𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄 ── hello! my names is Madison, but you can call me Mads or Del. I am 18 years old, and I go by she/her pronouns. I love writing whenever I can, and I don't really follow a schedule in posting. I am filipino and I have been writing since I was eleven (so there's probably old fics of mine floating around wattpad and quotev). My hogwarts house is hufflepuff, and i'm a really big fan of spiderman, marvel, hotd gladiator [ 1&2 ] and many more. Please do not steal or use the tv gif I created
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So sorry I haven't posted in months, I got sent back to rehab after I od'ed will try to get back to writing once I get out, I took the opportunity to log back in here during electronics time, bye for now, I will come back in a few months or so.
Sorry chapter 4 hasn't been released ya'll. I was hospitalized after I accidentally od'ed 🙃 I might as well post a chapter in ao3 atm lol. I'm already working on a chapter 4
⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ Your parents won the lottery, which brings you to life among the Kooks. Regardless of your wealth, Rafe Cameron establishes from the first moment you that you do not fit in, hatred and obsession begin to blend together, and in Outer Banks, power always comes at a price.
If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content
7 years later
There was a hint of sea salt and sunscreen hanging in the bedroom.
It slipped in through the open balcony doors, brought by the gentle warm air of the Outer Banks. The breeze made the white curtains move in slow, lazy waves. Far down the street, laughter and heavy thumping music could be heard. It seemed like there was another party going on somewhere along Figure Eight.
You found yourself in front of the full-length mirror in Sarah's room, looking at your reflection for a bit longer than you needed to.
Your hands hung awkwardly at your sides. You still hadn't gotten around to changing.
Behind you, Sarah was pacing back and forth across the hardwood floor. She was like a restless golden retriever, her blonde hair half-curled and half-tangled. She held her phone between her shoulder and her ear. All while rummaging through her closet.
"Yeah, yeah—we're coming," she answered into the phone. “Calm down. It's not a big deal if we show up late.”
She paused and rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Tell Kelce to stop whining," she said, "I’m not picking out my clothes faster because he’s bored.” She hung up before the person on the other end responded.
She turned to you, her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t changed yet.”
You gave a small shrug. “I’m still deciding what to wear.”
Sarah groaned and flopped onto her bed. “You’ve been deciding for twenty minutes.”
In the mirror, there was a contrast between the two of you. Sarah lounged across her bed like she owned the world while you stood stiffly in front of the mirror as if you were heading to a job interview not a beach party.
That was the difference between you. Wherever Sarah went, she fit right in. But you never quite felt like you did.
You absentmindedly picked at the sleeve of your shirt. “I just… don’t know if I should go.”
Sarah immediately sat up. “What?”
You kept your gaze on the mirror. “They hardly know me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
You finally turned around, leaning lightly against the dresser. “Sarah… You’re the only friend who actually invited me.” You pointed this out.
Sarah started to protest.
You kept going. “The person whose throwing the party didn’t invite me. The people who are going to the party didn’t invite me either.” You shrugged. “I’m just… your extra person.”
Sarah looked at you like you had just insulted her. “That’s not true.”
You shook your head. “I know what I’m saying.” Your voice softened. “I don’t belong there.”
Sarah made her way off the bed toward you. “You belong wherever I am.”
You softly chuckled. “That’s sweet, but—”
She cut you off as if she had heard the same argument before. “No. I mean it. You belong wherever I am.”
She also leaned against the dresser next to you. “Everyone is already familiar with you.”
You didn’t know if that was a good thing. “Yeah,” you muttered. “I how comforting.”
Sarah sighed. “I know you know that’s not what I meant.”
The room was filled with silence. You found yourself looking toward the open balcony now. The sun sank ever so slowly toward the ocean.
You two met because of her brother. Or more specifically, something her brother did.
Apparently, Rose Cameron mentioned it to Ward after the pool incident at Tannyhill. Not out of anger. Not out of hatred. Just through casual dinner conversation.
Ward never confronted her bother about it. At least, not that you knew of.
The next time your parent's arranged another playdate with the Camerons, he gently smiled and suggested “Why don’t the girls play for a bit?”
Just like that, your playdates switched. No more Rafe. Only Sarah.
Sarah spent more time at your house. Your parents didn't say it directly out loud but everyone knew why it was that way. If you went to Tannyhill her brother would be there.
Sarah met you with hurricane energy the first time she came over.
“Do you like horses?” she immediately asked. You just blinked at her.
“I—what?”
“Horses,” she repeated impatiently. “Do you like them?”
“I… guess?”
“Good.”
She had grabbed your wrist. “Let’s go.” she urged.
That was the start of your friendship. Simple. Easy. Sarah never treated you like the weird one or the girl that didn’t belong.
She just treated you like you were already part of her world and somehow you became best friends.
But her brother didn’t just up and disappear. He was still there, lurking at the edge of things, watching.
He once shoved you so hard into a locker that your shoulder bruised for days. Another time he pulled your backpack straps until the fabric tore. He never got in trouble for any of it. It was just boys being boys.
High school was even worse. You learned quickly that Rafe didn’t need the other kids for pranks. He preferred when no one was around.
You most vividly remembered the janitor’s closet incident.
The first day of Spring Break, everyone was excited to leave school early, the hallways packed with students. He grabbed your arm when no one was looking and dragged you into the closet. He had laughed when he shoved you inside.
“You’ll be fine,” he said and slammed the door.
You thought someone would find you quickly. An hour, maybe two. But the school closed for break. No one checked the closet, no one heard you pound for three days, no one heard you scream.
By the third day you had stopped yelling. Your throat hurt. By the fifth day your stomach ached. By the sixth day you mostly slept.
And it just so happened that your parents were going to Hawaii for a week vacation to celebrate their anniversay, fortunately for them, unfortunately for you.
When the janitor found you on Monday… He looked more confused than horrified. The school counselor called it a misunderstanding. A prank. “Teens do silly things”
No one asked who locked the door. No one investigated. No one disciplined Rafe.
“You’re spiraling again.” Sarah’s voice snapped you back to the present.
You blinked. “Oh.”
Sarah was staring at you. “You do that thing where you go inside your head.”
You rubbed your arm. “Sorry.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Stop apologizing.”
She suddenly marched to her closet. You watched as she rummaged through it with intensity.
“Here.”
Something flew through the air as you fumbled to catch it.
It was a dress. A black and brown orange dress with a flower pattern on it. The sleeves were ruffled at the edges with a small cut in the chest area. It looked light and airy. The perfect excuse for a summer picnic.
Sarah crossed her arms. “That’s perfect.”
You stared at it. “Sarah…”
“Don’t argue.”
“I wasn’t, ”
“Yes you were.”
She pointed toward the bathroom. “Go change.” You hesitated. Sarah tilted her head.
“Now.”
You sighed quietly and headed toward the bathroom. As you passed her, she casually added, “I’ll be waiting outside.”
You paused. Sarah smiled sweetly. “And I don't like waiting.”
The door closed behind her, leaving the dress loosely in your hands. For a moment, you just stared at it. But somehow you managed to change into it. And somewhere deep in your chest, a familiar feeling crept up.
Because tonight you would be at a Kook Party. And if one thing had become alarmingly clear over the years, It was that wherever Kooks gathered…
You were bound to find the blonde bully.
The drive was pretty quick. Sarah’s jeep caughed and shook sometimes when it rolled over a pothole or some loose rocks, and had the windows open, letting the warm night air fill the car. You could taste the ocean salt on your lips and the fresh coconutty smell of sunscreen mixing with the sweet scent of flowery perfume.
You could hear music thumping in the distance, even before the house came into view.
“See?” Sarah said, smiling from the driver’s seat, “We’re not even late.” Your eyes stayed fixed on the mansion up ahead as it began to come into view. It was massive, so massive and bright that it looked like a lighthouse.
Both sides of the long driveway were filled with BMWs, Jeeps, Range Rovers and a couple of trucks with sandy tires that looked like they had just come straight from the beach.
The house’s windows glowed with bright light as figures danced and partied inside. The surrounding music vibrated through my chest as Sarah pulled her jeep to a stop, and my stomach turned.
Suddenly the little dress that Sarah lended to you became so very apparent. You started to worry whether it even fit or if you even looked presentable at all. You suddenly felt self conscious about how cakey or natural your makeup was.
Your boots made a faint sound as you softly set them on the driveway and dragged yourself forward, only to see Sarah halfway to the front door.
She called your name impatiently and you walked hesitantly towards her. Before you even realized it, the door was already open and you were hit with the sound of laughter and unapologetic singing.
The house was brimming with teenagers. They filled every available spot, rotating between kitchen stools, countertops, stairwells and couches. The kitchen was a particular favorite for hosting the red solo drinking cups.
The room stank of cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey. You could smell a trace of some sickly sweet spirit that you could not identify. Maybe, some kind of jungle juice. The moment Sarah walked through the door heads started to turn.
“Sarah we missed you.”
“Hey everyone.”
“Oh my god, Sarah, you came!” Three girls ran over, wrapping her in a tight embrace before she or you could even make it through the door.
Someone handed her a red solo cup containing a beverage of sorts and another grabbed her by the arm. Someone else shouted at the pool then she was led in a completely different direction. Before you could enter and blink, Sarah was gone and no one was even looking at you.
You paused, not knowing where to go. You examined the place and noticed a group of guys passed you carrying what looked like a bottle of whiskey. The group seemed to be laughing the hardest of all as they climbed the stairs, taking as many swigs as rounds of laughter.
Two girls nearby, watched from afar as they propped themselves against the wall, shoulders turned, whispering, “that’s him, over there.” A guy and a girl shut the guestroom door behind them, followed by giggles, and whispers and doing god knows what.
Doing exactly what teenagers did at parties. You shifted uncomfortably.
No one greeted you. No one asked who you were.
Most people glanced, then shrugged, too busy with their own novelty to care about newcomers.
You found the kitchen and like all wallfowers, made your way to the mixing bowl full of jungle juice. Orange slices and ice cubes floated in the concoction and a ladle and stack of new cups laid nearby. You hesitated.
It didn’t take long before you poured some. You’d never been much of a drinker, but it surely would be easier to go through this being not so sober.
The drink tasted like whiskey, but you pretended it didn’t bother you as you took a seat and pulled out your phone.
You sipped again. Some minutes passed, maybe longer.
The glass emptied and you filled it again like clockwork.
There wasn’t even a floating shadow of a Sarah to be found for hours. After another hour, a short girl with dark hair walked past, immediately pausing before scanning you with her eyes over every aspect. “Nice dress,” she said. Emphasizing the nice in a tone bordering between nice and condescending.
You took it and responded with a thank you, and off she went, walking in the opposite direction.
You finished your drink and poured another. The noise of the crowd blurred into a muffled soundtrack.
You uncomfortably shifted in your spot as your bladder was filling up.
Fine, one more drink, but you really needed to pee. Looking for faces that looked welcoming and approachable, the gentleman with glasses resembled a reasonable person to talk to.
You tried to smile. “Hey, can you help me?”
He looked up. “Where’s the bathroom?” you asked.
“Upstairs” He simply said.
“Thanks,”
Apparently if you want to get something done, you have to do it yourself. Taken much longer than needed, you climbed the old staircase, and the stairs creaked as you ascended.
As you ventured away from the room, the pounding walls and roaring crowd faded until you realized just how big this house really was as you walked upon the landing.
Across the length of the brightly lit hallway, several bedroom and closet doors draped the entire length of the wall. First, bedroom. Second, closet. Third, locked.
You shifted uncomfortably. Seriously? You thought to yourself.
You walked further down the hall until you finally found a door slightly ajar. Bathroom at last.
You push the bathroom door open, at long last finding the familiar shape and oddly comfortable bathroom wall tiles. Suddenly, your happiness was swept away by horror as if you felt your entire head was dunked into a bucket of icy water causing you to reach a standstill.
Your brain didn’t register what it saw. The poorly lit, figure-occupied, lack-of-space bathroom. The smell of perfume and sweat mixed so thick it you could almost taste it.
Wide-eyed, you recognized the girl in Sarah’s circle and the host from earlier.
The familiar blonde dug her back into the wall with his arms twisted and hands digging into her thighs. His chest covered from sweat and strands of hairs stuck to his forehaed like sweat. A blood-curdling moan resonated as the girl below him threw her hands back and dug her nails into the thick of Rafe’s hair.
And you didn’t look away. Rafe dug his hands into her waist and moved in a complete rhythm which made even the mirror rattle. The sound of wet skin against wet skin slapping together radiated violently.
Rafe suddenly darted his eyes, as if he could sense your presence and met your gaze, those familiar cold, gray eyes finding you instantly. He smirked as you observed him and you stared in total horror.
A moment later, the female’s face was flushed, you recognized her, it was Scarlett? Maybe that was her name, you couldn't fully recall, but her hair was an absolute mess.
You felt embarrassment and panic all at the same time, but it happened so fast that you couldn’t react. You just stood there, stuck, frozen and stared at the tragic, shock-induced scene in front of you.
Finally, after what had felt like at least ten minutes but in reality was only thirty seconds, your brain and body both came to and screamed at you, ‘leave and never ever come back.’ And so you did. You ran out of the bathroom so fast you even missed the shrill moan that emanated behind you from the bathroom.
Suddenly, the embarrassment rose all the way from your face to your toes as your heart thundered in your chest, now completely uncertain if it ever should come back down.
Oh my gosh.
You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You didn’t even breathe. You just turned and bolted down the hallway.
Boots pounding against the wooden floor.
You sped down the staircase and the reality of what you had witnessed registered with each step. From all the rooms in the house, it had to be that one you walked into.
And of all the bedrooms you chose, it had to be the one with the infamous Rafe Cameron.
You didn't really relax until the music started to get quieter as you left.
As soon as you stepped out onto the back porch, everything changed. The air got cooler and felt much easier to breathe. Things outside felt calmer. You could just barely hear the bass rumbling through the walls behind you, no longer overwhelming. It was faint now.
Out back, the yard felt wide and free under the night sky. Someone had strung lights between the trees, and they glowed softly in warm, golden loops. The pool sparkled underneath those lights.
Each time someone jumped in, the water caught the reflection of the bulbs, and it scattered like a handful of broken stars.
Over near the deep end, some guys were yelling and hyping each other up. "Do it! Do it!"
One of them actually hopped up onto the railing, then cannonballed in with a giant splash. Water went everywhere, and everyone cracked up. Near the fence, someone had built a small bonfire.
A couple of teens gathered around it, sitting on folding chairs and flipped over crates, sharing a bottle. Someone had a guitar and was strumming along terribly, but they were having a good time. The wood burned, popping, and mixing with some laughter.
You didn't pay attention to any of it and just kept on walking. Your head was hot and your heart was beating so fast that you could almost hear the blood rushing in your ears.
You found a quiet spot on the dock. The boards felt cold when you sat, and your dress made a soft rustling noise as you folded your hands in your lap, feeling clumsy. You let out a deep breath.
Oh god.
You put your head in your hands. Why tonight?
"Hey!" You turned.
Sarah hurried over, her blonde hair bouncing. "There you are!" Her face changed when she saw you sitting on the edge of the dock. She slowed and stopped in front of you, grinning sheepishly.
"Sorry," she said, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I totally ditched you in there."
You shrugged. "It's fine."
"No, it's not," she said. "That was rude!" She plopped down next to you, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.
"I just got dragged away. It was… kind of urgent."
You cocked your head. "Urgent?"
She nodded and waved a hand. "Yeah, like, friend drama urgent."
You thought about it. A party like this? With this many people yelling and pumping their fists to Queen and One Direction? You really didn't know what in the world could count as urgent when everyone was already shouting and singing. But you didn't want to ask.
She looked at you for a moment, then squinted. "Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
You paused. Your hands on your lap. "It's… nothing."
She gave you a look. "Okay, first of all, I know that tone of voice."
You sighed.
"And second," she bumped your shoulder, "your face is literally red."
You stared at your hands for a second. "I, uh…" You cleared your throat. "I accidentally walked in on someone doing the deed."
She blinked. "Oh."
You hesitated. "…In the bathroom."
Her brows lifted. "Oh," she said even louder.
You paused. Then you said quietly "…Your brother."
For a second, she stared at you. Then she groaned and dragged her hands down her face. "God."
She sat back and looked up at the sky, as if she didn't want to be on this planet anymore. "Of course you did."
You winced. "I didn't know anyone was in there."
"I know," she said. "That's not the problem." She dropped her hands and looked at you. "Rafe is basically a rabbit." You blinked.
She continued like she was talking about the weather, "I'm honestly surprised he hasn't gotten anyone pregnant at this point."
You choked out a laugh you didn't expect. She wasn't even kidding, her tone was deadpan. She sighed and shook her head. "That's so embarrassing."
"For you or him?" you asked softly.
She thought about it. "…Both."
You both sat that way for a minute.
The sound of someone landing in the pool echoed across the yard. Followed by some very loud cheering.
She looked at you again. "Did he say anything?"
You stiffened. "No."
"You sure?"
You nodded. "I shut the door before he could."
She relaxed. "Good." She leaned back and stretched her legs. "Because if he did say something stupid, I swear, I will throw him in the ocean."
You snorted. "You'd lose."
She said, "Maybe. But it would be satisfying."
You both sat quietly for a while. Then she said, more gently, "You know he's an asshole to you, right?"
That caught you off guard. You looked at her but she wasn't smiling now. Her face was still, serious.
"I mean… I know he messes with you," she said. "He has since we were kids." She looked down at the water at her feet. "I've told him to cut it out before."
Your stomach dropped a little. "You have?"
"Yeah." She shrugged. "He never listens."
She looked at you. "But if he's doing anything worse than his usual stupid tricks, you should tell me."
You looked away. You wondered how Sarah would react when he locked you in the closet, superglued your skirt to a lunch bench, or spread rumors that you were so obsessed with him you had a whole shrine in your house just for him. You sighed. Rafe did do things worse than his usual stupid tricks.
You stared at the dark water beyond the dock. Moonlight poured across it in thin silver lines.
"It's fine," you said softly. She looked at your face and you could feel it. That searching look as if she were trying to figure it out.
But after a moment, she sighed and rested her head against your shoulder. "Well," she started, "at least now you've gotten the worst part out of the way."
You looked down at her. "What?"
"Walking in on Rafe." You snorted.
"So there's just some random people having sex in the bathroom every single party?" You joked and she shrugged.
"The probability is high," was all she said while laughing in between words.
And for the first time that night, that knot in your chest loosened a little.
The night had settled into that weird rhythm parties always reached after a while, where everything blurs into noise and movement and flickering lights.
From where you were sitting at the dock, you could still see the house glowing behind you.
The music vibrated unevenly against the walls, and the laughter spilled out occasionally when the sliding door was open. A brief flash of light poured out before the sliding door slammed shut.
Someone landed in the pool as huge splash echoed across the yard, followed by laughter and drunken cheers.
You barely looked.
Sarah had left you at the dock only a minute ago, brushing leftover sand from her legs as she stood. "I'm going to the poolhouse bathroom," She had quickly said.
Then she made a face. "Not the one inside. I'm not risking walking in on my brother tonight." You snorted. She patted your shoulder. "Don't disappear."
Then she jogged off across the grass toward the small pool house that sat near the edge of the property.
And just like that, you were left alone again.
You leaned your arms on your knees, loosely holding the half-empty plastic cup in your hands. The last of the punch shivered at the bottom, if only you asked for more punch from the group of teens that gave it to you minutes ago.
The speaker played quietly from the dock. There were a few people standing at the end, daring each other to jump into the dark water.
The tide softly crashed against the wooden posts beneath you. For a moment, things felt…calm.
Then, you heard steps approaching across the dock. You assumed it was just another party-goer until they stopped beside you.
"You know," The voice said, "I didn't think I'd see you here."
You looked up. And blinked.
"Pope?"
Standing beside you, hands shoved awkwardly in his hoodie. He looked the same as you remembered. That same gaze in his eyes, that same posture as if he weren't entirely comfortable being anywhere loud or rambunctious, or anywhere, ever.
His hair was longer and he’d gotten taller, but he was still the same Pope you remembered. Still kind of quiet, always paying attention, and kind of a nerd but in a really good way.
You stood up a little straighter. “What are you doing here?”
Pope shrugged and looked at the house. “It’s an open party.”
Then he turned back to you. “Thought I’d see what was happening, since everyone’s here.”
You couldn’t help but smile a little. You hadn’t really talked to him in a long time.
When you were younger, your dad had done work around the south side docks, back when you were still technically a Pogue, so you were always hanging around the group.
You weren’t exactly one of them, not anymore, but still.
Pope shuffled his legs. “You look surprised.” He gestured to the house. “I mean, you’re sitting alone at a Kook party.”
You laughed quietly. “Fair point.”
He motioned to your cup. “How many has it been so far?”
You looked down at the plastic cup. “…A few.”
Pope laughed. “Don’t get carried away.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
“Because I saw someone pour a crap ton of alcohol in the punch bowl.” Pope leaned against the railing beside you, looking out at the water.
“So, how have you been?” he asked.
It was a simple question, but you hesitated.
“Fine,” you said.
Pope looked at you with a face that only someone who had known you for years could.
“That didn’t sound convincing.”
You smiled faintly. “Just a lot, basically.”
He nodded immediately. “Yeah.” That was enough.
For a few moments, the two of you just watched the water.
Then Pope said quietly, “I always wondered what happened to you.”
You looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“You just stopped coming around. Even JJ and John B were…disappointed.”
You looked down at the wooden planks beneath your feet. It felt like forever since you heard from those two, you remembered their faces the moment you told them that your parents had won the lottery and you might be moving to Figure 8.
Even JJ joked that you shouldn’t just ignore them after you become a Kook entirely.
And then you did, you really never outrightly ignored them, you just stopped talking to them since you really stopped visiting south side anymore.
“There wasn’t really a reason to anymore.”
Pope frowned but didn’t push.
Instead, he changed the subject. “Well, if it makes you feel better,” he said, “you’re officially the most sober person I’ve talked to tonight.”
You chuckled quietly. Before you could respond, the back door slammed open.
Loud.
And it closed and someone started walking toward the dock. You didn’t notice at first, but Pope did.
You looked up and your stomach dropped.
It was Rafe.
He has been watching you. Your grip tightened slightly around the plastic cup.
He stepped onto the dock, slow and relaxed.
The wood creaked under his steps, his face illuminated by the dim outdoor lights.
He looked at you. Then at Pope. Then back at you.
The smirk stretched slightly. “Well, this is new.” He said lightly.
He cocked his head between the two of you.
“What is this,” he made a gesture between you and Pope, “a geek-on-geek dating situation?”
Your stomach dropped. Pope stiffened.
Rafe laughed to himself. “Didn’t know you were into that,” he said to you. “Guess everyone’s got a type.”
You felt heat crawl up your neck as Pope straightened. “We’re just talking.”
Rafe hummed, “Yeah? Looks real friendly for just talking.” He took a step closer.
He looked Pope up and down before he asked, “The hell are you even doing here Pogue?”
Pope didn’t hesitate. “It’s an open party.”
Rafe scoffed. “Really? Open,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Pope said, firmer. “Open. Everyone was invited. Not just Kooks.”
Rafe’s smile didn’t disappear. But it changed.
“Including the south side,” Pope said. “So I’m allowed to be here.”
For a moment, Rafe just stared at him. Then he let out a laugh. “You really think that means you’re welcome here?”
Pope’s expression hardened. “I didn’t say that,” he replied. “I said I’m allowed to be here.”
And that small distinction, he hated.
His eyes looked at you again, and this time the smirk doesn’t quite reach them.
“You couldn’t find anyone else?” he asked, this time louder. “Seriously?”
And that hit differently. Not loud, Not joking anymore.
You swallowed, your grip on your cup tightening. “We’re just talking,” you said.
Rafe’s gaze snapped to you. “And I’m just asking.”
There was an edge to it now. His words were hard.
Pope shifted beside you. “Why do you even care?” he asked.
And that did it. The shift was immediate.
Rafe stared at him, his smugness gone. “What did you just say?”
Pope held his ground. “I said, why do you care?”
Even the music felt muffled now, Rafe stepped closer. “You got a real big mouth for someone who just walked into a place they don’t belong,” he muttered.
Pope didn’t back up. “It’s an open party,” he repeated. “You don’t get to decide who talks to who.”
Rafe let out a quiet breath, this time there was nothing amused about it. “You think I’m deciding?” he said softly.
Another step forward. “You think this is about that?”
Your heart started pounding. “Rafe, ” You tried interjecting, but your voice came out smaller than you wanted.
He didn’t even look at you. His attention directed toward Pope. “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”
Pope’s jaw clenched. “I’m not the one starting something.”
