the boy who: • beat Pope bloody • choked Kie without hesitation • pulled the trigger on Peterkin
…now makes you coffee in the morning. you were sure that he was healed now, twenty four looked softer on him than nineteen ever had. you saw composure, restraint, growth.
you remembered the stories before you knew the man. how a single decision ended the Sheriff’s life , a crack of a gunshot that never really stopped echoing- and still let him touch you.
he, now, does so many gentle things…like affection comes naturally to him. sometimes you almost believe it does, sometimes. absent kisses to your shoulders, holds doors, remembers how you like your coffee. but history clings to him, and that doesn’t disappear, it just waits to be let out.
even tho he’s absurdly gentle with you, the unsettling part isn’t his temper anymore, it’s how controlled he is now.
“i told you to not fucking do that anymore, didn’t i?” he raises his voice at you, for the hundredth time tonight
you flinch before you can stop yourself.
rafe’s pacing now back and forth across the living room, hands dragging over his buzzed hair, breath uneven. his face is flushed, ears red, that familiar heat crawling up his neck the way it does when something inside him finally slips loose.
“you think i don’t see it?” he snaps. “standing there laughing with him touching his arm like that?”
“rafe, i wasn’t—” you try.
“don’t” his hand cuts through the air. “don’t you fucking lie to me.”
the words hit harder than the volume. you feel them settle somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and humiliating. tears blur your vision before you even realize they’ve started. it had been nothing. a coworker walking you to your car. a joke after a long shift. normal things. harmless things
but normal doesn’t exist where rafe is concerned.
he stops pacing suddenly, turning toward you like he’s just remembered you’re the center of all this anger.
“you know how people look at you,” he says, quieter now which somehow makes it worse “you know what they want.”
his jaw tightens “and you just… smile at them anyway.”
your throat burns. “i was just being nice”
rafe laughs “yeah. yeah, that’s the fucking problem.” he steps closer “you’re always nice. too nice. acting like people don’t have intentions.”
you back up instinctively until the couch hits behind your knees.
his voice rises again, frustration spilling over. “do you even think sometimes? or do you just like the attention? huh?” his hands gesture wildly now. “you like making me look stupid?”
the accusation breaks something inside you “i wasn’t trying to—”
“you never try, that’s the point!” he interrupts, running a hand over his mouth, breathing hard “you just do whatever you want and expect me to be okay with it.”
tears slip freely noe. you hate crying in front of him. hate how small it makes you feel
for a moment he keeps going — muttering under his breath, pacing again, anger searching for somewhere to land. words spilling out rough and careless.
“fuckin’ clueless sometimes… swear to god—
then he looks at you properly, really looks, annd stops.
your shoulders are curled inward, eyes glassy, trying not to sob out loud. hands twisted together like you’re bracing for impact that never comes.
the silence stretches. rafe exhales sharply, like the anger drains all at once
“shit,” he mutters.
he crosses the distance fast this time, hands coming up to cradle your face before you can pull away. his grip is firm — almost desperate — thumbs brushing under your eyes, catching tears as they fall.
“hey… hey.” his voice drops, rougher now, shaken“don’t cry. c’mon.”
you turn your face slightly, hurt still fresh, but he follows immediately, forehead pressing against yours.
“i just—” he swallows hard. “i hate when people look at you like that.”
another tear slips free.
his expression twists, anger turning inward “you don’t get it,” he murmurs, softer. “you don’t see what i see.”
his mouth presses to your cheek, then beneath your eye, kissing away the wetness with surprising gentleness. slow, apologetic touches replacing every harsh word from moments before.
again. and again.
“mine,” he whispers against your skin, barely audible
his hands slide to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your breathing matches his.
the intensity doesn’t disappear. it never does. just changes shape.
as if the yelling wasn’t the frightening part.
as if this quiet devotion —the way his anger folds instantly into tenderness is what truly keeps you rooted beside hi
his lips brush your temple one last time.
“i just need you to be careful,” he murmurs
and you realize he means careful of everyone else. never him.
his thumb is still resting beneath your eye when you pull back. ust enough to breathe, just enough to look at him clearly.
rafe frowns immediately, sensing the shift before you even speak — that instinct he has, the one that notices distance like a threat
“what?” he asks quietly.
you shake your head, wiping the rest of your tears yourself this time. his hand lingers in the air for a second before falling uselessly to his side.
the apartment feels smaller now. heavier.
“i’m tired, rafe.”
he exhales through his nose. “yeah, well, join the—”
“no.” your voice cracks, but you don’t stop.“not tired like that.”
he goes still.
you laugh weakly, shaking your head again, because suddenly everything feels ridiculous —the yelling, the apologies, the way he breaks you down just to hold you together again.
“i’m tired of this,” you say. “of us.”
his expression hardens instantly. defense snapping into place “what’s that supposed to mean?”
you gesture vaguely between you. “this back and forth. you screaming at me one minute and acting like i’m the only thing keeping you alive the next.”
his jaw ticks “don’t exaggerate.”
“i’m not.” your voice rises now, frustration finally catching fire. “we’re not even together, rafe.”
that lands. you see it. small recoil — almost invisible —but real.
“we spend every night together,” he says, slower now. careful “you’ve basically moved in.”
“that’s not the same thing”
he scoffs“sounds pretty fuckin’ official to me.”
“it’s not!” you snap “because when people ask what we are, you go quiet. when someone calls me your girlfriend, you change the subject.”
silence.
you swallow hard, forcing the words out anyway. “i’m twenty-four,” you say, softer now “not eighteen. i don’t want… whatever this is anymore. i want something real. stable. something that doesn’t make me feel like i’m constantly doing something wrong.”
rafe stares at you like you’ve just spoken another language
his hands settle on his hips, pacing once again — slower this time, agitation simmering instead of exploding
“so what,” he mutters. “this is about labels now?”
it hurts how casually he says it.
“it’s about feeling secure,” you reply. “it’s about not wondering every time you get mad if you’re just gonna disappear on me again.”
he stops walking. his back faces you.
“i don’t disappear.”
you laugh bitterly. “you shut down for days, rafe. you act like i don’t exist until you decide you need me again.”
his shoulders tense, the truth always makes him meaner
“you think this is easy for me?” he turns suddenly, voice rising “you think i just wake up knowing how to do this shit?”
