“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?

As is typical of patient demographic in the Pitt, Mr. Weskon falls into the common category of admitted Dr. Google-patients rattling off into an uninformed tangent thinking they’re entitled the Universe for their competence. 

But nobody had considered he might cross the line into violence. (A grave oversight of: “Ah, he’s all bark, no bite!”)

Hindsight is 20/20, isn’t it? 

One moment you’re sparing a there-and-away glance over your shoulder to the cart with a screen pulled up on Mr. Weskon’s medical chart, and the next you’re gasping for breath as your windpipe crushes underneath your own stethoscope like a yoke thanks to his merciless, white-knuckle grip. 

Hula-hoop hardly escapes your mouth in time. Your clarion call is choked into nothingness. 

By the grace of whatever divine providence had been watching you, however, the ordeal is done within the minute. Robby, Jesse and Dana had been the three concerned faces you’d seen when the terrifying moment had finally passed, and the hypoxic vignette from your tunnel vision ebbed awa— 

You’ve insisted on tamping down the memory of everything else that happened on that day since.

Hell, forgetting is the way you’ve always tried to decompress once you’re done with any exhausting shift. Setting your mind aside to focus on anything else but patient care and death and suffering. Sometimes it’s a night-out; On most days, a night-in: relaxing in the arms of Robby to catch up on a movie over take-out, or spending the night sweaty in his sheets from where he’s burrowing himself into you.

And it’s play. He likes control as much as you like to willingly give it up. That’s the parity, isn’t it? Robby regains the dominant control he feels he lacks when it comes to the grisly, trauma-inducing nature of his work; You get to yield control and submit after a long day of running the show behind-the-scenes.

Equilibrium. A shared thrill. If the first thing Robby doesn’t look forward to when arriving home is a hot shower, it’d be muscling you face down towards the nearest available angle to fuck you until your legs give out.

Utilising his imposing height and broad size over you to his own unfair advantage, toeing your feet demandingly apart and rocking you into an edge when he buries himself into you until you’re on your tip-toes, desperately struggling to find a foothold between a rosy haze of bliss.

You whining? he’d growl, pressing the brutal hand splayed between your shoulder blades down further, until your chest aches and every breath is forced out in a panting series of ah, ah—mh, fuck, Robby—!

Shhh, will come the familiar, disapproving chide. Just— god, you’re so tight— Just shut the fuck up and take it.

It’s exhilarating. 

You suppose it’s easy to reason out the nature of it, of course. Figure that it’s a way to use the professional power imbalance the both of you have from the ED— what with him being and Attending and you a Nurse— into a perversion of authority; a corruption of his influence. 

No one knows the gentle, guiding hand everyone sees him use to sidle you from the path of a speeding gurney is the same one that fists your hair and shoves your face down between his thighs until you’re gagging; that the words of gratitude for buoying the Pitt in crises (“I don’t know how we could’ve got through that without you—”) turns into filth when the sun goes down and he’s leading you to the foot of his livingroom sofa (“Get on your knees. I’m gonna come down your throat tonight, you hear me?”).

Still, depravity is safe with Robby: When he bends you over the counter, his fingers are wrapped around where your hips will knock the marble edge, taking the brunt of his own brutal pace. When he roughs you onto your knees to suck him off, you’re kneeling on an offered pillow to curb bruises from blossoming your skin, after which you’ll eventually be carried off in his arms to bed, where he nuzzles his face into your cunt as polite repayment.

He goes on about breeding you full of him, but rolls a condom on anyway unless you explicitly tell him otherwise; will only ever cum inside you when you’re outwardly begging for it. If he isn’t manhandling you into obedience on his lazy days then his words take its place to do all the work— yet names he calls you are always tagged, still, with something sweet to soften the blow of his blunt degradation. My pretty little slut— Such a good whore for me, aren’t you?— Taking me like a perfect cocksleeve. 

Even now, with where he’s mouthing and suckling possessive marks of his claim over you across your breasts and collar— he doesn’t nip you further than a pinch between incisors, doesn’t bite or nick with canines to ever draw blood.

“Mh, Robby,” you whimper, nails scratching down the broad of his back as you cling helplessly to him. But all you get in return is his gruff grunts in return from where he’s bullying the head of his cock into you, stretching you full with each unforgiving thrust— hiking you up into the bed from the sheer force of himself rutting greedily into your cunt, palms pressing harshly at the back of your knees to fold you into taking every inch of him right to the hilt. 

“Too big, huh?” he croons amusingly, voice like roughstone and dripping with condescension. Faux-pity. Blatantly prides over himself that you’re struggling, consistently, to fit yourself around the splitting width of him. “Doesn’t matter how many times I fuck this pretty pussy, does it? Yeah. Always such a tight little slut for me.”

You can only whine in reply. Too blissed out with liquid pleasure beginning to knot in your navel from where you can feel him nudging deep at that gummy spot inside you. 