That was it. Rafe moved. Fast, It wasn’t a punch, but he held him by his collar as pope was suddenly on is tippy toes “Say that again.”
“Rafe, stop.” You reached out, your hand brushing his arm.
His reaction was immediate. His head snapped toward you, eyes sharp. “Don’t pogue trash.”
The word cut clean. You pulled your hand back like you had been burned. Rafe turned back to Pope, his fists clenching at his sides now, actually clenching.
His shoulders tensed, and you could tell he was holding himself back by a thread.
“Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Say it again.”
Pope didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But he didn’t back down, either. Rafe stepped forward again and this time you could see the veins on his hand.
“Rafe.”
The voice cut through everything.
All three of you turned.
Walking quickly down the dock was Sarah, her expression already a mix of annoyed and tired.
Her eyes flicked between you, Pope, and Rafe, taking in the distance, the tension, the clenched fists.
Then she sighed. “Seriously?” she said, crossing her arms. “We’re doing this right now?”
Rafe exhaled sharply. “Stay out of it, Sarah.”
“No,” she shot back immediately. “I’m not staying out of it.” She pointed back toward the house. “Because I just came from the pool house, ”
She paused, made a face. “and your one-night subscription is sitting on the floor, drunk out of her mind.”
Pope let out a quiet, surprised laugh.
You blinked. Rafe glared “Shut up.”
“No, you shut up,” Sarah snapped. “And go deal with her before she starts crying or breaks something expensive, we all know you’re not the one who’s going to pay for it.”
At that Rafe’s jaw tightened and some of the fire in him pulled back. Not gone, just contained.
His jaw tightened and he shot a quick look at you, then over at Pope. You could tell he had a lot more to say. So much more.
But he moved away, first one slow step, then another. “Cool,” he said quietly, still looking at the ground. “This ain't over yet, I will come for you”
It wasn’t obvious if he meant you or Pope. Maybe both.
Then he turned around and walked off the dock without saying anything else. The tension didn’t disappear right away. You could still feel it hanging in the air long after he left the dock and made his way toward the house.
Sarah took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She rubbed her forehead and glanced over at you. “You okay?”
You nodded, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah,” you mumbled, even though your heart was beating so fast it felt like it might burst and your hands couldn’t seem to stop trembling.
Sarah turned her attention to Pope. “What about you?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “I’m fine.”
She gave a short nod and looked at you again. “Okay,” she said softly. “How we enjoy everything else? Let's not let him ruin our night”
You laughed, but it sounded a bit forced, your voice still shaky. “Yeah,” you said. That was probably smart advice. Because for a second there, it really felt like things were about to fall apart.
The next day didn’t really feel like a new day at all. It was more like the night had just spilled over and refused to set free.
Everything in Tannyhill looked weirdly untouched. Not a mess in sight. Silent. The party was over, but traces of it seemed stuck in the corners.
Rafe barely slept at all. It wasn’t that he didn’t try, he had stumbled into his room and flopped onto his mattress fully clothed and reeking like yesterday’s bonfire. But every time he shut his eyes, there it was again. Not the whole night, just flashes and your face. How you stared at him. You weren’t scared. You weren’t even that fascinated.
He could feel it crawling under his skin.
Now he was standing in the kitchen.
He held onto the kitchen counter with one hand like it would keep him upright, clutching a glass of whiskey with the other. He’d snagged something heavy and sharp from Ward’s bar cabinet, wanting the burn in his throat to drown out the rest.
His hair was wild and his shirt looked ready to fall off his shoulders. Rolled up sleeves, but he kept fidgeting with them, as if the feeling of fabric made him uncomfortable.
“Rafe?” Someone called his name.
He pretended not to hear and took a long sip of his drink.
“Rafe,” the voice drawled insistently closer.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t turn around.
He figured that if he didn’t acknowledge anyone, they’d all take the hint. But Sarah didn’t care what rules he made up, because she never cared for them.
She gripped his forearm. Tight. The faintest hint of a bruise already forming under her fingers. Not in a taunting way, but in a resolute way, and it commanded him to halt with an unspoken order.
“What the fuck, Sarah “
“Outside. Now.” She said it so quietly and yet she made sure he caught every syllable.
He tried to jerk his hand away and almost succeeded, but she gripped harder. “God, what the fuck is wrong with you, ”
“You are what’s wrong. You’re my problem.” She didn’t let go. Wouldn’t let go, as a matter of fact she physically pulled him out of the door.
He could beat her in any fight. But he didn’t. Wouldn’t. Which said more about his state than if he’d gone along willingly.
The sliding glass creaked open with a grind.
Once they’d gotten outside, Sarah shoved him back. It wasn’t enough to leave a mark, but enough to prove a point. “What the fuck was that back there, ”
Rafe blinked up at her like he hadn’t been thinking about anything. “What was what, ”
But as if just remembering last night, a small, impish smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, and a low, dangerous glimmer reappeared behind his navy blue gaze.
“Oh, you mean last night,” he said lightly. “Jesus, don’t tell me I ruined her little nerd-girl bonding session. Because if I knew they were about to start painting each other’s nails and, what, maybe kiss, or something...” He stifled a laugh with his fist.
Sarah stared at him, her eyebrows raising. Not even mad yet, just totally taken aback. Like she was just now realizing her brother had been replaced with someone else.
“Don’t,” she said, not joking.
Rafe cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head in innocence. “Don’t what, Sarah?”
“Don’t do that,” she demanded, stepping forward. “Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing, ”
He frowned. “It was a party, Sarah. People do stupid shit, ”
“Do stupid shit, ” she repeated, “You call that doing stupid shit, ”
His lips thinned into a hard line. He didn’t answer for a moment.
Sarah dragged a hand through her hair and looked away, collecting herself. “You embarrassed her.”
He didn’t answer.
“You humiliated her,” she continued.
Still nothing.
“And for what?” she asked, her tone sharp. “Because she’s not who you want playing fairy tale? Because she’s not good enough to live in, ”
His grip on his glass tightened, and she saw the faintest pale coloring in his fingers. “Stop making it a bigger deal than it is.”
“I’m not,” she said, instantly retaliating. “If anything, I’m the only one that does say anything.”
She moved forward again, close enough that he couldn’t look away. “You’ve been watching her. You follow her around.”
Rafe stilled. Not even dramatically so. Just… still.
“I have not, ” he said, forcing an embittered smile.
“Rafe.” She pressed. “I’ve seen you,” she said, her voice less loud, but more biting. “At the party. Before the party. And even before that. You don’t just watch her, you follow her around. You act like she’s a ghost you saw in the night, like if you touch her she’ll curse you in some terrible way. And you make her life a living fucking hell.”
He scowled a little. “Stop being so melodramatic, ”
“Am I? Or are you just mad I noticed?”
The wind picked up, tangling her hair across her cheek, but she didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
“Why are you so obsessed with her?” she asked again, gently, but still with force.
Rafe spat out a bitter, humorless laugh and looked at the ocean, as if by looking at something else it would momentarily distract from that word. “I’m not obsessed.”
“Liar.”
He exhaled sharply. “Christ, you’re one dramatic bitch, Sarah, ”
“I’m not, and don’t call me a bitch or else I’ll tell dad that you’ve been stealing from his wine cabinet.”
She softened, but not out of skepticism. Out of certainty. “I know you, Rafe, ”
He looked back at her at that. “She doesn’t belong here.” The words were stilted and broken up by pauses that were short enough that it was clear he had wanted to say them impulsively.
Sarah frowned immediately. “What, ”
“She doesn’t belong here,” he repeated, more steadfast. “You keep dragging in people like that, acting like it’s no big deal if you just bring in whoever you like, whoever you want to play doll with for a month, ”
“People like what, ”
He huffed, shaking his head as if she was testing his patience. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” She said, more directly. “I want to hear you say it,” That did it.
That snapped something small. “She’s not one of us, Sarah,” he said, sharper, less controlled. “She walks around like she is, like she gets it, but she doesn’t. She won’t ever really understand.”
“And that bothers you...why?”
He opened his mouth to answer, knowing exactly what he was about to say, and then paused. Because there wasn’t an answer to that question that he hadn’t buried, “She shouldn’t be hanging around people like that,” It was a bad response. But it was an answer, and he stuck to it just fine.
Sarah’s features knitted together, “People like you?”
Rafe made an odd face, a mixture of offense and embarrassment, “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No,” he snapped, coming closer suddenly, more menacingly. “What I meant is, if she wants to be a kook, fine. But don’t half-ass the act. Don’t parade around here like you’ve got nothing to hide.”
“You’re very focused on people who parade,” Sarah said, coming closer to match the intensity, now making Rafe step back. “You’re very focused on people. Very focused on her.”
Rafe scoffed, but it was forced. “It’s not hard to notice when the wrong people walk too close to the wrong place.”
“No,” she said, slower, biting her words. “It’s not. But it’s still strange, how you always seem to be around her.”
He was silent this time and he didn’t deny it.
“She doesn’t even pretend to play it right,” he bit back, speaking now as if to himself more than to Sarah. “She’s a poser, but not a good poser. She never even wants to fake it.”
His grip tightened around the tumbler now. “She just, stands there like she’s above it or something.”
“That’s not—” Sarah started.
“But she’s not,” he snapped “She’s not, above anything,” Rafe inhaled, something snapped back into place, “She just doesn’t get it.”
He was silent.
Sarah stared at him. Studying every little crack, every tic, because that wasn’t normal, “You’re lying.”
Rafe blinked, “About what, ”
“About why you care.”
“I don’t care.”
“You do.”
“I don’t, ”
“You do,” she cut in, stronger than before, forceful, “And it’s weird.”
Sarah bore holes into him for another second, and then scoffed, a clear look of distaste flickering behind her eyelashes. She pointed her finger at him, “Stay the fuck away from her, Rafe,” she spat, “I mean it.”
She stormed off inside, closing the sliding door with only the amount of power necessary to make Rafe flinch.
@gloomskulls 2026. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me
─ .✦ the face i have buried before - On your final year at Nevermore, you struggle with your weak psychic powers that make you feel more normie than outcast. When Pugsley Addams revived a zombie you thought this year couldn't get more weird. But somehow...his zombie kept staring at you for some reason. (dark)
⋆. 𐙚 ̊. future fics will be added, as for now this is the only fics I have written for. DO NOT STEAL OR CLAIM THAT THIS FIC ARE YOURS !!
⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ Your parents won the lottery, which brings you to life among the Kooks. Regardless of your wealth, Rafe Cameron establishes from the first moment you that you do not fit in, hatred and obsession begin to blend together, and in Outer Banks, power always comes at a price.
⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ EVENTUAL NON-CON/DUB-CON. bullying, physical abuse/assault, verbal abuse, classism, manipulation, power imbalance, psychological trauma, humiliation,obsessive behavior. attempted drowning, Rafe is an actual psychopath.
If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content
A/n: this is so long compared to chapter 1 lmao, did some proofreading in chapter 1 and changed some lines that were too cringe lol, they're still children probably until the next chapter where there's a huge timeskip.
Day two just felt heavier somehow. Nothing had actually happened yet. But it wasn’t a blank slate anymore either. You felt intimidated and scared, you were never the type to get bullied, maybe a few light teasing here and there but never to the full extent that Rafe did.
When you woke up, all you could feel was the memory of someone running their hands through your hair. It sat there on your scalp, lingering just out of sight. Bruised but still healing. You stood in front of your closet for so long that your mother asked if you were okay. Your new clothes seemed like paper and glass. They were too fragile for the weight of the day.
The rest of the school day was like dust swirling in your nose. No one reached for your hair again for some reason, they had already learned they could do it anytime, just like Rafe. The silence almost a dare now, not a comfort.
You stood on the stoop with the afternoon sun beginning to melt away, watching a stream of well-organized moms in Rolls Royce and sports car with god knows how much those vehicles cost. You stood in line, bracing yourself against the porch post, and waited.
Your father was late.
You told yourself it was fine. He was probably on the phone again, chasing another deal. Adults ran late. They had things to do. It wasn’t personal. Ever since the move, everything in your life felt abstract and undefined.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Silent cars disappeared one by one. Mother’s laughter faded and teachers ducked back inside. Finally it was just you on the steps as crickets began their nightly chorus.
You hugged your backpack as if you could melt away inside it. Which you wished you could, you wanted to hide in your backpack more than anything.
You hesitated, home wasn’t that far anyway. You’d remembered the way.
After a whole hour of waiting you ultimately decided to walk.
The neighborhood was too perfect, too clean. No potholes to avoid, no rusted fences. The lawns were aggressively, unnaturally green. Your shoes clicked on the sidewalk. The sound echoed down the road, evident that you were the only one walking. The whole place smelled like magazine perfume. Even the wind felt manufactured.
You wondered which house Rafe went home to. You hated yourself for even caring.
Your house appeared in the distance, white gates and all. It was everything your mother had ever wanted all in one place. All you could hear her nagging your father ever since they hit the jackpot. She forced you to feed her dreams every day. The feeling in the pit of your stomach was not sadness, not fear but an uncooked sense of alienation.
Then you saw the cars. Two of them to be exact. Blocking the driveway. Shiny, black, and most certainly worth more than your new house, you might be rich now, but if anything, your family is still at the bottom of the food chain in Kook perspective.
You heard voices through the door. Laughter. But no music.
You cracked open the door and snuck inside.
Mother’s cooking aroma greeted your nose, but it was richer, more indulgent. You heard laughter and too much wine. You slipped in, your mother’s perfume overwhelming your senses as warm yellow light poured down the halls.
You crept inside as though you did not belong.
Your father suddenly appaered in the hallway, restless, nervous, waiting. “There you are!” he said, loud with relief, louder than he needed to be. “Why didn’t you wait?”
“I did,” you whispered. You wanted to tell your father how long you waited for him, how you wished he prioritized you more like he used to, but you chose to keep your mouth shut, not wanting to ruin his mood.
He checked his watch, guilt flickering briefly in his eyes before vanishing. “Right. Well. We’ve got guests.”
That’s right. Guests. You should have known.
“I want you to meet someone special. My new boss.”
Boss, the word hung awkwardly in the air. Didn’t your father win the lottery? Wasn’t he the boss now?
Everything in the dining room was borrowed, nothing belonged to you. Candles glimmered in crystal holders, glasses sparkled. The food looked thin and perfectly portioned. Your mother sat ramrod straight, like a queen attending court.
And at the head of the table sat a man, the room’s true owner.
He didn’t stand to greet you. He sat and watched. He was tall, broad shouldered, overstuffed confidence, his button down shirt rolled over his thick forearms. His hair was neat, his smile forced.
When he rose, it was slow, deliberate. “So this is the famous daughter,” he said, his voice warm but empty, his voice was deep and handsome, impossibly charming.
You nodded in reply.
Your father gave you another forced pat for encouragement. “This is Mr. Cameron,” he said, “He’s been so kind to us.”
Mr. Cameron.
His name thudded against your ribs. Cameron. Fucking Cameron.
You fought to keep your face blank as the name rang in your ears.
He approached you, extending a hand. You lingered, staring at his palm. Your father’s hand redirected you and you reached out to take it. He gripped you tight. Strong, but not unkind.
“Pleasure to meet you. Your family speaks well of you,” he said. You didn’t know how to respond as you just stared at him in awe.
Your mother jumped in. “She’s adjusting,” she said. “It’s a big change.”
He nodded. “Yes, Figure Eight is like that, being a Kook is no easy lifestyle.” He said it like a warning. The authority in his voice made you wary.
You wondered how much he knew. If he knew about the school. If he knew what his son did to you, what the so-called Kook prince did to you on the very first day of school.
You told yourself that Cameron could be a common name. But your nerves demanded otherwise.
“Go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon,” your father said. You nodded and retreated to the washroom, heart pounding in your chest.
You examined yourself in the mirror. Same face with the same quiet eyes, now living in a house you couldn’t call home, and a man your father called friend who bore the same name as the boy who made your head throb.
You massaged your scalp, feeling for any sign of trauma. No bruise. No trace. It wasn't like the fall was too hard anyway.
Deep masculine laughter echoed down the stairwell, noisily filling the home.
Your eyes found his, polite but clearly sizing you up. His voice was steady, carrying this quiet strength that seemed to quietly take over the room.
You sat where your father indicated, the chair's cool leather soft beneath you, as small talk buzzed on around the table.
At first, things were pretty easy. Safe, even. The grownups threw around the usual business stuff. Your dad and Ward took turns tossing out numbers, talking about investments and partnerships. You didn't really know what a lot of the words meant, but you could hear the pattern in their voices. Numbers, names, and bits of business moving like chess pieces between them. You just listened and stayed quiet.
Your mom came around with the wine for the adults, then filled a fancy little glass with juice for you and set it nearby. You gripped it tightly, turning it around in your hands so you wouldn't accidentally spill. Mom flashed you a quick, reassuring smile, and you gave her a tiny nod in return. You were learning how to play your part in this whole scene, at least for tonight.
Everything was rolling along pretty smoothly, until someone brought up schools.
At first, it was just another comment. Ward made a passing remark about how good private schools are supposed to be on Figure Eight. And then, like things had secretly taken a sudden sharp turn, he said it.
“My son,” Ward said casually, sounding like it was something he said all the time, “he’s going to the same school as your daughter.”
A wave of cold spread through your chest. Your hands froze around your glass. You could feel your pulse throbbing in your throat.
The room didn’t skip a beat. Those words dangled in the air, quiet and normal-sounding, but to you, it felt like someone jumped right out at you from behind a corner.
“Oh?” your father replied, his tone and expression light, but with noticeable tension behind every word. “Is that so?”
Ward smiled, just a small uptick of his lips. “Yes. Rafe. His in her class.”
Your stomach dropped. That boy from yesterday, the one who yanked your hair so hard you almost fell, the one whose smile haunted your mind and whose presence you desperately wanted to forget, he was now a fixture in your life, more than you'd guessed.
Ward leaned back a little bit, again with the easy confidence of someone who made suggestions that were really not suggestions at all. “I was thinking,” he began, a thought made a fact by the tone of his voice, “it might be nice if Rafe could be her… playdate, from time to time. She could come to Tannyhill Manor for a few hours every so often. Socializing. Getting used to each other.”
You stared at the tablecloth. Your nails dug into your palms. You wanted to say no. You wanted to argue To tell him that no, you weren’t a child to be paraded, and certainly not to entertain his son.
But your dad cut in before you could even start to form the words.
“Yes,” he said smoothly, as though he had already anticipated his own promptings. “That’s a good idea. They should spend some time together.”
A flicker of panic seized your chest. Your lips pressed together. Your mind raced, there was nowhere you could escape him. Not here. Not there. Not in this new life that was supposed to be safe for you.
Ward’s gaze flicked briefly to you. No malice, not exactly, but he recognized the fear. The tension. He liked seeing you tense. His plans were working.
You forced a minuscule nod, but a very visible one. Inside, your chest was heavy and tight, your pulse too loud, and your stomach churned with that kind of fear that takes away your ability to move.
The conversation continued after that, returning to investments and figures as if nothing had happened. But the words lingered. The table seemed brighter, the candlelight harsher, and every laugh from the adults around you sounded like it belonged to a world where you no longer fit.
And somewhere beneath the surface, a small, bitter seed took root.
It was Rafe.
It was Ward.
It was everything you hadn’t asked for.
And things were just starting.
You went to bed before anyone told you to.
The house was still humming from the dinner party, faint laughter lingering in the walls, dishes clinking softly in the kitchen downstairs, your father’s voice carrying through the vents in low conversation. The air smelled like extinguished candles and expensive wine.
You brushed your teeth slowly. Changed into pajamas that were softer than anything you used to own. Climbed into a bed that felt too big.
You lay flat on your back and stared at the ceiling, because no matter how soft and comfortable your bed was, sleep didn’t come. It hovered just out of reach, like something teasing you.
You rolled onto your side. The sheets whispered against your skin. You closed your eyes and tried to imagine something calm, the ocean, maybe, the way it looked from the bridge at sunset.
But instead of peace you saw a classroom. A hand wrapping itself in your hair. The sound of your chair scraping the floor as you hit it.
You flipped onto your other side. The pillow felt too warm. You flipped it over. The slab of cold only would last a couple of minutes.
Your thoughts replayed over and over again, the suggestion of a playdate. Tannyhill Manor. The word manor itself felt heavy, towering. You imagined a house even larger than your own. You imagined being alone in it with him.
Your stomach tightened as you pulled the blanket up to your chin.
You hated him.
Not in the dramatic way children say they hate vegetables or homework. You hated him in the quiet way, the kind that sat still and steady in your chest. The kind that didn’t flare up but burned low and constant.
You couldn’t even really tell why.
He didn’t know you. You didn’t know him. He had just decided, for reasons you couldn’t see, that you were someone to pull, to mock, to push.
And now your parents were offering you up like some kind of… arrangement.
You turned again.
The hallway light slipped under your door in a thin golden line. The house had finally gone quiet.
Your door creaked open softly.
“Sweetheart?” your mother’s voice was gentle.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second before opening them. “Yeah?”
She stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind her. Her makeup was gone now. Her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked easier now, her expression free from the dinner smile.
“I noticed you came to bed early,” she said, sitting on the edge of your mattress. The bed dipped slightly under her weight. “Everything okay?”
You hesitated. You didn’t usually tell her things like this. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you didn’t know how to explain the feeling. The humiliation. The way it stuck to you even after you got up off the classroom floor.
In the silence between her words, you debate whether you actually want to tell her. You don't even know if there was a point in telling her either way, what would she do? But, you decided to chance it anyway, against your better habits.
“There’s this boy,” you said quietly.
She blinked, something unreadable in her eyes. “A boy?”
Yes, a boy who keeps bothering me without doing anything, the boy who made my first day hell, the boy who laughed at me when I fell, yea, that boy.
“He’s in my class.” You stared at the blanket instead of her face. “He keeps bothering me. Pulling my hair. Pushing my chair. He… he makes fun of me.” You swallowed.
“I think he hates me.”
There it was. The simplest version of it.
Your mother was quiet for a moment and then, she chuckled.
Not cruelly. Not sharply. Just… amused. “Oh, honey,” she said lightly. “That’s nothing to worry about.”
Your brows furrowed. “It’s not nothing.”
She brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “Sometimes boys act like that because they don’t know how to express themselves. Especially at that age.” She said with a smile.
You stared at her. What are you trying to say, you asked ever so quietly.
She smiled knowingly. “It probably means he likes you.”
Your stomach twisted up at her response, a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and sorrow.
You immediately shook your head. “No.”
She laughed softly. “It’s true. Pulling pigtails, teasing, it’s a classic sign of a crush.”
You sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing. “He doesn’t like me.”
There was no confusion in your voice. No doubt. “He hates me.” You said immediately and surely, looking at your mom baffled and confused, you were young, but you knew how to differentiate an admirer from a bully.
Your mother tilted her head. “What’s his name?” You hesitated. And then you said it.
“Rafe, Rafe Cameron. You used to clean for Camerons right mom?”
Her eyes lit up, actually lit up.
The connection clicked behind her gaze almost instantly. You watched the realization unfold, the dinner table, Ward’s smile, the opportunity.
“Oh,” she said softly. Not concerned. Not upset. Interested. You started to feel regret in your gut, as if something told you that maybe you should've just kept it to yourself.
“Rafe Cameron?” she repeated.
You nodded.
A slow smile spread across her face, the same practiced one she’d worn at dinner, but softer now, more personal.
“Well,” she said, smoothing your blanket as if settling something much larger than fabric. “That’s nothing a little playdate can’t fix. Amazing timing for Ward to suggest a playdate with you and the boy.”
Your chest tightened. “Mom...”
“Sweetheart, his father is very important to your dad right now. And Rafe is probably just adjusting, just like you are.” She patted your hand gently. “Sometimes friendships start a little rocky.”
"He's not my friend," you said.
Her smile didn't fade. "But you could be."
You stared at her, not believing what you were hearing. You wanted her to really understand. To see how his fingers had twisted your hair. To hear the class laughing at you. To watch the teacher blame you.
But to her, this wasn’t cruelty or humiliation. It was opportunity.
“He’ll be a good friend,” she added. “You’ll see. Friends like that always protect you the most”
This time you shook your head, but only a little. “No,” you whispered.
She gently kissed your forehead, her thumb brushing along your temple. “Get some sleep,” she said quietly. “Everything will work itself out.”
She stood up, walked to the door, and hesitated just for a second before turning off the light completely. Darkness fell over the room as you lay back down slowly. The house was quiet once more. You stared into the void, wide awake
Your mom probably thought it was just a crush. How stupid, you thought.