“then talk to me!”
“i am talking!”
“no — you’re controlling!” the word slips out before you can soften it.
wrong move.
his expression changes instantly. hurt folding into anger so fast it makes your stomach drop.
“controlling?” he repeats, incredulous “because i don’t like some dude eye-fucking you at work?”
“because you treat me like i belong to you when you won’t even call me yours!”
the words echo.too loud. too honest.
rafe’s breathing turns uneven, chest rising and falling as something deeper surfaces not rage exactly. fear wearing anger’s face.
“you are mine,” he says finally, quieter. it isn’t romantic.
you shake your head. “see? that’s exactly it.”
he steps closer, slow, cautious now, like approaching a deer “you don’t get it,” he murmurs “i don’t… do relationships like normal people.”
“then what am i doing here?” your voice breaks. “waiting until you decide i’m worth claiming?”
his face twists “that’s not—”
“i need more than stolen mornings and fights that end with you kissing me ot fucking me like you’re sorry,” you whisper. “i need consistency. i need to know you’re choosing me —not just keeping me close because you’re scared to lose me.”
the room goes painfully quiet.
rafe looks at you like he’s standing at the edge of something he doesn’t know how to cross.
his hands come up again, slower this time, resting carefully on your waist. not trapping. holding.
“you think i don’t choose you?” he asks, voice rough.
you don’t answer. because choosing shouldn’t hurt this much.
his forehead drops against yours, breath shaky now — stripped of arrogance, stripped of control.
“you know what happens when i let people get too close,” he murmurs. “you know what i’ve done.”
the unspoken hangs between you. peterkin. the gunshot. everything after. everything before
his grip tightens slightly “i’m trying,” he says. “with you… i’m actually trying.”
and suddenly he sounds younger. not nineteen — but not healed either, just terrified.
his nose brushes yours, eyes searching your face like he’s afraid you’re already halfway gone.
“how deep do you want this to go, huh?” he whispers“because when i love someone…”
his voice falters.
danger flickers there again. devotion sharpened into something consuming “…i don’t know how to do it halfway. healthy”
his lips press against yours — not desperate, not angry — but heavy. lingering. like confession instead of apology.
and you realize the real problem isn’t that rafe refuses to love you.
it’s that loving you, for him, has never meant safety. only depth. only obsession
18+ mdni! extra angst, extremely devastating??? language, mentions of blood, situationships suck, kinda pathetic reader
you loved him in the ways that never leave a mark, and still, you are the one bleeding.
it’s late enough so the world feels emptied out, like everyone else has gone home and left you behind in a room that no longer belongs to you. the air is stale, heavy. rafe sits on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, spine curved inward like he’s trying to disappear inside himself. the light slipping through the blinds cuts him into pieces—an arm, a shoulder, the edge of his jaw—nothing whole enough to hold.
you’re on the floor in front of him and not because he told you to be. because this is where you end up when he comes back like this. broken hands. unfocused eyes. that hollow, distant gaze that means he’s already halfway gone again.
there’s a bowl of water by your knee, gone faintly pinkish; you press the cotton to his knuckles: gentle, precise, the way you have learned to be. you don’t ask questions, you know better by now
his eyes drift over you without even settling, just like he’s looking through glass. and you wonder, not for the first time, if this is how he sees you too–something useful that doesn’t demand to be noticed.
you finish cleaning his knuckles when you suddenly stop, your fingers hovering,unsure what to do next. there’s always a small, fragile space where you could ask him to stay,to choose…to name whatever this is. you never take it
because you already know how this ends: you nodding, him pulling you in his lap, with the relief of not being rejected outright.
so yes, loving rafe, has taught you that sometimes survival looks like silence.
when he finally looks at you, eyes glassy and unreadable, his hands find your waist. not rough but not gentle, just enough to claim. he pulls you up besides him and you go, so easily, folding into his side like you’ve practiced this shape for years
his heartbeat is fast against your ear. still, you count it; counting feels like control, like you still get him. like you ever did.
three years of this and you still don’t know what to call yourself. not his girlfriend, not nothing tho, just something that belongs to him when he needs it.
you start thinking about the way he introduces you–if he introduces you at all– about the pause before he speaks, about the words he chooses because they cost him nothing. “you’re my girl” like that should be enough to keep you there
truth is, you’ve bent yourself–without him asking–into something easy to hold, something that doesn’t want change or improvement. you’ve lied to yourself that love doesn’t need a name, doesn’t need daylight, doesn’t need witnesses. doesn’t need proof… but lying here you realize that you’ve done everything for him that doesn’t require him to do anything back. you close your eyes and stay still, afraid that if you move even a little he will realize you’re there and perhaps leave. and him leaving and realizing that you are you would hurt more than being alone
five months later and the ache hasn’t softened, but its quiet inside you now. you broke it off with rafe after that night. not dramatically, not in a final, cinematic confession that would be with him forever–you just told him you were done.
he said your name once like it was supposed to change something, to pull you back. it didn’t. you left him and didn’t talk to him after that. not even when he texted a vague “you okay?”, not when he called late at night.
that felt like watching someone else do something brave in a movie. and you didn’t exactly get better but, at least your not a stupid bitch anymore.
you go to work now, ou come home. you make dinner for one and eat it standing up half the time because sitting down reminds you too much of shared space. you sleep on one side of the bed even though there’s no reason to anymore. habits outlive people.
some nights you lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying that last conversation—not because you regret it, but because you keep waiting for the part where it suddenly hurts less it never does.
your friend say you’re doing better. they say it like it’s a fact, like they can measure healing by how often you go out or how rarely you bring him up. they say you look lighter. freer. they say they’re proud of you for finally choosing yourself.
you smile, ou nod. you don’t tell them that choosing yourself doesn’t feel like winning—it feels like surviving a shipwreck and washing up on shore alone, shaking, staring out at the water where everything you loved sank.
you don’t miss the chaos. you don’t miss the way your stomach used to twist every time your phone buzzed. you don’t miss the nights you spent cleaning blood off his hands or waiting for the sound of his car in the driveway or wondering if this time he’d gone too far to come back. you don’t miss the way your love felt like a resource he could drain endlessly without ever asking how much you had left.
