WARNINGS — age gap tension (reader 19-20, Rafe 24), military hierarchy power imbalance, male gaze/possessive thoughts, internalized misogyny, explicit objectification, obsession, voyeurism, pervy male POV, past casual sex (implied), predator/prey dynamic, male masterbation

You’re the last one off the van. That’s the first thing Rafe notices — and it sticks.

Everyone else spills out fast, loud, sunburnt. Military kids, seasoned family, spouses with babies already on their hips. But you?

You climb down slowly. Both hands on the strap of your pink bag like you’re worried it’ll slip away from you. You look around like everything is unfamiliar. Unsteady.

You’re not in uniform. You’re in a pressed blouse and ballet flats, legs bare beneath a soft little skirt. Your water bottle is clear and full of pastel-colored fruit. You’re chewing pink gum. Your lip gloss catches the sun.

And Rafe’s dick twitches.

He should look away. He knows that. He should walk the other direction, mind his business, keep his hands clean.

Because you don’t belong here. Not in a place like this. Not on a base like this.

And sure as hell not near someone like him.

“Who’s that?” he asks without taking off his sunglasses.

His buddy glances up from the truck bed. “That’s the Captain’s daughter.”

Rafe doesn’t move.

His jaw tightens. His arms are crossed over his chest, forearms thick with sweat-slick muscle, dog tags clinking against his skin. But his eyes stay glued to you. Watching. Tracking.

“Looks like she’s never even been off a damn sidewalk,” his buddy mutters with a chuckle. “She probably cries if she breaks a nail.”

Rafe doesn’t laugh. He barely even smirks. He just keeps staring.

“You think she’s ever been kissed?” he asks finally. The question is low, quiet. Serious.

This time his buddy laughs for real. “Jesus, man.”

But Rafe isn’t joking.

You don’t look like someone who’s been kissed. You look like someone who still gets tucked in. You’re trailing behind your father now, hugging your arms, blinking up at the sun like it personally offended you. You look lost. Soft.

Exactly the kind of thing Rafe likes.

But unlike the other girls — the ones who begged to ride him before he’d even zipped his pants — you don’t look like you’d know what to do with him.

He’s not used to girls like that. Not anymore.

Most of the women around here come to him already seasoned — lonely wives, bored daughters, ex-soldiers-turned-waitresses who’d rather suck off a grunt in a back alley than go home to their boyfriends. He’s used to fast, nasty, no strings. He has a box under his bunk full of phone numbers on receipts, bar napkins, lip prints.

He hasn’t learned a single one of their names.

But you?

You're new.

You're untouched.

And Rafe Cameron has always had a problem with temptation.

You’ve got a little notebook in your arms now, hugging it like it’s precious. You nod along to whatever your father is saying. You’re not listening — Rafe can tell — but you’re smiling anyway.

He watches your mouth move.

Watches your hands fidget with the hem of your skirt.

Watches your legs press together when a truck passes too fast and kicks up dust.

And all he can think about is how fast he could break you.

You wouldn’t even see it coming.

That’s the sickest part. You’re so used to being safe. Being supervised. Being sheltered. You’d think you were in control the whole time — until his hand was around your throat and you were coming so hard you couldn’t breathe.

He bets you still sleep with the door cracked.

He bets you say “gosh” and “oh my gosh” and chew on the ends of your pens.

He bets you’ve never had a guy pull your panties down and say, “you’re mine now, baby. say thank you.”

You’ll learn.

Later, when the sun’s setting and you’re sitting cross-legged on the porch with a lemonade and your pink notebook open on your lap, Rafe walks by with a cigarette between his teeth.

You don’t even look at him. Just scribble something in loopy cursive, your legs swinging where they hang off the step. You’ve got some song playing in your earbuds, too loud and sugary. The sound of a girl who’s never done anything wrong in her life.

Rafe watches your reflection in a window for a long time after he passes.

He doesn’t even smoke. He just needed a reason to linger.

Back in the barracks that night, he’s wide awake.

His room is silent. Fan spinning slow above him, boots tossed to the floor, sweat still drying on his back.

His hand is wrapped around his cock, but it’s not about the release.

It’s the control. The ownership.

He thinks about you saying his name — sweet, unsure, a little breathy. He imagines how you’d gasp when he grabs your face. He imagines the pink gloss smeared across your cheek.

He doesn’t even touch himself most of the time.

He just lets the ache burn a hole in his gut.

Because he knows he can have you.

He just hasn’t decided when.

