𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, unhinged inner monolog from rafe, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), oral (female receiving, fingering, MAJORR size kink, spanking, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.
𝘼/𝙉: It's here! The full fic. Word count: 23k. Please let me know what you think - reblogs and feedback mean the world to me. Read the warnings before you read, and enjoy!
“Her.”
Rafe looks over at the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”
Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”
“And?”
“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.
“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”
“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”
Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends stare at him in disbelief. He sometimes wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.
That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies” money. Yeah, they didn’t pique his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.
Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.
“Well, what about that one?”
Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single slut he’d ran through.
Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.
You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self-conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.
“Who is she?”
“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.
“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.
“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”
“I heard she was home-schooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”
Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.
Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
He licks his lips.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?” He nods in your direction.
Topper raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”
Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”
They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—
“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—
“A week.”
“Mm?”
“A week to fuck her. With proof.”
Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.
“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”
“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.
“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”
Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.
You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.
He’d have fun ruining you.
***
“You sure do love reading, don’t you?”
It’s the following day when Rafe finds you sitting by yourself in the corner of the library, with nothing but your book to keep you company.
You jump like a little mouse, pushing your glasses up your nose and gulping up at him, fear briefly flitting across your face before you force a small smile. And he likes his girls jumpy, he likes them slightly afraid of him. He knows he has that effect on people in general, but he wonders who’s told you about him.
“Sorry, were you — uh — were you talking to me?”
Rafe smirks, “Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Oh, of course,” you look embarrassed, and he watches you squirm under his gaze for a good few seconds. “I… um…”
“You find books more interesting than people?”
“Huh?”
He chuckles, pulling up a chair next to you, noting how your eyes widen as he takes a seat, “Why are you always reading?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just like to read,” you shrug.
“You sure do.” He wonders if he could get you to read your precious book out loud while he went down on you, licked your virgin cunt while you cried because it felt too good. And then he’d spank you if you stopped or messed up a word, and like a stupid dumb fucking baby, you’d sniffle and wail through each paragraph, hold back your moans while he went to town on your little pussy till you wet yourself, and he’d suck your—
“Are you making fun of me?”
You pose the question so innocently— hell, you practically whisper it, and it knocks Rafe straight out of his daydream to find you blinking up at him with Bambi eyes.
“What?”
You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not so good at understanding if someone’s joking or not. I’m not… uh… I’m not used to being around so many people, and it makes me nervous and I can’t tell if someone’s being genuine or if they’re making fun of me.”
“You were homeschooled, huh?” Rafe stares at you intently, noting how you play with your hair nervously, and your fingers tap against the hard cover of your book. How you can barely make eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds.
“Yes. My mom taught me and my older brothers.”
Rafe nods, taking his time to answer. He looks at you some more, enjoying how it makes you uncomfortable. You fidget nervously, and it amuses him every time you peek up to meet his gaze before a look of alarm crosses your face and you divert your eyes down to your book once more.
“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He says finally, chuckling at the embarrassed look on your face.
“I… I guess. I do want to make friends but it’s pretty overwhelming.”
“I’ll be your friend.”
He does a good job of hiding his predatory, wolfish smile. And he wonders if you can see the glint in his eye as he mentally undresses you. You look so small and weak, especially compared to him. Gullible too. Too innocent for your own good, the way you gape up at him as if he’s offered you gold on a platter. It makes him want to stroke your soft cheek, pat it and tell you what a good little girl you are. For being so naive.
You shake your head as if trying to straighten out your thoughts. He can tell, he has that effect on women too.
“Oh, you don’t have to, I uh—”
“Rafe Cameron?! In the library?!” An annoying, high-pitched voice shrieks, making you jump as it cuts you off mid-sentence.
It’s a kook girl. A cheerleader. Rafe can’t be fucked to remember her name but he’s sure he’s hooked up with her. She’s one of those ones, the ones that hang out at the country club and try to catch his eye. One of the desperate sluts who thinks if she spreads her legs enough times for him, that he’ll make her his girlfriend or some stupid shit like that.
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” The cheerleader sidles up to him, her hand on his chest and batting her lashes in his direction in some pathetic form of seduction. She ignores you, and you shrink into yourself, hastily burying your face in your book.
“What do you want?” He asks, not quite as interested in her answer as he is in continuing to stare at you. How you try to act like you don’t care, but he knows you’re hurt from being ignored, from being treated like you’re invisible.
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re up to.” But she flashes him her fuck me eyes, her nails scraping suggestively against his chest. Rafe yawns, considering it. He has time before his next class (not that he could be fucked to turn up to class half the time) and his dick’s hard from talking to you. And since you probably don’t even know what the word blowjob means…
“Go in there,” he nods at one of the private study rooms in the far end of the library, and the fucking slut nearly trips as she scrambles to obey him. Rafe takes his time, stretching his legs before slowly getting up.
You peek up from your book, “Are you guys gonna go study in there?”
He could’ve bust a nut then and there from how fucking innocent you sound. Batting your little eyelashes at him like you’re trying to seduce him without even realising it. He knows he’ll be thinking about you, weepy and on your knees, while the kook girl blows him. Fuck, and if he plays his cards right, he’d have you by the end of the week. And he always plays his cards right.
“You could call it studying.”
You nod, “OK, well, goodbye then.” You look back down at your book, but risk a glance up at him again, which he finds very amusing.
“What’s your name, homeschool?”
You tell him.
He sounds it out, before shooting you one last smile, “Well, I’ll see you soon. Won’t I?”
You give him a puzzled look, but it’s replaced by your usual wide-eyed Bambi stare when he pats your hand, his thumb lingering, stroking your skin. He wonders if you’ve ever even touched someone of the opposite sex before. Judging by how your breath hitches softly, he doubts it.
Fuck. He can’t wait to ruin you. Play the slow game and enjoy that sweet virgin snatch before any other man ever could.
That’s what he’s thinking of when he’s got the cheerleader on her knees in front of him. That sweet little look on your face, the look of curiosity mixed with shyness and that little hint of indignation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you. And he would. With proof.
***
Day two. Rafe finds you walking down the hallway, your books clutched to your chest and eyes trained to the floor. Cutest little skirt making your perky ass pop, winking at him enticingly with every step as if you’re deliberately seducing him. Makes him want to slap your cute little ass, reprimand you for teasing him and half the men on campus without even realising it. He wonders what you’d say if he just did it. Spanked you in front of everyone. You’d probably start blubbering like a little baby. He has to forcibly stop picturing it before he gets uncomfortably hard.
You’re alone. As usual.
“Hey, homeschool,” he falls into step beside you, eyebrow raising in amusement when you don’t slow down nor look at him.
“Oh, h-hello, Rafe.”
“What’re you up to today?”
“Nothing, just going to my next lecture.”
He grabs your wrist, watching as your breath hitches, and yet you still don’t look at him. Damn, what had gotten Bambi so scared?
“You’ve got time to talk to me, don’t you?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. And you know it, judging by how you swallow harshly.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t want to be late—” You attempt to tug your little hand out of his grasp but you’re so small and weak that it barely has any effect.
“C’mon, homeschool. That’s no way to treat your one and only friend.”
He’s walks you into a corner, and he likes how you gape at the wall before turning and looking up at him. He’s so much taller than you, bigger than you in every single way.
“Rafe, I…” you sigh, shifting from one foot to the other, “My friends said some things…”
“Friends?” You don’t have any.
“Some of the girls I know. They saw us talking yesterday at the library and they…” you sigh, “They said you were probably just playing a joke on me.”
Fuckin’ jealous pogue bitches.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. They said there’s no way you’d talk to me for any other reason apart from as a joke. And they…” you bite your lip, looking so cutely distraught and it goes straight to his dick. “They said some other things… about you.”
Of course they fuckin’ did. Always talking behind his back, but never to his goddamned face. Nothing but a bunch of jealous, gold-digging whores.
He doesn’t say anything, just merely looks at you as if he expects you to tell him. And he knows you will. You’re too innocent to keep secrets.
“They said that you… that you’re scary sometimes.”
Rafe remains impassive, waiting for you to continue.
“That you… that you pick on a lot of us Pogues. E-Especially the boys. That you and your friends bully them.”
He snorts. Bully. What a juvenile word. Sure, he pushed the dipshit Pogues around here and there. They deserved it for all the trouble they ran around town causing, disrupting the natural order of shit. And he could fuck their girls better than they ever could. Especially that fuckin’ idiot JJ Maybank…
“They also said that… never mind.” Again, you try to tug away from him but to no avail.
“Tell me.” He likes how you struggle under his scrutinising gaze.
“It’s… it’s not appropriate.”
“Say it. Now.”
You lower your voice, “They said you like to use the girls. The pogue girls. Th-That you have a kink for them.”
The scandalous words have hardly left your mouth before you duck your head down as if embarrassed. God, you were so fucking innocent. Rafe wonders how he should play this.
“Huh. Is that so?”
“Y-Yeah. One of the girls I talk to… She said that you…” you swallow, biting your lip, “that you’ve been with her and all her friends too. That you tell them all the same thing but it’s always a lie and you just end up using them.”
Rafe nods, “Hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I don’t think we should—“
“That’s funny. I thought you were smart. You know, with all your books and the glasses and shit.”
You blink, “What?”
He shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d go ahead and pass judgement on someone without even getting to know them first.”
“It’s not that–”
“I mean, here I am, wanting to be friends with you. And I’ve been nothin’ but nice, haven’t I?”
He’s still got you backed into a corner, and he watches as you flinch when he emphasises his words. He knows people get intimidated by his intensity, but there’s nothing he hates more than people talking shit behind his back. Especially low-life Pogues. And he likes how scared you look right now, pouty lips all downturned and alarm in your eyes.
“I asked you a question, homeschool.”
“Yes, you’ve been nothing but nice! It’s just, I heard all these things, and–”
“And you chose to believe them.” He steps back abruptly, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He walks away, about to count to three in his head but you beat the count before he can even begin.
“Rafe, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to judge you.”
He stops, allows you to catch up.
“You’re right, I…I shouldn’t listen to other people.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rafe agrees, easily taking your heavy textbooks from where you’ve been balancing them in your arms. You gape, but he just continues smoothly: “Where’s your next class?”
You tell him, “But you don’t have to walk with me or anything–”
“I’m your friend, homeschool. That’s what friends do.”
*
Day 3. You’re eating your lunch on a bench outside all by yourself. Rafe’s heading to his car with his friends. They usually cut classes most days to hit the beach or the country club. Rafe doesn’t see the point of college anyways, not when he was poised to inherit all of his father’s businesses, money and property. And with the ideas he had, he’d expand tenfold on whatever Ward was doing now, make a shit ton more money than his old man ever did. That would show him…
”How’s the bet coming along, Rafe?” Topper asks.
“Wait till the end of the week.” Is all Rafe says. He doesn’t need to give progress reports to his dumb fuck ass follower friends.
“That means he’s nowhere near cracking that virgin pussy.” Kelce chuckles. “No worries, brother. She looks like she’s got a stick up her ass anyways. Not loose like the rest of the Pogue whores.”
He ignores them as they laugh. But they’re right. You’re not like the rest of the Pogue girls. They’d grown up wild, promiscuous, loose. Trained to catch the attention of a rich Kook like himself, filled with self-serving motivations to marry into money. But he can already tell you’re different. With your cute little outfits and respectful, quiet demeanour. You look like you’d fit in where he was from.
Too bad he was only going to fuck you before discarding you like he did the rest of them.
“I’ll catch you guys later.” He says, making a beeline for you.
“Hey,” he chucks you under the chin, smirking when you jump.
“Oh, hey Rafe.” You look beyond his shoulder, “Your friends are all leaving.”
“Yeah. The waves are good this time of day.”
You gape, “But don’t you have classes?”
He takes a seat next to you, making sure to stretch out while you shrink into yourself. Still so nervous around him. He snickers, “You gonna tell on us?”
You look aghast, “No! I would never–”
“I’m just kidding, homeschool.”
“Oh,” you look embarrassed, “Sorry. Sometimes I–”
“Can’t tell if someone’s joking or not,” Rafe completes, “I remember. I’ll be more straight up with you.”
You nod, and he can tell you’re trying to think of something else to say. But you’re too nervous, too awkward. And so you just bury your head in your book again, all while he watches you. You’ve got a bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich of some kind on the table next to you. Cut up into little triangles. He bets you’ve done it yourself. Fuckin’ cute.
“You dress cute.” He says, and again, widened Bambi eyes stare up at him. He chuckles, “You know, the little skirts and plaid and shit. It’s cute.”
“Thank you.”
“You do it on purpose?” He can’t help but ask, because he wonders if a part of you knows what you’re doing. Knows you’re dressing like a sexy little angel out of his wettest dreams. All little and cute and innocent, so much smaller than him. Weak. All pastel and pretty, like you’d look so fucking sexy on the back of his bike. On his arm. On his dick.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say, sounding every bit as innocent as you look. Damn, homeschool must’ve done a number on you. But he likes how sheltered you sound. It gets him so fucking hard, and a part of him almost feels sorry for how primed you are to be taken advantage of. “I wear my mom’s old clothes, or stuff I find in the charity shops.”
He’d had maids and housekeepers who shopped in places like that. He remembers him and his siblings giving them their old clothes once they’d grown out of them.
He nods, “You look pretty.”
Your breath hitches, and you really don’t know how to respond to that, because you slam your book shut and stand up, “I, uh, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
He watches you leave, distracted by your ass again but not enough to miss the little smile that quirks on your lips as you bid him farewell and walk away.
*
On day 4, Rafe walks up behind you in the busy hallway, pressing his huge hand on your lower back and pushing you into another secluded corner. He smirks when you squeak, but he likes how easily he can push you around because of how weak and small you are.
“Hey.” He told himself he’d take it slow (well, as slow as he could take it in the span of one week) and yet he can’t help but press into you a little bit. It’s innocuous enough, but your eyes widen as per usual, and the feel of your hot little body against his much larger one is enough to give him a boner. It’s how he could easily push you into an empty lecture hall and have his way with you if he so wanted to. Sure, you’d cry and resist at first, but they all gave in in the end. And if someone caught them, he’d pay them off.
Rafe Cameron owned the world. Nothing could stop him.
“Hello, Rafe.” You breathe, and he loves how his name sounds when you say it. He imagines you moaning it when he has you on his lap, pressing you down on his dick while you cry and whimper because it’s too much, it’s too big. But your greedy little virgin pussy would take every inch of his fat dick, and he’d do all the work, of course. You’d be too busy crying, and he’d bounce you up and down on his dick while you grabbed at his arms, his hair, his face. He’d tell you to scrape your nails down his back, leave a fucking mark or two so daddy could remember you.
“Come for a drive with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
Despite your shyness, a fire flashes in your eyes, “I can buy my own lunch!”
He raises an eyebrow. As if on cue, you lower your gaze.
“Sorry, I mean… thank you for your offer, Rafe. But I can buy my own lunch.”
Surprisingly though, you agree to the drive. And he still has his hand pressed against your back, guiding you out to where his car’s parked. You ogle at it, probably never having seen anything as expensive. He wonders if your family even owns a car, or if you even know how to drive. It would be hot if you didn’t, it made you look even more helpless. In need of someone like him to protect you, take care of you. Someone powerful and wealthy like himself.
“Wow, I’ve never been on this side of the island before!” You say, oohing and aahing as you stare out the window. Rafe’s never seen anyone so easily excited by the neighbourhood he’d grown so used to. But he supposes the mansions, sports cars, country clubs and private beaches would be impressive to anyone who hadn’t grown up with easy access to all of that.
“No?”
“No, but my brother’s friend works there, I think.” You point to the vast golf course at the back end of one of the clubs. “He says the tips are really good.”
Rafe frowns. You were talking to other men? No, not you. You were too sweet, too innocent. He was sure he was the only man you spoke to. Or even if you were speaking to others, he doubts a golf caddy pathetically running after balls would be much competition. And yet, he bristles, wanting to change the subject.
“Do you have a job?” Rafe asks.
You shake your head, “No. I sometimes tutor some kids in the neighbourhood but nothing permanent. I’d love to have a part-time job with proper wages like the country club or library or something, but my family’s kind of protective of me.”
“Mm?” He’s deliberately being quiet, wanting to hear you talk, wanting to learn more about you.
“Yeah. That’s why I was homeschooled. My mom’s scared someone’s gonna take advantage of me.” You pause, before giggling, “It took a lot to convince her to let me apply for colleges, but I think she’s finally starting to see me as an adult who can make my own decisions and protect myself.”
The irony isn’t lost on Rafe, but he finds himself leaning closer. You have this way of talking, so soft and breathy, yet energetic and full of life at the same time. Like you’re a storybook character, like you’re someone out of this world. Like an angel dropped down from heaven and sent just for him. You’re his type to a tee. God, he wants to fuck you so bad.
“What would your mom say if she knew you were out with me?” His hand creeps up to rest on your knee. You’re wearing jeans, which he doesn’t approve of but he decides to give you a pass since it’s windy today.
You don’t notice his touch anyways; you’re too busy pondering over his question. But there’s a glint in your eye, “Sh-She wouldn’t approve. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t know you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of your jeans. “And you do?”
You swallow, finally realising he’s got his hand on you. Surprisingly, you don’t move. It’s almost like you’re frozen, those big fuck me Bambi eyes making a comeback, “Uh…I…We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He smirks, “Yeah. Friends.” His hand creeps up higher, stroking your thigh softly, wishing you were wearing one of your little skirts so he could feel your bare skin. But it’s thrilling anyways, touching your quivering body while you’re defenceless inside his car. He could lock the doors and have his way with you right now. Hell, people outside would get quite the show but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked in public.
Poor little you. Losing your virginity in the front seat of his car. He’d drag you into his lap, bounce you up and down on his cock. But not before making you beg for it first. And you’d cry so fucking bad, because it would hurt. Because he’d promise he’d be gentle but he knows himself, he knows he’d lose control like he always did. Fuck you so goddamned hard, he’d have to lay you down in the backseat afterwards because you wouldn’t be able to stop shaking. Then drive you back to his house, carry you into his bed and have his way with you again. And again. And again.
“Rafe?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not hanging out with me because you feel sorry for me, are you?”
That grabs his attention, “Why would you think that?”
You shrug, “No reason. I just… Well, you have so many friends. I guess I don’t quite understand why you’re hanging out with me.”
“I like you.” He shifts even closer, his hand steadily stroking your leg while you remain stiff, “Do you like me?”
“H-Huh?”
“You heard me, homeschool.” And yet he knows you’re distracted by his fingers tracing shapes on your thigh. Not random shapes, though. It’s his initials. Over and over again. R.C., he wonders if you can tell.
“I, uh, y-ye–” You’re having trouble getting your words out, and it amuses him. He can see you visibly shaking, and he wonders if it’s out of fear or anticipation. Or both. He leans down, bringing his face close to yours.
“I didn’t quite get that.” He licks his lips at how weak and intimidated you look. “Say it again.”
It’s an order, and you clear your throat, shake your head as if to clear your thoughts.
“Yes,” you whisper, as if it’s something scandalous, “Y-Yes, I like you.”
He pulls back abruptly, leaving you gaping at him.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He buys you a panini from a little artisan bakery, with a strawberry iced tea and a packet of chocolate hearts with a cherry cream filling. You protest at first, unzipping your bag to pay for yourself, but he’d sooner roll over and die than let a woman pay for anything.
“Toss me one,” he says, and you throw a little cherry-filled truffle at him. He catches it between his teeth, and your eyes light up, clearly impressed.
“Wow, that was cool!”
“C’mere, you’ve got a little something…” He grabs your chin gently, pulling you forward before rubbing his thumb against the side of your lip, wiping away a bit of chocolate. “Messy girl.”
Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him like a good little girl. His thumb lingers, and he wants to press it into your mouth, make you suck the chocolate off it. Then tell you he had something else for you to suck on. Push you down and make you warm his cock with your mouth while he drove you back to campus. One hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing your head down, making you take his big cock despite you whimpering and panicking because you can’t breathe.
He rubs your lower lip with his thumb for a moment before pulling away. You clear your throat, snapping out of whatever reverie you’ve been in, straighten up against the seat and put your seatbelt on. You still look like you’re in a daze, however, and he wonders if you’re wet from him wiping your face clean.
“I-uh-we should head back please, if that’s okay?” you say, voice slightly shaky as you avoid eye contact with him. “I don’t want to miss my afternoon class.”
He grins, “You a teacher’s pet?”
That makes you smile, and you shrug shyly. It almost enamours him.
He gets you back to campus on time, and you give him a little wave before you jump out of his car and walk inside. And god, it’s insane how hot you are. Even in your jeans, which have cute little embroidered flowers on the butt. Makes your ass look insane. Like it’s begging to be grabbed, smacked, fucked.
He breathes out heavily through his nose, slumping back against his seat. His dick is uncomfortably hard. God, you didn’t even realise how much you’d teased him tonight. Sitting tight and pretty in the passenger seat of his car, so quiet and pretty. So innocently impressed by Figure 8, and by him. How shy you’d been when you’d admitted that you liked him…
He gets his phone out, blindly texting one of the desperate girls on his phone. He needs a release. And he’d be thinking of you the whole time.
*
On day 5, Rafe tells you to give him your number. From his peripheral, he can see a bunch of Pogues whispering and watching while he takes your phone and puts his number in.
“Have your little friends been talking more shit about me?”
You flinch. He can’t help the intensity of his tone sometimes, and he’s noticed you never swear and, like a jumpy little mouse, probably feel intimidated when he does.
“No, I haven’t really spoken to them in a while.”
Rafe grins, “Yeah?”
“Yes. I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”
He saves his number on your phone before pressing it into your back pocket for you. You gape, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. He wonders just how prim and proper you are, and how quickly he could get you to come undone once he got you comfortable and behind closed doors.
“You’re not too busy to text me, right?”
You smile, looking down and fidgeting with your binder. He notices you’ve got little stickers on it, like cupcakes and hearts and shit. What a fuckin’ baby.
“Text you? I don’t really– I have to a test tomorrow that I need to study for.”
But he knows you’ll text him. They always did. You weren’t any different.
“What are you smiling at?” Kelce asks, pulling up beside him as Rafe watches you head into your next class.
Immediately, he straightens his face, “Nothing man.”
“You falling for that homeschool freak Pogue?”
He snorts, “You wish. I have standards.”
“You sure about that?”
He whips his head sharply to stare down at his friend, “You want me to repeat myself?”
Rafe doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Kelce’s eyes. They’d never admit it, but he knows his friends are afraid of him. Of his mood swings, his unpredictability. He doesn’t care. In fact, he prefers it this way. They weren’t like him, they were weak-minded, beneath him. He kept them around because of semantics, because of who their parents were and who his dad was. And because they proved to be minorly useful sometimes when he needed help to get shit done.
All the girls he’d been with had been afraid of him too. When he fucked them, he often lost control. But it turned him on, how they’d swallow their fear in case they offended him, or set him off. Once, he’d fucked a girl who just wouldn’t stop shaking. Sure, he’d showed her his gun right before he’d bent her over, but it was her problem if she was frightened by something as mundane as that.
You weren’t scared of him. Yet. Intimidated, sure. But he’d kept that side of him well under wraps when it came to you. You were too sweet, too pure. And you were a good girl, incapable of crossing him in any form. He didn’t have to scare you to get what he wanted from you. No, you’d give it to him, like the good little girl you were. Naïve, innocent little girl.
*
Rafe: Hey.
Y/N: Hi, Rafe. How are you?
He finds himself smiling at his screen. There’s a party going on downstairs, but Rafe couldn’t care less. It’s the same thing every other night. His friends showing up at his house and bringing along a whole entourage of people he doesn’t give a fuck about. Sarah used to do it a lot before she moved out, invite her fuck ass Pogue friend group into his house as if they were ever welcome there.
Rafe didn’t want any Pogues inside his house. Unless they were girls that he intended to sleep with. But he appreciated it when they showed themselves out once he was done using them.
Rafe: What are you up to?
A minute passes by, then another one. Fuck, he hates that you’re making him wait. What a fuckin’ tease. He wonders for the hundredth time if you’re doing it on purpose. No, not you. You’re too innocent.
Y/N: Nothing, I just finished cleaning my room. Wbu?
It’s insane how the visual of that gets his dick hard in less than a second. The thought of you doing something as domestic as cleaning. The good little college girl, who went home straight after school and spent her evenings dusting and vacuuming or whatever it was that cleaning entailed. Unlike the Kook sluts his friends were probably fucking downstairs. They were pathetic party girls who’d easily spread their legs for a line or two.
He calls you, losing patience with this texting bullshit. He runs a hand through his hair impatiently when you don’t immediately pick up, huffing and gulping down the remaining whiskey in his glass. Slamming it down on his desk when you still don’t pick up. Fucking tease. He grabs a baggie from one of the drawers, prepares a neat line; despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it tonight. Fuck that. Ten seconds have passed; you still haven’t picked up. He snorts it quickly, about to throw his phone out the fucking window, except you choose that moment to pick up.
“H-Hello?”
“Hi,” he sounds slightly breathless, but who the fuck cared. He refills his glass with more whiskey, taking a sip to calm himself down. “Took your time to pick up, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say hastily, “I got distracted.”
He feels a sudden surge of jealousy so violent, he doesn’t know how to act for a moment. Distracted by fucking what?
“The lights went out, so I had to go reset them,” you explain, and he barks out a laugh. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Y-You sound kinda breathless, Rafe,” you say, “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He downs his drink and sets it aside before his hand slips down. God, you sound so hot. All breathy and innocent, even just over the phone. “Tell me what you were doing.”
A pause, and then you force out a chuckle, “I told you, I just finished cleaning.”
“What like vacuuming and shit?”
“Yes.”
Over the years, Rafe had slept with a number of maids Ward had hired on multiple occasions. He’d fucked Wheezie’s babysitter a few years ago, the housekeeper too. His father had a knack for hiring hot Pogue girls, and maybe that’s where Rafe’s kink for them started.
He could imagine you working for him – he’d make you wear the sexiest little barely-there maid outfit. You wouldn’t question it because you were too innocent. With your little feather duster, trying to clean except you’d be too small to reach certain areas. Fuck, he wouldn’t last five seconds in the same room as you. And he wouldn’t have to because you’d be his hired help, his property. He’d have you bent over his desk, fuck you so hard till you couldn’t stop shaking, till you were crying like a baby and apologising for not focusing on cleaning all while he carried you up to his bedroom. Locked you up in there so nobody else could see you. His girl. All his.
“Uh, Rafe?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
A pause.
“Really?” You clear your throat, “Where are you? I can hear music.”
“Shit, yeah. Like, there’s a party or whatever going on downstairs. My friends came over unannounced.”
“Oh.” He can sense a level of dejection in your tone. He bets you’re thinking about it, thinking how it’s just a reminder that he has his own group of Kook friends. And you’d never be one of them. You’d never truly fit in. You were either one or the other. Hell, Sarah had proven that when she’d transitioned into the slums. But maybe there was a way to bring you into his world, a way that would stick.
He has to forcibly shake his head to remind himself you’re just part of a stupid bet.
“I’d rather speak to you than them.”
“That’s not true, Rafe.”
“I like how you say my name.” He’s palming his dick now, knowing he’s treading over the line and could easily scare you off now if he’s not careful. But fuck being careful. He’s never really been careful before in his life. He hasn’t had to be. “An’ I’m serious. I told you, I like you.”
“Rafe, I… I just can’t shake the feeling that–”
“That what?” He spits into his palm before resuming touching himself. And shit, he doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or if it’s really just the sound of your voice that’s got him so goddamned horny. He wonders if you’ve ever touched yourself before. If you even knew how to.
“That you’re just playing a big joke on me. I mean, even the people from the Cut think I’m this weird, homeschooled freak.” You laugh, but he can tell you don’t find it funny, “It’s just hard to believe that you’d want to be my friend.”
“They think I’m a freak too,” he says, being honest for once. “Only difference is they don’t talk shit about me because they know I’d kill them.”
“You’re funny, Rafe.”
You’re too innocent to realise he’s not kidding. Not in the least.
“And if anyone says anything about you, I’ll kill them too. I’m serious.” Fuck, he feels like his dick’s gonna goddamn explode. The thought of protecting you like that, like he was responsible for you. Like you were all cute and helpless and he was the one taking care of shit, the one protecting you. That’s all he’s done his whole life, take care of shit and get shit done. And nobody’s ever fucking appreciated him for it.