but you miss him in ways that don’t make sense. you miss the version of him that only existed in small, private moments—the one who laughed softly into your neck, who let his guard down just enough to feel human, who looked at you like you were the only steady thing in a world that scared him. you miss the intimacy of being needed, even when that need was built on something broken.
you hate yourself a little for that. five months later, you still catch yourself translating your life into a language he would understand.
you still think he’d like this song when it comes on the radio. still instinctively glance at your phone when something goes wrong, wanting to tell him before you remember he’s no longer someone you can lean on. still wonder, sometimes, if he ever realized what he lost—or if losing you felt like just another inconvenience in a life full of them.
there are nights you dream about him.
not dramatic dreams. not fights or reconciliations or grand gestures. just ordinary ones. you’re sitting together on a couch. you’re brushing your teeth side by side. he says your name. you wake up with your heart pounding, grief settling in your throat before your eyes even open.
you don’t cry like you used to.
the tears dried up somewhere along the way, replaced by a constant pressure that never quite lifts. it’s not the devastation of heartbreak anymore—it’s like carrying a weight you’ve learned not to talk about because no one wants to hear how long it’s been.
five months feels like too long to still be hurting this much.
you replay that last night often—the way you knelt in front of him, the way you cleaned his hands, the way you folded yourself into him like you belonged there. you see yourself now and feel a complicated mix of tenderness and anger.
you want to reach back through time and shake yourself. ou want to tell her she deserved more. you want to tell her that love shouldn’t feel like erasing yourself slowly and calling it devotion.
but you also understand her. she loved him in the only way she knew how. fully. recklessly. without a safety net. she believed that if she gave enough, if she stayed long enough, if she proved herself indispensable, eventually he would choose her.
that belief doesn’t disappear overnight. it lingers. it asks dangerous questions when you’re lonely.
what if you left too soon? what if he was finally going to change? what if you were the problem for wanting more?
you’re learning how to argue back.imperfectly. some days you win. some days you don’t.
five months later, you’ve started noticing the space where he used to be. it’s uncomfortable, but it’s yours now. you make decisions without checking how they’ll affect him. you say no without explaining yourself. you let yourself want things again—small things at first. a quiet morning. a stable night. a relationship that doesn’t feel like a test you keep failing.
you’re still lonely. loneliness is honest about what it is. it doesn’t pretend to be love.
sometimes you wonder what he tells people now. if he tells them you left. if he says it was mutual. if he shrugs and says it just didn’t work out.
you wonder if he ever tells the truth—that there was someone who loved him deeply and left because loving him was slowly killing her
five months later, you’re not healed. but you’re awake; you’re no longer waiting for him to choose you, you’re no longer shrinking yourself to fit inside someone else’s chaos, you’re no longer confusing endurance with love.
ome nights, that feels like freedom. other nights, it feels like grief with better posture.
you stand in your small kitchen, late at night, washing a single glass. the water runs too hot. the window is cracked open and the city hums outside, indifferent and alive. you catch your reflection in the dark glass—tired eyes, steadier hands, a face that looks older in a way that feels earned.
you think about how much you gave. how much it cost you, how brave it was to finally stop.
you didn’t get better. but you got out.
months after you left, the loneliness finally finds him.
not all at once. it doesn’t hit him the way consequences usually do—loud, explosive, undeniable. it settles into him slowly, like damp creeping into walls he swore were solid. two months after you’re gone, something in his life goes wrong in a way that should be familiar, and for the first time, there is no you to absorb the impact.
that’s when it starts.
it’s a thursday. nothing special about it. the kind of day that used to end with him at your place without planning to be there. the kind of night where he’d show up unannounced, knuckles split or head buzzing or chest too tight to breathe, and you’d open the door like you were waiting—even when you weren’t.
only now, there’s no door to knock on. he’s sitting alone in his truck, engine still running, phone in his hand. he doesn’t know why he drove to your old street. muscle memory, maybe. instinct. some part of him still expecting the world to arrange itself the way it always did.
your building looks different without you in it. that realization hits harder than he expects.
he scrolls through his phone without really seeing anything. your name is still there. he never deleted it. never blocked you. he told himself he wasn’t ready, that it didn’t mean anything, that you’d talk again when things cooled off.
but things didn’t cool off, they hollowed out.
he thinks about calling you. the thought comes easily. it always has. you were the easiest thing in his life. the one person who never made him explain himself, never demanded clarity he didn’t have, never asked him to be better—just present.
he doesn’t call. for the first time, it isn’t because he’s distracted or high or angry. it’s because he’s afraid you won’t answer.
that fear is new. it lodges itself somewhere deep, and it stays.
two months after you leave, he starts waking up alone in a way that feels wrong. not empty—wrong. like something is missing that was supposed to be there. he rolls over out of habit, arm reaching for warmth, for the familiar weight of you tucked into his side, quiet and patient and real.
the bed stays cold. he tells himself it’s fine. tells himself he wanted space. tells himself he never asked you to stay as long as you did. tells himself he never promised anything.
but the silence doesn’t care about logic.
the silence is brutal. it doesn’t fight him. it doesn’t scream. it just exists, unmovable, a constant reminder that someone used to be there and isn’t anymore.
you used to soften the edges of his life without him noticing. now every edge is sharp.
he starts noticing small things first. the way the apartment stays messy longer because no one quietly cleans around him. the way food goes bad in the fridge because no one thinks ahead.
the way his hands ache after a fight and there’s no bowl of warm water waiting.
he tells himself he misses convenience, it takes longer to admit he misses care.
three months in, he relapses harder. not because of you—but without you, there’s nothing buffering the fall. no soft place to land. no one sitting on the floor in front of him, steady and calm, reminding him that he’s still human even when he hates himself.
he wakes up one morning with dried blood on his knuckles and no memory of how it got there and for the first time, there’s no one to clean it.
he stares at his hands longer than necessary. something twists in his chest. something close to panic
you used to make this part easier. that thought scares him more than the pain.
four months after you leave, he starts thinking about the question. not the one you asked out loud—but the one you never got an answer to.
it surfaces late at night, when the distractions wear thin and he’s left alone with his thoughts. when he’s sober enough to feel but too tired to run
why wasn’t she enough?
he hates that question because it implies fault. because it suggests he had a choice and made the wrong one. because it drags something uncomfortably close to accountabilit
so he reframes it. why did she need more?
