I think about mean!Simon not wanting you to leave his place after staying at his place for too so long.
He’s very good at playing house with you, from cooking dinner and you washing dishes, hours spent in his arms and laughing at his corny jokes, trying your best to kick him out the bathroom while you go to the bathroom or do your hair. Your little conversations to yourself as he passes the room you might be in, finding you blasting music and going through photos. Whisky brown eyes glued to your thighs in his shirt that you’re wearing. The man likes the fact that he can come home to you, let you talk his head off or vice versa. Slugger, his dog, is more than happy to have two parents rather than one.
So when it’s time for you to go home— why is that even a thought that crossed you mind?
Simons mid bite of his sandwich when his ears catch the ‘thud’ of one of your duffle bags full of clothes is dropinh to the door.
His eyebrows are knitted together when he sees you coming down the stairs with another duffle, “Tho’ y’were jokin about leavin kitty.”
You bite back a smile, cheeks growing warm, “I can’t stay here forever Si, I gotta wash my clothes!”
“‘Ve got a washer ‘nd dryer.”
“I can’t wear the same clothes for ever! My closet is calling me.”
“Shops callin us then, yeah? Can get ya new clothes.”
You giggle through a groan, “Simon!” 
The rugged man is already pulling you by the waist and into his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He can’t say it, won’t say the words ‘don’t go’ or ‘I’ll miss you’ formally. But it bleeds through everything so blatantly, you can’t help but let out a chuckle. Rubbing his broad and scared back. Your fingers glide through his blonde locks of hair, scratching his scalp. “Why’re you bein cute, huh? so big ‘n bein cute.“
It’s got his heart pounding so loud, he lets out an incoherent grumble, as to quiet his own heart. Such a baffling yet peculiar feeling that the man has only groan more and more fond of with each passing day with you. Before you can even realize it, you’re being thrown over Simons shoulder that makes you yelp out. Slapping at his back to put you down, which he does, on the couch, not hesitating to lay atop of you and inhale your scent.
“You’re bein a fucking brat Simon, come on!” You giggle, it’s exactly how you ended up staying another week. Simon lifting you off your feet and taking back to bed because, ‘it’s too late to drive at night’ when it was only 6pm, and then in the morning, ‘it’s rainin too much’ when it was only drizzling.
Today’s no different, now, sandwiched between his chest and and the couch, head resting on his bicep. Letting him wrap his strong arms around you, so easily leaning into the soft touch of his calloused fingers at the back of your nape, your eyes closing.
“Is this how you usually treat the other girls around you?” You tease ever so lightly, not even expecting an answer.
He gruffly answers, distinct, “Why would I want anyone else ‘ere but you?”
And oh, how that alone shouldnt make your stomach flip like that, shouldn’t make you hide your face in his chest to hide a silly smile, wanting to run into an open field laughing.
“This is your answer then,” he hums, soft pink lips pressing to your temple, “you’ll stay.”
“That doesn’t sound like a question.” You say, another kiss falling to the apple of your cheek, your nose, your other cheek.
“ ‘S not.”
You hold onto him tighter, letting out a soft giggle between his kisses, “Agh, then I don’t know, got shit to do—“
“—Don’t be a bloody pain kitten, just stay.”
You feign contemplation for a moment, making the brute of a man fucking pout. Nuzzling his face into between the crook of your neck.
“…One more night couldn’t hurt, I guess.”
One more night, my ass. Simon thinks.
How about ‘move in.’
a/n: I could stare at your back allll dayyyyyyy, I could stare at your baAAack all DAAAAAAAYYYYYY
i would love if you continued the price piss kink idea like wow i shocked myself by getting horny when i read it
tws: fauxcest, age gap (20s and late 40s), piss kink/peeing (i literally cannot stress this enough!!), daddy/dad kink, noncon, mdni; don't know how ppl will feel about this one but i know how i feel about it!!
almost dad!john's hangs over you, breaths rough as he clutches the soft of your stomach and ruts into you with desperate thrusts. he has to keep reminding you not to throw your head back too far so he can keep a good look at the way you're crying out that you can feel him everywhere.
"fuck," john pants, sliding himself in and out of your despite a familiar pressure just under his belly. "fuck, might have t'stop for a tick, kid. gotta piss. don't think i can hold it."
your legs tighten around his waist in case he tries to drag his cock away from where it keeps striking your spot. quiet whines hurry out of you as you shake your head.
"no, no, please," you beg, and he hisses at the way you clench around him.
"fuck me... quit that." johns' grunt is followed by a stutter of his waist, the man trying to hold his breath as if that will him hold his bladder intact long enough to make you come. by the time he realizes it won't, it's too late.
john pops himself out of you just as the hard stream shoots from his head to soak your entrance with loud splashes. throaty noises slip from between his lips at the same time, and you watch the spectacle in silent fascination. "oh–shi... ah, bloody fuckin' fuck."
john's piss gushes against you messily, dripping down to drench the sheets beneath the two of you. once the stream starts to slow, the man huffs so hard it sounds like it hurts, grabbing your lip with one hand to realign himself accordingly. he releases the last of the liquid with a groan before blinking slowly at you.
"let dad back in, yeah?" you nod immediately at john's slurred words, eyes rolling a touch as he stuffs himself back into your hole. a curse follows your weak moan, as john doesn't take long to resume his deep strokes. he's fucking you harder than before, and your skin plaps against his with wet smacks.
"get t' fuck you properly, now. mmm–maybe next time i'll do that inside ya 'nstead. make you nice 'n full of daddy's juice, then watch you squirt it all back out for me. how's that sound?"
Would u ever write something like piss kink w almost dad simon or price but except reader is the one who does the peeing. Like he doesn’t let them go and teases them ab it until they’re making a mess of themselves and cleans tjem up or wtv
tws: fauxcest, age gap (20s and late 40s), piss (play)/watersports, noncon (just in case), pussy eating (no pronouns used)... apologies in advance.
almost dad!price waits until he sees you're on your way to the toilet to tug you against him and trap you against the nearest surface. today it's the edge of his bed, where he can face you away from him, and position you so you have no choice but to squirm your center right into the corner of his mattress.
pining you from behind, he ruts his hips straight into yours, unable to stop the smile that stretches across his mouth when you writhe beneath his weight.
"w-wait... gotta pee–" you warn him just as you squeeze a fist full of covers, trying to hold it best you can.
"y'can hold it, though, yeah? let yer old man feel you up a bit? been sleepin' in my bed all day in these little rags you call shorts... hoggin' my telly when there's one in the livin' room. plus another i just put together f'your room, so it's only fair."
you gasp when he slides a hand beneath your hip to press your lower belly against his palm, massaging a nearby area with a strong stroke of his fingers.
"i ca–i can't. you saw me finish that whole thing'a juice you brought for me to have with lunch." your voice is weaker than usual. a little shaky and not completely there, as you're afraid that if you breathe any deeper, all this clenching will be for nothing. "'m serious–ah–you're gonna make me pee the bed."
"jus' let it go then, hm?" he teases, pressing his chest into your back and kneading just below your stomach a little faster. you can feel his cock straining under his clothing and nudging against you with every grind of his hips. "i'll make sure to clean you up right. promise. then maybe i'll give ya another gift since you're bein' so sweet, worryin' about my sheets. c'mon. i won't be mad..."
he keeps you like this until you can't take it anymore. price swells with happiness when he feels you stop you're shaking to let out a tight exhale, soft whimpers leaving your mouth at the much-awaited release. "ooh, that's good, love. yeah... keep–fuck, mhm. keep going... wan't ya nice 'n empty."
jesus. it really was a lot of juice, because you do exactly what he says, huffing into the bed at the warmth that stains your crotch and drips down your legs.
john's next move shouldn't shock you, yet it does. you're still peeing when he switches into a kneel so he can suck at the soiled fabric of your shorts, catching what he can in his mouth between his desperate, grunting laps. he holds your legs open and continues to devour you. eventually peeling away your soaked bottoms and groaning at the fact that he doesn't have any underwear to yank out of his way before sticking his nose against your ass and digging his tongue against you, sloppy and hungry for more.
you whine, reaching a hand back to tug your shirt higher and out of the way. "not even gonna let me wipe first?"
a deep chuckle bubbles out of price, who pinches your thigh.
"nah, love. told ya i'd clean you up. remember? would be a shame to let this go to waste, don't y'think?"
one last fuck, to be more exact, between you and vacation!price before the world and callings from home forced you back into the unforgiving grips reality… work and grocery shopping and paying bills. all the things john swears he would very much pay someone else to do for you while he’s paused mid-thrust. belly rising and falling against your back as he huffs out the gruff promises. flexing himself inside you at the same time he grabs for handfuls of your sides. palms hungry.
a thick sound grunts out of you when john collapses on top of you, his cock slicks the remaning veined legnth inside you. you curse, eyes trying not to roll when the man readjusts, somehow sinking himself deeper, head nudging against a place that warms you well past the capabilities of the setting sun.
“oh, my g-god.” you gasp. and then gasp again, reaching but failing to grab onto something as his beard drags along the skin of your shoulder.
“i mean it, dove. give y’anything ya like. get ya set up real nice. a house. dog. whatever you want… jus’ come home with me.” john’s vows come out low, just at the shell of your ear. in between each sentence, a long, dragged-out drive of his hips. always concluded with a smacking of his sack, heavy with need, and a squeezing of john’s embrace around your shivering, sweaty figure. he’s holding you like you’re already his. as if you’ve already agreed to leaving all you know by replacing it with him. john fucks you the same way, raw and sticky skin and to pattern of silent claims. “and just think… we can do this every night, ’n then some. keep y’nice ’n full. drunk on me, yeah?”
with blurred vision, you mumble and nod. drunk on him. drunk on the way he’s fucking you from behind, smushing you under him. drunk on the very recent memory of how you sucked him until he painted your mouth, then the feeling of his fingers swiping against your swollen lips to rub in the thick seed. drunk on the pants at your ear and the cream you can feel forming a ring at the base of john’s cock. drunk on the possibility of feeling like this again and again.
tears in your eyes, you clench at the building of hot pressure that has you barely able to breathe. john’s really taking you now. less rambly and more focused, hips striking your ass, pumping inside you with deep desperation. he’s got you pinned and closer enough to wail at how his weight won’t let you do anything but take it.
“ah… f-fuck. go-gonna come again… i–john…” your croaks tug a smirk at the man's lips.
“s'alright. go ‘head ’n come if it’s a yes, dove.”
with a croak, you gush and cry around john, who’s already wondering what color to paint the bedroom.
𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 – 𝐬. 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 (𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝟏𝟖+) | this started as a little ficlet and blew up to 6 pages on google docs. oops!! warnings include smut, language, dirty talk, spit play, masturbation, dry (pillow) humping, oral (m receiving), deepthroating, fingering, penetrative sex (p in v), squirting, bodily fluids (heavily mentioned), sexual tension, and simon being jealous of a pillow. reader is written as having a vagina, but all pronouns/nicknames are gender-neutral! this is so gross and i hope you enjoy!! <3 (w.c: 2.0k)
Simon nearly chokes at the sight. It’s more of a dream, actually, and he isn’t sure he’s really awake until the damp spot he sees staining his pillowcase compels a spark all the way down to his cock.
Both rows of teeth bare into the bottom lip he’s rolled into his mouth. Breath blowing out scorching through his mask, he pulls off the fabric with a slow peel. There’s no worry about keeping it down, as you’re in an entirely different world. Humping in long hauls, your bare ass glides itself fervently over and back the surface of his pillow.
Simon sucks in a long inhale that does nothing to stop the buzzing that rattles his body. The plush is an artful mess, wet and blemished by your juices. The source, your seeping center, is just barely visible to Simon as you hover your clit and work it straight into the cushion. He can tell you’ve been at it for a while, teetering yourself on the same edge he likes to dangle you over.
You’re a vision and sound a symphony. Sad, little cries tumble out of you at a rapid rate as you grind yourself faster, your hips slanting just right to pull a louder groan that goes muffled into the mattress.
“Fuck, Si,” you sound out into the dim room, and the dam breaks, blasting open with harsh intensity. He shuts his door with a quiet slam but it’s loud enough to catch your attention. A gasp exits you as you whip around into a sit, clutching the pillow with a sheepish stare right into Simon’s wild eyes.
The air is too thick to breathe, so you don’t. Instead, you hold in a chestful of air as Simon stalks over to you. He stops just at the edge of the mattress, not having to utter a word before you leave behind the forgotten pillow to crawl his way.
He continues to say nothing, only watching with great restraint as you ease up to him. Your eyes cement onto the thick bulge, Simon sucking in a hiss at the palm you slide over it.
“I missed you,” your voice announces, and you let your eyes flutter closed as you drag a soft cheek over his clothed dick. Simon grips the other side of your face with his large palm, thumbs ghosting a touch over your pretty lips.
“Show me then.”
The command is quiet, his focus on slipping his thumb into the heat of your mouth. Tongue swirling without a thought, you’re only allowed to suck for a moment before Simon pulls his hand away.
A wicked smile curls your lips as you watch him unzip his pants. You shuffle in your kneel, nearly vibrating with need. His thickness is apparent through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs, member red with a raging throb. You graze your hand against his shaft, gripping him and panting lightly.
You send Simon a look, silently asking his permission to do what’s been on your mind for the entirety of the day. He answers back with a quiet go-on, the harsh pulsating of his cock preventing him from speaking any louder.
A sigh softens Simon the very moment you peel away the cloth, pausing when his head emerges to peek out of his waistband with a slickness that has you drooling. Simon’s heart thumps loudly in his chest at the kiss you tease the head of his cock with, and he throws his head back with another sigh. Eyes closing, he loses himself in the kitten licks you lap against him.
The warm air of the room hits his body nicely as you lower his underwear enough to fully reveal his bloated member, already oozy with a string of precum that your outstretched tongue nearly misses.
Simon tilts his head downward as you grip him gracefully, slurping at the head to collect another round of clear fluid that pumps out of him. A sharp flinch of his hips pushes him further inside your mouth, both of you moaning at the deed. Your grasp sits at the base of his cock as you start a soft suck, tongue dancing across the vein on the underside of him.
His hips roll a little, croak barely stifled in the bottom of his chest.
“Take it all, love, jus’ like we practiced,” Simon instructs breathily, both of his hands reaching to tenderly take hold of your face before pressing himself deeper. The thrust is slow as he slides his way down your throat. You cough and gag up a few lines of spit, eyes watering at the stretch, but you’re eager to make it fit.
A groan finds the courage to break out of Simon when you grab at his ass and swallow him deeper until the hair just below his stomach tickles your nose. Your eyes shut on their own accord as you gag around him again, but you force them open to gaze upwards while you stuff him down as far as you can.
“Oh, that’s good,” Simon praises, and you see stars. Cheeks hollowing, you draw back with a hard suck and the help of Simon’s hands. More of your spit escapes, dribbling out past your lips and down to his cock as you glide back onto him. “Gag on it some more. Nice and messy for me, darlin’.”
You can feel your clit jump at the demand, your pussy no doubt leaving an even bigger mess beneath you. You inhale deeply and circle your tongue around the tip just before plunging him back down your throat, shoulders tensing at the welcome intrusion.
Jumbled curses whisk out of Simon, his hold of your head securing a bit as his hips slowly launch into a lazy fuck. His thrusts are long and deep as he drowns himself in the way your throat constricts around him. He glides heavily over your tongue, the lieutenant groaning every time his head dives past the back of your throat.
Keeping his hazy eyes on your watery ones, Simon breathes in heavy shudders, lip pulled back between his teeth as his thrusts speed. It isn’t by much, but it’s enough to coat your chin in a layer of the stickiness that’s drooled out around his cock.
You suck in a long breath when Simon finally pulls you away with a strong fuck before looking down at you from under his hooded eyelids.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” the man mumbles, not bothering to wipe at your chin. “Open.”
Your tongue drifts out of your mouth to stick out in the air, ready and waiting. You shiver as he allows a line of spit to slip from his lips and down to yours. It travels slowly, globbing right onto your tongue. You slink him back inside your mouth without swallowing the spit, letting it collect in a messy ring at the base of his girth.
Simon lets you work on your own for a few moments so he can rip off the t-shirt that sits too tight against his skin. With the shirt discarded on the floor next to him, he places a hand on his stomach and just watches you.
“Love you in my mouth, Si,” you rush out between the swirling of your head. “Always tastes so good.”
“Yeah?” There’s a smirk somewhere in his response.
Mmhm is what you hum back, hand reaching to stroke him messily. He grunts as you pump him against your palm, tongue reaching to flatten against his balls in a generous lick that jerks his entire body.
“Shit, okay,” Simon huffs, barely stopping himself from taking a small step back and pulling his throbbing cock from your grasp. “Stop, or ‘m gonna come.”
You pull back reluctantly, only releasing him after one last suck on his tip. A giggle leaves you at the way he flinches, but it’s interrupted when he grabs you and pulls you into him. With an arm around your waist, he smashes his lips against yours, some of the wetness from your chin smearing against his.
Simon moans at the taste, piling the two of you back onto the mattress with a quiet thud. He doesn’t break the kiss as he hovers over you, hand creeping down to find your slit.
You’re absolutely drenched, arousal accumulating easily on the tips of Simon’s fingers just after a few rubs. You break the kiss with a gasp but he doesn’t allow you away from him for long. His tongue bullies its way back inside your mouth just as he prods two fingers against your entrance.
“Fuck yes,” you whimper head lulling onto the bed. Simon plunges his thick digits inside you, your seeping wetness making the action quite easy. Your hole squelches and squeezes around him as he begins to fuck you, fingers already bending to find the button that he likes to rub and watch your eyes roll.
Simon finds it quicker than you think he will, and is met with the white of your eyes just as he expects. Nosing at your jawline, Si licks a broad stripe across your neck.
Your hips have started to move on their own accord, fucking him knuckle deep inside your pussy. His hand is sticky and he palms against your clit, pumping in and out of you.
The whine that leaves your mouth when Simon retracts his hand is silenced by a quick kiss, the large man moving to hang over you. A dark hunger edges his gaze as he stares at you, beefy arms holding him up and his soft yet strong stomach heaving with deep breaths.
Leaning onto one forearm, Simon grabs his thick cock, slapping it against your soaked clit before he stuffs the head into your seizing entrance. He pushes himself the rest of the way inside, bottoming out with a loud curse. You instinctively wrap your legs around his thick waist, and he responds by starting a pounding thrust.
Simon growls a little at how you’re squeezing around him. So warm and wet and tight, he can’t help the way he bucks into you, leaving little room for either of you to catch any kind of breath.
His cock slams into you at a force that jolts you with every thrust. You barely hear the words he rumbles in your ear just for you.
“Needed my cock so bad you had’ta start fuckin’ my pillow, huh?”
You try to answer, but all that comes out is a long whine. Your hands splay against his broad shoulders, his pelvis crashing into yours in hard smacks.
“S’alright, love,” Simon purrs, taking a moment to pause and reposition his hips. ‘Ve got you now, leakin’ all pretty around me, and now you’re gonna come on my cock instead’a that stupid bag of feathers.”
You cry out when he pushes your legs wider, hanging one over his arm and bracing himself to pound past your swollen folds. Simon’s desperate ruts rock the two of you together, your hips falling back to meet his without even trying.
Your eyes squeeze themselves shut, a fire spreading across your abdomen while Simon fucks you deeper and deeper, creeping you closer and closer to the line you’re aching to tip across.
Simon knows you’re close. The way you’re scratching at his shoulders and unable to meet his eye tells him that much, as does how much you’re flooding his cock. He grunts a handful of swears, a snug tension tightening his thighs with every other thrust.
Your climax ripples through you in violent shakes. Short spurts of liquid shoot from your satisfied slit, and you choke on air. Simon is unable to hold off on filling you with his long ropes of cum after hearing your noisy weeps, the two of your juices mixing into a mess that further sogs the material beneath you.
“Fuck, ‘m still comin’,” Simon sputters out as you pulse around him with a force that keeps you on your high. His orgasm continues to rock him, and he gushes inside you so much that it starts to seep out and splatter against his weighty sack. “Oh, fuck me.”
He’s still half hard as he fucks you lazily, drawing out the last few heart-racing waves of your release as he kisses you with soft groans.
“Gimme thirty seconds,” Simon murmurs between pecks, “then ‘m gonna make sure you won’t ever think ‘a that fuckin’ pillow again.”
Can we ride Clark until he’s begging you to stop and peeing in you
explicit 18+ p!ss kink Y U M beg, beg, beg
clark loves when she swings one of her legs over his lap to get on top early in the morning. hair everywhere in her face, chest hovering over him while he stares up in complete wonder and awe. he suckles on a nipple each, gently tugging and humming on them (not entirely unlike a helpless infant). his breathing picks up and he forgets to swallow the built up drool in his mouth while she yanks her red colored panties to the side to line him up to center at her slit. sinking down with a low appreciative sound, whipping her hair all to one side before leaning down to steal a warm kiss. he outright whines when he feels her pull back to tug his lip in between her teeth, his bottom lip stuck out and stretching.
it feels so good when she’s sinking down at the same time, giving him the most electric mixtures of pain and pleasure while when she pulls his hair, bites his lip, scratches and digs her nails directly into his biceps and shoulders. he’ll whither in pain but still can’t help but egg her on to keep going, to go harder, to have at him as much as she wanted. she takes the challenge beautifully. pinching his nipples, swiveling her hips back and forth in jagged motions while he whines and cries out her name.
after around the twenty minute mark of her having all her fun torturing him and teasing him, clark feels just how full his bladder had gotten deep down in his lower stomach while she’s bouncing. he remembers chugging some water late in the night before rolling over to fall back asleep, and it passed him by that he hadn’t had a chance to relieve himself at all of everything he drank and the thought was catching up with him. a cruel reminder of neglecting his bodily needs stays knotted up in his stomach, the pleasure loosening him up and making it that much harder to keep holding all of it in.
so he grabs onto her hips and squeezes a couple times to signal it to her.
“baby, baby get up a second. hold on.”
“we just started,” she pouts with a hard roll on top of every inch of him, feeling the bristle of hair of his happy trail. clark wants to laugh at that, that she claims they just started when it had been a full twenty minutes of her on top of his dick taking everything she wanted. but the laughter doesn’t really come, not when the irritable feeling bubbles in his gut of being so full after not even getting out of bed all morning to relieve himself.
“I know, I know, I promise I won’t be long. please? I can’t keep holding it, not when you’re bouncing like that,” he pleads, parting her hair to the other side and holding her face to pull her in for a kiss.
she eyes him up and down. “you’re gonna cum already?”
he snorts at the judgement in her tone, shaking his head. “no. no, I just have to pee.”
her eyes start to mischievously smile at him before her smirk even starts to form. he knows what that look means.
“you’re not going anywhere. I’m not letting you.”
clark sighs and trails nibbles and kisses up her collarbone, pleading. “what if I keep saying please? please, please, please…..” he suckles a little purple mark down her neck, trying to win his way. “please can I get up to go pee? thirty seconds and then I’m all yours again.”