“Well, thank you, Rafe. I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that.”
He likes how you keep saying his name now that he’s told you he likes it when you say it. Means you’d be real good at taking instructions. He can imagine telling you what to do when he finally has you in his bed. Order you to get on your hands and knees. Then he’d spread your cute little ass, eat you from the back while you moaned his name over and over, thanking him for taking care of you, weeping how much you appreciate him, how much he means to you. How much you need him.
“A-Are you still there?”
“Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am.” His dick’s red and painfully hard, and he’s still trying to pump it steadily but now he’s imagining your tight little virgin cunt wrapped around it. Soft like velvet, warm and wet. Pulsating around him. Never had even a finger up there but you’d take his big dick, because he owned you, because he was your protector, because you were too weak and helpless without him, and–
“Could you, uh, fuck, say my name again,” he orders you, not caring in the least if he scares you off.
“Rafe?”
He cums into his fist like a goddamned teenage boy, biting down to keep from making any noise. God fucking dammit, you’d listened again. What a good fucking girl. He wants to tell you that, tell you how good you were for him just now, how obedient and submissive you were without even realising it.
“If you’re busy, it’s okay and you can go,” you say softly.
“No, wait…” he clears this throat, grabbing a bunch of tissues from his desk. He can’t believe you hadn’t caught on to him jacking off. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come over tomorrow? To hang out?”
“Like, uh, at your house?”
“Yeah.” He needs you in private, needs you on his turf where he can control just about everything. God, was it even about the bet anymore? Or just this newfound fucking irrevocable need to fuck you just for his own personal satisfaction? Maybe both.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a guy’s house before.”
That just makes him even more determined to be your first.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go after your classes finish or whatever, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
“Rafe…”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, savouring the sound of your voice. He wonders if he can get you to call him daddy. God fucking dammit, just the idea of that was getting him hard again.
“Look, we’ll order some food, watch TV. Whatever you want. It’ll be fun. And it’s what friends do.”
That last part gets to you. He can tell. He knows how badly you want to have friends. He knows you’ve never had any. Not good, permanent ones like you saw in movies and TV shows. Hell, Rafe’s not sure he himself has real friends. But he doesn’t care. The idea of friendship means nothing to him. He’s best when he’s on his own because nobody else could be trusted. But what is important is having a girl like you in his bed. A girl like you who looks up to him with shining eyes, like he’s your goddamned entire world. A girl he plucked up from poverty and saved, and you’d appreciate him more than anyone in his dumb fucking family ever did.
“Say yes,” he all but orders you, but he already knows the answer before you say it.
“O-Okay, yeah. Yes, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come.”
*
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Topper frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “You were supposed to bring the, you know…”
Rafe rolls his eyes, wondering why he’s friends with a fucking loser who can’t even say the word coke. That’s why nobody on the goddamned island wanted to sell to Topper. Hell, even Barry refused to.
“I have plans.” Rafe answers, checking his watch for the tenth time. Your final class of the day was due to end any minute now, and he couldn’t wait to get you into his house.
“What plans? You were gonna help me with Sarah tonight.” Topper was a whiny fucking bitch, but even Rafe had to admit he was a better fit for his sister than that lowlife John B.
“I’m not helping you with shit, man.” He mutters disinterestedly, although he had promised a few nights ago that he’d help him. He’d been high as a fucking kite, though. So it didn’t exactly count. “Look, she’ll get bored eventually when she realises his broke ass can’t provide shit for her. Then she’ll come crawling back.”
Topper shakes his head, “No, Sarah’s not materialistic like that.”
Rafe smirks, “You don’t know her.”
“Well, speaking of broke, how’s it going with that homeschool girl? You guys sure seem to be hanging out a lot.”
“Do you have brain damage, Topper?”
“What?”
Rafe corners his friend against a wall, relishing the immediate fear in his eyes, “I seem to remember you placing a bet a week ago.”
“Well, yeah, but –”
“So why the fuck,” he hits the locker lightly behind Topper’s head, “are you asking me about hanging out with her a lot?”
“Chill, dude. It’s just,” he looks hesitant, scared as he’s barely able to make eye contact, “It’s okay if you like her, you know?”
Rafe feels a wave of emotion, something he can’t quite pinpoint. And that makes him mad, because what the fuck was he feeling? He has to clench his fists by his side to stop from slapping the taste out of Topper’s mouth. Why did him bringing you up irritate him so much? Jesus, reign it the fuck in.
He takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing a chuckle, “You think I’m gonna slum it like that?”
Topper grins nervously, as if Rafe hadn’t had him pinned against a locker like a little bitch just a second ago. He straightens up, “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret what your type is.”
Rafe laughs, and Topper relaxes and joins in after a moment or two. That’s when Rafe slams him against the locker again.
“Get it through your thick fucking skull, Topper. I may fuck a Pogue but I’d never date one. Got that?”
“Yes, okay, Jesus Christ, man.” Topper pushes Rafe off him and backs off, “Do whatever the fuck you want.”
That’s when Rafe starts laughing again. “I will, pussy.”
Topper fucks off after that. Sometimes, Rafe wonders what his deal is. He acted up in front of the rest of the group, then tried to act all sensitive and understanding in private. Like Rafe had time for that shit. And how dare Topper insinuate that Rafe had feelings for you? Hell would freeze over before he ever caught feelings for a Pogue.
He realises a bunch of people are staring at him. Goddamit. Fuck all of them. When he was younger, Ward had sent him to see a therapist once a week. He’d quit going once he’d realised it was everyone else who was the problem, and not him. But one thing the shrink had taught him that had stuck was to breathe slowly and count to ten whenever he felt angry or overwhelmed.
That’s what he’s doing when you arrive.
“Hey, Rafe. I’m sorry I’m late. The professor held me back.”
“Why?” He barks out before he can contain himself. He’s already on edge, and now some dumbass professor is keeping you back in class because you undoubtedly get his old, shrivelled dick hard and you’re too innocent to even realise it.
You blink, “He really liked the essay I submitted last week. He even said he wants to use it as an example for his other classes!”
“That’s great,” Rafe plasters a smile on his face but he’s only half listening, “Let’s go.”
He calms down some as he guides you out of the hallway and toward the parking lot. He almost grabs your hand when it gets a bit too crowded, but remembers himself just in time. He couldn’t be caught holding hands with a Pogue. It was too intimate, and like he’d said to Topper, he’d never let it get to that point with a Pogue. Instead, he places his hand on your lower back and pushes you forward. You smile at him, and it goes straight to his… well, not his dick, surprisingly. But it goes somewhere within him, and he feels it again. Something he doesn’t really recognise or know how to deal with. So he forcibly pushes it back inside himself.
“You look cute,” he says once he’s got you outside and there’s more room to breathe. You look like an angel in the afternoon sunlight, dressed in the cutest little sundress he’s ever seen. It’s this pinkish-orange, like the colour of the sunset, and you’ve got matching ribbons in your hair. Like you’ve really made an effort to get all dressed up just to go to his house.
“Thanks,” you look down as if you’re embarrassed, like you don’t know how to take a compliment, “It’s my mom’s dress.”
“It’s really pretty,” he says softly, before clearing his throat and looking away.
He gets you to his car, lifting you up by your waist and helping you into it. And that turns him on so much, how small and sweet you look. Like a little fairy in his arms. None of the other girls were like you. Not at all. He wonders what you’re wearing underneath, and feels his cock thicken in his slacks with anticipation when he realises he was probably going to find out today.
You don’t say anything when he pulls up into the driveway of his house. Ward had fucked off on some business trip and taken Wheezie and Rose with him so he had the place to himself. That’s how he liked it best, it gave him space to think and breathe without the constant noise of his family. Well, Wheezie was an exception. He didn’t mind her too much.
“Wait here,” he says, getting out the car and walking around to open the door for you. You allow him to lift you out again, this time your hands landing on his shoulders. And it’s fucking insane how that tiny, voluntary touch does things to him that no other girl has ever done before.
Now, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to the large, ornate wooden double doors. You’re distracted anyways, eyes wide as saucers as you ogle the mansion that Rafe’s never thought twice about. But he reckons it’s a step or two above whatever shacks the people from the Cut lived in, so he allows you to remain silent and let it sink in.
Finally, you exhale slowly, “This is… uh… wow. I can’t believe there’s people in this world who live like this.”
Rafe smirks, squeezing your hand, “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”
He leads you to the bar in the corner of the living room, again lifting you up and placing you on one of the stools. You giggle, “I can climb on myself, you know.”
“Yeah? You seem to like it when I pick you up, though.”
He winks, and notes how you duck your head and smile shyly, your hands wringing together on your lap like you’re nervous. God, you were so fucking cute.
“What’s your usual drink of choice?” He asks, going behind the island to inspect the liquor. His friends had gone through a lot of it at the party the night before, but the house help had restocked everything this morning.
You blink, “Um, water?”
He stifles a laugh, pouring himself his usual whiskey with ice, “You’re a good girl, huh?”
“I tried some of my mom’s wine once but it tasted horrible,” you shrug, “I don’t know why people like it so much.”
“Try this.” He pours you a Peach Schnapps with lemonade and ice, “It’s sweet like you.”
You hesitate, but end up taking it. And he watches as you take a tentative sip, and he knows you like it because you take another one. And then another. He can’t help but feel proud for introducing you to your first alcoholic drink.
“You’re not as bad as people say you are,” you say out of nowhere, and his expression immediately sours.
“People have been talking about me to you?”
“No, it’s just the stuff I’ve heard. Like what I told you before. But it can’t be true, because you’re so nice to me so it just doesn’t add up.”
He grips his glass tight, about to lose it because yet again people were talking shit about him behind his back and never to his fucking face. Because they were all a bunch of pussies who knew he’d beat the shit out of them or kill them if they said anything to his face. But then you speak again.
“Do you always drink after school?”
“Huh?”
“Like, alcohol. Do you drink a lot? Like every day?”
“No.” He lies. “Only sometimes.”
He takes you out to the patio, where the sun is shining and you look so fucking pretty in your little sundress. Like you fit right into his world, next to the pool with a drink in your hand, sat next to him and looking at him with sparkling eyes as if he was your god. He wonders if you’ve naturally grown more comfortable with him through the course of the week, or if it’s just the alcohol. Probably the alcohol, since no one was ever really comfortable around him.
Either way, he puts his hand on your leg just like he had a few days ago in his car. Your breath hitches, but you don’t make a move to stop him. Instead, you opt to take another sip of your drink, and he wonders if he can get you drunk tonight. Shit, did he even want to? It was no fun fucking a drunk girl.
“Tell me more about you,” he strokes the soft skin of your bare thigh, feeling your goosebumps underneath the pads of his fingers. “You ever had a boyfriend or anything?”
Your eyes widen, “No. I, uh, you don’t tend to meet any guys when you’re homeschooled.” Embarrassed, you giggle before looking away. He reaches out, grabbing your chin lightly and making you look at him again. Fuck, your lips were so sexy. So pouty and perfect, begging to be kissed. “What about…what about you? Have you had any girlfriends?”
He shrugs, “A few.”
You nod, “Of course you have. That was a stupid question. Sorry, I forget not everyone’s as far behind in life as I am.”
“You’re not far behind.” He says, although you are and he prefers it that way.
“I am. Every other girl my age has had all the experiences you’re supposed to have. Drinking, partying, boys, all of it.” You sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch up.”
Rafe inches his hand upwards, till he reaches the hem of your dress halfway up your thigh. He plays with the fabric, and he can tell you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You don’t make a move to stop him, but you do press your legs together.
“There’s still plenty of time to catch up,” he says softly, “I can help you.”
You smile up at him, holding up your drink, “You already have. I’d never drank with friends before now.”
“Congratulations,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, “To one of many firsts.”
He downs his drink and so do you, and he’s quick to get a refill for both of you. He’s guessing you’re a lightweight, and again the thought of getting you drunk crosses his mind. But that would be way too easy.
“I’m capping you after this one,” he says, handing you your second Peach Schnapps.
You giggle, “Are you gonna cap yourself too?”
“No.” He chucks you under the chin again, “But, see, I’m not a baby.”
“Hey!”
He kisses you. And shit, he hadn’t planned on catching you so off-guard. Hell, he’s caught himself off-guard. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help how kissable your lips looked, all pouty and bitten. And you taste like cherry lip gloss mixed with peaches and lemonade, and you’re so pliant underneath him, and he’s kissed a shit ton of girls but it’s never felt like this.
You pull away with a start, shocked as you stare up at him. Breathing hard and biting your goddamned lips before they turn into the shape of an o.
“I’m sorry,” Rafe says, although he’s not, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I first saw you.”
Your breathing is shallow, and with a shaky hand you put your glass down on the crystal table in front of you. “I’ve never, uh, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Well, it’s easy. I could show you.”
You swallow, “I don’t want this to be like, a pity thing.”
Rafe exhales slowly, “You’re here in front of me in this tiny fuckin” dress, acting all cute and innocent and you think I want to kiss you out of pity?”
Your jaw drops, “Hey, it’s not tiny!”
He kisses you again. And sure, maybe he should’ve asked permission since it’s, well, your first kiss. But frankly he’s never had to ask permission to do anything in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to start now. The way he sees it, you wouldn’t have worn a slutty dress and agreed to come to his house if you didn’t want him to make a move on you.
Again, you pull away, “Rafe, I– don’t… I don’t know how to kiss, I’m sorry–”
He cups your face in his hands, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours again. Just to feel your soft, quivering lips against his confident ones. He kisses you once, twice, three times. Coaxing you to open your mouth, to let him in. Fuck, a part of him just wants to shove his tongue down your fucking throat, show you what it means to really be kissed. But he’s already pushing his luck right now.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, “But you need to do exactly what I say, okay?”
He can’t believe his goddamned luck when you nod. God, you were just so fucking hot, prancing around his house in your little dress, all impressed by his riches and shit, drinking your drink he made you like a good little girl, and now here you were, agreeing to whatever he said.
He taps his leg, “Get on my lap.”
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Wh-What?”
Rafe smirks, “Didn’t you just agree to do exactly what I say?”
He’s surprised with the amount of patience he has with you. If you were another girl, he’d have thrown your ass out to the curb for asking too many annoying questions. Or bent you over, shoved your face into a pillow to shut you up and had his way with you. God knew he’d done that more times than he could count over the years. He was aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than you and every other girl, and that fact turned him on more than anything. The fact that he could, if he wanted to, completely take advantage of you however he wanted. And all you’d be able to do is cry and beg him to stop, which would just turn him on more.
“I did, I’m sorry, but I don’t–”
Easily, he grabs your hips and lifts you up onto his lap, makes you straddle him with one leg on either side of him. Your dress is just about long enough to still cover your modesty, but now he’s acutely aware of your panty-covered pussy just inches away from reach. Fuck, he wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing, and if you’d let him look…
“There. Comfy?”
“Well, I guess, but…”
He pulls you into another kiss, this time catching you mid-sentence so he’s able to slip his tongue into your mouth. And you’re so fucking shy, just rigid while he explores your mouth. But he doesn’t mind. You taste so fucking sweet, and it’s getting him so hard, knowing he’s the first man you’ve let touch you like this, kiss you like this.
He can feel your breath hitch as he strokes your face, his thumbs running across your cheeks before his hand tangles into your hair. He yanks you closer, grazing his teeth against your plump bottom lip. You gasp, and he chuckles into your open mouth. His tongue plays with yours, coaxing you to kiss him back, but not really caring too much if you don’t.
And god, he wants to thrust up into you so bad. You’re sitting right on top of his fucking hard dick, and you don’t even seem to realise it. In fact, you shift around, that cute little peachy ass rubbing against his boner, and he wonders if you even know what a boner is.
When you pull away this time, your eyes are bright and excited. And he loves how he’s kissed the gloss off your lips, and how he can still taste you on his tongue.
“Wow, that was…” you giggle, breathless yet excited from finally having your first kiss, “I don’t have anything to compare it to, but that was good!”
Rafe has to crack a smile at your innocence, and his hand lands on your bare thigh, tracing his initials on it again, “Yeah? You like kissing me?”
“I…um… yeah I do,” you say shyly, before closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, “Could we uh, could we try again? Could I try?”
Well, shit. He’s never devoted this much time and energy into just kissing a girl, but his dick grows even harder at how you’ve plucked up the courage to ask him that. And so he simply nods and sits back, lets you figure out what it is you want to do.
Your cute little hands hold on to his broad shoulders shyly. And you lean up, fluttering your eyes closed like it’s some kind of fairytale for you and you’re the little princess kissing her prince charming. It’s part enamouring, part pathetic. But Rafe feels it again, that unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest. He shakes out of it, focusing on your plump lips that hesitantly press against yours.
He sits still; lets you explore his mouth. Your tongue pokes out, swipes against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick. And then he’s kissing you back, because he doesn’t have the goddamned willpower to just sit there and do nothing. There’s an animal inside of him and you’ve awoken it, more than any drug or alcohol ever could.
And he gets rougher, biting your lip till you gasp into his mouth. His hands slip up and down your bare arms before he takes your hand, squeezes it before pressing it down on his chest, wanting you to touch him, feel how much bigger he is than you.
“Good girl,” he mutters when you don’t move your hand, and then he fingers the hem of your dress. “Gonna let me touch you a little bit?”
“Rafe, maybe not too much–”
“C’mon, princess, you have to touch while you’re making out, right? That’s lesson number two.” He distracts you with another rough kiss, grabbing your jaw and squeezing while he brings you closer to his mouth. Kissing down your jaw and neck before returning to your lips, smirking when you squeak out a little involuntary moan. That’s when he slips his hand up your dress and cups your ass. Perfect little handful of your bubble butt, and he gives it a little squeeze to test the waters. You’re too distracted with kissing him, and so he squeezes harder. God, so fuckin’ soft and pliable, just like how he’d imagined.
“Nice ass,” he murmurs against your lips, and that’s what jolts you out of it. He curses inwardly when you pull away, pushing against his chest when he doesn’t immediately stop. And a part of him knows how easy it would be to just pin you down on this fucking sofa and have his way with you. Tell you how it’s your fault for wearing this fucking dress, your fault for seducing him in his own home, acting so sexy and innocent and getting him so riled up. Teasing him with your shy little kisses and squeaks till he had no choice but to hold you down and fuck you.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you slide off his lap, straightening your dress, “I just… I got overwhelmed.”
He blinks, and he’s this close to pulling you back on top of him, telling you he didn’t give you permission to stop, that you had to listen to him because this was his house and he’d been kind enough to invite you over. And he could make you feel so good, if you just stopped being a goddamned little prude.
Instead, he forces a smile, “You’re a pretty good kisser for someone who claims she’s never done it before.”
You beam, relaxing immediately, “Oh, you’re just saying that. I bet I was really bad.”
“My memory’s kinda foggy, I think you’re gonna have to remind me,” he pulls you back into him, and you giggle as he presses light kisses on your lips, his arm going around your shoulders while your hands tangle into his hair.
It doesn’t go any further than that, though. You stop him when he tries to touch you again, and a part of him wants to slam his fist down on the glass patio table in frustration. And yet, something stops him from just overpowering you and taking what he wants. No, that would be too easy. He’s about to crack you, he can tell from the way you look at him with those big eyes, now full of trust and comfort. He just needs more time.
Too bad he only had one day left to complete the goddamned bet.
“You should come over again,” he says when he’s done up your seatbelt for you in his car. He finds he likes doing all that shit – opening the door for you, lifting you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt into place, all of it. A stark difference from other girls, where often he’s tossed their clothes at them and motioned for them to leave after he’s done hooking up with them.
“That sounds nice,” you say, waiting for him to come round and get into the driver’s seat, “And I told you; you don’t have to drive me all the way home. I could’ve just got the bus.”
He blinks. He didn’t realise buses even functioned in Figure 8, but either way, he can’t have you on a public bus. Especially not in that dress, where every man would be leering at you and you’d be none the wiser about it. The control freak in him is itching to be let out, to tell you exactly what you were and weren’t allowed to wear in public, tell you how you weren’t allowed to speak to any men except him. And you weren’t allowed to argue or contest any of this, because he was in charge of you now, and–
“No buses,” he says firmly, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh as he drives, “Anyways, come over again tomorrow. We can go in the pool or whatever.”
He feels you go rigid, “Th-The pool?”
He glances at you, “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
You laugh nervously, “Uh, I’m not too great with water. I don’t really swim or anything.”
Rafe has to do a double-take, “You realise you live on an island?”
Even he knew that every child born in Kildare could swim before they could even walk. It’s just the way it was. They were surrounded by water. Rafe doesn’t even remember learning how to swim; it was almost like he knew how to do it by default.
“I know how to swim, I just don’t like water,” you say, and there’s something off about your tone. Something he can’t pinpoint, but you turn to the side and look out the window. Silent for the rest of the drive. Rafe doesn’t push it, although your odd behaviour has piqued his curiosity.
It’s only when he’s pulling up into the pitiful dirt road of a street where your house is situated that you clear your throat.
“Look, Rafe, you’re my friend now. And I don’t really like keeping secrets from you. I’m sorry I was so quiet just now.”
Cute. He likes how much you apologise to him. It shows how respectful you are, how much you respected him as an authority figure.
“That’s okay,” he says.
You take a deep breath, “I used to go out in the water a lot when I was younger. With my dad. He had a boat, and I would help him. But…”
Your voice trails off for a moment. Rafe thinks he knows where this is going, and a part of him is touched you’d share something like this with him. A tiny, obscure part of him, that is. He can’t help but squeeze your leg reassuringly, and you clear your throat again and blink several times. Like you’re trying not to cry. And Rafe’s never had the patience for emotional chicks, but it’s different with you.
You force out a little laugh, “I don’t want to go into details. But one time we were out pretty far, and the weather was bad. Like, really bad. The waves were rough and…” You swallow, looking down into your lap and wringing your hands together, your chest rising and falling rapidly, “And… Well, I was fine but… my dad…”
Shaking your head, you don’t say anymore. You don’t have to. Your eyes are wet and glistening, the muscles in your face working overtime to stop the tears from coming out. He parks the car in front of your house, turning to face you. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he’s not sure how to act.
Fiercely, you wipe away the one or two rogue tears that have escaped down your cheeks, “It happened so long ago, I barely remember it. But I’ve been scared of the water ever since.”
He nods, “It’s just you and your mom now?”
“Yes. And my brothers. But they’re always working, so it’s just me and her. That’s why she’s so protective of me… I, uh, I don’t have a dad anymore.”
Rafe knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he can’t fathom ever talking about it or voicing his feelings on it or some shit like that. His loser therapist had tried to get him to talk about his mother, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was just muscle memory at this point, to force any thoughts of her straight out of his mind. It was easier that way. And now, it was like he could barely remember her. And he hated it, but it made it easier too.
He’s never been good at comforting anyone else. And a part of him is glad you’re not sobbing your eyes out right now, because he’s not sure how he’d handle that. So he’s happy when you clear your throat again and smile up at him.
“I’m not sure why I told you that, I’ve never had a friend to tell that to before. I guess I just feel comfortable with you, Rafe.”
What the hell had he done to make you so trusting of him in the span of less than a week? God, you were like an innocent little angel, sitting in his car all tiny and vulnerable. Making him feel like a goddamned fucking monster for the thoughts he had towards you, what he planned to do with you. Suddenly, the bet feels so stupid and insignificant. God, this was why Rafe didn’t speak to the women he fucked. They went all emotional on him, and now he wasn’t sure how to act.
“I feel comfortable around you too,” he says carefully. He’s never been great with his words, but he grabs your hands that continue to wring nervously together. His big, warm hand dwarfing your tiny ones, and he realises you’re shaking. And there’s a part of him that wants to protect you against everything. Take you back to his place, lock you up in his room so he could keep an eye on you and keep you away from anything and anyone who could ever hurt you and make you cry.
Even if the only person who could hurt you the most right now is Rafe himself.
You leave after that, thanking him again and again for giving you a lift home. He wants to walk you to your door, but you run off quickly, and his mind’s too distracted to follow you. He drives off once he sees you’ve safely closed your front door behind you, his mind moving a million miles per minute.
Jesus Christ, why’d you have to go and open up to him like that? This would be so much fucking easier if you hadn’t done that. He hates that he should know better, that he knows that he should leave you alone. You were too innocent, too vulnerable for his bullshit; to be caught in the middle of some dumbass bet he’d made with his friends. God dammit, he hates himself for agreeing to that stupid bet, seems so fucking juvenile looking back. Wished he’d picked a different girl at the very least, someone not as lovely a you.
Most of all, he hates himself because he knows that despite everything he’s just found out about you, he still has every intention of fucking you. Daddy issues and a phobia of water. It was almost like fate was handing you to him on a silver platter. He had to fuck you. He’d figure out the rest later.
*
Kelce: One day left, loverboy.
Topper: Can’t wait to see the pictures.
Rafe mutes the groupchat before throwing his phone aside. He’d goddamn throttle his friends if they were in front of him right now. Sometimes, he gets these violent tendencies. He doesn’t really know what to make of them except it feels good to have some kind of release. Usually that comes in the form of pushing around a sorry ass Pogue, but that option’s not really available right now.
Instead, he searches blindly for the coke he’s stashed in his bedside drawer. Again, he’d promised himself he’d cut down, but this was just to take the edge off. It didn’t count. Not really.
He wonders what you’d think if you knew how often he took drugs. Well, you wouldn’t because he’d keep you well away from that part of his life. Even when he made you his girlfriend, he’d keep you separate from all the partying. And he’d never allow you to even look at any type of Class A drug. And who knows, maybe he’d become better for you, maybe he’d go stone cold sober if you wanted him to.
That makes him laugh. Going sober for a Pogue. It was insane of him to even consider it.
Again, he has to remind himself to take his emotions out of it. All you were was a stupid Pogue, and a part of a bet he was going to goddamned fulfil. And he wouldn’t allow himself to think anything more of it. He may have had a momentary lapse of judgement yesterday, but today was a new day, the last day of the week he had to fuck you.
How? He wasn’t too sure. Reports of a storm meant you couldn’t come to his house again like how he’d planned. Even now, Rafe could hear the harrowing winds outside. Like a goddamned cyclone. And the rain pelting down unforgivingly, and the distant roar of the sea, waves crashing like they’d taken on a life of their own.
The weather on the island was usually all sunshine, but once in a blue moon a storm would hit like now. Residents were always told to wait it out and stay inside. For Rafe, that meant copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes a girl or two to keep him company. But the idea of fucking anyone that isn’t you right now makes him sick.
He thinks about texting you, but what would be the goddamned point? If he couldn’t physically be with you today? He knows the weak, pussy part of his mind just wants to talk to you in whatever form he can. But he needs to bury that bullshit down deep inside him and never back, and–
His phone vibrates. It’s you. And he hates how he feels his heart jump to his fucking throat. You’ve called him all on your own, which means you were thinking about him like how he was thinking about you.
“Rafe?” You sound sexy like you always do, all breathy and weak and needy. A bit panicked too.
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, “What’s up?”
“Hey, calm down.” Rafe barely recognises the gentle quality of his voice as he straightens up, “What’s wrong, princess?”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so softly, with an air of embarrassment and shame, that at first he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying. But then he does, and something kicks in inside him. This innate need to protect you. You sound so small and needy on the phone, and you called him. You need him.
“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“No, no. Oh, Rafe, it’s the storm. It keeps getting worse.”
He chuckles in relief that you weren’t in any immediate danger, “Well, shit. Yeah. Looks pretty wild, huh?”
“I hate it,” you whimper softly, “and I’m sorry I called. But my mom’s stuck at work, and my brothers are crashing somewhere else. So it’s just me, and, and…”
“Hey, calm down. It’s okay, you’ll be okay.” He’s never had to comfort anyone before, but it comes naturally with you. “As long as you stay inside, the storm should pass. Just watch TV or something.”
“The lights are gonna go off any second,” you sniffle, “They always do when the weather gets bad.”
They did? Rafe never noticed shit like that. Then again, he doubts you had the luxury of backup generators where you lived. He pauses.
“Gimme twenty minutes. I’ll come over.”
“No!” You say quickly, “Rafe, it’s too dangerous.”
He snorts. He’d been in far more dangerous situations than a little bad weather. But the less you knew about that, the better. “I think I’ll be okay, princess.”
“B-But we’re not allowed out. You’ll get a fine.”