that version feels safer. easier. familiar..but it doesn’t stick
because underneath it, quieter but more persistent, is the one he can’t shake: why wouldn’t i do it for her?
he remembers the way you looked at him sometimes—not angry, not demanding, just… waiting. like you were standing in front of a door you’d been knocking on for years, hoping one day he’d open it without you having to ask.
he remembers how gently you asked. how carefully. how you made wanting more sound like an apology.
that memory makes his chest tighten in a way substances can’t numb.
five months after you leave, he realizes something that devastates him in its simplicity: you didn’t leave because you stopped loving him. you left because you loved him enough to stop disappearing for him.
that realization lands heavy, bone-deep. it doesn’t fade. it becomes part of him.
he thinks about all the moments he brushed past your needs because they made him uncomfortable. all the times he told himself labels didn’t matter because they mattered to you, not him. all the ways he took your patience as proof you’d never go anywhere.
he remembers saying you’re my girl like it was a gift. he understands now how small that must have felt.
meanwhile, you’re still learning how to live in the aftermath.
six months in, the grief has texture. layers. it shows up differently depending on the day. some mornings you wake up and forget him for a full minute, and that minute feels like progress and betrayal all at once.
some nights you miss him so sharply it steals your breath.
but even then—even in the missing—you notice something else. you don’t feel humiliated anymore, you don’t feel like you’re waiting to be chosen. you don’t feel like love is something you have to earn by enduring.
that matters. you still think about him, but the thoughts have changed shape. they’re less desperate, less pleading. more reflective. more honest.
you see the relationship now with clarity you didn’t have inside it. you see how much emotional labor you carried. how much you excused. how much you convinced yourself was normal because you wanted it to be lov
some days, you feel angry for the first time. not explosive anger—clean anger. the kind that says i deserved better and doesn’t immediately apologize for it.
you wonder sometimes if he’s realized it yet, f he’s felt the absence the way you did while you were still ther, if the silence has taught him anything.
that’s the difference now. he sits with the questions, you sit with the answers.
and somewhere in that distance—wide, painful, irreversible—you both finally understand what the other meant.
only one of you had the courage to leave when understanding arrived
so now… a year later, you run into him by accident. your laughing when you see him, that’s the part that will haunt you later.
you’re standing outside a coffee shop you go to too often, your boyfriend inside paying, arguing with the barista about oat milk versus almond milk. and then you look up.
rafe is across the street. for a second, your brain refuses to place him. not because you’ve forgotten his face, but because the version of him standing there doesn’t match the one you’ve carried in your head for a year. this rafe looks thinner. not in a good way. his shoulders slope forward like gravity finally won. his hair is longer, messier, like he stopped caring how it looks—or stopped believing it mattered.
he looks… emptied out. when his eyes find yours, something in him breaks so subtly you almost miss it. almost.
the world narrows to that moment. the traffic noise dulls. the city blurs. it feels like stepping through a membrane you didn’t realize was still there—thin, fragile, separating who you were from who you are now.
he doesn’t smile, he just stares.
the look on his face is not anger. not resentment. not even shock. it’s devastation in its purest form—quiet, stunned,. like he’s just realized the fire burned the house down and there’s nothing left to search through.
you feel it in your chest, sharp and immediate.
not longing: recognition. this is what he looks like without you.
he starts to walk toward you without thinking, like his body remembers before his mind can interfere. each step looks heavy, uncertain, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
you don’t move–your heart is pounding, but your feet stay planted. you tell yourself you’re allowed to exist here. that you don’t owe him disappearance.
“hey,” he says when he reaches you. his voice is rougher than you remember. worn down. like it’s been scraped against too many nights alone.
“hey,” you answer. it feels strange saying it. familiar and foreign at the same time. like trying on a name you used to answer to.
up close, it’s worse. the lines around his eyes are deeper. his gaze is restless, searching your face like he’s trying to read a story he knows he missed chapters of. his hands hang uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like they don’t know what they’re supposed to do anymore.
he looks at you like you’re real proof of something he’s been denying for months “you—” he starts, then stops.
he swallows. nods to himself. tries again “you look… good.”
you do. that’s the cruelest part. you’re healthier. steadier. there’s color in your face. you’re not holding yourself like you’re bracing for impact. you’re not folded inward, not apologizing with your posture
you got free.
“thanks,” you say softly. there’s a pause. a thick, awkward stretch of air where a thousand things could be said and none of them feel survivable.
his eyes flick past you then, distracted, and land on your boyfriend stepping back outside.
your boyfriend slides easily into your space, hand settling at the small of your back. casual. unthinking. protective without being possessive. he presses a quick kiss to your temple before handing you your drink.
rafe watches the entire thing like it’s happening underwater. slow. distorted in a way he can’t stop.
“sorry,” your boyfriend says to you, smiling. “they were out of—” he trails off when he notices rafe. polite confusion crossing his face. “oh. hey.”
you turn slightly, the movement instinctive, your body angling toward the life you have now “this is rafe,” you say.
you don’t say we used to anything, you don’t say he was anything. you just say his name.
“i’m—” your boyfriend starts, then offers a hand. “nice to meet you.”
rafe stares at the hand like it’s an insult then he looks back at you..really looks.
and something in his eyes finally collapses. understanding floods his face—too late, irreversible. this is what the year has done. this is the consequence he couldn’t feel until it had a shape. until it was standing in front of him, alive, loved, belonging to someone else.
“your—” his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. “your boyfriend?”
you nod once. that single motion seems to take the last of the air out of his lungs.
he laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. it’s the sound of someone realizing the door didn’t just close—it locked “yeah,” he says, mostly to himself. “of course.”
your boyfriend squeezes your hand, sensing the shift even if he doesn’t understand it. “we should head out,” he murmurs to you. not jealous. just aware.
you hesitate just for a second, long enough to see rafe’s eyes flicker with something desperate and hopeful all at once.
long enough to remember the nights you spent waiting for him to choose you.
he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something important, something final, something that might change everything.
you don’t know what it is, you don’t know if you’re strong enough to hear it.
and the way he’s looking at you—tired, hollow, devastated, like he’s staring at the ghost of the only thing that ever made him feel human—you realize with a sick, sinking certainty: this meeting means more to him than it ever should have.
and you don’t yet know whether walking away now will save you—or destroy him.
jj maybank x reader x rafe cameron !! mature content, infidelity, toxic dynamics.