Rafe just liked hurting you. You wanted to scream it at her and watch it ring in her ears for weeks.
You turned on your side, pulled the blanket closer around you. Sleep still wouldn’t come. But the hatred did, and it settled quietly and certainly in your chest.
And there it stayed.
You looked at the ceiling again, but it wasn’t the same anymore. It seemed farther away, colder. ‘It probably means he likes you’, adults think in weird ways, you thought
The words repeated themselves in your head, quieter every time, but still sharper somehow
You tried to imagine it. Liking someone. You tried to imagine liking someone and showing it by yanking their hair hard enough to make their scalp hurt for hours. By pulling their chair out of under them so they hit the floor. By smiling while everyone laughed.
It didn’t make sense.
You weren’t dramatic. You weren’t someone who exaggerated. You knew the difference between teasing and cruelty. This wasn’t the playful shoving you saw between kids who shared a snack.
This was deliberate.
And yet, in your mother’s version of it, that deliberateness had been softened into something almost sweet, pure.
You rolled on your side, brought the blanket up over your shoulder. Maybe she didn’t see it the way you did because she hadn’t been there, maybe if she was there she would understand, maybe she would protect you, but you highly doubt that. She hadn’t heard the way Rafe had laughed in the classroom. It was different from confused laughter, or awkward laughter. It was approving laughter. Like he’d done something impressive
She hadn’t seen the teacher’s look, the quick annoyance directed at you, as though you had somehow caused it.
You saw a boy who had decided you were something lesser. Your mother saw opportunity instead.
And what hurt most, wasn’t even the hair pulling, or the fall. It was how easily your feelings had been folded into something convenient.
Rafe Cameron.
The name felt heavier now. It wasn’t just a classmate’s name. It was also connected to your father’s new job, to the dinner party and the way your mother's eyes lit up when she realized who he was.
You understood a lot more than you let on. You understood, for example, that this wasn’t just about school.
It was about staying here. About fitting in, here in kookland. About keeping this life you just had.
You blinked at the darkness, throat tight.
If you pushed harder, if you insisted he wasn’t nice, that he wasn’t a potential “good friend,” would it sound like complaining? Would it seem ungrateful? After all, you only knew Rafe because your mother used to cleaned his bedroom, you don't actually know the real him.
They had worked so hard to get here. You didn’t want to be the reason anything cracked, so maybe this was something you just had to tolerate, quietly.
The thought pressed down on your chest, heavy.
You tried to imagine going to Tannyhill Manor. You tried to imagine sitting in some large room with him, under the command to play nicely
You felt your stomach squeeze, queasy. He wouldn’t stop just because adults wanted him to. In fact, he’d probably have more fun.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Maybe your mum was wrong, maybe she wasn’t.
Maybe boys really did show affection in strange, ugly ways even. But even if that were true, even if he did like you, that didn’t make it any less humiliating
And you didn’t want to be liked like that. You just wanted to be left alone.
The house was quiet now. The air conditioner buzzed softly. Somewhere outside, waves hit the shore in a sort of rhythm
Your thoughts started to slow, soft now.
You imagined the classroom again, but this time it started to blur. The faces lost their details. The laughter lost its sound.
You felt heavier against the mattress.
The anger in your chest, which had been sharp and alert, dulled into something quieter. Quieter, but not gone. Just resting
Your breathing evened out before you noticed. You were still frowning a little when sleep finally found you, not peaceful, not fully relaxed, but exhausted enough to let go.
And even in sleep, the feeling lingered
When Saturday rolled around, it came in real hot and almost blinding, with the sun making the Outer Banks seem even sharper than usual.
You had seen this coming for days. Your mom warned you two times before lunch, flattening your hair like tidiness could sugarcoat what loomed at the foot of the driveway. Your dad almost never glanced your way when he hinted at “important matters.”
Important for them, but not important enough for you to be left at home. Important, but not enough to take you along. Important, in that you had to be left at Tannyhill
The car ride to Tannyhill was quiet except for the engine humming and the gravel crunching under the tires. You watched out the window as the houses got bigger and fancier, their lawns wide and flat. And then the gates showed up as you rounded the corner
Big. White. Definitely extra. Those gates probably alone cost more than your old place in the Cut. They slid open with a kind of slow drama as your dad trundled up the snaking driveway, and then the mansion, sprawling, stark, so enormous it felt unkind, came into view, squatting on the horizon.
You gulped. When the car stopped, your dad shifted in his seat toward you, wearing a mask of sincerity. “Be polite,” he started softly. “You’ll have a good time, sweetheart.”
You nodded, even though something in your chest was tight. Before you could even raise your hand, the door opened, and there stood Ward Cameron, all relaxed and confident, as if it were a pleasant arrangement between friends.
“There she is,” he cooed softly. “We’re so glad to have you, Rafe's upstairs, I'm just gonna send you there before we discuss...important matters to your daddy.” he said while smiling, placing a loose hand on your shoulder as you entered the house.
The foyer was enormous, a ceiling too high to even reach. Daylight streamed in through giant windows, reflecting off the floor tiles and making them glow. It smelled fresh and expensive. Ward guided you up the spiral staircase, talking idly about the significance of kids spending time together, the importance of establishing bonds early, enchanted that you and Rafe would be kept together.
You barely replied to the things he was saying, only ocasionally nodding in response. When you reached the end of the hallway, he knocked once and pushed open a door.
“Rafe,” he called. “You have a guest.” You went in, your blood ran cold and immediately realized that you had made a mistake.
Rafe was not alone; two other boys were in the room beside him, maybe a little taller than he was. One sat cross-legged on the carpet, a deck of cards lying loose around his hands. The other stood leaning against Rafe’s desk, idly swinging one leg.
They all ogled you, the atmosphere assaulting you with silence. Rafe, standing in front of the window, hair mussed, stared at you wordlessly.
Recognition shimmered, followed by another emotion altogether. “Oh,” Ward commented with false pleasantness, “Looks like you have friends over.”
“These are my best friends,” Rafe replied. His voice was smooth, but seething with underlying feelings you couldn’t quite name.
Ward gestured towards Topper and Kelce, and greeted them, “You must be Topper. And Kelce,” before clapping his hands together once jovially. “Well, it’s a party, then,” he chirped.
He headed towards Rafe with a hand over his shoulder, gently drawing him in before speaking. “Make sure she feels welcome, Bud.” Rafe ignored his father.
He leveled his gaze at you. “Of course Dad,” He said quietly, a small smile on his lips. “Me, Topper and Kelce are going to take a good care of her.”
Topper snickered, an attempt to muffle it poorly executed. Kelce bit his tongue, his eyes alight with amusement. Ward remained oblivious.
“That’s what I want to hear,” He said before turning towards you and proffering a reassuring smile. “You’ll have fun with them. Rafe’s a nice kid.” Nice kid.
You nodded, feeling like your neck was too stiff. Ward stepped out, closing the door, and the room instantly became stifling.
The silence lingered. Topper got up from the carpet, brushing off non-existent dust on his shorts. Kelce hopped off the desk and landed with a small thud on the floor.
Rafe lingered where he was, studying your face as if you were a stranger's pet he couldn't decide whether to caress or chase away. You stood beside the door, unsure whether to tuck your hands in your pockets or behind your back.
His room was huge, larger than the living area of your old home. The walls were decorated with an abundance of memorabilia and posters, shelves of trophies and boats. A king size bed was placed smack in the middle of the room, big but battered.
Three boys. One of you.
Rafe finally stepped closer. He was not towering above you, not yet. You were all still around ten years old, puberty not quite at your door yet, arms and legs a little awkward. Voices yet to settle.
But the way he moved towards you, every step calculated, annoyed you. “It’s you,” he said, tilting his head. “You really came after all.”
You ignored him. Topper circled around you, while Kelce moved to your right, neither menacing nor affectionate, just there.
Rafe stopped before you. “You didn’t say you were coming,” he said, almost as if it was your fault. “How...rude...”
“I didn’t know,” you replied softly. But you knew the whole week, you just didn't want to have that conversation with him while you were at school.
He hummed, feigning consideration. “You live in Figure Eight now. Funny, I remember my dad stopping by to see your parents in that ditch house in the Cut,” he said.
You nodded awkwardly. “Still a Pogue though,” Kelce added, grinning. Topper snorted.
The word wasn't said maliciously, not even spat out, just spoken. Rafe glanced at them, before humming back in agreement. “She’s just a Pogue with nice shoes,” he said.
Your face colored with embarrassment before you could stop it. You wanted to object, to say something clever, but your throat was closing. Rafe nudged you softly. You could see the faint freckles on his nose. “You gonna cry?” he asked.
Topper perched on the bedpost, amused. “She looks like she’s about to wail.”
“I’m not,” you replied swiftly.
Rafe smiled. “Good,” he answered.
He stepped back, clapping his hands together. “So,” he called out. “What are we going to do with her?” It sounded like a joke, but it wasn’t.
Topper shrugged, “We’re playing cards.” Kelce grinned. “She probably doesn’t know how to play. My mom tells me Pogues are too busy catching fish,” he said.
Rafe didn’t look away from your face. “Guess we’ll have to teach her,” he said.
The way he said it made your stomach feel odd. Downstairs, you could hear the faint buzz of adult voices, Ward moving around, blissfully unaware
Or maybe he just didn’t care. As the daylight filtered into Rafe's room, you realized belatedly, as the blood pulsed in your eardrums, that you would be alone with Rafe and his friends.
You were not a guest in their house. You were entertainment, and all three looked at you like they were children tearing open a new toy. Rafe smiled, gesturing towards the middle of the room.
He chuckled, “Don’t be shy.” But it wasn’t shyness you radiated now, it was calculation, and dread at the vastness between you and the door.
Before you knew it, an hour had gone by. Yet, there you were, cross-legged on Rafe’s bedroom carpet, hands full of UNO cards.
You couldn’t even recall agreeing to it. One moment you were standing idle near the door, the next second, Topper walk up to you and flung the deck in your direction.
Kelce started reciting rules, speedy and condescending. “Match the color or the number,” he said, tossing a red seven onto the pile. “It’s not hard,” he added.
You nodded. You had played before. Once back with your friend JJ, you've come to realize that you don't really remember when's the last time you even talked to him.
But here, even the simplest undertaking was a different type of test altogether. Rafe sat opposite you, his attention focused on you rather than the cards. Topper sprawled on your left, arms wide and leisurely. Kelce sat to your right.
The room felt brighter, airier than when you first entered, or perhaps you just grew used to it. “Your turn,” Rafe prompted. Only then did you notice everyone watching you.
You hastily placed a yellow five to match the pile. Kelce groaned. “Are you kidding? I needed that.”
Topper giggled. “You suck.” You smiled, half unsure. It wasn’t quite friendliness, but it wasn’t the malicious teasing either.
The game progressed rather quickly.
Every time someone slammed down a Draw Four, everyone in the room acted like it was the end of the world. When Rafe made Kelce grab card after card, Kelce nudged him with his shoulder and half-joked about how he must be cheating.
You tried not to laugh, but you couldn’t stop yourself, a small giggle broke free.
Rafe caught it.
He looked up at you, eyes lingering a bit, like he was noticing something for the first time or just trying to figure out what made you laugh.
You turned your focus back to your cards, not wanting any more attention. You didn’t say much tonight. When someone asked if you had a card you just nodded. If you didn’t, you shrugged with barely any movement. When Topper lost and sank to the floor like a melting snowman, you smiled but stayed quiet.
You usually were cautious. You didn’t want to stand out, didn’t want to look too excited, and definitely didn’t want to forget for a moment where you were and why you were here.
Then, all of a sudden, you actually won a round. You put down your very last card carefully, almost like you were afraid it would break.
"UNO," you said softly, barely above a whisper.
Kelce looked at your hands, clearly surprised. "You're kidding."
Topper leaned in to check for himself. "Did she seriously win?"
Rafe eyed the cards on the table, then glanced at you again. “I guess you just got beginner’s luck,” he said like it was no big deal.
You shrugged and smiled a little, like you agreed with him.
The next round started. Then another. As time went by, that tense feeling from earlier faded into the background, still there, but much less noticeable.
You nearly forgot you had anything to be afraid of.
Almost.
That is, until after a very animated disagreement about Reverse cards. Kelce was saying they couldn't be stacked, Topper was absolutely sure you could. That's when Rafe suddenly threw his cards to the floor.
"This is so boring," he said.
Topper raised an eyebrow at him. "You're probably just bored because you keep losing." Rafe ignored the comment, stood up and stretched his arms.
"We should just swim instead," Rafe said.
Kelce seemed to love the idea as his eyes lit up. "Yeah, let's swim."
Topper was on board. “And it’s hot out anyway.”
You instantly felt anxious, “I…I don’t have a swimsuit,” you mumbled.
All three of them turned to face you, a little surprised at your response.
Quickly, you added, "And I also don't want to get my dress wet," you mentioned. Your mom had bought it for you when she went shopping the other day. It was pale blue and had a soft and gentle touch. You'd been extra careful not to get it wrinkled all day.
"So?" Rafe shrugged, waving his hand away, as if to dismiss it from importance.
"So," you responded, unsure how to get your point across.
He rolled his eyes in a way that made you feel like you were overreacting, "You could just borrow my sisters', they usually have extra bathing suits in the pool house."
You were surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah," he replied, "My sisters always leave stuff there anyway."
Topper turned to you with a mischievous grin. "What? Are you afraid of swimming?"
You shook your head, "No, actually, I used to catch fish for fun," you quickly said. Topper chuckled at that.
Kelce tilted his head, a little confused. "Then what's the problem?"
You hesitated. The problem wasn't swimming, it was them.
Being out there with them, outside in the open near the water felt unsafe. There and then, you were in an open space, vulnerable, and without anywhere to hide.
Rafe approached you as his voice changed slightly. "You're here already. You might as well not just sit around and be boring," he said.
You swallowed nervously, "I don't want to mess up my dress," you managed to say in a quiet voice.
He scanned your dress, his gaze lingering on the material as if trying to assess whether you spoke the truth or just making up excuses.
"It's just a dress," he remarked. For him it was easy to say that. Based on your observation, everything around here looked replaceable in his eyes.
You stood up uneasily, using your hands to flatten the creases on your skirt.
If you didn't agree, you would just embarrass yourself. If you did, at least you wouldn't appear scared, even though on the inside, you were. "Fine," you said, quietly agreeing.
Rafe flashed a wide smile, looking quite pleased with himself, "There you go, that wasn't so hard," he said.
Topper put the UNO cards aside as he spoke. "The last one to the pool is the loser," he said.
Kelce made his way to the door immediately after, screaming and shouting with his fist in the air. The others soon followed quickly, making noises as they ran down the hallway. Their laughter echoed down the hallway with abandon.
You lingered a little at the bedroom door, unsure if you were doing the right thing.
Rafe turned to you, "Don't be the last one alright?" he said teasingly.
You followed them down the stairs, passing through the doors at the back.
The pool shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, sparkling blue and inviting. There were many reclining lounge chairs arranged around the area by the pool. The pool house was on one side of the pool. While it may have looked smaller than the mansion, it was still bigger than your old room.
The air was thick with the scent of chlorine and salt, with a hint of metal.
Topper and Kelce were already jumping around, trying to get their shoes off their feet.
Rafe turned to look at you.
"If you want to get changed, the pool house is over there," he said as he pointed towards the direction of the pool house.
You didn't spend much time stalling and found yourself walking towards the pool house.
Each step felt heavier than the previous, your head swarmed with thoughts. Why were you nervous? This was just swimming. You grew up on the water, so why start panicking now?
But the feeling of regret quickly replaced relief. You might have made a mistake by agreeing to join them.
You heard the pool house door lock behind you. The moment you stepped into the pool house, you noticed a mirror, and in that instance, you paused to look at yourself.
The swimsuit was pink, and when you say pink, it was a bright shade of pink.
There were adorable strawberry prints all over with the green leaves embroidered on them. It was a young girl's swimsuit.
It fit, but not quite.
The shoulder straps felt slightly uncomfortable, and the bottoms were also tight. Every time you moved, the fabric was pulled along, making it feel compressed.
You made your way out after adjusting the straps of the swimsuit. As you came out, the sun shone brightly and the pool glistened under the sunlight. The rest of the boys were already in the pool water. Their shoulders drooped, hair washed over their foreheads as they splashed each other aggressively.
You folded your dress and placed it on the bench outside. For a moment, you paused and thought about escaping inside the pool house. There was the slight hope that maybe you wouldn't have to go through with it after all. What if they moved on and lost interest in you?
"Hey!" Topper shouted at you from the pool.
"Strawberry Shortcake! Come over here already!"
Laughter trailed off as your face flushed with embarrassment.
Kelce was the first to see you coming out of the pool house, "Dang, check her out," he grinned.
Topper couldn't stop laughing, "She really is the Strawberry Shortcake!"
Rafe turned his head to look at you. "Was that from the baby section?" he asked, not even trying to hide his sarcasm.
You didn't pay him any mind. Mindlessly, you walked towards the pool, treading carefully as the hot stones stung against your bare feet. The water was inviting, yet intimidating. It looked refreshing and deep enough.
You dipped your toes into the water first, testing if it was cold or not. It was cold. It was the kind of cold that shocked your skin before settling into something refreshing. The afternoon heat on your body felt like a furnace. The cold water would provide relief.
You took a deep breath. Composed yourself.
"C'mon" Kelce hollered at you, making his way to your direction.
You made your way into the water, supporting yourself by the rail until the water level reached your hips, and eventually your shoulders.
You propelled yourself off gently, immersing yourself fully into the water.
Everything was quiet for a second before Topper sprayed you with water.
You raised your hands to wipe off the water from your eyes and turned to see Kelce madly splashing and being retaliated by Rafe. It was absolute chaos. There was water flying everywhere, sharp shrieks of laughter echoing along the patio.
You giggled when Kelce gasped for air as he choked on his own splash. For a moment, it all felt like normal.
Kelce had a new idea, "Let's do Marco Polo," he said out of breath.
Topper nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah".
Rafe protested, shaking his head. "That's boring."
Kelce splashed him right in the face, "You pick and choose then, then".
Rafe, floating on his back, switched positions, now upright, "Fine," he said, "We'll play Marco Polo. But with different rules".
He made it to the center of the pool, "It's like tag but not in the field, obviously were in water, you have to close your eyes if you're it," he started to say, "But everyone has to keep their eyes closed".
Kelce frowned, "How are we supposed to know where you're at?" he asked.
Rafe turned his head, "That's the point," he replied.
Topper's face lit up, "So we say Marco and not get tagged," he said.
"Yeah," Rafe said, "The person who gets tagged next is it".
He turned his gaze at you, "Are you in?" Rafe said.
You hesitated. You thought about it. It sounded harmless. If you said no, you knew they would call you scared.
So you nodded, "Okay," you said.
"I'll be 'it' first," Rafe volunteered.
You weren't surprised of course.
You all dispersed, trying to find a spot in the water where you would have the least risk of being caught, "Close your eyes," he ordered.
You did as told. Once you close your eyes, everything changes into darkness. You can still feel the heat of the sun rays on your face, but your vision is gone. The only thing you feel is the sound and some movement.
"Marco," Kelce's voice carried into your ear, you think he was on your right.
"Polo," Rafe answered from some distance away.
Cautiously, you treaded the water, waist-deep, with your hands extended out in front of you.
"Marco," the voice of Topper called.
"Polo," Rafe replied.
The first round was fun and amateur, it wasn't organized or anything. Kelce collided with Topper, both wailing in pain. Rafe had found Kelce, grabbing him after slamming into him.
Everyone had burst out laughing.
In the second round, it was pretty much the same. You almost hit Rafe but got away. He found Topper instead. It felt safe enough so you lowered your guard.
Mistake.
"Last round," Rafe said, "I'm it again, thank you so much Thornton," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.
You closed your eyes once more. This time, the pool was quieter, the movements more deliberate. The surface of the water was smoother, and the air was still. You treaded the water. Your ears picked up scintillating sounds from the opposite direction.
"Marco," Kelce's voice called out again.
"Polo," Rafe answered, like a whisper.
You got closer to the direction of the sound.
"Marco," Topper called out again, "Polo," Rafe's voice came even closer this time.
You felt your heart pound in your ears as you swallowed your spit and said it. "Marco."
Everything is quiet for a moment.
And then
“Polo.”
You feel it, right behind you. The word grazes your ear, so close.
Your stomach plummeted. Before you even had a chance to get your bearings, Smash! Rafe’s body crashed into yours, he was more forceful than needed. You lost balance immediately. Water swallowed you up as your legs flailed to find the ground.
Water shot up your nose as your mouth involuntarily opened in surprise.
Your arms and legs flailed desperately, his arm hooked around your chest. The hold wasn’t loose like it should be. Not like someone playing the game. It was tight.
Your lungs reacted quicker than your mind could, they burned and only got worse. You tried to kick upwards, outsmart the tight grip around your chest, but he stayed locked.
One second. Two. Three.
The world underwater was distorted. You felt splashing, faint laughter. But it was blocked by the water.
Four.
Your breathing started to become sparse. You tried to push but with every attempt, it only grew weaker.
Five.
He let go and instantly, you stampeded upwards and gasped, your mouth opening wide to breathe, as if you forgot to use your nose.
You coughed hard, water spewing from your teeth and mouth. Your nose, upper lip, and eyes burned. The air tastes strange, almost too thin.
Topper is the first to react. ”Dude! You tackled her!” Topper shouts.
Kelce chokes on his own laughter. ”She didn’t even see you!”
Rafe surfaced slowly, almost leisurely.
He laughed lightly, his thumb swept some water off his upper lip as he attempted nonchalance. ”You good?” He says with a slight sneer
Your chest kept rising up and down, it was difficult to talk. You snorted, out of breath, not sure what you did wrong. ”You…you pushed me.” You manage to pant out.
Rafe, acting unfamiliar, confused, ”It’s Marco Polo”. His face was the picture of casualness, acting like you were being disrespectful. ”I told you the rules didn’t I, princess?”
He made it seem like you were the one overreacting. ”You said marco, I said polo.” he shrugged.
Topper is quick to interject. ”That’s how the game works. You have to trust us.” He is justifying, but you can identify a slight slur in his speech.
They weren’t concerned for your safety, on the contrary, they were entertained.
Rafe wasn’t laughing, but he was watching you. If it weren't for the current circumstances, you’d say he looked charming, but now he looks intimidating.
Your lungs felt tight, your chest was caving in.
And in that moment, you understood something important. Rafe was not playing Marco Polo for fun, but to instill fear.
Those 5 seconds were enough to set you off, and you realized how easily his grip could snap, you realized that him being in control was a choice.
You quickly collected yourself and started to regulate your breathing
”I’m fine,” you said, though your voice shook a little.
Rafe’s lips were upturned in a crooked smile.
“Good.”
The laughter was still catching up to the moment. A sharp sound cut the mood through the patio.
“What on earth is going on out here?”
It wasn’t Ward. And the tone is higher, more acute. Refined in a way, that didn't belong to shouting, but was shouting anyway.
You all turn instinctively toward the sound.
An elegantly dressed woman stood in the glow of the sun, framed by the tall glass doors that led back into the house. She was holding a full-bodied glass of wine in one hand. Her hair, the color of the sun, was styled in soft beachy waves, she was dressed in a white linen two-piece ensemble. Expensive no doubt, and reminiscent of a breezy summer wardrobe.
She looked like she belonged in a magazine. Except for her face, which looked angry.
Her steely eyes scanned the pool, observing the ruckus. She advanced swiftly, the wide skirt of her dress flowing in the wind.
You’re coughing, eyes still red because of chlorine, and still exhausted.
It takes only a split second for her expression to change. She steps forward, her heels click-clacking on the tile.
“Rafe Cameron, what do you think you’re doing?”
Topper and Kelce immediately adjusted their posture, Rafe, on the hand, did not look even remotely concerned.
Rafe nudges your ankle, you notice it isn’t a playful gesture. More of a warning, as if to tell you don’t say anything.
“Rose.” He answers, wet hair dripping down his face and posture as nonchalant as before. “We weren’t doing anything.”
So this is Rose.
She doesn’t look convinced and she narrows her eyes slightly as she comes closer to the edge of the pool, the sunlight bounces off the jewelry on her wrist. Delicate, high-maintenance, probably real 24k gold jewelry stacked on one wrist. The bracelets chime as gently as she swings her arms to gesticulate.
”Were you holding her under?” she shouts loud enough for the whole block to hear.
”No,” He answers, his voice smooth. Almost bored. ”We were playing Marco Polo.”
Kelce quickly agrees. And Topper chimes in ”It’s just a game, Rose.”