Rafe can’t count on one hand how many times he’d been fined by the dumbass police on this goddamned island over some petty bullshit reason or another. A fine meant nothing to someone with money. He was above the law, and most people on this island knew it.
“Stay put. I’ll see you soon.”
Rafe actually enjoys driving in the storm. The roads are deserted, and he can speed without worrying about anything else. And he does speed, and he runs more than one red light too. Gets to your house quicker than he thought he would. Past all the other tiny shacks all boarded up because they weren’t built well enough to withstand the storm.
“Rafe! You came!”
You sound like a fucking needy little baby, but something pulls at his heart when you hug him harder than you ever have before. And you’re so small, on your tippy toes so your arms reach around his neck. Automatically, his arms wind around your waist and he holds you close, and he can feel you trembling, your face buried in his chest as you hold on to him tightly.
“Yeah. Roads were empty. Didn’t take long.” He mutters, looking around the inside of your house. Pitiful. And pitch black, because you were right, the power had gone out. He hates that you live here. You’d fit in so much better at Tannyhill, in a pretty pink silk dressing gown and dripping with diamonds he’d buy for you. And you’d be so thankful for him, tell everyone that he saved you, how well he took care of you. How he gave you everything you could ever want, and how much you appreciated him.
At that moment, a clap of thunder makes you jump and squeal. Quickly, you pull him inside and shut the door. That’s when he notices that you’re crying.
“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He pulls you into another hug, and he’s never seen another human being look so scared, so vulnerable. It makes him feel so powerful, like the man he knew you needed. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”
It feels natural, his lips pressing a kiss into your hairline. Like you’re his little baby, like he’s been trusted with something so precious and now he has to protect you. And you’re too scared to be your usual jumpy self, and you just snuggle closer into him. A flash of lightning lights up the whole room, the storm relentless against the weak confines of this sorry excuse of a house.
“Maybe we should head back to mine.” He suggests, but you whimper again.
“No, no, we can’t go out there. It’s not safe. Rafe, please.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen another human being so scared before. Not even when he was fucking that one girl after he’d showed her his gun. Even now, he consciously tucks his gun further down the waistband of his chinos. Of course he’d brought it with him, he wasn’t going to enter the Cut without a piece on him.
“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here. When’s your mom coming home?”
“Not till tomorrow once the storm’s died down.”
He licks his lips. It was too good to be true.
You’re still holding on to him as you lead him into your bedroom. He wonders why you’d take him straight there, but he guesses it’s your safe place. And you’ve got candles lit up, and they brighten the room enough for him to notice how small it is. The size of a shoebox, with a single bed covered in pink sheets and a bunch of stuffed animals.
Despite everything, his dick hardens.
“You’re a really good friend, Rafe.” You say honestly, “Nobody else would’ve come over like this.”
He shrugs, sitting on the edge of your bed and patting the mattress next to him. It’s not even his house and yet he feels like he needs to take control. And you obey, taking a seat next to him. But you’re preoccupied with your own fear, doing that thing where you fidget with your hands in your lap.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, biting your lip like you can’t quite believe what he’s said, “I-I’m not special, Rafe, I–”
You’re cut off by another clap of thunder, this one so loud it makes the whole house shake. You scream bloody murder, and honestly, if you were anyone else Rafe would’ve laughed. But it’s you, and so he just watches. It’s fascinating, the way you clutch onto him like he’s your saviour, and he wonders just how this opportunity had basically just fallen into his lap.
He pulls you into his lap, knowing you won’t protest. Not in the state you’re in. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a little white tank top. No bra, because he can feel your nipples, hard and poking out from the fabric of your top. He can feel them against his chest as he hugs you again, and he can also feel you shifting on top of him. Your peachy little ass rubbing against his dick like you’re a fucking tease except he knows you’re none the wiser, that you have no idea the effect you have on him.
He’s so turned on, it feels like he might explode.
“I’m sorry,” you apologise for the umpteenth time, “It’s just so scary. Wh-What if the storm gets worse, Rafe?”
“It probably will,” he says, feeling slightly wicked. He holds you tighter against him, wanting to feel the brush of your breasts against his chest again. Fuck, he wants to cop a feel so bad. “They were saying something about a severe weather warning on the news. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”
“Noooo,” you moan like a goddamned baby, cuddling into him even more.
“It’s okay,” he says, running his hand up and down your back, “You ever, uh, you ever think of distracting yourself from the storm?”
You hiccup and blink up at him with wet eyes, “Nothing works, Rafe.”
He smirks, “I could distract you.”
“H-How?”
He runs his thumb over your lips. They’re wet with your salty tears, and yet like muscle memory, you part them for him. You watch him in wonder, your breathing shallow as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, his other hand holding you in place by your hip.
“Suck.” He instructs gently, and your eyes are as big as saucers. But in your frightened, vulnerable state, you obey immediately. And it feels like he’ll bust a nut right there, watching as you suck his thumb on command like a little fucking baby. Like he’s your daddy.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking your hair out of your face so he can watch you better. “Now listen to me, I can help you. I can distract you so that you forget all about the storm. Do you want that?”
You nod slowly, almost like you’re entranced by him. Not that he needs the green light from you, but it’s hot to see you agree so easily to whatever he’s saying. Fuck, you really were just like an angel fallen straight from heaven and into his lap. Perfect for him in every single way. So soft, so impressionable. Completely untouched. Ready to be ruined.
“That’s good,” he mutters vaguely, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. He takes his thumb out of your mouth, noticing how you pout involuntarily, like you’d gotten used to the feeling of sucking on it. Fuck, he could give you something else to suck on. “Give me a kiss.”
“H-Huh–”
“Do it. Just like how I taught you yesterday. You remember our lesson, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yeah, but will that really work? I mean–”
It’s like God himself is on Rafe’s side because there’s a loud boom of thunder at that exact moment. And you jump in his lap, tears welling in your eyes. Your chest rises up and down, and you bite your lip again, your gaze zeroing in on his mouth. Slowly, you lean up, shyly pressing your lips on his. But there’s a desperation to it, and Rafe’s returning kiss completely envelopes you whole.
He makes out with you for a while, smirking through your little pants and moans mixed with a whimper every time the weather gets especially brutal outside. He’s never been with such a goddamned scaredy cat baby before in his entire life, and it turns him on beyond belief. In the state you’re in, he could get you to do anything.
Rafe’s hands slip up to grab your little top, tugging it upwards. And this time, he almost loses it in frustration when again, you stop him.
“Rafe, Rafe no stop.” You push his hands off, straightening your top back over your midriff. “Couldn’t we just… just kiss?”
He presses his lips together in a thin line, “You trust me?”
“Of course, I just don’t know if I want to–”
“Look, didn’t I say I would distract you? I mean, shit, I could just leave.”
Your jaw drops, a flash of fear glimmering in your eyes. Instinctively, you grab onto his bicep with your tiny hands, a pleading look on your face, “No, don’t!”
He smirks, “I won’t leave. But you need to trust me to do what I need to do to distract you. Because the storm’s just gonna get worse.” He grabs your chin when you avert your gaze, forcing you to look at him, “Hey, c’mon. Who has more experience with this shit, you or me?”
“Y-You.”
“Yeah. And who’s older?”
“You are.”
“That’s right. Which means you need to trust me to make these kinds of decisions, because I know what’s best for you. That’s why you called me over, right?”
You don’t say anything, but this time when he tries to take your top off, you don’t protest. And Jesus fucking Christ, he was right. You’re not even wearing a bra, almost like you were deliberately trying to seduce him. Acting like a whiny little damsel in distress, pulling him into your pitiful little pink room, all candlelit and shit, on your little bed with your stuffed fucking animals.
Your nipples are hard, and he can’t help but cup your breasts. They’re so tender, so soft just like you. He’d imagined this exact moment many times over the course of the week whilst he’d jacked off to you, but nothing could compare to now. The way you tremble beneath his touch, knowing no one’s ever touched you like this before. He squeezes gently, watching how your breath hitches.
He’s overcome with animalistic instinct in just a second, and leans down to take your breast into his mouth. Sucks your nipple sweetly, before biting down. You cry out, arching your back so prettily, feeding him more of your nipple as you push it into his mouth. He bets you probably don’t even understand why it feels so good, having never been touched like this ever before.
He pinches your other nipple and you gasp. He smirks and does it again, looking up at you to see you gazing imploringly down at him.
“Th-That hurts,” you say pitifully.
“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” He takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his hair. Like a good little girl, you get the message. Your hands fist into his hair as he continues to play with your tits, licking and sucking all over them, pushing them together, biting your nipples and sucking the sensitive skin around them, wanting to leave his mark everywhere.
“Rafe, I, that… oh… oh my–”
“Stand up, baby.”
You squeak at the pet-name that falls so naturally from his lips, and he can tell you like being called that. It’s from the way your eyes widen, and how you scramble to obey. God, you were a little tease but you took instructions so fucking well.
You stand between his legs, and it gets him so fucking hard that you’re still barely eye level with him even when he’s sat down.
“Take your leggings off.”
You open your mouth to argue, but this time he just flashes you a look and you’re quick to shut the fuck up. That, and he distracts you with his hands running up and down your sides, squeezing your waist, then your hip. Finally landing on your ass with a light slap as if to tell you not to keep him waiting.
You push your leggings down and step out of them, till you’re standing between his legs in just your pink flowery panties and nothing else. And he feels a hunger he’s never ever felt before, looking down at you ravenously as if you’re a piece of meat and he’s a goddamned starved lion. A part of him just wants to grab you and stick his cock inside you while you scream and thrash and beg him to stop while you secretly enjoy it and cum again and again.
“Turn around,” Rafe says slowly, because despite his animalistic thoughts, he wants to savour this. And you do, letting him see your sexy butt adorned in just your panties. He hooks his thumb under the elastic, snapping it against your skin and laughing crudely when you yelp. “God, you’ve got such a perfect ass. I knew that since the moment I saw you.”
“Wh-What?”
“You heard me. You’re always wearing the cutest little outfits, like you were showing it off just for me.” He grabs your left ass cheek, squeezing it hard while you moan in pain or pleasure, right now he doesn’t really give much of a fuck. His other hand palms his cock through his pants at the sight.
“I wasn’t!” You say indignantly, as if he’s accused you of the absolute worst. “I wasn’t showing off, Rafe!”
“Sure you weren’t,” he snorts, “Now bend over, lemme see it better.”
He can’t believe it when you don’t hesitate this time, almost like you’re seeking his approval. Like you’re under some kind of submissive spell now, making everything even easier for him. You bend over, and your cute little ass is directly in his face. He pushes your panties to the side, gives the soft flesh a feather-light kiss before spanking you again. You yelp all cutely, but stay in position for him. What a good fucking girl.
“Stand up straight, look at me again.”
You turn back around, biting your lip as you look at him anxiously. Around you, the whole room seems to vibrate as another boom of thunder strikes. You make a noise in your throat, before grabbing onto his bicep again. You keep doing that, and it makes him feel strong, big, important. Like you’re a little baby seeking protection from her daddy.
“I’m gonna take your panties off now, okay?” He doesn’t know why he tells you before he does it, but he watches as you relax. There’s a war going on behind your eyes, he can tell. He knows part of you is liking how he’s making you feel, and part of you is desperate to distract yourself from the storm, and it’s battling the part of you that wants to keep your modesty, the part that knows this is a bad idea, that itching fear that he’s not a good guy, that he’s taking advantage of you.
Slowly, he slips your panties down your shaking legs, and you keep holding on to his arm like you’re scared to let go. Like the storm would come and get you the moment you stopped holding him like a little baby. He lets you, liking how weak you feel against him.
And then you’re completely naked in front of him, stepping shyly out of your panties that are left on the floor in a heap along with the rest of your clothes. And he’s still fully dressed, and that juxtaposition turns him on beyond belief. He can smell your pussy, and it’s driving him crazy. Makes him want to just pin you down and have his way with you. It incenses him in a way he’s never really experiences before.
His hands grab your hips, yanking you closer. He feels a wave of impatience, pushing you down till you’re sitting on the bed. He gets up, pushing your legs apart with one of his own. You gasp, and he sinks down to his knees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your belly button.
“It’s time for lesson number three, baby,” Rafe murmurs softly, “this is how I’m gonna distract you, okay? Shit, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget all about the storm. You gonna let me do that?”
You swallow, “H-How, Rafe?”
God, you were absolutely clueless. Made him feel like a fucking monster for taking advantage of you like this. But he liked it, liked how good and sweet and innocent you were, even now when he had you naked on your pretty princess bed with your legs spread for him.
“I’m gonna kiss you down here for a while, alright baby?”
“Down there?” You suck in your breath prettily, as if the very idea of that sounds so insane to you. God fucking dammit, just how much had your mother sheltered you?
Instead of explaining further, Rafe spreads your folds with two of his fingers, smirking when he sees you glistening and wet. And God, what a pretty and perfect pussy you had, all slippery and wet, like it was begging to be fucked. And even now, as you sit there breathing heavily, your pussy seems to get wetter just by him spreading it. You’re leaking down onto your pretty pink sheets, and it’s all because he’s merely touched you there.
You’ve gone silent, the storm seemingly already forgotten as you just watch him. Your chest rises up and down, and it’s like every other part of you is frozen in place. In awe, until he notices a slight movement in your pelvis. Involuntarily, you hump the air, like your poor pussy is begging for some type of contact or friction. He smirks.
“You have an accident, princess?”
You look absolutely aghast, “No!”
Rafe leans forward, inhaling deeply. And you smell so goddamned sweet, and he can’t wait any longer. He lays his tongue flat against your virgin cunt, and he can feel you throbbing with anticipation. He licks upwards, and you grab onto his hair, tugging hard as you yelp.
“Oh my God–”
He looks up, “Not God, baby. Just me.” Absentmindedly, he flicks your clit with his thumb and your entire body jerks. He chuckles, “And there’s another thing I’m going to need you to do.”
“What?”
“You’re going to call me daddy while I eat your cunt, okay?”
For the fifth time this evening, your jaw drops, and you gaze down at him in indignance, “What? But Rafe, you’re not my–”
“Your daddy? I mean, you do want me to take care of you, don’t you?” He smiles when you don’t immediately respond, “That’s why you called me today. Because you felt unsafe, like how you’ve felt your whole life ever since you lost your real daddy, isn’t that right?”
He half expects you to shove him off you, scream, lose it, slap him, kick him out of your house for going there, for trying to take advantage of your obvious daddy issues. But it’s like you’re in a trance, and he keeps going, “You want someone to take control, to reassure you that everything’s gonna be okay. That’s why you’ve let me take care of you this whole week, right? Because you need me, you like how I make you feel.”
He softly strokes your bare thighs, noticing that you’re shaking under his touch. And you look like you’re about to cry, in your most vulnerable state in front of him. And yet he keeps going, his voice like a calm lull, almost hypnotic with how you look at him with your huge, unblinking eyes.
“I can be your new daddy, princess. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”
Rafe doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he grips your thighs harder, spreading them as far as they’ll go. He spits on your mound, watching his saliva drip down to your pussy. You’re watching too, with stricken, hooded eyes. Like you’re frozen in time and space, and he’s the only constant.
Leaning forward, he envelopes your clit between his lips, giving it a harsh suck. Your entire body convulses, and you moan the loudest he’s ever heard you. Thunder claps at the same time, but you’re louder than it, and your hands grab on to his hair, and you press your cunt into his face, practically smothering him but he fucking loves it.
“Tell daddy to lick your cunt,” he orders, his voice deeper and lower than it’s ever been, and a slight threat in his tone, “say it, or else I’ll stop everything.”
“L-Lick it, please,” you beg so prettily, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. Rafe sits back, looking at you expectantly till you make the prettiest little noise of impatience. You shoot him a pleading look of desperation, but he doesn’t let up. You cry out, gripping his hair harder before ducking your head in shame, “P-Please, okay? Please lick my cunt, daddy.”
Rafe could’ve orgasmed right there at the sound of your sweet, delicate voice pleading with him, finally addressing him as daddy. Instead, he sucks hard on your sensitive, engorged clit, and you scream bloody murder. He snickers against your soaking folds, grabbing your thrashing hips, stilling them slightly but allowing you to rock them against his face till it’s shining with your wetness.
“Messy little girl,” he mutters, “excited, aren’t you? Never had this virgin pussy eaten, huh?” he grows sloppy, messy with his licks. Tonguing your sensitive nub till you’re a writhing mess above him, incoherent little gasps and moans tumbling out of your mouth as you continue to hump against his face because you’re a goddamned virgin who doesn’t know how to act because you’re feeling so good.
Rafe’s practically making out with your pussy, and he’s never enjoyed going down on a girl as much as he is right now. It’s how responsive you are, it’s how this is all so new to you so you don’t even know nor care to hold anything back. You’re rubbing your pussy on his face like all you can think of is how good he’s making you feel. And he fucks you with his tongue, unable to quite believe how sweet you taste. Like an angel, his angel. All his.
“It’s…It’s too much, Rafe!” you cry out, and yet you’re rolling your hips with abandon, riding his tongue while he sucks and licks you out like he’s starved.
“You can take it,” his voice is muffled, and you try to wrap your thighs around his head except his grip on them is too strong. It’ll leave bruises in the shape of his fingers all over your soft skin, but he likes that. He wants to bruise you, mark you, make you his in every way possible. So next time when you wore a slutty little sundress, every goddamned man on this island would know you’re taken. Fuck, he’d get his name tattooed on your goddamned pussy, and–
You cum, squeaking so prettily he wants to bottle up the sound and keep it safe in his memories forever. Your first orgasm, and all it took was a couple of minutes of him eating your cunt. And your muscles squeeze around his tongue, and you cry and moan like you don’t even know what’s happening. Your grab at his hair, pulling so hard because you’ve probably never felt like this before.
And Rafe doesn’t stop, his tongue swirling circles while you hump and grind against his mouth, riding out your orgasm, moaning his name over and over again. Outside, the weather gets worse, and at one point he notes the whole room shakes as if the goddamned roof’s about to blow off. You don’t give a fuck though, and he doesn’t either.
“Oh, Rafe, oh, oh oh, it’s too much!”
Now, you’re trying to push him off you, but selfishly he keeps tongue-fucking you. His thumb rubs your engorged, sensitive clit. He knows it’s too much for you, but he’s too fucking turned on to stop.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that. Lemme give you another one.”
“No, I-I can’t, I, oh fuck!”
He slaps your clit, and a squelching sound fills the room. You gasp, and he just snickers, having entirely too much fun with you. And again, you twitch your hips, inadvertently pushing your cunt into his face again. You’re out of breath and sensitive from your first orgasm, and yet your greedy little pussy wants to give him another one.
“You like it when your daddy slaps your cunt?”
You’re such a shy little thing, gaping at him as if he’s said the most insidious thing on earth. And yet, your cunt squeezes around his tongue, and he you up as you continue to leak into his mouth. He looks up at you, “Tell me you like it.”
“I, uh, I like it, uh… daddy, oh gosh!”
It takes just one more spank and you come undone, cumming all over his face and he licks you throughout. Long, languid stripes of his tongue flat against your wet folds, then he switches to fucking you with it, and your fuckhole’s so goddamned tight, his tongue barely even fits a little bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s got one hand slipped down his pants, jacking off because this is the hottest thing in the world he’s ever witnessed. Innocent little baby crying after orgasming from getting her pussy spanked by her daddy.
He feels like a lion closing in on the fucking lamb, forgetting himself for a second as he gets up. Aggressively pushing you down till you’re lying flat on the bed, surrounded by your stupid stuffed animals. In a second, he’s on top of you, breathing hard like a man possessed. God fuck, all he had to do was shove it inside you, hold you down and tell you to take it. Maybe press his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud. Not that it mattered. Nobody could save you from him tonight.
But you blink up at him so prettily, so unaware of his intentions, your eyelashes wet with tears. Your lips bitten and pouty, face shiny with sweat. Your hands grab his arms again, squeezing like you’ve grown used to doing.
“R-Rafe, that was… wow.” You say breathlessly, so blissfully innocent, not realising at all that he’s moments away from holding you down and fucking you, that he’s planning how he’ll do it in his head this very moment. “I never… I never thought it could feel that good.”
Rafe finds himself feeling that again, that weird feeling that kept bubbling up inside his chest from time to time whenever he was with you. He still doesn’t have a name for it; he can’t even properly describe it. But looking down at you now, watching you stare up at him with those shining eyes of yours. All he can do is push a piece of your hair out of your face, and smile slowly down at you.
“What do you even know about sex, baby?” He breathes, his face so close to yours.
“Oh, well, uh… Not that much. I mean obviously I know how it works. I just… I didn’t know you could call someone da– that.”
He smirks, tapping your cheek condescendingly, “You mean daddy?”
You look embarrassed, “Yeah.”
“I need you to keep calling me that, okay?” Rafe says gently, “It’s completely normal and I told you I’d take care of you from now on. You want that, don’t you?”
Again, he nudges at your lips with his thumb, making you suck it. Which you do, and the feeling goes straight to his dick. He wants to fuck you while you suck his thumb, gently rock his hips into you, your tight pussy squeezing his huge cock while you whimper around his thumb, sucking it while you cried and just took it, took whatever he gave you and then said thank you, daddy like the good little girl you were.
He starts kissing you again, unable to help it. And your response is so enthusiastic, he feels like he might explode. You’re getting more confident with all the kissing stuff, and Rafe likes that it’s all because of him.
“You ready for the next lesson, baby?” He asks between kisses, his hands everywhere all over your naked body. Squeezing your breasts, playing with your ass. Loving that you’re naked beneath him and so willingly too.
You swallow harshly, “I don’t think I’m ready–Oh!”
He takes your hand, pressing it inside his slacks. Right on his hard, throbbing dick. And fuck, it feels so small, so weak against his pulsating cock. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting into your hand.
“Take it out.”
“N-No!”
He exhales loudly through his nose, holding your hand tight against him when you try to snatch it away. “Baby, what did I tell you about doing what I say?”
“I-I know but… but I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, “but you need to do this, alright? Didn’t I make you feel good just now?”
“Well, yes, but–”
“So just trust me. I’ll make you feel good again, okay baby?” He kisses you lightly once, twice, three times till you smile, “You’ve been such a good girl tonight. So brave for me....”
You hiccup, looking up at him with those goddamned saucer-like eyes again, “R-Really?”
He strokes your cheek, innately aware of your hand relaxing against his cock, “Yes. Such a brave, good girl. You forgot all about the storm outside, didn’t you?”
As if on cue, you whimper and cuddle into him more. He smiles like a goddamned wolf, feeling evil yet desperate at the same time, “Call me daddy again, princess.”
You don’t even fucking hesitate, “d-daddy, I–”
“Take daddy’s cock out, baby. It’ll distract you, I promise.”
You do exactly what he says, and he helps you. He can’t help but hiss when you free his dick from the confines of his slacks, and you gasp too, dropping it immediately when you see it.
“Shit, gimme your hand,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait this time. Snatching your hand in his, he spits down into your palm before pressing it on his dick. “Stroke it.”
You pull back, “I don’t know how, I don’t–”
“Do it or I’ll leave right the fuck now.”
In your helpless daze, you whimper before placing your hand back on his dick. And it’s so red, about ready to explode the moment you touch him. He exhales slowly, and it feels so fucking good, and he covers your hand with his, guiding it, making you stroke him up and down.
“That’s so good, baby. You’re so good.”
“I am?”
“Shit, yeah, just keep doing that. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He notes how you grow more confident, rubbing his dick and jacking him off like a good little girl. His hand leaves yours, instead cupping your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. He can’t help kissing you, you taste so fucking sweet and it’s insane because he’s never particularly enjoyed kissing anyone this much before. But he loves kissing you, leading you through it, guiding you. Loves how responsive you are, loves how you listen to him even when you feel all scared and hesitant. As if you know that at the end of the day, he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. The only one who knew how to take care of you.
“You ever seen a cock before this, princess?” He asks crudely between kisses.
Your eyes widen, “N-No, Rafe– I mean, uh, daddy.”
“No? Good girl. That’s so fuckin’ hot.” He bites your pouty bottom lip, and you gasp, squeezing his dick in your hand and it makes him moan straight into your fucking mouth. What a naughty girl.
“It’s, uh, it’s so big,” you say quietly, so quietly that Rafe almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and he smiles, pulling back slightly.
“Yeah?”
Shyly, you duck your head, “Yeah, daddy.”
God, you were so fucking irresistible. He couldn’t take it anymore. He takes your hand, which was still steadily pumping his dick, and holds it tightly. Holds both your hands by your sides as he nudges your legs apart again, and watches as you take a deep breath, as if you know what’s coming.
Lowly, he whistles at how wet you are, your juices having leaked down to stain your pink sheets again. Rafe’s never had a virgin before but he knows how eager they are, how easily turned on they get. He can imagine how slippery wet and snug your snatch would be around his dick. Now, he swipes a finger down your slit, gathering your wetness while you squirm under him.
“Aww, look how excited your pussy is, princess.” He snickers, bringing his finger up to your lips, smearing them with your wetness, getting it all over your face too till it shines and you’re all messy. “Tell me, what’s got her so wet?”
‘I don’t know.”
SMACK.
Rafe finds he quite enjoys slapping your cunt, especially when it’s so wet and throbbing. You cry out, quivering and shaking underneath him. He flashes you a look, “Answer the question.”
“You,” you breathe, blinking up at him, “You, daddy.”
“Yeah? I get your pussy wet?” He’s working himself up, his dick nudging against your folds and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shove it in there. “Tell me why.”
You moan pleadingly, “R-Rafe, please!”
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it properly,” he says, enjoying himself a bit too much. It was payback for all the times you’d teased him without even realising it this past week. Flaunting your sexy little body, blinking up at him with those fuck me eyes, as if you were just begging for it in your own little innocent way.
You swallow harshly, and despite everything he can see you thinking carefully, as if you want to give him a real proper answer to impress him. Cute.
“I, uh, I like how big you are,” you stutter slowly, “you-you’re a lot bigger than me.”
He grins wolfishly, pushing his hair out of his face before pressing a greedy kiss to your lips, which you respond to fervently. But he pulls away all too quickly, looking down at you as if he expects you to continue.
“I like how strong you are,” you’re looking anywhere but at his face, he guesses because you’re too shy. He sponges kisses down your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. Kisses all over your tits, presses them together and licks them, bites at your nipples while you moan between your words. “You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Rafe pauses, and it’s there again. That stupid fucking feeling that he doesn’t understand, nor does he care to understand it right now. Nobody’s ever felt safe with him before. Everyone’s always been afraid of him or hated him or screwed him over because they didn’t trust him. No one’s ever looked at him how you’re looking at him and it makes him feel things he’s never felt before.
But he shoves those feelings straight back down, clears his throat before pressing his finger down between your folds. You shiver and moan, hips bucking up before he pins them in place. He tries pushing his pointer finger inside you, but is met with resistance despite how soaking wet you are. Fuck.
“Tightest pussy I ever had,” he mutters, “but she’ll take daddy’s dick, won’t she?”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and he ignores your soft cries as he forces his finger up your cunt. Till it’s finally knuckle-deep, and he bets you can feel the cool silver of his ring against your warmth. And your pussy’s so fucking snug, gripping his finger like a vice, and even he has to wonder how he’d possibly fit his big dick inside you.
“So full,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. But he shuts you up soon enough when he starts fingering you. One singular finger, because that’s all that fits. But he moves it in and out, curving upwards till you moan, thrusting your hips in rhythm like you can’t even help it.
“Gonna add another one, okay baby?”
‘W-Won’t fit, daddy.”
“Shh, yes it will. Daddy’s gonna make it fit.”
Rafe makes it fit. He has to hold you down while you cry like a baby, but soon he’s got his index and middle finger shoved inside you, finger-fucking your tight, virgin cunt while his hard dick slaps against his stomach, and he’s so fucking turned on. More than he’s ever been in his whole life.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He murmurs into your ear, nibbling at it, licking inside it and making you jump. And fuck, you’re so jumpy, and he has to keep you pinned down while he fingers you, and a sick part of him wonders if he’s drawn blood already.
“H-Hurts,” you whimper like the goddamned little cry-baby you are. “R-Rafe please slow down.”
“Come on, don’t tell me to slow down,” he continues pumping his thick fingers up your slippery wetness, feeling like you’re swallowing them up whole every time, “Not when you’re drippin’ all over your sheets like a little–”
“But it hurts!”
“That’s okay, it’s supposed to hurt,” he explains slowly, like you’re dumb, “it’s because you’ve never done this before, so that’s why I gotta stretch you out like this first, okay?”