“you’re already all mine,” she taunts, slowly inching her hips up before jolting him with a rough slam back down. clark’s moan is strangled, punched right out of him while she does it again, eyeing him with a sadistic stare. “so that’s not gonna work. you’re gonna stay right here, beneath me. where you belong. don’t you agree? don’t you belong right here, in me, underneath me?”
clark winces and rushed to nod, almost bumping his head and gulping the nerves that spun in his throat. “yes, yes. yeah I do. I know I do… I just can’t hold it if you—“
“I don’t mind.”
he watches with glassy eyes while she shrugs that it’s no big deal to her, resuming her pace like there wasn’t any interruption at all. clark is struck with a tight wave in his gut, the urge to let it all loose threatening him off the edge closer.
“oh gosh, oh gosh please… please I can’t — I can’t hold it for long, it’s gonna be such a mess….” he warns with a helpless plea for mercy. tugging her up by her hips to no avail, no giving in.
her nose brushes the tip of his nose when she leans in to get closer, face to face, eye to eye. with a stern grasp of his chin in one of her hands, she’s telling him with every ounce of her body language that she is not going to lose this fight.
“and I said no.”
now it’s his turn to claw at her shoulders, at her back. whimpering while she continues bouncing up and down without a care in the world for his full bladder and constant warnings.
“baby, baby it’s…. it’s close…. it’s gonna start coming out, you’re making it worse—just please let me—“
she doesn’t stop. she only goes faster. harsh slaps echo the more she moves, closing her eyes with her devilish smile while she feels his stomach jump beneath her palms. clark begs her to get off, begs her to allow him relief. she reminds him again if he gets up and leaves their bed to the toilets then she isn’t letting him back inside her.
clark is wide eyed and pitiful, little whines let out with each pump she throws down on his weight. “that’s… this isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, I need to—babe seriously—“
her hand is harsh as it snatches a grip over his mouth to muffle any more talking, telling him to shush while she swirls her pussy over him again, and again, and again.
“shh. you’re gonna lose your privilege to talk.”
clark stayed obediently silent for another few moments, squeezing her hip in an ever growing agony as she clenched down onto his dick while he was lodged in at the hilt. his eyes roll back and he swears he leaked a little bit of piss by accident.
“baby girl…. I’m sorry I didn’t go before we started…. if you’re really not gonna let me—“
“I said you’re not allowed to get up, and that if you do I won’t sit back down on this cock. I didn’t say you weren’t allowed to pee,” she corrects, leaning in to capture his lips again while he hums in her mouth and furrows his brows.
“what?”
“you say you have to pee, then pee.”
clark looks helpless and confused and in pain. he holds her stare with his timid look back, almost pouting while she tightens down on him again, speeding back up to her quick, hard pace. the way their skin wetly slaps together adds a loud echo, making clark unable to resist anymore when the gears in his body start to flush out anything he’s been trying hard to keep holding in.
he gasps on a particularly long, slow, deep thrust, accidentally squirting out another short spurt after his bladder threatens to let go.
“you’re, you’re really—you gotta be kidding— wait, stop, stop, stop.”
she doesn’t even react, still carefree taking everything she wants from him, unchanged from feeling the warm gush start to flow out of him and straight into her. clark hissed and apologizes profusely, stumbling over his words and his moans while piss splashes between them as she moves. it bursts through the floodgates of her walls and lands all over his groin on the way as it’s coming out, gushing in a clear, hot puddle. clark’s head is floating from finally having relief, but his cheeks and his neck turn so red from embarrassment it appeared like he’d been slapped.
“awww. does that feel better? you’re going so much. don’t hold it in, that’s it. let it all go.”
clark whimpers and bites onto her shoulder. “ah, ahhh I’m sorry, I’m so sorry baby I’ll clean us up…. mmm I’m sorry, it feels so good… I can enjoy you now. I had to stay inside you, I couldn’t leave,” he pants, letting the last remnants spurt out until he’s fully empty and ready for his turn to fuck her like he’s wanted to all over these now piss soaked sheets.
“all better?” she breathes, still sliding herself up and down ever so gently on his piss covered cock. she ruffles his hair around and laughs at his dazed half-lidded look, like he’s blissed out from adrenaline.
“all better, so much better,” he gulps. kisses her shoulder where he’d left little bite marks, slowly easing his hips upwards off the bed to thrust into her, not paying the mess he made any mind. and she didn’t seem to either.
“you still wanna stop?” she teases, wiping some sweat off his forehead with the back of her hand. he sniffles and quickly shook his head in an adamant no, hugging her closer to his chest with his arms tangled up behind her back, pressing. “you were really begging me.”
“I know, I know,” clark rushed. he feels the warm, pleasant feeling of the wet sheet beneath their bodies, still felt the drops that lingered down both his and hers inner thighs. the grotesque, humiliating nature of the act itself of making him piss himself inside her somehow riled him up beyond belief. he wasn’t sure whether to run away and hide or to try to get himself to piss inside her again. “please keep going, can we? I’m better, I’m all better now. I swear.”
“so what have we learned?”
clark’s nervous blue eyes anxiously trail up and down her body and below right between where they are joined together, their sticky skin still damp from his mess. he takes a deep breath.
“I won’t ask to get up and leave you if I have to go again, I’ll stay right here. where I belong,” he shakily finished. hugs her tighter while she’s seated on top of him all the way, bowing his head down and shoving his moppy head of hair at her chest. “I’m sorry.”
“you did so well. don’t be embarrassed. we all have to sometimes. keep being my good boy like this. that’s perfect.”
. . .
I love begging pleading pissing clark so bad this request is perfection it’s been in my drafts way too long
You wanted something different. You were tired of the life that was dictated to you. In polite society you are meant to be seen, not heard. Used but never seen. At the mercy of a man that valued you only for your ability to give him children. You found a tiny bit of freedom in James. Choosing him, falling for him, and making plans to flee with him. That is until a new monster enters your life. You almost had the freedom you craved, with the one you were obsessed with, but this isn’t freedom. Could this be worse than the hell you were bound to? Or is being bound to the most ruthless pirate the actual freedom you were looking for? In becoming Steve's will you also find yourself — and freedom? Is there only room for one person in your heart, or must you survive with the one that burned himself into your soul?
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
A/N: This is a dark fic. It will include themes of misogyny, kidnapping and being held captive, forced voyeurism, branding, choking, teasing, spanking, manhandling, degradation, objectification, weapon play, wax play, dacryphilia, loss of innocence, conspiracy, and more. Read all warnings before each part. Minors DNI
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse: ex-con steve rogers
pairing: ex-con!steve rogers x female reader
summary: steve agrees to watch the fireworks with the neighbor he shouldn't want, and it leads to more than he ever dared to hope for.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), unspecified age gap, smut, dry humping, semi-public sex, kissing, making out, Steve's a yearner in this fic
word count: 1.2k
a/n: the request for ex-con Steve comes from @stargazingfangirl18—specifically ex-con almost silver fox Steve who's happy for his second lease on life—and i had a lot of fun writing this one!! i had the idea of Steve yearning for his pretty young neighbor and i ran with it, and i'm really happy with how it turned out!! hope y'all enjoy!
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse masterlist
Ex-con Steve Rogers spends his birthday with his sweet little neighbor—you.
He knows you’re too young and sweet for him. He’s known it since the day he moved into the building, and you were the only one kind enough not to treat him any differently because he’d done time. He knows he shouldn’t accept the invitation when you ask him up to the roof to watch the Fourth of July fireworks.
But Steve can’t help himself when it comes to you. He can’t help the filthy thoughts that infiltrate his mind when he sees you wearing a pretty little sundress, your hair and makeup done up to make you look gorgeous. You’re too young and far too tempting for how long he’s gone without being touched by a woman.
Steve has to work hard to keep himself under control as you spread out a soft blanket on the roof, refusing to think about laying you down on it and having his way with you. What would a pretty young thing like you want with an old man like him? He’s got more gray hairs than the years of your life you’ve lived, so he’s determined to keep his hands to himself.
While you settle onto the blanket, Steve looks around the roof and wonders why no one else from the building is up there to watch the fireworks. He’s not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse to be all alone with you in the darkness of the July night, and as he sits down, he’s careful, making sure not to touch you, unsure if he’ll be able to stop himself if he starts.
But when the fireworks start, you scoot closer to Steve and lean against his side, and it feels all too natural to put his arm around your shoulders. It nearly does him in when you look up at him and smile, like nothing in the world would ever make you feel safer than being with him. He tries to remind himself why he needs to stay away from you, but his resolve is crumbling as he stares down at you.
It’s your eyes, bright and sparkling as you look at him, and your mouth—so pretty and enticing, especially when it’s curved into a smile that’s just for him—that make Steve forget all the reasons he shouldn’t want you. He does want you, and he’s tired of running from it. He’s spent too many years trapped, and now that he’s free, he’s not going to take his second chance at life for granted.
So Steve kisses you. Soft at first, giving you a chance to pull away, slap him, run from him the way he expects you to. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, one of your hands pressing gently against his chest, right over the place where his heart is thumping against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Steve knows, somewhere deep in his bones, that if he were to put his heart in your hands, you’d be gentle with it. You’d take care of it—you’d take care of him the same way he wants to take care of you. Wholly, unreservedly, for the rest of your lives.
You’re the one to deepen the kiss, dragging Steve back from his overly romantic thoughts and into the moment. The fireworks are still going off in the sky above the Brooklyn apartment building where the two of you live, but Steve only cares about you—and kissing you.
Steve kisses you slowly, methodically, learning every dip and curve of your lips before he ventures into your mouth, exploring the wet heat and discovering the teasing menace that is your tongue. You kiss him hungrily, so voracious that Steve can practically feel your desire thrumming beneath your skin as he skims his hands up your arms and down your sides.
It takes all of Steve’s hard-won control not to give in to the lust churning in his gut, making his cock strain almost painfully against the fly of his jeans. He’s determined to take things as slow as you’ll let him, but then you’re laying back on the blanket and pulling him down on top of you, spreading your soft thighs to give him somewhere perfect to land.
He can feel the sinful heat of your cunt through his jeans and your thin dress, and when his hips roll, pressing the bulge of his cock into your soft center, you let out a throaty moan that has him leaking in his pants. Steve’s mouth, which had been busy licking and sucking down the line of your neck, returns to your mouth, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while his hips rock between your thighs.
Your breathy whimpers and thready moans are the most beautiful music to Steve’s ears, and he has the errant thought that if only he could hear you make those sounds every day for the rest of his life, every shitty day that had come before would have been worth it. A shiver races down his spine at the thought, not yet daring to hope you’ll want him for more than the night, and he kisses you harder, wanting to taste your pleasure straight from your lips.
All too soon, Steve realizes he’s at the brink of his release, his cock throbbing in his jeans, his balls drawing up against his body, ready to spill. He refuses to cum before you do, though, so he wraps one of his big hands around your soft thigh, spreading you open even wider so he can grind deeper into your clothed cunt.
Your moans turn into high-pitched, keening whines, breathless pleas for more falling unbidden from your kiss-bitten lips. You’re so fucking pretty, Steve thinks to himself, the glimmer of fireworks lighting your skin in shades of pink, blue and white. His heart beats heavy in his chest and he knows he’s done for—in more ways than one.
Steve’s hips jerk, thrusting against your heated pussy harder than before, and he watches you come apart for him, your face twisting up in pleasure before you let out a low moan of his name. And it’s that, the sweet way you say his name in your pleasure-drunk voice, that sends him over the edge.
A low, feral growl tears from Steve’s lips, and his hips hump erratically against your pussy while his cock erupts in his jeans. He’s sure to stain the denim with his hot seed, but he doesn’t care because you’re pulling him closer and burying your face in his beard, little sounds of pleasure muffled against his throat.
When he’s spent, Steve wraps his arms around your body and rolls onto his side, tucking you into his chest, marveling at the way you fit perfectly against him. You murmur a sleepy apology about making him cum in his pants and Steve can only chuckle and tell you the honest truth, that it was the hardest he’s ever cum in his life, and he’s just glad he could get you off before he made a fool of himself.
You giggle softly, snuggling deeper into his chest and promising to make it up to him. Steve shushes you gently and presses a kiss to your head, watching the finale of the fireworks while thanking the universe for giving him the best birthday present an ex-con like him could’ve asked for—you.
thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse masterlist
Satoru Gojo is fucking gorgeous, which is so deeply unfair that you’re still kind of processing it as he pays for your movie ticket with trembling fingers. His white hair is slightly tousled, soft against his ears, and his glasses are tilted just a bit on the bridge of his nose. He keeps pushing them up like he’s stalling, trying not to meet your eyes too long because every time he does, he gets flustered. His face goes pink and he laughs too loud. You bite your lip every time he does that.
You’re no better. Your hands are clammy inside the sleeves of your hoodie, because you thought this was going to be a safe little date. Nerdy. Harmless. You met at a fucking Doraemon expo for god’s sake, where he gave you a Doraemon-shaped candy and then looked like he wanted to die from shyness.
And now you’re sitting in a too-dark movie theatre with his knee brushing yours.
You think you’re gonna die too. Because there’s heat pooling between your legs, and you're pretty sure you’ve soaked through your panties, and this was supposed to be your first normal date. Not a panty-ruining, thigh-clenching disaster where you keep imagining his stupid hot fingers pulling your hoodie up and touching you like you're not both trembling virgins about to combust from one misplaced touch.
Satoru’s voice cracks in the dark.
“You, uh— are you okay?”
You look at him, wide-eyed. “What? Yeah. I’m fine.”
He fidgets. “You’re breathing kinda fast.”
You are. Shit.
“I’m just…” you squirm, thighs pressed tight together. “The seats are uncomfortable.”
He makes a strangled little laugh, eyes darting to the screen and then back to your mouth. You don’t know who moves first, but a second later, your hands are brushing in the popcorn bag and boom— your bodies are pressed together like magnets.
The movie is completely forgotten. You’re both leaning toward each other, breathing the same hot air, and it’s dizzying how close he is. His scent is soft and clean, like soap and sugar and some light cologne that makes your thighs ache. Your lips almost brush before he pulls back, cheeks pink.
“I-I gotta pee,” he blurts. Then winces. “Fuck. Not like— fuck, I didn’t mean it like—”
You stare at him, lips parted.
“…Me too,” you whisper. “Bathroom. I mean.”
So of course, of course, ten minutes later, you’re both in the tiny single-stall bathroom behind the snack bar, the door locked, and you’re pressed against the wall with Satoru’s hands hovering an inch from your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you.
You’re panting.
So is he.
And there’s the faintest bulge pressing against his pants.
“You’re hard,” you whisper, stunned.
Satoru turns bright red. “I didn’t mean to be! I swear I wasn’t thinking anything— well I was thinking but not like— well yes like that but I didn’t expect you to—”
“I’m wet.”
That shuts him up.
He blinks. “Wha— You, wait really?”
You nod furiously. “Soaked. I thought I was dying. You’re, l-like— you’re so hot and tall and your hands are big and I thought—”
He sways toward you like he’s being pulled by gravity.
“You think I’m hot?” he breathes, shocked.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “You’re like—the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”
“…But I’m a virgin.”
You blink. “You’re a virgin?”
He freezes. “You didn’t know?”
You shake your head. “You’re too confident. And tall. And your voice, like— you talk like you’ve seen shit.”
“I haven’t! I’ve literally never seen anything. I still sleep with a body pillow.”
“Oh my god.”
You both start laughing, but it’s too breathy, too nervous. You’re looking at his lips again.
“I thought you weren’t a virgin,” he admits, voice low now, almost in awe. “You look like— like—”
He waves helplessly at your body. “You’re so pretty. So hot. You look like you’d ruin me.”
“I’ve never even kissed anyone,” you whisper.
“Me either,” he says.
There’s a beat of silent realization.
Then— tentatively— his hands touch your waist. He’s shaking.
“Can I…”
You nod. “Yeah. Please.”
The kiss is terrible. Teeth clashing, noses bumping, your mouths slipping messily before you both pull away with startled laughter. But his face is flushed, and his eyes are glassy, and your thighs are pressed tight together because the way he’s looking at you is not innocent anymore.
“We’re so bad at this,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna die,” he mumbles, forehead pressed to yours.
“I’m so wet I think my panties are ruined,” you say, like a confession.
He groans. “That’s so hot, please don’t say things like that unless you want me to cum in my pants.”
You both snort, but neither of you moves away.
“Can I… touch you?” he whispers, barely audible.
Your eyes widen, breath catching.
“…Yes. But I don’t— I don’t really know how.”
“Me either,” he whispers. “Let’s be awkward together.”
You reach for his belt, and he lifts your hoodie just enough to see the swell of your tits in your bra. And then you both freeze, panting, staring— because holy fuck this is actually happening.
Two very horny, very confused virgins. In a bathroom. At the movies.
Grinding desperately like you’re learning each other’s bodies in braille.
His hands find your hips, pulling you closer. Your fingers tremble at his zipper. And you swear— you swear— when your pussy brushes against his bulge through your panties and tights, he nearly whimpers.
You're both gonna combust.
You’re still half-laughing, half-gasping into his neck, your panties damp and sticking to you like sin, and Satoru’s hard dick is pressed against your inner thigh through his jeans like it hurts. He keeps doing these little shaky inhales, fingers digging into your hoodie at the waist like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll float off the planet.
His glasses are fogged. His cheeks are pink. And when you drag your nose along his jaw just to feel him shiver, he makes the softest noise you’ve ever heard. A tiny, broken sigh— like the kind of sound you might make when someone pets your hair just right.
You feel like you’re on fire.
“You’re really… hard,” you whisper, a little dreamy, dragging your hand down the front of his jeans like you’re curious more than anything else. Because you are. You can feel the length of him, thick and hot under the denim, twitching at just the barest touch of your fingers. “Like… all the way.”
“I know,” he whines, quietly. “It’s been like that since the popcorn scene.”
You giggle. “We didn’t have a popcorn scene.”
“You were licking butter off your fingers.”
“…Oh. Yeah okay, fair.”
You’re still staring at the bulge in his jeans. It’s insane. It’s… kind of intimidating, honestly. But you’re so curious, and he looks like he might actually die from the idea of you wanting to see him like this.
“Can I see it?” you whisper.
His breath catches. His whole body freezes.
“You— my… dick?”
You nod shyly, face burning. “Just once. I just— I wanna know what it looks like.”
He stares at you like you’re a mythical creature. “You really want to see it?”
“…Yeah.”
His fingers are shaking as he fumbles with his zipper.
You don’t look away— not even when he shoves his boxers down and his cock bounces free, flushed and heavy and dripping. You make a noise, something halfway between shock and awe, because holy shit he’s big. Not just big— long, curved a little toward his stomach, thick enough that your mouth goes dry. The tip is glossy and wet, a pretty pink color— a clear bead clinging to the slit like he’s leaking from just grinding on you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, stunned.
Satoru makes a noise that’s not human. “D-don’t look at it like that.”
“I can’t help it,” you breathe. “It’s pretty.”
His brain shuts down.
“Pretty?” he croaks.
You nod dumbly, staring. “It’s like… glossy. And pink. And it’s twitching.”
He groans. “Don’t say twitching—”
“But it is! It’s like it’s waving at me or something. It looks so needy.”
He grabs the wall behind your head like he might collapse.
“You’re so cute,” you whisper. “You’re really hard just from kissing me.”
“You’re soaking,” he counters, voice hoarse. “You’ve been wet for an hour.”
You whimper a little. “I didn’t even know I could get this wet.”
Satoru groans again and cups himself like it’ll stop him from cumming just from talking to you.
You reach out— slowly— and wrap your fingers around the base.
He jolts, hips stuttering forward into your hand like it’s instinct. His eyes flutter shut and his whole body shudders, like he’s never felt anything like this.
“…You’re so warm,” you whisper. “And thick.”
“I’m gonna cum,” he blurts.
You pause. “Wait, already?”
“I told you,” he gasps, pressing his face into your neck. “It’s your voice— fuck, the way you’re touching me—”
You slide your hand up and watch his cock twitch, leaking over your fingers.
He sobs a little. “Angel, please—”
That makes you freeze.
“…Angel?”
He peeks up at you, embarrassed. “It slipped out.”
You bite your lip, then smile, stroking him again. “I like it.”
“You’re so soft,” he moans. “And your hand’s so small, it doesn’t even fit—”
You squeeze a little tighter. He gasps.
“Tell me when,” you whisper, eyes wide. “I don’t wanna waste it. You’ve been hard for so long.”
“‘When’?” he pants.
“Yeah,” you say, breath catching. “I want to see what your cum looks like too.”
He shatters.
Just like that— hot, thick ropes spill out across your fingers, your hoodie, his shirt. You watch with wide, fascinated eyes as his whole body curls toward yours, hips stuttering, voice cracked and pleading into your shoulder. His cock throbs in your hand like it’s losing its mind. He sounds so helpless, so high and soft when he whimpers your name.
You stare at the mess.
“…Whoa.”
He’s panting against your cheek, totally limp. “That was so embarrassing.”
“It was awesome,” you breathe. “I made you cum.”
“I exploded in ten seconds.”
You stroke his hair. “I think you’re perfect.”
He melts a little into your chest.
“…You wanna see me next?” you whisper.
His head jerks up like a prairie dog.
Satoru’s still shaking.
You can feel it— his breath hot and unsteady on your neck, his heartbeat punching against your ribs where your bodies press together. Satoru Gojo just came all over your hand like some desperate teenager, having a wet dream, and you’re still standing in a movie theater bathroom, soaked to the skin and so turned on it’s getting hard to breathe.
His cum is sticky on your fingers. Warm, it smells faintly like salt and sugar, and he’s still leaning against you like he’s not sure how to stand on his own.
And then—
Your voice, soft and daring, nearly a whisper:
“…You wanna see me next?”
Satoru blinks. Eyes blown wide. Mouth parted, in disbelief.
“…Are you serious?”
You nod.
He looks stunned. “Like… your pussy?”
Your whole face burns.
“Y-yeah,” you stammer, suddenly nervous. “If you want. I mean— I know it’s— kind of a lot, and maybe messy, but I just… I’ve never… shown anyone." You're looking down at the floor before you finish the rest of that sentence... then your eyes are darting back up to his face, blue eyes stargazed in disbelief. “And I want you to see.”
He’s speechless, Satoru is utterly speechless.
You fidget, heart thudding, tugging your hoodie down like it can hide the way your thighs are trembling, how wet you still are under your panties.
“I just thought… since I saw yours…”
His hand flies up, quick. Cupping your face, both of you look into each other's eyes.
“I want to,” he blurts. “I want to so bad I think I’m gonna die.”
You smile, shy and giddy. “Okay. Then… can you take my panties off?”
He gasps.
Like, actually gasps. Clutches his chest. Staggers backward like you hit him with a spell.
“Say that again,” he whispers.
You reach under your hoodie, slowly rolling your leggings down to your thighs, revealing just a sliver of your pale pink cotton panties, soaked straight through. There’s a wet patch over your pussy— obvious, shiny, and dark.
“Take them off,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Please?”
He looks like he might cry.
“Oh my god,” he chokes. “You’re so wet you soaked through. That’s from me? From just— grinding on me?”