Rose’s gaze shifts and suddenly she’s looking at you, and for the first time since you’ve gotten to the Cameron’s mansion, someone looks at you like they’re actually checking.
”Sweetheart,” She bends down, her tone gone mild. ”Sweety you okay?”
Rafe’s foot nudges yours again.
You swallow, holding the back of the words that you wanted to say still in your throat. You act like everything is fine, even though your lungs still feel raw and your nose still stinging from the chlorine exposure. ”All good here.” was all you could muster to say to her.
She stares at you a moment longer, not entirely sure if you’re telling the truth.
But she doesn’t say anything, she just straightens up. Her hand pressed to her temple, breathing out what you imagine is a raucous exhale. ”Okaay, pack it up boys, no more fun for anyone tonight.”
The groans erupt from all sides of the pool, Rafe is the first to protest “Rose-“.
”Out. Off you go, young men. I’m not going to repeat myself,” She states, careful assistant appearing out of nowhere, fetching towels for the group.
She’s not going to change her mind, no matter how hard Rafe tries to charm his way out of this one.
The boys all get out of the pool, still sopping with water. You hang back near the edge in the half-expectation that you won't be summoned out of the pool.
Rose’s eyes find you, this time with a knowing smile ”You too, especially.” Her voice changing into a more soft tone. “Your mother was very clear with Ward that you’re not supposed to swim without sunscreen on, and especially on a hot day like this.”
Rafe’s face is tight and sullen as he mumbles something on the lines of “She’s fine”
Rose’s sharp look immediately shuts him up “Out.”
You hesitantly approach the pool stairs, releasing most of the tension in your body as you ease into the warmth of the air. The wind feels warm and sticky and the slight tan on your legs is evidence of sun exposure.
You don’t look at Rafe as you walk past him, but you know he’s looking at you.
Inside the pool house you grab your dress quickly, You didn’t even bother changing fully, you just wrapped yourself in the towel hanging on the hook, covering you wherever you could and made a beeline for the door.
You’re still shaking, and your heart is doing some sort of weird drumming movement in your ears.
Rose is there, you notice she is no longer holding her drink, her hands uncluttered look down at you worryingly.
“Oh, honey,” Rose leans down and her voice is gentle, “You’re freezing”
Wait, she’s right. You are shivering, a lot more than you thought.
She motions for you to follow her, placing a comforting hand on your back.
The first thing you notice is the way the marble floors feel under your feet, cool, and slightly sticky. And then the cool air, thick and heavy with the smell perfume, hits your face.
You can hear voices in the back, Rafe’s voice, to be specific. Low, irritated. Rose doesn’t turn back to look, she’s busy searching her purse for something, you can tell she was a little fazed by Rafe's actions.
She leads you up the stairs, not to Rafe’s room but to a guest bathroom.
She gives you a clean, soft towel, and you’re surprised at how much fluffier it is than the one you had in the pool house. “We need to dry you off,” she says, as gently as before. She goes to work efficiently, pulling off your swimsuit, careful not to hurt you. She doesn’t comment on the tightness, though she must have noticed.
She wraps your body securely with the towel, and sits you on a counter on a marble counter.
She then goes to the closet, finds a blow dryer, plugs it in, and turns it on.
The warm air feels good on your face. She starts brushing out your hair with her fingers, then grabs a wide-tooth comb and starts combing your hair.
“You have beautiful hair,” she says absent-mindedly.
You stare at the mirror, your eyes are still red.
Rose notices. She stops for a second, looks at your reflection, “Rafe can be…” she hesitates, looking for the right words, “Energetic”
That was how she chose to describe what just happened. Energetic.
She begins drying your hair again, “He doesn’t know when to stop I guess. Not always. Not when his friends are around.”
You don’t respond. She sighs. “I’m sorry if he got carried away.” She continues. “Boys are like that. Thoughtless sometimes.”
She dries your hair and brushes it for you. “There, much better,” She says admiring her work. She steps back and allows herself to look at you in the mirror before offering you a smile.
“Next time,” She says “I’ll make sure they don’t wind you up too much.”
Next time. It sits in the air for a while as you watch yourself in the mirror.
Downstairs, you hear the sound of a car door closing. You know instantly, it’s your parents. You’re extremely grateful.
Rose smoothes out her hair and straightens her dress. Her face was calm like nothing ever happened.
She rests a hand on your shoulders and says, “Let’s go greet them”
You follow her down the stairs and you see Rafe and Topper in the living room, they are both calm and relaxed like nothing happened.
The day went by without anything really happening. Well, nothing new anyway.
You couldn't stop thinking about the way he yanked on your hair. You could almost still feel your scalp burning and remember the sound of your chair scraping across the tile before you fell to the floor. And you could still remember, plain as day, the look on his face as he tried to drown you.
The outdoor cafeteria was set up right outside the main building with a bunch of wooden benches under swinging white shades. You could almost always smell the salt from the sea and the thick sunscreen that everyone used, even in school.
It looked perfect.
You gripped your lunch box hard, the one your mom had packed nicely that morning, and threaded your way through the tables. Most seats had already been taken by groups that were laughing loudly. Boys in neat polos sitting with each other. Girls in their pleated skirts. You envied how free they all seemed to be.
You saw an empty bench around the far end and decided to walk towards it.
“Hey” someone called out. You immediately felt your stomach turn.
You didn’t need to turn around to see who it was.
Yet you decided to turn around.
And there he was—Rafe Cameron—a little too relaxed, stretching on the bench as if he were the king of the world. He was sitting with Topper and Kelce, both of whom were already staring at you with that annoying smirk on their faces.
He called out your name. You immediately looked behind you to confirm that he was indeed calling for you.
He snickered a bit and said, “Yeah, I’m talking to you.” You could hear your heart pounding in your ears.
He looked… composed. He wasn’t jeering or shoving anything in your face. He looked at you as though this was normal. Like he hadn’t almost killed you two days before. Like you hadn’t gone home with a headache after he pulled your hair out.
He patted the bench beside him and said, “Come sit here.”
Topper sniggered but Kelce didn't meet your eye.
You paused and stood still for a moment.
You told yourself silently, rejecting him would make things ten times worse. He would make a drama out of it. He always did. Maybe this was a truce; his way of settling things down.
You were wrong.
You slowly walked over to him and plopped down on his bench without checking anything. That was your first mistake.
They went back to their chat like you weren’t even there.
They talked about surfing, and a fight someone’s brother had gotten into and how they thought a particular teacher was “a psycho.” Each time, Rafe would occasionally throw a glance at you but didn’t open up about anything.
You decided to focus on your food. Chew. Swallow. Don’t look like you’re panicking.
You silently told yourself that was somewhat a progress.
Then the bell rang and everyone started scraping their benches away. You stood up, while the trio you sat with was already by the exit and getting out.
Except you didn't. Your body wouldn't allow you to. There was some sort of resistance.
You were left confused and tried again. Your thighs felt solidly glued to something. Neither you nor the bench moved.
You were utterly confused, you tried forcing yourself by pushing your hands on the table. Still stuck. Your stomach might as well have turned into an ice cube.
Behind you, you heard a snort then snicker.
You looked down and noticed that your skirt, the one that your mom paid to be custom tailored to you, was glued solidly to the bench. You could see the clear adhesive shimmering in front of you like oil.
You felt a lump in your throat. "No way," said Kelce with a tone of surprise
Topper laughed till he was out of breath, while Rafe watched you and said with all the coldness he could muster, "Guess you're not going anywhere."
Your face turned red in embarrassment. You tried to gently peel the cloth away from the bench but failed miserably.
Students were beginning to stare at you. You heard shuffling and whispers. Someone was even pointing at you now. Your hands shook with shame.
"Come on, just stand up already", murmured Rafe with a grin on his face.
You tried to pull harder. The glue stretched and you could hear the fabric stretch against your thighs.
Topper was laughing so hard it almost felt like he was going to slip off the bench. Kelce covered his mouth but it did nothing to hide the large smile on his face.
You tried again.
Harder. And then…
RRRIP!
It rang in your ears. In your state of embarrassment and shock, you lost your balance and almost fell.
Half of your skirt stayed behind, glued to the bench in a strip of cloth.
The cold air stung your legs and rear, the parts that were exposed.
You became a statue as you froze.
You didn't realize what had actually happened for a brief second before you were snapped back into reality by the echo of laughter.
Not only from them but from every direction.
You reached behind you, out of instinct. Your underwear was on full display for everyone to see. You stood there feeling like you’re about to vomit your guts out.
Rafe was already halfway to the exit as he took in how… exposed you were and grinned.
“Guess we know who forgot the dress code,” he yelled, and Topper clutched his sides and Kelce kept slapping the table.
You heard someone yell “Mrs. Underpants!” from behind you.
You heard bells in your ears and you felt as if your stomach was about to explode. You immediately sat on the bench, trying to cover whatever was left of your decency. Your hands shook uncontrollably. Your vision blurred.
You weren't crying. You had gone beyond that. You were feeling… nothing.
People were still laughing at you as they passed by. Some were openly pointing at you, while some pretended not to.
Rafe looked like he was thoroughly enjoying this. As if you were a joke for everyone’s amusement.
For a split second, your eyes caught his. There was neither shame nor guilt.
Just pure satisfaction. Then he walked away, with Topper and Kelce in tow, still laughing.
You had no idea how long you were sitting. It felt like hours.
Then someone stopped in front of you.
You braced yourself for another joke, prominently at your expense.
But instead, they just dropped their jacket over your lap. "Here, take it" came a soft voice. You were too embarrassed to look up.
You just grabbed it and tied it around your waist with the shakiest knot you could muster.
“T-thanks,” you whispered, though it was more of a broken whimper.
The boy didn’t say anything. He just walked away, leaving you with his jacket.
You bolted out, and with every step you took, you wanted to die.
You almost collided with Rafe at the cafeteria door. You didn’t stop, you brushed past him, your shoulder hitting his chest. For a split fraction of a second, he stiffened at your sudden forcefulness. You didn’t bother to look. You kept running.
You ran past the lockers and straight into the girl’s restroom.
You went to the nearest stall and immediately closed the stall’s door shut, you were immediately having a sobbing fit.
You looked down at your broken skirt, noticing how the damage was so bad you would have to throw it away. Part of it was still outside.
You covered your face and cried. Not because of the skirt. Not because of the laughter but because you had actually believed that he might have wanted to make peace. That he might have wanted to be friends. Because you believed what your mom said, for one second.
You replayed the moment he called you over. The way you hesitated. The way you actually hoped.
And right now?
Now everyone had seen it. And everyone had laughed at it. And he looked proud.
You wiped your tears. This wasn’t just a prank.
And now, you finally understood it. You were never meant to feel safe here.
Not while Rafe Cameron was watching you.
@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me
I loooved how neatly and perfectly you described the Kook side of the island. I feel like the Kooks weren't given the attention needed in the series, and I love how you showed us more of their lives, and their childhoods. I cannot wait to see how this will evolve.
“I was thinking,” he began, a thought made a fact by the tone of his voice, “it might be nice if Rafe could be her… playdate, from time to time. She could come to Tannyhill Manor for a few hours every so often. Socializing. Getting used to each other.”
Gosh, when this happened, my heart dropped. I was like..."NO! WAIT, NO!"
I think this was crucial to the story, how Rafe was kind of psychotic ever since he was a little boy, and how cold, yet curious Kelce and Topper were. Forced insensivity characterizes the Kooks, after all.
But Rafe really is the worst. And I am excited to see how he will be when they're older, how he'll pursue her, and all.
Honestly thought I made Rafe a bit psychotic than normal lol. Tbh always thought kooks were a bit underrated and had no vivid description whatsoever which honestly disappointed me cause they kinda hold a vital part in the series, but other than that thank you so much babes, will probably update next week 🫰😍 (will probably make him more psychotic 🤷♀️)
⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ Your parents won the lottery, which brings you to life among the Kooks. Regardless of your wealth, Rafe Cameron establishes from the first moment you that you do not fit in, hatred and obsession begin to blend together, and in Outer Banks, power always comes at a price.
⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ EVENTUAL NON-CON/DUB-CON. bullying, physical abuse/assault, verbal abuse, classism, manipulation, power imbalance, psychological trauma, humiliation,obsessive behavior. attempted drowning, Rafe is an actual psychopath.
If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content
A/n: this is so long compared to chapter 1 lmao, did some proofreading in chapter 1 and changed some lines that were too cringe lol, they're still children probably until the next chapter where there's a huge timeskip.
Day two just felt heavier somehow. Nothing had actually happened yet. But it wasn’t a blank slate anymore either. You felt intimidated and scared, you were never the type to get bullied, maybe a few light teasing here and there but never to the full extent that Rafe did.
When you woke up, all you could feel was the memory of someone running their hands through your hair. It sat there on your scalp, lingering just out of sight. Bruised but still healing. You stood in front of your closet for so long that your mother asked if you were okay. Your new clothes seemed like paper and glass. They were too fragile for the weight of the day.
The rest of the school day was like dust swirling in your nose. No one reached for your hair again for some reason, they had already learned they could do it anytime, just like Rafe. The silence almost a dare now, not a comfort.
You stood on the stoop with the afternoon sun beginning to melt away, watching a stream of well-organized moms in Rolls Royce and sports car with god knows how much those vehicles cost. You stood in line, bracing yourself against the porch post, and waited.
Your father was late.
You told yourself it was fine. He was probably on the phone again, chasing another deal. Adults ran late. They had things to do. It wasn’t personal. Ever since the move, everything in your life felt abstract and undefined.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Silent cars disappeared one by one. Mother’s laughter faded and teachers ducked back inside. Finally it was just you on the steps as crickets began their nightly chorus.
You hugged your backpack as if you could melt away inside it. Which you wished you could, you wanted to hide in your backpack more than anything.
You hesitated, home wasn’t that far anyway. You’d remembered the way.
After a whole hour of waiting you ultimately decided to walk.
The neighborhood was too perfect, too clean. No potholes to avoid, no rusted fences. The lawns were aggressively, unnaturally green. Your shoes clicked on the sidewalk. The sound echoed down the road, evident that you were the only one walking. The whole place smelled like magazine perfume. Even the wind felt manufactured.
You wondered which house Rafe went home to. You hated yourself for even caring.
Your house appeared in the distance, white gates and all. It was everything your mother had ever wanted all in one place. All you could hear her nagging your father ever since they hit the jackpot. She forced you to feed her dreams every day. The feeling in the pit of your stomach was not sadness, not fear but an uncooked sense of alienation.
Then you saw the cars. Two of them to be exact. Blocking the driveway. Shiny, black, and most certainly worth more than your new house, you might be rich now, but if anything, your family is still at the bottom of the food chain in Kook perspective.
You heard voices through the door. Laughter. But no music.
You cracked open the door and snuck inside.
Mother’s cooking aroma greeted your nose, but it was richer, more indulgent. You heard laughter and too much wine. You slipped in, your mother’s perfume overwhelming your senses as warm yellow light poured down the halls.
You crept inside as though you did not belong.
Your father suddenly appaered in the hallway, restless, nervous, waiting. “There you are!” he said, loud with relief, louder than he needed to be. “Why didn’t you wait?”
“I did,” you whispered. You wanted to tell your father how long you waited for him, how you wished he prioritized you more like he used to, but you chose to keep your mouth shut, not wanting to ruin his mood.
He checked his watch, guilt flickering briefly in his eyes before vanishing. “Right. Well. We’ve got guests.”
That’s right. Guests. You should have known.
“I want you to meet someone special. My new boss.”
Boss, the word hung awkwardly in the air. Didn’t your father win the lottery? Wasn’t he the boss now?
Everything in the dining room was borrowed, nothing belonged to you. Candles glimmered in crystal holders, glasses sparkled. The food looked thin and perfectly portioned. Your mother sat ramrod straight, like a queen attending court.
And at the head of the table sat a man, the room’s true owner.
He didn’t stand to greet you. He sat and watched. He was tall, broad shouldered, overstuffed confidence, his button down shirt rolled over his thick forearms. His hair was neat, his smile forced.
When he rose, it was slow, deliberate. “So this is the famous daughter,” he said, his voice warm but empty, his voice was deep and handsome, impossibly charming.
You nodded in reply.
Your father gave you another forced pat for encouragement. “This is Mr. Cameron,” he said, “He’s been so kind to us.”
Mr. Cameron.
His name thudded against your ribs. Cameron. Fucking Cameron.
You fought to keep your face blank as the name rang in your ears.
He approached you, extending a hand. You lingered, staring at his palm. Your father’s hand redirected you and you reached out to take it. He gripped you tight. Strong, but not unkind.
“Pleasure to meet you. Your family speaks well of you,” he said. You didn’t know how to respond as you just stared at him in awe.
Your mother jumped in. “She’s adjusting,” she said. “It’s a big change.”
He nodded. “Yes, Figure Eight is like that, being a Kook is no easy lifestyle.” He said it like a warning. The authority in his voice made you wary.
You wondered how much he knew. If he knew about the school. If he knew what his son did to you, what the so-called Kook prince did to you on the very first day of school.
You told yourself that Cameron could be a common name. But your nerves demanded otherwise.
“Go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon,” your father said. You nodded and retreated to the washroom, heart pounding in your chest.
You examined yourself in the mirror. Same face with the same quiet eyes, now living in a house you couldn’t call home, and a man your father called friend who bore the same name as the boy who made your head throb.
You massaged your scalp, feeling for any sign of trauma. No bruise. No trace. It wasn't like the fall was too hard anyway.
Deep masculine laughter echoed down the stairwell, noisily filling the home.
Your eyes found his, polite but clearly sizing you up. His voice was steady, carrying this quiet strength that seemed to quietly take over the room.
You sat where your father indicated, the chair's cool leather soft beneath you, as small talk buzzed on around the table.
At first, things were pretty easy. Safe, even. The grownups threw around the usual business stuff. Your dad and Ward took turns tossing out numbers, talking about investments and partnerships. You didn't really know what a lot of the words meant, but you could hear the pattern in their voices. Numbers, names, and bits of business moving like chess pieces between them. You just listened and stayed quiet.
Your mom came around with the wine for the adults, then filled a fancy little glass with juice for you and set it nearby. You gripped it tightly, turning it around in your hands so you wouldn't accidentally spill. Mom flashed you a quick, reassuring smile, and you gave her a tiny nod in return. You were learning how to play your part in this whole scene, at least for tonight.
Everything was rolling along pretty smoothly, until someone brought up schools.
At first, it was just another comment. Ward made a passing remark about how good private schools are supposed to be on Figure Eight. And then, like things had secretly taken a sudden sharp turn, he said it.
“My son,” Ward said casually, sounding like it was something he said all the time, “he’s going to the same school as your daughter.”
A wave of cold spread through your chest. Your hands froze around your glass. You could feel your pulse throbbing in your throat.
The room didn’t skip a beat. Those words dangled in the air, quiet and normal-sounding, but to you, it felt like someone jumped right out at you from behind a corner.
“Oh?” your father replied, his tone and expression light, but with noticeable tension behind every word. “Is that so?”
Ward smiled, just a small uptick of his lips. “Yes. Rafe. His in her class.”
Your stomach dropped. That boy from yesterday, the one who yanked your hair so hard you almost fell, the one whose smile haunted your mind and whose presence you desperately wanted to forget, he was now a fixture in your life, more than you'd guessed.
Ward leaned back a little bit, again with the easy confidence of someone who made suggestions that were really not suggestions at all. “I was thinking,” he began, a thought made a fact by the tone of his voice, “it might be nice if Rafe could be her… playdate, from time to time. She could come to Tannyhill Manor for a few hours every so often. Socializing. Getting used to each other.”
You stared at the tablecloth. Your nails dug into your palms. You wanted to say no. You wanted to argue To tell him that no, you weren’t a child to be paraded, and certainly not to entertain his son.
But your dad cut in before you could even start to form the words.
“Yes,” he said smoothly, as though he had already anticipated his own promptings. “That’s a good idea. They should spend some time together.”
A flicker of panic seized your chest. Your lips pressed together. Your mind raced, there was nowhere you could escape him. Not here. Not there. Not in this new life that was supposed to be safe for you.
Ward’s gaze flicked briefly to you. No malice, not exactly, but he recognized the fear. The tension. He liked seeing you tense. His plans were working.
You forced a minuscule nod, but a very visible one. Inside, your chest was heavy and tight, your pulse too loud, and your stomach churned with that kind of fear that takes away your ability to move.
The conversation continued after that, returning to investments and figures as if nothing had happened. But the words lingered. The table seemed brighter, the candlelight harsher, and every laugh from the adults around you sounded like it belonged to a world where you no longer fit.
And somewhere beneath the surface, a small, bitter seed took root.
It was Rafe.
It was Ward.
It was everything you hadn’t asked for.
And things were just starting.
You went to bed before anyone told you to.
The house was still humming from the dinner party, faint laughter lingering in the walls, dishes clinking softly in the kitchen downstairs, your father’s voice carrying through the vents in low conversation. The air smelled like extinguished candles and expensive wine.
You brushed your teeth slowly. Changed into pajamas that were softer than anything you used to own. Climbed into a bed that felt too big.
You lay flat on your back and stared at the ceiling, because no matter how soft and comfortable your bed was, sleep didn’t come. It hovered just out of reach, like something teasing you.
You rolled onto your side. The sheets whispered against your skin. You closed your eyes and tried to imagine something calm, the ocean, maybe, the way it looked from the bridge at sunset.
But instead of peace you saw a classroom. A hand wrapping itself in your hair. The sound of your chair scraping the floor as you hit it.
You flipped onto your other side. The pillow felt too warm. You flipped it over. The slab of cold only would last a couple of minutes.
Your thoughts replayed over and over again, the suggestion of a playdate. Tannyhill Manor. The word manor itself felt heavy, towering. You imagined a house even larger than your own. You imagined being alone in it with him.
Your stomach tightened as you pulled the blanket up to your chin.
You hated him.
Not in the dramatic way children say they hate vegetables or homework. You hated him in the quiet way, the kind that sat still and steady in your chest. The kind that didn’t flare up but burned low and constant.
You couldn’t even really tell why.
He didn’t know you. You didn’t know him. He had just decided, for reasons you couldn’t see, that you were someone to pull, to mock, to push.
And now your parents were offering you up like some kind of… arrangement.
You turned again.
The hallway light slipped under your door in a thin golden line. The house had finally gone quiet.
Your door creaked open softly.
“Sweetheart?” your mother’s voice was gentle.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second before opening them. “Yeah?”
She stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind her. Her makeup was gone now. Her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked easier now, her expression free from the dinner smile.
“I noticed you came to bed early,” she said, sitting on the edge of your mattress. The bed dipped slightly under her weight. “Everything okay?”
You hesitated. You didn’t usually tell her things like this. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you didn’t know how to explain the feeling. The humiliation. The way it stuck to you even after you got up off the classroom floor.
In the silence between her words, you debate whether you actually want to tell her. You don't even know if there was a point in telling her either way, what would she do? But, you decided to chance it anyway, against your better habits.
“There’s this boy,” you said quietly.
She blinked, something unreadable in her eyes. “A boy?”
Yes, a boy who keeps bothering me without doing anything, the boy who made my first day hell, the boy who laughed at me when I fell, yea, that boy.
“He’s in my class.” You stared at the blanket instead of her face. “He keeps bothering me. Pulling my hair. Pushing my chair. He… he makes fun of me.” You swallowed.
“I think he hates me.”
There it was. The simplest version of it.
Your mother was quiet for a moment and then, she chuckled.
Not cruelly. Not sharply. Just… amused. “Oh, honey,” she said lightly. “That’s nothing to worry about.”
Your brows furrowed. “It’s not nothing.”
She brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “Sometimes boys act like that because they don’t know how to express themselves. Especially at that age.” She said with a smile.
You stared at her. What are you trying to say, you asked ever so quietly.
She smiled knowingly. “It probably means he likes you.”
Your stomach twisted up at her response, a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and sorrow.
You immediately shook your head. “No.”
She laughed softly. “It’s true. Pulling pigtails, teasing, it’s a classic sign of a crush.”
You sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing. “He doesn’t like me.”
There was no confusion in your voice. No doubt. “He hates me.” You said immediately and surely, looking at your mom baffled and confused, you were young, but you knew how to differentiate an admirer from a bully.
Your mother tilted her head. “What’s his name?” You hesitated. And then you said it.
“Rafe, Rafe Cameron. You used to clean for Camerons right mom?”
Her eyes lit up, actually lit up.
The connection clicked behind her gaze almost instantly. You watched the realization unfold, the dinner table, Ward’s smile, the opportunity.