A lone tear meanders down your cheek, “I-I don’t think it’s gonna fit, Rafe.”
“I made ‘em fit, didn’t I?”
“Nooo, you’re, uh, I mean your…” You sniffle helplessly, a wild look in your eye that looks half scared, half confused as he bets your body’s starting to betray you.
Rafe feels a smile creep up on his face, “You already thinkin’ about my cock, sweetheart? How it’s gonna feel when it’s up your virgin cunt?”
You shake your head vehemently, but you’re a little angel slut because your hips are bucking up to meet his fingers. “Rafe, no. Your f-fingers, they’re already too much, I don’t think I can take…”
“Didn’t I just tell you I’d make it fit?”
You grip his arm tightly, pleadingly “Y-You’re too big, I-I don’t think I can handle anymore…Oh fuck!”
He knows he’s hit that spot inside you because your whole back arches, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever fucking heard in his life. Complete abandon, head thrown back, digging your nails so hard into his arm that he’s sure you’ve broken through his skin.
“That’s right, baby girl. Just fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, increasing his pace, wondering if he can fit a third finger in. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. Taking your daddy’s fingers like a champ. God, look at your little virgin cunt, swallowing ‘em up like a greedy little slut. Didn’t think you’d turn out to be so fuckin’ slutty, baby.”
You clench around him, moaning his name and he can’t believe how much his dirty talk is having an effect on you. His thumb rubs at your clit while he continues to finger fuck you, wanting to draw another orgasm out of you because you’re so fucking gorgeous when you cum, and he wants you to make a mess all over his fingers before he finally takes you with his cock.
“Too much, too much, oh, oh, oh,” you’re half delirious, humping against his fingers, letting him fuck you with them, and he knows you must feel so full. And it feels like heaven for him, being inside you (even if it is just with his fingers). You feel so soft, so wet, so warm. Your muscles tensing and relaxing around him as he builds you up.
“Take it,” Rafe repeats, “bet it’s never felt this good huh? You ever finger yourself, baby girl? Touch yourself late at night when you think everyone else’s asleep?”
You gasp at his words, but he feels you clench around his digits.
“Mmm, not such a good little girl after all, huh? Fingering yourself when you think your mommy’s asleep,” he grins wickedly at the horrified look on your face, increasing pace, “but it’s never enough, is it? Your fingers aren’t as big as mine, so you could never make yourself cum.” He laughs, “this whole time, all you needed was a man like me to take care of you. Say it, say you need me. Say it.”
“N-Need you!” You cry out, delicious tears streaking your face, “I need you, daddy. I-I…Oh fuck, please! Please, I don’t… I just… I–“
You squirt all over his hand. And it’s insane; Rafe’s never seen anything like it before. He gazes in wonder, caught off-guard for once. You completely come undone, crying and panting his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your third orgasm of the night. And who knew it would take just a little bit of dirty talk to get you to squirt? God, you were so fucking hot, so full of surprises. So perfect for him, it was unbelievable.
“Good girl,” he strokes your head like you’re his little pet, taking his wet fingers and pressing them into your mouth, and you’re so hot when you automatically suck on them. “Such a good girl, baby. That was so fuckin’ sexy.”
All you do is clutch at him and cry, so spent and overstimulated from your orgasm. Rafe licks his lips, feeling both protective yet predatory at the same time. You’re at your weakest, most vulnerable state. Outside, thunder and lightning strike over and over again as if they were paid to do so, and the room lights up and goes dark, it shakes and shudders, and the winds howl like a pack of possessed wolves. And yet you look so pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight.
It's the perfect night for you to get ruined. His perfect little baby. Pristine and innocent and at his mercy.
Rafe’s cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing as he grabs it by the base, pumps it as he hovers over you. On his knees while you lie beneath him, looking so deliciously scared. He presses his whole length against your stomach, and watches your eyes almost bulge out of your head. He knows he’s big, but compared to your tiny frame, he’s massive. And he gets off on that, gets off on how much bigger he is than you. He smears his precum against your stomach, smirking as he watches you swallow and try to be brave.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “You like my cock, baby? You like looking at it, huh?”
The way you lick your lips gives it away, and he laughs cruelly, tapping your cheek like you’re his little pet. “Say it, then. Say you like it. Beg me to put it inside you. C’mon, baby, look at your pussy, she’s crying for it. Beg me.”
He knows you’re at war with yourself, and you shake your head tearfully, opening your mouth to speak. But a clap of thunder sounds just then, so loud it makes the whole room shake. You cry out so pitifully, it makes his heart throb a little. You grab at him, and he falls down on top of you, kissing you, kissing your salty sweet lips and your tears. Kissing you all over while your desperate hands tangle into his hair.
That’s when he nudges the tip of his dick against your folds. And it already feels like fucking heaven, your wet warmth practically begging him to shove it inside you. He presses his tip on your puffy, sensitive clit and you jump, your eyes widening and then you push at his chest.
“R-Rafe, please, I don’t think–”
“Shh, c’mon, baby. Let daddy fuck you,” Rafe urges softly against your lips, “gonna make you feel so good again, mhm?”
“Nooo…”
He tries to ignore your soft cries, the way your palms press weakly against his chest.
“Shit, just relax,” he coaxes, knowing he could just hold you down and force it in, and yet…
He kisses you, tasting salt on your lips. You try to kiss him back, but he can feel you gulping for breath. He can feel your heart hammering against your chest. He can feel your limbs pushing at his body, but he’s just so much fucking bigger than you that it doesn’t even make a difference, and yet…
“Rafe, I… please…”
“Baby…”
His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and he runs it up and down your soaking slit, and you moan. And your face looks turned on beyond belief, and yet scared at the same time. Nervous, frightened, vulnerable. It’s a heady mix, and he doesn’t know what to do, and–
“Please, Rafe. I’m not ready, I-I can’t, Rafe. Please…”
“Fuck.”
Something comes over him, and Rafe feels it again. That bubbling, intense feeling inside his chest. Like a rush of an emotion he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. All he knows is he can’t, he fucking can’t. You’re so sweet, so kind, pure like a flower and he just can’t bring himself to pluck it. Tear it apart. Ruin it like how he ruined everything else he touched.
He rolls over, lying beside you while you quiver next to him. Both breathing hard. And outside, the wind howls and howls almost like it’s mocking him. Laughing at him for being a goddamned pussy. And there’s another clap of thunder, and he hears you crying softly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Rafe finds himself gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“I-I thought I could but…” you hiccup between your tears, and your eyes look like there are a thousand stars shining wetly inside them, and he knows he’s never seen anything so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do it, I thought–”
“It’s okay,” he repeats, cupping your face and making you look at him, his thumbs swiping away your tears, “Don’t cry, okay? Shit, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“Y-You’re not mad?”
He strokes up and down your back, soothing you while he wonders whether he is. But the only thing he feels right now is this strange, innate need to protect you. To reassure you. Hold your quivering body close till you stopped shaking. It’s insane, because he doesn’t feel like himself, because he’s never felt this before. It’s alien. Completely, utterly fucking alien.
“No,” he answers quietly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, “No, I’m not mad.”
“You pr-promise?”
“I promise.”
He feels like a different person as he tucks his dick back into his slacks. Like someone else, like someone he doesn’t recognise. But it feels so natural, holding you so close that your heartbeat feels like his. And the storm outside feels like a million miles away. Like it’s just you and him on a different planet and nothing else exists, nothing else means anything except you.
You fall asleep in his arms, spent after everything. And Rafe doesn’t even feel frustrated in that moment, because all he can focus on is how peaceful you look. Your tears dried on your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. You trusted him with everything. And it made him feel like someone important.
The wind laughs and laughs all night.
*
The morning is calm, tranquil. Almost like the storm never even was. And Rafe wakes up well rested, with you cuddled on his chest, his arm around you and his thumb in your mouth. The room dappled in sunlight, the candles all blown out or melted away.
Slowly, he detangles from you, making sure not to wake you up. You look so peaceful, so innocent. So soft and pretty, in your little shack of a house on the Cut. He frowns as he looks around. In the morning light, your room looks even more pitiful. It’s clean, and you’ve made it pretty with notes and posters and fairy lights. But he can see the paint peeling off the walls, the fact it’s smaller than his closet back home.
Rafe can’t believe he’s woken up on this side of the island.
He has the sudden urge to leave. To run. Hastily, he types out a text to you.
Rafe: Hey. I thought I’d leave in case your mom came home and saw us. Didn’t want to wake you. Talk to you later.
He has to get home. Gather his thoughts. Recalibrate. Think about what the fuck came over him last night, when he’d had you right where he fucking wanted you. And then he’d pussied out of it. Rafe Cameron never pussied out of anything.
What the fuck did that mean?
His gaze shifts to you again, so pretty and sound asleep. Naked because you’d so willingly shed your clothes for him, spread your legs for him. And he could have had you. Hell, he could have you right now. Force himself into you while you were still asleep, and you’d wake up crying and sobbing, all confused and sleepy while he held you down and ordered you to just take it.
That’s what he should’ve done last night. So then what the fuck had stopped him?
Now, he lightly runs his fingers over your bare thigh, humming lightly at how smooth you feel. So soft, like an angel. A powerful, almost all-consuming feeling overtakes him. A wave of possessiveness coursing through him like a tidal wave of dark poison. You were his. All his. He could do what he pleased with you. Your body was his. You’d all but served it to him on a silver platter last night, in your pathetic little room with the candles.
Rafe feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He gets his phone out, ignoring any small, decent part of him that was sending warning signals to his brain. You were his. He had every right to do this.
Silently, he takes the pictures. And a sick part of him gets off on it, gets off on the fact you’re asleep and none the wiser to what’s happening. But this was the least you could do, you’d left him hanging last night. After he’d been so patient, so understanding. Fuck that. Why had he been like that? Like he was weak?
“You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Your words from last night ring in his ears, bouncing around in his brain till it gets too much, till they start to echo and get louder and louder. Till he feels the urge to punch the shit out of your bedroom wall. It was all too much. He had to get out of here.
He tucks his phone into his pocket, pushes the cotton covers up till your chin, and then leaves without looking back.
*
“There he is! The loverboy himself!”
His friends gather around him the next morning like he’s the second coming of Christ himself.
“How was she, Rafe?” one of them slaps him on the back, “That is, if you fucked her.”
“Yeah.” Kelce stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Rafe expectantly. They all are. “Did you fuck her?”
Rafe scoffs, “Is that even a question.”
He’d waited all day yesterday for you to respond to his text. Like a pussy ass little bitch, he’d waited for you to say something. Growing angrier and more paranoid by the second when you didn’t. Staring at the pictures he’d taken of you like a man possessed, his thumb hovering over the delete button a handful of times before he’d thrown his phone angrily across the room. Hating how you were making him wait. Hating how his heart had leapt up to his fucking throat when you finally had replied: I’m so sorry for being such a scaredy cat yesterday. Thank you for coming over.
He'd discovered something then. He was obsessed with you. And he hated it.
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Kelce grins, cutting straight to the chase. Next to him, Rafe sees Topper’s eyes light with interest, as well as the others too. Fucking desperate losers, trying to catch a glimpse of something that belonged to him. Because they’d never get to see you like that, ever. No one else would. He’d make sure of that.
“It did happen.” Rafe says calmly, “Like I said it would.”
“Okay well, that’s great brother but we’re gonna need proof.” One of the clowns pipes up.
“You don’t need shit,” He shoots back.
“You didn’t take pictures?” Topper asks.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I did.”
“Then show us. That was the deal.”
He wants to beat the shit out of all of them for daring to ask to see intimate pictures of you. As if you were anything like the other whores he’d fucked in the past, the type of stupid girls him and his friends used every week. You were different, and you were his, and they had no fucking business looking at what was his.
“Look. I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me.” He mutters, completely over the dumb ass bet and over his friends too. They’d forget about it by tomorrow, ready to become his willing followers once more. They always did.
“C’mon man, you can’t bring our hopes up like that. Either you never fucked her or,” Kelce’s eyes glint when it registers, “Or you’ve gone soft for her. You’ve–”
Rafe grabs him roughly by the collar, a sudden anger coursing through him like he’s been electrocuted. “Listen, you fucking moron. Don’t ever insinuate I’ve gone soft for a goddamned Pogue.”
He spits that last word out like it’s venom, and yet he tried to ignore how hollow it feels. When he realises people are staring, he quietly lets go, smoothing Kelce’s shirt while his friends stare at him fearfully in that way he’s grown used to people looking at him.
“I fucked her,” Rafe says plainly, his tone switching from aggressive to calm in a split second, almost like he’s slipped on a mask, “I fucked her just like I’ve fucked every other Pogue bitch who’s thrown herself at me before her. And it wasn’t anything special. She acts all innocent, but it was easy to get her to spread her legs for me just like I told you it would be.”
He hears a thud, and then a little gasp behind him. So soft, it barely registers. Except it does, and he turns around.
And immediately locks eyes with you.
And then it feels like it’s just him and you. And nobody else is there. And there’s no sound, like both of you have stopped breathing. You stand there, frozen, stricken. Your books on the ground in front of you. Only a few steps behind him, well within earshot. And he sees something break in your expression, porcelain features twisting in hurt, shock, dismay, disbelief.
“Oh shit,” Topper mutters from somewhere behind him. A few of his friends snicker, but Rafe can’t hear them. No, he’s frozen, staring at you as if he can’t quite believe it. And he sees the tears welling in your eyes.
A little broken sob falls from your lips, and then you turn and run. And Rafe wants to chase after you but it’s like he’s frozen in time and space. Watching you run off while he just stands there.
Stands and watches as you run away from him, your hands reaching up blindly to wipe at your face. And that feeling returns tenfold. That feeling that Rafe can’t quite put his finger on, that feeling which he wants to push back down because it suffocates him, and he doesn’t understand it. The feeling consumes him from the inside out, till he feels like he can’t breathe.
And he just stands there and watches until you’re gone.
𝘼/𝙉: OOF. Okay, I finally posted it! Please let me know what your thoughts! Literally any reaction, predictions, favourite parts etc. All of it, ANY of it would be so appreciated! Also please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Here's some questions in case you want to answer them (you don't have to!! you can comment/reblog whatever you want, i just always post questions at the end of my fics)
Does Rafe genuinely care for reader?
Should reader forgive Rafe?
Favourite scene/part?
Anyways, that's it. Now I'll anxiously wait to see what you guys think. PLEASE PLEASE consider reblogging this fic if you plan on liking it and want me to continue it. Thanks so much for all your support when I posted the sneak peek. I hope this lived up to your expectations! <3
──── ` His condition worsens, and you do everything you can to help him, but things get complicated when you can't get him what he needs, leaving you with the only option he refuses to accept, which happens to be your blood.
Tags: GN reader - Vampire Leon - Poor plot - Codependency - Sensitive content - Feeding as Intimacy - Unhealthy dynamics - Virus mutation - Blood drinking - Biting - Coercion - Power imbalance undertones - Eventual smut - Messy makeout - Dry humping - Coming in pants - Sub Leon undertones - Dub con - Some tags missing
He's getting worse.
And even though he doesn't say it or ever wants to mention anything related to it, you notice it every time his eyes accidentally linger on the curve of your neck when you talk, something that didn't used to happen.
You also notice it at night, when you— sometimes— wake up with his nose in your throat, inhaling without even realizing it, his hands pressing possessively against the small of your back, clinging to you in a deep sleep brought on by the strong sedative specifically designed for him.
Sometimes you wake up with a damp neck during midnight and fortunately, there are no marks or signs of a struggle, no pain to alert you, but the dried saliva stays on your vulnerable skin. You run your fingers over it to feel its coolness and how far it spreads. Then you turn over and find him with his back to you, and out of sheer curiosity and caution, you peek in and find him mistreating the back of his hand during his sleep, biting and sucking on it to soothe himself and instinctively prevent himself from doing something he would never forgive himself for.
In the morning, he wakes up with no memory of what happened hours earlier, ignoring the sharp pain in his hand with raised marks and dried blood.
After small fragments of memories surface in his mind, he later apologizes for the saliva he left on your neck, feeling ashamed for having approached you in such a vulnerable moment, for having laid a single finger on you without your awareness. He can't look you in the eye when he does, and you promise him that you understand, that it's okay, and that you're okay.
Even if you forgive him in that moment, he can't forgive himself because guilt overwhelms him, as does paranoia. He believes you're afraid of him, even though he doesn't perceive a trace of fear in you when you're near him, not even a hint of that distinctive scent that signals your terror. That doesn't change the fact that Leon wants you to fear him, but you aren't able to because your devotion to him is something he'll never fully understand.
The paranoia, the guilt, the need to distance himself, the constant arguments about your safety when you're around: all of this indicates that the virus is consuming him relentlessly; it's much easier to identify it in the way he moves around the house during the day; he seems to be fighting tooth and nail to avoid breaking something or someone.
The virus had started mildly, due to his body's constant exposure using little protection in toxic environments where anything could enter his system, proliferate, and corrode everything in its path.
He thought it was just one of those chronic flus he got from time to time when he returned home—those that go away with a few pills, or some tea. But this illness began with a fever that wouldn't break after a mission.
After the fever, he began vomiting a strange, disgusting-looking black substance, which he had been hiding from you for weeks until you discovered it in the worst way when he suddenly collapsed in front of you.
After the vomiting, darkening stains began to appear under his skin like spilled ink, which then became prominent marks as it spread through his veins as quickly as black mold. After the marks reached his neck and hands, they extended to the pads of his fingertips.
Following this peculiar transformation, he developed an insatiable appetite that nothing could satisfy, focused on meat. For weeks, he ate meat cooked to less than medium-rare, consuming no other foods from his usual diet. He would cook his steaks for mere seconds, just so you wouldn't worry about the fact that blood was still oozing from the food he was about to eat. Along with this, he also suffered from a constant, unquenchable thirst. His throat dried out far too quickly, and his lips turned sickly pale.
The sudden change in his appetite was strange because, generally, hunger is the first symptom to appear in an infected person. This dangerous and insatiable need to devour raw meat should have been the initial symptom, but you weren't in a position to question the order in which the disease manifested itself.
It had been manageable once you both realized what was really happening, both of you found stability in hospital blood bags, the occasional transfusion substitute created by people who knew far more about human biology than they ever cared to admit, and a few trustful scientists from the organization who had no idea how to reverse his condition, secretly helping him out of gratitude and admiration without saying a word because it was more than obvious they would lock him up like a guinea pig or try neutralize him in a heartbeat upon learning what was growing inside him.
There was a time when everything was “fine,” if you could call it that, but the virus kept growing and growing, consuming him, becoming a plague that was difficult to contain.
Leon, of course, always joked that if life were fair, he would have become a simple, clean vampire like in those cliché romance movies. An occasional bite, maybe a sensitivity to the sun that would force him to wear cool sunglasses to match his leather jackets.
Instead, he got this, on the verge of becoming a creature worthy of a test tube, destined to become part of Umbrella's collection as one of their most expensive weapons thanks to the superhuman abilities the virus was granting him—which is the height of absurdity considering his abilities when he was just a regular human.
When the hunger intensifies, the toxic marks spread across his body, alive beneath his skin, seeping rot into his organs that beg to be healed. Dark, branching veins run down his arms, his collarbone, dusty patches spreading where once there was a pretty rosy blush, reaching his mouth and mutating his teeth in the most revolting and painful way imaginable.
There are two distinct phases in the growth of his teeth, depending on how hungry he is or how fiercely the virus wants to destroy him.
Sometimes the marks spread to his eyes, turning them into pits of darkness where the abyss is nothing but hunger, and the first time you saw those marks appear on his face, he disappeared for twelve hours, only to return terrified and trembling, collapsing in front of you. Luckily, there was no trace of blood on him when you examined him closely.
After that, he told you—heartbroken— that he didn't want you to see him like that.
You told him that didn't change anything.
He didn't believe you.
The harrowing transformation reached a critical point, and he learned to control it in no time, determined to keep his promise not to harm innocent people thanks to some damned parasite. The blood bags kept him stable, and over time, so did wild animals when he realized he could just go and hunt other predators because, yes, the blood of other predators satiated him the most.
It's almost hilarious, a developing predator consuming others of its kind; that's what he thinks of himself when he does it.
He drinks all that blood with the same silent shame every time, sitting on the kitchen counter late at night as if taking bad medicine or injecting crack inside his veins, hidden so you can't see him accidentally getting blood all over himself out of necessity, the mess he makes when the metallic taste spills over his taste buds, how his teeth mutate, yearning to sink into soft and tender living flesh.
And when too much time passes without him feeding…
That's when things get dangerous.
That's when he begs you to leave while his voice is breaking between painfully sharp teeth, salivating to a point where it becomes obscene. You witness the sickening way he slowly loses his mind in front of you, still trusting him that he will not hurt you even in that state, and that's when he realizes you'd never leave him, so he decides to take care of the situation himself.
This led to that time he packed his suitcase in the middle of the night, swearing you were fast asleep, and left your side, leaving behind a letter he didn't even finish writing because his hand was trembling pathetically. He then returned in less than a week, because the virus complained and throbbed inside him when it couldn't sense you near, twisting his insides while rotting them until he wanted to stab himself to stop it from torturing him this way.
A codependent parasite, what a redundancy.
On another, more brutal and unexpected occasion, Leon attempted something worse, something more definitive where he wouldn't have to grapple with the agony of a dangerously insatiable appetite and the fear of harming innocent people or the person he cared about most in life. And as expected, the virus wouldn't allow it.
His body simply refused to die.
So, finally, you both established agreements and rules because the disease had chosen you along with Leon's body as the host.
You both decided that when his hunger became critical, he would take the updated sedative to make him drowsy but not completely asleep, strong enough to diminish his strength and slow his reactions without eliminating the virus entirely, since it seemed impossible to eradicate.
That drug or “sedative” makes him dizzy, leaving him defenseless, but still hungry.
And when his condition worsened, in every possible way, you kept him in the basement, which was redesigned until it looked less like a part of a house where old things and junk that will never be used are stored and more like something taken from a laboratory in a research center where dangerous things are observed through a glass.
The walls are made of sealed concrete beneath reinforced stainless steel, so well insulated that sound doesn't penetrate them.
Down there, everything feels dull and sterile.
Intense white lights are recessed into the ceiling, reflecting off the stainless steel surfaces and the large panels of reinforced glass that divide the room into two sections.
On one side is the refrigerator where the blood bags are stored and a minimalist counter containing everything needed to create the sedative and a few other supplies. On the other side, that soulless, sealed side, is the chair.
Right in the center and visible from any angle.
The glass is thick and transparent, stretching from floor to ceiling, allowing you to monitor something dangerous without touching it.
From the safe side, you can see every movement, every spasm of his fingers as hunger shoots down his spine. The chair in the center was his idea, and you reluctantly agreed.
That chair, is a heavy metal structure permanently bolted to the concrete floor and its restraints fit his wrists and ankles, custom-made to his measurements, and padded so they don't chafe his skin when starvation compels him to pull. The seat itself is comfortable—because you insisted it be padded—since, after all, he's still human even if the room around him looks like it was built for something that isn't.
Right now, it's one of those nights when he feels anything but human.
The basement smells of antiseptics and the pungent, stinging cleaners used to clean blood after bringing in those enormous animals to feed. The room is lit by a single, dim light, designed not to hurt his retinas when his body is at its most sensitive state, feeling even the slightest breeze on his overheated skin.
Leon is slumped in the chair with his chin touching his collarbone, indicating the drug has taken effect. His breathing is calm, and the monitors show his vital signs are stable and the virus is under control.
You feel nauseous as your eyes scan his body, settling on his half-spread legs, moving down to his calves until they end where the cold metal is pinning his ankles against the chair, completely immobile with no possibility of getting up from that prison, and even so, he is in a deep trance-like state with his senses blurry and unable to focus on the position his body has been forced into during hours.
Despite his placid state, the rot is there, awake and waiting for anything it can take and you can see it in the veins of his forearms exposed by the old, loose shirt he's wearing.
It mortifies you to see him like this, especially while he's wearing those comfortable worn-out clothes, clothes that should only be worn when he's sleeping next to you, snuggling up with you losing himself in your warmth.
The soft vibration in the room caused by the involuntary sigh you let out wakes him and Leon slowly opens his eyes, a bit unfocused for a few seconds until he can finally see your figure clearly.
He can already sense your worry, even through the thick glass that separates you. He realizes you're nervous, worried about something that's upsetting you.
“Hey,” he murmurs raspy and his throat is dry along with his lips, and you're aware that the last thing he needs is a glass of water.
You can't even meet his eyes, the bitter taste of helplessness lingering in your mouth pushing the urge to vomit to the surface.
His brow furrows slightly. “Something wrong?” Understanding dawns slowly in his face because of the lack of response, dulled by the sedative but still sharp enough to hit the mark.
You finally make eye contact with him, and your eyes suddenly feel wet with frustration because he looks like he's on the verge of death.
You failed, and he knows it.
Your state is starting to affect him; he can hear your racing pulse and is increasingly worried about you, so he has to do whatever it takes to control your emotions, to loosen the sour mood and he makes a calculated move.
“Why so quiet? Vampire got your tongue?” There's a long pause, and as expected, that stupid bullshit he said didn't work, so he takes a deep breath in defeat.
“…Couldn’t find them?” he mumbles quietly.
You shake your head in resignation, taking a breath to begin speaking despite the lump forming in your throat. “I tried three hospitals, the donor bank, and the lab. They—they told me the shipment never arrived, and the only bags left were…” you swallow hard, “the wrong type.”
Leon exhales softly, shaking his head, then letting it fall back against the chair. Chuckling amusedly as if you just said the funniest joke, “well,” he mutters, “that’s inconvenient.”
“Leon—”
His eyes meet yours again, a gentle expression on his face, and you can't tell if it's the chemicals in his blood or genuine compassion. “It's okay,” so tender. The veins beneath his skin pulse slightly when your breath trembles at his answer, and the virus is writhing inside him as your eyes flicker back to the monitors.
“Don't make that face, you look worse than me,” he tries to lighten the mood again, and you still feel like sobbing.
Your voice cracks as panic begins to take hold, because that little joke could be the last. “You could die.”
He smiles, as if it's nothing.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs gently, “we both know I'm terrible at that.”
You hate the casual and careless way he talks, trying to downplay the situation just to make you feel better, knowing it won't work. He acts like the night he tried to disappear never happened, like you didn't cry for hours until you were dehydrated, like the blood on the bathroom floor never existed, and the bullet scar on his temple wasn't visible. The whole situation makes you want to get angry at him, to yell at him for not taking it seriously, but then you remember he's drugged, his mind is foggy and dazed, and that doing what you want will only make his jokes worse— somehow.
You approach him, your fists clenched, reaching the barrier between you, and his eyes sharpen as you get too close to the glass.
“You haven't eaten in four days.”
“Four and a half,” he corrects lazily.
“Leon.”
“I'll be fine.”
The lie hangs between you, and you can't tell if the sedative is wearing off because of how he's increasingly focused on your body. You don't need to be an expert to see that the uncontrollable hunger is starting to gnaw at him. His fingers twitch slightly against the restraints, and his breathing is heavy. Your presence is affecting him. His nostrils flare from time to time, and you know that the scent of your blood mixed with your panic and the fear of losing him is suffocating him, leaving him no air to calm the waves of need.
His eyes constantly drift to your neck and wrists, focusing on your lively, intense pulse. The sound of your racing heartbeat makes him want to tear his ears off, but his only response is to clench his jaw and look away. That collar he suggested that time, which you refused, is starting to feel necessary.
Leon clears his throat when the silence becomes uncomfortable, “see?” he says, then breaks into a weak smile for you. “Like a million bucks.”
You feel your heart breaking in two, but you must come up with something quickly, find a solution to this problem before the structure of his bones changes like that time and the man you love disappears before your eyes replaced by a creature that will die if it doesn't devour something soon.
Obviously eating people is out of line, not even because people will die, but because there are blood types that could make him sick and deteriorate his body, so you move on to the option you considered countless times.
“Wait… W—What if…” you begin, approaching the glass door, typing the code he doesn't know to open it.
“No.” The word came out more sharply than before, a warning you're going to ignore.
Leon is looking at you with sudden intensity, even though the drug is clouding his mind. Your pulse is racing, and everything in your body is throbbing, just as it is in his. The light in the room is shining brighter for him, starting to burn his skin, and the disease is twitching, dancing in his system, reveling in your disregard for the warnings.