You nod, cheeks flushed. “You made me so wet I couldn’t focus on the movie.”
His hands are on your thighs now, huge and hot, trembling a little as he sinks to his knees in front of you like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. His glasses slide down his nose. He pushes them up, eyes fixed on your panties like they’re the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispers, “but I wanna learn so bad.”
You’re breathing so fast your legs are shaking.
His fingers slide under the sides of your panties. He hesitates.
“Ready?” he asks, voice so soft.
You nod, in eager anticipation, like when you know you're about to rip a band-aid off. But... in this case, it's your soaked sticky ruined panties.
And he pulls them down.
Slow, slow, slow
The cotton clings to your cunt, like they're almost glued to you, but he gets them off with a firmer tug.
Your cunt glosses in the light.
Dripping. Swollen. Slick as fuck and twitching under his gaze. You clench a little just from the air, the tension, the way he’s looking at you like he just saw an angel squirt holy water.
He moans. Moans.
“You’re so pretty,” he breathes. “Holy shit, you’re soaked. I didn’t know it could do that.”
You giggle nervously. “It doesn’t usually. I think it’s a you thing.”
He gulps, audibly.
His eyes don’t leave your pussy, even as he leans forward, nose almost brushing your thigh.
“Can I… touch you?”
You feel your knees threaten to buckle.
“Yes.” You say with too much enthusiasm than you meant.
His fingers twitch. “I don’t know how.”
You grab his wrist and guide it...
His middle finger barely grazes your folds and you gasp, clenching, hips jumping forward.
“Oh fuck,” he moans. “That was barely anything. You’re shaking.”
“You touched my clit,” you pant. “It’s sensitive.”
His eyes sparkle.
“Oh my god. I love that you know what it’s called.”
You’re breathless, laughing a little. “I’ve read fanfiction. Have you not?”
“I have, but in those they just say ‘your little pearl’ and shit.”
You groan. “That’s not even close.”
He’s looking again, hand hovering like he’s terrified to mess it up.
“Okay, so… this is your clit,” he murmurs, grazing it again, watching how your whole body twitches. “It’s so tiny. But you sound like I electrocuted you when I touched it.”
You whimper, cause he's teasing... He's curious as well and doesn't fucking know how much him petting your clit actually affects you.
“You like that?” he whispers, a bit entranced. Crystalline blue eyes focusing on the sticky strands of your slick connected to his fingertips as they stretch when he rubs and pulls them off your glued pussylips.
“Y-yeah.”
He touches again, a little firmer... slower, really working your clit, the soft squelches audible, he really wants to taste it, the creamy thing webbing his fingers, the thought pounding in his head.. Would you be grossed out if he just shoved his fingers in his mouth right now and got a taste of that sappy cream?
You whimper louder, snapping his attention back from his lewd thoughts.
His voice is shaking. “Can you c-cum like this? Just from me touching you?”
You nod furiously. “If you keep going, Fuck. Please keep going.”
His thumb brushes you now, a bit more confidently.
“You’re dripping,” he mumbles. “It’s getting on my wrist, angel”
Your thighs snap shut, embarrassed.
But you’re so close and he’s still rubbing in slow, shaky circles and whispering your name and watching you like he’s studying for a test he’s gonna fail with honors. Your clit feels like it’s throbbing. You can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop whining.
And then—
“Cum for me,” he whispers, awed. “Please, please pretty girl, I wanna see.”
That makes your cunt clench, his voice the thing that makes you break instantly.
You clam up around nothing, crying out as your pussy gushes over his hand, wet and twitchy, making a fucking mess on his hoodie sleeve. Your knees give out. He catches you instantly, still on his knees, arms full of shaking, panting girl.
You’re sobbing in relief, thighs sticky, pussy still fluttering, and his hands are holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“You’re so amazing,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I made you cum.”
You whimper. “You’re so good. I didn’t think it would feel like that.”
He kisses your thigh.
Then your stomach, and makes his way up and then your lips, just to feel you.
Soft and careful, with utmost devotion and care.
And you melt against him, fucked out and flushed, pressed to his chest.
“…We should do this again,” he mumbles.
“Next time,” you pant, smiling, “I wanna see if you can make me squirt.”
He chokes, on what little air he's breathing.
But you’re still trembling.
Your panties are hanging off one ankle, his cum is drying on your sleeve, and your pussy is throbbing— still fluttering every now and then like your body can’t believe you actually came. You’re slumped against Satoru’s chest, half-limp, while he rubs soft little circles on your lower back like he’s trying to soothe an overstimulated kitten.
Time is passing and neither of you has said anything in the last full minute.
Except him whispering “holy fuck” under his breath every ten seconds like a mantra.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he finally says, voice all hushed reverence. “You came.”
You nod, agreeing lazily. Dazed, and still reeling in the high. “Like… a lot.”
“You squirted.”
“I did not.”
“There was liquid. Splash zone level.”
You slap his chest, giggling, but your thighs twitch. You’re so sensitive you could cry, your clit aches in that perfect, pulsing way that means it wants no more and yet… you’re still soaking wet.
And you feel it. That ache deeper inside you now. Heavy and throbbing. Unused.
Unsatisfied.
You shift against him, face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt, and whisper:
“…Satoru?”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to put your fingers in me.”
You feel him freeze. Every muscle goes stiff. His hands still on your back. You feel his dick— hard again— press against your thigh like it heard you first.
“Wha— what.”
You look up at him, breath shaky. “You made me cum from the outside. But I’ve never been touched inside.”
His ears go red.
“I— I don’t wanna hurt you—”
“You won’t.” You take his wrist, place his hand gently against your mound. “I trust you.”
He swallows hard. You begin to guide his fingers between your thighs again, letting him feel how wet you still are. You gasp a little just from the contact— still sensitive, still twitchy.
His voice comes out hoarse. “You’re soaked.”
“Just go slow,” you whisper. “I wanna know what it feels like.”
He moves down again and actually takes his jacket off and spreads it over the tiles beneath you. He's kneeling like it’s instinct now, reverent and worshipful. Like he belongs on the floor for you. He kisses your inner thigh once, sweet and shaky, then stares between your legs like he’s seeing magic.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.
You nod, open for him by parting your thighs, trembling ever so slightly.
His fingers sliding along your sappy folds, middle finger inching closer to your hole's opening, more slick gathers and pools as it tries to worm its way in.
You gasp at the feeling.. a bit in fear and uncertainty, but he's so gentle, holding you tighter against him.
His finger begins to push in, your tiny hole fighting him, the intrusion. It's nothing like you've ever felt.
Satoru’s breathing stops entirely.
“You’re tight,” he whispers, stunned. “You’re— fuck, you’re so warm, I can feel your pulse.”
You whimper. “Go slow. Just the tip.”
He pushes a little, and you clench involuntarily, sucking him in just a bit.
He moans. Actually moans. Like you’re the one touching him.
“Angel, you’re gripping me.”
You bury your face in your sleeve, whining. “It’s not fair. Your fingers are big.”
He curls his finger just slightly— experimenting— and your entire body jolts.
“Oh— oh fuck!” you cry out.
His eyes go wide. “Was that— was that good?”
“D-do it again,” you pant.
He does. Gentler, carefully pressing just right, and your walls flutter around him so tightly it’s like your body doesn’t know how to handle it.
“You’re so wet,” he mumbles. “You’re sucking me in.”
You grab his wrist. “Try two.”
He stares. “Are you sure?”
“Please, Satoru.”
You’re breathless, begging.
He shivers like it physically affects him.
He slides another finger in— and your pussy stretches around him, tighter than he expected. Your mouth drops open. Your thighs twitch.
“Oh my god,” you gasp.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me— I can’t move,” he moans.
You rock your hips, helping him, whining through your teeth.
It’s deep. It’s thick. He curls again— and you sob, eyes fluttering back.
“There— oh my god there, right there—”
His fingers are hooked now, rubbing that spongey spot deep inside that makes your eyes cross. His thumb finds your clit on instinct, and suddenly you’re wailing, your whole body shaking, your pussy clenching so hard around his fingers he can barely move.
You cum again, messier and needy. Your velvet walls constricting his fingers in waves.
And he watches, awed, wrecked. His other hand supporting you as your thighs tremble uncontrollably.
He doesn’t even pull out.
He just whispers, “You’re so beautiful when you cum.”
And you start crying.
Happy tears. Dumb overwhelmed tears. Because no one’s ever touched you like this, seen you like this, loved your body with nothing but his hands and awe.
He kisses your forehead.
You sniffle. “I want you inside me someday.”
He nods. “Me too.”
“…But I might have to train for it.”
He laughs, breathless. “Me too. My heart can’t take this.”
You null away on his chest for a minute. Exhausted by everything your body's endured tonight, your panties still on the floor, his arms still secured tight around you and he press soft kisses to the top of your head.
Eventually when he slowly eases his fingers out of you, you're relaxed, no longer holding them hostage, it slides out with a flurry of slick gushing out, all what's been welling up and stuffed inside your cunt for the entire time.
He rubs it up and down your pussylips then into your clit one last time before he's bringing his fingers to his lips, and moaning as your flavour hits his tongue. Finally, getting a taste of you and he couldn't be more pleased at the tangy-sweetness of it.
Satoru licks his fingers clean, savouring it and after he's the one reaching for your panties, tugging them back up along with your leggings as he tells you softly to, "Raise your hips for me please, angel. Good girl, just like that." You do, and he secures them back in place, cunt still pulsing. Fresh slick soaking your panties again.
Satoru stands first, all long limbs and easy grace and he reaches down for you next. His hands are warm as he pulls you up from the bathroom floor. His jacket lies there still, a dark wet patch blooming where your cunt had soaked through.
Heat floods your cheeks, you're quick to mumble an apology, eyes glassy with leftover pleasure and sudden shyness.
He just chuckles softly. Bends to snatch the jacket up like it’s nothing. He balls it in one hand and tucks it under his arm.
“Shh, angel. It’s fine.”
He cups your face, thumbs brushing your flushed skin. Then he kisses you slow and deep, tasting like sin and sweetness. “One wash and it’ll be brand new. Don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t tell you he plans to keep it exactly like this. A filthy little souvenir, from tonight.
His fingers lace with yours as he leads you out of the stall. The movie is long forgotten. He keeps you tucked close against his side the whole way through the emptying theater. The night air hits cool when you step outside.
In the car he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. Possessive and gentle.
Later that night you lie in bed, sheets tangled around your legs. Your phone glows in the dark. Heart hammering, you type the silly questions anyway.
you 🩷
so… are we...
dating?
omg omg
am i your girlfriend now?!
His reply comes instantly.
toru 🩵
i knew we were soulmates when you asked to see my dick
aaaand called it "pretty"
ilysm angel omg
You giggle into your pillow, face burning. Your chest feels too full. Tonight was crazy. Wild and messy and perfect.
But now one, no two orgasms later and Satoru Gojo is yours. Officially. The nerd from the Doraemon expo.
You fall asleep smiling stupidly into your pillow, already wondering when you’ll feel his hands on you again.
You didn't mean to bring it up. Hell, you didn't even mean to think about it. It was just that the air in the safe house was too thick, the silence between you and Simon was too heavy, and the bottle of whiskey you'd been nursing had made your tongue loose and your filter non-existent.
You were perched on the edge of the rickety bed while he leaned against the wall, cleaning his rifle with the methodical focus of a saint polishing a relic. The only light was a single naked bulb, casting a jaundiced glow and carving his face into a landscape of harsh shadows.
The conversation had been about nothing. Mission fatigue, the shitty food, the way the rain sounded like nails on the tin roof. Then, you'd made a joke. A stupid, clumsy joke about a fellow soldier who couldn't keep it in his pants.
"Man's a walking liability," you slurred, a little too loudly. "Thinks with his dick, gets himself into all kinds of trouble."
Simon just grunted, his eyes never leaving the barrel of his gun. But you, feeling the warm, reckless burn of the whiskey, pushed on.
"At least he's getting some, I guess. Not like some of us are dying over here."
That got his attention. His head lifted, his dark eyes pinning you in place. "That what's on your mind, Sergeant? Dying for a shag?"
The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"
He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.
"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."
And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"
The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.
"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.
You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.
He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.
"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.
"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.
He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.
"You want me to fuck you."
It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.
His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"
The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.
"That's the idea, sweetheart."
So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.
But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.
You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.
His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.
He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.
The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.
It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.
Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.
"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"
A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."
Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."
But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.
You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."
Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."
The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"
He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"
"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"
His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"
"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"
The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.
"No."
Your heart plummeted. "What?"
"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.
You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"
His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."
"Wait?"
"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."
The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.
"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.
He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.
You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.
"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."
You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.
Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.
He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.
"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.
You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.
"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.
"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."
You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"
"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."
He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"
You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."
He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.
"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."
Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.
You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.
"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.
"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."
He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.
He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.
He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.
He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."
"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."
He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"
You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."
He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.
While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.
"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."
"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."
His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.
He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.
"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.
The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.
He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.
You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.
You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.
"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."
His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."
You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.
"Your turn," he grunted.
You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."
You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.
You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.
"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."
You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.
"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."
You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."
"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.
He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.
"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."
"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.
He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.
"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."
You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.
He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.
You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.
"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"
His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.
You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.
Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.
You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.
The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.
You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.
That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.
It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.
You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."
He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."
"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.
You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.
It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.
"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."
His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.
Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.
He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"
"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."
He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.
"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."
He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."
You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.
The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.
You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.
"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."
His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."
"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."
That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.
His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."
He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.
"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.
He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.
And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you realized you were in way deeper than you'd ever planned to be.
i'm so gone for the idea that the first time that you tell john, "i love you," is during sex. maybe missionary, but i'm thinking during pronebone—when john's pressing all his weight onto you, gripping you by the back of your neck, rutting and humping like he's trying to impregnate you then and there (not yet, but soon; that's a promise). you are so drunk in your pleasure, all drooly and whiny, that the words just spill from kiss-swollen lips.
i love you, you hiccup. john stops just for a second before a litany of his own confession drop from his maw, unstopping and unwavering like now that the dam's been unlatched, everything just begins to pour out ceaselessly.
i love you too, baby, i love you so much. the light of my life, huh? look at you, such a pretty thing for me. want daddy to kiss here, this deep? yeah? oh sweetheart, such a lovely puppy for me.
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, coercion, unhinged inner monologue from rafe continues, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, mentions of smut, MAJORR size kink, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, forced kissing, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe tries to win you back, no matter at what cost.
𝘼/𝙉: It's finally here! Final word count: 19.5k. READ CHAPTER ONE HERE. Enjoy :)
“You have any more, Rafe?”
She sounds so whiny. They all sound so fucking whiney to him. He wishes they’d just shut up. Let him use them and then leave. He’s got two of them in his bed now, and for a while he’d watched listlessly as they’d kissed, played around, snorted coke off each other’s naked bodies like the desperate whores they were. He’d called them as a distraction, but now he didn’t even have the heart. Fucking pathetic.
“Bottom drawer.” He mutters, picking up his phone for the tenth time. One of the girls crawls over him, rummaging around in his drawers and brushing her naked body enticingly against him. He couldn’t give less of a shit though. His thumb hovers over your name saved on his phone, and for the hundredth time since the whole fiasco last week, he considers calling or texting you.
Rafe hadn’t run after you that day, when you’d overheard him talking all types of shit about you to his dumb fucking friends. When he’d lied about fucking you, when he’d proclaimed you were no different from any other Pogue slut who’d spread her legs for him. All with a straight face like some type of robot, and you’d cried and run, leaving your books on the ground behind you.
And he’d wanted to run after you. He hates to admit it, but there was a part of him that wanted to chase after you, gather you in his arms and wipe your tears and tell you you’d heard wrong, that he didn’t mean any of it. That he’d just acted up in front of his friends for some stupid reason or the other. That he was sorry.
But he hadn’t. Because he was Rafe fucking Cameron and he never ran after anyone. Especially not a Pogue.
He had picked up your books, though. Once everyone was done laughing at the whole ridiculous spectacle and moved on, he’d grabbed your discarded books from the floor. A fat textbook and your cute binder with all the flower stickers and shit. Your name spelled out in swirly cursive pink pen on the front. So fucking cute, it made his insides hurt. Why the fuck did you have that effect on him?
“Is that your girlfriend?” One of the girls asks, looking at your name on his phone screen.
“You’re not getting paid to talk,” he growls, pushing her head down to his crotch. And he pretends it’s you, of course he pretends it’s you. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, crying and choking because he’s so big and you’ve never sucked cock before. And he’d coax you gently, stroke your hair back and tap your cheek condescendingly, tell you what a good girl you are for taking him like this. So brave and pretty, his good little girl. And you’d cry and cry, looking up at him with scared, devoted eyes…
He kicks the girls out the moment he’s finished with them. Tucks the cash into their underwear and sends them packing without another word. One of Ward’s friends had a high-end escort service. Rafe never really felt the need to indulge in it before, since he didn’t really have a problem hooking up with girls. But he’d been on edge and wanted a quiet distraction, a quick fix. It had not worked.
Rafe: Hey. I’m sorry about what happened the other day. I think we should talk.
His thumb hovers over the send button. He wonders if he’d be able to sweet-talk you into forgiving him. Because yes, he wants you to forgive him. He wants you to be his in every way possible, and to achieve that, he needs you to like him again. Fuck his friends and the stupid bet.
He sucks in his breath and presses down on send before he can stop himself. Waits one second, two, three, four, five. Heart lurches to his throat when an error message comes up:
Your message is unable to be delivered to the recipient.
White hot anger chokes him like a vice. You had blocked him. Fuck. Motherfucking shit.
Rafe’s always had issues with his anger. He couldn’t control it most times, and as a result he’d explode like a fucking volcano. He’d try to contain it, but the rage always found its way out. And he throws his phone across the room, where it crashes against the wall with a loud smack. How dare you fucking block him? How dare you? Who the motherfuck did you think you were?
Blindly, he searches his drawer for his coke. Hands shaking, he pours it out into a small heap and snorts it straight up, his heart already racing with an all-consuming rage. Fuck you for blocking him. Didn’t you know Rafe owned you? You were his property, and he had to have access to you whenever he wanted, however he wanted… He had to.
He makes a snap decision. Grabs your books and his keys, his actions fuelled by pure rage and drug-induced adrenaline. Stuffs his phone – now with a shattered screen – into his pocket and wipes any white residue from his nose. He was losing control of the situation. And that just wouldn’t do. He had to fix it. Now.
And Rafe wasn’t anything if not proactive.
Unfortunately, he runs into Ward on the way out.
“Rafe. We need to talk.”
“Not now, dad. I’ve got shit to deal with.”
Ward’s got a newspaper in his hands which he’s undoubtedly reading performatively, and he takes a moment before he folds it down on the kitchen island. “Shit to deal with, huh? Like trying to fuck every girl on the island?”
Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not doing this right now.”
“I’ve got business partners, investors coming in and out of here. Doesn’t look great when there’s coked out hookers limping out of my son’s bedroom every other day.”
“Your business buddies all do the same shit, dad–”
“Yeah? Well I don’t give a fuck what they do. I’m talking about you. I’m trying to push a clean, family-man image here–”
Rafe snorts. Ward ignores him.
“You’re getting too old for this shit, Rafe. You’re graduating soon, then you’ll take over the family business. You need to get your shit together, find a nice girl and settle down.”
Rafe rolls his eyes. He knows what’s expected of him. Knows his father wants him married sooner rather than later. Probably to some spoilt kook princess that he wouldn’t give two fucks about, a marriage built on connections and maximising power for the Cameron business. He figures being married wouldn’t be much different from being single. He’d still sleep around with the Pogue girls like he always did. But his mind’s too occupied by other things to really focus on this redundant conversation with his father.
“Look, dad, I have to be somewhere right now, so…”
“Who was that one girl you had over the other day? In the cute dress?”
Rafe stops short, feeling like he’s been injected with a dark, poisonous, all-consuming dose of sudden, icy-cold jealousy that winds him from the inside out. “What?”
“I was looking over the security footage. You had her on the patio. Cute, innocent looking girl. Now someone like that would be much better for your image, Rafe.”
Rafe’s jaw tenses, his fists clenched to his sides. He doesn’t want to react in front of his father, but it’s hard. The mere mention of you by another man – even if it was just his fucking dad – was making his blood boil. Boil in a way it never had before. He feels like choking someone the fuck out. Nobody was allowed to look at you. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck had you done to him? Now he’s even more determined to fix things with you, have you safely under his wing again so he could protect you from the lecherous gazes of other men.
He leaves without another word.
He takes his motorbike. It’s his preferred method of transport anyways. Quicker, less attention drawn to him than when he’s in one of his big cars. And he deliberately leaves his helmet behind, needing to feel the air whip on his face. Maybe it would snap him out of whatever crazed spell you’d put him under. He feels like ripping his fucking hair out – how dare you fucking block him? He was your only friend.
Rafe’s feeling no less crazy when he finally pulls up to your street. If anything, he’s even more incensed. His girl. His property. And he’d lost you? All because of some stupid shit he’d said to his dumb idiot fucking friend group? Fuck them – it was all their fault for making up that bet. All their fault for badgering him for private pictures of you. Fuck them.
He’s still reeling with rage when he knocks harshly on your front door. Which is why he’s caught off guard when someone opens it immediately.
At first, he thinks it’s you. No, this woman looks older. Not much older, though. It’s your mother.
“Is everything alright? Can I help you?”
He forces himself to calm down, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Switches on the charm, smiles down at the woman who gazes at him with an unreadable expression.
“Hi. I’m Y/N’s friend from school. Is she at home?”
Your mother blinks, doing that thing that he knows people from The Cut do. Takes in his expensive clothes, the Rolex on his wrist, his signet ring that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. People like her looked at him often with clear disdain simply because of his family’s wealth and where he came from. It was a good thing Rafe did not care much for what a Pogue thought about him.
He tries again when she doesn’t immediately respond; “I’m very sorry to show up unannounced, ma’am. She left her books on campus and I thought I’d return them.”
Your mother clears her throat, “I’m sorry, she’s not at home right now. But you can give her books to me.”
Rafe hesitates, not wanting to give up your things just yet. “Where is she? When will she be back?”
“Who are you?”
He tells her his name, watching as her eyes widen slightly. That was the usual reaction he got. The Cameron name was well known in Kildare. His dad’s company – soon to be his – was global, but notoriously well known around the Outer Banks.
“Thank you for bringing my daughter’s things back, Mr. Cameron.” There’s an air of formality in her tone as she takes your books.
“That’s okay. When did you say she’d be back?”
There’s a long pause.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be seeing you.”
It takes him aback, the frank way in which your mother speaks. He feels shock, and then a wave of anger.
“Well, I think that’s up to her, isn’t it?”
Your mother’s jaw twitches, and she steps back slightly, inching the door closed as if shutting him out. He gets the message but does not care.
“Look. My daughter hasn’t been the same for the last few days and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s because she got involved with the likes of you.” She sounds cold, distant, almost resigned. “I don’t know you personally, Mr. Cameron, but I know people like you. And I know my daughter is sweet and unassuming. So please, leave her alone.”