Another shove. Another rock of hips. Come on, give it to me, you hear, feeling the grope of his mean hands going from kneading your thighs to your clit to your stomach; palming at your breasts and tweaking your nipples; slithering his hands up your scratching arms to wrench it brutally back down flat onto the bed.

Squirming only entices him, after all. Encourages him into tightening his grip around your wrists and shackling them down the sides of your head so you can’t argue against the weight of him bearing down on you; can barely writhe from how full you feel with him notched between your thighs, can barely put up a fight when he breathes the heady scent of you in like you’re prey as he lays on you.

Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this, he rasps, nosing a kiss onto your lips and then down your jaw again. All spread out for me, hm?

You preen at the compliment. A fawn willingly heeding to the maw of its predator, the flex of tendons in Robby’s biceps dangerously attractive— makes your back arch, chin turning up inadvertently and exposing your throat to the hulking beast above you. 

Robby groans as he eyes the slope of your neck bared to him, soft and supple and swallowing hard with anticipation. 

The pads of his fingers slide up to it. Another obscene game. Another familiar dance. Just enough to have you dizzy with pleasure and a high for oxygen, bullying a laving kiss on your mouth when you're gasping for air just because he can.

His digits curl. A ferric clutch over the hollow of your throat. There’s a spark of pleasure in you. Pretty girl, you can feel him smile, tone brassy, Gonna take it? Feel your tachy heartbeat pulsing against his thumb and—

—A stethoscope around your neck. A yoke. A tightening noose. The blind, animalistic rage of a man twice your size abusing his strength. Exploiting your give. 

BREATHE, comes the reflex, fingers failing to work a gap into the cord. You blindly kick out a foot to the medical cart as you’re practically yanked off-balance, and you can hear the corner of it clip harshly, wheels squeaking as it tumbles violently out of South-22. 

And the crashing scatter must have worked to turn heads, because one moment you’re craning to look at the blood-shot eyes of a savage monster, and then the next you’re collapsing onto the cold linoleum with Dana tugging you aside from the hectic chaos of Jesse and Robby snarling curses at the patient.

Robby.

You blink. Turn the set of your free hand on Robby’s slick collarbone into a swat instead. Your left hand is still in an iron-grip by your head, the right slithering down now from his chest to tap repeatedly at the back of his coiled hand as you writhe out of instinct. “Robby,” you whisper. “Baby—”

Hula-hoop has never explicitly been an agreed safe-word outside of the ED— Stop for him is natural enough— but some things didn’t need to be said between you and Robby, anyway. 

Stop, stop, comes your tiny murmur. A thready, weak rasp. If he hadn’t been nestling a wet, humid kiss below your ear he might not have heard it at all. But he knows you. Hula-hoop, Robby.

The leonine gaze in his eyes wink out. Unlatches his choke and softens it into a ghosting palm above your sternum as he unwinds from his position.

“Sweetheart,” he rears back instantly, voice softening into concern, “M’sorry, I’m sorry, did I— shit, did I hurt you—?”

“No, I…” You shake your head. Sit up from your supine position to scoot a little further back to the back of the bed for gasp of air. Robby looks scalded; sends a fraught pang into your soul. You’re safe, you tell yourself. Robby is safe.

“You didn’t,” you stumble. “It’s not you— I, I’m sorry. I think I just freaked out a little because—”

Your words catch. Robby gathers the memory in an instant: swiping the curtain aside and witnessing the harrowing scene in front him, the blistering rage in his veins when he’d snatched the patient’s grip from suffocating you; how he’d threatened to break Mr. Weskon’s hands clean in two.

Get your fucking hands off her—

“Hey, hey. It’s alright, that was on me, baby, not you,” he soothes, sweeping a thumb absently at your hip before you try to shuffle back underneath him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. How about we call it a night, yeah? No more, I promise. We’ll go to bed.”

Hearing him say No kickstarts a reflexive dread into your ribcage. Feels akin to a child being admonished; a creeping disappointment in your marrows. The tears slowly burning your eyes are a half-daze of fear and humiliation that had come from the memory, and a half-daze of shame and guilt for twisting the mood into something— filthy.

Do good, comes the carnal instinct neath the floatiness. Make Robby feel good. 

(A basal, distant part of you clinically rationales it’s the physiology: That you’re still reeling through the high and heady overload as you recover from the throes of submission. Unconsciously hanging onto the familiar thread of desire to anchor yourself while in the sudden drop; A muscle memory to oblige to his demand and try to appease him out of feverish habit.) 

You shake your head in earnest disagreement.

“We can keep going. I’m sorry, Robby, maybe…” you trail off, words slurring and tone pleading as you lean forward once more to offer yourself up on a silver platter. I’ll be good this time around. Pawing placatingly at the broad of his shoulder, gliding a palm as languidly as you can again all the way up to his nape. “Maybe we could— if I sit ontop, I, I won’t— We can—”

“Woah, hey, sweetheart, look at me. It’s okay, really.” His palm reaches up to gently slide your grasp off from his neck. Interlocks his hand with yours and presses a kiss to your fingertips; a low hum as he dips his head lightly to chase your half-lidded gaze. “S’alright, c’mere. Just wanna hold you, honey. Can I?”