“Oh,” she said softly. Not concerned. Not upset. Interested. You started to feel regret in your gut, as if something told you that maybe you should've just kept it to yourself.
“Rafe Cameron?” she repeated.
You nodded.
A slow smile spread across her face, the same practiced one she’d worn at dinner, but softer now, more personal.
“Well,” she said, smoothing your blanket as if settling something much larger than fabric. “That’s nothing a little playdate can’t fix. Amazing timing for Ward to suggest a playdate with you and the boy.”
Your chest tightened. “Mom...”
“Sweetheart, his father is very important to your dad right now. And Rafe is probably just adjusting, just like you are.” She patted your hand gently. “Sometimes friendships start a little rocky.”
"He's not my friend," you said.
Her smile didn't fade. "But you could be."
You stared at her, not believing what you were hearing. You wanted her to really understand. To see how his fingers had twisted your hair. To hear the class laughing at you. To watch the teacher blame you.
But to her, this wasn’t cruelty or humiliation. It was opportunity.
“He’ll be a good friend,” she added. “You’ll see. Friends like that always protect you the most”
This time you shook your head, but only a little. “No,” you whispered.
She gently kissed your forehead, her thumb brushing along your temple. “Get some sleep,” she said quietly. “Everything will work itself out.”
She stood up, walked to the door, and hesitated just for a second before turning off the light completely. Darkness fell over the room as you lay back down slowly. The house was quiet once more. You stared into the void, wide awake
Your mom probably thought it was just a crush. How stupid, you thought.
Rafe just liked hurting you. You wanted to scream it at her and watch it ring in her ears for weeks.
You turned on your side, pulled the blanket closer around you. Sleep still wouldn’t come. But the hatred did, and it settled quietly and certainly in your chest.
And there it stayed.
You looked at the ceiling again, but it wasn’t the same anymore. It seemed farther away, colder. ‘It probably means he likes you’, adults think in weird ways, you thought
The words repeated themselves in your head, quieter every time, but still sharper somehow
You tried to imagine it. Liking someone. You tried to imagine liking someone and showing it by yanking their hair hard enough to make their scalp hurt for hours. By pulling their chair out of under them so they hit the floor. By smiling while everyone laughed.
It didn’t make sense.
You weren’t dramatic. You weren’t someone who exaggerated. You knew the difference between teasing and cruelty. This wasn’t the playful shoving you saw between kids who shared a snack.
This was deliberate.
And yet, in your mother’s version of it, that deliberateness had been softened into something almost sweet, pure.
You rolled on your side, brought the blanket up over your shoulder. Maybe she didn’t see it the way you did because she hadn’t been there, maybe if she was there she would understand, maybe she would protect you, but you highly doubt that. She hadn’t heard the way Rafe had laughed in the classroom. It was different from confused laughter, or awkward laughter. It was approving laughter. Like he’d done something impressive
She hadn’t seen the teacher’s look, the quick annoyance directed at you, as though you had somehow caused it.
You saw a boy who had decided you were something lesser. Your mother saw opportunity instead.
And what hurt most, wasn’t even the hair pulling, or the fall. It was how easily your feelings had been folded into something convenient.
Rafe Cameron.
The name felt heavier now. It wasn’t just a classmate’s name. It was also connected to your father’s new job, to the dinner party and the way your mother's eyes lit up when she realized who he was.
You understood a lot more than you let on. You understood, for example, that this wasn’t just about school.
It was about staying here. About fitting in, here in kookland. About keeping this life you just had.
You blinked at the darkness, throat tight.
If you pushed harder, if you insisted he wasn’t nice, that he wasn’t a potential “good friend,” would it sound like complaining? Would it seem ungrateful? After all, you only knew Rafe because your mother used to cleaned his bedroom, you don't actually know the real him.
They had worked so hard to get here. You didn’t want to be the reason anything cracked, so maybe this was something you just had to tolerate, quietly.
The thought pressed down on your chest, heavy.
You tried to imagine going to Tannyhill Manor. You tried to imagine sitting in some large room with him, under the command to play nicely
You felt your stomach squeeze, queasy. He wouldn’t stop just because adults wanted him to. In fact, he’d probably have more fun.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Maybe your mum was wrong, maybe she wasn’t.
Maybe boys really did show affection in strange, ugly ways even. But even if that were true, even if he did like you, that didn’t make it any less humiliating
And you didn’t want to be liked like that. You just wanted to be left alone.
The house was quiet now. The air conditioner buzzed softly. Somewhere outside, waves hit the shore in a sort of rhythm
Your thoughts started to slow, soft now.
You imagined the classroom again, but this time it started to blur. The faces lost their details. The laughter lost its sound.
You felt heavier against the mattress.
The anger in your chest, which had been sharp and alert, dulled into something quieter. Quieter, but not gone. Just resting
Your breathing evened out before you noticed. You were still frowning a little when sleep finally found you, not peaceful, not fully relaxed, but exhausted enough to let go.
And even in sleep, the feeling lingered
When Saturday rolled around, it came in real hot and almost blinding, with the sun making the Outer Banks seem even sharper than usual.
You had seen this coming for days. Your mom warned you two times before lunch, flattening your hair like tidiness could sugarcoat what loomed at the foot of the driveway. Your dad almost never glanced your way when he hinted at “important matters.”
Important for them, but not important enough for you to be left at home. Important, but not enough to take you along. Important, in that you had to be left at Tannyhill
The car ride to Tannyhill was quiet except for the engine humming and the gravel crunching under the tires. You watched out the window as the houses got bigger and fancier, their lawns wide and flat. And then the gates showed up as you rounded the corner
Big. White. Definitely extra. Those gates probably alone cost more than your old place in the Cut. They slid open with a kind of slow drama as your dad trundled up the snaking driveway, and then the mansion, sprawling, stark, so enormous it felt unkind, came into view, squatting on the horizon.
You gulped. When the car stopped, your dad shifted in his seat toward you, wearing a mask of sincerity. “Be polite,” he started softly. “You’ll have a good time, sweetheart.”
You nodded, even though something in your chest was tight. Before you could even raise your hand, the door opened, and there stood Ward Cameron, all relaxed and confident, as if it were a pleasant arrangement between friends.
“There she is,” he cooed softly. “We’re so glad to have you, Rafe's upstairs, I'm just gonna send you there before we discuss...important matters to your daddy.” he said while smiling, placing a loose hand on your shoulder as you entered the house.
The foyer was enormous, a ceiling too high to even reach. Daylight streamed in through giant windows, reflecting off the floor tiles and making them glow. It smelled fresh and expensive. Ward guided you up the spiral staircase, talking idly about the significance of kids spending time together, the importance of establishing bonds early, enchanted that you and Rafe would be kept together.
You barely replied to the things he was saying, only ocasionally nodding in response. When you reached the end of the hallway, he knocked once and pushed open a door.
“Rafe,” he called. “You have a guest.” You went in, your blood ran cold and immediately realized that you had made a mistake.
Rafe was not alone; two other boys were in the room beside him, maybe a little taller than he was. One sat cross-legged on the carpet, a deck of cards lying loose around his hands. The other stood leaning against Rafe’s desk, idly swinging one leg.
They all ogled you, the atmosphere assaulting you with silence. Rafe, standing in front of the window, hair mussed, stared at you wordlessly.
Recognition shimmered, followed by another emotion altogether. “Oh,” Ward commented with false pleasantness, “Looks like you have friends over.”
“These are my best friends,” Rafe replied. His voice was smooth, but seething with underlying feelings you couldn’t quite name.
Ward gestured towards Topper and Kelce, and greeted them, “You must be Topper. And Kelce,” before clapping his hands together once jovially. “Well, it’s a party, then,” he chirped.
He headed towards Rafe with a hand over his shoulder, gently drawing him in before speaking. “Make sure she feels welcome, Bud.” Rafe ignored his father.
He leveled his gaze at you. “Of course Dad,” He said quietly, a small smile on his lips. “Me, Topper and Kelce are going to take a good care of her.”
Topper snickered, an attempt to muffle it poorly executed. Kelce bit his tongue, his eyes alight with amusement. Ward remained oblivious.
“That’s what I want to hear,” He said before turning towards you and proffering a reassuring smile. “You’ll have fun with them. Rafe’s a nice kid.” Nice kid.
You nodded, feeling like your neck was too stiff. Ward stepped out, closing the door, and the room instantly became stifling.
The silence lingered. Topper got up from the carpet, brushing off non-existent dust on his shorts. Kelce hopped off the desk and landed with a small thud on the floor.
Rafe lingered where he was, studying your face as if you were a stranger's pet he couldn't decide whether to caress or chase away. You stood beside the door, unsure whether to tuck your hands in your pockets or behind your back.
His room was huge, larger than the living area of your old home. The walls were decorated with an abundance of memorabilia and posters, shelves of trophies and boats. A king size bed was placed smack in the middle of the room, big but battered.
Three boys. One of you.
Rafe finally stepped closer. He was not towering above you, not yet. You were all still around ten years old, puberty not quite at your door yet, arms and legs a little awkward. Voices yet to settle.
But the way he moved towards you, every step calculated, annoyed you. “It’s you,” he said, tilting his head. “You really came after all.”
You ignored him. Topper circled around you, while Kelce moved to your right, neither menacing nor affectionate, just there.
Rafe stopped before you. “You didn’t say you were coming,” he said, almost as if it was your fault. “How...rude...”
“I didn’t know,” you replied softly. But you knew the whole week, you just didn't want to have that conversation with him while you were at school.
He hummed, feigning consideration. “You live in Figure Eight now. Funny, I remember my dad stopping by to see your parents in that ditch house in the Cut,” he said.
You nodded awkwardly. “Still a Pogue though,” Kelce added, grinning. Topper snorted.
The word wasn't said maliciously, not even spat out, just spoken. Rafe glanced at them, before humming back in agreement. “She’s just a Pogue with nice shoes,” he said.
Your face colored with embarrassment before you could stop it. You wanted to object, to say something clever, but your throat was closing. Rafe nudged you softly. You could see the faint freckles on his nose. “You gonna cry?” he asked.
Topper perched on the bedpost, amused. “She looks like she’s about to wail.”
“I’m not,” you replied swiftly.
Rafe smiled. “Good,” he answered.
He stepped back, clapping his hands together. “So,” he called out. “What are we going to do with her?” It sounded like a joke, but it wasn’t.
Topper shrugged, “We’re playing cards.” Kelce grinned. “She probably doesn’t know how to play. My mom tells me Pogues are too busy catching fish,” he said.
Rafe didn’t look away from your face. “Guess we’ll have to teach her,” he said.
The way he said it made your stomach feel odd. Downstairs, you could hear the faint buzz of adult voices, Ward moving around, blissfully unaware
Or maybe he just didn’t care. As the daylight filtered into Rafe's room, you realized belatedly, as the blood pulsed in your eardrums, that you would be alone with Rafe and his friends.
You were not a guest in their house. You were entertainment, and all three looked at you like they were children tearing open a new toy. Rafe smiled, gesturing towards the middle of the room.
He chuckled, “Don’t be shy.” But it wasn’t shyness you radiated now, it was calculation, and dread at the vastness between you and the door.
Before you knew it, an hour had gone by. Yet, there you were, cross-legged on Rafe’s bedroom carpet, hands full of UNO cards.
You couldn’t even recall agreeing to it. One moment you were standing idle near the door, the next second, Topper walk up to you and flung the deck in your direction.
Kelce started reciting rules, speedy and condescending. “Match the color or the number,” he said, tossing a red seven onto the pile. “It’s not hard,” he added.
You nodded. You had played before. Once back with your friend JJ, you've come to realize that you don't really remember when's the last time you even talked to him.
But here, even the simplest undertaking was a different type of test altogether. Rafe sat opposite you, his attention focused on you rather than the cards. Topper sprawled on your left, arms wide and leisurely. Kelce sat to your right.
The room felt brighter, airier than when you first entered, or perhaps you just grew used to it. “Your turn,” Rafe prompted. Only then did you notice everyone watching you.
You hastily placed a yellow five to match the pile. Kelce groaned. “Are you kidding? I needed that.”
Topper giggled. “You suck.” You smiled, half unsure. It wasn’t quite friendliness, but it wasn’t the malicious teasing either.
The game progressed rather quickly.
Every time someone slammed down a Draw Four, everyone in the room acted like it was the end of the world. When Rafe made Kelce grab card after card, Kelce nudged him with his shoulder and half-joked about how he must be cheating.
You tried not to laugh, but you couldn’t stop yourself, a small giggle broke free.
Rafe caught it.
He looked up at you, eyes lingering a bit, like he was noticing something for the first time or just trying to figure out what made you laugh.
You turned your focus back to your cards, not wanting any more attention. You didn’t say much tonight. When someone asked if you had a card you just nodded. If you didn’t, you shrugged with barely any movement. When Topper lost and sank to the floor like a melting snowman, you smiled but stayed quiet.
You usually were cautious. You didn’t want to stand out, didn’t want to look too excited, and definitely didn’t want to forget for a moment where you were and why you were here.
Then, all of a sudden, you actually won a round. You put down your very last card carefully, almost like you were afraid it would break.
"UNO," you said softly, barely above a whisper.
Kelce looked at your hands, clearly surprised. "You're kidding."
Topper leaned in to check for himself. "Did she seriously win?"
Rafe eyed the cards on the table, then glanced at you again. “I guess you just got beginner’s luck,” he said like it was no big deal.
You shrugged and smiled a little, like you agreed with him.
The next round started. Then another. As time went by, that tense feeling from earlier faded into the background, still there, but much less noticeable.
You nearly forgot you had anything to be afraid of.
Almost.
That is, until after a very animated disagreement about Reverse cards. Kelce was saying they couldn't be stacked, Topper was absolutely sure you could. That's when Rafe suddenly threw his cards to the floor.
"This is so boring," he said.
Topper raised an eyebrow at him. "You're probably just bored because you keep losing." Rafe ignored the comment, stood up and stretched his arms.
"We should just swim instead," Rafe said.
Kelce seemed to love the idea as his eyes lit up. "Yeah, let's swim."
Topper was on board. “And it’s hot out anyway.”
You instantly felt anxious, “I…I don’t have a swimsuit,” you mumbled.
All three of them turned to face you, a little surprised at your response.
Quickly, you added, "And I also don't want to get my dress wet," you mentioned. Your mom had bought it for you when she went shopping the other day. It was pale blue and had a soft and gentle touch. You'd been extra careful not to get it wrinkled all day.
"So?" Rafe shrugged, waving his hand away, as if to dismiss it from importance.
"So," you responded, unsure how to get your point across.
He rolled his eyes in a way that made you feel like you were overreacting, "You could just borrow my sisters', they usually have extra bathing suits in the pool house."
You were surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah," he replied, "My sisters always leave stuff there anyway."
Topper turned to you with a mischievous grin. "What? Are you afraid of swimming?"
You shook your head, "No, actually, I used to catch fish for fun," you quickly said. Topper chuckled at that.
Kelce tilted his head, a little confused. "Then what's the problem?"
You hesitated. The problem wasn't swimming, it was them.
Being out there with them, outside in the open near the water felt unsafe. There and then, you were in an open space, vulnerable, and without anywhere to hide.
Rafe approached you as his voice changed slightly. "You're here already. You might as well not just sit around and be boring," he said.
You swallowed nervously, "I don't want to mess up my dress," you managed to say in a quiet voice.
He scanned your dress, his gaze lingering on the material as if trying to assess whether you spoke the truth or just making up excuses.
"It's just a dress," he remarked. For him it was easy to say that. Based on your observation, everything around here looked replaceable in his eyes.
You stood up uneasily, using your hands to flatten the creases on your skirt.
If you didn't agree, you would just embarrass yourself. If you did, at least you wouldn't appear scared, even though on the inside, you were. "Fine," you said, quietly agreeing.
Rafe flashed a wide smile, looking quite pleased with himself, "There you go, that wasn't so hard," he said.
Topper put the UNO cards aside as he spoke. "The last one to the pool is the loser," he said.
Kelce made his way to the door immediately after, screaming and shouting with his fist in the air. The others soon followed quickly, making noises as they ran down the hallway. Their laughter echoed down the hallway with abandon.
You lingered a little at the bedroom door, unsure if you were doing the right thing.
Rafe turned to you, "Don't be the last one alright?" he said teasingly.
You followed them down the stairs, passing through the doors at the back.
The pool shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, sparkling blue and inviting. There were many reclining lounge chairs arranged around the area by the pool. The pool house was on one side of the pool. While it may have looked smaller than the mansion, it was still bigger than your old room.
The air was thick with the scent of chlorine and salt, with a hint of metal.
Topper and Kelce were already jumping around, trying to get their shoes off their feet.
Rafe turned to look at you.
"If you want to get changed, the pool house is over there," he said as he pointed towards the direction of the pool house.
You didn't spend much time stalling and found yourself walking towards the pool house.
Each step felt heavier than the previous, your head swarmed with thoughts. Why were you nervous? This was just swimming. You grew up on the water, so why start panicking now?
But the feeling of regret quickly replaced relief. You might have made a mistake by agreeing to join them.
You heard the pool house door lock behind you. The moment you stepped into the pool house, you noticed a mirror, and in that instance, you paused to look at yourself.
The swimsuit was pink, and when you say pink, it was a bright shade of pink.
There were adorable strawberry prints all over with the green leaves embroidered on them. It was a young girl's swimsuit.
It fit, but not quite.
The shoulder straps felt slightly uncomfortable, and the bottoms were also tight. Every time you moved, the fabric was pulled along, making it feel compressed.
You made your way out after adjusting the straps of the swimsuit. As you came out, the sun shone brightly and the pool glistened under the sunlight. The rest of the boys were already in the pool water. Their shoulders drooped, hair washed over their foreheads as they splashed each other aggressively.
You folded your dress and placed it on the bench outside. For a moment, you paused and thought about escaping inside the pool house. There was the slight hope that maybe you wouldn't have to go through with it after all. What if they moved on and lost interest in you?
"Hey!" Topper shouted at you from the pool.
"Strawberry Shortcake! Come over here already!"
Laughter trailed off as your face flushed with embarrassment.
Kelce was the first to see you coming out of the pool house, "Dang, check her out," he grinned.
Topper couldn't stop laughing, "She really is the Strawberry Shortcake!"
Rafe turned his head to look at you. "Was that from the baby section?" he asked, not even trying to hide his sarcasm.
You didn't pay him any mind. Mindlessly, you walked towards the pool, treading carefully as the hot stones stung against your bare feet. The water was inviting, yet intimidating. It looked refreshing and deep enough.
You dipped your toes into the water first, testing if it was cold or not. It was cold. It was the kind of cold that shocked your skin before settling into something refreshing. The afternoon heat on your body felt like a furnace. The cold water would provide relief.
You took a deep breath. Composed yourself.
"C'mon" Kelce hollered at you, making his way to your direction.
You made your way into the water, supporting yourself by the rail until the water level reached your hips, and eventually your shoulders.
You propelled yourself off gently, immersing yourself fully into the water.
Everything was quiet for a second before Topper sprayed you with water.
You raised your hands to wipe off the water from your eyes and turned to see Kelce madly splashing and being retaliated by Rafe. It was absolute chaos. There was water flying everywhere, sharp shrieks of laughter echoing along the patio.
You giggled when Kelce gasped for air as he choked on his own splash. For a moment, it all felt like normal.
Kelce had a new idea, "Let's do Marco Polo," he said out of breath.
Topper nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah".
Rafe protested, shaking his head. "That's boring."
Kelce splashed him right in the face, "You pick and choose then, then".
Rafe, floating on his back, switched positions, now upright, "Fine," he said, "We'll play Marco Polo. But with different rules".
He made it to the center of the pool, "It's like tag but not in the field, obviously were in water, you have to close your eyes if you're it," he started to say, "But everyone has to keep their eyes closed".
Kelce frowned, "How are we supposed to know where you're at?" he asked.
Rafe turned his head, "That's the point," he replied.
Topper's face lit up, "So we say Marco and not get tagged," he said.
"Yeah," Rafe said, "The person who gets tagged next is it".
He turned his gaze at you, "Are you in?" Rafe said.
You hesitated. You thought about it. It sounded harmless. If you said no, you knew they would call you scared.
So you nodded, "Okay," you said.
"I'll be 'it' first," Rafe volunteered.
You weren't surprised of course.
You all dispersed, trying to find a spot in the water where you would have the least risk of being caught, "Close your eyes," he ordered.
You did as told. Once you close your eyes, everything changes into darkness. You can still feel the heat of the sun rays on your face, but your vision is gone. The only thing you feel is the sound and some movement.
"Marco," Kelce's voice carried into your ear, you think he was on your right.
"Polo," Rafe answered from some distance away.
Cautiously, you treaded the water, waist-deep, with your hands extended out in front of you.
"Marco," the voice of Topper called.
"Polo," Rafe replied.
The first round was fun and amateur, it wasn't organized or anything. Kelce collided with Topper, both wailing in pain. Rafe had found Kelce, grabbing him after slamming into him.
Everyone had burst out laughing.
In the second round, it was pretty much the same. You almost hit Rafe but got away. He found Topper instead. It felt safe enough so you lowered your guard.
Mistake.
"Last round," Rafe said, "I'm it again, thank you so much Thornton," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.
You closed your eyes once more. This time, the pool was quieter, the movements more deliberate. The surface of the water was smoother, and the air was still. You treaded the water. Your ears picked up scintillating sounds from the opposite direction.
"Marco," Kelce's voice called out again.
"Polo," Rafe answered, like a whisper.
You got closer to the direction of the sound.
"Marco," Topper called out again, "Polo," Rafe's voice came even closer this time.
You felt your heart pound in your ears as you swallowed your spit and said it. "Marco."
Everything is quiet for a moment.
And then
“Polo.”
You feel it, right behind you. The word grazes your ear, so close.
Your stomach plummeted. Before you even had a chance to get your bearings, Smash! Rafe’s body crashed into yours, he was more forceful than needed. You lost balance immediately. Water swallowed you up as your legs flailed to find the ground.
Water shot up your nose as your mouth involuntarily opened in surprise.
Your arms and legs flailed desperately, his arm hooked around your chest. The hold wasn’t loose like it should be. Not like someone playing the game. It was tight.
Your lungs reacted quicker than your mind could, they burned and only got worse. You tried to kick upwards, outsmart the tight grip around your chest, but he stayed locked.
One second. Two. Three.
The world underwater was distorted. You felt splashing, faint laughter. But it was blocked by the water.
Four.
Your breathing started to become sparse. You tried to push but with every attempt, it only grew weaker.
Five.
He let go and instantly, you stampeded upwards and gasped, your mouth opening wide to breathe, as if you forgot to use your nose.
You coughed hard, water spewing from your teeth and mouth. Your nose, upper lip, and eyes burned. The air tastes strange, almost too thin.
Topper is the first to react. ”Dude! You tackled her!” Topper shouts.
Kelce chokes on his own laughter. ”She didn’t even see you!”
Rafe surfaced slowly, almost leisurely.
He laughed lightly, his thumb swept some water off his upper lip as he attempted nonchalance. ”You good?” He says with a slight sneer
Your chest kept rising up and down, it was difficult to talk. You snorted, out of breath, not sure what you did wrong. ”You…you pushed me.” You manage to pant out.
Rafe, acting unfamiliar, confused, ”It’s Marco Polo”. His face was the picture of casualness, acting like you were being disrespectful. ”I told you the rules didn’t I, princess?”
He made it seem like you were the one overreacting. ”You said marco, I said polo.” he shrugged.
Topper is quick to interject. ”That’s how the game works. You have to trust us.” He is justifying, but you can identify a slight slur in his speech.
They weren’t concerned for your safety, on the contrary, they were entertained.
Rafe wasn’t laughing, but he was watching you. If it weren't for the current circumstances, you’d say he looked charming, but now he looks intimidating.
Your lungs felt tight, your chest was caving in.
And in that moment, you understood something important. Rafe was not playing Marco Polo for fun, but to instill fear.
Those 5 seconds were enough to set you off, and you realized how easily his grip could snap, you realized that him being in control was a choice.
You quickly collected yourself and started to regulate your breathing
”I’m fine,” you said, though your voice shook a little.
Rafe’s lips were upturned in a crooked smile.
“Good.”
The laughter was still catching up to the moment. A sharp sound cut the mood through the patio.
“What on earth is going on out here?”
It wasn’t Ward. And the tone is higher, more acute. Refined in a way, that didn't belong to shouting, but was shouting anyway.
You all turn instinctively toward the sound.