WARNINGS — invasion of privacy, diary-reading without consent, possessive male POV, inner obsession, implied virginity, age gap dynamics, inappropriate fantasies, minor delusion/grooming-adjacent thoughts, manipulation (anything italicized is what’s written in the diary!)

You didn’t even realize you’d dropped it.

That’s the funniest part. Funniest to him, at least.

You were walking too fast across the courtyard. Flustered again. Maybe it was because Rafe had called you sweetheart with that slow drawl, lingering on the “s,” right in front of three privates. You stammered through a hello, eyes darting everywhere but him, clutching your bag like a shield.

He watched you walk off.

And then he saw it — a slim pink notebook, barely thicker than a pamphlet, slipped from your tote and dropped behind you like a breadcrumb.

You didn’t hear it. Didn’t turn around.

Just kept walking.

So now it’s his.

He finds it ten seconds later, thumb brushing the soft cover like it might burn. You’d doodled a little sun in the corner. One of the loops is dotted with a heart. The name you wrote inside?

First name only. Bubbly handwriting. Like a schoolgirl.

He flips to the first page and grins.

“Summer Goals ☀️💕”

— swim more

— read 5 books

— learn how to french braid my hair

— kiss someone (REAL kiss!)

— fall in love

— try wine or beer!

— say no without feeling bad

— be brave

Rafe lets out a low breath. One part humor. One part something else.

God, you’re even softer than he thought.

You want to fall in love. Kiss someone. Try wine or beer.

He wonders if you think all those things will happen in one night. If you still believe in movie endings and fireworks and a guy showing up with flowers.

You’re doomed.

He flips further.

You’ve used it like a diary. You don’t date the pages. Just talk to yourself. Or maybe talk to someone. The kind of someone you wish existed. The kind of man who listens. The kind of man who stays.

“Saw him again today.

He called me sweetheart. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

He looks at me like he knows things I don’t. It makes me feel dumb. But also kind of… not dumb? Like I want to know what he knows?”

Rafe shifts on the bench.

His grip tightens.

You’re writing about him.

Not a crush. Not a passing observation. You feel something. He’s getting in your head already and you don’t even know it.

You’re still so fucking clueless.

He turns the page.

“My dad would kill me. If he knew what I was thinking…

It’s not even bad! I just. I don’t know.

I want someone to touch me.

Not like that!! I mean. Okay maybe like that. But not gross. Like… soft. Gentle.

I want to know what it feels like to be wanted.”

He leans back against the wall. The notebook drops into his lap.

It takes a full sixty seconds before he even breathes.

You’ve never even been touched. Not really.

You’re writing about your own fantasies like they’re foreign concepts. You don’t even know how it works. You’re scared of it. Confused. Hoping someone will take the guesswork out of it.

And Rafe? He’d do it without a fucking second thought.

But not soft. Not gentle.

He wants you ruined.

Wants you to forget every boy you ever dreamed about because he made you come harder than any of them ever could.

He wants to be your first. And only.

The next page pushes it further.

“I think he’s older. He must be. He looks like he’s seen a lot.

But I like that. I think I want that. Someone who can take care of me. Who already knows what he’s doing.

Someone who knows how to tell me what to do.”

He closes the notebook, fast. Like it’ll melt his palms if he doesn’t.

This isn’t about teasing anymore.

This isn’t even about baiting you.

This is about possession.

You already want the thing he planned to take.

He slides the book into his pocket. He’ll return it. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe after he reads it again.

Maybe after he’s jacked off to the words “tell me what to do” while moaning your name into his fist.

You knock on his office door the next morning.

He’s not surprised. You’re flustered. Lip bitten. Crimson on your cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, opening the door wider. “You look like you lost a puppy.”

You blink up at him, embarrassed. “I—I think I dropped my notebook yesterday. I was just wondering if…”

“Notebook, huh?”

He moves slowly to the desk. Opens a drawer.

Pulls it out with a casual shrug.

“This one?”

Your eyes light up. You nod, stepping forward to take it—but he doesn’t let go.

He watches you.

Tilts his head. Then slowly, very deliberately, presses it into your hands. His fingers brush your wrists.

“You should be more careful with your private thoughts, sweetheart,” he says low. “Never know who might be reading.”

You freeze.

He smiles.

And then he walks away.

You flip through it later. Nothing’s changed. Nothing missing.

But somehow… something feels different.

You can’t explain it.

The pages feel heavier. The air between your fingers charged. You catch yourself wondering—just for a second—if he meant something else. If he read—

No. No, he wouldn’t.