His eyes are sincere. The little smile he’s giving you reaches them, wrinkling at the corners as he cocks his head at you patiently.

“But…” You shift your leg up an inch to point it out tenuously. You can feel the heavy weight of his wet cock, still, leaking by your knee. 

A small breath of laughter escapes him. It’s not directed at you at all— moreso fond of how you’re graciously still thinking of him despite everything.

“I’m okay,” he promises, gently, and moves to curl a secure arm around you when you unconsciously lean into his space once more. It doesn’t take long before you’re letting yourself be folded tenderly into a shielding embrace, head tucked under his neck and your hand set over the hypnotic steadiness of his heartbeat. “We’re okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’ve been so good.”

A good girl, he continues to rattle on endearingly. Accompanies every soft praise with a tender kiss on the crown of your head down to your hairline then your forehead; to eyebrows and eyelids and the slope of your nose down to the parted seam of your lips. Did amazing. My beautiful girl. You’re so good for me. Always such a good girl. I love you, hm? I love you.

Eventually, he’s tugging a shirt— his shirt— over you, the sheer size swallowing you whole and the suffused scent of Robby— home— working like another presence of his that smothers you. He cleans you up swiftly and sets the debris of clothing aside, then untangles your hair and smooths it over by running his fingers through them, surrounding you with his body and stroking at your cheek and jaw for the sake of comforting touch.

For a man built so intimidatingly masculine and rough-around-the-edges, Robby knows exactly how to even out the odd scales with that innate softness and tenderness in him: dotingly showering you with utter adoration and pressing kisses cloying with affection; sliding warm palms over your arms and shoulders in a bid of comfort as you settle.

“I don’t know what that was,” you sniff, behind a steaming mug of tea he’d brewed for you much later. “Didn’t… mean to ruin the moment. Or scare you.”

He lets out a low rumble. Mattress sinking by you where he ducks to nose an inhaled kiss onto the exposed slip of skin on your shoulder. “Mh. Nothing was ruined, baby,” he says, careful with his words: you’ve surfaced from your docile haze, but there’s still the shore to reach— still need to clear your head and reconcile with the dull ache across your body. 

“Startled me, honey, but it was only a little reaction,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand down your back. He helps you set the mug aside with a quick sip when you pass it over to him. Clicks the lamp shut on the side of the bed as you both slide under the covers. “It’s good that we stopped.”

The liminal space in the air mellows out. Can feel his beard bristle across your forehead, let yourself get lost in the meditative rise and fall of his chest. 

“Tomorrow, then,” you suddenly decide, tracing lazy, mindless patterns over his smouldering skin. 

“Don’t have to,” is his airy response. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, honey.”

You let out a hum of assent. “Wanna be ontop,” you reply drowsily, threading cheek into your tune. “Think you can handle that, big man?”

“Gladly.” His chuckle vibrates into you. Something realigns in you again at the sound of it. Clarity. You’ve slowly come back to your usual self. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, this time ‘round.”

“Famous last words,” you tease. And upon recalling: "Speaking of, what was it you said to that guy again?”

An unimpressed snort. “You only heard the half of it,” he muses lazily, voice tinged with a lit kindling of protectiveness. “I told him I’ll break his hands. That if he touched you or anyone else again in the hospital unwarranted, I’ll make sure he’ll never be capable of holding a damn thing ever again.”

A beat passes. Long enough that, for a moment, Robby thinks you might’ve fallen asleep to his voice, but—

“…Oh,” you smile, basking in the sheepish swell in your heart. A flutter of sparrows in your chest. “That’s hot.”

He tries his absolute best to stifle his laugh from jostling you out your fog of sleep. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, too lazy to explain how his nonchalance only adds to the attractiveness of his protective nature. The ease of his brutish strength accompanied by confidence that never tips to arrogance. “I’ll let you fuck me raw, tomorrow—”

“Jesus,” he laughs, meeting you in a deep kiss to tide you over for the night. “Go to bed, woman.”

It comes along with the commanding presence he brings with his title— lieutenant; doctor; officer ( Combat Vet; Senior Attending; SWAT Medic )— that instinctively draws people in, or has them making way for him, has them deferring to him out of well-earned respect.

Physicality adds to it too, ofcourse. 

Biceps taut on his scrubs sleeves whenever he crosses his freckled arms to think, doing that pensive gaze he does where his chin tucks and he looks up past his lashes; shark-like in the tenebrous weight of his narrow stare, lips pursed and dimpling at his stubbled cheeks. 

Nor do the fatigues offer any help, either; they make him look meaner than he already does, you find. Tough. Militant. Imposing. Just a little more rugged, a little more rough-around-the-edges handsome, a little more grittier to the average eye in that classic, old-fashioned way. 

(The perfect archetype of a natural protector: both the shepherd who tends faithfully to his sheep and the dog that mercilessly defends them.) 