“I know that look.”
You don't stop, stepping into the other room and closing the door behind you, and he continues speaking. “I'm serious, don't do it.”
Your hands tremble at your sides as you close the distance between you. Standing in front of him, you lick your lips, preparing to speak.
“You're starving, s—stop being so fucking stubborn.” Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and he clenches his jaw, resisting; the sound of your voice feeds the parasite with the pleasure of that delicious melody full of sweet fear, the repulsive poison whispering to him to try harder to break free and come closer to you so that whatever has to happen, happens.
“I'll live.”
“You don't know that.”
“Oh, but I know 'cause when I put a bullet through my—”
“Don't.”
He sighs, his gaze softening as he looks up at you when you get closer. “Yes, I know.”
You shake your head while your lower lip is trembling, and you do everything you can to appear strong in front of him, “I can't lose you.”
Leon let his head fall back against the metal frame of the chair, exhaling ragged breaths through clenched teeth, trying to expel the air from his burning lungs when he instinctively inhaled and found himself again with that divine fragrance, more intense than before.
“You won't lose me, okay? you won't, please don't do this...” he insists, his voice hoarse, worn from the effort of keeping his body still even as it continues to burn him alive from the inside.
His eyes meet yours again, glossy with tears and dark, pupils dilated with no trace of the icy blue, and a mixture of defeat and panic takes hold of them as they realize that, once you make that face, nothing can stop you.
“I made you a promise,” he mantains, trembling when he has a little more control over his breathing. “Remember?”
You ignore what comes out of his mouth, begging yourself not to respond to his constant pleas.
“I said I'd never feed on you,” he insists needily, trying to reason with you, but you already lost all reason the first time you witnessed him feeding.
Leon's attempts are utterly futile, but you admire his determination even while drugged. He gasps when you gently sit on his lap, but doesn't fully react immediately, as the sudden contact has left him dazed.
It's only later that a pitiful groan escapes him, a sharp inhalation tears at his lungs, and his head tilts slightly in an attempt to surpress your scent, but there's no escape, and he has to get used to it. Your heat oppresses him, your pulse throbs just inches from his face, the steady, vital rhythm resonating in the room and stirring the poison.
Your hand finds its way into his hair, your fingers intertwining in the sandy strands, touching deeper, all the way to the roots where his hair is damp with sweat, cooing at him.
“No…” he groans breathlessly.
The parasite is reacting in pure ecstasy, reveling in the pleasure of having you so close, and the marks on his neck begin to move, dark, thin, sickly lines thickening and branching beneath his pale flesh, sliding up the sides of his throat like ink in water. You watch them slowly ascend toward his jaw, becoming bruises of the same hue, much smaller and thinner lines sprouting from them as well, rotting him alive.
His hands tremble under the pressure of the restraints as the burning sensation intensifies this time, the stinging pain traveling down his arms, irritating them from within. His head falls forward, resting on your chest as his fingers curl inwards and begin twitching forwards. His muscles contract, trying to hold something tightly, and the tendons in his fingers make him gasp from a sensation that tortures him, feeling an agonizing torment eat his flesh, only for his fingernails to begin changing afterward.
The matrices and cuticles fade into a profound darkness as you stare horrified as fascinated how they spread like a painful fungus to the tip, so that true agony can begin when they lengthen dramatically, sharpening to a point and pulling at the flesh of his fingers as they push forward, escaping the skin.
You hold him through the change, trying to soothe his discomfort, tears welling in your eyes at the small sounds he stifles against your skin.
“Shhh, I know, I know baby, you'll be okay, I p—promise it's okay,” you comfort him tremulously, cradling his head against your cleavage. You feel him purr, a sting of pain blossoming in your clavicle as you feel something sharp scrape against your exposed flesh. Then you realize his teeth have mutated too. You pull his face away from your chest, and he looks at you with devotion, hunger, but he's still him, terrified of what might happen to you.
Your hand travels to his cheek, studying his contoured features while he lets himself be guided by your hand, which is moving down until you caress his sensitive lower lip with the pad of your thumb, eliciting a little gasp. Then you lift his upper lip when he's distracted by your neck to reveal a sharp canine tooth. He tries to turn his face away, but you hold him still with the grip you have on his warm cheeks in response.
“Please, please let me see them, show them to me,” you plead in a small voice, a subtle manipulation. He responds with a huff and opens his mouth slightly so your fingers can inspect the newly canines. There's no sign of the virus in his mouth, but there is a little blood on his gums where the new teeth emerged.
After making mental notes, you test how sharp they are, pressing with the pad of your thumb until one pricks the soft skin, drawing blood to the surface too quickly surprised by how easy it was and Leon grunts, so thirsty and tense but focused on your intentions. You can hear his nails scratching the hard metal of the chair.
“You don’t have to do this…” he insists wearily, and your gaze softens, filled with love, noticing how he has started to salivate and yet he's still trying to push you away.
He’s so good.
“But I want to,” you whisper so close to his lips that he has to resist the temptation to crane his neck to bite your mouth off with nothing but his teeth.
You slide your hand down directly to the restraint on his left wrist, and there’s a soft click that he doesn't know where it came from. The chair mechanism responds and releases his hand, but he clings to the metal, still resisting. You—regardless of his actions—gently place your wrist just beneath one of the sharp claws, pressing it into your skin, then move it to the side to make an almost clinical cut in the thin skin. Blood starts flowing quickly and effortlessly, not even measuring how deep the cut was.
Leon tenses up when the intense tang reaches his nostrils, so fresh and so enticing, you can't waste any more time and you put your wrist right in front of him and that little piece of self-control remaining in him breaks, just a bit of hesitation before his lower lip starts trembling and his chest rises and falls in rapid breaths.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whines closing his eyes and the distance between you. His lips press against your skin immediately, gripping you without hesitation, and you gasp in pain as his teeth dig into your skin, disregarding the cut you just made, tearing so easily through the soft flesh. Leon begins to suck hungrily, the flavor exploding in his mouth and he starts purring with sheer pleasure, his eyes tightly closed as he feeds, and you press yourself against him, murmuring words of encouragement for him to continue.
His free hand grips your waist, pulling you impossibly close to him in such uncomfortable position, but you’ve never felt better sitting on his lap like this. Your attention shifts to other parts of your body and you feel how his nails are digging in, pressing dangerously harder than they should against your waist, however, you dismiss it; not even the stinging pain can make you pull away because nothing compares to the pleasure you're feeling, the way it makes you bite your lips from the tingling sensations that raise your temperature is enough to make you hum happily, and the open raw wound he's feeding on deepens as he moans, gently lapping the mouthwatering flesh, soothing the itch as he continues to suckle viciously.
Eventually, he opens his eyes to look up, still feeding on you, and he looks prettier than ever. Surprisingly, the virus hasn't affected his eyes, and you're so grateful for that, so happy with your sweet boy needing you—worshiping you this way.
You grin mesmerized, and if it weren't for the way your eyes are about to close, you could swear you see him smiling back at you.
God, he's so precious.
Each time he sucks a little harder than before, a strangely pleasant shiver runs through you, ending in your lower belly, a mixture of pain and something more rotten and alarming that makes your breath quicken.
He grips your wrist tighter, biting harder than he should, and you huff softly.
“You're doing so good, Leon… such a good boy, keep going,” you purr, so fuzzy, lost in the sweet but filthy sensation.
Your fingers slide through his hair, caressing the blond strands damp with sweat.
Up close, you can see the dark veins running down his cheekbone, disappearing beneath his sweaty neck. Now he looks calmer, relieved, that sickly pallor of his skin replaced by his natural tone and his cheeks are flushed, and his brow is relaxed, something you haven't seen in a long time.
His humming softens as the euphoria subsides but the hunger remains and the rough tugs become slower and more careful, his tongue continues to graze the wound, cleaning the damage he's causing. His grip on your waist loosens slightly, though his fingers still clutch the fabric of your shirt as if afraid you might disappear.
You're dizzy when he finally pulls away to let you react and there are thin strands of saliva mixed with blood clinging to the skin of your battered wrist that connect with his swollen lips covered in your warm and addictive blood. He licks them to clean off the excess and your eyes are glued to the ugly, delicate, raw wound he left on you.
“So gorgeous,” you mutter under your breath, bringing your finger to touch the open bite and Leon watches you attentively, reveling in the soft gasp that escapes your lips as you measure your how much pain you can take with that simple touch, the drug that kept him serene completely out of his system now, your blood made him tipsy almost in the same state as you are at this moment.
“Like you,” he whispers, raising his hand to caress your cheek and you respond with a silly little giggle, moving closer to his face until you can smell your own blood on his breath.
Appetite mixed with an unfamiliar need takes hold of you, causing you to push yourself toward his lips for the first time in days and he's so eager when he returns the kiss, deepening it with enthusiasm. Both of you itching for each other, surrendering to the delicious metallic taste that ends on your tongue as Leon plunges his into your warm mouth, so wet and inviting, fucking you with it.
They rub together frenetically while he's swallowing your saliva like it's water for his insatiable thrist. You tilt your head to go deeper, and he obediently follows your movements, his hand moving possessively up your arched back to your neck, squeezing gently until you gasp within the passionate kiss.
One of his sharp canines hooks into your lower lip, effortlessly splitting it and eliciting a hiss from you that Leon immediately swallows with nothing but pleasure, proud of his vulgar work, sucking on the wound as your hips instinctively thrust forward into his lap.
That's when you realize how hard he is inside his clothes, feeling it pooking against you causes you to start moving firmly against it, feeling Leon tense up and to then release a low little whine, squeezing your neck tighter until you feel like coughing and everything around you feels so different, so good, your hands settle on his firm chest, fingers squeezing the hard muscles covered in a soft layer of fat making them perfect to massage under your restless hands, and taking into consideration his susceptible state he pants pathetically against your swollen mouth, his hips pushing up feeling a painful twitch on his sensitive cock from how good it feels when you play with his tits, humping you needily, you push back down to give him the friction he craves for through the clothes.
He responds to every tiny sound, grinding and pressing against you, eager for more, hunger compelling him to take more than your body can offer.
The kiss grew clumsier and more painful, letting you be swept away by tongues that slipped indecently against each other, wet lips smacking loudly, ragged breaths, saliva and blood pooling obscenely at the corners of your mouths.
Sloppy sounds make your face heat up; he's so loud with his mouth that if you weren't in this state, you'd mock him and then you both break apart when you need to catch your breath, Leon chases you with his mouth, so needy, panting like a thirsty dog.
“More, more please, I need —I need you,” he begs with that sweet and hoarse voice of his breaking between words, nothing like how he was acting before, his hips fucking you through your clothes, his cock leaking constantly, making a milky mess inside his pants. He leans forward until his lips brush your neck, and you stifle a moan at how sensitive your fevered body has become.
“Do it, don’t hold back, please do it,” you pamper, hugging his head while urging him to continue. First, there’s a hot and soaked tongue licking your skin, sending sparks of burning pleasure beneath your flesh, and your hips press down drawing a little breathy whine from him.
A muffled sob escapes your stained mouth as he sinks his fangs into your neck roughly, beginning to suck ravenously, knowing you're letting him, allowing him to release what he's been holding back for so long in a pathetic attempt to protect you from his disease and all you can do is tilt your head, exposing your neck to him even more.
You finally made it.
Leon is lost in your taste, reduced to a ravenous uncontrolled animal unable to recognize how many boundaries he's crossed and that there's no going back now. You taste so sweet, so good, so warm and wet and fucking delicious in his mouth and he wants to stay there forever, so much so that he ends up breaking the restraint on his right hand to fully embrace your trembling body as that deep red liquid slides down his throat and the arousal consumes him like flames impossible to extinguish. The damaged metal hitting the floor echoes in the room hurting your ears, and you are so absorbed and overwhelmed by Leon's essence to pay attention to why you could hear so deeply in your head or to the fact that you can now smell parts of Leon that an ordinary human could never smell.
And when those overwhelming waves subside and he continues to devour you mercilessly, the appetizing and intoxicating musky smell of his sudden frenzy hits your nose, so intensely that it makes you suspect that perhaps now, the twisted disease living within him, has been passed into you.
tw! vampire leon. age gap. oral sex (f! receiving.) stalking. ejaculation. fingering (f! receiving.) spitting. biting. blood drinking. leons a little creep. innocence kink? minors dni.
Vampire! leon kennedy ! who knows what he’s doing is wrong. He’s years older than you, gruff around the edges and filled with hunger only thick red liquid dripping down his throat can contain. your sweet, young and scream innocence. It turns him on, cock throbbing when he thinks about fucking you, how weak you’d be underneath him while he struggles between the lines of making you squirt or drinking you dry.
Vampire! leon kennedy ! Who stands outside your window late into the night, dark jacket hiding him from the streetlights as he watches you sleep, listening to your pulse hammering against your neck as you lay still, pretty lips parted and one leg hitched over the other giving him the perfect view of your soft pussy peaking through your panties. Most nights he’ll jerk off while watching you, cum staining over his knuckles when you mumble in your sleep.
Vampire! leon kennedy ! Who eats your pussy like he’s starving. Sharp nose nudging against your clit as he shakes his head to slip his tongue deeper into your cunt. You grip his hair and he moans into your pussy, spitting into your hole as he licks up the sweet slick dripping down his chin and onto the bed. His sharp fangs graze your clit as you cum, leon nibbling and sucking the inside of your thigh as you babble through your high.
Vampire! leon kennedy ! Who licks his lips when you ask him to suck your blood for the first time. “Just.. try to be gentle please..” You mumble as he kisses your trembling mouth, bulge grinding against your thigh through his boxers before he’s even started. “Promise, baby.” Leon whispers as his kisses trail down to your neck, sucking the skin until it’s bruised. Tears prick in your eyes, fingers digging into his shoulders as he sucks harshly onto your sweet spot before his fangs pierce the skin, sweet red blood dripping down on your collarbone with leon’s tongue licking up the mess. He’s panting against you as he sucks harshly onto the wound, blood filling up his throat and staining his lips, fingers slipping under your skirt to rub your clit and eventually press into your hole, hips bucking into his hand as he distracts you from the pain.
As I sit here and watch/play through re9 I can totally see Leon in his younger years (around re4) getting a sports bike like a Yamaha or Kawasaki. Ones with high power because when he’s on missions, he doesn’t get to choose how fast the vehicle is or not so he says “fuck it, mise as well get use to high power.” But as he gets older (leading up to re9) he goes for Harley’s but with good power to them as well. Gives him adrenaline, he likes the feeling because as much as he hates going on long missions that he always thinks may be his last, he thrives in the adrenaline of that. Especially getting older. The most exciting part of his day 🤣.
Friends right was really good. I loved the way you wrote Leon with his son
Aww thank you! I plan to write part 2 like everyone wants I’ve just been a little busy! I’m so glad people like it though and enjoy the way I write him! It means a lot 🫶
Imagine getting into a fight with your boyfriend, Leon Kennedy. He shows up the next day, knocks on your door, asking to come in, but you’re still mad, and just tell him to “come back with a warrant” and shut the door 😭
Hi! This would be my first smut so please BE NICE I beg. I'm more of a fluff type of person but I wanted to push myself outside of my comfort zone a little and experiment.
Summery: Newt and you have been really good friends. At least that's what you liked to believe to suppress the rising feeling of knowing it was much more than that.
cw: smut! 18+ mdni!, best friends to lovers, jealousy, sort of dry humping? eating someone out ( f receiving) f!reader. Talks of death and losing people, cursing.
Word Count: 13, 404
“And what the hell we’re we?
Tell me we weren’t just friends
This doesn’t make much sense, no”
You and Newt had always had a complicated friendship, one in which most weren’t convinced was just a friendship.
It wasn’t because of anything obvious, well– maybe to some it was pretty obvious. As long as that someone wasn’t you. There were no declarations, no reckless moments you could point to and say that crossed the line. It was quieter than that. More insidious. The kind of thing that lived in the spaces between words, in the way he always seemed to drift over beside you without ever asking.
You told yourself it was familiarity; He was your best friend after all. Survival had a way of binding people together so you figured that’s all it was. But that explanation started to feel thin the longer you noticed how differently he treated you compared to everyone else.
And how differently you felt toward him compared to everyone else.
Newt was easy with people, he had to be considering his job back in the glade was second in command– he had to be easy with people because he was one of the first faces people saw. He was understand, comforting. He was stern when he needed to be and a friend to everyone.
He kept everyone together. Kept their heads straight even when hypothetically they were spinning.
But he was different with you.
He lingered longer when he talked to you, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. His attention never felt divided; when you spoke, he listened—really listened. He remembered the little things. The real things. The things that mattered when no one else seemed to notice.
He knew when you fell quiet that something was wrong. When your leg bounced and your thoughts drifted too far away, he knew exactly how to reel you back in. His hand would settle at the top of your knee, thumb moving in slow, steady circles until the motion stilled and your breathing evened out and then when you finally would look at him you’d just see him sitting there with that small, calming smile just staring back at you.
He knew you liked watching the sun set at the end of the day—when everything finally slowed, when the noise faded and the world softened. He’d find excuses to be there with you, standing just close enough, saying little, letting the colors fill the silence. You liked having something beautiful to focus on and he knew that.
Newt knew you like the back of his hand and you reciprocated it because you knew him the same way.
Sometimes, during the days after you came back from mapping out the maze with Minho, you’d catch a glimpse of Newt staring at you from across the Glade. The way his chocolate-colored eyes followed your figure like they were glued to you and nothing else.
You’d take notice, shifting your attention to him before giving a soft smile and a small wave in his direction—just enough to show you’d seen him.
His heart would drop.
Mainly because he’d been caught staring from so far away, because subtlety had never quite been his strong suit when it came to you. He’d look away too quickly after waving back, jaw tightening, pretending he’d been focused on something else entirely. As if the whole Glade hadn’t narrowed down to you the moment you stepped into view.
You teased him about it every chance you got too.
You kept telling yourself it was friendly banter. Friends had their fake, flirtatious moments all the time—especially when trapped in one place for so long. It was harmless. Normal.
But everyone else saw straight through both of you.
The way your eyes lingered on each other just a second too long. The way your hands or shoulders would brush against each other, intentionally by one or the other.The way the proximity you two held had long crossed the line of friends.
It was so undeniably obvious to everyone but you.
But maybe it was because you were scared.
Maybe it was because you were scared of what that change would truly mean. Because acknowledging it would force you to face something fragile in a place where nothing was meant to survive. It was easier to deny it, easier to pretend—because something this good, this real, didn’t last in the kind of world you were trapped in.
You don’t get to fall in love without consequences.
Not when the ground was scorched beneath your feet and every day felt like another test you weren’t prepared for. Not when your lives were reduced to survival and strategy, to loss and blood and the constant hum of fear just beneath your skin. The constant feeling of your hair standing up on the back of your neck because you could feel people breathing down it every damn second.
People died.
They suffered.
And you were forced to keep moving—keep drifting—carrying whatever sanity you had left like it was something borrowed.
Letting yourself fall for Newt meant risking more than just a broken heart. It meant risking him. The thought of losing him—not to distance, not to time, but to this world—made your chest tighten in a way you refused to imagine any further.
So you clung to the safety of what you already knew.
Friends.
Because friends were easier than more. Friends was a label that meant you could care deeply without letting your heart take hold too much.
But the jealousy behind unidentified feelings made it quite obvious.
After being held at gunpoint by who you later learned was Group B—Aris’ group from his maze—and then being brought to The Right Arm, everything felt too good to be true. Tense. Like the ground beneath you had shifted again before you’d even found steady footing.
New people meant new dynamics. New faces. New variables.
That was when you noticed Sonya.
She was sharp where you were quiet. Confident in a way that felt natural, like she’d learned how to survive by standing her ground and considering the position she held within this place, you could understand why. You watched her integrate quickly, watched how easily she spoke to Newt—how naturally he listened.
At first, you told yourself it didn’t bother you.
Newt could hang around anyone he wanted, it wasn’t up to you to make that choice for him. He wasn’t yours, after all.
But then you caught them talking. Really talking.
Newt stood a little closer than necessary, body angled toward her the same way it always angled toward you. His expression was open, attentive—his brow furrowed slightly as she spoke. You watched the way his lips turned upwards into a small smile which led to a faint chuckle that you somehow could hear from afar.
You sat upright on a rock at the edge of camp, hands clasped tightly together between your thighs, knuckles whitening with the pressure. Your posture was rigid, like if you shifted even an inch you’d lose focus. Your eyes never left them—not for a second.
You were staring and not subtly.
Your gaze tracked every shared glance, every small laugh, every inch of space Newt didn’t bother putting between himself and her. It felt like something sharp lodged itself in your chest, twisting the knife deeper the longer you watched. If looks could wound, they’d both be laid out on the ground by now—your stare alone lethal with everything you refused to say out loud. Everything your heart refused to express because of fear.
Your jaw clenched as Sonya leaned in, placing her hand over his arm while saying something you couldn’t hear. Newt smiled in response, that familiar soft curve of his lips that you knew far too well. The sight of it made your stomach churn.
You hated that it bothered you this much. Hated that your pulse spiked every time he turned toward her. Hated that you knew exactly how he looked when he was genuinely engaged—and that he was looking at her that way now. Hatred was so strong, such an extensive emotion that you hardly ever dared to be exposed to– But now? You could feel it rushing through your veins.
Your fingers flexed, nails biting into your palms as you forced yourself to keep still. You told yourself you had no right to feel this way. You hadn’t claimed him. Hadn’t admitted anything. Had barely even allowed yourself to acknowledge whatever it was you two had and you had the audacity to feel jealous?
How righteous of you. It made you grimace at the idea of feeling this way but having no actions previously to show for it.
The jealousy burned hot anyway. It was ugly in the way that you could feel it everywhere– your skin felt hot, your mind was boggled in a way where nothing else mattered but finding a way to separate the two. The way the world around you blurred and zoned in on them. The way you felt that pushing her in front of a moving vehicle would ease the emotions you currently were feeling.
How nice of you.
“Y’know, even though murder is technically legal now, I wouldn’t advise,” Thomas cut in, swinging his body around to sit beside you. He dropped down onto the rock with a quiet thud, forearms resting on his knees like he’d settled in for a conversation he wasn’t planning to rush.
You finally tore your eyes away to look at them, blinking like you’d been pulled out of a trance, “What?”
Thomas tilted his head, nodding toward the center of camp—toward Newt and Sonya, “You’re currently staring at those two over there like murder would be your best option here.”
You scoffed, the sound coming out sharper than you intended, “I am not.”
“Uh-huh,” he wasn’t convinced in the slightest, “Could’ve fooled me.”
You shifted on the rock, uncrossing and recrossing your arms like you couldn’t get comfortable no matter how hard you tried, “I was just dazed. That’s all.”
“Right,” Thomas replied. Thomas glanced over with an eyebrow raised, “Dazed about how you hate how close Sonya is to Newt.”
You followed his gaze despite yourself, immediately wishing you hadn’t. Newt laughed at something Sonya said, head tipping back slightly, and the familiar knot twisted tighter in your chest.
You looked away again, “I don’t hate it,” you said, a little too quickly, “He can talk to whoever he wants.”
Thomas hummed in response, “Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?” His head tilted towards you, a more serious expression had replaced the previously smug one.
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head as you stared down at the ground, “Because there isn’t anything to tell.”
“You’re a terrible Liar,” He replied coolly, shaking his head, “You know exactly how you feel and I think he does too.”
You fell silent.
The idea of Thomas seeing right through everything you tried to guard sent you over the edge. It sent you into a silent spiral inside your own mind, knowing someone outside of it knew a truth that you, yourself couldn’t even admit to yet.
It was the idea of knowing you thought you was keeping it contained well enough no one noticed– but everyone did. Everyone except you.
You couldn’t take it, not anymore. Not after feeling almost every emotion since you left WCKD headquarters. Winston dying, memories flooding back to you the farther away you got from WCKD. The idea of knowing no matter where you guys traveled, they’d be right behind you– tracking your every move.
It all felt too much.
“Excuse me,” you mutter, standing to your feet before he can say anything else. You couldn’t stand sitting here anymore, your chest felt like a person was sitting directly on your airways.
The words come out quiet, almost apologetic, but you don’t wait for a response. You brush past him, boots crunching against the dirt as you put space between yourself and the conversation, between yourself and the truth that’s pressing too close for comfort.
You don’t have a destination in mind—just distance.
The edge of camp calls to you, the familiar path worn down by pacing feet and restless thoughts. Walking has always helped. It gives your mind something else to focus on besides the tightness in your chest, besides the way your pulse refuses to slow.
You keep your eyes forward, even though you can feel it—that pull, that awareness of being watched. You don’t look back. You can’t.
The further you go, the quieter it gets. The noise of camp fades into the background, replaced by the soft sounds of wind and distant movement. Your shoulders sag just slightly, the tension bleeding out of them as the space around you opens up.
Just as you were about to pass the last tent—right before the trail curved upward into the mountains, your brief ticket to freedom—a sudden force stopped you short.
A hand clamped over your mouth, cutting off the breath you’d just drawn in. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you stiffened, panic flaring instantly, every instinct screaming for you to fight, to scream, to run.
But you couldn’t manage anything.
An arm wrapped around you tightly, pulling you flush against their solid chest. You barely had time to process it before you were dragged sideways, boots scraping against the dirt as whoever had grabbed you hauled you backward into the tent.
The canvas flapped shut behind you, muffling the sounds of camp and plunging the space into dim shadow. Your heart slammed against your ribs, breath caught behind the hand still firmly covering your mouth.
Their hand clasped around your wrist, tugging just hard enough to spin you around and force you to face them. The sudden movement stole your balance for a split second, boots scuffing against the ground as your back brushed the tent pole. At the same time, their other hand lifted from your mouth, finally giving you the chance to gasp, lungs burning as you dragged in a sharp breath from the shock of it all.
The first instinct that came to mind was to punch the damn bastard—which you very nearly did—until your eyes adjusted and recognition hit.
“Newt?!”
Your fist dropped to your side as you sucked in a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You dumb shank,” you hissed, heart still racing inside your chest, “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry, love.” He flashed that crooked grin of his, unapologetic and familiar all at once. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” He paused, “Well,” he thought a moment, voice dipping as he chuckled, “not fully anyway.”
He took a few steps towards you, slightly closing distance.
“Yeah, well—you almost gave me a heart attack,” you grumbled, folding your arms over your chest. You took a step back without thinking, putting space between the two of you like it was suddenly necessary.
The grin slipped, replaced by concern– brows knitting together as his eyes flicked over your face, then down to where you’d retreated. You never stepped away from him like that. Not unless something was wrong. Not unless he done something wrong.
He tried to continue the conversation as normal.
“Well, I noticed you wandering off,” he said, one hand lifting in a lazy, almost casual motion toward the outside,“Figured I’d see where you were off to.”
“A walk,” you replied sharply.
The word came out clipped. You turned away from him before he could read your face, fingers already lifting the fabric of the tent as you made to leave—needing air, space, anything that wasn’t the weight of his attention pressing into you.
But Newt was quicker.
His hand wrapped around your wrist again—softer this time, careful, like he’d learned from the first reaction. Not restraining. Just stopping you. He tugged you back gently, enough to turn you toward him as his other hand reached up to drop the canvas back into place, cutting off the outside world once more.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, voice losing its edge of humor entirely now, “What’s wrong?”
The tent felt smaller again. You stood there with your back pressed to the pole behind you, his fingers lingered warm around your wrist, thumb resting against your pulse like he could feel just how fast your heart was racing.
“Nothing,” You shrugged, trying not to give yourself away, “I just needed some air. That’s all.”
But Newt doesn’t buy it. Not even a little because he knows you. He knows when something is up compared to you genuinely needing some air from the whole crowd of people. The camp was crammed with people so he would have believed it if he was anyone else. But he wasn’t.
So he tested his theory, turning it over in his mind like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
“I’ll come with you then,” he said lightly, like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural solution in the world.
“No.”
The word came out faster than you expected but it was also too late to take it back. You didn’t even have the time to soften the way you said to make it believable. To make it so Newt would stop studying you the way he always did.
Newt’s brows lifted, his head tilting slightly as he studied you. Not offended. Not hurt. Just attentive in that way that meant he was filing the reaction away, already connecting it to everything else he’d noticed.
You rarely said no to him. Not like this, anyway.