An elegantly dressed woman stood in the glow of the sun, framed by the tall glass doors that led back into the house. She was holding a full-bodied glass of wine in one hand. Her hair, the color of the sun, was styled in soft beachy waves, she was dressed in a white linen two-piece ensemble. Expensive no doubt, and reminiscent of a breezy summer wardrobe.
She looked like she belonged in a magazine. Except for her face, which looked angry.
Her steely eyes scanned the pool, observing the ruckus. She advanced swiftly, the wide skirt of her dress flowing in the wind.
You’re coughing, eyes still red because of chlorine, and still exhausted.
It takes only a split second for her expression to change. She steps forward, her heels click-clacking on the tile.
“Rafe Cameron, what do you think you’re doing?”
Topper and Kelce immediately adjusted their posture, Rafe, on the hand, did not look even remotely concerned.
Rafe nudges your ankle, you notice it isn’t a playful gesture. More of a warning, as if to tell you don’t say anything.
“Rose.” He answers, wet hair dripping down his face and posture as nonchalant as before. “We weren’t doing anything.”
So this is Rose.
She doesn’t look convinced and she narrows her eyes slightly as she comes closer to the edge of the pool, the sunlight bounces off the jewelry on her wrist. Delicate, high-maintenance, probably real 24k gold jewelry stacked on one wrist. The bracelets chime as gently as she swings her arms to gesticulate.
”Were you holding her under?” she shouts loud enough for the whole block to hear.
”No,” He answers, his voice smooth. Almost bored. ”We were playing Marco Polo.”
Kelce quickly agrees. And Topper chimes in ”It’s just a game, Rose.”
Rose’s gaze shifts and suddenly she’s looking at you, and for the first time since you’ve gotten to the Cameron’s mansion, someone looks at you like they’re actually checking.
”Sweetheart,” She bends down, her tone gone mild. ”Sweety you okay?”
Rafe’s foot nudges yours again.
You swallow, holding the back of the words that you wanted to say still in your throat. You act like everything is fine, even though your lungs still feel raw and your nose still stinging from the chlorine exposure. ”All good here.” was all you could muster to say to her.
She stares at you a moment longer, not entirely sure if you’re telling the truth.
But she doesn’t say anything, she just straightens up. Her hand pressed to her temple, breathing out what you imagine is a raucous exhale. ”Okaay, pack it up boys, no more fun for anyone tonight.”
The groans erupt from all sides of the pool, Rafe is the first to protest “Rose-“.
”Out. Off you go, young men. I’m not going to repeat myself,” She states, careful assistant appearing out of nowhere, fetching towels for the group.
She’s not going to change her mind, no matter how hard Rafe tries to charm his way out of this one.
The boys all get out of the pool, still sopping with water. You hang back near the edge in the half-expectation that you won't be summoned out of the pool.
Rose’s eyes find you, this time with a knowing smile ”You too, especially.” Her voice changing into a more soft tone. “Your mother was very clear with Ward that you’re not supposed to swim without sunscreen on, and especially on a hot day like this.”
Rafe’s face is tight and sullen as he mumbles something on the lines of “She’s fine”
Rose’s sharp look immediately shuts him up “Out.”
You hesitantly approach the pool stairs, releasing most of the tension in your body as you ease into the warmth of the air. The wind feels warm and sticky and the slight tan on your legs is evidence of sun exposure.
You don’t look at Rafe as you walk past him, but you know he’s looking at you.
Inside the pool house you grab your dress quickly, You didn’t even bother changing fully, you just wrapped yourself in the towel hanging on the hook, covering you wherever you could and made a beeline for the door.
You’re still shaking, and your heart is doing some sort of weird drumming movement in your ears.
Rose is there, you notice she is no longer holding her drink, her hands uncluttered look down at you worryingly.
“Oh, honey,” Rose leans down and her voice is gentle, “You’re freezing”
Wait, she’s right. You are shivering, a lot more than you thought.
She motions for you to follow her, placing a comforting hand on your back.
The first thing you notice is the way the marble floors feel under your feet, cool, and slightly sticky. And then the cool air, thick and heavy with the smell perfume, hits your face.
You can hear voices in the back, Rafe’s voice, to be specific. Low, irritated. Rose doesn’t turn back to look, she’s busy searching her purse for something, you can tell she was a little fazed by Rafe's actions.
She leads you up the stairs, not to Rafe’s room but to a guest bathroom.
She gives you a clean, soft towel, and you’re surprised at how much fluffier it is than the one you had in the pool house. “We need to dry you off,” she says, as gently as before. She goes to work efficiently, pulling off your swimsuit, careful not to hurt you. She doesn’t comment on the tightness, though she must have noticed.
She wraps your body securely with the towel, and sits you on a counter on a marble counter.
She then goes to the closet, finds a blow dryer, plugs it in, and turns it on.
The warm air feels good on your face. She starts brushing out your hair with her fingers, then grabs a wide-tooth comb and starts combing your hair.
“You have beautiful hair,” she says absent-mindedly.
You stare at the mirror, your eyes are still red.
Rose notices. She stops for a second, looks at your reflection, “Rafe can be…” she hesitates, looking for the right words, “Energetic”
That was how she chose to describe what just happened. Energetic.
She begins drying your hair again, “He doesn’t know when to stop I guess. Not always. Not when his friends are around.”
You don’t respond. She sighs. “I’m sorry if he got carried away.” She continues. “Boys are like that. Thoughtless sometimes.”
She dries your hair and brushes it for you. “There, much better,” She says admiring her work. She steps back and allows herself to look at you in the mirror before offering you a smile.
“Next time,” She says “I’ll make sure they don’t wind you up too much.”
Next time. It sits in the air for a while as you watch yourself in the mirror.
Downstairs, you hear the sound of a car door closing. You know instantly, it’s your parents. You’re extremely grateful.
Rose smoothes out her hair and straightens her dress. Her face was calm like nothing ever happened.
She rests a hand on your shoulders and says, “Let’s go greet them”
You follow her down the stairs and you see Rafe and Topper in the living room, they are both calm and relaxed like nothing happened.
The day went by without anything really happening. Well, nothing new anyway.
You couldn't stop thinking about the way he yanked on your hair. You could almost still feel your scalp burning and remember the sound of your chair scraping across the tile before you fell to the floor. And you could still remember, plain as day, the look on his face as he tried to drown you.
The outdoor cafeteria was set up right outside the main building with a bunch of wooden benches under swinging white shades. You could almost always smell the salt from the sea and the thick sunscreen that everyone used, even in school.
It looked perfect.
You gripped your lunch box hard, the one your mom had packed nicely that morning, and threaded your way through the tables. Most seats had already been taken by groups that were laughing loudly. Boys in neat polos sitting with each other. Girls in their pleated skirts. You envied how free they all seemed to be.
You saw an empty bench around the far end and decided to walk towards it.
“Hey” someone called out. You immediately felt your stomach turn.
You didn’t need to turn around to see who it was.
Yet you decided to turn around.
And there he was—Rafe Cameron—a little too relaxed, stretching on the bench as if he were the king of the world. He was sitting with Topper and Kelce, both of whom were already staring at you with that annoying smirk on their faces.
He called out your name. You immediately looked behind you to confirm that he was indeed calling for you.
He snickered a bit and said, “Yeah, I’m talking to you.” You could hear your heart pounding in your ears.
He looked… composed. He wasn’t jeering or shoving anything in your face. He looked at you as though this was normal. Like he hadn’t almost killed you two days before. Like you hadn’t gone home with a headache after he pulled your hair out.
He patted the bench beside him and said, “Come sit here.”
Topper sniggered but Kelce didn't meet your eye.
You paused and stood still for a moment.
You told yourself silently, rejecting him would make things ten times worse. He would make a drama out of it. He always did. Maybe this was a truce; his way of settling things down.
You were wrong.
You slowly walked over to him and plopped down on his bench without checking anything. That was your first mistake.
They went back to their chat like you weren’t even there.
They talked about surfing, and a fight someone’s brother had gotten into and how they thought a particular teacher was “a psycho.” Each time, Rafe would occasionally throw a glance at you but didn’t open up about anything.
You decided to focus on your food. Chew. Swallow. Don’t look like you’re panicking.
You silently told yourself that was somewhat a progress.
Then the bell rang and everyone started scraping their benches away. You stood up, while the trio you sat with was already by the exit and getting out.
Except you didn't. Your body wouldn't allow you to. There was some sort of resistance.
You were left confused and tried again. Your thighs felt solidly glued to something. Neither you nor the bench moved.
You were utterly confused, you tried forcing yourself by pushing your hands on the table. Still stuck. Your stomach might as well have turned into an ice cube.
Behind you, you heard a snort then snicker.
You looked down and noticed that your skirt, the one that your mom paid to be custom tailored to you, was glued solidly to the bench. You could see the clear adhesive shimmering in front of you like oil.
You felt a lump in your throat. "No way," said Kelce with a tone of surprise
Topper laughed till he was out of breath, while Rafe watched you and said with all the coldness he could muster, "Guess you're not going anywhere."
Your face turned red in embarrassment. You tried to gently peel the cloth away from the bench but failed miserably.
Students were beginning to stare at you. You heard shuffling and whispers. Someone was even pointing at you now. Your hands shook with shame.
"Come on, just stand up already", murmured Rafe with a grin on his face.
You tried to pull harder. The glue stretched and you could hear the fabric stretch against your thighs.
Topper was laughing so hard it almost felt like he was going to slip off the bench. Kelce covered his mouth but it did nothing to hide the large smile on his face.
You tried again.
Harder. And then…
RRRIP!
It rang in your ears. In your state of embarrassment and shock, you lost your balance and almost fell.
Half of your skirt stayed behind, glued to the bench in a strip of cloth.
The cold air stung your legs and rear, the parts that were exposed.
You became a statue as you froze.
You didn't realize what had actually happened for a brief second before you were snapped back into reality by the echo of laughter.
Not only from them but from every direction.
You reached behind you, out of instinct. Your underwear was on full display for everyone to see. You stood there feeling like you’re about to vomit your guts out.
Rafe was already halfway to the exit as he took in how… exposed you were and grinned.
“Guess we know who forgot the dress code,” he yelled, and Topper clutched his sides and Kelce kept slapping the table.
You heard someone yell “Mrs. Underpants!” from behind you.
You heard bells in your ears and you felt as if your stomach was about to explode. You immediately sat on the bench, trying to cover whatever was left of your decency. Your hands shook uncontrollably. Your vision blurred.
You weren't crying. You had gone beyond that. You were feeling… nothing.
People were still laughing at you as they passed by. Some were openly pointing at you, while some pretended not to.
Rafe looked like he was thoroughly enjoying this. As if you were a joke for everyone’s amusement.
For a split second, your eyes caught his. There was neither shame nor guilt.
Just pure satisfaction. Then he walked away, with Topper and Kelce in tow, still laughing.
You had no idea how long you were sitting. It felt like hours.
Then someone stopped in front of you.
You braced yourself for another joke, prominently at your expense.
But instead, they just dropped their jacket over your lap. "Here, take it" came a soft voice. You were too embarrassed to look up.
You just grabbed it and tied it around your waist with the shakiest knot you could muster.
“T-thanks,” you whispered, though it was more of a broken whimper.
The boy didn’t say anything. He just walked away, leaving you with his jacket.
You bolted out, and with every step you took, you wanted to die.
You almost collided with Rafe at the cafeteria door. You didn’t stop, you brushed past him, your shoulder hitting his chest. For a split fraction of a second, he stiffened at your sudden forcefulness. You didn’t bother to look. You kept running.
You ran past the lockers and straight into the girl’s restroom.
You went to the nearest stall and immediately closed the stall’s door shut, you were immediately having a sobbing fit.
You looked down at your broken skirt, noticing how the damage was so bad you would have to throw it away. Part of it was still outside.
You covered your face and cried. Not because of the skirt. Not because of the laughter but because you had actually believed that he might have wanted to make peace. That he might have wanted to be friends. Because you believed what your mom said, for one second.
You replayed the moment he called you over. The way you hesitated. The way you actually hoped.
And right now?
Now everyone had seen it. And everyone had laughed at it. And he looked proud.
You wiped your tears. This wasn’t just a prank.
And now, you finally understood it. You were never meant to feel safe here.
Not while Rafe Cameron was watching you.
@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me
I started reading your work 'HE LOVED ME MEAN' and it is so good! It really is, I love the way it is written. I hope you are doing alright and know that you are loved and cherished!
thank u so much bb ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ your words honestly means so much to me after recently getting out of the mental hospital lol, peeps been treating me like an area 51 patient ever since i got out this is like the first ever reassurance i got in months lol.
⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ Your parents won the lottery, which brings you to life among the Kooks. Regardless of your wealth, Rafe Cameron establishes from the first moment you that you do not fit in, hatred and obsession begin to blend together, and in Outer Banks, power always comes at a price.
If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content
A/n: this story starts when they're children but nothing inappropriate happens until they're both 19. First chapter of this series, yipee finally did something more productive other than rotting in a mental hospital and contemplating if i should kill myself again (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
7 years prior
You had been a quiet and timid kid always, the type of kid that didn't raise their hands in class if they weren't asked too. Your life was small and felt like a breathe of fresh air.
Your life revolved around The Cut where you wore used clothing and hand-me-downs far too big for your size.
You hated how your shoulders burned from the sun, while your parents took you fishing at the docks during breakfast time everyday, the sunburn feeling uncomfortable on your sun tanned skin. The good old memories as some might say.
Your parents worked hard to earn money, which neither made them rich nor put them in poverty. The couple dedicated their entire workday to their jobs. Your dad delivered seafood shipments to markets, while your mom worked as a house cleaner. Financial resources always stayed limited. You remembered how you always wanted new shoes and a real backpack but your parents turn you down always, saying that there more important things to spend money on.
The lottery win changed everything for you.
The victory brought them everything which they desired. The winning moment arrived after years of scratch-off tickets and weekly lottery tickets which finally brought your dad victory. The couple stood together while their hands were shaking and their faces wept in disbelief.
You did not understand everything at that time. You only knew that suddenly, you weren’t counting quarters for school lunches. Your clothes became new, while your backpack didn't have holes anymore and your shoes didn't need patching up every week because of it's detoriating state
It was not immediate though. All debts still needed to be settled, long-suffering relatives showed up, and bills disappeared like smoke in the wind. Your house remained the same until the next day but you knew that changes would happen. Your parents spoke about their need for a new area to live in, they wanted to find a secure spacious area which would bring them to a better life.
The Cut was behind you now, and soon became a vague memory, whilst Figure 8 became your permanent residence by the time you were 12.
Figure 8 was ridiculousy perfect, the street lead to a collection of white painted houses, and their owners maintained their lawns in perfect condition, while the scent of saltwater combined with the aroma of polished wood.
Your parents showed their pride, you first noticed the small changes on them. Your dad showed more happiness through his smiling. Your mom showed more happiness through her laughter. They had stopped fighting over money and debt altogether and your new house smelled like new furniture and fresh paint, so you tried to be happy for them, but you found it hard to keep your smile.
Your family wealth did not suddenly change who you are. You appeared different, yet your true self remained unchanged as you are still the poor girl from The Cut.
The first day you walked to school with your brand new uniform, the other children observed you but not with envy, they looked at you in a way which made you feel like your stomach would twist. You didn’t belong here.
You didn’t say anything. You never did. The first thing you understood about life is that staying quiet protected you better than trying to tell others who you really were.
Your parents got too engrossed in business because they dedicated themselves to their new existence while they remained unaware of your anxious voice in the back of your head, which showed your doubt about whether riches could provide you true security.
Because you knew, even then, that some things weren’t fixed with money
You woke up before your clock rang.
You stared at the ceiling far too long. The smoothness and cleanliness of the ceiling above you was a real contrast to your old house at The Cut where the ceiling above you displayed water stains and the plaster surface of the ceiling contained a crack which extended across it like an irregular vein.
The air inside the room contained no saltwater and fried oil scents which should have come from the nearby docks. Your new room reeked of two distinct odors which included fresh paint and a floral scent your mother had placed inside the air ducts.
Figure 8, the word left a bad taste in your tongue, the term still sounded foreign to you.
Your uniform hung on the back of your chair. The fabric maintained its crispness while the pleats extended sharply and the blouse had a bright white color. The new shoes which your parents have purchased remained beneath the blouse, the shoes being newly polished to the point that they reflected all lights which entered through the window.
You stared at them for a long time before moving. It was weird wearing a new uniform, the blouse didn't have yellow stains on them nor was the skirt too big or too small for you, and the shoes being a perfect fit for your feet.
Downstairs, your parents started to make breakfast in the kitchen. The kitchen sounds emerged from the cabinets and from the coffee maker.
Your socks made soft sounds along the wooden stairs. Your mother turned to you as soon as you reached the end of the stairs.
Your mother stepped toward you while she spoke to you in a soft tone. "Oh, sweetheart," she said softly, crossing the kitchen toward you. "You look beautiful."
You felt anything but. She tugged your skirt down as if trying to straighten the already crisp straight skirt, her fingers moved to your collar, straightening it with small and precise adjustments.
"The only thing that matters is your education," she told you, sensing your anxiety. "Kids your age? They don’t care about houses or money. They just want friends."
You nodded because it was easier than arguing.
The lottery, had been anything but quiet. The whole island was in a state of excitement for weeks. Your surname had been mentioned in newspapers, it was also a main topic in gossips that circulated in grocery stores. You even heard someone else say—Can you believe it? From The Cut?
Your father was clearing his throat from a distance near the doorway, holding your backpack in one hand. He looked elated and overrun. Like that moment meant more to him than it did to you.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
You were practically a mess in the head, but you wanted to stay in tact just for your dad.
"You betcha!" you said through your teeth while enthuisastically grabbed your backpack and you and your father headed off.
This time, the drive through Figure 8 seemed unusually slow. The sunlight hit the water perfectly, reflecting itself into a bright, garish surface that one could not reach. The houses on either side of the road were far from the ordinary; they were high and proud—white columns, wide porches, neatly parked boats behind the grass neatly cut.
Your father’s hands were a bit tighter on the steering wheel when he made a turn to the school drop-off line. In front of you, there were luxury SUVs that stood still with the engine running. Parents dressed in fine linen were stepping out briefly from the vehicle just to kiss their children on their cheeks in a very light manner and clear and learned voices.
He parked with care. The engine turned off, and for a split second it was as if neither of you could move.
"You don’t need to prove anything to anyone," he finally said, in a softer voice, as he ended the silence. "You belong here now, we belong here now"
You swallowed.
The school building looked really right, high, and pure. The red bricks were clean. Polished windows reflected the clouds. The entrance had a sign on wooden gold letters with the school’s name on it. A small plaque was hung there too; listing the most important donors—names carved in metal.
Your father brought you to the sidewalk. He lightly pinched your shoulder and then stepped back a bit toward the car, giving you space like he figured that independence would give you more courage.
You took the next step all by yourself. The double doors were operating like you were the one that made them.
And then there was a noise shift inside. It didn’t stop. It merely changed. Voices became softer. Conversations got fractured. Heads spun like a chase of a small pebble down a path.
Immediately. You had noticed the change
People already had you figured out.
You weren’t just a mystery or a fresh face on the island. You were that girl, the one whose family hit the lottery jackpot. You came from the Cut, and now you were a Figure 8 resident. The Island had already introduced you to every single person, even before you could open your mouth and greet anyone.
Your shoes made too much noise on the polished floors, which created a deliberate, foreign sound in the echo of the halls whenever you walked.
Each wall held framed class photos, going back decades. Rows of grinning children, beneath familiar surnames you kept hearing repeated, Cameron. Montgomery. Thornton. Hastings. Names woven into the fabric of the island.
Of course, you never found your last name in there classist version of hall of fame.
A group of girls near the lockers stopped their conversation just to stare openly at you. One of them leaned in to whisper something to the other, prompting them both to glance at you again, their gaze not softening in curiosity. As if they were assessing you.
A boy leaned against his locker further down the hall, narrowing his eyes at you as you passed, like he was analyzing past the new uniform and onto you.
Lottery girl, you could almost hear their thoughts about you.
You focused on your locker number. You spun the dial, though your stomach twisted tight enough to hurt. When you heard the click of the lock, you exhaled slowly, and then placed your books inside, aligning them in neat rows. You kept your head down, because meeting their eyes felt like a humilation ritual to you.
The truth hung heavily in the air: this school wasn’t full of just any Kooks. It was full of generational Kooks.
Children who came from families whose parents and grandparents had sat in these same classrooms. Whose ancestors could have donated the gymnasium, gracing their names at the top of the donator’s columns. Families who didn’t need luck to live here.
You were the only one whose arrival came from a ticket.
A sudden burst of laughter echoed from behind you. Though the laughter was most likely not about you, your shoulders tensed anyway.
You gently closed your locker. adjusted your backpack straps, and walked toward your assigned classroom. The walk felt long and uncomfortable. No one said anything outright. Nobody needed to.
When you arrived at your classroom door, you hesitated, then entered.
You scanned the rows of desks upholstered with their clean, blue, plastic cushions. Soft light beckoned your eyes toward brightly-colored bulletin boards. Your teacher, no older than twenty five, arranged papers at the front.
Normal. It all looked normal.
You chose a middle seat, not to close to the front and not to close to the back. It was safe and neutral. Neatly folding your hands on your desk, you stared. You stared as the class filtered in, not knowing if anyone cared enough to analyze your new presence here.
There were the glances again. The whispers had returned. You never let yourself cry. You didn’t shrink, like your mother told you to.
You kept your seat, remaining as quiet as you could. You felt your heart beating hard enough to reach your throat, as you continued pretending not to notice the way you were already separated from them.
Your mother told you that kids your age didn’t care about money.
Maybe she was right. Maybe they really didn’t care about money. They cared about bloodlines. And you didn’t have the right one.
Eventually, the room went quiet.
The teacher walked up to the board and starts writing math solutions. Rays of sun filter through the windows and illuminate the floating particles. The air has the faint but unmistakable scent of dry eraser marker and the beach, though the beach scent was not as strong as it was when you still went to school on the other side of the island.
You sit motionless in anticipation. You feel a bit uncomfortable in your new school uniform. The collar scratches your neck. The pressed skirt lays unnaturally against your lap.
But the worst part were the eyes that were the eyes spectating you on the back, you felt as if every single student was judging you. The instructor starts the lesson. Basic math. Nothing out of the ordinary. You start working on your exercises and focus on making the numbers perfect.
You hear a chair being shuffled in the back of the classroom. You pretend not to notice it and keep working.
Behind you was kook prince, Rafe Cameron, you knew him, everybody knew him in the island. He was sitting at his chair like he owns the place. His blond hair slightly disheveled, summer-tanned skin and his sleeves rolled up from his arms.
You can feel something touch your hair. You pretend to ignore it. A moment later, someone touches your hair again. It’s gentle, almost as if they want to get your attention but want to keep it as subtle as possible. You try not to give it to them as you remained in your position and remained ignorant.
You believed that completely ignoring him is the best strategy. You hope that by not responding, he will get bored and stop bothering you.
You inaudibly sighed as the situation persists.
You are suddenly caught off guard by a strong pull on your hair. You are flung backward. As if the person wanted to pull your hair off completely. You don’t even have a split moment to take in what’s happening. You immediately lose your balance due to the force.
Your chair violently shifts backward, as your mind tries to process the situation For a brief moment, you believe there’s a possibility to recover as you tried to ground your feet.
But it was too late as you tumble. You find yourself staring at the ceiling, disoriented. Then you hit the floor. On your back.
You try to grasp for air. The back of your head vibrating at the impact. However, the crook of your arm absorbs most of the impact. The chair thuds next to you. Loud enough for the incident to be made public.
Complete silence falls as the classroom realizes what just happened.
Then laughter ensues. The laughter isn’t thunderous. It’s not even joyous. What truly humiliated you the most were the slight snicker.
You continue to stare listlessly at the ceiling. The pain is still fresh. You feel your hair was out of place as your skirt was also is wrinkled and uncomfortable, you try to stand up despite the pain.
The instructor asked snapping his head towards the source of the sound “What is the matter?”
You hear the sound of her approaching footsteps. You try to respond, instead you simply turn your head toward the teacher not really knowing what to say.
Rafe was already seated upright again. His expression seemed blank. It didn't even seem like he understood the problem.
"I don't know Mrs. Hastings, she just played with her chair and lost balance I guess" He shrugged as if the situation wasn’t even a big deal.
A few of his friends nod in confirmation. One of them makes a remark about you being new and how that can be confusing as a new student.
To your displeasure, the instructor's eyes are on you. Not him. You are the one who needs to bear all the consequences. No one else.
"This is completely unacceptable, if you want to remain in my class make sure you have proper manners!" chastised the instructor.
You try to look away in embarrassment. The embarrasment and guilt eating you up.