And then there’s that damn roughstone voice of his—

“Look at me,” he’d said, after the damage had been done. 

Ordered, it felt more like, though he was pleading. You’re surprised at how swift you’d paid automatic heed to the gravel-deep tone of his voice, riding that razor edge of unraveling concern and blistering anger. 

Well within reason, ofcourse: Abbot’s SWAT unit had been deployed on a gang-violence case. When the storm of a shootout had passed, and they’d ended up having to wheel in one of their own officers to PTMC’s Emergency Department alongside one of said criminal thugs in tow, you’d been the closest medical staff to get caught in the crossfire.

A tattooed blur reaching up from the gurney. A yelp as your hair is yanked down in a fit of blind rage. 

And then—

And then.

A pistol materialises, barrel pressed right between his eyes. 

“Go ahead,” Abbot snarls, an inch from pulling the trigger. “Give me a fucking reason.”

(He doesn’t open fire, of course. That would’ve been ridiculous. Not to mention a mountain of paperwork.)

And so the jarring chiaroscuro that was Jack Abbot appeared in South-22: Nonchalant then, in the way he’d cradled your face to assess you, in the way his fingers tucked a strand behind your ear as if they hadn’t been the same ones carrying a lethal weapon.

You okay? he’d murmured, voice that gravelly undertone that always makes you shudder. 

M’fine, you’d nodded, unable to stop openly admiring him in that dizzying uniform: all camo and tactical and trim, the muted colours working in his favour to bring out the bright of his eyes.

What is it, sweetheart? he’d frowned, shrewd as always. 

You swallowed. Shook your head. If he’d caught your there-and-away glance to his lips, he didn’t seem to comment. 

I’m gonna get back to work, you’d dismissed. It’s nothing, Jack.  

But—

“It’s not nothing,” he brings up, later that night. “This is very much not nothing, sweetheart.”

Straddled at the living room couch under the warm weight of you, Abbot has to physically slide his hands up from your hips and shackle your wrists away from his face. Done, ofcourse, with an alarmingly easy grip. (You file that thought away for later.)

Abbot looks handsome when frazzled like this, you think privately to yourself. A flush that's blossoming up from his chest, climbing his neck and rosing across the bridge of his nose. Even the tips of his ears have gone a distinct pink from your incessant kisses and constant grinding against his lap.

He hisses; lungs expanding, eyes screwing shut when you deliberately attempt to adjust your hips.

“Baby,” he breathes, pupils blown wide half in yen and in pleasant confusion. “What is up with you tonight?”

You ignore him. Waylay him into another bruising kiss instead. Drive your hips down coyly into his camo pants again, enough it makes him groan gutturally into your mouth at the friction of it all— 

Although it doesn’t appear to work: Abbot’s a disciplined man; he wouldn’t have made a good and dutiful soldier if he wasn’t. 

Instead he dodges the next kiss you give him, where it lands on the corner of his lips, much to your chagrin and his childish amusement, and he levels you with that discerning look.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. (Orders, it still feels like. Gruff and demanding. It makes you giddy. He can order you around to do whatever he wishes and you’d gladly—)

“Nothing,” you finally relent. Thumb at his cheek. Trace the slope of his lips down to his stubbled chin. “It’s just…”

Your hands drop to his chest, then further to the hem of his black shirt, where it’s come untucked at the waistline of his cargo pants.

Not once does he break eye-contact with you, and it’s then he reckons something in them.

“Is it my— Is the uniform doing it for you?” he pieces, laughter threading into his words. “It is, isn’t it? That’s why you were looking at me weird earlier. Why you practically jumped my bones when I walked through our front door—”

Heat floods to your face. You wrinkle your nose at him. “Don’t act like you didn’t know,” you scowl, letting him off the hook with that last statement: You had, in fact, practically gravitated and clung to him like a magnet when he’d come home wearing those lethal half-camo-half-civvies combination that hug him in all the right places. 

“I really didn’t,” he swears, unable to stop dimpling at you. And then: “Wow. You’re so easy.”

You scoff out an affronted Excuse me? Let out a stunned laugh as you swat him on the bicep at the boyish sense of pride blooming across his face. 

“I should’ve realised,” he sing-songs, catching your next smack with ease and pretending to nip at your fingertips in defense. “You like me in fatigues. I can’t believe it. You like a military man, huh?”

“I like you,” you correct, pulling your hands back to lay it on his sternum, feel the humdrum of his heartbeat under the broad of his muscles. “…But me pouncing you isn’t just because of that.”

“Oh?” he says, and like an intrigued bird, preens once again. You groan. Bow your head at the obvious delight in his face.

All he does is laugh and tuck the tresses of hair that’s slid along with your downturned gaze. Try to chase your eyes like he always does. You pick at the seam on his collar, a non-existent piece of lint— Just something to buy yourself time while you string your thoughts into something coherent. 

There’s that palpable sense in the space between— the tension you’d get when you feel somebody about to confess something; show you the chink in their proverbial armour, or offer you a plate of their beating heart. 