It takes everything in him not to lose it. He knows it’s best not to get into it with your mother of all people, and yet he hates when people assume shit about him. Nobody knew him, least of all some nobody-Pogue from the Cut. He wasn’t like Topper and them, but he couldn’t expect this woman to know that.
He forces a smile, “Just returning her books, ma’am. I’m her only friend.”
“As I said, thank you for bringing her things back.” She sniffs, closing the door till it’s only open a crack, “But please stay away from my daughter. It would be best for you both.”
The door slams in his face.
He has to physically retreat before he kicks your fucking door in. Her fucking audacity. As if she didn’t fully understand who the fuck he was. One meeting and a deal is all it would take for Cameron Development to buy this fucking dump of a street where your house was situated in. He’d like to see her slam her fucking door on his face then.
He does that thing his therapist taught him, breathes in and out but it doesn’t calm him down in the slightest. Instead, he clenches his fists by his side, his blunt nails digging into his palms till he knows he’s drawn blood.
Before he really knows what’s doing, he makes his way to the back of your house where he knows your bedroom window is. But the curtains are drawn. Fuck. Were you actually not at home? Or was your mother lying? He bets she was lying. If only he could get to you–
“What are you doing here?”
Rafe whips around, heart lurching to his fucking throat because it’s you. Standing right there in front of him. And he almost can’t believe it. Out here in this seedy little street on the Cut, dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a tank top. Face devoid of any emotion, stripped of any kind of makeup. Lips downturned and pouty, eyes narrowed yet still so big and pretty.
For a moment, you take his breath away.
“Go away, Rafe.”
Promptly, you turn on your heel. Well, you turn in your scuffed white converse, speed walking away from him faster than he can even wrap his head around what’s happening. You’ve got your earphones in, your arms crossed in front of your chest, going as fast as your legs can carry you. Down this dangerous fucking street, dressed like that.
Rafe catches up to you in two strides.
“Wait, I came to talk to you–”
“There’s nothing left to say… LET GO OF ME!”
You scream it so loud, he drops your hand like a hot coal. Taken aback by your fire, but he recovers quickly. Walks around till he’s facing you and blocking your path. Tries to catch your gaze but you look anywhere but at him. Your chest rises and falls, your lips pressed into a thin line as if your emotions are getting the better of you. He’s always seen you as pristine and perfect, but now you’re dishevelled, upset, won’t even look at him. Still so fucking beautiful though.
“I didn’t mean all those things I said, okay?”
You swallow harshly, “I’m not stupid, Rafe.”
“It’s my fuckin’ friends – hey, listen, it was my friends, okay?! They kept goading me about you. I had to say something to get them off my back.”
Finally, you meet his eyes. A look of incredulity on your face.
“You… You told everyone that you slept with me, Rafe! You lied! About everything!”
He sighs impatiently, running his hands through his hair, “I know, fuck, I know I lied, okay? But they kept asking. You need to understand that I only said those things to protect you.”
Silence. You just stare at him. He thinks he sees something break behind your eyes. That same look you’d had on your face when he’d locked eyes with you the last time he’d seen you on the campus courtyard. As if you’re looking at a stranger, and he hates it.
“I had to protect you, okay?” He repeats, trying to ignore how hollow and wooden his words sound, “they all want to sleep with you. I had to tell them I had, so that they knew that they couldn’t–”
You shake your head slowly, “Y-You can’t even accept responsibility for what you did…”
“Fuck, this is me accepting responsibility, don’t you get it?!”
He lowers his voice when you flinch. But he’s so fucking desperate, wants you to understand what he’s trying to say although even he doesn’t understand it. He feels fucking insane right now, and you’re seeing it all unfold first hand. “Look, I didn’t mean any of it. You need to understand that. Hey, hey don’t walk away from me!”
“I feel disgusting, Rafe!” You burst out. And he really sees you then, sees your face crumple up and yet you try to keep this false bravado, chin up, eyes blazing. “I-I trusted you. I did things with you that I… that I’ve never done before. And to think this whole time, it was all just a joke for you. I told you about my dad, and I told you all those things because this whole time I thought you genuinely wanted to be friends, and I trusted you.”
“You can still trust me–”
“No, I can’t! You were lying the whole time.” You swallow again, and through your glasses, he can see the tears welling in your eyes, “I was nothing more than a bet for you. And I… I can’t believe I fell for it, that I let you…”
Your voice breaks, and you wrap your arms around yourself, almost like you’re hiding your body from him. Like you can’t bear the thought of him even looking at you now, can’t bear the thought that you ever let him look at you. Makes him feel like a goddamned monster.
“I wish I’d never called you that night,” you whisper, “I wish I’d never let you see me like that. I wish I could… I wish…”
“You don’t mean that,” he reaches out, doesn’t know why but just wants to hold your arm, but stops himself when you flinch once more. You’re far away, lost in your own broken thoughts, and yet you step back when he tries to touch you. Like you’re scared of him, and it kills him, because you were the only one who wasn’t.
“I feel dirty,” you say, voice thick yet pitiful, “I-I feel like… Like I can’t get myself clean no matter how hard I try.”
It’s Rafe’s turn to swallow, and he’s got a huge lump in his throat, and it makes it harder for him to speak. Like there’s a boulder on top of his heart, weighing it down to the fucking pits of his stomach. Guilt and frustration like flames licking and growing inside him.
“You’re not dirty,” he says softly, wanting, willing you to look at him but you don’t. And he wants you to say something, anything. But you don’t. Like you’re done. And he can’t have that, he fucking can’t. The control is slipping out from under his fingertips, and it’s an all-consuming feeling that he hates.
“I like you,” he tries again, but he’s never been good with his fucking words. His mind’s screaming ten different things for him to say, brain feels like it’s about to explode with frustration because he knows no matter what he says, it won’t be the right thing. How could it be? When he’d done what he’d done and there was no way around it? “I never lied about that. It started out as a bet but I always liked you.”
“You don’t speak about someone like that if you like them.” You look defiant and deflated all at once, angry yet upset, those fucking lips of yours downturned in this crestfallen way that hits him straight in the chest. “I hate myself for being so stupid. Trusting you when all this time, you were probably just laughing behind my back, thinking I was beneath you because I’m just a Pogue.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t you just understand that I’m telling the goddamned truth?!”
He doesn’t mean to raise his voice. It just happens. It happens a lot with him, and he regrets it instantly when he sees your face morph in fear. Again, you flinch away from him, and he wishes to God you’d stop doing that. Stop being afraid of him because couldn’t you fucking see how insane you made him?
“S-Stay away from me,” you back away towards your house.
“Wait! Shit, I’m sorry, I– hey! Come back! Please, come back!”
You ignore him. Don’t even look back. In fact, you break into a run, as if you can’t stand being near him. And he can tell you’re crying in earnest now, with how your hands reach up and snatch your glasses off your face to blindly wipe away your tears. He calls out again, but his voice is lost in the wind. Fists clench to his sides again, and he hates how helpless he feels. The control he had, it’s dissipated like a cloud of fucking smoke and he hates it.
“Fine! Don’t fuckin’ listen!” He wants to punch something. The frustration of being unable to explain himself is slowly morphing into rage like how it often did. And he doesn’t know what to fucking do, and he’s trying to control his breathing, and he’s itching for a line, anything that’ll make him stop feeling whatever it is he’s feeling right now. “You think I can’t walk away from this shit too? Well, fuck you! I’m done too.”
Your front door slams shut. You don’t even look back once.
***
It’s a whole week before Rafe sees you on campus again. And in those seven days, he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t care. That you didn’t matter. That this was it. Whatever the fuck he’d thought he’d felt for you was clearly not real. And it never had been. He was just a fucking idiot who’d had a lapse in his judgement. Let a stupid Pogue fuck around with his feelings. Never again. Never fucking again.
And yet his heart skips a beat when he sees you. It’s been a whole week of you not showing up to classes, and a part of him had thought you’d transferred out. But there you are, bright and early on a fucking Monday morning. Books and binder clutched to your chest. In a blue top and matching skirt, looking every bit as cute as you always did.
For some reason, he’d half expected you to show up sad and forlorn, in a big hoodie or some other equally unflattering item that chicks wore when they felt depressed. Clearly not.
Rafe himself feels like shit and has all week. He’s got bags under his eyes and stubble he can’t be bothered to shave off. And he hates it, hates how he’s spent the past seven days at home, listlessly staring at his chat with you on his phone. Reading over your old messages again and again. Back when he still had control over what you thought of him. He also keeps staring at the pictures he took of you. He knows he should delete them but he can’t. You were his after all. He had every right to have those pictures on his phone. And you were so fucking hot…
“Look, it’s your little girlfriend,” Kelce snickers, and his entire group turn their heads in your direction. You’re trying your best not to make eye contact, quickening your pace as you speed-walk across the field.
It takes everything in him to keep his cool. “Change the fucking subject, man. If you know what’s best for you.”
They all straighten up, cough, look away. Like fucking clockwork robots responding to their puppet-master. They’d calmed down about the whole debacle, stopped begging for the pictures of you after Rafe had made it clear he wasn’t going to show them. Now, he just wanted to move on. Forget about it all. Pretend like he didn’t know you, just like he did with every other girl he fucked.
It was difficult, though. When you looked so fucking beautiful.
Rafe can’t help but try to meet your gaze, but you don’t look at him even once. And it incenses him. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you, discard and move on like he did with all the other girls he’d been with. And yet…
“Hey man, did you hear what I said? What do you think?”
Rafe blinks, forcibly peeling his eyes away, and trying his best to suppress the wild, innate desire to follow you, keep tabs on you, make sure he knows what you’re doing at all times.
Topper waves his hand in front of his face, “Rafe?”
His eyes narrow in irritation, “What?”
“The party. Saturday night. It’s at this abandoned beach house in the Cut. I’m pretty sure Sarah’s gonna be there, and–”
“No.”
Topper sighs, “I mean, I think you should go, man. There’ll be plenty of other Pogue girls there if you’re looking to hook up.”
The thought of that makes him sick.
“I’m not going to some Pogue-infested crack house on the Cut, Topper.”
“But I think the best way for you to get over her is to find someone else–”
“Get it through your thick fucking skull,” Rafe grabs him by the collar, a sudden rage coursing through his veins and he can’t even pinpoint why, “I’m not trying to get over shit, okay? There’s nothing to get over. Don’t fuckin’ project your shit on me just ‘cause you can’t get over my bitch of a sister.”
“Jesus Christ, alright!” Topper shakes him off, backing away and raising his hands in the air, “You shouldn’t speak about Sarah like that.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Everyone’s staring at him again. Like he’s the crazy one or some shit like that. Fuck them all. His nose twitches, and he wishes he’d brought some coke with him. But the last time he’d been caught on campus with drugs, Ward had to pay a shit ton of money for the faculty to forget it ever happened. Doesn’t help now, when he feels like he’s gonna implode. A part of him wishes he could go to you, because you’d make him feel calm and in control again. But that isn’t an option, and so he tries to control his breathing. He can’t.
Fuck.
Get you back or forget about you. Something had to give.
***
It’s on impulse, really. He doesn’t even remember doing it till it’s done. It’s after he’s spent a good twenty minutes lying on his bed and staring at your pictures on his phone. Fuck, you were so sweet and hot. He still remembers it, waking up next to you on your tiny pink bed, an assorted range of your stuffed animals surrounding you both. You, naked and in his arms. Right where you belonged. Sucking his thumb like you were his baby, and you trusted him with everything.
Before he realises what he’s doing, he orders a Chanel bag. A light pink one with a gold chain. Puts in your address so it can be delivered straight to you. He’d grown up with two sisters and a stepmother obsessed with shopping and designer labels, so he has an idea of what women like. And he’s used to girls from Figure 8, who’s love language was gifts and money. You were different, though, but he still can’t help himself.
He imagines you dripping from head to toe in gifts bought by him. Cute little designer dresses, all in pink or light blue or yellow or some pretty girly colour like that. Fur jackets and dainty, expensive jewellery. And he’d give you an allowance, hell he’d make you save his credit card details on your phone. And he’d pay for you to get your nails done, and your toes too. Pretty, gleaming white polished toes.
He’s jacking off now, picturing it so clearly in his head. He’d move you into his house, and you’d look at him with glowing eyes, so thankful that he’d saved you from the poverty you’d been so used to. And you’d be his little princess, draped in the gifts he’d shower you with. And in return, you’d let him do anything to you. Because you were his. Only ever his.
And he’d push you onto his bed, press your legs up against his chest while he fucked you so good and hard. Came inside you, filled you up till the brim, till his cum was leaking out of you. And even then, he’d push it back inside, stuff you so fucking full of him that you wouldn’t know how to act, and you’d cry and be confused. You’d beg him not to, but he’d do it anyways because he owned you. And if he knocked you up? Fuck, he wouldn’t even care because it would mean you’d be bound to him forever.
He cums at that last thought, the visual of it too fucking hot for him to even fully wrap his head around. High off the fact he’s bought something for you. It gives him a fucking power trip like no other. You were his. Completely and utterly his. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you but fuck it. Maybe, just maybe, he could buy his way back into your life.
It’s only two days later when he’s leaving his car in the campus parking lot that he feels a little tap on his shoulder.
“You can’t do things like this.”
It’s you. Looking all tiny and cute as ever, a fiery look on your face that’s about as intimidating as one of your stuffed animals. Your face that’s half hidden by the big Chanel box you’re carrying in your arms.
“Hello to you too.”
“You… You need to take this back.”
Rafe squints down at you, running a hand through his hair and trying to act nonchalant, “It’s rude to return gifts.”
You look genuinely upset. Distraught, even. It confuses him.
“I don’t want any gifts from you, Rafe. Why can’t you understand that I want nothing to do with you?”
Didn’t he know this would happen? He knew you weren’t materialistic like the girls he was used to. And yet he’d still done it. But at least you were speaking to him again.
“I thought you should have it,” he says. “I was thinking about you.”
“Stop. Don’t.” You swallow harshly, your chest rising up and down as if you have so much you want to say. “Please. Just take this back and leave me alone.”
I CAN’T! He wants to scream, but he knows he can’t risk scaring you away again.
“Take it as an apology,” he says, take a step closer to you except you instantly take a step back, a fearful look in your eye that he hates. “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? Let me make it up to you.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, “You lied, and now everyone thinks that we…” You gulp, pressing your lips together and trying to push the box into his arms, “My mom saw the bag. She-She thinks I’m sleeping with you in exchange for gifts.”
Rafe blinks, “Why would she think that?”
You gape at him incredulously, and he can’t help but think how cute and hot you look. All weepy and indignant, acting all upset but all it does is get him hard. The Chanel box is almost as big as you, and it makes you look even tinier. And you’re wearing this little buttercup yellow top trimmed with white lace. So fucking hot. He wants to grab you and push you into the backseat of his car. Lock the doors and have his way with you. Fuck you dumb, fuck that indignance straight out of you, till all you can say is thank you daddy for the pretty purse and the orgasm while you cuddle and cry into his chest.
When he doesn’t take the box back, you huff and drop it at his feet.
“I…I don’t care about expensive gifts, Rafe. And if you think you can just throw money at me and expect things to go back to how they were, then I guess we never really knew each other to begin with.”
Rafe sighs, reaches out to grab your wrist, “Look, wait–”
“D-Don’t touch me!”
There it is again. Don’t touch me. It’s the second time you’ve said that to him, and he watches as you flinch away from him again. Like you’re scared. Of him. And he fucking hates it so much, it’s like he can’t breathe.
“Wait–”
You scurry away without looking back at him even once. When all he can do is look at you. Like you’re a drug and he’s an addict. He can’t rip his gaze away. He feels so out of control of the situation, it makes his palms itch and his head hurt. He feels like throwing up. Like fucking punching someone. He wishes you’d just understand him, and he hates himself for not being able to explain himself to you. He’s so fucking obsessed with you, it’s insane.
How the fuck was he supposed to get over you?
***
His eyes follow you wherever you go. He memorises your schedule, your classes, everything. He doesn’t mean to, exactly. It just kind of happens. It’s like he has this innate need to know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re his property after all, so it was only natural.
And Rafe watches you all the time. Whenever he can. He knows it’s unhealthy as shit, this growing obsession he has with you. But he’s been like this as long as he can remember. Hyper focusing on one thing until it consumed him completely. His dad’s approval. Drugs. Alcohol. You.
And you’re putting on a brave front, walking around campus acting like everything between you and him never even happened. But Rafe likes to think he knows you, despite only interacting with you for a week. He knows it’s all an act, and on the inside you’re feeling just as shitty as he is. He watches you smile, nod, hang around the outskirts of some Pogue girl group who barely pays you any attention. And it’s sick of him, but he likes how you don’t have any true friends. All you had was him, and he was hell bent on getting you back no matter what it took.
Which is why he feels this cold, numbing feeling of pure rage when he sees you leaving your last class of the day walking side-by-side next to a boy. Talking to him. Laughing with him.
Rafe’s hands curl into fists.
He doesn’t want you speaking to any other man. Even what looks to be some sorry ass Pogue nerd who’s in your class. No, you were his. You weren’t allowed to even look at another man unless he approved of it. What the fuck could this clown give you that Rafe couldn’t? Nothing. What the fuck.
He waits till you part ways with the boy and make your way out of the building. That’s when he grabs him by the shirt and slams him into a locker, not giving a fuck who sees.
“What the fuck?!” The boy struggles, but it’s extremely easy to overpower him. Rafe’s used to being bigger than most people.
“Shut the fuck up, Pogue. I just want to talk.” Rafe shoots him a wooden ass smile, although it’s taking everything in him not to punch the shit out of this fucking guy. As quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets him go, straightening him up and smoothening his shirt while the boy stares at him like he’s insane. He’s used to that too.
“Why were you speaking to her?” He asks softly, keeping his tone cold and calculated.
“I don’t know what you’re taking about– OUCH!”
Rafe slams him against the metal lockers again before smirking, “Try again.”
The Pogue scrunches his eyes shut for a second before exhaling loudly through his nose. When he speaks, his voice shakes, “She’s in my class, man. We were put together for a project.”
“Mm,” Rafe’s thoughtful for a second, “You know who I am?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Who am I?”
When the kid doesn’t respond immediately, Rafe takes his head and slams it against the hard metal behind him. He cries out in pain, coughing with a stricken look on his face like he’s about to piss himself.
“You’re Rafe, OK?! R-Rafe Cameron! Please don’t hit me again!”
Rafe smiles, patting his cheek, “Relax, Pogue. You know who my friends are?”
“Yes!”
“Then you know you won’t speak to her again. You won’t even look at her again. Or else I’ll personally come after you. And my friends will too.”
“Look, I don’t know what this is about! We were just discussing our project, it’s worth a lot of credits–”
“You’ll do it yourself,” Rafe fixes the boy’s collar slowly, “You’re not going to say another word to her. If you do, I’ll know.”
The boy gulps, “O-Okay.”
Rafe smirks, patting the boy’s cheek again, “Good boy. And you let your pathetic little Pogue friends know too. She’s off limits to all of you. If any of you so much as look at her, I’ll personally break your fuckin’ legs myself. Got it?”
“Yes, I-I understand.”
Rafe lets the boy go before he pisses himself in fear. He knows the threat will be enough, and yet he still feels so fucking angry. Like he can’t believe you’ve found another man to talk to. He was supposed to be your only friend.
He hates this feeling of desperation that’s only heightening within him as the days go by. A pretty girl like you were bound to find someone else unless Rafe took action.
But what the fuck could he do?
***
He’s still stewing over it when he gets home that day. He’d threatened the kid but would it be enough to keep him away from you? Rafe bets that dumb fucking Pogue had requested to be partnered up with you, thought it’d be an easy way to get in your pants. He thinks back to you in all your cute, sexy outfits, flouncing around campus like you were a free piece of ass. Suddenly acutely aware of just how many men probably wanted to fuck you just like he did…
Over his dead fucking body.
In frustration, he whips out his phone and opens to your chat. He was still blocked. A wave of pure rage completely throttles him, and he throws his phone against his bedroom wall. Again. He’s surprised the damn screen doesn’t completely shatter from the impact.
You’re fucking losing it, he thinks to himself.
After snorting a few lines to calm his nerves (it doesn’t work) as well as downing half the bottle of Gray Goose that he’s got stashed under his bed, Rafe decides to pay you another visit.
“Rafe, we need to talk.”
He’s about to leave the house when Ward’s booming voice halts him. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Not now, Dad,” Rafe mumbles, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Yes, now. Come here, son.”
He resists the urge to roll his eyes, entering his father’s study. “Look, Dad. I need to be somewhere.”
“Yes, Rafe. You always need to be somewhere.” Ward is unperturbed as usual, stoic as he sits behind the grand desk of his study, barely even looking up from the papers he’s sifting through. “I don’t care where you’re going. But I need you to be here Sunday. I’ve got someone coming over to talk business.”
His ears perk up, “I get to sit in on a deal?”
“If you want. But he’s bringing his family over for brunch. He’s got a daughter your age whom I’d like for you to meet.”
Rafe loses interest immediately, not giving a fuck about whatever spoilt Kook slut his father was trying to set him up with this time. Instead, his mind wanders back to you again. He wonders what that slimy little dweeb in your class had said to you. Had you been impressed by him? Surely not, he couldn’t offer you what Rafe could. Why the fuck had you been talking to him? Laughing with him? God, he needs to see you now. Set the rules straight: you weren’t allowed to talk to any other man. He doesn’t give a shit if you’re mad at him, you’d still need to follow his rules, and–
“Are you listening to me, Rafe?”
“Mm.”
“I said it’s about time you settled down and got serious about your future. Cameron Development has always been a family-orientated business. There’s a certain image you need to build up and maintain, son.”
Ward drones on and on about “settling down” and “eventually starting a family” and some other bullshit along those lines. Rafe’s too busy thinking about you to listen. What if that stupid Pogue fuck didn’t listen to him? What if he was at your house right now? Using the excuse of “project work” to get close to you? In your bedroom? When the only one who’d been in your bedroom was Rafe, and he intended to keep it that way.
“Sure, Dad. Look, I’ll talk to you when I get back.”
He leaves, ignoring Ward shouting his name and calling him back. Usually, he’s pretty good with listening to his father but right now he couldn’t be fucked with it. He has bigger priorities to deal with.
And he knows he probably shouldn’t drive after he’s just inhaled half a bag of coke and chased it down with half a bottle of vodka. Which is why he takes his motorbike again, hoping the roads would be empty at this time of night.
He gets to your house in record time. He’s got the route memorised at this point.
He doesn’t bother with the front door. Knows if your mother answers, she’d probably call the cops on him or some shit like that. When really, she should be calling the cops on that dumb fucking pervert Pogue from your class.
He makes a beeline for your bedroom window at the back of the house. Luckily, your curtains aren’t drawn, and he can see inside. Your bed’s all made, pristine pink sheets with the same stupid stuffed animals arranged meticulously on your pillow. The memory of him on top of your naked body while you quivered underneath him is fast fading, which he hates. He can’t believe you still haven’t forgiven him. He’d give anything to have you look at him like that again, look at him with stars in your eyes as if he’s your saviour, your hero, your god.