Your elbow aches as you try to sit upright. You try to brush off the dust from your uniform. Your hands are slightly trembling. You don’t look at him.
You know if you do, he will use this moment to humor himself even more. You knew that, because there were countless of boys like him at your old school at near The Cut.
You try to calm yourself and sit back down. It still hurts. You can feel the unevenness of your hair as the lesson progresses. The instructor ignores the commotion and continues the lesson.
Others follow suit. Chatter ceases. But you still feel his stare as if it was burning through the back of your skull.
A few minutes fly past. You try your best to focus but something soft falls on your shoulder. It shifts and lands on your desk.
It’s a note.
You freeze and try to ignore it. You feel apprehensive about opening it. If you leave it unbothered, maybe it won’t exist.
But someone once again snickered behind you.
You finally make up your mind to open the note. You try to avoid drawing attention by opening it in the view of the teacher.
Nice clothes, still Pogue trash, the message said in big bold letters.
Your heart drops. You keep staring at the words. Rafe didn’t even have a chance to get to know you. You just happen to be a first-year at his school and nothing more yet they have already decided your worth. It's that simple now. You almost laughed at the thought.
You fold up the note and hold your ground. You won’t give him what he wants. For now.
You unintentionally drop your pencil. You crouch to the ground to retrieve it. When you look up, the entire class is already staring at you. The noise of the moving chair had shifted their topics.
You see Rafe sitting aloof with his foot around one of the chair stands.
You almost fall forward. Someone laughs.
“Be careful geez,” he says sarcastically.
You ignore it. You remain silent. You try to calm yourself once again. But this time it lingers for a little longer.
Time flies as the bell rings. You finally have the chance to breathe. The lesson has reached its conclusion, you slowly gather your notes and supplies.
Before you can catch your balance, another one of them bumps into your shoulder.
You look up, slightly confused. Rafe is in your personal space. His expression now seems more serious. He looks down at you like an apex predator after its kill.
His disposition tries to deduce your next move. “You should stay in your place pogue.” he says
“After all, those clothes don't fit you anyway" He laughed.
Something stuck in your throat. Or maybe it’s the feeling of being helpless.
He brushes past you. Again seemingly by accident. You know it wasn't. You see him leave the classroom followed by his pack. His friends snicker and laugh at his jokes and other bullshit he was saying.
The instructor doesn't seem to care. Or maybe she doesn’t want to. You are left awkwardly by yourself in the middle of the classroom. Your elbow continues to hurt after the fall, equally, disturbing a throbbing head.
A small piece of you feels like it has broken for the first time. He doesn’t even know your name. but to him you are an oddity. You are different from the rest.
And for them, that's enough to justify your worth
@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me
⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ Your parents won the lottery, which brings you to life among the Kooks. Regardless of your wealth, Rafe Cameron establishes from the first moment you that you do not fit in, hatred and obsession begin to blend together, and in Outer Banks, power always comes at a price.
warnings: severe stockholm syndrome, cult beliefs, coercion, heavy manipulation, alluded to non-con, forced pregnancy, lemme know if I missed any!
pairings: cult member!peter parker x reader
a/n: I wasn't really in a mood to write a long ass fic coz I'm sick, so I present you a blurb or a drabble, whatever the heck you call it, can be considered as a sequel for what lies underneath or a stand alone. this is based on this ask
If you don't wanna see my dark writing, block the tag #madi: dark content
Sometimes Peter missed you fighting him, begging him to stop. He felt guilty, but deep inside, he knew that it was fate. Fate had brought you both together.
He beamed with pride. You were magnificent.
For a little while, you had fought and resisted. You had tried to run, but that was now behind you. The fire of fight had gone from your eyes and, instead, shone now with something gentle, something submissive. It had taken time, it had taken patience and understanding. But he did it. He saved you.
The last golden beams of the day, fell across the rows of wildflowers and herbs, spilling peacefulness in the garden. You sat on a wooden bench, one hand resting on your rounded belly, feeling life kicking and growing inside you. A soft smile danced at the corners of your mouth when you looked up to see Peter walking toward you, arms full of freshly picked apples from the orchard.
"There you are," he said in a voice warm and cheerful, before leaning down to give you your kiss on the forehead and dropping the apples on the bench alongside you. "I thought I'd lost you to the flowers again."
"You just need that fresh air," you said as you brushed a strand of hair from your face. "It's peaceful out here."
Peter knelt in front of you, his hands bold once again to rest over yours on your belly. "You're glowing," he said, eyes shining with more affection than his eyes usually hold. "Our little family is going to be perfect, you know that?"
A deep flush colored your cheeks, and your head dipped lower shyly. "I hope so," you murmured. "I just want to be a good mother."
"You will be," Peter said firmly, squeezing your hands. "You already are. Look how strong you've been, how far you've come. I'm so proud of you."
His words stirred warm feelings inside you, and you caught yourself smiling despite that faint ache in the back of your head—a nagging, dull sensation that somehow it was all wrong. But it was just temporary and easily forgotten. You were happy. Peter loved you. The village adored you. That's the most important thing.
Peter stood while lifting you with his hand you took to get up. "Come on," he said, his voice a little jubilant. "Dinner is almost done, and I am pretty sure Elder Maren baked that bread you enjoy so much. We can dine outside tonight, the two of us."
"And the baby," you added with a small laugh, placing a hand on your belly.
His grin grew even broader than before, and he placed a hand over yours. "And the baby," he agreed.
As you walked from the house towards the village square, the hum of the villager's voices and the distant sounds of children playing filled the air. The picture was pretty—idyllic, even. It was all too easy to forget things that had happened before and push the memory into that corner of your mind where you'd never have to think about them.
Peter's hand was warm in yours, his touch steady and reassuring. You glanced up at him—the way his face lights up in looking at you is really something to take in. He loves you. He saved you.
This is your home now. Your family.
That flicker of defiance, bright enough in your heart once, had been extinguished by months of soft smiles, kind reassurances, and Peter's gentle but relentless dragging. Leaving didn't cross your mind anymore. Why should it?
Happy, you are. Weren't you?
Peter slipped his arm around your shoulders as you approached the table set for two; the evening light cast a golden glow over everything. Then he kissed the top of your head and spoke softly into your ear, "It's just the beginning. For the both of us."
And for the first time in what felt like centuries, you believed him. Or at least, you told yourself you did.
@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me
⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ On your final year at Nevermore, you struggle with your weak psychic powers that make you feel more normie than outcast. When Pugsley Addams revived a zombie you thought this year couldn't get more weird. But somehow...his zombie kept staring at you for some reason.
⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ dub-con/noncon, necrophilia? (since they do the dirty when Isaac is almost regenerated), kidnapping, porn with a plot, death and grief, obsessive and possessive behavior, poisoning, seizures, and body horror, psychological manipulation and blurred reality, OOC Isaac Night? bye this is like 99 percent words and 1 percent smut. MINORS DO NOT READ.
If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content
A/n: bye i have been inactive for like forever, but I have risen from the dead (literally). i deeply apologized for not responding or posting because i was in rehab a few months ago and completely stopped writing, this was a literal out of nowhere idea, but other than that i need to see owen painter in new movies fr. This fic is probably the longest I have ever written and this was supposed to be published a week after Wednesday volume 2 dropped in October but I completely forgot about it 🤷♀️ oops.
To this day, you are confused and no one seems ever to make any attempt at determining your outcast abilities. Being too strange to ever be mistaken for being a normie; yet too weak in your gift to stand proudly among outcasts who carried their abilities like flags.
Thrashing awake, your breath is ragged and your hair clings to your sweaty forehead. The dream claws you again, screams ripping through the dark, a pain like fire consuming your caged chest, you writhe in agony, and it feels like you're going to be torn apart from the inside. But at the moment of your snapping awake, your bed is still your bed, whole with the morning light weakly slanting across the ceiling of your dorm.
Well, today is your birthday. Since the year here at Nevermore has just begun, you have greeted it like too many mornings before: trembling, heart racing, convinced you are dying… only to find that all is intact.
"Another nightmare?" Bianca's voice pulls you back to the reality. She sits up across the room, her silk nightgown's strap slipping off one shoulder. For all her sharpness, Bianca Barclay is the closest thing you have had to a family here.
You press a trembling hand to your chest. "Yeah, just the same one."
Bianca studies you with an arched brow. “The screaming again?”
You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah....it's fucking getting on my nerves for 8 years now.” You sighed, “Just… a dream. I do my best to ignore it.” You added
Bianca doesn’t push. She never does, though you can see the worry flash through her siren blue eyes before it transitioned to her usual calm facade.
You breathe slowly, up and down, hoping the weight to fade. But it wraps around you instead, as it always does, that feeling that something is due, something halfway between a dream and a faded memory.
Because that is the truth. Your psychic power is weak. So weak that the teachers sometimes whisper about it, not knowing what to make of you.
Psychics at Nevermore usually fall into two camps. Doves were bright souls who see visions steeped in possibility, tender urgings of hope, of warmth. Ravens were dark and sharp, their visions bloodied and brutally detailed, watching tragedy unfold at a killer pace.
And then there's you.
Your visions flicker and vanish like smoke, fragments of something whole, a hand reaching, a glass shattering, a voice cut before it can be heard. No story. No meaning. Only scraps. Too faint to pull someone out of the fire, too incomplete to condemn.
You have been told that you lean more toward the Raven—that your dreams are leaning more towards the shadow than light. But you're not enough of anything to truly belong.
Not truly a Dove. Not truly a Raven. Just…halfway. Always straddling some line.
Sometimes you wonder if that is why you hold onto Bianca tight with her sharp edges grounding you. If not, you do not think you would know where you stand.
This is the year it all has to end—the doubts, the weakness, the feeling of being caught in two worlds. Your last year at Nevermore. Your last chance to show you truly belong here.
But here you are, sitting on the edge of your bed, with cold sweat sticking your clothes to your body—and the thought still refuses to leave. The nightmare will be waiting.
It always is.
A week goes by. Classes continue in their familiar routine, uninteresting mornings of lectures, disinterested late-night study sessions, the boring hum of Nevermore's halls, wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.
As was their custom, your new Botany Sciences taecher dramatically declared that "true mastery of plants demands communion with nature."
You sometimes want Mrs. Thornhill to come back, unfortunately she was an outcast-hating-normie who wished and plotted death on the school the whole time she was teaching, fortunately she's been confined now.
Botanical Sciences had given out yet another impossible assignment: to bring back a sample of something called Perennial Vulgaria—a creeping grass rare enough that most of the students would waste their coming hours searching for it. But you had something else in mind. The Beeshack.
There were plenty of chances for something strange or rare growing there, near the rundown little hut where Eugene kept his bees. The boy had a knack for stumbling over odd things.
You swing your fist to knock. Voices come through the door, muffled. Sounds panicked... Sounds urgent. "Just—no, you can’t—don’t let it out—" Eugene. High-pitched and anxious.
The next voice was deeper, more gravelly; he sounded half-hurt. "Relax, I’ve got this under control." You knocked on the door loudly.
"Eugene? It’s me. I just need grass for Botany."
Their voices trailed off. Silence fell for what seemed a long time before Eugene's reply came, muffled but too loud and too fast: "Uh—n-now's not a good time! You should come back later! Way later! Like—next week!"
You frown. "I can't. The assignment's due before sundown. Just a few, Eugene."
More frantic whispering. Then Eugene again: "Seriously, no! It's—bee season. Yeah. Super busy. Bees everywhere. Stinging. Dangerous. Come back tomorrow!"
You roll your eyes. Eugene was an awful liar, and patience was never your forte. You push open the door.
"Wait—no!" Eugene cries.
The air inside hits you first: a stench foul, thick, rancid, rolling out like a wave. You gag, hand over your nose, just as your eyes adjust to the dim interior. The smell was putrid and absolutely foul, it smelled exactly just like nauseating blend of rotting meat, feces, and rotten vegetables.
Eugene is there, flustered, his bees buzzing nervously in their hives as if agitated by something unnatural.
And then you see it.
At one far corner, Pugsley Addams crouches under the shadow, the filthy white blanket tucked tightly over something under it that twitches from time to time. The attempt at concealment is ridiculous, for the creature under it jumps, reveals some mottled gray-green flesh where the blanket slips to cover it. A heavy and thick iron chain is looped tightly to the neck and anchored to a support beam.
The stench is unbearable. Putrid, earthy, damp, and something gnawing, like rusting metallic things.
"Pugsley," you breathe, horrified, "what in the actual fuck is that?"
Pugsley lifts his eyes, wearing the same suffocating half smile as before. "Uh… nothing?"
Something shifts again and a low groan escapes from its throat under the blanket. It slips further, and a glimpse of a face-sunken, rotted, lips torn back to reveal teeth stained black. Empty sockets flicker with the faintest trace of movement.
You stagger back, bile rising. "That is not—That is a fucking corpse bee-face!"
"Technically," says Pugsley, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's more of a zombie. Big difference."
Eugene waves his arms like crazy, almost tripping over a hive box. "We weren't supposed to tell anyone! Oh god, if Dort finds out, I'm toast, I'm expelled—we're expelled!"
The corpse lurches again, miraculously managing to stand up straight (or as straight as it could be), though shakily, the chain rattling as it straightens to its full height. The state of its body is rather unpleasant with skin torn, bones peeking beneath—indicates something of its vulgarity, it possesses an unsettling dignity, suggesting that it remembers what it was once before.
For an instant, the thing's head turned towards you. Its hollow gaze lingers on you far longer than it should, and you could swear you feel it—recognition. As beneath the rot and ruin, it knows you.
But you didn't know it.
Eugene grips your arm, tugging you back. "Please don't tell anyone. Please. It's complicated."
Pugsley gives an offhand smirk but is not quite casually failing. "Well, relax. It's not like it bites… in theory."
The air gets damp with the sound the zombie makes, again low and mournful, which rattles through the Beeshack.
The stench of putrefaction wafted through the Beeshack.
But the more disturbing part was on how its head was following you, becoming comparably more animate with every step you take—a mockery of sight in the ruined eye sockets that should have had eyeballs in there.
Chilled, your voice broke the long, oppressive silence. "Okay, fine. I will not say anything. But only if I get what I came for—real quick. That thing is looking at me, and it is freaking me out.”
Eugene nearly cried out "Right! Right, yeah, of course—uh—grass. Easy. I have tons. Just—stand there. Do not move around. Do not breathe too loud. Do not—do not look at it!"
He ran towards the back shelf, tripping over himself while rifling frantically through jars with labels and brown sacks. The buzzing of the bees lashed out in sharp, agitated waves as if echoing his panic.
Pugsley tugged at the filthy blanket, trying to cover the remaining parts of the zombie sprawled out before him. The cover, theoretically a great idea to hide the rotting body, was rather not doing its purpose too well. Undoubtedly, the head was free, constantly jerking its stiff neck to follow every one of your movements. The faint clinking of the chains served to remind the room that it wasn't as secure as Eugene so desperately wanted to believe.
You asked Pugsley, your voice sharpening into a low hiss, "Why do you even have that?"
Without batting an eyelash, he grinned. "Found him. Thought he'd be fun."
"Fun?"
"Yeah. Y'know. For experiments. Or a bruh"
"A bruh?" You asked incredulously.
"A bruh. Like a buddy." He slung his arms across its shoulders, totally unafraid whether or not it would eat him. "See? My bruh."
The decaying corpse shrieked, and a gurgling breath forced its way past the blackened teeth. It groaned, which Pugsley took as its mode of language.
"See!" crowed Pugsley. "Bruh! He said it again. My bruh!"
Eugene turned around in the makeshift shelves to flash an annoyed face. "He's not saying bruh, he's saying brains! That's what zombies say, everybody knows that!"
"Couldn't find a bruh with a pulse?"
Eugene clutched his head like he was living in his own personal nightmare. "No, it's brains." He pointed at the corpse like a frustrated teacher correcting a toddler. "Brains, not bruh. You know what? Forget it. I give up. Why do I even try?"
The zombie let go a long, rattling breath that rolled like smoke through your bones. The dislocated jaw twitched, making you think for a moment it might actually say something. Then it tilted its head further, neck cracking as though it were straining to get a better look at you.
"Got it!" Eugene appeared again with a tied-up clump of Perennial Vulgaria, the unique grass glowing faintly green in the dimness. "Take it and go," he practically shoved it at you. "Please. Go. Before you—before it…"
There was no argument. One last glimpse at the creature, its chained body tugging against the beam, its head never leaving you, and you fled from the Beeshack, lungs craving the fresh air outside.
By the time midnight struck and you finally stumbled back into your dorm, your head felt like it would split in two, the faint trace of rot from the Beeshack having clung to your clothes no matter how many times you'd tried spraying perfume on your uniform. The encounter was replayed to you in flashes—the way that thing's dislocated jaw hung loose, how it just watched you.
You shoved it back, refusing to allow it any room to nest in your thoughts.
It was a perfectly quiet room. The space that belonged to Bianca was perfectly ordered—neatly stacked textbooks, folded uniform blazer, a faint scent of vanilla lotion. It was very grounding. Secure.
You sat at the edge of your mattress, a breath you had not realized you'd been holding had let go. The springs creaked beneath, and for the first time all day, allowed yourself to relax.
You slid your hand over the blanket, feeling the familiar stitching of the fabric underneath. Should be nothing—simple, grounding in nature. But that time, the second your palm pressed flat against the mattress, the shift happened.
The air thickened like water closing over one's head, and breathing became very difficult, caught somewhere in one's throat. The walls rippled, folding inward, as if the room were inhaling.
Panic surged in your heart as you tried to pull back your hand, but your body would not allow it. A very low thrum filled your ears, as vibrations spread your bones, and the light above flickering, extinguishing, and melting away as you felt yourself sinking, falling, and spiraling down into a choking darkness.
You opened up your eyes.
You were in your room. Except, it wasn't yours.
The blanket under your palm was satin pale rose pink—far too elegant for anything you ever owned. The walls had changed color, painted in a subdued cream. Your scattered notebooks were gone, gone with the little sketches, the little souvenirs from your years at Nevermore. Instead, in the corner stood a wooden vanity, covered in antique glass perfume bottles. A cassette player hummed in soft sounds, spitting out Madonna's voice through static.
Your eyes had been caught on a calendar, pinned to the wall: January 1991.
An instant before you could even take that in, something drew your gaze.
She stepped into the room. Must've been no older than you—beautiful hair captured in soft curls, her uniform the same as yours, and she's holding a 90s magazine. She marched with every measure of confidence unaware of the watching intruder.
She took a vase from the nightstand, crammed with white roses. The petals shone in the thin lamplight, immaculate and purified. She brought it up to her nose and took in a deep breath.
Then froze.
Her smile wavered, her eyes widened with pupils dilating until they swallowed her eyes whole. The vase slipped through her hands and shattered against the floor, shards scattered far across the wood.
Her body jerked violently, tearing a strangled gasp from her throat as she clutched her chest. She staggered back, convulsing, her knees hitting the edge of the bed before collapsing onto it.
On instinct, you stumbled forward but it's as if your feet is glued to the floor. You couldn't reach her. Couldn't touch her.
The girl writhed, her back arched unnaturally, fingers clawing at sheets. A scream ripped through her, a sound so sharp and bloodcurdling it divided the air in two. Her eyes rolled back, the whites flooding with black until they gleamed like tar. Her lips moved around a plea you couldn't hear, her voice drowned in static and ringing.
Then—silence.
Her body slackened, the head hanging at one side. Scattered flowers on the floor wilted instantly, curling the petals into darkness.
You gasped when the vision spat you out.
The room snapped back into place. Your blanket became yours again.
Your desk still remains the same as always—messy. Bianca's books are right where they had been left.
You swiftly drew your hand from the bed as though it would burn you. Your chest was heaving, and sweat was gluing your hair to your forehead.
There was a click as the door opened.
Bianca was there, calm and unbothered, as though the whole world around her had not just been turned upside down and inhaled like yours. Her uniform were neat and well kept, slightly less crisp from a full day of being worn to classes. She looked at you with a questioning gaze.
"What's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost."
The dryness in your throat was unbearable. You swallowed again. "I…I touched the bed, and…" You faltered. "I was somewhere else. Like…like I fell into some other person's life. Their room. Their—Their—Death? Fuck! I don't know!"
Bianca's brow went up, and her unsettling blue eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Some kind of hallucination? Stress?"
You shook your head vigorously. "No. It was as real as it could get. I felt it. The air. The details. It wasn't mine, but…it happened. I know it happened."
For the first time, Bianca's cool mask had softened just a tad. She leaned against the frame, arms folded. "Then congrats." A short pause. "Looks like you just had your first vision."
The day was fading and bleeding into one of those gauzy Nevermore evenings where the campus appeared to breathe under a dimming sun. You have already collected the pile of overdue library books halfway toward returning them when Bianca tapped you on the shoulder from behind. Deep midnight blue painted her nails, still glinting with a little light above the drying wet varnish.
“Dort’s looking for you,” she said, voice low, as if it were something she didn’t want to say out loud.
Usually, the Principal asked for students directly only for something worth raising eyebrows. You looked questioning at Bianca, but she just shrugged.
"Did he say why?" You asked. Bianca shook her head.
"No, just told me to send you his way."
You bit your lip in hesitation. "Do you think he… knows?"
Her brows furrowed. "Knows what?"
You lowered your voice to almost a whisper. "About the vision, the one I told you about. It's haunted me ever since it happened. What if he somehow found out?"
Bianca's expression softened slightly but at the same time she stepped closer and lowered her voice to match yours. "No one knows, I haven't told a soul. And if Dort did know, trust me, he wouldn't be this subtle about it. He'd have dragged you into his office in front of half the school to make an example of you."
That made you laugh nervously, although it didn't go very far toward untangling the knot in your stomach. "So why me, then? He never calls on me for anything."
Bianca's shrug was not mindless, it was a consideration "That's what I don't like about it. Just… keep your guard up, okay?" Her eyes searched yours, steady protective in the way that only Bianca could while not uttering the word.
Her warning kept resonating in the place long after she left you standing there with books pressed into your chest like a shield.
That was how the office of the Principal looked; as you remembered it, dark polished hardwood gleaming walls, heavy curtains casting pouches of easy shadow, and a faint whiff of wax from elaborately constructed candelabras lining the wall. On his desk stood paperwork yet to be taken up, stacked neatly, it seemed more for decoration than to serve any real function.
Barry Dort sat behind it, posture perfect, smile stretched too wide, the kind of saccharine warmth that made you feel smaller the longer it lingered.
"Ah, my favorite Raven," he said, as honeyed as his voice, hands clasped like one in prayer. "Please, sit."
"You know tomorrow is an important day," he began, his tone dipping into a practiced cadence. "Camp Jericho! An event that not only reflects the pride and strength in being an outcast, but also reminds each of us about the beautiful things we need to become." He spoke as if a speech for the public, practiced, but something flickered inside his eyes that was less noble.
"But I wish to ask you to… contribute," he urged, leaning in quite closely, his voice almost a whisper. "Help me with the games. It will be most entertaining. You will be around your colleagues and all."
There was a pause. "Me? Why not somebody else, umm…?" You trailed off, trying to get the right word. Stronger? More capable?
Dort tilted his head, smile tightening. "Cause you're special."
The word stuck onto you like oil.
"Even with..." He paused, fingers tapping on the edge of the desk, searching for the right phrasing. "Your particular gifts are really not that sharp as some, but they belong to you. Rare. Fleeting. And fleeting things are often the most precious."
You did not believe him, not for a second. But he said it like gospel, and it settled on your chest with uncomfortable weight.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly, voice lowering even further. "You could have excelled, you know. As a Da Vinci. Like her."
"Her?"
His smile didn't falter but something colder passed behind his expression. "Irrelevant," he said. "Not sweet enough." He took a slow sip and grimaced at his cup of coffee.
He set it down with a clink and looked back at you with a pointed sharpness. "Be a dear and fetch some honey from the Beeshack, will you?"
Your throat tightened. Eugene was in class; you knew it; he knew it. The shack was horrible, hidden, and just thinking of it twisted your stomach into knots, that disgusting and piece of rotting flesh. "Principal Dort—sugar does the same? Eugene's not there right now and—"
"That's an order."
The words sliced through the silence as his face dropped from a smile. His voice was not angry or even loud, but it had all the authority of a command that was absolute—the kind of authority which served as a reminder of the fact that in this place, his word was law.
You just sat there feeling as though his gaze had somehow pierced right into you. He leaned back again, smile again stitched on his face, but a lot thinner this time.
"She was not special as you," he added almost casually, sipping his coffee again as though he hadn't just delivered a threat wrapped in silk.