You’re… nervous, he realises. Sheepish about— 

His brows shoot to his hairline.

“Oh,” he says. Recognises it now: A yelp. A pistol. A threat. 

He lets out a wheeze. Doesn’t even try to hold it this time.

“Alright. I’m ordering dinner,” you deadpan, already climbing off him, where he instantly chimes in with a grasp on your wrist and a half-hearted series of No, no, no! I’m not laughing at you, honey, I promise. C’mere, baby, please—?

Abbot pulls you back in for a fervent kiss. Deep and meaningful as he breathes the scent of you in. Sorry, it translates, playful. I’m sorry. 

“I just…” His eyes squint after, head doing that endearing, fidgety turn and tilt it always does when he talks. “What is it exactly about what I did that turns you on?”

“Oh, now you’re just fishing for compliments,” you snort, twirling a rowdy curl at his nape when he lets out another weak laugh.

“The safety wasn’t even flipped, honey,” he explains, forming an imaginary pistol with his fingers to demonstrate the mechanism. “Hammer never dropped. The gun wouldn’t’ve went off.”

But you shrug anyway, run your nails down his scalp just the way he likes, carving through the salt-and-pepper of his hair as he hums. 

“It’s the thought that counts?” you offer, inadequate. “I… genuinely don’t know what exactly it was, if I’m being honest. Maybe it’s ’cause you were a total badass,” you muse, ignoring yet another laugh from him. “Maybe it’s the way you spoke to him.”

He breaks into a knowing smile. Voice tinged with amusement and something wry. “Oh, you like me a little mean, hm?” 

You laugh, caught. Pinch at his skin in comic retaliation. He doesn’t budge at all, like the tough-as-nails man he is; just stares at you with that hazy, affectionate gaze.

A slow beat passes as you reckon with your thoughts.

“I guess it’s just nice to be protected,” you say at last, the gentlest he’s ever heard. “Nice to feel invincible, y’know?”

Abbot falls quiet at that, blindsided.

Safe, he realises. He makes you feel safe.

Something abrupt tides over him. An impossible urge. An overwhelming desire to kiss and embrace and surround you. To tuck and fold you past his ribcage and into his weathered heart, forever sheltered in the home that is his arms—

“I love you, you know that?” he says, and he finds his voice is mellowed down now. Low, soft. An ocean-in-a-shell whisper when he says your name.

“Jack,” you exhale, a butterfly-wing breath. Abbot etches the divine sight of your smile into his mind. Thinks he could drown in the affection of your voice alone— Would gladly allow it. “I love you too.”

When you dip down to kiss him it's like lighting a wick aflame. The quickfire spark of a flintwheel. Then he’s nosing down and down, mouthing from the seam of your lips to your jaw, your pulsepoint, your collar, your bare shoulder. He’ll mark you up later, he thinks, right now he just wants to feel every inch of you.

Abbot caresses up your arms, pulls your left hand from his cheek to turn it over. And then he’s pressing his lips upon your palm up to your fingertips— a reverent kiss. Like you’re his holy artifact; a Saint’s relic to worship.

“Chivalrous,” you muse mindlessly, tracing down the dent of his cheek, the stippled line across his jaw. You can feel your heart swell. Feel his hands snaking up your skin beneath your shirt— his shirt, actually— that swallows you whole, loose and already slipping one shoulder.

“I threatened to kill a man,” he points out incredulously, voice dropped in that whispery octave again; smoky, dark.

Exactly, you don’t reply, feeling that excitable buzz through your spine once more at the vivid memory: bright blood and gleaming gunmetal; the predatorial growl in his voice and the dangerous expression on his face. Go ahead. Give me a fucking reason.

“For me,” you add, purring against his lips, breath damp and curling with his. You give him a kiss chaste enough that it has him craning closer for more. “You did it for me.”

Then your hands wander, up neath the cotton of his shirt and down his smoldering skin, slow and steady, until they settle at the flesh of his navel; until your manicured nails catch on the buttons of his camo pants. “So let me do something for you.”

Baby, he chokes back, half-desperate already. You press a bruising, saccharine kiss to lean him back as you work him free, revelling in the shudder of his battleworn body when the zipper sings through the air, and you take your time to reach into his waistband to wrap your fingers around the thick of him. 

It’s hot and heavy when you tug his cock out.

“S’for you,” you murmur, sinking to your knees now, between the gaps of his legs. 

He watches you rapt with attention when you lean a cheek into the camo, goosebumps lining his skin at the sight of you— doe-eyed and looking like you’re right where you want to be as a flash of your wet tongue makes itself known.

The breach of his swollen, leaky head into your mouth is divine. 

It doesn’t take very long before his hand is fisting your hair with barely concealed restraint. It’s messy, this time. Forgoing his usual reflex to bunch it into a ponytail for your own ease. (Oh, you hear his dry, biting sarcasm ring in your head, you like me a little mean, hm?) The other sits splayed on the gap between your shoulder blades, running the pads of his fingers up your nape.