“Leave me alone, okay?! Stop telling me what to do all the time!”
For a moment, Rafe thinks you’re talking to him. He steps back, allowing the sidewall to conceal him yet still having a perfect view through your window. You’ve got your back to him, dressed in this fucking insane pair of pink pyjama shorts that make your ass pop. You’ve got your hands on your hips, facing out your bedroom door.
“It’s that boy, isn’t it? Didn’t I warn you not to get mixed up with people like him?” Your mother’s voice.
“Why can’t you just trust me, mom? I’ve always done what you’ve asked, but it’s never good enough!”
You look so petulantly pretty, and it’s a side to you he’s never seen before. Sure, he’s seen you angry, hurt, upset. At him. But this is different. You seem… frustrated almost.
“You can’t afford to get distracted by boys who will just hurt you. You need to keep your head down and mind your own business.”
“That’s all I ever do!” You cry, stomping into your room and he gets a flash of your face, indignant and upset. “I just want to be normal, mom! I just want that normal college experience that everyone else talks about! And I want friends, I want freedom–”
“You’re too naïve.” Your mother appears in your doorway looking grim, “I don’t know what that boy did to you, but maybe now you’ll learn your lesson. Most people at that school are not your friends. You need to remember that, and be smart, and–”
“This isn’t about him!” You look helpless, as if you know whatever you’ll say won’t have any type of effect on your mother’s view. Rafe gets it, has that same problem with Ward. “I’m just so sick of being so good all the time. I hate that everyone thinks I’m so naïve, I-I wish I could show them I’m not.”
“You are.” Your mother says impassively. “And you will stay that way. I forbid you from talking to that boy or anyone like him.”
An incredulous pause, and then:
“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
You slam your door shut and throw yourself on your bed, crying your little eyes out into your pillow. And admittedly, it touches him a little bit. How sweet and soft you look, crying like that with such abandon. Thinking no one’s watching you, thinking no one understands you. Well, Rafe does. And ironically enough, he feels like he’s the only one who could comfort you when you’re like this.
And, despite how sick it sounds, a part of him likes how you’ve fought with your mother. If anything, that distance would only make you more likely to fall back into Rafe’s arms. As long as he was patient and bided his time.
Patience, however, has never been his strong suit. But even in his drunk and high current state, he knows that making his presence known to you right now probably wouldn’t be the best idea. You look equal parts upset and angry, if he added himself to that mix you’d definitely bite his head off. He’d find it hot though, but nevertheless…
He leaves, feeling slightly better. He doesn’t even fully understand why. Maybe it’s because he’s seen you now, and you’re not doing project work with that worm from your class. In fact, he’s not on your mind at all, which was reassuring. Or maybe it’s because the fight with your mother meant you’d slowly come back to him.
Maybe.
***
“Hey Rafe, you spoken to your girl lately?” Topper asks him the following day on campus.
Rafe frowns, “Why are you asking me that?”
Topper shrugs, looking oblivious and gormless as usual, “I don’t know, just asking.”
“Well, don’t.” He doesn’t like when other men talk about you, including Topper. Lately, he’s gotten a lot more paranoid about who’s watching you, who wants to fuck you. Which, he guesses, is most likely every male at this college. Makes him even more eager to publicly claim you, make it be known that you weren’t up for grabs. Sure, his friends knew better than to talk to you or look at you, but he wanted everyone to know. And he didn’t have time to go around personally threatening any man who looked at you.
“Look, there she is now.”
Topper cleanly points at you. Rafe slaps the back of his head and shoots him a dirty look.
“Don’t fucking do that.”
You’re standing on the fringes of that one Pogue girl group that you hang around with sometimes, pretending like they’re your friends. The same ones you were standing with the first time he’d ever seen you. And that was weeks ago, and yet your friendship with them hasn’t seemed to progress. They still ignore you, and you still stand there like you know you don’t fit in, but you try your hardest anyways.
“So anyways, it’s gonna be at this abandoned beach house.”
“Yeah, and Brittney, it’s still OK if we all get ready at your place, right?”
Their stupid chatter doesn’t interest him. But then you speak up.
“What’s happening at the abandoned beach house?” You ask politely, like you’ve rehearsed the line a million times in your head to make sure it comes out right. Tinged with nervousness, afraid they might ignore you as if you hadn’t even spoken.
There’s silence for a beat or two, and Rafe doesn’t miss how some of the girls smirk and exchange looks before one of them answers.
“It’s a party. We would’ve told you but… well, we know you probably wouldn’t be allowed to go.”
“Oh.” Hurt clouds your features for a moment before you force a smile, “I-I’d be allowed to go.”
One of the girls raises an eyebrow, “Really? You? Have you ever even been to a party before?”
They all burst into giggles. You join in too, despite the fact they’re all laughing at you and he bets you know it.
“I have.” You say, sticking your chin up so cutely. And Rafe knows you’re lying through your teeth, and wonders why you feel the need to impress these stupid Pogue sluts who were clearly being mean to you because they were jealous. Couldn’t you see that?
“Okay, well, then you should come too,” one of the girls says, her lips quirking up into a smirk, “Although I doubt Rafe Cameron’s gonna be there, if that’s why you want to go.”
Your face morphs in disgust, “I…I… No, I don’t care about him. I should’ve listened to you guys, you were all right about him.”
Stupid Pogue whores, spreading lies about him to you as per usual.
“Well, we warned you.” One of the girls says, looking like she’s about to burst into a fit of laughter, “But I guess you got a bit overexcited, and thought he was giving you attention because he actually cared about you.”
“Which he doesn’t,” another one chimes in, “I mean, let’s make that clear.”
You giggle nervously, but he can tell you’re hurt.
“Yeah, I mean no offence to you, you’re just so sweet and innocent,” one girl pats you on the shoulder condescendingly, “He probably went for you because he knew you’d be an easy target.”
“No offence,” another one emphasises, although the smirks they all exchange say otherwise. “But yeah, you should totally come to the party on Saturday. We’ll take care of you.”
It’s when they’ve all dispersed and you’re on your own, that he corners you before he can stop himself.
“You shouldn’t go to that party.”
You stare up at him in disbelief, “Get away from me, Rafe.”
“It’s not the type of place for someone like you.”
“Someone like me,” you echo, a cloud of hurt crossing your features for a split second before you cover it up with a brave attempt at a glare, “Y-You don’t know me.”
“I do. And those girls are not your friends.”
“Stop.”
“I’m just trying to help you.”
“They didn’t lie to me and pretend to be my friend,” you hug your books close to your chest like they’re a fucking shield against him or something, “that was you.”
You say it so quietly, in such a resigned way that it kills him. And then you turn and leave, and again you don’t even look back once. And he can’t take his eyes off of you.
He doesn’t waste time in texting Topper after that.
Rafe: Send me the location of that party.
***
Rafe fucking hates the Cut. Disgusting place filled to the brim with disgusting people. For the life of him, he doesn’t understand how Sarah had chosen this life over Figure 8. The beach house – if it could even be called that – is all rotting wood and peeling floorboards. And yet the Pogues here were acting like it was some kind of VIP beach club and the party of the century. Fucking losers.
Topper is all smiles, though. Scanning the crowd for Sarah and her little Pogue group. Rafe’s already surveyed the whole sorry property for you, but you weren’t here. And a part of him is relieved, because maybe you’d taken his advice after all. He’d give it another fifteen minutes before leaving.
“You think Sarah decided not to come or something?” Topper asks, plopping down on the couch next to Rafe and handing him a beer.
“Do I look like I know what goes on in her head?”
“Jesus, man. It was just a question.”
“You both need to get a grip,” Kelce leans forward, a scantily clad girl already in his lap and a drink in his hand, “There’s too much fresh meat here for you to still be hung up on anyone else.”
“I’m not hung up on shit,” Rafe seethes.
“Prove it, bro.”
“Shut up before I knock you the fuck out.” He’s not in the fucking mood for this bullshit. The girls here all looked like typical Pogue sluts. Of course, you wouldn’t be here. Either you’d come to your senses, or he’d gotten through to you, or hell, your mother probably didn’t give you permission.
The music is loud and pulsating, making the creaking floorboards vibrate. This beach house might have been considered luxurious once upon a time – by 1960s standards probably – but now it lies in complete desolate disrepair. With way too many sweaty bodies filled to the brim inside. Rafe can’t believe he made the mistake of coming here.
He’s getting up to get the fuck out of here, and that’s when he spots you at the entrance.
And he almost doesn’t recognise you. Yet at the same time, it’s like his heart does because it does this weird fluttery shit the moment he sees you. Walking through the door with that Pogue girl group, except you stand out from them in so many ways, and he knows he’s not the only man in the room who notices.
You’ve got some smoky black shit on your eyes. That’s the first thing he sees, because you’ve never done that kind of makeup before, and you’re not wearing your glasses either. It looks… different. Still so fucking hot, though. Like black eyeshadow smeared over your eyes in the sluttiest way, and your cheeks tinted this sexy, flushed pink with glitter. Lips glossy and berry-coloured, lined with something darker – something else you’ve never done before.
And your dress. It makes him clench his beer so hard he’s surprised the bottle doesn’t shatter. It’s the sluttiest thing he’s ever fucking seen, and it’s almost like the sluttiness of it is amplified because you’re the one who’s wearing it. And he’d never pictured you dressing like this, he didn’t think you could or ever would. In his head, you were the perfect picture of innocence in your cute pastels and flowery prints.
But this. It’s like you’ve taken a dress from your mother’s closet and cut it as short as you possibly could, and he can tell that’s what you’ve most likely done, because the bottom looks slightly frayed, like it’s been cut last second with a pair of kitchen scissors. Barely reaches the bottom of your ass, and it makes him want to audibly growl. Make his way over to you and tug it the fuck down, and then drag you out of here for daring to look so slutty.
You look like you’re cosplaying as a goddamned whore.
But it’s still you. And he can’t tear his eyes away. Like you’re so fucking compelling, so different from any other girl in here. Like there’s a spotlight on you and just you, and you look so deliciously uncomfortable. Like you know you don’t belong here, like you know this dress and that makeup just isn’t you, and yet you smile and try and act confident. But he knows you. He knows you better than anyone here.
“Who the fuck is that?” Some guy Rafe doesn’t know whistles loudly, “Never seen her before.”
And suddenly, it’s all around him. The whole fucking room buzzing as if they all see you like how he sees you. Like every man in here has his eyes on you and solely you. Like you’re some type of fresh meat, a beautiful girl who looks innocent enough to manipulate into hooking up with, despite what you’re wearing.
He’d beat the shit out of anyone who tried.
For a moment, he just watches. Watches as you follow your little girlfriends into the kitchen. To the counter where all the booze is. He notes how your eyes widen, how you take a deep breath before smiling and accepting a drink some fucker offers you. And Rafe’s hands are shaking with rage.Half of him wants to cause a scene right the fuck now, let everyone know who the fuck it is you belong to.
But he knows it would be best if he kept his cool. Figured out what to do in a calm and calculated manner.
“Sarah’s still not here,” Topper’s whining snaps him out of his rageful thoughts.
Kelce groans, “Man, stop talking about Sarah for just two seconds. There’s so many other options here, you know how easy these Pogue sluts are.” He snickers, “Rafe definitely knows.”
“Shut up.” Rafe says warningly, his eyes still locked on you.
“Bro, just get on top of another one to get over the first one. They’re all the same anyways–”
“Shut the fuck up, there’s nothing for me to get over.” He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell his friends that.
Kelce shrugs, “If you say so.”
He knew so. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from making his way over to you, pushing past the crowd and not missing how he’s definitely not the only one staring at you right now.
“That’s some dress.”
He comes up behind you, and you jump despite him making a conscious effort not to touch you. Your eyes widen, but he thinks he detects a brief flicker of relief, as if you’re happy to see a familiar face.
“R-Rafe, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I came with my friends.” You gesture loosely, but it’s clear as day your little girl group has already dispersed without a trace, all but throwing you to the wolves. “Uh, I think they went to the bathroom or something.”
Rafe snorts, but the look on your face pulls at something inside of him, makes him want to just grab your hand and take you back home and keep you happy in a way he knows only he could. If you’d let him. But then it’s like he can’t stop himself:
“Well, homeschool, I barely recognised you in this little outfit. Maybe your friends don’t either.”
You blink up at him with black-rimmed eyes, and he sees a flash of hurt glimmer within them. And he wishes he hadn’t said it, sees how you shrink in within yourself, step back and cross your arms over your chest protectively. Tug your dress down except it’s so short it didn’t even matter.
“Homeschool,” you repeat softly “I used to think you called me that as like a cute nickname. Now I know you were just making fun of me.”
“I’m not. I wasn’t. Look, I–”
“Please, just leave me alone.” You try to push past him.
“I’m surprised you were allowed out of the house in that. You’re a walking target here with a dress that short,” He moves to block your path.
“Well, it’s a good thing I can take care of myself!”
“Yeah? How’re you gonna do that when you can’t even see? With all that black shit smeared all over your eyes?”
He wants to kick when he sees the hurt on your face. It’s like he’s so used to being the asshole version of himself that everyone knew him as, like it’s so easy to slip that mask back on now that things aren’t going his way. Fuck, why couldn’t you just give in and stop fighting him?
“I can take care of myself.” You repeat, although your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers.
“You can’t do shit dressed like that,” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “Look, trust me, this party sucks. Just let me take you home.”
You push past him without another word, and it fucking angers him so bad he wants to punch the goddamned wall. Instead, he watches you with dark eyes as you weave through the crowd. How naïve of you to think you could take care of yourself. When every single man in here was staring at you like you were some hot fucking commodity. Well, he was officially done trying to help you out.
“What’re you doing here, Rafe? Thought this was beneath your country club ass.”
Rafe watches you join back up with your girl group before forcibly turning away, “Barry. Tell me you got some shit on you right now.”
“Is that how you say hello to all your friends?” Barry grins, “You look like shit by the way.”
“You obviously do have some, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“You sound like an addict, country club.”
Rafe rolls his eyes, looking beyond Barry’s shoulder at you sipping on another drink. Who’d given you this one? How many had you had? Jesus fucking Christ, was he going to keep tabs on you all night? He felt like he had to, and it’s putting him on edge.
“Who’re you lookin’ at?”
“None of your business,” Rafe snaps, “Just…Please, if you have anything on you.” He wants to snatch the drink from your hand, scold you for accepting drinks from anyone that wasn’t him. Instead, he watches helplessly as you sip it, scrunching up your nose all cutely because he bets it tastes awful. Like cheap liquor and dollar store soda.
“She’s cute,” Barry says.
“Shut up.”
“Her brothers would kick her ass if they knew she was here.”
That catches his attention, “You know her?”
“I know her brothers.” Barry snickers, patting him on the shoulder, “You might be a little out of your depth with this one, country club.”
Rafe doubts it. Pogues did not intimidate him in the slightest, and he doubts your brothers would be any different. Hell, they could be military-trained mercenaries and it wouldn’t stop him from making you his.
“I wasn’t out of my depth when I fucked her.” It comes out before he can stop himself. He just needs Barry to know. Hell, he needs everyone here to know. Even though it’s technically a lie, but he may as well have fucked you with how close he got.
Barry whistles lowly, “And yet here she is, clearly unclaimed.”
Rafe clenches his fists, eyes trained on you once more. He’d looked away for barely a minute and now you’re surrounded by men. Like a bunch of sorry ass losers vying for your attention, and it’s like you don’t even know how to react to it. You keep looking down, opening your phone, sipping your drink, pulling at your dress. Smiling awkwardly. Reaching up to adjust your glasses before realising you’re not wearing them. Fuck, you were so cute. So different from all the other girls and so fucking cute.
“Hey country club, do all the girls you fuck act like they don’t know you?”
“Don’t fuck around with me, man. I’m not in the mood.”
He runs a hand through his hair, watching like a hawk as you tug your dress down again. God, the way it hugged your ass was insane. You look so fucking hot, and despite the less than stellar interaction he’s just had with you, he still can’t help but think of fucking you. In that slutty fucking dress, but he’d push it up to your waist, rip your panties off and pocket them before jackhammering his cock inside you with such force just so you’d know never to wear something like that in public again. Maybe he’d drag you to his car, maybe one of the rooms upstairs. Or maybe right here in front of everyone while you cried because you were shy but he wouldn’t give a fuck because he’d be showing you who you belong to.
Maybe that’s what you wanted, maybe that’s why you’d dressed like this.
Barry pulls out a baggie, “You wanna push this to your preppy crowd?”
Rafe snatches it up quickly, “Sure, whatever.”
Just then, he sees you being cornered by some idiot who’s talking all animatedly with you, pushing you away from your friends, clearly trying to get you alone. Rafe sees red, pushing Barry aside and making a beeline for you.
“Hands off, asshole.” He seethes, physically putting himself between you and the guy.
The guy raises an eyebrow, “What are you, her bodyguard?”
“Meet me outside and I’ll show you exactly who the fuck I am.” Rafe grabs the guy’s shoulder when he tries to leave, “No, no, where you going, pussy? Come outside with me.”
“Rafe, stop! You’re acting insane.”
Your voice cuts through all the other noise, and the guy takes that moment to scurry away into the crowd like a little rat.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckin’ pussy ass bitch.” Rafe barks out a hollow laugh before turning back to you. “Are you okay?”
“Why did you do that, Rafe?!.”
He scoffs, “Are you kidding me? He had his hands all over you.”
“No, he didn’t! And even if he did, I could’ve handled it.”
Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Were you deliberately being obtuse just to make him out to be the bad guy again?
“Just stick with your girlfriends. You shouldn’t be talking to these kinds of men anyways.”
You look up at him indignantly with engorged pupils, clearly already half tipsy when you’d barely had a drink or two, “Stop it. Please. You’re not my dad!”
That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed, he wants to shoot back spitefully. Instead, he rolls his eyes, “I’m the only one here looking out for you.”
“And I’m telling you; I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself so just leave me alone, okay?”
“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Rafe hears himself say, gesturing loosely at your body, “This… This shit isn’t you.”
Again, hurt flashes across your face.
“You don’t know me, Rafe. You never did and you never will.”
You push past him and rejoin your girlfriends and whatever group of men they’re talking to. Making him look like a gormless fucking chump when he’s the one who was trying to save you. Well, fuck you too then.
That’s how he finds himself back with his friends, at a table snorting up line after line like it’s his fucking job. It’s a distraction really, from all the conflicting thoughts swimming around in his head. Fuck you, protect you, forget about you. You, you, you. He needs this escape. He needs to stop thinking completely.
“Some for me?” a girl sinks down on his lap, her cleavage right in his face. He feels numb to everything, barely even registers her. But nods anyways, pours out a neat line for her. She’s all over him after that, but it’s like a blur to him. The music, lights, this girl’s lips on his, his friends cheering him on. He bets this slut would let him fuck her right here on this couch in front of everyone. And what was stopping him?
She’s pressing kisses down his neck, her hands up his shirt when he opens his eyes almost on intuition. Looks straight across the room and locks gaze with you. The shock is frozen on your face for just a moment or two, before you quickly look away.
The mask was truly off now. You knew who he really was.
Forcibly, you turn away from him. And he wants to look away too, just fuck this girl to forget all about you. But then he sees you bump straight into the chest of someone else. Some stupid fucking punk ass Pogue, different from the other one. More intimidating, larger too. He grins at you, his hand pressing down on your lower back. And it plays like slow motion in front of Rafe’s eyes, and he feels like someone’s put his heart through a fucking shredder.
He pushes the girl off him, gets to his feet. The guy’s talking to you now, talking to you like he knows you. Rafe’s hands shake; he balls them into fists. Shoves his way through the crowd of bodies, keeping his eyes glued on you. The drugs in his system have made him a bit sluggish, but he can still make out the two of you, how the guy’s got you cornered against the wall now. He sees you laugh nervously, and the punk tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.
That’s when Rafe sees him start moving you. Towards the stairs. And he sees your face twist in fear; sees you swallow and try to act brave. Sees you looking around for your friends but they’ve ditched you again. The guy’s gripping you tightly by the arm, no doubt sweet talking as he pulls you up the stairs. Rafe sees your chest rise and fall rapidly; sees you try and talk your way out of it. But he also knows how men think, knows how much stronger they are, and the guy keeps pushing you up the stairs.
Rafe feels like he’s a million miles away. By the time he gets to the stairs, the two of you are long gone. There’s this tightness in his chest, and it won’t go away. He pushes people out of the way, takes the stairs two at a time. Gets to the first-floor landing and grabs some fucker by the shirt.
“Where’d they go? The girl in the black dress and the guy?”
“What the hell!? I don’t know!”
He throws the guy aside, stumbles into the first door that opens. Empty. Then the second. Not them. Fuck.
He finds you behind the fourth or fifth door he throws open. And it’s almost like an out of body experience. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such visceral rage before. The guy’s got you up against the wall, trying to kiss you. His hands all over you. Your tiny fists trying to push him off, and for a split-second Rafe feels like his chest is about to explode.
He doesn’t think before he throws him off you.
“What the fuck, man?”
“Get out.”
The guy snorts, “How about you get out? We were in the middle of something.”
Rafe’s not in the mood to fuck around. He looks at you, sees you sniffle, readjust your dress. Your face is usually expressive, but he can’t read it now. And usually, beating up on Pogues like this guy is an amusing pastime for him, maybe even a hobby. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes with it, a certain rush of adrenaline. But one look at you, and he knows now isn’t the time for that.
“Get out. I won’t ask you again.”
The guy – all tattoos and burly chest – chuckles, tries to grab you again, “I ain’t leaving bro. Hell, you can stay too if you wanna watch.”
That’s when Rafe pulls his gun out.
You gasp. The guy stops short. Holds his hands up.
“Hey, c’mon man, it’s never that serious–”
“You don’t want me to ask again.” Rafe points the barrel straight at him. The coke’s coursing through his veins, pumping through his blood. He’s never entered the Cut without his gun, and in the state he’s in right now, he’d risk getting thrown in fucking jail because he can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t shoot this fucking pervert right now.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” The fucking pussy leaves quickly after that. Once he’s gone, Rafe tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. He feels completely calm in the moment. Eerily so, but he knows it’s that certain type of calm that only comes before a storm.
He locks eyes with you, and there’s a moment of absolute silence. All he can hear is your shallow breathing, short and rapid. Glistening eyes looking up at him in what he could only describe as fear. Or reverence. He can’t tell, and it bothers him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s trying so hard to keep his voice level, but it almost shakes with anger. Anger at the situation, at what he’s just seen. Anger at that punk that he knows, he knows, he’s gonna take out on you.
You swallow, “I…I…”
“You realise what the fuck would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here?” He takes one step towards you, for once not giving a fuck when you flinch. “I know you’re innocent but you can’t be that fucking stupid.”
Hurt flashes across your face, “I could’ve taken care of myself–”
“You wouldn’t have been able to do shit.”
You shake your head, “Yes, I could! I can handle myself just fine, and my friends knew I was up here, they saw me, so they would’ve come–”
He stares, incredulous as it dawns on him just how naïve you actually were, “they’re not your fucking friends.”