Introduction… you are still technically jj maybank’s girlfriend but technically it doesn’t feel like anything anymore. you barely kiss him now. not because you don’t love him—or at least loved him—but because being with jj is just like an unfinished sentence. jokes instead of reassurance, ghosting instead of closure. every hard feeling gets pushed into a corner and left there for good.
so you stop asking for emotional support because honestly, you’re tired of feeling dramatic for wanting it, so everything romantic you had with jj fades. especially the sex…
rafe cameron is the opposite, he’s loud about everything. rafe feels too much and says it anyway; he doesn’t soften his wants or hides his jealousy. he tells you when he’s spiraling, tells you when he needs you, tells you that ‘it kills him that you go home to someone else every single night’ and also how much he loves that you still come back–still choose him when you wake up.
he likes that you rarely let your boyfriend touch you meanwhile he can do whatever he wants with your body, mind and soul. it all started with talking tho… with rafe asking the questions jj never finished, rafe listening when you say you feel lonely.
and the most important part—rafe is hypersexual. he craves validation, so of course he is. he needs you to touch him as proof that you still want him, still choose him. but it’s never just physical: it’s eye contact held too long at the wrong place, him reminding you that you are wanted, loudly, without shame. even in front of his own people.
with him, wanting is uncomplicated. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pull back, makes you feel like asking is not too much. jj never touched you like you might disappear if he didn’t. jj never looked at you like choosing you was an act of defiance. with jj, affection felt rationed —a kiss here, a half hearted hand squeeze there—always distracted, always unfinished. you learned how to shrink your needs so they wouldn’t scare him off
rafe never asks you to be smaller…he wants you pressed into his space, wants your attention undivided, wants to feel chosen even if it’s temporary (it’s not temporary), even if it’s wrong. his hands are greedy but grounding, like touch is how he convinces himself he’s real. like wanting you is the one thing he’s certain about.
everything between you two is with intent. stolen moments, locked doors, after hours. but you don’t feel guilty, because guilt requires loss, and with maybank you were already losing everything-affection, desire, reassurance-inch by inch. with rafe tho, everything gets matched; need meets need without apology.
and he doesn’t pretend this is a mistake.he likes the secrecy, likes knowing you’re slipping away from someone else to be there with him. he likes saying “don’t pretend you don’t need this” with his hands down your pants… or “he doesn’t know you like i do”
“i don’t care that it’s wrong, baby, you like hiding with me” in the country club’s bathroom, with his cock inside you, hand around your neck; your boyfriend working as a so said ‘servant’ for rafe’s people, just outside the door.
it all started with “she’s so fucking cranky all the time, man. i don’t know what her problem is.” that’s what topper, your husband, said. rafe just sipped his beer, minding his own business, because he knew what the problem was. he saw the frustration in your eyes, the snapping tone, the way you were always one second away from combusting.
everyone else thought you were just bitter, but rafe, he knew better. you were unsatisfied, starving.
the first time he saw it was after he had a gym sesh at your new house topper just bought; you were annoyed at everything and when rafe walked in—sweaty, shirt clinging—you looked at him like you were imagining that one candy your mom never let you eat, but you were craving it soooo badly, that you went against her every rule just to get it.
it only lasted a second but it was enough for rafe to notice it, he always does after all. he was the kind of man women turned to when their husbands couldn’t keep up since he turned 19
that’s how you ended up here. his best friends wife, his favorite addiction. he’s disgustingly obsessed with you and so careless about your “feeling for topper” that he feels happy when he sees you two fight—because—you always end up at his door.
he even keeps mental notes of what topper does wrong, so he does it right. “if you were mine, you’d never be walking around hungry like this”
the possessiveness also…”wear his ring, you and i both know who you actually belong to.”, “tell me you want it, me. say it. say it even with the ring on you finger”, “i shouldn’t have you, but god, i’m not strong enough to fucking stop”
he also gets high off the danger and toxicity, the fact that you’re toppers wife, his best friends wife, makes it worse. he likes knowing that you choose him, even if it’s in secret; he likes knowing that you’re willing to ruing everything just to get fucked by him.
and gooood does he fucking love doing this to you…pressed against a bathroom wall at a family and friends gathering “keep your voice down, princess. your husband is trying to enjoy his dinner” , “fucking look at you shaking for me while he’s in the living room bragging about your marriage”
also at the christmas party…”fuck, i swear you’re needier when we’re sneaking off”, “your parents are talking about the food and you’re in here begging for this dick, baby. isn’t that just so, so, sooo fucking sweet?” , “go on, go back to your husband stuff of my fucking cum, princess. that shit makes me so fucking horny”
but, at the end of the day, i think that rafe’s pure obsession for you is because he always craved to be chosen. so knowing that you’re married, have a stable and safe life, and still choose him every single time makes him maaad addicted. you’re his only source of dopamine, and he would do anything to just keep to for himself. even if it’s a secret…for now at least
a/n: i don’t like this at all, took me 15 mins to write it. lemme know if it’s shit pls and thank u!! also pls have some faith in me that i will get back on track, message people back, and catch up to everyone’s work
⭑.ᐟ Please follow my new account, previously rafesteddy ⭑.ᐟ
c/w .ᐟ.ᐟ makeup sex, pathetic!rafe, oral (fem. receiving), fighting, name calling, tension, wearing his sweatshirt during sex, backshot, pressing face into the mattress, praise, spanking, begging, pet names, WAM + downbad per usual
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter into your glass, the words barely contained, the ice clinking sharply as you set it down.
She’s already leaning into him—already touching him, laughing like he just told the funniest joke in the world.
Rafe doesn’t notice a thing.
He’s propped against the bar, cheeks still pink from the game, hair a little damp from the shower, curling at the ends. He’s gorgeous. He’s glowing. He’s also absolutely, completely, catastrophically oblivious.
Her hand slides up his forearm and he just nods—that dopey nod he does when he’s not really listening, smiling politely, but there’s not a thought behind those pretty blue eyes.
Kelce leans back in the booth, eyebrows raised in a silent ‘are you about to kill someone’ way.
And you cock your eyebrow back in his direction in a very clear ‘I just fuckin’ might’ fashion. You down the last of your drink and slide out of the booth.