“Ja— mh,” you choke, feeling the tip of him reach the back of your throat already. His hips are shifting up from the sofa to meet your insistent pace. Be a little harsher, you want to say, but you’re intoxicated with the scent and taste of him. Nose buried at his happy trail every time you bottom out and scrape your nails against his tense thighs.

You’re practically salivating over his cock and dampening the fly of his pants. He tastes like skin and something masculine. Smells like heady sweat and gunpowder. 

You’re dizzy with delight everytime he curses; everytime he croons. Watching each ripple of his forearms, sinews of muscles flexing under freckled skin as he braces himself from going too far—

“Eyes on me, honey,” Abbot rasps. Orders. There are jittering phosphenes in your peripherals when you meet his gaze, his eyes shadowed into something dark from the angle of the dim light above him. It sends a buzz through you. Forces a wanton, strangled sound from your throat that has him twitching excitedly in your mouth. “God, yeah. That’s it, baby.” 

It’s a touch condescending. Dangerous. That same, clinical way he gets as a senior mentoring his juniors, or in his gaze whenever he’s observing something in a patient; diagnosing. 

“You wanted mean,” he repeats, carefully. Making sure you’re registering each word. “Sweetheart. Want me to use you?”

(Courteous, still. Ensuring. May I? he seems to ask. A gentleman’s instinct.)

He’s pulling you apart from his cock the next second. Abrupt enough you’re gasping for air with a sickening pop of your lips, reflexively swallowing around the invisible shape he’s molded into your throat. A string of saliva connects; sloppy. It makes a frisson run through Abbot at the lewd sight. Answer me. 

“Yes,” you whisper to his question. Then, before the synapses in your brain could fire upon realisation: “Yes, Sir.”

Abbot slams his eyes shut. “Fuck.” Lets out a strained breath of a laugh. “Jesus, woman,” he exhales, flickering back to where your lithe fingers are mindlessly rolling and flexing over the hard length of him: slow strokes, a squeeze, a shy kitten-lick. 

He’d heard the title before, ofcourse. Sir. In his military days and tactical briefings during his moonlighting with SWAT teams, where rank and hierarchy is commonplace and acknowledged without question. A routine structure that never leaves those walls— 

Until now, at least. And even then formalities have never been a thing between you both, neither in the ED. It’s a collaborative affair when someone’s life is on the line— So hearing it now in the walls of home, so eager and so absentmindedly said, hits him square in the chest more than he’d like to admit. 

(On your knees, you look smaller like this: docile. Submissive; easier to handle, to bend into will or obedience. 

It makes him feel— powerful.)

“Go ahead, then,” he says, with newfound clarity and lust-filled amusement. He rakes his nails down your scalp, sets a demanding palm. “Be good for me.”

In no time, he’s forcing his cock past the seal of your lips. It’s wet and messy as you struggle to take the stiff length of him down in one go once more, muffled tiny sounds escaping you in lewd little hums and Mh, mh, mh— when he bobs you further down; makes you take him just that inch more.

Each rise and fall of your head is controlled by his clutch. He doesn’t let you pull back at times now— a new game— testing how long you can hold it before you’re tapping at his thighs, heart skittering in alarm— and even then he dares to tarry a second or two longer just for his own pleasure.

“Deeper, baby. You can do it,” he’d soothe, thumbing away the drool leaking from your lips. “Yeah? Fuck. You feel so good.”

The praises shoot liquid pleasure down your spine; makes you rub your thighs as you whine. Every grunt he makes is a compliment; every twitch and buck of his hips a trophy; every sharp hiss and muttering curse a jewel to your crown.

“Maybe I’ll fuck you in uniform,” he pants, when he eventually yanks you from his cock for a moment’s reprieve. His hand slides down from your scalp to press at both your cheeks, watching the slick dribble to your chin when he taps his thumb expectantly on your wet lips. “S’that what you want, honey?”

Unbidden, the image of Abbot half-feral as he fucks you brutally from behind flashes in your head. He’d command you strip naked for him, you imagine, and perhaps he’d use you for his own personal pleasure, still decked in that olive quarter-zip and taking, claiming, imposing himself onto you by burying his cock in you.

You imagine the sound of his belt— carrying his sidearms— divested and landing on the floor, his camo pants hurriedly unzipped just enough to pull his cock out while he climbs right into you with no prep; the full weight of his chest pressing down onto you from behind so you couldn’t squirm; couldn’t break free from the bicep he’d curl flush around your neck while he bit marks down the hollow of your throat, groaning into your ear as he c—

You whimper. It’s a pathetic sound; begging to be used. Humiliation burns your cheeks. “Yes.”

Abbot’s brows climb. Grip tightens in rumbling disapproval.

“—Sir,” you tag at the last second, gut seizing in half-fear and half-thrill at how quickly he’s already taken to this powerplay. “Yes, Sir.”