“Neither are you!”
“I saved you.”
Your face crumples up like a piece of paper, your chest rising up and down. Like you’re trying your hardest not to burst into tears, “I’m not some naïve little girl who needs saving, Rafe.”
“Yeah? Is that what you were trying to prove tonight?”
“No! I wasn’t trying to prove anything, I just… I just…” your lower lip quivers, and yet you still will yourself not to cry, “I’m just… I’m not naïve, okay? I’m not some stupid little girl that men just... take advantage of.”
He runs his hand through his hair, “Do you even realise what you’re saying? He was going to take advantage of you.”
“I wouldn’t have let him!” Your eyes are wet with tears, and it’s smudging the black makeup, making it smear and run and you look so hauntingly beautiful like this, “Not how I let you.”
And there it was. It all came back down to Rafe. He was always the bad guy in everyone’s eyes, even yours. Even after he’d saved you. He was evil, through and through – isn’t that what he always knew deep down? Isn’t that what his father saw when he looked at him? And his stepmother? And Sarah? Even now, you look scared like a little fucking mouse. Scared of him, and not the fucker who’d just tried to force himself on you. It was always Rafe who was the villain in everyone’s story, no matter how hard he tried to protect them.
“I stopped.” Rafe steps closer, knowing you’ve got the wall behind you and nowhere to run, “I stopped when you asked me to. He wouldn’t have.”
“You lied about everything.”
He remains silent, not wanting to rehash this shit with you right now. Instead, he closes the gap between you both, pressing you against the wall. You push against his chest, but it’s ineffectual. He needs to touch you, lay claim on you. It’s like an innate, animalistic desire to mark his territory after that fucker’s had his hands all over you.
“G-Get away from me.”
“No.”
“Rafe. Don’t.”
You’d already made up your mind that he was the bad guy, no matter what he said or did. And it would be so easy to be the villain you clearly thought he was.
Gently, he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You gulp, half-heartedly attempt to bat his hand away when it lands on your hip.
“He shouldn’t have touched you.”
“I could’ve gotten away–”
“Nobody else is allowed to touch you.” He says it quietly, but he knows you’ve heard him.
Your eyes widen, “R-Rafe–”
“Only me.”
His lips press against yours in a kiss so possessive, it almost knocks you off your feet. But he’s got you, holding you steady and pressing you against the wall with all his weight. And he’s dreamed of this moment, dreamed of kissing you again. And your lips are so soft, so perfect, exactly how he remembered. Yet all he can think of is making you forget that other man had ever even touched you. His tongue is in your mouth, claiming you like he’s swallowing you whole from the inside out. And he’s so much bigger than you, so much stronger that he doesn’t even notice or register if you’re trying to push him off. It’s ineffectual, irrelevant. He needs this. Needs you to know you’re his.
“Stop!” You finally manage to push him off you, and your lips already looked bruise from his kiss. Bruised and so fucking pretty. Another mark of him on you.
He’s staring at your lips when you slap him hard across the face.
Immediately, your face crumbles, like you’re horrified at what you’ve done.
“I-I’m sorry, I’m… I’m–”
You burst into tears. Like waterfalls flowing down your cheeks. You reach up to blindly wipe at your face, smearing your black eyeliner all over your eyes. And he just watches you, the sting of your ineffectual little slap already fading. Watches how you sob, how your whole body shakes. Watches as your wild eyes look somewhere beyond him. At the mirror in the corner side of the bedroom. Watches you stare at your reflection like you’re looking at a stranger.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper like it’s a confession, but more to yourself than to him. “I-I don’t know who I am, I don’t… I don’t…”
In that moment, he sees something broken inside you. Something he’d never seen before. Maybe it wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s only here now. Maybe he was the one who’d broke you. The thought makes him sick to his fucking stomach.
Rafe hoists you up, slings you over his shoulder without another word. You pound against his back.
“No, no, let me go! Let me go!”
He ignores your cries. All he knows is that he needs to get you out of here. You didn’t belong in a place like this. You were too soft, too sweet to be corrupted. He had to save you again, even if he was the villain in your eyes.
He carries you out the bedroom, past the landing, down the stairs. Everyone stares; he doesn’t give a fuck. He weaves through the crowd of writhing bodies, the pulsating music drowning out your cries. One of his hands firmly holding your dress down over your ass while you wiggled and squirm against him.
He only puts you down when he’s got you outside in the back where his car’s parked. It’s a hot summer night, sticky and humid. The stars look huge, almost like they’re weighing down on his shoulders. And reflecting in your eyes, making them shine with indignance and that fierceness he’s only recently learnt you possess.
“Get in the car.”
Incredulously, you shake your head, “I’m going back to my friends.”
“Don’t fuck with me right now. Get in the car.”
You try to storm past him, but he’s already so much quicker than you. The copious amounts of coke he’s snorted tonight paired with the pure adrenaline and determination of wanting to get you out of here makes you no match for him. You, in your heels which you weren’t used to walking in, and that tiny, tight fucking dress. Fuck, he needed you out of here. Now.
Your lips press into a thin line, and your eyes look so big as you stare up at him pleadingly, “I can’t, Rafe. Please. I can’t go with you.”
His face softens, “I’m gonna take you home.”
“I don’t trust you.”
His jaw tenses. I FUCKING SAVED YOU! He wants to scream. Instead, his features grow stoic, the mask slipping back on.
“I don’t care if you don’t trust me. You’re not going back in there. You should’ve never gone to a party like this to begin with.”
“I can handle myself–”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, don’t start with that again. You can’t handle shit, okay? I handled shit back there. God knows what would’ve happened to you if it weren’t for me.” He grabs your wrist, ignoring your sharp intake of breath and yanking you back towards his car. He opens the door, tries to push you inside.
It’s when you’re fighting against him that he realises how drunk you are. God knew how many cheap drinks you’d been given tonight, and you’d been polite enough to accept all of them. Probably thought drinking them would help you fit in better, socialise easier. And now your movements are sluggish, slow, erratic.
He easily throws you into the backseat of his car, child locking the doors so you don’t escape.
He half expects you to launch yourself at him the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. But surprisingly, you’ve gone quiet. Gathered yourself in the corner at the back, hugging your legs with your face buried between your knees as you sobbed to yourself.
And there are so many things he wants to say, now that he’s finally got you alone. But it’s like there’s something lodged in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to say or how to even speak. He’s angry, concerned, buzzing from everything that’s just happened. Silence ensues, with just the gentle hum of the car as he drives into the night.
He pulls up to the now familiar dirt road that is your street and unlocks the doors. Waits a handful of seconds, surprised you don’t immediately jump out of his car. Instead, he watches silently through the rearview mirror as you rummage drunkenly through your little purse.
“I, uh, I don’t have my keys.”
“What?”
“I must’ve dropped them at the party… your voice trails off before you clear your throat, “It’s okay, I’ll just–”
“Your mom can’t let you in?” Although Rafe bets your mother would have a fucking heart attack if she saw you being dropped off in his car.
You swallow, “She’s not at home. She’s… working.”
For the whole night? This was the second time your mother was away from home for the entire night. He wonders what exactly she does for work.
You sit up and open the door, jumping out of the car and immediately teetering in your heels. You were still very drunk, and it shows. Rafe sighs, getting out too.
“You got a spare key under the doormat or something?”
You hold on to the side of his car to regain your balance, blinking rapidly. Your pupils are so dilated, he can see his own reflection in them. And in that moment, it’s like all the frustration and anger he’s feeling at you for how stupid and naïve you’d been tonight, it’s it all dissipates because of how cute and lovely you look in the moonlight. Drunk and fumbling and innocent and away from that party.
“I… I think I’ll just camp out on the porch. The sun should rise soon…”
Rafe stares at you as if you’re deluded. It was only a little past midnight; the sun wasn’t going to rise for a while. And even if it was, there was no way he was leaving you out here in the open on this seedy little street on the Cut.
“Get back in the car.”
Of course, you choose now to be stubborn again, “N-No! I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah? I know the kind of people that crawl around out here at night. Get in the car.”
You stick your chin out, “Stop trying to help me, Rafe! I’ve lived here all my life, I know what I’m doing–”
He hauls you back into the car. It isn’t too hard, considering how much smaller you are than him. Weaker. Drunk, too. You try to fight against him again, but not too much. Like you know making a scene right now wouldn’t be the best thing to do.
“Where are we going?” You ask timidly once he’s revved the car back up and driven off your street.
“My house.”
You don’t say anything and for once, he’s glad.
*
Tannyhill looms big and shadowy in the moonlight. Rafe watches you gape drunkenly, probably drinking in how big it is just like you had the first time he’d brought you here. You’d remained quiet for most of the drive here, just staring sorrowfully down at your shoes. Once or twice, he’d caught your eye through the rearview mirror, but you’d looked away every time.
“Wait.” He orders before getting out of the car. He opens the door for you and hoists you up into his arms. He means to put you down on your feet, but decides to just carry you. And by some miracle, you let him. And he can’t make sense of this hot and cold behaviour, how all night you’ve been switching between two different characters. Loud, outspoken, angry, not letting him touch you, to then soft, docile, weepy and innocent.
“I’m scared,” you confess quietly, your pupils dark, glassy and shining in the moonlight. You’re just laying limply in his arms now, as he carries you down the cobblestone driveway of Tannyhill.
“You’re just drunk.”
“No I…” You twist your face to look up at him, and he feels it, so he meets your gaze, “I’m scared of you, Rafe.”
It hits him like a bullet, but he ignores it. Buries it down, deep down in the recesses of his mind where he buried all the other shit. Like his dad not loving him, like the memories of his mother. Buried deep down and abandoned, because he couldn’t deal with that shit. He can’t. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of him. He had saved you.
He doesn’t say anything, expects you to fall back into whatever drunk stupor you’ve been drifting in and out of.
“I didn’t know you had a gun.”
Hadn’t he known you were going to bring that up? He’s surprised it’s taken this long, but he can still remember the frozen shock and fear on your face when you’d seen him point his gun at that guy.
“You don’t know a lot of things.”
He waits for you to bring up the other things you’d seen him do tonight. All the drugs, or maybe the girl he’d been kissing in front of you. In fact, he half hopes you bring up the second part because it would show that you’d cared, that it had affected you.
But you don’t say anything else, just stare off into the distance. And yet you’re still allowing him to carry you, you’re not trying to get away from him despite being scared. He doesn’t want to cling to that, but a part of him does.
He’s somehow able to fish his keys out of his pocket and unlock the front doors, all while holding you steady with one arm. You’re just so small, and slot perfectly into him, like you were made for him. He’s glad it’s gone well past midnight; means he doesn’t have to deal with his family and their questions. Not that they’d even bother questioning him – they no longer cared enough to.
It’s when he’s carrying you up the marble staircase that you start struggling against him again.
“Not your bedroom–”
“Where the fuck else do you want me to take you? The couch?” Rose would damn near have a heart attack if she woke up to you sleeping on her precious antique furniture imported straight from Paris or wherever the fuck. Not that Rafe cared, but he’d rather have you in his room.
You keep protesting softly, but he takes you to his bedroom anyways. Closes the door and locks it. Places you gently on his bed. And he’s dreamt of this moment for a while, and would’ve savoured it had it been under different circumstances. But he feels a weird mix of leftover anger and a sort of bittersweet sadness. You didn’t want to be here at all. Like any feelings you may have developed for him in that one week had so easily been switched off, and yet he couldn’t switch anything off no matter how hard he tried.
“You should, uh, get some sleep,” he says, quickly turning away lest you think he’s trying to get into bed with you. Rummages through his closet, tosses you one of his shirts, “Here.”
“I’m okay, thank you.” You’ve pulled yourself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of his king-sized bed. You look even smaller than usual, and you’re doing that thing again – hugging your arms protectively around yourself as if he’s some fucking predator who’s kidnapped you, instead of the guy who’d just saved you from sexual assault.
“Just put it on.”
“I’m fine in this.”
Rafe sighs, pacing the room for a second to get his thoughts straight. Then he makes a beeline for you, kneels down in front of you before thinking. Reaches out to touch your legs before he sees you flinch and pulls back.
“Look, I’m not gonna try anything, okay? I know I lied and manipulated you before, but I’m not doing that right now.”
You stare at him for a long few seconds before swallowing, “I can’t tell when someone’s lying.”
He nods, “I remember. And I told you I’d be straight up with you.”
“But you weren’t.”
He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know, but I’m not doing that shit anymore now, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you so just put it on.”
Your dress looks uncomfortably tight now, the straps digging into your shoulders and the bottom riding up. Again, you tug it down, and bite your lip before sighing, accepting the soft shirt.
“O-Okay. But you need to turn around and close your eyes.”
He huffs, but he does it. Stares at the wall for a good ten seconds. Then fifteen. Twenty. Huffs again. “You done?”
He turns back around when you don’t respond, only to find you struggling with the zipper. The dress is so goddamned tight, it may as well have been painted on. And you’re drunk, can barely locate the zip to begin with, and it’s pathetic how you keep tugging at it. And so fucking cute.
“Stand still,” he orders gently, and by the grace of whatever the fuck, you obey for once. Breathing shallow as he comes up behind you, and then your breath hitches with a cute little squeak when he places a hand on your hip to steady you. Easily undoes your zipper, and he likes how he’s the one who’s done it. He likes taking care of you, wants to help you out of it and put his shirt on you himself.
But all too quickly, you pull away, holding the dress taut against your body. He rolls his eyes and turns around again, listens to you shuffle around as you change.
When he turns back the second time, his heart almost leaps up into his throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so pretty, so precious, so innocent. His shirt is huge on you; makes you look so small and cute. Eyes so big as they blink up at him, and you look so vulnerable. Like you were done playing the part of a whore for the night and you were yourself again.
He finds himself swallowing hard, “You look…”
“Don’t.” You cover yourself with your arms again. Words can’t explain how much he hates when you do that.
He clears his throat, eyes trailing down your bare legs. Somehow, you’ve managed to change out of your dress without even taking your shoes off. And now you’re standing there teetering in your heels, looking at him with those big eyes of yours.
“Sit.” He orders you again, gently pushing you down to the edge of his bed. Again, he kneels in front of you. His hand on your smooth calf, stroking down before he can stop himself. You squeak again, but this time you don’t stop him. He doesn’t know why sometimes you let him touch you, and other times you don’t. But he’s not one to question it.
Your heels have ribbons that criss-cross around your calves, and he works to untie them. Deliberately slowly. And it’s getting him so hard, despite everything, to be the one taking care of you like this. How you’d huffed and puffed and gone to this party, pretended to be an attention-seeking little slut, all for you to end up in his bedroom anyways.
“You really had to wear these?” He murmurs, although he’s secretly glad you wore such complicated shoes because you’re letting him help you take them off.
“I… I thought I looked pretty in them.”
He feels a growl emanate from somewhere in his throat, remembering all the men who’d been staring at you so brazenly tonight, “You do. That’s the problem.”
Silence. And then:
“Why do you care?” It comes out like a genuine question, rather than a spiteful remark, “I…I saw you kissing that other girl tonight.”
“That was nothing.”
“I see.”
He wants you to ask him more, maybe show that you’re jealous, that you wished he’d been kissing you instead. But you don’t.
“She came onto me,” he feels the need to explain, “and she didn’t mean anything to me.”
You nod, “Okay.”
It irritates him, how you’re not at all fazed. When every time he’d seen a man approach you at the party, he’d wanted to throttle them with his bare hands. As for the guy who’d taken you upstairs? He deserved to be shot. Point blank. Maybe the only reason Rafe hadn’t done it was because he didn’t want to traumatise you.
And yet… you don’t seem to care at all. Or maybe you’re too drunk to care. You look so fucking adorable, sitting on his bed in his shirt, letting him undo your heels for you like a good little girl.
“I didn’t mean anything to you either.” You say it so softly, he almost misses it.
Rafe flinches, “That’s not true.”
“But you said it. You said I was just another Pogue who spread her legs for you.”
“Yeah? Well, I say a lot of shit I don’t mean.” He slips your heel off, and he can’t help but stroke your dainty, bare foot before moving on to your other shoe.
“That’s what I’ve realised,” you stare somewhere beyond his shoulder, “Everyone keeps saying things they don’t mean. And I keep believing them.”
He glances up at you, “Who are you talking about?”
“My friends. They said they wanted to be friends with me, but they… they haven’t even asked if I’m okay.”
He almost snorts out loud, but stops himself just in time.
“And it’s not just them, or you, it’s everyone. Even this guy I was supposed to do my project with. I thought we were getting along fine, but now he won’t even look at me. He asked to join someone else’s group, so now I have to do it alone.” Your voice breaks, “I don’t even know what I did to make him hate me…”
Rafe clears his throat and looks away for a second, “You can’t count on everyone, baby.” The pet name just slips out naturally, but you don’t even notice.
“I know. I wish college came with a manual, because I keep messing up and trusting the wrong people.”
“You can trust me.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He takes his chance, sits up on the bed next to you and grabs your hand, and hurriedly keeps talking, “I know I fucked up but I saved you tonight. That should count for something.”
Your lower lip trembles as you look at your tiny hand in his much larger one, and yet you don’t pull away.
“Y-You confuse me so much, Rafe.”
He could say the same thing about you. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t do words and all that shit. He’s never been good at it and he’d just mess things up even more than he already has. He knows what he is good at. And he knows he shouldn’t do it. And yet...
Rafe presses his lips against yours. Softly. Cautiously. Yet with determination. You don’t respond, and it’s like he wants you to so bad. He can’t stand it. His hand goes up to cup your jaw, thumb gently stroking your cheek. He thinks he feels you sigh, or he could just be imagining it.
“Stop,” you beg against his lips, but you don’t push him away.
“Just let me,”
“Rafe, no–”
“Please.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. And he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he promised you he wouldn’t try anything tonight and he’s going back on his fucking word but he doesn’t care. He needs this. Needs this more than you know. More than he himself knows. Because kissing you feels like he’s been parched his whole life and you’re the only thing that can quench his goddamned thirst. He can’t let you go. He doesn’t know why but he just can’t.
He pulls you into his lap, and you squeak into his mouth, your little hands grabbing on to his shoulders and it feels so familiar. He increases the pace of the kiss, slowly slipping his tongue into your mouth, and you taste so fucking sweet. He’s missed this so much, despite how he’s only kissed you a handful of times before this but you fit so perfectly on him. Like you were made for him and him only. And he deserves this. He’d saved you.
“I can’t,” you whisper brokenly, “I can’t let you take advantage of me again.”
“I’m not,” he says between desperate kisses, “I promise you I’m not.”
“You-You’ll tell all your friends. And you’ll laugh like how you did before.”
He kisses down your jaw, your neck, your skin so sweet, “I won’t, baby.”
“You’re just using me. Y-You’ve probably made another bet.”
Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he tell you that all he can ever think about anymore is you? That it makes him sick, the fact that he’d hurt you? That he’d do anything to take that stupid bet back, to get you to look at him how you used to. What the fuck was stopping him from saying it?
But he can’t, so he just keeps kissing you, and hopes you’ll accept it. Hopes you’ll get him, which was wishful thinking, because nobody got him. His hands curl into your hair, pressing you closer to him, and it feels visceral, it feels desperate. And yet, it almost feels unreal, like he’s kissing you on borrowed time, and it would be over soon and he wouldn’t get his fill.
Sure enough, you pull away, “Why are you doing this, Rafe?”
“Because I want to.” He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “And I think you do too.”
You press your lips together, words coming out hushed and shaky, “No one would respect me if I went back to you, knowing how much you lied and everything you said about me.”
“Fuck what everyone else thinks.”
You slip off his lap, “I wouldn’t respect myself.”
He wills himself to say something, anything to reassure you. But nothing comes out. It’s like his mind is frozen, betraying him once again because he’s shitty with words and can’t think of the right thing to say. And it’s getting too much for him… Too emotional, too vulnerable. He can’t.
“You’re thinking about this too much,” he says finally, and his bedroom’s dark except for the dull lamplight, and you look so fucking pretty that he’s in awe.
You sniffle, “M-My mom said I’m not allowed to see you.”
He exhales, “And yet here you are.”
“Here I am,” you echo weakly. “She doesn’t even know I was at the party tonight. I snuck out.”
He’d figured as much, “She’s kept you in a cage for long enough, don’t you think?”
You shrug, but he can tell you’re mulling over what he’s said.
Rafe pulls you back into his lap, “I don’t care what your mom says. I don’t care what anyone says.” He pauses, the words I like you, I want you to be my girlfriend on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t be vulnerable like that, he just can’t, “You’re mine. And you need to understand that.”
“I don’t wanna be yours. I want to be my own person.”
“Shhh,” he kisses you again, “Remember how I said I’d take care of you? It’s because you’re someone who needs taking care of. Your mom’s coddled you all your life, so you have no idea how the real world works. That’s why you need someone like me.”
You swallow, looking up at him with those shining, imploring eyes. You’re so sweet and naive, you don’t even realise how much, “I want to figure out how to take care of myself.”
“But you can’t. You keep trusting the wrong people and getting yourself hurt.” The irony of his statement isn’t lost on him, but he hopes the alcohol in your system will make you ignore it.
“That’s what my mom says.”
“Forget about your mother. Let me take care of you. I’ll make all the tough decisions, you won’t even have to think about it.”
Rafe lays you down on his bed, right in the centre where he knows you won’t scurry away. He hovers on top of you, much like how he did in your tiny bedroom weeks ago. But this time, you’re in his territory. And he has complete control. And maybe, just maybe, you’re drunk enough to trust him again.
He grabs your hand, pressing his much bigger palm against yours, “Look how little you are. You really think you could’ve protected yourself tonight without me?”
You blink up at him with big, dark, sad eyes. Bite your lip like you’re unsure but he thinks it’s so sexy.
“Mm, that’s what I thought.” He strokes your hand, his thumb grazing his initials on your palm over and over again, “You’re so small and cute, and completely out of your depth. You need me.”
“N-No…”
“Yes.” He kisses the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands knotting into your hair. You whimper, but you lie there and let him do it. It’s because you want him too. He knows it. And he allows himself to imagine it again. You under his wing, quietly allowing him to make all your decisions for you. Chanel bag on your arm, a dozen more in your closet. All gifts from him, to let everyone know who exactly was taking care of you.
And there’d be no more parties, especially not in the Cut. He wouldn’t allow you to attend them because you were simply too naïve and sweet. He’d take you to drinks at the country club, or maybe to a game of golf. You’d sit pretty in his lap, like a cute little ornament. His little girlfriend that he’d rescued from poverty, his little doll, that he’d dote on and dress up. All his.
“I don’t want that, Rafe. Please stop.”
YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT! He wants to scream. Sure, he’d wronged you but you were too fucking naïve to understand how he was your best bet right now. That he would take care of you, and no one would ever fuck with you again when you were under his wing, because he’d kill them.
“Just kiss me back,” he whispers against your lips, his hands itching to slip under his shirt you’re wearing. He kisses you again, hoping you sense his urgency, sense how badly he wants you.
“Please stop, I can’t let you, I can’t…”
Rafe huffs in frustration, a few choice words on the tip of his tongue. Stop being such a tease, or you owe me for tonight, or you wouldn’t have agreed to come to my house if you didn’t want this.