Your eyes fix on the two of them, stomach dropping as you watch her rise onto her tiptoes, chin lifted to his lips; his eyes dazed somewhere else—until they snap down to her, going wide.
“Yo!” He jerks back so hard he nearly sends Topper to the floor behind him. “What—What the fuck?” His voice breaks with confusion, eyes darting wildly.
She steps back and tosses her hair, feigning nonchalance, but you can tell his reaction stung. She turns away—and the second her eyes lock on yours, she freezes; blood draining from her face.
She bails, pushing through the crowd just as Rafe’s wide eyes find yours.
“What the fuck was that?” He asks, laughing uneasily. He looks genuinely rattled—confused, like he missed the entire scene despite being the center of it.
“What the fuck was that, Rafe?”
“I—what?” He blinks, like the question short-circuited his brain. “I didn’t—She just—I don’t fuckin’ know what happened—”
“You don’t know?” You snap.
“No. I swear. I wasn’t even talkin’ to her. She just came up. And then she leaned in, baby. I think she tried to kiss me?”
“You think?”
“I mean, yeah? Don’t you?”
“Obviously!” You raise your voice, staring at him as he stares back at you. “She was talking to you… Touching you. What the hell did you think was gonna happen?”
“It was nothing, baby. I swear I wasn’t even paying attention—”
“If some guy tried to kiss me, you’d lose your fucking shit—”
“I’d be in jail.”
“That’s the point, Rafe…”
He steps closer, lowering his head a little, voice warm and pleading. “Baby, I wasn’t flirting. I wasn’t interested—I wasn’t even thinking. I swear.”
“That’s the problem,” you murmur. “You weren’t thinking.”
“C’mon, baby,” he huffs.
“Maybe she wouldn’t have been so confident if you weren’t smiling at her like that.”
“Like that? Like what? I wasn’t—” His head lifts above yours and you turn around, locking eyes on the big screen TV behind you, and sure enough the sports segment is replaying Rafe’s shootout goal in slow motion before he’s mobbed by his team. “I got distracted by myself.”
“Seriously,” you grumble.
You glance back at the screen—his post-game interview from earlier. Rafe’s drenched in sweat and smiling, black compression shirt clinging to his chest, biceps looking like it was painted on. He scratches the back of his neck during one of his answers, arm flexing unintentionally. You turn back to Rafe and sure as shit he’s smiling that same smile, rocking back on his heels with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Your boy looks good,” he hums as he tilts his head down to you, with a dopey grin like that might be enough to get himself out of the doghouse.
You glare back up at him and his shoulders sag, that naturally pouty bottom lip of his working overtime.
“C’mon, pretty—”
“Act like you give a shit, Rafe,” you breathe as you walk away from him and step up to the bar, mouthing to the bartender for your check.
Rafe’s on you fast, chest pressed against your back, hands resting on top of yours, burying himself in your neck.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, honest, like he realizes that yeah, he fucked up. “Don’t be mad at me. You mad at me?”
“I am.”
“No, baby—for real?” His voice breaks against your neck. You laugh, but there’s nothing funny about this, your annoyance building by the second. “I do give a shit, alright? I care so much…”
“I’m gonna go,” you say as the bartender rests the tab on the bar top.
“Is that your tab? Did you—did you pay for your drinks? You serious?” His brows pinch together like the whole situation’s throwing him for a loop.
“Mhmm… And yours too, sweetheart—have a good night,” you smile, mock sweetness, as you snake out of his arms, but he grabs for you.
“Let me come?” He asks softly, desperation bleeding out of his voice and every fiber of his being, not even giving a shit about how pathetic he looks.
“Do you want to come?” You ask, voice sharp enough to sting. “Or do you just feel bad now that you’ve realized you fucked up, Rafe?”
He drags his other hand through his hair—frustrated and slow—lashes fluttering as he tries to think of the right thing to say, anything to get back in your good graces.
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, holding you tight because even if he can’t think of anything, at least he’s got you—trapped to his chest, heart beating against yours. He dips down, kissing your cheek, letting his lips brush against your ear.
“I didn’t realize what it looked like,” he mutters. “I wasn’t trying to be a dick. I should have been paying attention… She caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting that—I didn’t even see it comin’. I didn’t think anyone would try somethin’ like that… not with you right there.” His voice lifts a little, flustered and real. “I mean, you’re mine. That’s obvious, right?”
“It didn’t look obvious, Rafe…”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he mumbles, pressing kisses along your neck. “I love you so fucking much… Seriously, you don’t want me to come? I can’t let you leave here without me. It’s not safe—it’s not right. You think I wanna go sit back down with those assholes?” He scoffs as the both of you look back at the table, a group of his teammates quickly looking somewhere else, all thoroughly invested in the drama.
Embarrassment claws hot up your neck. “I’m just done, okay?”
“Me too.” He draws back just enough to look you in your eyes. “Please, let me follow you at least. You roll your eyes and blow out a breath, letting him sweat it out a little more. “Baby—”
“No talking.” You lay out the ground rules, wanting to stay mad for a little longer, and his lips quirk in a little smile he tries to fight back, dipping in to hide it, nose nuzzling your neck.
Five seconds of silence—absolutely nothing left for him to say—and you can tell he’s holding back something.
“Don’t do it,” you chuckle tiredly. “I don’t want to talk to you—”
He scoffs, pulling back, meeting your eyes again, bar lights flickering across his face.
“Not even to tell you how pretty you look?” He breathes, and you roll your eyes as he hooks his finger under your chin, guiding you in line with his lips. He kisses you tenderly, lingering close. You can feel a bit of his tension bleed out as his lips skim against yours. “When you’re mad at me,” he whispers.
“Are you fucking serious?” You whisper, lips trembling as you hold back a weak laugh.
“Nah, you’re pretty all the fuckin’ time,” he mumbles as he kisses you so roughly he bends you back slightly, peppering kisses anywhere he can land his lips. “Prettiest girl here—”
“Shut. Up.”
He lifts his fingers to his lips, miming the zipper rolling across them, “silencing” himself. You let out a snort of a breath as he fake-tosses the key with one hand, kissing you before he grabs the “key” with the other, stuffing it in his pocket.
“Fucking asshole,” you murmur, catching it out of the corner of your eye.