“There we go,” he coos, throbbing at how ready you are to heed. He bites his lip, curled at the edges with something akin to a daze and pure enamourment. He’d never have expected this from you— let alone himself. 

The gunpoint confrontation he’d had today with that patient had barely registered as anything remarkable to him. The dizzying cocktail of power and command over anyone, in fact, has never been something he’d given thought to. Sure, it’s satisfying to be feared, and above all out of respect— but it’d been nothing but a job to him. An instinct to move; to make sure no one in the Pitt is hurt.

But today, with the quiet surge of authority that comes with donning his fatigues— an unconscious, private sense of gratification and pride has him intoxicated at how you seem to defer to his competence, to his demands. Especially now, with how quickly you’d dropped to your knees for him in pure admiration, so eager to deign to his unspoken wishes and serve him just because he threatened a man while in uniform—

“You’ve got a job to do first, sweetheart,” he murmurs, meeting the excited glint in your teary eyes. “Finish what you started.”

He brackets your face with the palms of his hands and puts you back to work. Prespend drips down your chin as he feeds himself back down your throat, feels the slip and curl of your tongue as it slides over the veins of his cock. “Hah, f—uck,” he bites out, “Yeah. Attagirl. Attagirl.”

His pace is self-indulgent and cruel. Demanding; just how you’d pleaded it. Sinful approval tumbles from his mouth at how You take me so well, baby, you can do it. You can take it, can’t you? You wanted this, so I’ll give it. Just be a good girl and fuck, take it— a jumbled concoction of praises and condescending quips that has your mind spinning with both embarrassment and appetite.

His grasp turns into a vice as the minutes pass. Coiling around the sides of your face as he anchors you. He smothers and sinks you lower at each hard pump of your mouth around him, thumbing at a stray tear with a huff of a laugh. Spoiling himself with this fantasy of yours; with every gagging whine you make.

“C’mon now,” he husks, sounding breathless. “Almost there, pretty girl. Doing so good.”

You’re carving crescents into his thighs. Lungs searing at the mild hypoxia. An aching heat pooling south beneath you. His brows are pinched into an irritated divot when he allows you up for an obligated sliver of a breath, before fitting himself back into your mouth to fuck your throat into completion. 

Greedy, you think, completely delirious and candidly blissed out from the flattery and the sight of Abbot this way: eyes struggling not to roll as his head lulls from the utter euphoria coursing through his veins. You like him greedy and selfish and mean. 

That innate soldier that he can never shake from the doctor in him, appearing sporadically in flashes over days with combative patients or browbeating visitors. That effortlessly commands a room by sheer militant presence, that doesn’t take no for an answer, that can still be as deadly weaponless and with his own bare hands.

“Baby,” he warns coarsely, memorising the delicious glide of your tongue around his cock. He bites his lip and fights the urge to throw his head back onto the couch. “M’close. So close, sweetheart.”

It’s flattering to hear; to feel. Seeing Abbot looming above you like an eclipse, in complete control over your breathing, yet visibly struggling with effort as you slide your hands up from his thighs to his navel and to his hips; using it as grip to sink yourself deeper and deeper— Fuck, baby, he slurs. You’re so good to me. So fucking good—

“I’m gonna come,” he pants, breath hitching. It’s a primal sound, and for a moment you think he’ll finish in your mouth, paint you thick with him. “Yeah, fuck. M’gonna come—”

But he loosens his grip instead, lets you gasp for air as he pulls out and rests his cock on the tip of your tongue. It’s swollen; An angry, aching red. Fit to burst.

What was it you’d called this earlier? A gentleman’s instinct. Your own Prince Charming. That despite the ironclad hold avarice has over his self, he still courteously thinks of and puts you first; Still can rein in his wild desire and dial in the discipline, prioritise graciousness: 

“Where d’you want me, honey?” he whispers.

Abbot, before he is a deadly man, is a good man.

“I wanna, I—” you fluster, throat raw from overuse as your tunnel vision attempts to re-widen with the burst of oxygen. “Inside. Wanna swallow you. Please.”

Jesus fucking Christ, he doesn’t say, but it’s written in his face. “Yeah?” he assents, twitching in anticipation as he pets at the crown of your head. “Yeah. Don’t have to beg, baby. I’ll give it.”

“I’ll take it,” you nod feverishly, canting your head back into his grip again. His hands ease to your nape, and you let out a moan at the slow tightening curl of his fingers. “I’ll take all of it, Sir.”

His gaze is treacherous as he guides your mouth to his cock again. “Damn right you will.”

The approval makes your head swim. A decree. No room for mistakes or failure. You’ll take what he gives and ten more should he demand it. 

The strangled noises you make in your attempt to appeal to him— gags, mewls, coughs— makes him throb. Stifled moans that vibrate down his cock and knots in his groin. Deriving a depraved pleasure from your troubles to take him to the hilt. (Too big, you’d complained to him once, when he’d stuffed your cunt full of him. You’re so fucking big, Jack—)

The head of his cock grinds the back of your throat. He’s pulsing like a heartbeat. Ready to pump you to the brim. It’s driving Abbot mad how close he is, yet how much longer he wants to prolong this perpetual ecstasy.