The realization sat heavy in the space between you, obvious in the way his expression shifted—subtle, but telling. You felt it immediately, the mistake already made.
“I just—” you started, the words faltering as you tried to backtrack, to soften it, to fix whatever you’d just revealed, “I just wanted some space.”
“Yeah,” he replied, “You’ve said that. Just not why you need it.”
In this exact moment is when panic sets in. He was reading you like a book, one that was plain out– flat open. He knew you were hiding something from him, something that was much larger than the frail excuse you’ve given him more than once now.
Sometimes it ticked you off how well he knew you—inside and out. How the smallest shift in you never went unnoticed, how he tracked it like it mattered more than it should. A change in your tone. A step back. A look held for half a second too long. He caught it all, filed it away, and circled it until he understood it better than you did.
It irked your soul at this moment.
Because all you wanted was to get out. To escape before the pressure in your chest finally cracked into something you couldn’t take back. And he was standing there, calm and steady and infuriatingly perceptive, blocking your exit like he had every right to.
You exhaled sharply, the frustration finally spilling over, “Why do you even care?” you snapped, lifting your hands in a sharp gesture, “You seem pretty comfortable here, Newt. Plenty of people to talk to. Not just me.”
His brows knit together, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
You laughed under your breath, bitter, “It means I don’t get why you’d want to tag along with me. I mean—” You hesitated just long enough to think about your next words. You tried to keep a steady head on your shoulders but you are only human, “You looked busy enough earlier.”
“Busy?” he repeated slowly.
“You know,” you said, eyes flashing up to him now, “With Sonya,” You swallowed.
The realization hit him all at once.
You saw it in the way his eyes widened just slightly before something else took over—something smug, something infuriating. His mouth twitched, then curved into that familiar crooked grin.
“Oh,” Newt said, almost amused, “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” you scoffed immediately, rolling your eyes like the accusation wasn’t ridiculous enough to deserve a real response. You shifted your weight, chin lifting, attitude snapping into place like armor, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Right,” Newt said easily, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, “I seen you staring at us, Love.”
“I wasn’t,” you shot back, the words sharp, clipped—your patience thinning by the second. You looked away from him, jaw tight, like if you didn’t you might say something you couldn’t take back.
“Can you stop denying it?” he sighed, the sound low and frustrated as his arms dropped to his sides. He stepped closer then until his body invaded your space in a way that felt anything but accidental.
You stiffened.
He was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him—that same steady, familiar warmth you’d leaned into a thousand times before. But it just felt different this time. Every detail was suddenly magnified and impossible to ignore anymore.
He towered over you, his head tilted just enough to hold your gaze, casting a natural shadow over top of you. His eyes drifted, tracing the line of your face with a slow, careful curiosity before snapping back to your own eyes, clinging to that edge of respect he always maintained. He looked so effortless. His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic motion, completely at odds with the way your own heart was hammering against your ribs, frantic and loud in the silence between you two.
The air between you felt thick, like it had been replaced by something heavy. You realized then that you were holding your breath, as if any sudden movement might break the fragile stillness and force a truth you weren't ready to speak.
The silence was brittle, vibrating with the things you both hadn't said for years. You looked up at him, your breath hitching as he closed the final inch of distance. The steady rhythm of his chest was right there, a taunt against your own frantic pulse.
“Love,” he spoke just above a whisper. The ring of his accent was thick, the vowels dragging out like he wasn’t in any hurry to let the moment pass. “We were never just friends.”
Your breath hitched. Instinctively, you tried to look away—anywhere but at him, anywhere that didn’t make the truth feel so close it burned.
But Newt refused to let you keep pushing him away.
Newt's hand came up slowly, fingers taking a gentle hold of your chin. It wasn't rough, but it was firm— firm enough to tell you that he wasn’t going to let this slide. He tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze even as your eyes tried to dart away.
“Don’t,” he murmured, voice low, “Keep pretending that’s what this is. That we’re just friends.”
His thumb brushed lightly over your lower lip, a touch so gentle it felt more like reassurance than intent. It lingered just a moment, unhurried, like he was checking you were still there—still with him. The tent felt impossibly small around you both, the fabric pressing in on all sides until there was nowhere left to fall into.
“We’re friends, Newt,” you said, but your voice betrayed you—cracking just slightly under the weight of the nerves twisting tight in your chest.
The words felt rehearsed. Safe. Like something you were desperate to cling to because it was easier than anything else. It was easier than anything else.
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, trying to convince both of you that the label still fit. That it still meant what it used to. But even as you said it, the truth pressed back just as hard, making your breath uneven and your pulse jump beneath his lingering touch.
Friends shouldn’t feel like this.
Friends shouldn’t make your hands tremble at the barest touch, or send your heart racing like it was about to give you away entirely. They shouldn’t make your breath catch when they step too close, or make your chest ache just from the way they look at you—like they see every version of you at once.
What you and Newt had was nothing like that.
It was too aware. Too constant. Built on moments that lingered far longer than they should have—on looks held in silence, on touches that never quite felt accidental, on an understanding that went deeper than words ever could. He didn’t just know you; he read you. Not the way friends did, casually and comfortably, but the way someone does when they’re paying attention because they care too much not to.
Friends didn’t notice the exact moment your smile faltered.
And you didn’t look at friends the way you looked at him—like losing him would hollow you out, like his presence alone could calm the raging storm inside you. You didn’t pull away from friends because it felt dangerous to want them too much. You didn’t deny something this fiercely unless the truth scared you.
"Friends don't look at each other like that," he countered, voice dropping lower. His hand slid down to your hip and squeezed gently—insistent, grounding, "If you can seriously stand here and tell me that, that’s we ever were with confidence– I’ll believe you. But I know what I feel for you is not the same as I feel for anyone else.”
“Newt–”
“Tell me to stop,” he cut you off again, softer this time, like the words were meant only for you. He moved closer, slow and deliberate, until the warmth of his breath brushed your cheek. It lingered there, a gentle sweep of heat that sent a quiet shiver down your spine, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.
He paused—right there. Close enough that you could feel him. Close enough that every breath felt shared and mingled together.
Your heart was pounding now, loud in your ears, each beat louder than the last. You could smell him– The faint musk of the world mingled with the natural scent he always had of cedar wood– they type of scent that drove you crazy in the best ways.
You swallowed, throat dry, eyes flicking from his lips back to his eyes. He was watching you carefully, not pushing, not rushing—giving you time even as the tension curled tighter between you.
His hand, which had been resting at your hip like a quiet anchor, began to move—slow. His fingers traced a ghost path upward, as if giving you every chance to pull away, until his palm came to rest against your cheek. He cupped your face carefully, thumb brushing along your jaw with a softness that felt intentional, almost reverent.
You couldn’t muster the words. Not the ones he was asking for. They sat heavy in your throat, unspoken—not because you couldn’t say them, but because you didn’t want to. Saying them would mean ending the moment, drawing a line you’d already crossed in every way that mattered.
Deep down, beneath the fear and the excuses and the carefully constructed walls, you knew the truth. You’d known it for a long time. This wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t impulse. It was something steady and aching and frighteningly real—something you’d been carrying quietly, pretending it was lighter than it was.
"You can't tell me to stop, can you?" he murmured. His thumb was moving—slow, deliberate—down the line of your jaw, "Because you want this as much as I do."
Your mouth grew dry, breath catching as your eyes lifted to meet his. His gaze held yours—steady, searching—and you felt it like a pull, something quiet but undeniable. Your pupils widened without you realizing, the world narrowing until it felt like it was just the two of you standing there, suspended in the moment.
You swallowed, the sound far too loud in the silence. Your heart was beating fast now, each thud echoing in your chest as if it were trying to warn you of something you already knew. You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Not when his eyes were on you like that—like he was waiting, not pushing, giving you space even as everything inside you leaned closer.
And in that stillness, with your breath shallow and your thoughts unraveling, it became painfully clear just how much power this moment held over you—how much he did.
When you didn’t answer him, it was when you could feel the movement in the absence of his presence, “Do you want me to stop–?”
“No.”
The sound was quiet, shaky—and that was all he needed.
His hands moved then, both coming up to cup your face with a gentleness that contradicted the urgency thrumming through his veins. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, one tracing the line of your jaw while the other settled just below your chin. He tilted your head up slowly, giving you one last chance to pull away—though neither of you believed you would.
"You have no idea," he murmured again, voice ragged and disleveled, "How long I’ve been waitin’ for you to say that."
There was a pause—heavy and fragile—that felt like the very last thread of control stretching thin. It lingered in the space between your breaths, taut and trembling, as if everything he’d been holding back had gathered right there, waiting. You could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell, in the way his hand stayed perfectly still, like any movement at all might be the thing that snapped it.
But he was only human, he could only hold it in so long before that rope finally snapped and he finally tipped over the edge.
He closed the distance, crashing his lips to yours.
The kiss started soft—almost tentative—as if he were testing, still looking for permission even now. His lips brushed against yours once, twice, a question and an answer all at once. When you didn’t pull away, he deepened it, one hand sliding into your hair while the other curved around your neck. His tongue swept against your lower lip, a familiar gesture that felt entirely new in this moment, asking for entry that you were more than willing to give.
He made a sound against your mouth—something between a groan and a laugh, like he couldn't quite believe this was real. His grip in your hair tightened just slightly, fingers threading through the strands, holding you there as if you might disappear if he let go. The kiss grew more insistent, his lips pressing harder against yours now– something desperate and hungry that had been building for far too long.
When he finally pulled back, it was just enough to breathe—barely. His forehead rested against yours, brow pressed to your brow, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide in the dim light of the tent. A few strands of blonde hair fell across his face, slightly disheveled.
You mirrored him—breathing just as unevenly as he was, your own eyes flushed and bright in the dim tent light. The embarrassment of wanting more than just that single kiss, of needing more, made your skin burn hotter. But it dissolved just as quickly when you caught the look in his eyes—raw and desperate and hungry, in a way you'd never seen him before.
He pulled back slowly, his gaze performing a thorough, silent study of your face. He was searching for any sign that he’d misread the room—checking to see if the heat of the moment had just been a temporary feeling. When he found only steady, quiet affirmation in your eyes, he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding in.
He reached down, his fingers sliding against yours until he could softly clasp your hand in his own, his thumb grazing your knuckles as he led you toward the empty cot behind him. He sat on the edge, the metal frame creaking under his weight, and gently guided you to stand between his legs.
He made a move to pull you fully into his lap, but he stopped the moment he felt it—the slight stiffening of your body, the way you caught your bottom lip between your teeth. He froze, his hands lingering at your waist, instantly alert to the shift in frequency. He didn't push. He just looked up at you, his expression soft in the way he always was.
“Trust me?”
For a moment, there was no response. The silence stretched thin, taut with everything left unsaid. Of course you trusted him; you trusted him with your life, a fact so woven into the fabric of your days it usually went without saying. But you’d never been involved with anyone—certainly not romantically. At least, not in any way that remained in your memory. So, this was considerably a whole new territory.
His thumb rubbed small, gentle circles over the fabric at the hem of your shirt– the feeling sent a shiver up your spine, one that felt electrifyingly good despite the thumping of your heart slamming against your chest.
He was watching you with an intensity that was almost clinical, but softened by an undeniable tenderness to him. He didn't miss the way your breath hitched, or the way the pulse in the hollow of your wrist where his fingers still brushed against began to jump in an erratic, tell-tale rhythm.
The hand that was still holding yours had slowly pulled away, mirroring his other so both palms were flat against your hips, “Your heart is racing, Love. Just try to relax, Yeah?” he whispered, trying to find ways to calm you– the ways that always worked like a charm previously.
He didn't sound triumphant; he sounded awestruck, as if the physical proof of your reaction was something he had dreamt of but never dared to think would ever become real.
You were nothing more than a fantasy inside his head all these years, one that helped him with his late night wandering mind even though he could’ve only hoped it would become true.
When you no longer showed hesitation he began to pull you.
He didn't rush. His movements were fluid and intentional, his one hand slid from your waist to the backs of your thigh with a gentle, firm pressure. He pulled you forward, and this time, there was no resistance. You sank onto his lap, the friction of your clothes against his creating a soft, shushing sound that felt incredibly loud in the quiet room.
As you settled, moving to adjust and get comfortable—he did the same. He moved his thighs a little wider, giving you a firm place to sit without feeling like you would fall off. The shift was subconscious, an instinctual move to prioritize your comfort over his own, making sure you felt entirely supported by him.
Once he felt the full weight of you settle, his hands returned to you, but with a new, softer intent. They didn't wander; instead, one hand rested flat against the small of your back, his palm radiating a steady, grounding heat that seemed to seep through your clothes and into your skin. His other hand came up to the familiar curve of your hip, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over the clothed skin.
He was incredibly still, as if he were afraid that a sudden movement might break the spell of having you so close.
"You okay, love?" he murmured, the endearment slipping out with a natural, unpracticed ease that made your breath hitch.
The way he spoke had always been your favorite soundtrack, but in this silence, every inflection felt magnified in the best ways. It was the specific, crisp architecture of his British accent—the way he’d clip his consonants when he was being playful, or how they would soften and blur into something smooth and honey-thick when he was tired.
But it was the word love that truly undid you.
When it fell from his lips, it wasn't the casual, throwaway term you’d hear from just anyone– or let just anyone call you either. Coming from him, it was a heavy, deliberate thing. He used it as if it were a title he’d bestowed only upon you, like the name itself was only ever carved for you.
The way the "v" would catch slightly on his bottom lip, turning the word into a soft vibration you could practically feel against your own skin, drove you absolutely mad. It was a low-frequency hum that seemed to settle directly in your bones.
“I’m okay,” you replied, the words finally breaking through the heavy silence.
Your voice was barely a whisper, a shaky, threadbare sound that felt fragile against the backdrop of the Scorch's howling winds outside. But it was positive—vibrating with a quiet, certain heat that told him exactly what he needed to know. The tension that had been holding your shoulders stiff finally evaporated, leaving you soft and pliable in his arms.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He slid his hands slowly upward, the rough callouses of his palms catching against the fabric of your shirt until he could cup your face. His thumbs traced the line of your cheekbones, his touch so light it was almost agonizing. He was being so careful with you, treating you like something precious he’d found in a world that was nothing but pain and sorrow. Ironic.
He leaned in, and this time there was no hesitation. The kiss began as a ghost of a touch—a soft, exploratory press of his lips against yours that tasted of salt and the dry Scotch air, yet felt like the richest thing you’d ever known. It was slow, a deliberate unraveling of years of restraint. He wasn't rushing to a finish line; he was lingering over the start, learning the curve of your mouth as if he were memorizing you now.
A low, shaky sound vibrated in his throat—halfway between a sigh and a groan—as he tilted his head to deepen the contact. It wasn't forceful, but it was heavy with a sudden, concentrated intent.
His hands, those familiar hands that had helped you over walls and pulled you through sandstorms, began to roam with a new, curious hunger. One hand slid from your cheek, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck to anchor you, while the other began a slow, tactile journey. He traced the line of your shoulder, his palm heavy and warm, before sliding down your side. He seemed to be marveling at the way you felt—the softness of your skin where your shirt had ridden up, the dip of your waist, the solid reality of you beneath his touch.
You found your own hands moving instinctively, seeking the same curiosity. You mapped the hard muscle of his shoulders, the tension he always carried there finally beginning to melt under your fingertips. Your palms slid up his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart through the thick material of his jacket.
He pulled back just a fraction, his lips grazing yours with every word he spoke. His accent was thick and wrecked, the crisp edges of his speech completely frayed by the heat between you.
"We don’t—" he breathed, the words barely surviving the small, charged space left between your mouths. He was trying to be the man he thought he had to be—the one who protected you, even from himself. "We don’t have to do anything more than this if you—"
"Shut up, Newt," you interrupted, the words tumbling out with a sound that was half-whisper, half-breathless laugh.
"Right," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that made your skin tingle. "Shutting up, then."
His hands remained beneath the hem of your shirt, but they weren't frantic anymore. They were reverent. His palms, rough and warm, glided over the skin of your back with an agonizingly slow rhythm, as if he were trying to memorize your very bone structure through his fingertips. He was remarkably still, letting you set the pace, his thighs a solid, unmoving foundation beneath you.
"Is this okay, love?" he whispered against your lips, his British lilt soft and breathy. He didn't pull away; he just hovered there, his nose grazing yours, his eyes searching yours in the dim, flickering light.
When you nodded, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the back of his neck, he let out a long, shaky breath that signaled his own surrender. The weight of the world—the Maze, the Scorch, the constant fear—seemed to fall away, replaced entirely by the sensation of you in his arms. He began to move again, his kisses traveling from your mouth to the corner of your jaw, then down to that sensitive hollow behind your ear where he lingered, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
In a haze of mounting warmth, you shifted your weight, trying to bridge the last microscopic gap between your bodies. You moved to adjust your seat on his lap, your hips sliding forward in an instinctive search for more of him. It was a simple, accidental movement, but as you settled, you rubbed firmly against the heavy heat building between his thighs.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Newt let out a sharp, choked-off sound—somewhere between a gasp and a broken moan—against your lips. His entire body went rigid, his muscles corded with a sudden, violent tension as he felt the friction of you through the thin layers of your clothes. It was a physical jolt that seemed to short-circuit his brain, a raw reminder of the biological reality hiding beneath his gentle restraint.
"Bloody hell," he rasped, his accent sounding wrecked from you already.
The sharp, pained quality of his voice caught you off guard. Fearing you’d hurt him—or perhaps that his leg was bothering him from the awkward angle on the cot—you instinctively pulled back. Your hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, creating a few inches of space as you searched his face, your eyes wide with a sudden flash of worry.
"Newt? Did I—did I hurt you?" you whispered, your voice small and frantic. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Newt let out another breath, this one more of a strained, shaky laugh, as he felt the loss of your body heat. He didn't let go of your waist, though; his grip remained firm, his fingers still digging slightly into the fabric of your trousers to keep you from retreating any further.
His eyes grazed up to look at yours, and they weren't filled with pain—not the kind you were thinking of. They were dark, clouded with a heavy, syrupy lust that made your pulse jump for an entirely different reason.
"Hurt me?" he repeated, the words sounding like they were being dragged over gravel. He shook his head slowly, a self-deprecating smirk ghosting over his lips as he saw the genuine concern on your face. "No, love. You didn't hurt me. Quite the opposite, actually."
His accent was thick, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost a growl. He looked down for a split second, then back up at you, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic line across your hip bone to soothe your nerves.
“It felt good,” he admitted, his chest still heaving as he fought to stabilize his breathing. “Trust me. It was anything but hurtful.”
For some reason though, you couldn’t shake the idea that this might be straining him– even if it might be only a little.
He took notice of this too.
He leaned forward, bridging the gap you’d created but stopping just before his lips touched yours, giving you the choice to close the distance.
“Hey,” he murmured, his breath fanning over your lips, smelling of the stale water they’d shared earlier and the sweet, raw heat of his skin. “Don’t look so worried. Relax, I’m good.” A soft smile replaced the previous smug expression he'd held, his thumb coming up to stroke your cheek to settle the frantic rhythm of your thoughts.
Seeing that smile—the genuine, protective warmth in his eyes—made the last of your hesitation crumble. If he was okay, if this was okay, then the curiosity you’d been shoving down finally began to surface. You didn't pull away this time. Instead, you let your weight sink back into him, your hands sliding from his shoulders to the back of his neck, tangling in the golden strands of his hair.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you took a small, tentative breath and shifted. You didn’t pull back; you leaned in, your hips rolling against his in a deliberate, slow mimicry of the movement that had startled him before.
The result was a low, guttural vibration that started deep in Newt’s chest. His eyes fluttered, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder for support while he simply focused on the movement you made against him.
Finding a spark of confidence in the way he reacted to you, you moved again—this time with a bit more purpose. You were curious about the way his body fit against yours, the way the hard lines of his thighs felt beneath you, the way you could already feel him growing hard against you through his trousers.
"Fuck," he gasped, his voice a wrecked, breathless warning.
His accent was almost unrecognizable now, worn down to a raw, desperate rasp. He wasn't stopping you; he was leaning into it, his hips hitching upward to meet yours in a slow, rhythmic counter-pressure. His hands moved from your waist to your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to guide you, to show you exactly where he wanted that pressure.
You leaned down, your lips brushing against the pulse point of his neck, which revealed how fast his heart was beating. All because of you. You felt a surge of power—sweet and overwhelming—knowing that you were the one causing this. You moved your hips again, more fluidly now, a soft moan escaping your own throat as the friction sent a surge of heat straight to your core.
“Feel good?” He rasped, picking his heavy head up from your shoulder to look at you again. His eyes were glazed over with nothing more than want, his pupils so blown out they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises.
The question wasn't just a check-in; it was a low, honeyed vibration that you felt in the very center of your chest. You couldn't even find the words to answer, your breath hitching as you simply nodded, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his upper arms.
A slow, satisfied smirk ghosted across his lips—not the smug look of a victor, but the expression of a man who was drunk on the effects you had on him. He leaned back just an inch, his hands sliding from your waist to the very edge of your shirt, his thumbs hooking under the fabric to graze the skin of your hips. He began to move his thumbs in those same small, gentle circles he’d started with, but now they were heavy with the friction of your bodies.
He began to rock his hips against yours again, but this time it was deliberate—a slow, agonizingly rhythmic press that forced a soft, broken whimper from your throat. He caught the sound with his lips, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then down to your jawline, his breath hot and ragged.
His teeth grazed your skin, nipping at the flesh only to soothe the short lived pain with his tongue.
You found yourself melting into his touch, his love—the way his mouth left wonders along your skin. The confidence you'd previously felt completely evaporated the second his mouth connected to your neck, leaving you breathless and clinging to him for support. You were no longer the one in control; you were a mess of shivers and soft sighs, completely at the mercy of his lips and that devastating accent.
He pulled back just an inch, his lips hovering over the reddening skin of your throat. A low, rumbling chuckle started deep in his chest—a sound that was pure, unfiltered cockiness. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hooded, a sharp, playful glint dancing in the heat of his gaze.
"Where's that confidence gone, love?" he murmured, his voice a smooth, honeyed taunt.
The smirk on his face was infuriatingly handsome. He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against yours, mocking the way your breath was coming in short, uneven hitches.
"You were doing so well a moment ago," he teased, his London lilt sounding sharper, more playful now that he knew he had you completely undone.
He shifted his weight, pressing his lower half firmly against yours once more, reminding you exactly what you had started.
"Cat got your tongue?" he whispered, his teeth softly taking in your lip, “Or did I find a way to make you forget how to act?”
His cockiness was driving you to your brink but would you do something about it? Probably not. You didn’t want it to stop. Not now.
You let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, the sound escaping your throat before you could catch it. Your head fell back, exposing the line of your throat to him, and your body betrayed you completely. You were falling apart under the sheer gravity of his words, your nerves frayed and sparking like downed power lines.
Needing more than just the ghost of his touch and the vibration of his dirty words, you arched into him. Your hips moved again, but it wasn't the curious, tentative exploration from before. It was a rhythmic, demanding grind—a desperate search for more than just friction. You needed the heat, the pressure. You needed him, in any way you could get him.
Newt’s smirk didn't just vanish; it transformed. It turned into a sharp inhale, his jaw snapping shut as he felt the deliberate, heavy roll of your hips against his. But instead of being a breaking point for the boy, it was a moment where his own nerves simply got the best of him now. Where he suddenly grew nervous to the idea.
His grip on your hips didn’t tighten into a possessive hold; instead, his fingers trembled against your skin. He stayed frozen for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a long, shuddering breath that sounded more like a surrender than a conquest.
"Wait—just, wait a second," he whispered, his voice cracking.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the cockiness from a moment ago was completely gone. In its place was a vulnerability that hit you harder than any of his dirty words could. His eyes were wide, searching yours, and you realized that he was just as nervous as you. His chest was heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own, and his hands trembled in a way he felt he might hurt you doing the bare minimum.
"I want this with you," He started, his accent thickening as he struggled to find the words. He let out a shaky, nervous laugh, his fingers tracing the hem of your shirt with a sudden, shy hesitation. "I want this. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything, but we clearly have no idea what we’re doing."
The admission was a soft confession in the dark. He wasn’t one of the boys who was forced into leadership because people looked to him for advice. He wasn’t second in command around here anymore because there were so many people which meant so many opinions and choices now. Hell, all of you were rookies compared to half this camp. He was just a boy who simply only knew how to survive.
He didn’t even know about the interaction of girls until he met you and how long did it take for it to go anywhere more than just friends?
He reached up, his hand slightly unsteady as he brushed a stray hair from your face, his palm lingering against your cheek. "I don't want to mess it up," he murmured, his thumb grazing your lower lip. "I don't want to hurt you, or go too fast. I just– fuck, I wanna know you. I want to know your body and what you like because you’re the only thing in my life that matters."
He leaned in, but instead of a needy kiss, he pressed his lips softly, almost tentatively, to your forehead. It was a gesture of such pure, gentle devotion that it made your heart ache. He stayed there for a heartbeat, his eyes closed, just breathing you in and letting the reality of your closeness settle into his bones.
Slowly, as if he were afraid you’d disappear, he tilted his head. His lips slid from your forehead to your temple, then trailed down the bridge of your nose with feather-light brushes. When he finally reached your mouth, the kiss wasn't a collision—it was a slow, tentative bloom. It was a soft exploration of textures: the heat of his breath, the slight roughness of his lips from being dry due to the air quality, and the way he hummed low in his throat when you tilted your head to let him in.
His hands, still a little shaky, began a slow journey of discovery. He mapped the curve of your jaw, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear before sliding down to rest at the base of your throat. He seemed to be marveling at the way your pulse jumped under his touch, his own heart thudding a nervous, heavy rhythm against your chest.
“Just want to make you feel good,” he whispered against your lips, his British lilt soft and vulnerable.
Encouraged by his honesty, your own hands began to wander, tracing the lean muscle of his back and the sharp line of his shoulder blades. You felt him shiver—not from the chill, but from the sheer intimacy of the contact.
With a slow, deliberate grace, Newt began to shift. He didn't want to break the connection, his lips staying glued to yours even as he moved. He gripped your waist firmly but gently, lifting you just enough to guide you back. You felt the soft, familiar creak of the cot beneath you as he eased you down from his lap.
He followed you down, his body hovering over yours like a shield, his weight a grounding presence that finally let you feel truly safe. He settled between your legs, his knees bracketing your hips, and he looked down at you with a gaze so filled with nervous, holy awe that it felt like he was seeing you for the first time.
He planted his hands on either side of your head, his arms caging you against the fabric in a way that felt both protective and profoundly intimate.
The rough fabric of his jacket was a frustrating barrier, a stubborn reminder that you couldn’t roam over his muscles the way you wanted to. As he caged you there, you could feel the heat radiating from him, but the heavy material muffled the contact, leaving you craving the solid reality of him.
Your hands moved instinctively, your fingers hooking into the lapels of his jacket and giving a slight, insistent push.
He caught the hint immediately. A small, surprised huff of a laugh escaped him, his eyes softening as he realized your impatience matched his own. "You want me to take it off?," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of nerves and burgeoning heat.
All you could do was nod.
He shifted, breaking the cage of his arms to sit back on his heels. He moved to rest upward on his knees, bracketing your hips so he was still towering over you, the movement exposing the lean strength of his frame. In the dim light, his silhouette outlined with the sun peaking through a small hole in the zipped up tent, his movements slightly clumsy as he shrugged the heavy jacket off his shoulders. He tossed it blindly to the floor, where it landed with a soft thud that felt like a final goodbye for now.
The lean, corded muscle of his forearms, the way his shoulders tensed under the thin material of his shirt, and the golden mess of his hair falling forward over his eyes. He was beautiful in every way possible. By caging you like this, he had created a tiny, private universe where the only things that existed were your breath and his.
When he lowered himself back down towards you he just hovered there, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven cycles. From this angle, you could see the way his muscles flexed to keep himself upright. The way his hair fell, hanging close to your face– almost enough to tickle the tip of your nose.
His eyes were darting across your features, memorizing the way your hair fanned out against the pillow and the way your lips were parted and flushed from his earlier kisses. He looked like he was trying to catch his breath, but the air in the room had become too thick.
Slowly, he lowered himself just an inch more, until his nose brushed against yours. The cage of his arms tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white against the cot as he leaned into the vulnerability of the position. He was completely open to you, his heart hammering so hard against his ribs that you could feel the vibration through the air.