Would he?

That night, Rafe sits outside on the barrack steps.

His boots are dusty. His knuckles bruised. He smells like gasoline and aftershave and heat.

And he’s smiling.

Because you’re so, so clueless.

And he’s so, so patient.

But not for much longer.

rafe gets weird about you real fast. like not just "i wanna fuck her" but "i need her or i'll die" levels of obsession. thinks about kidnapping you when he’s high. imagines you tied to his bed in his shitty frat house, crying but still looking pretty, still his.

he watches you sleep sometimes. not even by accident. like you fall asleep on the couch at a party, curled up in a hoodie, and he just sits there staring. hard the whole time. thinking about sneaking his hand between your legs and seeing if you’re wet even in your dreams.

he follows you home after parties. parks down the street. jerks off in the backseat of his truck while he watches the lights go off in your bedroom. says your name under his breath while he cums all over his hand.

steals gross little things from you. a chapstick. a sock. a hair tie you left behind. keeps them in a drawer in his room like trophies. sometimes puts them under his pillow at night and humps the mattress like a desperate, sick puppy.

tries to gaslight you into thinking you’re into him. like corners you at a party and murmurs, "don’t gotta be shy, baby. i see the way you look at me. fuck, you’re makin' me crazy, playin’ hard to get like that. just let me have it, i’ll take good care of u, promise."

fantasizes about breaking you in. not even gently. wants you sobbing, trembling, clinging to him because you’re scared and too sweet to tell him no. thinks about stuffing your mouth full of his fingers so you can't say anything when he ruins you.

leaves bruises on you on purpose. little ones. grips your wrist too tight when he’s drunk and giggling. presses his fingers into your hips when he hugs you goodbye. stares at the marks later and jerks off to the memory, thinking, "mine, fuck, she's mine now."

goes crazy if he sees another guy even look at you. literally loses it. might grab you by the back of your neck at a party and whisper all nasty, possessive shit like, "who's fuckin' girl are you, huh? better fuckin' say it before i make a scene, baby. better say it now."

talks about you like you’re already dating when you're not. calls you "my girl" to his friends. posts blurry pictures of you on his story without tagging you. writes your name on his desk during lectures like a psycho.

secretly dreams about knocking you up. about trapping you. about you getting full with his kid and crying and begging him to take care of you. and he would. he’d be so sickly sweet while he rubbed your belly, whispering about how he’s gonna take care of you forever, how you're never getting away now.

rafe doesn’t just want you. he needs you like a drug. gets shaky and sick without you. thinks about taking you every night, pressing a pillow over your face to muffle your cries while he pushes in raw, whispering, "shhh, it's okay, baby, it’s just me, just makin’ you mine."

fantasizes about catching you drunk and sleepy at a party, scooping you up like a doll, carrying you upstairs and locking the door behind him. stripping you clumsy and rough while you whimper and twitch.

he wouldn’t even wait. he’d be huffing, panting, stuffing himself inside you while you begged him to stop, too high and weak to fight.

he gets hard at the idea of you crying. like not just crying — sobbing, hiccuping, clutching at his shoulders while he fucks you through it. it makes him crazy, makes him kiss your wet cheeks and coo, "feels good, huh? see, baby, your pussy knows who owns it."

he doesn’t use a condom. never would. never even thinks about it. in his sick little brain, you belong to him, and that means filling you up. stuffing you full until you're dripping down your thighs, knocked up, ruined for anyone else.

he presses his hand over your stomach after he cums inside you, panting into your hair, whispering, "gonna get you pregnant. fuckin' breed you like you’re supposed to be. nobody’s ever gonna touch you but me."

he says it over and over until you stop fighting. until you start crying softer. until you just lay there and let him do it again.

would tie you to his bed if he had to. wrist and ankle. keep you there for days. bring you water, kiss your forehead, tell you how good you’re being while he uses your pussy like it’s his personal toy.

gets mad when you cry too much. like after the third or fourth time he’s cum inside you and you’re still sobbing and begging for your mommy or daddy.

grabs your chin rough and growls, "nah, baby, you ain’t got a daddy anymore. you’re mine. i’m the only one that’s gonna take care of you now."

he records it. keeps videos of you broken and shaking and begging. watches them when he’s lonely. jerks off to them with tears in his eyes, swearing he loves you, that it’s real, that you’ll love him back eventually.

in his mind, this isn’t rape. it’s destiny. it’s love. you were just too stupid to see it. but that’s okay. he’ll fix you. he’ll make you understand!!