“Oh, fuck,” he curses, rutting harder into you. Your name sounds like gospel as he chants it. Borderline a snarl. “I’m gonna come, honey,” he warns. “Y’gonna take it all, hm? Be a good— hah, fuck— be a good girl.”

Please, you keen. Letting him use your mouth recklessly to chase his high, hand at the back of your skull as he shoves you down to meet his thrusts: In. Out. In. Out. It’s delicious. It’s delicious, and you’re just as starved for his cum as he is for the wet, hot seal of your mouth to milk him clean.

“Yeah, I’m—” he stumbles, senseless. Too occupied with keeping you firmly suffocated around him. With the echoing squeak of the couch and the sickly-sweet sounds he’s pulling from your taut lips. “Fuck, sweetheart— Ah—”

It’s white-hot when he comes. Hips flexing. A flood of pure, unadulterated bliss. Suckling him down to the root, cheeks hollowed and nose nestled to the bed of curls led by his happy trail. 

Ropes of his thick cum streak your tongue and throat in rapid bursts, sudden enough it makes you lurch from your gag reflex, makes your back jump and arch instinctively under his domineering grip. Stay still, he means to say, coming out as a grunt. Quit fussing.

Abbot can imagine it as well as you can taste the molten spill of him. Feels the muscles in your throat twitching violently as you work him through it. Picturing the pearlescent mixture dripping down, down, down your pharynx like sin; a mark that brands you as his from the inside out. 

Your chokes are precious. Has him growling out incoherently as he continues to drain all of himself into you in spurts. “Ohh, good girl,” he sighs, looking down at the heavenly sight:

Fanned lashes fluttering. Maintaining that erotic eye-contact the way he likes. Dazed with halcyon and eros at the way he’s filled your mouth impossibly to the brim. He ought to burn this image of you into his brain forever.

Mmph, you hum, jaw aching from the sheer size of him; from the absolute work out he’d just dragged you through. When you pull away with a lingering kiss on his cock, he watches you, captivated; Unhinging just enough to show him the pool of white cum in your mouth, and then, as if coveting it— 

You swallow. Sticky. Tangy. Clicks as it goes down your throat.

“Attagirl,” Abbot drawls, brushing his knuckles at your cheek with tender affection. Collecting the tears rolling down them as a slow minute passes. “Did as I asked. So good. You’re so good, you know that?”

The blatant adoration sits fuzzy in your heart. Warmth settling in your ribcage and comfortably making a home there. You’re suddenly longing to be held— to feel what you felt when he’d propped that gun to the man’s forehead. Safe, you recall. You’ve done the job, after all, haven’t you?

Abbot reads your mind just as intuitively. Knows you better than anyone. 

“C’mon, pretty girl. Up,” he orders, without the bite now; without the rough tone and the manhandling. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

It’s soft. The fantastical image of him being some beastly, unforgiving thing— slows to a crawl and fades away at his behest. He slides his palms to your shoulders and gently helps you up onto his lap, folds you into his arms where he devours you into a doting, winsome kiss, before he lays your head to rest on his collar.

He presses his lips to the crown of your head. Let’s you square your breathing back into reality as his own tachy heart begins to slow in tandem with yours.

“Alright?” he soothes, when the moment passes. He’s tucked you into a cradle-like embrace— shelter, you feel, surrounded by nothing but him and only him— his one hand still busy with smoothing out the uneven tangles he’s made in your hair. 

“Mhm,” is all you muster for now. Unduly spent and satisfied to speak. Basking in the aftermath of sex; melting in his delicate aftercare.

“Too rough?” Abbot asks, the concern he’d tamped down earlier now beginning to surface. He cranes to meet your sleepy gaze; the only way he’d truly be able to discern whether you’re telling him the truth. “You listening, honey?”

That’s impossible, you could never hurt me, you want to say, but settle on a less-taxing: “No, I enjoyed it,” and shake your head, giving him a content smile as you nudge your forehead at his chin. “Just give me a minute before the next round.”

He lets out an exasperated laugh. Bumps his nose to yours. “You’re crazy,” he teases, meeting your lips in another fond kiss: chaste but deep, meaningful. Sits in his marrows like candied honey. “Can we at least have dinner first, sweetheart?”

“Old man needs his sustenance?” you jest, letting out a yelp when he pokes at your waist and burrows his face into your neck to nip playfully. “Okay! Okay. Dinner first, Jack.”

“Then you can have me any way you want,” he agrees, thumbing a stray strand from your face. Painfully domestic, he muses, for what’s just occurred between you two.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you narrow. But he lets out an amused snort in reply.

“You like when I threaten people, baby. You just proved that about five minutes ago with the most intense blowjob I’ve ev—”

“Dinner!” you override, face aflame once more as you smack a hand over his mouth. “Hungry. Let’s?”