"Let me take care of you, yeah?" he muttered, his accent cracking on the last word. The question was a vow, a soft surrender to the fact that his world now began and ended with you.
He didn't wait for a verbal answer; he could see it in the way your eyes softened and the way your breath hitched. Newt began to move, his body hovering over yours as he started a slow, reverent descent. He started at your jaw, his lips grazing the skin with a tenderness that felt like a prayer. He moved to your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your pulse point, lingering there until he felt the frantic, beautiful drum of your heart beneath his mouth.
Slowly, his hands migrated from your waist to the hem of your shirt. His fingers were still slightly unsteady, his movements cautious as he began to slide the fabric upward. He moved an inch at a time, his eyes fixed on the skin he was uncovering as if he were revealing a masterpiece.
As your shirt bunched up beneath your bra, he lowered his head. He began to pepper soft, worshipping kisses along the curve of your ribs and the flat of your stomach. Each touch was light, almost hesitant, as he learned the way your skin jumped and shivered in response to his lips. He seemed fascinated by you, his nose grazing your skin, breathing you in deeply as if he were trying to pull your very essence into his lungs.
"You're so bloody perfect," he breathed against your midriff, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.
He pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the center of your stomach, his golden hair brushing against your skin, before he looked back up at you. His gaze was dark, hazy with a mix of awe and a hunger that was finally starting to outweigh his fear.
His hands moved from your waist, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your trousers. He didn't pull; he just lingered there, his knuckles grazing your hip bones. His gaze never left yours, a silent, nervous question still shimmering in his eyes.
"Can I take these off?" he whispered, his London lilt barely audible over the hammering of his heart.
When you reached down, your fingers brushing over his hands in a silent 'yes,' he let out a shaky, relieved breath. He began to work the button, his movements slow and deliberate. He wasn't being the cocky boy from before; he was being the boy who cherished you, his fingers careful as he eased the fabric down just enough to reveal more of you to the dim lighting of the tent.
He lips your thighs, pulling the rest of the fabric from your legs and throwing it into the beginning pile he started with his jacket on the floor.
He leaned back down, his lips finding the new expanse of skin he’d uncovered. He kissed the curve of your hip, then the other, his mouth warm and lingering. Every touch was a soft ‘thank you,’ a silent acknowledgment of the trust you were placing in him.
His hands slid down from your waist, his palms flat against your skin, guiding your legs to drape over his shoulders as he knelt between them at the edge of the cot. He started with a kiss just above your knee, his lips soft and hesitant, before he began to trail a slow, agonizing path upward along the sensitive inner skin of your thigh.
Your reaction was instantaneous. A sharp, broken gasp caught in the back of your throat. The idea of never knowing what this felt like due to the way you had to live— the way life was in the maze— made your reaction all the more a tad overreactive.
Newt felt the soft jolt go through you, the way your body hummed like a live wire under his touch. His cock strained against his trousers. The initial nerves that had made his hands shake smoothed out into something else—a steady, intoxicating sense of relief.
He lifted his head just enough to catch the flush on your cheeks and the way your eyes were lidded already and dazed, looking at him with those eyes that made him melt into himself every damn time. A small, breathless laugh escaped him, his thumb tracing a slow, teasing line along the sensitive skin he’d just kissed.
"You like that, Yeah?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, honeyed tone.
He found it more than just endearing; it was addictive. Knowing that he, the boy who had spent so long just trying to keep his head above water, could pull those broken, beautiful sounds from you was a power he never wanted to give up. He watched your chest softly heave, his gaze tracking the way you bit your lip to try and keep the next sound from being too loud.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, a flash of that earlier cockiness returning to his eyes, “I still wanna hear you. I still want to know everything that will make you fall apart.”
To prove his point, he didn't move away. He leaned back in, his mouth finding that exact same spot on your inner thigh, but this time he was more deliberate. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss there, his tongue tracing a slow circle against your skin before he nipped, ever so gently, at the tender flesh.
“Newt,” the sound you made—a high, needy whimper that broke in the middle—sent a visible shiver down his own spine.
"Atta girl," he rasped against your skin, his breath hot and frantic. "That’s my good girl."
The moment those words—low, gravelly, and heavy with approval—hit your ears, it was like the praise felt more intimate than any touch, a sweet, sharp validation that made your stomach flip and your heart pick up. The way his voice was always the thing that could make your heart stutter.
A soft, shaky moan hummed in the back of your throat, and you instinctively bucked your hips, pressing yourself closer to his mouth, seeking more of whatever he had to offer.
"You like that, do you?" he murmured, his lips curving into a small, knowing smirk against your thigh. "Knowing you're being such a good girl for me?"
All you could do was make a soft, broken noise in response to him, a sound that was half-gasp and half-sob, trapped in the back of your throat. The weight of his praise and the heat of his mouth had turned your bones to water; you were a mess of raw nerves and racing pulses, completely held captive by the way he looked at you—like you were something sacred he’d finally been allowed to touch.
Newt noticed the way your breathing had hitched, the way you were looking at him with such hazy, helpless trust. He shifted his hands from under your thighs, ghosting his fingers until they met the soft material of lace around your waist.
He paused there, his thumbs hooking into the soft fabric of your underwear. He didn't pull. Instead, he looked up at you, his golden hair falling over his forehead, his expression a melting pot of that newfound confidence and a lingering, sweet hesitation.
“Let me take care of you, Yeah?” He whispered, his voice nothing but soft and honeyed down. His head dipping down to press a soft kiss dangerously close to where you needed him the most, “Let me take these off.”
You nodded, a soft whimper of impatience slipping past your kiss swollen lips.
His hands were slow, his knuckles brushing against your skin with a reverence that made you shiver. He watched every inch of skin he uncovered as he slid the fabric down your legs, his eyes so focused, drinking you in like a man starved. He tossed the lace to the side, along with other pieces of fabric discarded already.
He leaned forward, his hands sliding up to cup your waist, his thumbs tracing the line of your hips.
"You're so bloody beautiful," he rasped, his voice sounding wrecked already.
He leaned back in, his mouth finding the sensitive, pale skin of your inner thigh once more. This time, the kiss was deeper, his lips lingering with a proprietary heat that made your breath hitch in a jagged rhythm.
As his mouth moved against you, your hands finally found their way to him. Your fingers slid into the messy, golden silk of his hair, your nails lightly grazing his scalp. The sensation of his hair between your fingers and his warm breath against your skin made the world outside vanish.
He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark and blown wide with a mix of hunger and that sweet, nervous devotion. Feeling your fingers tangled in his hair seemed to give him the final boost of confidence he needed. He began to trail his kisses higher, his hands sliding up to cup the backs of your thighs, holding you steady as he worshipped the skin he had just uncovered.
But Newt, despite his nerves, hadn't forgotten the spark of mischief that lived behind his gentle nature. He felt the way your hips stuttered, the way your fingers tightened in his hair, silently begging him to bridge that final, agonizing inch of distance.
He pressed a kiss so light it was almost a ghost of a touch to the very top of your thigh, his breath hitching as he felt you tremble. He moved his mouth a fraction of an inch higher, hovering just over the heat of you, but he didn't make contact. He stayed there, letting his hot, ragged breath fan over you, watching your reaction with a look that was equal parts adoration and pure, playful torture.
"Look at you, so perfect," he whispered against your skin, a tiny, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You let out a frustrated, broken sound, your hips bucking forward in a desperate search for the friction he was withholding. He caught your waist with his hands, his thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still, pinning you to the cot while he stayed agonizingly close, yet so far away.
"Please, Newt," you breathed, your voice cracking with the sheer need of him.
He let out a low, shaky chuckle, his nose brushing against you in a way that made your vision blur. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you over all those lovely noises you're making."
“Newt, fuck just–”
His nose brushed against your clit, allowing a shocked and broken gasp to slip from your lips. The movement was so precise– so intended to happen to politely make you shut up in the best way possible.
Your head snapping back against the pillow was your hips instinctively bucked against his face, chasing that feeling of contact he’d been teasing with the whole time.
And you didn’t have to chase far.
His tongue darted out, slowly sliding up your folds while his eyes stayed locked on yours. He didn't look away for a second, even as his mouth worked you up—he wanted to watch the exact moment the pleasure became too much for you to handle.
Your legs perfectly framed his face, your sun tinted skin against the flushed heat of his cheeks. His palms remained firm against your inner thighs, his fingers digging into your plush skin, ensuring you couldn't shy away.
Newt leaned in, his lips forming a tight seal as he sucked gently on your aching ball of nerves. He let out a low, muffled groan that vibrated deep against your core. He was kneading your thighs in his palms, his thumbs dragging across your skin in a frantic attempt to ground himself while he focused entirely on your pleasure.
Every time his tongue flicked upward in a slow, wet stroke, he glanced up, his eyes dark and dilated, checking to see if you were still with him. He was trying to keep himself quiet, his tongue being used to occasionally catching himself from sounds of his own mounting hunger, terrified that anyone outside might hear the private moment you two were having.
Your breath hitched into a jagged, broken rhythm at the feel of his exploring tongue mapping every sensitive fold. The wet friction was relentless, and as he swirled his tongue in a tight, concentrated circle, your hips jerked against his grasp.
“Oh fuck–” Your words are broken, drenched in a shallowed whimper that only makes his cock twitch painfully against the fabric of his jeans.
Your back arches when he manages to find that sweet spot you never even knew you had. That spot that managed a broken moan slip, where his hand had to free from your thigh to cover your mouth. The spot that made your eyes roll back and completely forget exactly where you are.
Newt couldn’t help but smirk to himself, knowing and realizing he could have had you like this all those years but chickened out– trying to keep the friendship going when he could have had you quivering against him, begging for more.
He zeroed his focus entirely on that singular, aching spot. He began circling his tongue over it in slow, wet revolutions, allowing himself to finally indulge in the full feast of you. Each flick was more deliberate than the last, his movements growing heavy with a desperation.
With a low, guttural hum, his tongue sank deep into your entrance, his nose bumping rhythmically against your clit with every stroke. The friction was agonizingly perfect—the slick slide of his tongue contrasting with the firm, steady pressure of his face against your sensitive nerves.
You shuddered violently, a muffled, high-pitched whine falling into his palm he’d pressed over your own mouth to stay quiet. Your other hand, still tangled deep in his messy golden locks, tightened into a fist, tugging him closer as if you were trying to pull him right inside you.
“Fuck, you taste perfect,” he muttered against your skin, the words vibrating through your entire lower body. His London accent was wrecked, nearly incoherent as he lost himself in the sight of pleasuring you. “Bloody love your sounds... your taste. Can’t get enough of you, love.”
He let out a sharp, ragged breath and doubled his efforts, his tongue lapping at you with a newfound ferocity. He was no longer just exploring; he was devouring you, his one hand sliding from your thighs to hook firmly under your knees, pulling your leg wider to give him even more room to worship you.
The world outside the room—the sand, WCKD, the constant humming of fear—didn't just fade; it ceased to exist. Your mind was a thick, golden haze, every thought of the past or future incinerated by the sheer, localized heat of where his mouth met your pussy. You couldn't have remembered your own name if he’d asked; the only the you knew was his tongue felt like sheer heaven.
It was a total sensory takeover. Every time he swirled his tongue over that hypersensitive peak, a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shot up your spine, blurring your vision until all you could see were the fractals of light behind your closed eyelids. You felt heavy, like your limbs were sinking into the mattress, while your core felt impossibly light, coiled tight and vibrating with a tension that was becoming unbearable.
The feeling was cavernous, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded to be filled, and Newt was answering it with a devastating, soulful focus. You were acutely aware of the texture of him—the warmth of his breath, the soft texture of his tongue, the slight graze of his teeth, the firm, grounding pressure of his palms. It all felt so good.
Your breath was no longer under your control; it was a series of jagged, shallow hitches that mirrored the frantic pace he was setting. The pleasure was so thick it felt like you were drowning in it, a weight that made your muscles stutter and twitch. You weren't just feeling him; you were vibrating on his frequency, your entire existence narrowed down to that one, perfect point of contact.
Newt felt the frantic vibration of your thighs and the way your breath was beginning to turn into inaudible, desperate cries. He knew you were seconds away from shattering, and the thought of you losing control because of him sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through him.
He momentarily broke the contact of his mouth, though he stayed hovering inches away, his breath hot and ragged against your soaked skin. He looked up the length of your body, his eyes dark with a focused, commanding heat you’d rarely seen in him.
"Stay quiet for me, Yeah?" he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly warning that made your stomach do a somersault. "Let me try something."
Before you could even process the request, he shifted. His hand that was pressed over your mouth to muffle your moans was removed and began to slide down your body. His fingers softly slid over your folds, earning a low, broken gasp from you which only urged him on.
He simply wetted his fingers with your seeping arousal, teasing just enough to make you whimper and thrash helplessly– begging for him to touch you again.
“Eager little thing,” A low chuckle fanning over your heat.
His featherlight fingertips ghosted over your entrance, eyes so focused on your pretty cunt that he seemed completely dazed– wrecked from just touching and tasting you. His finger slowly inched inside you then.
The dual sensation was a total system overload. The fullness of his finger inside you, combined with the restriction of your breath, made the haze in your mind thicken into a suffocating, beautiful fog.
Then, he resumed the assault his mouth had done previously.
His tongue went back to its work with a newfound ferocity, lapping at your clit in a fast, rhythmic rhythm while his finger began to gently pump in and out of you. The internal and external friction working in perfect sync was too much; your eyes rolled back, and a muffled, frantic scream died against the flesh of your lip you instantly trapped between your teeth.
He watched you over the curve of your legs, his gaze locked on your face as you bucked against his hand. He was relentless, his tongue swirling and his finger driving deeper, pinning you to the bed with his weight and his will. A prisoner to the most intense pleasure you had ever endured, your body vibrating like a struck bell as he systematically pushed you toward the edge.
“Newt, F-fuck,” you choked out, your voice a fractured sliver of sound that was instantly swallowed. Your body squirmed against his mouth, your back arching off the cot as if you were trying to escape the very pleasure you were chasing.
Newt felt the way your thighs instantly began to close around his head. He felt the way your inner thighs spasmed against his ears and the way your walls began to clench frantically around his finger. He didn't slow down; he leaned into it, his tongue becoming a blurred, relentless force against your clit while his finger pushed deeper, mirroring the frantic pace of your heart.
"That's it," he hummed against your skin, the vibration sent directly from your core. “Give it to me, love."
That was the final blow. The combination of that gravelly, honey-pooled accent and the relentless friction of his tongue and fingers snapped the last thread of your restraint.
A muffled, strangled cry was let out, a violent wave of release crashed through you and you didn’t give a shit who could hear you now. And neither could he.
Newt pressed his face harder against you, his tongue working with a feverish, desperate hunger as he drank in the sweet, hot rush of your climax. He could taste the salt of your skin and the heady, intoxicating essence of your release, and it seemed to drive him absolutely mad. He swirled his tongue through you, catching every drop, his throat working as he swallowed down the proof of your undoing.
He was relentless, refusing to let the sensation fade. Even as the initial peak began to taper into sensitive, aftershock-filled shivers, he continued to lap at you with a slow, worshipping thoroughness. He licked upward from your entrance to the very top of your folds, his tongue heavy and wet, ensuring that not a single bit of you went un-tasted.
Eventually, after your body had finally finished its violent trembling—after he had effectively fucked you through your release with nothing but his mouth and a single, relentless finger—he slowly withdrew. The slide of his finger leaving you felt like a physical loss, the sudden absence of his heat leaving a hollow, echoing emptiness deep in your core that made you want to pull him back.
But Newt was already moving. He rose from his knees, he crawled up the length of the cot. He settled over you, his weight a comforting, solid pressure that helped ground you as the world slowly stopped spinning.
He was bracing himself on his forearms, hovering just inches from your face. That stupid, beautiful smile was plastered across his lips—the one that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners, the one that always fucked you up more than any physical act ever could. He looked triumphant, yet incredibly soft, his golden hair a chaotic halo around his flushed face.
He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted nothing more than you. It wasn't the frantic, hungry kiss from before; it was slow and care filled.
As he pulled back just far enough to brush his nose against yours, your gaze drifted down to the prominent ache still straining against his trousers. A pang of guilt pierced through your hazy afterglow. You reached down instinctively, your hand hovering near his belt buckle.
"Newt," you whispered, your voice still wrecked. "Let me help you–”
He caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and pinning them gently to the pillow beside your head. He let out a low, breathy chuckle, his eyes shimmering with a sincerity that silenced your protest.
"Don't worry about that, love," he murmured, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles. "Seeing you like that– being the one making you feel like that. hearing those sounds you made? That’s more than enough. I meant what I said—I just wanted you to feel good."
He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. "We’ve got all the time in the world now, yeah? We’ll have plenty of chances to explore the rest.”
Hi, it's been quite a while hasn't it? I haven't written on here in so long but I decided to just post whenever I can with little blurbs like these.
Summery: Leon and you became friends after ending a long term relationship with your ex. He was connected to you in more ways than you thought he was.
cw: Non-established relationship. Cute fluff. A real life situation coming from the author. Leon has a little boy around four years old.
Word Count: 5,551
Starting over was never as easy as people liked to pretend it was. Some talked about it like it was simple—like you could close one chapter of your life, gently set it aside, and walk into the next without carrying anything with you. As if love could be something temporary, something that faded quietly over time until both people simply agreed it was over.
As if the person who once felt like your entire world could slowly become just another memory.
Like one day you woke up and realized the spark was gone, and that was that.
But it never worked like that.
Ending a two-year relationship felt like trying to tear apart something that had been carefully built piece by piece. Two years of memories, routines, inside jokes, late-night conversations, shared plans for a future that once felt so certain. Two years of learning someone in ways no one else ever had. You knew the little things about them—the way they laughed when they were tired, the way their voice softened when they said your name, the small habits that once made your chest ache with affection.
And now you were the one who had to look at them and break their heart.
You had to be the one to bring up the conversation that had been sitting heavy in your chest for weeks, maybe months. The one they never saw coming. Because to them, everything was fine. Everything was good. They looked at the two of you and saw something strong, something steady—something that couldn’t possibly fall apart.
They thought you were happy.
They thought the two of you were unstoppable.
But the truth sat in your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake.
Because while they felt secure, you felt suffocated.
Somewhere along the way, loving them had slowly turned into losing pieces of yourself. Little things at first—changing parts of your personality, adjusting the way you spoke, the way you acted, the things you liked. You told yourself it was normal. That relationships required compromise.
But compromise had slowly turned into transformation.
You had molded yourself into someone easier for them to love. Someone calmer, quieter, softer around the edges. Someone who fit better beside them.
Someone who wasn’t really you anymore.
And the worst part was that they never asked you to break yourself like that.
You just did.
Because that’s who you’ve always been.
The kind of person who bends until they break if it means someone else gets to be happy.
So with that kind of weight sitting heavy in your chest, it was impossible not to feel completely lost.
Lost in the quiet aftermath of it all. Lost in the realization that two entire years of your life had been spent loving someone who, in the end, was never meant to stay. Two years of memories that now felt fragile in your head, like something you didn’t quite know what to do with anymore. They were still there—every moment, every laugh, every night you swore you couldn’t imagine your life without them—but suddenly they didn’t lead anywhere.
And that was the part that hurt the most.
Because now your mind wouldn’t stop circling the same questions over and over again.
Was it a mistake?
Should you go back?
Maybe this pain wasn’t worth it. Maybe the loneliness creeping in around your life was worse than the quiet suffocation you had felt before. At least when you were with them, there was someone beside you. Someone to talk to. Someone who knew you in ways no one else did.
Now there was just silence.
Now there was just you and your thoughts.
And sometimes, in the late hours when everything felt heavier, your mind would wander to the dangerous what-ifs. The ones that made your chest tighten all over again.
What if you gave up too soon?
What if you walked away from someone you were supposed to fight harder for?
The uncertainty was the cruelest part of it all. Because there was no way of knowing if this pain was leading you somewhere better, or if you had just destroyed something that could have lasted forever.
If only life worked differently.
If only you could see what waited for you somewhere down the road. If you could catch even the smallest glimpse of the person you might meet someday—the one who might fit beside you without all the bending and reshaping. The one who would make all this heartbreak feel like it had meant something.
Maybe then it would be easier.
Maybe then you wouldn’t spend so much time lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you had just walked away from the best thing you were ever going to have.
Because right now, all you could see was the empty space where they used to be.
And the terrifying uncertainty of what your life was supposed to look like without them in it.
So as you sat there, half lost in the endless loop of your own thoughts, the quiet hum of your civilian job became little more than background noise. Your hands moved automatically, doing the same small tasks you’d done a hundred times before—straightening displays, organizing the counter, scanning over paperwork that barely held your attention. It was the kind of work you could do without really thinking about it.
Which was dangerous.
Because when your mind had nothing to focus on, it wandered right back to the same place it had been stuck in for days.
The breakup.
The silence.
The emptiness that came with it.
Your store was quiet that afternoon, the soft buzz of the overhead lights and the faint sound of music playing through an old speaker filling the space. It almost felt peaceful—until the sharp ding of the entrance bell cut clean through the silence.
Your head lifted automatically, eyes drifting toward the door out of habit more than curiosity.
And that’s when you saw him.
A familiar figure stepped through the doorway, the afternoon light briefly outlining him before the door swung shut behind him. Broad shoulders, uniform pressed neatly, the faint shine of a badge catching the light as he moved further inside.
An officer.
But not just any officer.
You recognized him immediately.
Blonde hair sat neatly on his head, the light strands catching under the store lights as he stepped inside. Baby blue eyes scanned the room, bright and observant, the kind that seemed to take everything in without trying too hard. His face still had that youthful look to it too—a soft, almost boyish baby face that made him seem younger than most officers.
And, like always, there was that small, easy smile resting on his lips. The kind that came naturally to him.
The same guy who had come into the shop a few months back, lingering by the counter longer than most customers ever did. At first, it had been harmless—just small talk while you rang up whatever he had grabbed off the shelf. Casual questions, easy conversation, the kind that felt natural enough that you didn’t think much of it at the time.
He had asked your name first.
Then came the light teasing, the polite compliments, the way he leaned casually against the counter like he had nowhere else to be. You could remember the moment his confidence had faltered slightly, the shift in his expression when he finally worked up the nerve to ask for your number.
It had been oddly sweet, honestly.
But you had still been in a relationship back then.
So you turned him down.
Respectfully, of course.
You remembered giving him a small apologetic smile as you explained that you had a boyfriend and weren’t interested. You had expected some awkwardness, maybe even a bit of irritation—but instead he had taken it surprisingly well. Just a small nod, a quick grin like it hadn’t bothered him too much.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he had said with a light shrug.
After that, though, he hadn’t come around nearly as much.
At first you hadn’t noticed, but over time the pattern became obvious. The occasional visits stopped, the easy conversations disappearing with them. Part of you had always assumed that maybe you bruised his ego a little. It wouldn’t have been surprising.
After all, the man had a reputation around the city.
People talked.
The handsome officer everyone seemed to recognize. A lot of ladies tried their shot with him, from what you could tell or heard about around the town. The kind of guy who turned heads when he walked into a room.
A heartthrob, as some liked to call him.
Which was probably why seeing him walk through your door again now caught you slightly off guard.
Because it had been a while.
But you noticed how he seemed to wander right towards your boss; a woman who felt like a mother figure to you considering your own wasn’t a very good one— and he started talking to her like he’s known her for years.
This peaked your interest considering you didn’t know they knew each other at all but here they were; conversing like old friends.
So as you stood behind the counter, scanning a customer out absent mindedly while flicking your eyes to your boss and him talking, it only made you curious even more.
““‘Scuse me, that was supposed to be on sale?”
The voice cut clean through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you out of the spiral your mind had been trapped in. It took you a second to realize the man standing in front of the counter was talking to you.
“What?” you blinked, glancing down at the gift card still sitting in your hand where you had just run it across the scanner.
“It was supposed to be like… fifteen percent off or something,” the man explained, pointing lightly toward the display behind him. His tone was easygoing, and the small smile on his face made it clear he wasn’t trying to be difficult about it.
“Oh,” you murmured, your brows pulling together as you looked up at the register screen. Sure enough, the price had rung up full. “Uh—hold on.”
You leaned closer to the monitor like maybe staring at it harder would somehow fix the issue, but the number didn’t change.
“Let me go grab my boss,” you said after a moment, setting the card down on the counter. “She’ll know how to fix it.”
“Okay,” the man replied simply, still patient as ever.
You pushed the small swinging gate open and stepped out from behind the counter, walking toward the aisle where your boss was organizing a display a few feet away. She noticed you approaching before you could even open your mouth.
“Hey, baby cakes, what’s up?” she greeted casually.
It was the nickname she’d given you not long after you started working there. At first it had caught you off guard, but by now it barely registered.
“I just need your help at the register,” you explained. “The gift cards aren’t ringing up fifteen percent off like they’re supposed to.”
You stopped beside the blonde officer who stood facing her. When you glanced up at him, he gave a small nod in greeting— his quiet way of saying hello.
You returned the gesture.
Your boss’s eyes flicked between the two of you.
Once.
Twice.
And then, without even a second of hesitation, she blurted out, “You guys should totally date.”
For a moment, the words didn’t fully register in your head.
You just stood there, staring at your boss with a slightly dumbfounded expression, like your brain had lagged behind the conversation. It hung in the air awkwardly for a second, your mind still trying to catch up with what she had just said.
You guys should totally date.
It took another beat for it to actually sink in.
And when it did, your eyes instinctively flicked toward the officer standing beside you.
That’s when you noticed it.
The way the color had suddenly rushed to his cheeks, a soft pink spreading across them almost instantly. His reaction was quick, like he hadn’t expected that to come out of her mouth either. One of his hands came up to cover his mouth as he let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, clearly trying to play it off.
But it didn’t quite hide it.
The way his shoulders shifted slightly. The way he looked down for a second, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself.
He was flustered.
Actually flustered.
And for someone who carried himself the way he did—calm, confident, the kind of guy who seemed used to attention—it was surprisingly endearing.
Cute, even.
The thought slipped into your mind before you could stop it.
“W-what?”
You could already feel the heat creeping up your cheeks, the warmth spreading fast enough that you were sure it was obvious. Your eyes flicked between your boss and the officer beside you, still trying to process the fact that she had just said that out loud—so casually too, like it was the most normal suggestion in the world.
“You heard me,” she replied without missing a beat.
There wasn’t even a hint of embarrassment on her face. If anything, she looked entirely satisfied with herself.
And before either of you could even think of a response, she simply brushed past the two of you like the moment was already over, heading straight for the register to help the waiting customer.
Just like that.
Leaving the two of you standing there.
Alone.
For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The silence hung awkwardly between you, thick enough that you could practically feel it pressing in. When you glanced over at him again, the faint pink still lingered on his cheeks, though his hand had dropped from his mouth now.
He let out another small, slightly embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Uh… sorry about that,” he said, his voice light despite the obvious awkwardness.
You huffed out a quiet laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “No worries.”
The tension eased a little after that.
Conversation started slowly at first—simple things. Small talk. The kind of easy back-and-forth that had happened the first time he ever came into the store months ago. But once it started, it didn’t feel forced. If anything, it felt strangely natural.
He leaned casually against the counter while your boss handled the customer, the two of you filling the quiet with light conversation.
Work.
The city.
Little jokes here and there.
What was supposed to be just a quick moment stretched into something longer without either of you really noticing. Before you realized it, nearly fifteen minutes had passed. Fifteen minutes of easy conversation and soft laughter that felt… surprisingly comfortable.
Comfortable enough that when the moment came for him to leave, he hesitated slightly.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Hey, uh,” you started, glancing at him for a moment before speaking again. “Is it too late to get your number?”
Your stomach flipped slightly.
Months ago, you had turned him down without hesitation because you had someone else.
But now?
Now things were different.
He hesitated for only a second before finally taking the small receipt paper you pulled from your machine and began writing down his number
“Sure,” He said, trying to sound casual as he held it out for you to grab.
His smile widened just a little while staring down at you with those gorgeous baby blues.
Friends.
That was all this was.
Just two people exchanging numbers. Talking. Getting to know each other.
You could be friends, right?
Right?
Wrong.
Months passed before you really realized how much time had gone by.
What started as occasional texts slowly turned into something more constant. At first it was simple—checking in every now and then, little jokes sent back and forth, conversations that picked up randomly throughout the day. But somewhere along the way, it became part of your routine.