But he realises you’re the only girl in the world he doesn’t want to say those things to. He can’t say them, can’t bring himself to utter a single spiteful word despite the fact had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated even for a second.
He’s about to pull away when:
“R-Rafe? I… I think I’m gonna…”
He draws back at your abrupt shift in tone. The room’s dark, but he can see you’ve suddenly gone a shade of green. Your chest heaves underneath him, your eyes widening. Realisation dawns on him in a millisecond and he scrambles off you. Pulls you upright, debating whether to point out the bathroom to you. That’s when your whole upper body lurches, your hand going to cover your mouth. Without another thought, he picks you up and carries you into his bathroom himself.
He barely gets you to the toilet in time before you start throwing up. Hunched over the toilet bowl, barely holding your hair back. Letting it all out. And he just stands there and watches, never having been in such a situation before.
“I’m sorry,” you sob drunkenly between heaves, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, this is so rude of me.”
Despite everything that had happened tonight, despite how mad you were at him, here you were apologising to him. It makes him feel it again, that weird feeling in his chest. It comes in waves so strong he’s almost knocked off his feet. Instead, he crouches down behind you, gently holds your hair back.
And it feels so alien, because Rafe hasn’t done this for anyone ever. He wasn’t some pussy ass bitch who went soft on the girls he dated. But this… you… it was different.
“It’s alright,” he hears himself say softly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back. And it almost feels like he’s no longer himself, like he’s someone else. Affection had always felt unnatural to him, like he was putting on an act any time he tried to show it. And so he never did. It was easier to just to have everyone be scared of him.
But this right here, sitting on the gleaming floor of his bathroom with you, it felt… it just felt like something. Something he can’t quite put his finger on, except he likes the feeling. And you look so sweet, so vulnerable. He feels almost a sense of pride, because he’s the one taking care of you right now.
You keep apologising. Even once you’re done throwing up, and he helps you to your feet. Takes you to the sink, lets you clean yourself up. Hell, a part of him wants to sit you down on the marble countertop and clean you up himself. But it seems too… intimate. And Rafe doesn’t really know how to be like that.
“I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup once he places you back down on his bed. You make a move to get back up, “Just let me go clean it up, I can’t bear that I left your bathroom in such a state–”
“No, don’t.” Rafe gently pushes you back down, and you’re so little and cute and tipsy that you fall right back on your butt, “The maid will clean it tomorrow.”
You blink as if you don’t understand, “But it’s my mess.”
Rafe rubs his temple, “It’s her job. Now get back into bed.” He goes over to his mini-fridge, thanking his lucky stars there’s a bottle of water in there amongst all the beer and other bullshit. “Here.”
Obediently, you gulp the water down like a good girl before carefully setting the bottle on his bedside table. Your makeup’s almost all washed off now, face scrubbed clean and you look so innocent it makes his head hurt. Like there’s so much he wants to say to you but he can’t figure out how to get you to understand him.
He sighs, “You should get some sleep.”
“Where’re you gonna–?”
He nods at his leather armchair on the other end of the room. You look over and swallow.
“Oh, uh, I could sleep on the chair. It’s not right that you have to–”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. It’s your bed…”
Drunkenly, you try to get to your feet again. It’s amusing, and he gently pushes you back down a second time before grabbing the duvet cover and throwing it over you.
“Go to sleep,” he repeats, ignoring how his heart thrums and that feeling manifests again. That weird, bubbling feeling under the surface of his chest that seemed to appear every time you did something cute or enamouring or sweet. “I’ll drop you home in the morning.”
You’re too inebriated to argue any further, which he’s thankful for. His thoughts feel all jumbled up, like he can’t understand for the life of him how this is the second time he’s had you alone in a bedroom and he hasn’t fucked you. But now, he settles down on his armchair and watches you slowly make yourself comfortable on his sheets. Shuffle around a bit before tucking the covers till your chin.
It doesn’t take you long to knock out. And he just keeps watching you, how sweet you look, how perfectly you fit into his room, his house, his life. And he hates how he can’t completely read you – can’t tell how you feel because you didn’t want him to touch you and yet you’re sleeping on his bed, and not anyone else’s. How you kept saying you wanted to take care of yourself and yet you’d let him take you home tonight, let him change you and tuck you in. Take care of you.
Rafe decides you have no idea what you want. You’re too naïve. Which means it’s his job to teach you. Teach you that you belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let you go.
He tries to sleep after that. He really does. But the armchair is fucking uncomfortable, and it’s his room. And he’d saved you tonight.
It doesn’t take him long to get back into bed next to you. Gently, he pulls the covers back over you both, his heart skipping a beat when you immediately cuddle into him. It only further affirms that you wanted this — you just don’t know it yet. He runs his hands up and down your body, from your waist, to your ribcage, to your arms. You mumble, shuffle around sleepily, and somehow end up with your head on his chest.
He kisses the top of your forehead, before allowing himself to fall asleep too.
***
It’s all too soon that he’s woken up to loud, incessant knocking. Rafe swears under his breath, rubbing his eyes and immediately checking his phone. Fuck. It was past noon. The sunlight streams in through the large windows, landing perfectly across your face. It scrunches cutely as the knocking continues, but you’re still asleep.
So fuckin’ pretty, he thinks as he gazes at you, all serene and adorable and still very much in his arms. Slowly, he detangles himself from you, sits on the edge of his bed. His phone’s filled up with texts he’d ignored from the night before.
Topper: Bro, are you okay? People are saying you tried to shoot someone.
Topper: Everyone saw you leaving with the homeschool girl.
Barry: You pull a gun on a guy??? You can’t fucking do that shit.
Barry: You don’t know how dangerous these people can be.
Barry: ??? You’re fucked.
If pulling guns on Pogues meant he was fucked, then Rafe would’ve been fucked a long time ago. But most Pogues were stupid and inept, and so he was not worried. In fact, he fucking dares that punk from yesterday to show his face now. Rafe would murder him for real, and he wouldn’t even need a fucking gun.
The knocking increases, growing louder and more rapid. Rafe swears again, glancing back at you. You shuffle and turn on your side, lips all pouty as you cuddle into his pillow.
He makes his way over to the door, unlocking it only to see Ward staring back at him in disbelief.
“Don’t tell me you’re just waking up now.”
Rafe yawns, but straightens up at the same time, “I was out late.”
Ward blinks, does that think where he exhales loudly through his nose. He does that whenever he feels disappointed, which was all the time whenever Rafe was around him.
“Everyone’s waiting downstairs for you, Rafe.”
Rafe blinks before it dawns on him. The brunch. The business meeting. The random girl he was being set up with.
“Shit, that’s today?”
A beat of silence. Ward looks like he’s about to choke him out, “Well, son, you’ve proven again how you can’t fucking be trusted. With anything.”
Rafe rubs his forehead before running a hand through his hair and looking back at you. He can’t be fucked with this shit right now, not with his headache and the fact you’re in his bed and all this yelling would wake you up.
“I’m sorry.”
“You get your ass down there in five fucking minutes, you hear me?”
Rafe doesn’t think he has it in him, to sit through some fuck ass brunch right now. He glances back at you again. This time, Ward sees and narrows his eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got another hooker in there. Jesus Christ, Rafe. It’s like me talking about this family’s image means nothing to you, the way you bring these hookers into my house in fucking droves.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“No?” Ward looks fucking livid, Rafe wonders how he has the energy to be like this so early in the day, “You think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“Does it go over your fucking head every time I tell you it’s time for you to stop this bullshit and settle down? People are watching us, Rafe. Potential investors, business partners. They see all this shit, okay? And yet you insist on going around and–”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“What?”
Rafe coughs, again looking back at you to make sure you’re still sleeping, “Uh, she’s my girlfriend.”
“You have a girlfriend? Since when?”
Rafe doesn’t quite know why he’s just thrown this lie out in his father’s face. Maybe because in his mind, it’s not really even a lie. You weren’t just some random girl, you were his girl – even if you didn’t realise it just yet. Or maybe he’s lied because he wants his father to just take him seriously for once.
“Since a while now.” He clears his throat, “She was out late last night and I went to pick her up.”
“How come I’ve never seen her before?”
“It’s serious so I was trying to keep it under wraps,” lying has always come easily to Rafe, and so he speaks smoothly, quickly gaining traction, “And you’ve seen her. On the security footage. She’s the one I had on the patio.”
Ward nods thoughtfully, “The one in that dress? The cute one?”
A strong wave of irritation courses through Rafe’s body, he takes a few quick, deep breaths to keep it at bay, “Yes.”
There’s another long pause as Ward takes it all in. At one point, he looks beyond Rafe’s shoulder and into the bedroom as if to get a glimpse of you. Rafe’s quick to subtly shut the door and step outside of it. Fuck if anyone else saw you right now.
“Fine. You can skip the brunch. We have a business meeting afterwards though. Join us for that, if you can clean yourself up in time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Rafe? I expect a formal introduction with her. If she’s to be a part of this family then you can’t keep her a secret for too long.”
“Okay.”
Rafe breathes a sigh of relief when his father leaves, and he returns to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.
You’re still lying there, in the middle of his king-sized bed with sunlight dappled all over your face. Completely asleep and so serenely sweet. It makes his heart lurch, but he swallows that feeling quickly.
Your phone’s glowing dimly beside you. He doesn’t hesitate at all, whipping it up to see who exactly was texting you. It’s your mother. Multiple messages. He can’t see what they say without unlocking your phone first, but he can guess she probably wouldn’t be too happy with you right now. In a sick way, the idea of that makes him glad.
And Rafe just sits there on his bed, watching you sleep. Strokes your cheek with his thumb, watches as you lean into his touch. That’s when he consolidates it in his head. After last night, you were his. Completely. And now everyone would know. His family. His friends. Your mother. The whole of fucking Kildare would know you belonged to him. You’d know too. And you’d accept it. He’d make sure of it.
Even if that meant turning you against your mother completely.
A/N: Okay. There we go. Rafe's lie counter is through the roof lmfao - how many times did this man lie throughout this chapter???
Anyways, please PLEASE let me know what you thought of this chapter. Any opinions/predictions/thoughts/ANYTHING. Feedback means the world to me. I'll be honest, I am very very nervous about posting this chapter bc I don't know what people will think of it. Like genuinely. And it's a bit scary. I really did try my best to get this out for you guys as quickly as I possibly could write it. Your feedback would mean the world - so please, if you read this and like it, do also consider dropping a comment or reblog or sending me an ask on what you think!
Also, some questions! You don't have to answer, these are just for fun!
Do YOU think reader could've protected herself at the party if Rafe hadn't been there?
What exactly does Rafe feel for reader after this chapter?
What do you think Ward will think of reader?
Do you think reader will go along with Rafe's plans or keep fighting against him?
ANYWAYS. that's it. i'll try to sleep now. please please let me know what you think. thank you so much for your patience and ily <3
A girl such as yourself — popular, confident, & a total party animal — should be with any boy other than your private tutor. Yet, you found yourself head over heels for satoru gojo, whom you had hired last second to help your astrophysics grade come back up after prioritizing parties and shopping sprees over it.
You couldn’t help but admire him from time to time. tracing his side profile in your head before doodling it down in the margins of your notebook — the one he had personally bought for you after an accidental coffee spill that ruined your previous one. Not like you had any important notes listed on there to begin with. But that was when something sparked between the two of you, at least, on your end.
& you definitely couldn’t help but let your feelings for him grow despite each other's social status.
His white hair mirrored the snow that poured down on the December evening. You waited patiently in the library, silently stalking his figure as it made its way inside the building. Today would mark your last studying session, making your heart feel a tad bit heavy.
A smile crept up to your face once the doors opened after a minute or so. Quickly patting down your skirt that was above your see through tights, the smile faded when you saw who he had entered with.
Utahime, a classmate you knew was in your astrophysics class as well. She was majoring in something you knew you couldn’t even be able to understand. point being, she was highly intelligent just like satoru was.
And they looked incredible together.
Why has the pairing never clicked to you?
Earlier this week, you recalled jealousy rising in you when utahime interrupted your little rambling with satoru so she could ask for a pen. & it definitely wasn't the first time you've felt possessive over your tutor.satoru smiled at her, laughing at whatever she had said. What made matters worse was when his hand reached up to her raven black hair to pick out fallen snowflakes.
You felt like throwing up.
Of course he liked her. Everything made sense now. Every small wave given to each other in the hallway, every time they’ve partnered up together in class for a project before you came along.
Why would he waste his time with a wannabe sorority girl who needed extra support for a class deemed easy for both him and utahime? why would he ever consider going out with you of all people. If you were to be in high school, you’d definitely poke fun at him. Hell, you still did before actually getting to know him. He only tolerated you because you paid him for his service at the end of the day. Right?
Your eyesight began to get blurry, forcing you to blink rapidly. satoru said goodbye to utahime, approaching where you sat. He adjusted his glasses that had gotten foggy, pulling out a chair.
“wearing a skirt in this weather?” he commented. “at least you actually put on tights this time. Getting smarter I see.” you stayed quiet, just nodding, flipping your textbook to the assigned page. Satoru's playful smirk flickered at the lack of response. “everything alright?”
“Yeah. Can we just start?”
you never just started studying. satoru would have to deal with your usual gossiping first, then watch as you showed pictures of all the new clothes you had gotten over the weekend. “Is everything okay..?”
you wanted to yell that no, not everything was okay. That your feelings were eating you alive and that you just wanted to oh so desperately smash your lips onto his until he forgot every algebraic formula.
“I just had a long day.” you simply said.
satoru stared intently, knowing that it was more than just a ‘long day.’ he reached over to close the book, moving you by your chin to look at him. if it were to be any other day, the butterflies in your stomach would be freaking out. but they were still.
he had a thing for touching you in ways that were beyond ‘friendly.’ Now you wondered if what you thought were reserved actions for just you were also used on her.
“doll,” his personal favorite nickname to use on you. “its definitely more than that. talk to me. you’re always there for me when im upset, let me be here for you too.”
it was true that you’d tentatively listen to satoru whenever he had a bad test or when his astronomy club was acting up. It's the least you could do in return.
“There's nothing wrong.”
satoru sighed, feeling himself grow frustrated at your inability to confess to what was eating you up.
your eyes accidentally scanned the room, landing on a familiar red bow. utahime was sat at the computers, posture perfectly straight, clicking away at the keyboard. The look on your face was enough to make satoru turn around. before you could stop him, he figured out immediately what was going on.
his eyes widened in realization. “hey..” he quietly said, reaching for your hands only for you to pull away. you felt embarrassed, knowing what was about to come. rejection.
never in your life were you afraid of being rejected by a guy. you could have anyone you wanted, really. all the frat boys shamelessly flirted with you at parties. but you didn’t want them.
satoru was internally panicking. overtime, his crush on you has doubled in size. no, tripled. he was crazy over you. you were the only thing his few friends would hear about every day whether it be the cute outfit you wore or how you mistook astronomy with astrology.
“Do you like her?” your voice trembled, making satoru’s heart crack. He immediately shook his head. “no, no god no. utahime?” he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “hell no.”
you didn’t want to believe it just yet. “but the way you walked in with her-“
“We've been friends since childhood. I swear she’s like a sister to me. besides, she’s with shoko right now, they’re going out.”
oh.
you felt embarrassed.
After a moment of silence, he spoke again “.. did the thought of me going out with her bother you?” he asked, hopeful. His blue eyes stared into yours, somehow making you feel more vulnerable. The library was the last place you’d want to confess to him in, but it really was the place that started it all anyways.
“Yeah, it did. A lot, actually.”
satoru fought back an excited smile. “why?”
“because.. I like you.”
there it was. the confirmation of the reciprocated love. satoru looked around the place, checking that no one was staring into your direction before placing his lips on yours.
He was a sloppy kisser, of course. The lack of experience really showed but neither of you cared. Your eyes widened, shutting as you let yourself melt into him. His chair had scooted next to you, allowing him to wrap his arms around your.
“I like you too. so much.”
⋮
“Fuck, is this what youve been dying to do to me?” satoru slammed your body down onto his aching cock, loving the yelp that came out of your bruised lips. His teeth sank down your neck, savoring you as best as he could. Your hips were giving out with every thrust you gave, requiring his assistance to continue riding him. “Satoru..!” You couldn't even finish your sentence without cringing at the wet noises that were unfortunately coming from your needy cunt.
His hands kneaded at your ass, forcing you to keep up with the pace he had set. His glasses were missing from his face, now being set on the side table of his bedroom. “Can’t believe you were jealous over me.. Now y’know how I feel every time I see one of those stupid frat guys approach you.”
“You’re too deep!” You gasped, shutting your eyes close, feeling hot ropes of seed shooting into your womb. “I know,” Satoru hugged you close, fucking his cum back into you. “I know baby, but you can take it.”
Your clit brushed against his white pubes, tickling you in a way. “Y-you were jealous too..” You managed to ask. Your brows furrowed in pleasure, your stomach knotting in warning.
Satoru moved the two of you, going from having you ride him to putting you in a mating press. “Yeah, I was.” He had you seeing stars when his cock reached areas you deemed unreachable. Who would've guessed this geek knew how to give a great fuck? Must’ve been all the hentai he’s consumed over the years. He just recently began to imagine the pretty girls in slutty outfits as you, making it easier for him to jerk off late at night.
The bed wouldn't stop creaking. And you wouldn't stop moaning.
Satoru groaned, thrusting in meanly, entranced with the way your tits bounced. “Wanted to walk over and fuck- did you get tighter huh? I wanted to punch all of them.” He hunched over to kiss your lips, swallowing every sound.
You had grown tighter, because all he needed to do was deliver another drag of his cock to have you coming all over it. Satoru sighed, pecking you lightly now. “You’re mine.”
simon who fucks his girl toooo good that she ends up biting his hand so nastily and hard that it leaves a deep, bleeding bite mark that he doesnt notice till the morning after
he shrugs it off, a little proud at how strong his lady is. that bite mark that quickly heals, but remains forever scarring his hand. it turns into the only scar he wants to look at. the only scar that makes his chest puff up with confidence when he sees it. a physical reminder of you permanently etched into his skin, that cannot go away even if he prayed it would.
when he's laying in dirt, in some foxhole in the cold and nothing but darkness surrounding him and the twinkling stars above, he'll not be found reading a love letter or gazing at a photograph of you, but instead he will be seen mysteriously concerned with his hand. reminiscing and missing his lovie
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Steve Rogers is the only man to ever make you feel good. Much to your despair, there are days when he's away and you're left all alone, with no one to love on your body. So you do what you should— ask Steve to teach you how to touch yourself. After all, he's the best, isn't he?
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut [guided masturbation (steve guiding reader) fingering, clit play, nipple stimulation, spitting, male masturbation, pussy job, pussy pronouns, steve knows your body more than you do. shirtless steve because his body is tea(ch). praise.]
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.3k
𝐀/𝐍: goodnessssssss!!!!!!! cate you're torturing me with these asks i have no idea how you manage to hit me straight in the feels with every single one. i started writing for mr barber but then I was like....wait a minute... i wanna write steve. And this kinda escalated.
⤷steve rogers masterlist
The room smelled like sex and patience. Nothing but his gentle words and your soft mewls in the air.
You had told him, hours ago, with a shy smile on your face and an urge to please in your heart, that you didn't know how to touch yourself—not like he did. How your touch just didn't feel the same. How much it pains you when you can't bring yourself to feel good when he's away on missions that last entirely too long.
And then he had told you, in that steely voice of his, to go up to the room, take off your clothes, and wait for him.
And wait you did.
---
Hands folded neatly in your lap as you sat on the soft duvets, clothes tossed somewhere near the end of the bed. You were shivering with anticipation of what was about to come.
You barely heard the soft click of the door as he walked in, steady and slow footsteps that echoed in the quiet of the room.
“You listened,” the words dragged you out of the haze you had been in, like cold water on a fevered body. “You're precious, aren't you?”
You felt a gush of arousal seep down your wet and waiting hole, coating your inner thighs with shame and excitement.
Steve Rogers had a way with his words, and you were known for falling victim to them. Even when he chose silence, one look, one glance from him was all it took to drive you to madness.
Smiling— pleased with you—he stripped off his shirt with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact. Every measured movement emphasized the hard lines of his shoulders and the thick curve of his biceps. His bare skin glowed under the soft light of the lamps, the raw strength corded in his muscles a sight to behold.
Dragging the chair to face you, he sits down heavily, his eyes never once leaving yours. His bulge was clearly visible underneath the soft material of his sweatpants, and you found it endearing that he was just as affected as you, despite the control and restraint he put on so perfectly.
“Now…” he begins, eyes drifting towards the headboard. “Get comfy.”
Dragging yourself till your back rested on the soft headboard— thanks to Steve and his immaculate choice in furnishing to make sure the time he spends with you in here doesn't leave you hurt— you look at him as he pulls out his half hard cock, palming it gently in his hand.
“Tell me, baby, what you do when I'm gone.”
A wave of shame took over you as you remembered the times you touched yourself in his absence.
“I use my fingers, an—and that toy you got me.”
He hums, a quiet acknowledgement to your words, already imagining how pretty and pathetic you must have looked rubbing yourself, crying out his name.
“Show me.”
A shaky breath leaves your lips, and you part your legs open to give him the full, unobstructed view to your slick pussy. The cool air of the room in your hot centre, along with his unrelenting gaze making you squirm in your place.
He doesn't react in loud, showy ways—merely a clinical observation of something that seemed mildly intriguing. He leans back, arms crossed as he waits for you to start.
You were drowning in nerves. He had seen everything, he had touched everything, yet touching yourself—presenting yourself in front of him like that seemed like the most wicked thing ever.
Stop it! It's Steve. Your Steve. He'll take care of you.
Your hands were shaking, fingers unsteady as you reached down to gingerly touch your mound. You look up— seeking his approval— as you press down on your clit with two of your fingers.
“Tsk-tsk,” he clicks his tongue. “That’s too hard, baby. Slower. Warm your body up.”
You yank your hand away, biting your bottom lip as you figure out how to warm your body up. Usually, it was Steve’s lips on yours, trailing kisses down your neck and your chest, his hands that groped and caressed your soft body that made warmth spread all over. But without him?
He seemed to understand exactly what was going on in your mind as he chuckled at your confused face.
“Touch your tits… just like I do. Play with your pretty nipples for me, baby.”
God… he really was going all in.
You nod your head as best as you could. Your brain was feeling all dizzy from just how intense the situation was. Just how vulnerable you were. Just how loved.
You drag your hands up your stomach, feeling your skin break in goosebumps as you go higher and higher, reaching the curve of your breasts. You caress them with gentle hands, squeezing them lightly—just feeling their weight and softness in your hands.
You reach higher still, and the first brush of your hand against your still soft nipples made you jump, the sensation so foreign, so powerful for something so menial.
You slowly run your hands over your sensitive nipples, heat curling low in your belly with each soft circle around your slowly hardening peak.
Once completely hard, you pinch them between your thumb and your forefinger, twisting and turning them slowly.