Rafe grabs your hand, squeezing tight enough for you to know there was no protesting this. He leads you through the crowd, his big body pushing through the masses, both hands clutching yours behind his back as you trail along.
The two of you step out into the night, wind whipping around you, billowing up your jersey. You pull your arm away, wrapping it around your body for warmth, heading back toward the hotel.
He falls back, one step behind you, moving closer by the second. You can feel the weight of your silence, the tension building between the two of you again as your boots tap against the concrete, the busy college town buzzing around you.
His eyes are on you, never wavering. You can feel his gaze—pleading for you to let him back in. He blows out a breath, dramatic and anguished, praying you’ll ask him ‘what’s wrong’ so he can answer.
You roll your eyes to him as he takes a little breath, blowing it out slowly, trying to be good—but that ship has almost sailed. “Rafe—”
“I was kiddin’ about the smile thing,” he blurts the words out so fast he nearly chokes on them. His shoulders sag and his head falls back, like a weight was lifted off his chest with seven little words. “I thought it would make you laugh… The announcers—they were talkin’ about my game. I’ve been off lately, you know that. It was just nice to hear them not shittin’ on me for once this fuckin’ season.”
He stuffs his hand in his pocket, looking away for a second, speaking to you things you couldn’t waterboard out of him to anyone else.
“And her? I was just being nice. She’s Topper’s sister—”
“Oh, I know who she is.”
“I thought she was just shootin’ the shit, and I didn’t give one. I wasn’t listening—I didn’t realize until she was already leaning in.” He exhales hard, jaw clenched, adjusting the cap on his head nervously. “I’m sorry. I embarrassed you. I made you look bad, and I swear to God I didn’t mean to.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing the top, pulling back before you can form a reply. “—You’re freezin’.”
“I’m fine,” you breathe, but he’s already stripping off his hat and his team sweatshirt. His T-shirt rides up underneath, exposing his full stomach, abs flexed, v-lines kissing the waist of his blue jeans—just as a few girls walk by, letting out a low whistle.
“Fuck off,” you snap, and Rafe bites back a laugh, tugging his hat back on as he walks closer.
“Baby,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“Literally fuck everyone else who isn’t you. I don’t like anyone—nobody’s in your fuckin’ league, alright? Not even me. Now put this on—”
“I said ‘I’m fine.’”
“Stop being like this—” He whispers, slinging his sweatshirt over your head, catching you inside like a butterfly in a net—trapping you with his warmth and his smell, tugging it down until you’re swallowed in the thick fabric.
He tugs you closer as you pop your arms through, pressing a kiss on your nose, then your mouth.
“You look stunning like this,” he mumbles against your lips. “All pissed off in my clothes—”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you mutter.
“I’ll win you back. Don’t worry,” he smiles, voice wavering like he’s trying to convince you both—and before you can argue, he bends down and scoops you into his arms without warning.
Your arms sling around his neck—his lips crashing into yours as he holds you bridal-style—rocking ever so slightly as his touch softens, forehead tipping against yours as he starts to walk again.
“There’s no one else for me. I swear. No one else even comes close. You can’t stay mad at me…” He breathes, pressing his cold nose to your neck, making you gasp.
He smiles down at you, gaze falling from your eyes to your lips. Rafe smiles, watching you purse your lips, trying not to do the same.
“Please,” he mumbles.
“Ugh,” you groan, going limp in his arms in frustration.
“What, baby?” He laughs lightly.
“You’re such a brat,” you sigh.
“What—why?” He puffs, the vapor of his breath making a little cloud in the cool night air.
“Because I’m trying to stay mad at you… Then, you told me why you’re smiling—”
“Oh shit,” he cuts in. “I swear I was just trying to be honest.”
“Maybe lead with that next time if you know I’m fucking pissed.”
“Noted.”
“Thanks for telling me,” you mumble under your breath.
He holds you a little closer, squeezing you a little tighter. “‘Course,” he answers like it’s easy. “You’re the only person I talk to about this shit.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, resting your head heavy on his chest, letting out a frustrated sound. Rafe pushes a kiss on your forehead, chuckling against your skin.
“M’sorry,” he laughs. “I know you’re pissed—I’m not trying to make you feel bad for me, promise.”
“So full of shit,” you whisper.
“Is it working though?” He teases, just as the door of the hotel opens with a whoosh of heat. Rafe sets you down on your feet, his fingers quickly lacing into yours.
You don’t let go of his hand—and he doesn’t let go of yours.
You walk through the lobby toward the elevator, stepping inside. The silence hums between you as you look at the panel of numbers… an away game, Rafe sharing a room with Top, a private suite all to yourself. You can already see him out of the corner of your eye—yearning, waiting, hoping that he earned a ride to your floor and a place in your bed—as his thumb traces a soft line across your knuckles while he holds your hand.
You lean forward, pressing the twelfth floor, moving back—and he takes the opportunity to pull you into him before you can change your mind.
“Thank you,” he breathes into a kiss, lifting you off your feet, pressing your back into the cool elevator wall. You gasp as his fingers curl under your thighs, his weight driving into yours. “You hear me?” He breathes again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Thank you, baby.” His voice vibrates against your lips as he pins you tight against the wall, gripping you a little tighter.
He smiles against your lips as you whimper into your kiss, the elevator climbing higher. He groans softly, resting his forehead against yours.
“I needed this,” he hums.
“Still mad at you,” you whisper.
“I know, baby,” he mumbles, taking your bottom lip between his, sucking slow. “I deserve that… Wanna celebrate this win with my girl,” he mumbles, soft and breathless.
“Didn’t you leave her back at the bar?” You whisper.
“The fuck are you on about?” He chuckles tiredly.
“Topper’s sister…”
“Blaire?” He asks, like it’s ridiculous—and you correct him.
“Claire.”
“Same shit. Couldn’t pay me enough to care,” he murmurs as the elevator dings at the 12th floor. He fixes his hold, holding on to you tight, carrying you out into the hall, walking toward your room.
“I can walk, Rafe,” you breathe.
“There’s plenty of shit you can do. You’re also kinda fast and I’m gassed from playin’—winning,” he winks. “I don’t need to be chasing you now, do I? And good luck getting outta my arms, sweetheart,” he says, smug as hell. “You saw that post-game interview. Fuck—your boy’s hot, huh?”