"Run along now, the coffee won't stay warm forever" He chortled as he took a sip of the tea, then purposely made an over exaggerated look of disgust after sipping the tea.
The way down Dort’s office felt surreal as your pulse raced with his saccharine smile. By the time you reached The Quad, the air in the walkways of Nevermore had transformed into something heavy and damp as though the school itself were holding its breath.
You didn't want to do this. Every ounce of you wanted to turn back, pretend to be sick, or forget it entirely, but even from here, you could almost feel Dort's eyes on you, the invisible hooks pulling you toward the Beeshack.
The wind wafted in with the scent of wildflowers and wet bark, and then, suddenly, with the sight of the Beeshack, the sweetness turned rancid. The foul odor greeted you even before entering, putrid—meat like with sweet honey warmth on the side. It was almost enough to make you vomit.
Then you gagged your way inside, squeezing your nose shut in the crook of your elbow. God, it was still there. You had been half convinced yourself Eugene moved it or you imagined the whole thing the first time. But now, the smell made it all that much more real.
Gulping hard, you forced yourself forward. The dim little shack was lined with wooden crates and old jars, with hives and various insects. Somewhere deeper inside, bees buzzed just a little bit, as though suffering too from the stench itself. You rummaged into your bag for the small container you carried with you always—every practical habit derived from years of messy assignments and forgotten cups.
You neared the bees, only then did it dawn on you. How could one extract honey from honeycomb? The combs in their frames appeared pulsating and alive with an effulgent golden flame but it felt sacrilege to touch it even for a moment. You hovered your container uncertainly, whispering, "Do I just... scrape it?"
It growled low in response.
Your spine went rigid. That sound didn't come from any bee.
You turned around slowly. In the half light of the shack, stood the zombie. It was taller than you remembered, its body crooked, and its head tilted at a leisurely yet deliberate angle, as though it were a bird scrutinizing a prey. Mottled, grayish green skin and a glimmer at the neck where the chain lay faintly illuminated by a stray beam of sunlight.
It only stared at you, unblinking in its gaze. Neither hungry nor mindless—simply watching. Waiting.
Your eyes flicked toward the corner wall of the shack. Beside the filthy potato sack lay the shining jar of honey, still warm from the fresh extraction. Your heart convulsed. Of course. Right next to it.
Dort's orders burned into your mind. If you came back empty-handed, you'd never hear the end of it. It had to be taken, it had to be done silently, it had to be accomplished.
With every inching step, thick fear dabbed heavily upon your heart. You couldn't tell whether the thing was indeed looking at you or merely sensing your presence.
Almost there. You reached for the jar, fingers brushing the cool glass. A sigh almost escaped your lips.
And that is when a cold, rough hand shut around your own hand.
You gasped in what felt like an involuntary jerk. Almost unconsciously, as if some long forgotten muscle memory had clicked into place, you wrestled its wrist with your other hand, attempting to dislodge it. But then, at that instant, as soon as your skin touched its skin, the world faded away.
It sucked you into the vision, as if being drowned into the waters.
A bolt of sudden, sharp pain tore through you.
You never knew that visions could hurt like this— It felt as though your skull were splitting open from within. You wanted to keep calm, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, you kept repeating but your body felt no longer yours.
You stood somewhere else but not in the little shack. White walls, harsh hospital lights, and the stench of antiseptic. A tall, pale young man was standing by the bed, dressed in a Nevermore uniform against the sterile white bedsheets.
He was crying—no, sobbing—his shoulders shook so violently one would almost assume his body had reached its breaking point.
You follow their gaze to the bed.
There lay a body. Female. Lifeless, skin alabaster, black veins crawling like vines up her neck. Black were her eyes. Empty and lifeless, as if something had filled them. Black tears streamed from her eyes onto the cheek and from there stained the pillow below her even after death.
You took a step nearer, and suddenly the room felt like it was suddenly going to collapse. Because the woman on the bed's face was your face.
Your face, marred. Eyes jet black, blackened veins, and tears bled black. Dead.
The young man's grief sharpened into a wail that resonated deep inside your bones. You staggered back, covering your mouth in disbelief. This wasn't right. Visions were supposed to be mere fleeting glimpses here and there, soft echoes of things yet to come or perhaps days gone. But not this. Not pain, nor naked death in the skin that is yours.
You tried to pull free, but the vision clung to you like tar, dragging you under. Am I seeing my death? The thought screamed through you. Is this what's coming? Is this its fault?
You were terrified that the premonition was about you getting killed by Pugsley's zombie.
With a violent shove you tore yourself back, your hand pushing the zombie away before you even realized you were moving. It ripped away from you like a long held breath, and suddenly you were back at Beeshack, knees weak, heart hammering.
The zombie stepped back for a moment, letting out a soft rattle of the chain. Its head tilted again, but now there was something almost wounded in the gesture. As if he was hurt and offended that you pushed him back.
You didn't wait to find out what it meant. You ran out of the shack, the putrid smell still hanging over you, and the taste of antiseptic and black tears swirling on your tongue. You didn't even know you left the honey behind until you were halfway across the quad.
Your lungs were burning. You tried to slow down, to breathe, but your hands were shaking too hard. You couldn't stop seeing the black veins, the black eyes. That was me.
For the first time in years, your weak psychic gift didn't feel like a pain in the ass. It felt like a curse.
Back in the shack, that zombie was standing there still, tilting its head as if it knew something you did not. But little did you know then that the night had more surprises in store for you.
Stepping on the hall's wooden floor late in the afternoon, chandeliers overhead cast long, trembling shadows over the fencing piste. Bianca is standing at the end of the hall, with her white jacket and lowered mask as if confidence was built into every line of her form. She has never looked more champion-like than now.
"En garde," she calls, raising her foil.
You lift your own foil, your heart pounding. Your legs feel weak from fatigue, and your mind is still out of it—so drained from the last couple of days, the nightmare vision, horrors that unfolded in Camp Jericho. You try to concentrate.
Bianca makes the first advance. She lunges forward, trying to score a point with her attack, and you retreat slightly, slicing through the air with your blade.
You parry—block her blade—then counter-attack, but your arm seems to swell in weight. The weapon almost slips out of your hand.
She gives you a look in the match, her unnatural bright blue eyes piercing. She stops, lowering her own weapon. "You’ve been off today," she says, voice tight. "You’re slowing and always zoning out."
You force a smile behind your mask. "I’m fine. Probably just—after the camp, everything feels off." You hesitate, then add in a whisper, "You know how it is? Pugsley's freakish zombie incident, and...everything went to shambles, I guess."
Bianca tilts her mask slightly. You know her well enough to see the worry there although she'd never say so. She doesn’t press you. Not now. She just nods and steps back.
Eventually, she says she’s tired and excuses herself, gathering her gear. You’re alone now, but you insist on staying for a couple of minutes more—practicing for yourself.
You lunge once, retreat, and parry the air, as if pretending the target is her.
But a few more minutes later, fatigue overwhelms you. Your arms are trembling, your breath shallow. You lower your foil, unclip your mask, and step out of the hall. The night is at hand—just ten minutes to curfew.
You knew Nevermore’s corridors by heart — every cracked tile, every creaking hinge — yet somehow, tonight, they felt wrong. The silence was total, the air too thick. You tried to convince yourself that it was just the horror flicks again—the ones you weren't supposed to have binge watched last weekend. Each dimly lit hallway now resembled the period immediately before something terrible happened. You caught yourself glancing over your shoulder more than you cared to admit.
And of course, your imagination refused to calm down. If this was a movie, at this point the killer would leap out, your brain whispered.
Unconsciously, you let out a shaky laugh that was meant to demonstrate that you weren't frightened which frankly made you sound more frightened.
The echo of footsteps was beginning to sound disproportionate—heavier. Not just yours. You stopped in mid-stride. Listened.
Nothing.
You just made yourself go on again, this time clenching your fencing bag a little bit tighter. The portrait of Nathaniel Faulkner stared at you; his penetrating gaze seemed to follow you wherever you went. You hated it. Always had.
Now the hallway was getting darker on your way to that bend toward the staircase, the stretch of corridor where light never quite reached. You could picture every slasher movie cliché you had ever encountered: Don't go down the dark hallway! Don't split up! Don't check out weird noises. And still, here you are, walking right into it.
You told yourself to stop being ridiculous. "It's fine," you murmured. "No Ghostface is go—"
From behind, a gloved hand clamped over your mouth.
Your complete being stiffened immediately, a choked noise stopped in your throat. The hold was too powerful, supernaturally powerful — and also deathly cold. You were aware of every finger pressing hard into your flesh and pushing you against a strong body. You were desperately trying to escape, kicking, scratching, and grumbling at the arm, but it still did not move.
Your heartbeat was so loud that it was like being in your ears, and you couldn't even hear your own breath. Panic was strangling you. Your brain kept on shouting it is the end, it is the end, this is where it begins — the scenes of every horror movie you had ever watched coming back to your mind in a series of panic flashes.
Then, the odor arrived.
A thick cloth was pressed onto your face — wet and of chemical smell. It hurt your nose, it had that pungent and sweet smelling like hospital disinfectant mixed with something rotten. You wanted to yell, yet the sound was so quiet. Everything around you changed — the candle holders became streaks of gold.
Your legs gave up, and if it weren't for the being supporting you, you would've been on your knees. Your sight was like a pulsating light. The cold air was brushing your face and you could feel it.
Your breath hiccupped.
Your mind was blank.
Your bag slipping from your grasp and emitting a loud thud to the ground as the world collapsed into darkness
You slowly awakened, but the way it felt was as if your body had risen when it has completely forgotten what being awake even means.
At first, there isn't anything but sensation which is shapeless, heaviness in the chest, a faraway pressure inside the skull, a slight burning behind the eyes, as if one were staring for too long at light which has ceased to exist.
Your mouth feels thick and dry like cotton, your tongue dry, your jaw stiff like it hasn't been moving for days. Your breathing comes out like a manual process, as if your body has to relearn itself to do it, each inhalation being shallower and less satisfying, every exhalation being a very weak release.
Limbs are there, to be exact, but they feel disconnected —overweight to the point that they don't feel like yours, tingling with numb electrification, strange like you have borrowed them from someone else and have forgotten how to handle them rightly.
The first thing that you become aware of is the coldness. It gradually comes through your skin of whatever thin covering is over you and settles in your bones. The second thing is the noise. A soft, continuous hum underlying everything else, like a machine in dreamland.
You make an attempt to open your eyes; they put up resistance at first, fluttering feebly before eventually giving way to very narrow, unfocused slits. The world was nothing but a blur and a shadow. A beam of light runs across your field of vision, it is too bright, too artificial to be sunlight, yet not soft enough to be from a candle. Your eyelashes are glued together. Your sight is like a pool.
You blink thrice until forms start to come out of their hiding places first as shadows, then as outlines and finally the ceiling appears to be actually there—not made of stone or plaster, not wood either, but rough metal that has been distorted and cracked in certain places, has beams of wood and parts of the roof that are missing where darkness yawns through as if it is a wound opened in the structure above you.
It's nighttime.
Not only do you see it, but also the whole atmosphere gives it away, it feels cooler, heavier, and is delivering the very slight scent of outside that is a bit damp. Somewhere very high, the wind is murmuring through the broken rocks. Every once in a while, something is dripping—it is a slow, irregular sound that reverberates too much in the enclosed space.
It could be rain or it could be water moving through the cracks in the ruined tower. You make a little movement and immediately wish you did not. Muscles are sore and are now pulling painfully against your bones. A small noise escapes your mouth before you can stop it. Your voice doesn’t sound right. It is weak. It is rusty.
You are pushing yourself up slowly and in the end unevenly, resting every time the room does a pirouette or when dark spots bring some discomfort at the sides of your vision.
The bed that you were lying on is very small and very hard, the mattress is so thin that you can feel the metal slats pushing through it. This is no hospital bed. This is more like something temporary. Cheap. Forgotten. The kind of bed that you shove into a room if you do not plan on anyone staying long—or when the person sleeping in it does not matter much at all. Your fingers are curling up in the sheet automatically, creasing the fabric which is faintly smelling of dust and antiseptic.
When you eventually take a proper look around, your breathing gets interrupted.
This is not a bedroom. This is not a classroom.
This—
This is a laboratory. Or whatever is left of it.
The walls are decorated by tables that are full of equipment. Some machines are very old and rusty, others are so modern that it is hard to imagine they belong in the same place at all—like parts from different times that have been sewn together with the same disregard for aesthetics—only function.
Black cables are running on the floor like arteries. Screens are flickering and glowing softly, giving off blue-white light throughout the room in irregular pulses. There are glass containers, many of them empty, some stained. Tools are hanging from hooks. Wires are creeping up the walls and disappearing into the decaying stone.
And yet, in spite of the decay, all are still intact
Your confusion quickly escalates to the point of making you feel dizzy.
Iago Tower.
The epiphany hits you with the force of a slap.
No, that's not possible. Iago Tower is a ruin everybody is aware of. The tower was destroyed years ago, and it turned into ruins. An empty place. No power. No machines. Anyone who might have been there has not been inside for a very long time, not officially at least.
You gulp down your saliva with difficulty. The sandpaper like sensation in your throat indicates that you are trying very hard. Your heart also starts beating more forcefully now, the weight of each beat being greater with each one.
However, memory returns. Not suddenly. But in a very painful way as every recollection was thrown upon you like bricks.
The corridor, the glove, the cloth pressed against your face. A bitter taste creeping into your mouth and your lungs giving up as black spots appeared in your vision, then darkness.
You jolted up quickly, your breath being fast and shallow. The hot and vicious fear of your body floods your system now that your mind is awake enough to grasp its own danger. You bounce your legs off the bed almost falling when they do not fully obey you. You grasp the corner of a nearby metallic table to keep your balance and push your body to an upright position through giddiness and nausea.
There is a burning desire in you to get out. You need to breathe.
You need to—
Your sight goes up.
And you become immobile.
For a man is at the opposite end of the room.
Initially, he appears merely as a silhouette. Tall. Skinny. Motionless. Then the lighting changed. And your stomach sinks.
He... is not right. He didn't look right.
Not entirely formed is the better way to descibe it.
One half of his face is clearly human— sharp cheekbone, very light skin tightly stretched over very fine bone, an eye catching the light with nervous clarity. The other half tells a contrary story. The skin there is darker, irregular, hardly opaque in some areas, as if it is still in the process of figuring out what it is supposed to be. Veins are barely visible under the skin, and they are darker than they ought to be. Not to mention his chin is a little off.
His hair is thin in some spots, longer on one side, shorter and sparser on the other, as if it is still finding its way back to the full-length it used to have. His posture is deliberate and controlled, but he exudes a stiffness and subtle tension that resembles a body held together solely by willpower.
Observing. Expecting.
Your heartbeat is so strong that you can hear it in your ears. Your hand is close to your body, moving slightly as if it were preparing for fight or flight.
All of a sudden he takes a step toward you.
His voice sounds soft when he eventually breaks the silence.
"My beloved," he whispers.
Their words go under your skin, ice and intrusive, wrapping your ribs and lying somewhere near your heart. Your breathing misfires. You do not know the who he was referring to, but your body acts as if it does—like something in you recalls being that, recalls heat and allegiance that never were yours.
His facial expression seems to become more severe, eyes quickly moving over your face that makes your stomach knot. He looks at you as if he is really afraid that you will disappear if he turns his gaze away, as if the very act of seeing you is the only thing that is keeping him tied to this moment. He looks at you for too long, mapping out details that you have never shown him, recognizing you with a kind of intimacy that is not characteristic of a stranger.
"You are awake"
There is no doubt about it—the relief in his tone is very clear—but it was very frightening to you.
It was as if has practiced this sentence for one hundred times, his words laced with sacredness as he delivers them like a prayer that has endured multiple disappointments yet continues to believe in better things.
You choose not to answer.
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Your tongue feels heavy, useless. Every part of your body forces you to reject this situation because this man should not have any connection with you while he stands here. The machines produce a sound which becomes stronger because it fills all the space between you while it creates a suffocating silence.
He observes that you are not making any sound.
"I was very concerned about you" He spoke almost inaudibly, "You have been asleep for too much time than I can bear"
You were watched and waited for.
Your heartbeat starts thumping a strong rhythm which reasonates in your ears. You take an unsteady step backward, your back hitting the metal bed which created an unpleasant screeching sound. The sound was louder than it should in this moment.
His eyes snap to the movement immediately, sharp and alert despite the gentleness of his tone.
He stays in his place, he does not adavnce towards you.
His expression suddenly soften as if something deep inside him breaks free from his tight control. His emotions plastered through his face, his waiting finally come to an end after years of sadness and intense desire to be with someone.
The words emerge from your mouth before you even decided to speak.
You spoke with a hoarse voice laced with doubt and uncertainty.
"Who… who do you think I am?" The question hangs between you, fragile and trembling.
Your voice remains quiet, you didn't want make any accusations yet, because your body and mind cannot handle that. You remain silent while your heart beats fast as you look at him because you want to hold onto your existence through your name and your past and your memories.
“I don’t know you,” You said quietly. “I don’t know this place the way you think I do.” You added.
He stays silent for a brief period.
The following silence becomes unbearable because it creates an intolerable situation.
The gaze of his eyes drops down because your words now weigh heavily upon him. His eyes look at you again, tears welled up in his eyes as he did his best to not let it flow.
“You don’t remember,” he whispers.
It wasn't a question.
His body sags. He hand coming up to his chest and his fingers grasp the fabric of his shirt at the area above his heart. As if he needed to hold it in place
He repeats the same sentence "You are my beloved" in a quieter tone. As if he believes that saying this statement in a gentle and more sincere way will make it become true.
The statement sounds romantic, but it sounded so wrong.
Your brain starts to search for every memory that it can find in your mind because it needs to retrieve all of your past experiences. The memories run their course from your childhood. Nevermore shows itself. You remember the sound of Bianca laughing. The memories take you to Ophelia Hall.
You have no connection at all which links you to him.
"I’m not," you say. You don’t shout. You don’t pull away. You simply state it, trying to anchor yourself from the truth.
"I’m me."
The silence that follows is sharp.
His face tightens—not with anger, but with desperation. His brows draw together, and his lips part as if he wants to argue with the universe itself. He takes a step closer, then stops, holding back, as if afraid his presence alone might harm you.
"Yes," he says, his voice trembling now, conviction fighting against grief. "You are."
He shakes his head slightly, tears finally spilling down his uneven skin, leaving thin paths.
“You just don’t remember yet.”
Your stomach twists.
He speaks again, faster now, words pouring out as if he’s held them in for years. "Death does that," he said. "It strips things away. Names. Faces. Time. But the soul—" his voice breaks, "—the soul remembers. It always does."
"The gods gave me another chance," he says trying to convince you and himself. "They took me apart, burned me, buried me—but they didn’t let me stay gone. Not without you." His eyes snap back to you, shining with fragile certainty. "They brought me back to you."
"They brought you back to me," he repeats, as if making it real through repetition. "Rebirth isn’t mercy. It’s correction. We were taken too soon. Both of us." His mouth twists painfully. "We never got to live the life we were meant to."
You shake your head, breath shallow. "I didn’t die," you say. "I am at Nevermore. I had a life. I still do."
His face softens, it's almost frightening, and it makes you feel uneasy, when he looks at you. Coming face-to-face with the person you're supposed to be getting away from is never easy, and he makes no effort to get closer, instead says something that sends a chill down your spine.
"You did die, a long time ago" He said.
“And I did too,” he continues. “But death isn’t the end, not for people like us.” He takes another careful step closer, stopping just within arm’s reach. “We were never meant to stay apart.”
Madness shows no trace in those eyes.
Instead you see belief. An unshakable, devout, and utterly terrifying belief.
“And this time,” he whispers, voice breaking entirely now, “nothing is going to take you away from me again.”
Your stomach drops as the quiet truth hit you like a train—he never wanted your memory at all. Your past and your present. In his eyes you had someone else's name, memories, and heart.
Staying is what he asks of you. Nothing more than your presence matters now.
Time stretches, thin and unbearable. You hesitate. That's all it takes.
You bolt. Instinct kicks in before your mind figures out what’s happening. Adrenaline slices through the fog in your head, and your feet pound the stone floor.
There’s the exit—you remembered, spotting it immediately. But behind you—something moves. Fast. Unnervingly very fast.
He doesn’t bother shouting. Doesn’t waste breath with your name. He just charges like a cheetah.
His boots hit the ground uncannily, way too heavy, way too close, echoing like gunshots. He moves like someone who had nothing else left to lose. You hear his breathing—rough, uneven—and it makes your heart thump.
You lunge for the door as it was in arms reach. You rejoiced quietly as your fingers graze the rusted handle.
And suddenly your head jerks back, hard, as something or someone yanks your hair.
Pain flashes across your scalp, blinding and sharp. You yelp, balance gone and your body snapping backward. The world reels as he drags you away, your feet scraping uselessly over stone.
“No—!” you gasp, clawing at his hands.
He throws you and your back slams into the floor, knocks the air out of your lungs. You feel your bones rattle as white sparks burst behind your eyes. Before you can even think about moving, his shadow looms over you, stretched and monstrous under the harsh lights.
"You were never supposed to leave,” he spits out, voice trembling—not because he’s scared, but because he's desperate.
You try to scoot away, but he’s already blocking you.
“You really think this life is real?” He takes one slow step. “Your friends, your dorm, your name—none of it. It’s a fucking sham!. Something to get you here.” His eyes catch yours, wild and bright. “Everything dragged you back to me.”
Your heart crashes against your ribs.
“That’s not true,” you manage, but your voice comes out all wrong—shaky, too thin. "WHO THE FUCK EVEN ARE YOU!?" You gathered the strength to scream, you sobbed as tears flowed freely from your eyes.
He drops to his knees, hands gripping your shoulders, trapping you. The cold stone bites into your back. You push at him, but he’s stronger than he looks—desperation making him unmovable.
“I died,” he rasps. “And so did you. They took you away, but I have to put it right. I am going to fix what was broken.”
You shake your head, gasping for air. “No. You’re wrong. GET THE FUCK OF ME!”. His face twists—pain, maybe, but just for a heartbeat.
Then it goes hard. “I’ll remind you,” he breathes. Before you can move, he crushes his mouth to yours.
It’s not gentle. It’s not love. It’s just wrong.
Cold and strange was the best way to describe it. The sharp, rotten smell of something dead mixed with bleach hits you, turning your stomach. You jerk your head away, shoving at his chest, desperate to get loose—panic clawing at your throat as you gasp for air.
He goes still for a moment.
His face shifts—first confusion, then a flash of hurt, then something darker and meaner. He pulls back a little, his breath shaky, like this isn’t how he pictured it at all.
“You don’t feel it yet,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “But you will.”
You’re trembling now, trapped under him, every nerve screaming at you to run.
And deep down, beneath the fear and disgust, something else wakes up, not recognition. Just that horrible, gut deep certainty, this man isn’t letting you go. Not without a fight.
"I'll make you feel what you felt once my beloved" He said as he licked your cheek and savored the taste of your salty tears and skin.
Your back arches against the dirty sheets, your body too spent to move, pinned by a man. For three hours, you've been his plaything, and it has finally broken you. Every muscle in your body aches, and your mind is a haze of pleasurable overstimulation.
"Please," you rasp, your voice barely recognizable. "I can't anymore."
He does not let up, though. A calloused hand covers your mouth as his hips show no signs of relenting.
"Shhh," he murmurs low in your ear. "We're not done yet."
"Didn't I promise I'll make you remember?"
The tears start to roll down your temples as his mouth invades yours, kissing you and swallowing your protests. His tongue meets yours with the same fervor as his cock, leaving no room to deny him.
You weakly claw at his shoulders to push him away, but you have nothing left. Every nerve in your body is lit on fire with pleasure as he slams into you, the rhythm of his thrusts becoming erratic the closer he gets to his release.
His long and lean cock pounds into depths inside of you that make you clench around him with a pleasurable and odd stretch. The narrowness of his shaft makes it less forgiving at first, but the length and reach it has makes it a completely different ballgame. Each thrust hits your cervix with extreme force.
The room starts to spin around you as your vision goes gray, and everything starts to fade as you almost pass out. He seems to sense when you're about to blackout, his fingers tightening around your hips as he cements you under him.
"Not yet," he growls into your mouth as his movements don’t relent. "Stay with me."
Against your will, your body remembers what to do as you cum around him one last time, waves of pleasure crashing over you before you finally pass out.
When you awake a few moments later, he is still above you, a victorious yet possessive smile on his face as he finishes and claims you as his own.
"Mine," he whispers to you as he finally stills inside you.
"All mine."
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