Good morning texts.
Late night conversations.
Random pictures of things that reminded you of each other.
And when your schedules allowed it, the two of you would meet up. Nothing fancy—just small things. Grabbing coffee, walking around town, sitting in his car talking longer than either of you planned to. The kind of time spent together that felt easy.
That was when you learned more about him.
More about his life outside of the uniform.
More about the person he was when he wasn’t just “Officer Kennedy.”
Like the fact that he had a little boy.
He had told you about him one evening while the two of you were sitting on a bench outside a small café, his voice softening in a way you hadn’t heard before when he talked about work or anything else. You could see it immediately in his expression—the quiet pride, the warmth that lit up his face when he spoke about his kid.
The boy’s mother and Leon weren’t together anymore, but they did their best to co-parent for their son. It wasn’t always perfect, he admitted, but they tried.
Because at the end of the day, their little boy came first.
And it was obvious how much Leon loved him.
The way he talked about him made that painfully clear.
He adored that kid.
Always making time for him no matter how busy work got. No matter how exhausted he was after long shifts. If his son wanted to play, Leon played. If he wanted attention, Leon gave it without hesitation.
You’d even seen it yourself a few times.
The way his whole demeanor changed when he was around his son—softer, lighter somehow. The serious edge he carried as an officer fading into something warmer, more patient.
And the thing that stuck out the most?
He could never seem to tell the boy no.
Even when he was clearly tired. Even when he probably needed a moment to breathe after a long day.
It was always yes.
Yes to playing one more game.
Yes to staying up a little later for a movie.
Yes to whatever small thing made his kid smile.
And you couldn’t help but admire it.
Wholeheartedly.
There was something about the way Leon loved so deeply that stayed with you. The way he treated his son like the most important thing in the world, protecting that little piece of innocence with everything he had.
Every time you saw it, every time you heard him talk about his boy with that same soft pride in his voice.
You felt something warm bloom quietly in your chest.
Something that made your heart swell just a little more each time.
And today was no different.
Leon had invited you to spend the day with him and his son, something he had mentioned a few days earlier over text like it was no big deal. But to you, it was. Being included in something like that—being welcomed into that small part of his life—felt oddly special.
The plan for the day had been simple: whatever his son wanted to do.
And honestly, you were perfectly fine with that. More than fine, actually. You felt honored that Leon trusted you enough to let you step into his little world with his boy, even if it was just for the afternoon.
That alone meant a lot.
Leon had picked you up earlier that morning, his car pulling up outside your place right on time. The moment you opened the passenger door, a small voice chirped from the back seat.
“Hello!”
You looked back to see his little boy waving at you enthusiastically from his car seat, a bright smile stretched across his tiny face.
Your heart fluttered instantly.
“Hi there,” you laughed softly, giving him a wave back.
He was adorable.
Leon’s son had quickly decided that the park was the place he wanted to go today, something Leon had agreed to without even a second of hesitation.
So the three of you headed there together.
But during the drive, you started to notice something a little… off.
Leon was quiet.
Not completely silent, but quieter than usual. Normally, he could talk your ear off if you gave him the chance. He always had something to say—a story from work, a random thought, some teasing comment that would make you roll your eyes.
Today, though, his voice was softer. Slower.
When you glanced over at him, you noticed the faint shadows under his eyes—small bags that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. His gaze seemed a little heavier too, the kind that suggested he’d probably kill for a solid power nap right about now.
He looked exhausted.
Still, he did his best to stay present. He responded when you spoke, glanced back at his son whenever the boy excitedly pointed something out the window, and even managed a few tired smiles along the way.
When you finally pulled into the park, Leon climbed out first and walked around to the backseat.
You watched as he carefully lifted his son out of the car, settling the boy easily on his hip like he’d done it a thousand times before.
“Alright, bud,” Leon said, brushing some hair back from the boy’s forehead. “You’ve got about an hour, maybe two.”
His son tilted his head. “Why?”
“Because,” Leon sighed dramatically, though the small smile on his face softened it, “you need a nap today.”
The kid didn’t seem thrilled about that idea, but he didn’t argue either.
And if you were being honest, it almost sounded like Leon was trying to convince himself just as much as his son.
Probably because that nap would give him a chance to relax for a little while too.
The next hour passed quickly.
The three of you ran around the playground, the afternoon filled with laughter and the sound of little sneakers pounding against the ground. You played tag until Leon’s son dissolved into giggles, pushed him on the swings while he shouted for you to go higher, and chased him around the jungle gym while he declared himself the fastest kid alive.
Leon joined in too, even though you could tell he was running on fumes.
Still, he never once slowed down when his son wanted to play.
By the time an hour had passed, Leon finally clapped his hands together and let out a tired breath.
“Alright, bud,” he said gently. “Time to head home.”
Honestly?
You were tired too.
Little boys were no joke.
Leon started gathering the few things you had brought with you—water bottles, a small bag with snacks, the boy’s jacket that had been tossed aside earlier. You helped pick up the rest before Leon scooped his son back up into his arms.
The boy rested easily against him, his small arms loosely wrapped around Leon’s neck.
As they walked ahead of you toward the car, something about the scene made your chest tighten in the best way.
Leon carried him so naturally, one hand secure against the boy’s back as he murmured something softly that you couldn’t quite hear.
It was sweet.
Too sweet, honestly.
Without thinking too much about it, you pulled your phone out and quickly snapped a picture from behind them.
Just the two of them walking together.
It felt like a moment worth keeping.
By the time you reached the car, Leon carefully settled his son back into the car seat and buckled him in, double-checking the straps like he always did. Once everything was secure, he shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.
Soon enough, the three of you were back in the car.
And Leon started the drive toward his house so the boy could finally get that much-needed nap.
The drive back wasn’t very long.
Partly because the park wasn’t too far from Leon’s place—but mostly because Leon was driving just a little faster than he probably should have been. You noticed it when the car picked up speed along the quieter streets, the tires humming softly against the pavement.
It didn’t bother you though.
Not even a little.
You trusted his driving, and honestly you could understand why he was eager to get home. His son was starting to get that quiet, sleepy look in the backseat—the kind kids get right before they crash.
Leon probably wanted to get him inside before he completely knocked out in the car.
So you just leaned back in your seat, glancing out the window as the houses passed by while the car filled with a comfortable kind of silence.
Eventually Leon slowed as he pulled into his driveway, the car rolling to a stop in front of the house.
He shifted the car into park and turned the engine off, the sudden quiet settling over the vehicle.
“Alright,” he murmured mostly to himself as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
Leon stepped out first, closing the driver’s door quietly before walking around to the backseat. You followed a moment later, stepping out onto the driveway just in time to see him carefully opening the door and leaning inside to unbuckle his son from the car seat.
His movements were gentle, careful in that way parents naturally are.
He lifted the boy into his arms with ease, adjusting him against his hip while grabbing the small bag of things you’d brought with you earlier.
You walked up behind them, a small smile tugging at your lips without you even realizing it.
It still felt a little surreal.
Being here.
Spending the day with him and his son like this—so simple and normal that it almost didn’t feel real. No pressure, no complicated expectations. Just the three of you enjoying the day together.
It felt… peaceful.
Perfect, even.
Leon unlocked the front door and stepped inside first, nudging it open with his shoulder while balancing his son in one arm.
The house itself was modest, comfortable in a lived-in kind of way. Nothing fancy, but warm. You stepped in after him, watching as he set the bag and a couple other things down on a chair near the door.
The living room sat just ahead.
A couch rested against one wall—though you noticed pretty quickly it wasn’t a typical one. It was one of those sofas that could fold out into a futon. Right now it was set up as a regular couch, a blanket tossed over the back like it was used often.
“You can sit down,” Leon said, glancing over at you with a small, tired smile. “I just need to grab something to drink really fast.”
“Okay,” you replied softly.
He disappeared into the kitchen a moment later, the faint sound of cabinets opening following him.
You made your way over to the couch and sat down, sinking slightly into the cushions as the quiet of the house settled around you.
Your attention shifted toward the middle of the living room.
That’s when you noticed the small mattress laid out on the floor.
It looked like it had been used recently—blankets slightly rumpled, a pillow resting near the top. You realized pretty quickly it was probably where his son had been sleeping the last few nights.
The couch probably wasn’t comfortable enough for Leon to leave the boy there alone.
And sure enough, his son shuffled over toward the mattress now, clearly exhausted from all the running around earlier. The little boy climbed onto it without much fuss, curling up slightly as if his body already knew it was time to sleep.
You watched him quietly, a soft warmth spreading through your chest at the simple sight.
It was such a small thing.
But it felt strangely intimate being here to witness it.
A few moments later, Leon came back from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand.
“Did you want something?” he asked, lifting the glass slightly as he motioned toward it.
You shook your head, looking up at him with a soft smile. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Alright,” he replied quietly.
He walked over and sank down onto the couch beside you, the cushions dipping slightly under his weight. The tiredness in his movements was more obvious now that he was finally sitting down. He leaned forward just enough to set his glass on the small glass table to your left before settling back again.
That’s when you noticed the pillow in his other hand.
He must’ve grabbed it from his room while he was in the kitchen.
It made sense—if he was planning to stay out here while his son slept, he probably wanted something a little more comfortable than the bare arm of the couch.
Leon glanced over at you, hesitating for a brief moment before speaking again.
“Do you mind if I lay down against you?”
Your heart fluttered almost instantly at the question.
“Of course not,” you replied softly.
You moved your hands from your lap, giving him room as he carefully set the pillow down beside you. Leon shifted until he was lying along the couch, his head resting on the pillow close to your thigh.
He let out a quiet breath as he settled in, like his body had been waiting all day for this moment to relax.
At first, you weren’t quite sure what to do with your arms.
You didn’t want your arm trapped awkwardly beneath him, but you also didn’t want to accidentally make him uncomfortable by pulling away too quickly. So you kept your hand lifted slightly in the air for a moment, giving him some space while trying to stay comfortable yourself.
Eventually though, your arm started to get tired.
Slowly, you lowered it, letting your hand rest gently against his shoulder.
Leon didn’t react negatively at all.
If anything, he seemed to relax even more, his breathing slowing slightly as his eyes drifted shut.
So you let yourself relax too.
The room was quiet, save for the faint rustling of his son shifting around on the mattress in the middle of the living room. Leon never fully fell into deep sleep though—not completely. You could tell he was still half-aware, always listening for his boy.
He drifted in and out of sleep instead.
A few minutes of quiet rest. Then a small shift when his son moved. Then back to resting again.
You found yourself slowly starting to doze off too, your eyelids growing heavier as the peaceful quiet settled around you.
Then you felt Leon move slightly.
His hand lifted, gently reaching for yours where it rested on his shoulder. Carefully, almost absentmindedly, he guided your hand down until it rested against the side of his face.
Your palm settled softly along his jaw.
You could feel the faint scratch of stubble there, light against your skin as it trailed down his cheek and toward his neck. His skin was warm—warmer than you expected—and surprisingly soft for someone with such a physically demanding job.
Your thumb brushed slightly near the spot where his pulse rested beneath his skin.
You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat there.
Leon’s hand remained loosely around yours, his thumb slowly rubbing across your knuckles in slow, absentminded motions. The touch was gentle. Soothing.
It made your heart begin to beat a little faster.
Not in a bad way, Just nervous in the best kind of way.
Every once in a while, the movement would stop completely.
You’d think he had finally fallen fully asleep.
But then a minute or two later, his thumb would start moving again—soft, slow circles against your skin like it was something he was doing without even thinking about it.
He shifted slightly closer, pressing his cheek deeper into your palm.
Your index finger slid just enough that it rested in between his lips.
And that’s when you noticed how soft they were.
You couldn’t help the small thought that passed through your mind.
Most of the guys you’d dated before never really had soft lips. Not truly. They were fine—normal—but there was always some dryness, some roughness that came with it.
Leon’s were different.
Smooth. Warm. Not even slightly chapped.
Honestly, it made sense.
Leon was almost obsessive about taking care of himself. You had noticed that over the months you’d spent getting to know him. His hygiene, his appearance, the way he kept everything neat and clean.
It showed.
And strangely enough, that kind of care was attractive.
A man who actually took care of himself.
The quiet intimacy of the moment slowly pulled you deeper into that half-asleep haze too. The warmth of him beside you, the gentle way he held your hand, the peaceful quiet of the room—it all made your eyes grow heavier.
Then you felt it.
Leon’s lips brushing softly against the pad of your finger.
A gentle kiss.
So light you almost thought you imagined it.
But then he did it again, slower this time.
Your heart fluttered helplessly in your chest.
God.
He was so sweet. So gentle with everything and everyone he cared for.
‘Leon’s used to you trying out your internet trends on him….’
Leon knew this was completely ridiculous. Of course he did. The man still had his utility belt around his waist, boots on and un-showered. But seemingly, this just couldn’t wait.
“Sleeve up!” You said with glee, hands clasped around a roll of navy ribbon with a black lace trim.
He sighed, sliding the sleeve upward and over his bicep. The loose material moving with ease all the way up to his shoulder, where it bunched together in thick lines.
His eyes watched you carefully, dark rings clinging to his waterline. Pupils still sharp and calculated, his body still not having fully settled into being at home. Yet they softened as you smiled up at him, unrolling the silky fabric until it was about fifteen inches long. Taking a pair of gilt sewing shears you snipped a clean line. Bringing the ribbon up to his arm with the biggest smile he’d seen in weeks.
“I saw this online…” You laughed, “I know it’s kinda silly but, I don’t know, I figured you could use some silliness.” Taking the ribbon, you wrapped it from behind, bringing both edges to meet in the middle of the muscle which faced you. Tying a neat bow in the part which swelled the most. You adjusted the loops, making sure they were even and bunched together nicely. You picked the shears up for a finishing touch, using their blades to create a curl in the ribbon that hung loose below the loops.
“Ta da!” You beamed, “I mean, these biceps have never looked better.”
Leon cast his gaze down to his arm, which was tied like a Christmas present. An hour ago he was knee deep in a crime scene, and now he was here. In bed, having just got home, with you in that delicate robe he loved so much. And a bow around his arm.
And somehow, his heart swelled at the gesture.
“You’re ridiculous.” He smiled, lifting his hand to your thigh, slipping it up past your robe and rubbing small circles into the skin.
“Oh, I know.” You whispered, tilting your head to one side. “You should flex.”
“I don’t even want to ask why.”
“Just do it!”
Without putting up much a fight, he flexed the muscle, and not to your surprise, the dainty little ribbon snapped in two, fluttering down to his combat trousers. There was a beat of silence through the bedroom.
Newt would pack a little trinket for you when everyone is busy packing necessary supplies in the underground mall. He'd find a little bunny figurine or glass gemstone in your favourite colour and put it in his pocket without thinking. There wouldn't be a calm moment in which he can gift it to you and linger in the feeling of connection, but he'd make an effort to shield you from the world as often as possible, pulling you against his chest for a hug lasting for more than a shallow inhale at least once a day. He'd slip the trinket into your hand and place a kiss on your forehead when you sat together. The exhaustion settled into your bones a long time ago, and rest was never relaxing, but he'd make sure you knew you were never an afterthought, even little silly things being granted space.
Newt would lean against you while standing. The days being filled with walking would gnaw on his leg's capability to keep up even when he gave his best to hide the immense discomfort. He'd be subtle, but he wouldn't be far away anyways, so him gravitating towards you when stopping in his tracks would go unnoticed as anything unordenary, but he'd always trust you to give him the break he needs and this would be one of the rare occurrence when he'd deny himself having to be strong in his body on his own.
Newt would use your thigh as leverage for his leg when sitting on the ground. Shoulder to shoulder, you'd gently tap on his thigh and guide it over yours, so his leg is pillowed warmly.
Newt would hold you close for a long time when you settled in the Right Arm's relief camp. He'd hide in the crock of your neck for a whole, his arms circled around you, his hands gently stroking your back, so you have something to anchor your breathing in. He'd eventually push his hand in your pocket and pull out the trinket, and push it into your hand, engulfing yours with his own, a silent reminder to hold onto the world.
author's note: thought of this song, re-listened to it, got inspired lmfao, hope you enjoy!♡︎♡︎ (somewhat proofread) / divider cred: @uzmacchiato
link to song here!
is somebody gonna match my freak?
is somebody gonna match my freak?
is somebody gonna match my nasty?
i got stamina, they say I'm a athlete
Is somebody gonna match my freak?
need somebody with a good technique
is somebody gonna match my nasty?
pillow talking got my throat raspy
“god, you taste unreal,” he breathed, pulling your hips closer so your thighs framed his face. “keep your legs open for me.”
you tried — but he’s ruthless. he licked you again, faster this time, tongue flicking your clit before sliding down and fucking you with his mouth. his hands locked around your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you while he devoured you like he’s starving.
you bucked into his face and he tightens his grip, pinning you down.
“no, love,” he murmured against your pussy, “you take what i give you.”
your breath hits that ragged, raspy place as he worked you over and over — tongue, lips, fingers sliding in to curl right where’d you fall apart the fastest. he knew your body too well. he knew exactly how to make you lose every coherent thought.
and when your thighs start shaking, when your voice cracked into a desperate, broken sound you’d never let anyone else hear, jj only pulled back enough to smirk against your skin.
“that’s it,” he whispered, sucking your clit one more time, hard, “give it to me. i want all of it.”
you cummed with his mouth still on you, his fingers still fucking you, jj groaning like your pleasure alone was getting him off.
he looked up at you afterward — lips shiny, pupils blown, breath heavy — and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s proud of the mess he made.
if you keep up with me
i’ll keep on coming back
if you do it too good
i’m gonna get attached
'cause it it feels like heaven when it hurts so bad
baby, put it on me
i like it just like that
just like that
jj’s got you on top of him, your thighs bracketing his hips, his hands gripping your waist like you’re something precious and filthy at the same time — something he can’t let go of even if he tried.
you sank down onto him, slow at first, but the second he felt how tight you were around him, jj’s head fell back against the pillows with a broken groan.
“fuck— mama—”
his fingers digged harder into your hips, guiding you down until he’s buried all the way inside you. the stretch burned in the best way, that addictive little ache that makes your breath break in your throat, and jj watched your face like he’s memorizing every second of it.
“yeah,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “ride me just like that.”
you start moving — grinding, rolling your hips, taking him deeper each time — and jj lost it a little. his hands slid up your sides, under your shirt, up your ribs, gripping your waist again as if he needed to anchor himself.
“you keep this up…” he panted, pulling you down harder, making you gasp, “m' never gonna let you go.”
you whimpered, and that sound punched the air out of him. jj sat up suddenly, chest pressed to yours, one hand slid to the back of your neck while the other stayed on your hip, controlling every drag of your body against his.
“you feel so fucking good,” he growled against your mouth. “hurts so good, doesn’t it?”
you nodded, nails digging into his shoulders, and jj’s jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by a thread.
“say it,” he whispered, thrusting up into you so deep it knocked a cry out of you. “tell me you like it like this.”
“jj— i— fuck— i like it— just like that—”
he kissed you hard, swallowing the sound, his hips snapping up into you in sharp, perfect angles that make your whole body tremble. every time he hit that spot, your walls clenched around him, and jj groaned like he’s addicted to it — addicted to the way you took him, the way you reached for him, the way you gave in to him.
“good girl,” he cooed against your lips. “keep going. i’ll always come back for you.”
his thumb dragged over your lower lip, like he’s trying to memorize the way you looked when you’re this gone for him. he kissed down your neck, biting lightly, soothing it with his tongue.
“put it on me,” he murmurs, thrusting up into you again, “just like that, baby. just like that…”
i been a nasty girl, nasty
i been a nasty girl, nasty (just like that)
i been a nasty girl, nasty
i been a nasty nasty nasty (I like it just like that)
i been a nasty girl, nasty
i been a nasty girl, nasty (just like that)
i been a nasty girl, nasty
i been a nasty, nasty, nasty
the twinkie smelled like sunscreen, smoke, and summer — and now it smelled like sex too, the windows fogging up before your back even hits the old seat.
jj barely got the sliding door shut before he was on you, mouth on yours, one hand already shoving your shorts down while the other one fisted in your shirt like he’s dragging you into him.
“get in the back,” he panted against your lips, “now.”
you climbed into the backseat, and the second you do, he grabbed your ankles and yanked you toward him with a rough, hungry laugh.
“god, look at you,” he said, spreading your legs open with both hands like he’s unwrapping something meant for him. “you’re turning me on so fucking bad.”
his voice was breathless, wrecked, that exact tone he gets when he knows you’re about to do something nasty — the kind of shit you’d never do with anyone else.
you pulled him down by his shirt, kissing him hard, grinding up against him, and jj groaned into your mouth like he was losing his mind.
“you wanna be bad for me tonight?” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “in the twinkie? out here where anyone could walk by?”
you nodded, desperate.
jj didn’t bother teasing. he didn’t give you space to think. he just pushed inside you in one slow, deep stroke that knocked every bit of breath out of your chest.
you gasped — loud, raw, shocked at how deep he is in this cramped space — and jj’s eyes rolled back.
“holy shit,” he groans, mouth falling open as he grabbed your thighs. “you’re tighter in here. fuck, pretty girl.”
he started thrusting immediately, one hand braced on the window, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you down onto him as the van rocked with every movement.
the twinkie creaks.
the windows shake.
the whole damn van is alive with it.
jj’s breathing got messy fast, forehead pressed to yours, sweat slick on his temples, his hair falling into his eyes. (a/n: hot.)
“you’re so nasty,” he panted, grabbing your jaw and kissing you so deep it steals sound from your throat. “you like this? you like fucking me in the damn van?”
you choked out a “yes”, but jj’s already slamming into you harder, the seat belts rattling beside your head, his body covering yours completely.
“yeah you do,” he growled, biting your neck just enough to make you gasp. “you’re my nasty girl — look at you, taking me like this.”
your nails digged into his back, pulling him closer, and he groaned — a deep, animal sound that makes your whole body clench.
“just like that,” he mutters against your skin, hips snapping in perfect, brutal rhythm. “keep going. be nasty for me. don’t stop.”
you can’t — not when his fingers slid down to your clit, rubbing hard, fast, messy circles as he fucks you deep enough to see stars.
is somebody gonna match my freak?
touch my body till my knees turn weak
you ain't even got to ask me (ask me)
you know i’m down seven days of the week
i can tell you wanna touch my-
oh!
lick my-
oh!
kiss my (uhh)
and it made me wanna ride yo-
oh!
grab yo-
oh!
oh my-
“god!!” you threw your head back against the shower wall as jj’s dick pumped in and out of your wet cunt.
you’ve been at it for hours, but he wouldn’t let up.
not even a little.
water poured over both of you, hot and steaming, turning your skin red and slick, but jj didn’t care. his hands were planted on your hips, fingers digging in, dragging you back onto him every single time your legs tried to give out.
“don’t you dare,” he growled into your shoulder, hips slamming into yours with a wet, filthy “smack!”. “don’t you fucking fall on me. you said you wanted more.”
your breath stuttered, broken, almost a sob from how sensitive you were. “j— i can’t— i’m—”
“yes you can.” he grabbed the back of your thigh and lifted your leg higher, opening you up for him even deeper. you cried out at the new angle, your nails scraping down the wet tile.
jj’s lips found your neck, kissing and biting at the same time, his thrusts getting harsher, wetter, louder as your body clenched around him again and again.
“shit— you’re so fucking tight,” he groaned. “you’re squeezing me like you wanna take my soul.”
the water hit his back and rolled down your stomach, his chest pressed flush to yours, the heat dizzying. you tried to brace yourself, hands slipping on the glass, but jj caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.
“look at you,” he breathed against your ear, voice shaking with how hard he was fucking you. “hours later and you’re still begging for my cock.”
your knees trembled violently, your head dropping forward onto his shoulder. jj let go of your wrists only to cup your face, tilting it up so you were forced to meet his eyes.
those dark, blown-out pupils.
that wrecked, hungry expression.
“i want you lookin’ at me when you cum,” he said, thrusting deep enough to knock a moan right out of your lungs. “i wanna see your face when i fuck the last bit of strength out of you.”
you whimpered, and jj’s jaw clenched like he was barely holding it together.
“yeah,” he hissed, pounding into you harder, water splashing everywhere, “that’s it— take it— fucking take all of it.”
your body shook, collapsing into his grip, and jj just hauled you up higher, forcing you to keep taking him, relentless, unstoppable.
“i’m not done with you,” he whispered against your mouth, fucking you so deep your vision blurred. “not even close.”
hey big daddy is it big enough? deep enough? freak enough?
can I get a little little piece of ya?
beat, beat, beat it up
speed, speed, speed it up
yeah, we heatin' up
the bathroom is stupidly pretty — marble counters, gold fixtures, soft lighting — and jj ruins it the second he locks the door behind you.
his hands are on your hips immediately, spinning you to face the counter, pushing your palms flat against the cool marble.
“bend,” he murmurs, voice low enough to vibrate through you, “now.”
you did — because the second that tone comes out of him, your knees go weak anyway.
he stepped up behind you, crowding you against the counter, one hand sliding up your spine, pressing lightly until your back arched just how he wanted it. his other hand pulled your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist.
jj exhaled sharply when he saw you — panties already pushed aside, slick catching the warm light.
“jesus,” he whispered, “you’re already dripping. you really want me to fuck you at midsummers?”
you nodded, breath quick, fingers gripping the counter edge.
jj dragged his thumb through your slick, slow, just to hear you whimper.
“good,” he said, voice darkening, “’cause i’m gonna.”
he pushed inside you in one slow, thick stretch that steals every bit of air from your lungs. you gasped, nails scraping the marble, and jj let out a broken groan at how tight you were.
“is it big enough?” he panted against your shoulder, sliding deeper, “yeah… yeah, it is.”
when he bottomed out, he paused — just long enough to grab your hips harder and pull you back onto him, making you take every inch.
you moaned, head dropping, and jj smirked against your neck.
“deep enough?” he asks, and without waiting for an answer, he thrusted forward, hard, making your breath crack.
your body jolted with the force, the counter shaking under your hands, your thighs trembling as jj set a brutal rhythm, his hips pounding into you over and over.
“fuck—” he groaned, gripping your waist so tight your skin burned, “you can take it. you take me so good.”
you feel his fingers slide down between your legs, stroking your clit fast and messy as his thrusts got faster, harder — exactly the vibe you wanted.
“we’re heating up,” he breathed, voice wrecked, “so hold onto the counter, baby, ’cause i’m not slowing down.”
your knees almost buckled, your breath came out sharp and ragged, and jj just pulled you back harder, fucking you deep enough to echo off the marble.
midsummers is happening right outside the door — champagne, laughter, music — and none of it mattered .
not when jj had you like this.
❀❀❀❀
the second you both slipped back into the party, jj’s hand is glued to your waist like he suddenly thought you might evaporate if he let go for a second.
his hair was messy, his tie was crooked, and he kept giving you that stupid little grin — the one that meant “yeah i know what we just did and i’m real proud of it.”
he leaned down, whispering, “you good? need water? oxygen? a wheelchair?”
you smacked his arm and he laughed way too loud for someone who just did a crime.
he grabs two champagne flutes off a passing waiter, handed one to you, then clinked his against yours gently.
“to not getting caught,” he whispered. “and to you being the hottest person at this whole fancy-ass party.”
he took a sip, then immediately made a face because champagne was definitely not jj’s thing.
“tastes like… i don’t even know. rich people sadness.”
you choked on your drink laughing.
he put his arm around you again, squeezing your shoulder, pulling you into his chest like you were his safest place in the whole chaotic world.
then he dipped his head to kiss your temple — soft, slow, nothing like how he had you earlier.
“you look happy,” he murmured. “i like seeing you like that.”
his thumb starts tracing circles on your hip, gentle and absent, like he didn’t even realize that he was doing it.
“i’m gonna steal you after this,” he said casually. “take you to the beach. or back to the chateau. or literally anywhere you wanna go. i don’t even care. i just wanna be with you.”
then he noticed a stray piece of hair stuck to your lip, brushing it away with his thumb, and kissed the exact spot where it was.
“yeah,” he whispered with a soft smile, “that’s better.”
you leaned into him and jj didn’t hesitate — he wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, swaying you gently to the music like you’re slow dancing even though no one else was.
he rested his chin on your shoulder.
“i could stay like this forever,” he admitted quietly.
and he meant it.
you can feel it in the way he held you — careful, warm, and completely yours.