You scoff, shaking your head. “Hot and on my last fucking nerve.”
He huffs out a laugh, switching his grip, holding you with a single arm, stuffing his hand in his back pocket, taking out the key you gave him at the start of the night.
“So there’s one nerve left?”
“Shut up,” you laugh.
“Make me.”
“Shouldn’t have given you that key,” you whisper.
“C’mon, pretty.” He swipes the keycard, the hotel door clicks open, and he pushes it in with his shoulder. “We’ll talk about that when I’m done taking care of you, yeah?”
The door swings shut behind him, and before you can think, your back hits the mattress.
He pulls his shirt off in one rough motion—the fabric peeling up over his abs, those deep v-lines you can never look at without wanting to trace with your mouth.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs, working his pants down his thighs, eyes raking over you, never leaving you once. And then he crawls up the bed, his big hands catching the waistband of your leggings, rough knuckles grazing your skin as he peels them down slowly.
You’re left in his giant black sweatshirt and nothing else.
He kneels between your thighs, gaze dark and soft at the same time, hands planted firm beside your hips.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I’m sorry. I was stupid. I didn’t see her. I wasn’t paying attention… I hate when you’re mad at me.” His fingers graze your thigh. “I know this doesn’t fix it, but…” He leans down, mouth brushing your knee, your thigh, your inner thigh—just barely. “Can I?” He whispers.
Your eyes narrow on his, and his head falls, resting heavy on the inside of your thigh. His big palm massages you there, so sinfully high that one brush to the left and he’d be right where he’s pleading to be.
“M’begging you,” he mumbles, blue eyes lifting to yours, begging for a touch—for a taste. His breath teases over your pussy, making your thighs draw in, but he holds you open.
“Okay—”
“Yeah? Fuck me,” he sighs, burying himself between your thighs, licking a long, slow stripe through your folds that makes your hips lift and your hands fly to his hair, and moans into you.
He sucks your clit, holding you on his tongue until your thighs start to shake. Two thick fingers tease your entrance—swirling and dipping in, scissoring and curling—leaving you bucking your hips, but he pins you down with his weight.
He licks you slow and deep, tongue fucking into you, then flattening wide in slow drags against your clit until you’re clawing at his hair. Every movement’s messy and wet—each filthy lap of his tongue pushes you closer and closer to the edge. He hums like he’s tasting something sweet, mumbling and groaning between breaths.
“Fuck, Rafe,” you whimper, and he wrestles your hand out of his hair, fingers interlacing with yours.
“C’mon, baby. Gimme it,” he whispers—words buzzing straight through you, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed.
“Oh—holy shit,” you squeal, cumming hard, and he moans when you do. His fingers brush your clit fast, tongue plunging deep to feel every flutter as you squeeze his hand tight.
“Rafe—Rafe!”
His name goes from dreamy to rushed as he flips you on your hands and knees before you even realize what’s happening—and slams his cock into you from behind, hard and deep.
You cry out, head tipping back, fingers scrambling for two fistfuls of sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. Doesn’t give you space to breathe.
His big hands find your hips, pounding you from the back, skin clapping skin. That knot in your belly tangles up again, and fast. You’re wet, so wet—Rafe’s mouth on your pussy earlier left nothing but a sopping mess for him to work through again and again.
You bury your face in the mattress, ass high in the air, and his palm comes down on your head, pressing your cheek into the bed. The tips of his middle and ring finger curl into your open mouth and you wrap your lips around them, sucking hard.
Your moans mumble around his fingers; Rafe’s low sounds of pleasure course through the room. Sweat beads down your chest, your body still swallowed in his sweatshirt—dressed in his name just like he wanted.
Your vision goes hazy as your climax burns through you—his name leaving your lips in a breathy sob. Your whole body clenches, back bowing, sharp and dizzying.
“That’s it, baby,” he grits through his teeth.
His hand moves from your face to the bottom of his sweatshirt, bunching it up in his big fist, gripping it tight like leverage, pounding you through it.
“Takin’ me so fuckin’ good,” he slurs, fucking you rough until you soften around him completely.
He slows down, letting you catch your breath, rocking into you nice and slow.
“What do you think, baby? Think I earned it?” He mumbles, scooping his arms around your body, pulling you back to his chest. “Give it to me… You on top—”
Your gasp slices through his words as he pulls out, shifting to sit, resting his back against the headboard, reaching for you.
Your body trembles as you climb on top, straddling him, taking his thick, slick dick in your fist. A cock-drunk smile spreads across your lips, eyes lidded and low; just enough space between the two of you for him to watch as you sink down on him, taking every inch.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he mumbles as his lips claim yours, your hands resting on his shoulders, knees digging into the mattress on either side.
His eyes roll back, head falling against the headboard as you grind down slowly, dragging your hips. Your lips find his neck, sucking hard enough to leave your mark.
Rafe’s hands slide up the backs of your thighs, disappearing beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, palming your ass under the fabric.
He lifts the hem with one hand, spanking you with the other, hissing when your pussy clenches tight at the sting. “My perfect girl,” he groans under his breath.
You press your forehead to his, lips barely brushing his mouth as you whisper his name, your body rolling again and again.
“Gonna fuckin’ cum, baby—” he mutters like he’s not ready yet. His calloused hands roam up your waist, thumbs brushing beneath the soft cotton, just under your breasts.
His grip tightens, fingers digging into your ribcage as he thrusts up into you from below, sweatshirt bunched around your waist, your name rasping off his lips as you come undone—and he follows.
His cock pulses deep inside you, your body milking him for every last drop, leaving you both panting into each other’s mouths.
You shiver as he slowly peels the sweatshirt off, stripping you bare in his lap—skin to skin, chest to chest, hearts pounding against one another.
You’re still smiling when he cups your cheeks and pulls you in for a kiss. His forehead rests against yours, lashes low, tongue wetting his bottom lip.
1. rafe walking in on reader and bf arguing, rafe telling his son off and he leaves — rafe fucks you showing you that you deserve better 👀
2. you and rafe at the house alone when bf leaves reader there alone (per usual) and reader being in a sour mood bc of it, resulting in an attitude adjustment by rafe?😋
3. fucked in rafes bed when sofia isnt home and bf is sound asleep, maybe reader sneaks in begging and needy for dick
