A thousand scenarios flashed through your mind but none of them felt right.

“Now?” you asked quietly.

“Yes, Sweetie. Now.” You heard a muffled voice in the background—your dad, probably—but couldn’t make out what he said. “And bring Rafe too, okay?”

Your nerves locked up completely.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay calm. “Okay. Yeah, we’re coming.” You met Rafe’s confused gaze. “Can you tell me what’s going on? You’re worrying me.”

“We’re the ones who are worried,” she replied, her voice tight. “Just… come home, baby. Okay?”

...

“Okay.”

You ended the call, a heavy, sick feeling settling through your entire body. Judging by your mother’s tone alone, it wasn’t just Rafe’s day spiraling downward; yours was clearly heading the same way.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

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T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

“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?