“Just like that…doesn't that feel so good?” he rasped, and you look down to see him stroking his cock, now completely erect and leaking precum in shiny pearls of white.
“Mmhm…s’feel so good,” you whine, already breathless.
“Good girl. Now spit on your tits. Get them all nice and shiny.”
Your eyes went wide at his words. But you did exactly what he told. Collecting saliva in your mouth, then spitting it straight down your chest. The thick, warm glob dripped down slowly, marking its trail across your sternum.
You swipe your fingers over the sticky wetness, dragging it over to cover your tits, circling your nipples. The extra slip it offered made the act so much more filthy. Your nipples were now pebbled into achy, hard buds and the more you rubbed them, the less it felt like relief and more like punishment.
On the armchair, Steve looked like a mess. A controlled mess, but a mess nonetheless. Pupils blown wide, chest panting, lips parted as he breathed in harsh inhales and exhales.
Seeing you like this was something out of his dirtiest dreams, the fantasies he has when he was young and stupid were now playing out in front of him and he didn't know how to stop himself from ruining the moment, take control and lose himself in you.
But he knew he had to.
For you.
For him.
“Does that hurt, baby? Too much for your tits?” He coos, voice rough like gravel but somehow still sickly sweet.
“Show me that pussy, love. Show me my girl…” as much as he liked seeing you toy with your tits, he needed to see you become a mess.
You nod, eyes half lidded already as you take your wet fingers to your pussy, parting your wet, sticky folds open with your fingers, baring yourself completely to him.
You hear him take a sharp inhale as he watches your juices drip down from your hole, clenching around nothing but air as it begs for him. Your clit was swollen and throbbing, dancing in the dim lights.
“You're so pretty… my pretty little girl. Did you miss me?”
His pretty little girl. He was talking to your cunt. You couldn't help the whimper that bubbled up your throat, far too gone at the way his words wrapped around you.
He squeezed his cock at the base, angling it just right so you could see his swollen head that shined in the dim lights, all the mess he'd made before even cumming.
“I miss you too, sweets. Just as much as you miss me.”
This time, you weren't sure if he was talking to you or your pussy. And you didn't care. Not really.
“Steve….please!” You whined, loud and shameless. You couldn't wait anymore, you needed him so bad.
“I'm here with you, aren't I? Just do as I say,” He purrs, amused at how needy you were for him to continue his instructions.
“Swipe your finger up and down your lips, baby. Play with the mess your pussy made for me.”
Your eyes close shut as you dipped your finger down to your drooling lower lips, running your fingertip up and down the soft, slippery skin.
You hear a strangled groan, and wet, stroking noises that sped up with each passing second. The veins of his neck were bulging now, the restraint threatening to snap each time your finger dipped in your pool of nectar.
“Fuck— just like that. Now touch your clit, little taps,” his brows furrow as he demonstrates the movement on himself, tapping the head of his cock softly, precum leaking out with each one.
Your mouth felt empty all of a sudden. Wanting to be full of him, his taste, his scent as he used you for his pleasure. He was the prettiest man you'd ever seen and how you got to call him yours was still a mystery to you.
One you don't think you'll ever figure out any way, but you're grateful for whatever past you did to deserve him.
You slowly pull at the hood concealing your clit from him, revealing it completely.
Tap!
Your back shot straight off the bed in a clean arch, pleasure shooting down your spine in intense bouts.
It was anything like you’d ever felt before. The teasing, the wait, the way his eyes bore straight into you and captured every single move, every single twitch of your body —it was too much.
“God—Steve! I—”
“You're doing so good, angel. Don't stop...” he hissed, squeezing at the base of his cock like you would.
You moaned out his name, though barely audible, drowned out in your pathetic mewls and cries.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Three consecutive taps and you could feel them in your limbs, running through your nerves endings and settling deep inside.
“Fuck…” he growls. “Put them inside. Slowly.”
You made an incomprehensible noise, somewhere between a yes and a curse.
Teasing your finger against your clenching opening, you slowly dip inside, just to the fingertip.
You felt so full.
So warm and wet and fluttery inside. So fucking tight.
You pause, chest rising up and falling down in a frantic pace, trying to get hold of reality.
Steve seemed to do the same, waiting for you to start moving again, just holding and caressing his heavy, full balls in his hand.
You cry out, your legs shaking violently as you push inside more. Down to the first knuckle, then more and more till you couldn't take no more.
You try to find that one spot inside you, but you knew damn well you wouldn't. It was only him that could do so. He knew your body more than you ever could and he prided himself in it. Being so in tune with you— owning your pleasure.
You pull your fingers out, a string of your wetness dragging out, connecting your hand back to your pussy. And then slowly plunge them back inside.
You do it over and over— curling your fingers upwards as you feel your walls tightening with each pass. Your jaw fell open as you feel the heat rising in your core.
You were close.
And he was too.
You could tell. His abs tightening, his hands shaking, his eyes fluttering close, and his breathing going ragged. He was close.
“Cum on me, Steve. I want your cum on me…”
His eyes tore open as he registered your words. He nods, a haste and shaky move, as he stands up and comes closer—climbing on the bed. Never once stopping stroking and twisting up and down his hard cock.
He leans down on you, shielding your body with his bigger, stronger one. His blue eyes looking straight through yours, then falling down at your bitten lips.
He doesn't give you another breath to take, instead engulfing your lips with his. The kiss wasn't soft, it was all biting and panting and licking inside each other's mouth, pouring into each other what words never could.
You felt his cock drag through your folds, and you whined into his mouth, your hands grabbing at his broad shoulder, feeling his bare skin.
He rubs the head of his cock over and over your already overly sensitive clit, massaging it in ways he knows would ruin you. Breaking the kiss to look down at where you two met, he groans as he feels his balls tighten painfully. He was at the edge of falling and he didn't want to stop. He couldn't.
Your face was contorted with overwhelming pleasure, your chest brushing his with each heavy breath you took. Your nails were digging into his skin painfully, sure to leave marks.
“Cum for me, baby. You're being so good for me, so fucking good.”
Your vision blacked out, sparks all across your eyes as your orgasm hit you.
You screamed into his skin as you found yourself drowning under its waves, too deep to ever get back up.
He shuddered above you, biting your neck to muffle his moans as he cums all over your pussy. The hot, sticky, spurts of his release painting you a sinful white.
He kept rubbing, riding out both of your orgasms, dragging it out for as long as possible, as much as your bodies could take.
“God, sweetheart. I love you…” he whispers, once your breathing slowed down and you returned back from the depths of your orgasm.
“You're my best girl.”
This might be the hottest thing I've ever written someone come give me a medal.
༊*·˚ main materlist | pete’s place’s opening night | the playlist ༊*·˚
⁀➷ previous chapter
✧.* ೃ⁀➷ pairings:
pete brenner x female!reader.ari levinson x female!reader.
jake jensen x female!reader
steve rogers x female reader
curtis everett x female!reader.
✧.* ೃ⁀➷ & future pairings:
lloyd hansen x female!reader.
(and others that will be revealed at a later date.)
word count: 14,907. | series rating: explicit. ༊*·˚
warnings: alcohol, general sadness, pete being a scumbag, kidnapping, captivity, talks of trafficking, abuse, mean men, non-con mentions.
please let me know if i missed any, i am tired and i think i’ve listed everything.
this is a dark au. minors are not welcome here.
notes:
holy. fucking. shit.
here you go. have it. it's done. take it from me. please. i'm so tired.
any mistakes are my own and i don't care about them
tags: @fandom-meet-fanthem @epiphanyrogers
Pete stepped into the firelight, casting a long shadow across the polished floor.
His hands came together in a slow, sarcastic applause with a smile of pure venom on his face. His suit was wrinkled from a long night in the club. His eyes raked across your naked body with a newfound sense of ownership that made your skin crawl and bile rise in your throat. You instinctively went to cover yourself, hands coming up to cover your breasts, dropping the glass Ari had handed to you. The liquid splashed against your feet as you drew your legs up.
"Well, well, well," Pete drawled, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Didn't actually think I'd catch you red-handed, Sugar. But here we are."
Your heart slammed against your ribs as you tried to scramble off of Ari’s lap, but his hands tightened around you, holding you in place. You twisted to look at him, searching his face for a shared confusion, for anger, anything, something— but all you found was a cold, detached calm.
"Ari?" Your voice cracked. "What—"
"Relax," Ari said quietly, his tone flat. He didn’t spare you so much as a glance. His eyes were locked on Pete’s with a knowing glint.
Relax.
Relax?
You stared at his face, slowly mapping out his features before you looked at Pete and let out a shocked sigh when your stomach dropped as you put together the similarities and wondered how you could’ve been so blind as not to have seen it sooner.
"Oh, don't look so shocked, sweetheart," Pete said, a mocking sweetness laced in his tone as he stepped closer. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting his face in a way that made him look grotesque. "You didn't really notice the family resemblance?”
“Family.” You said bluntly. “Brothers?”
“My uncle,” Ari explained simply.
“Did you think you were getting away with it? All those private dances, all that cash you've been pocketing without telling me? You thought I wouldn't find out?" Pete asked as he stalked closer.
Your mouth opened, but the sound failed to make an appearance. Your brain was scrambling as it tried to piece together what was happening, as if you were trying to hold water in your hands—everything was slipping through as you tried to make sense of how Pete had found out.
"I—" you started to explain, but Pete cut you off with a sharp laugh.
"Save it,” He sneered. “I know everything. Every client you propositioned. Every dollar you didn't report. Every lie you told." He stopped a few feet away from the couch, arms crossed over his chest as he bent at the middle, towering over you with a triumphant grin, "And you know what the best part is? You walked right into it."
Your eyes darted back to Ari. He was still holding you, still calm, and then realization hit you like a freight train.
He knew.
He was part of this.
"No," you whispered, shaking your head. "No, you—"
"I what?" Ari's voice was cold, detached. He finally looked at you, not as a woman he’d just spent the last hour methodically taking apart, but as a piece of evidence, or a chore he’d finally completed. There was nothing in his eyes. No warmth. No affection. Just... nothing. Not a single ounce of semblance of the man you had grown an affection for over the past few weeks. "Thought I liked you? Thought this was real?"
His words were like a knife to the gut. You couldn’t stop the tears welling in your eyes.
“He was the bait, Sugar,” Pete said coolly, almost cheerfully. “And you took it, hook, line, and sinker. He did his job, got you here, and now…” He trailed off as he gestured around the room, at the manor, at the trap you had fallen into. “You’re all mine… Well, ours.”
Your hands shook, sending a tremble that took over your entire body. You once again attempted to free yourself from Ari, and this time he did let you go. You slip off the couch, your legs shaking, and head past Pete to grab your clothes, the warmth of the fireplace flickering across your skin. As you bend down, Pete’s voice stops you.
“I wouldn’t bother with those.”
You freeze, halfway bent to gather the sorry excuse of a dress.
“You’re not going anywhere, and we’ve both already seen what you’ve got to offer, Sugar. Why hide it now?”
The fear wracking your bones crystallized into something else; something hotter. It floods through your veins like gasoline meeting a lit match. You look at the dress, then back at Ari, who is putting his jeans back on. You waited for him to turn and look at you, but instead, he opted to look out the window as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
You snatch the dress from the floor, turning your attention back to Pete.
“Fuck you,” You spat, wringing out the dress and stepping into it. You heard Ari laugh shortly followed by the click of his lighter as you pulled up the dress and let the straps snap sharply on your shoulders before grabbing your bag. “I’m leaving. Right fucking now.”
Pete’s smile widens, and your stomach turns.
He’s on you within seconds, knocking your bag, the contents flying all over the floor. He grabs your wrist with one hand when they fly up to push him away, and hooks fingers of the other hand under the straps of your dress and snaps them with ease. He grabbed you roughly, forcing you to lock your eyes with his fiery gaze; his fingers digging into the meat of your upper arms, making you wince and pull away from his grip.
‘’Do you have any idea how much you owe me, Rory? It adds up to a very pretty, very large sum of money that you simply do not have.’’ Pete snarled, venomous and rattling.
‘’I have it,’’ You pleaded, ‘’It’s at the hotel. You can have it. Just let me go.’’
Pete didn’t answer you. His expression snapped in an instant, switching from a delighted amusement to a cold, hard stare.
He simply whirled you around, pulling your back flush against his chest and bruisingly working his hands against the fabric of your dress to work it down your body until it pooled around your bare ankles. Shakes wracked through your body as a sea formed in your eyes, a devastating storm of hopelessness as an anchor hit the bottom of your gut, rooting you to the mansion floor. Pete turned and shoved you towards where Ari was now on his feet, snapping the band of his boxers against his hips before leaning down to gather his jeans, shaking them out.
Your gaze darted between them as your footsteps faltered, your ankles wanting to give way as Pete began to stalk closer to you again. Your blood turned to ice as he backed you towards the couch. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking an exit; any exit. Instead, you wound up back on the couch, pulling your legs up as Pete loomed over you; his eyes black and vacant.
Ari gave you a passive glance as he lit up a cigarette, taking a long drag as he decided the darkness outside the manor windows was a better view than the debt perched on cold leather.
‘’Here’s how this is going to work, Sugar,’’ Pete says pointedly. ‘’My nephews are going to come through those doors any moment… They’re gonna drop that bag of money you’ve been hiding in that piss-poor hovel of yours at my feet. We’re gonna count it, and we’re gonna calculate the interest–’’
‘’What interest? You have it! You’ll have it–’’
Pete’s hand swung out, and you instinctively curled into yourself, but the blow never came. You peered up to find Ari’s large hand wrapped around Pete’s wrist; not hard enough to cause any damage, but enough to send a message. Your chest heaved as you watched them; it looked like Pete wanted to fight it, but something passed between them– maybe Ari’s size, maybe a respect… You weren't sure. Pete yanked his hand away and let out a defeated huff.
‘’I’ll handle it,’’ Ari claimed, holding up a finger; a warning.
‘’Then handle it,’’ Pete dismissed with a wave of his hand and sulked towards the bar.
Ari took in a deep sigh, finished the last couple of drags of his cigarette, and then planted himself back beside you. He stared into the open space of the living room before dragging a hand down his face, scrubbing at his beard, and taking in a sharp breath before finally looking at you.
‘’Ari, I can’t pay–’’
‘’I know you can’t,’’ Ari cut in. ‘’Which is why you’re going to work it off. Here. With us.’’
Your stomach lurched. ‘’What?’’
‘’There are two options on the table, Sugar,’’ Ari began to explain, monotone and blunt. Option one: You stay here and work on a schedule. Me on Mondays, Curt has Tuesdays, Steve on Wednesdays, Jake on Thursdays, Pete on Fridays, Lloyd on Saturdays.’’ He pauses, letting the words sink into your bones. ‘’Sunday’s… You get to rest.’’
Your vision blurred, ringing overtook your ears, and your chest constricted.
‘’Option two,’’ Ari continues. ‘’We sell you.’’
‘’Sell me?’’ You whisper, eyes wide.
Ari nods. To one of Pete’s clients. The kind of men who don’t ask for permission, the ones who won’t give you a rest day.’’
A sudden rage blooms, courses through your blood, and explodes.
"No." Your voice is sharp, loud, cutting through the room like a whip. "Absolutely fucking not. You're both insane if you think I'm going to—"
"You don't have a choice!" Pete snaps sharply from across the room, glass thudding against the bar, the liquid sloshing violently. ‘’Unless you want me to make a call and have you shipped off and kept in a fucking cage for the rest of your life. Either fucking way, you are paying me back every fucking cent!’’
‘’I earned it!’’ You fired back. ‘’It’s mine, and you can have it! I don’t fucking need to stay here!’’
“Yours? Yours?!” He sneered, his voice a lethal weapon pointed at you from across the vast living room. “Everything in that club is mine. The floor you walk on, the pole you stumble around on, the laps you keep warm— the fucking air you breathe, the drinks you swallow, and most fucking certainly the clients you’ve been stealing from under my fucking nose, Sugar. I fucking own you. You didn’t earn a fucking dime. It was theft. Plain and fucking simple. You used my establishment to run your own little business and thought you could get away with it…” He trailed off to let out a long sigh after his rant, his expression softening a little. “But, lucky for you… I’ve always had a soft spot for a pretty face.”
Pete stalked towards you once again, but this time Ari made no effort to shield you from him. Pete leaned over you, and the leather creaked as he placed his hand on the couch behind your head. The smell of whisky on his breath made your stomach turn, and his voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper that made your skin crawl.
“My family is a very close-knit group, Sugar. We share everything… And since you've spent so long taking from me— from us, it's only fair that you start giving back. So, I think the choice has been made for you.”
‘’No,’’ You said firmly, sucking in a sharp breath as Ari let out a slow breath.
He stared down at you with a look of cold, almost clinical evaluation. He leaned in closer, his presence oppressive and dangerous, the air between you both feeling thick with a threat that had no need to be voiced. He didn’t seem offended by your outburst; if anything, he once again looked thoroughly amused, as if your defiance was nothing more than a puppy daring to bark at a wolf.
“See, that’s the thing about the word “no”, Sugar. In your situation, it has no place in this house. It’s a word you get to use when you don’t have a debt to pay. It’s for guests. You’re not a guest. You’re a piece of property with a very high interest rate.” Pete leaned in closer, his voice dipping to a soft, terrifying purr beside your ear. “I’m a businessman, Sugar. I’m not gonna drag you kicking and screaming by your hair to a bed. No one’s gonna hold you down and make you do a single thing. It’s boring. It’s predictable. It’s what you expect to happen. I prefer incentives.”
Pete stepped back abruptly, arms flaring out to gesture to the opulent surroundings of the manor.
“You can fight it. You can scream, you can refuse, and cry and beg. You can be the brave little pup trapped in a wolf’s den, but every day that you refuse to give us what we want, every moment you make us wait… The higher the interest climbs and the longer you stay.”
You opened your mouth to fight back, plead your case, attempt to find any string of words that could wake you from the grim nightmare you had found yourself in– or rather, been lured into; however, the tension in the room was snapped by the sound of the front doors being opened once again. Dread washed over you as Ari stood and stepped towards the windows and stared down the dim hallway. A second later, Ari let out a small bark of a laugh, and a grin broke out on his face.
“Damn, her leaving you hit you hard,” Ari mocked, playful and light with what seemed like a genuine grin towards the footsteps in the hall. ‘’Look at that fuckin’ bush on your face, man.’’
“Yeah? Look who’s talking, “ The voice responded. It wasn’t as deep as Ari’s, and the man who emerged almost took your breath.
He wasn’t as tall as Ari, although not far off. Dirty blonde hair and a thick beard that put Ari’s to shame a little. He looked as if he’d taken a mental beating or two, eyes wary and shoulders tense. The brown leather jacket clung to his large shoulders, the white tee stretched over his chest, and his large hands clutched car keys; the bend in his arms showing off the power in his arms. Under any other circumstances, just like Ari, you could happily find yourself staring at a man like him all day long. The half-smile on his face fell fast and far once he laid eyes on you, before his face scrunched up in a disgust that made you find the floor more interesting.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he spat.
“Steve—“ Pete spoke before being abruptly cut off.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Steve chastised as his feet thundered across the floor.
You instinctively peered up, finding him coming towards you as he stripped off his light brown jacket and quickly laid it around your shoulders, offering a small, tight smile before both of your gazes turned to Ari, who offered nothing but a roll of his eyes.
“Don’t do that,” Ari chuckled shortly, pointing a finger. “You still showed up.”
“You said she’d have a choice,” Steve shot at him, eyes hardening and fist clenching at his side. “Shaking and crying on the couch— naked!” Steve punctuated with a sharp point towards you. “Isn’t a fucking choice!”
“She was given a choice,” Pete dismissed, as if he were referring to you simply picking what to have for dinner. “I’m still waiting to hear what she’s decided.”
“What choice did you give her? Here or there? Us or some sick fuck that’ll turn her out?”
“Better the ones she knows, hmm?” Ari tried to reason.
“Out of your minds,” Steve laughed, hollow and ludicrous, a hand smoothing over his hair as he let out a rough, angered sigh.
“You still showed,” Ari pointed out, parroting his words from before. “Let’s step off the high horse.”
Steve opened his mouth to fire back at Ari, but the sound of the oak doors opening once again drew everyone into a silence until it was broken by two disembodied voices, lazily sharing a conversation as they stepped closer to the living room. One had an impossibly deep gravel to his tone; the other light, almost boyish— like the world hasn’t hit him hard enough just yet.
“When does Lloyd get here?” One asked.
“Saturday,” the other answered bluntly, closing the door and coughing softly. “Hate how this fucking house smells.”
“It is Saturday,” The first one pointed out.
“Next Saturday, numbnuts.”
“You can’t let him near her,” Steve agonized towards Ari, like he almost feared the voice himself.
“I told you telling him was a bad idea,” Ari groaned, letting out an exasperated laugh. “Always gotta act as the sun shines out of your ass. Why the fuck are you here?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Steve fired, eyes blazing and body tense as he pointed out to the hallway where the footsteps drew closer. “To stop him, because you fucking idiots don’t see how fucking unstable—“
“Don’t let who near who?”
It was like another version of Ari had stepped into the room. Instead of the full beard, thick locks, and tanned skin, it was replaced by harsh stubble, a buzz cut, and ink covering every inch. Behind him was a smaller version of Steve, grinning from ear to ear with an almost childish charm as he nodded at his brothers.
“Hi,” The tattooed version of Ari drawled, mouth ticked up in a predatory smirk as his eyes wandered your body, not taking them off you, had he held out the black duffle bag in his hand— the very same that had been hidden under your hotel room— and passed it off to Pete. “I’m Curtis.”
“Great, she can go,” Steve said directly, moving back towards you with a hand held out.
“Go?” Ari scoffed, stepping closer as well.
You looked between them, unsure of your next move. You desperately wanted to take the hand of the only man who saw sense and wanted to take you out of there, while fearing the repercussions of the man who wanted you to stay; the one who you were still trying to piece together in your head.
“You have it, she can go,” Steve replied, looking down at you with a nod towards his outstretched hand.
“Interest, Steve,” Ari pointed out sharply, knocking his hand away from you before you could even lift your own to take Steve’s. “Please tell me that losing her made you lose all your brain cells as well.”
“Are you all done squabbling?” Pete asked them both, only turning back to Curtis when they both stood down and averted their gazes from one another. “How much is in here?” Pete followed up, tugging the straps, letting the bag bounce.
“Take a look for yourself,” Curtis replied, his eyes glued on you.
You held your breath, refusing to be the first one to break as you heard Pete sigh, followed by the sound of the bag thudding against the leather chair and the agonizingly slow sound of the zipper being pulled. Curtis’ eyes lit up when Pete let out an appalled gasp.
“You scheming little brat,” Pete said, dangerous and slow.
“What?” You asked breathlessly, finally losing the battle, as you looked over to where Pete was standing over the open bag, with a horrified expression.
“How much? I want you to tell me how much is in this fucking bag,” Pete said lowly, fists balling up by his side.
“Around thirty thousand, just a little under. I don’t keep—“
“Do not fucking lie to me!” Pete seethed, and within a flash, he was thundering towards you.
You instinctively curled yourself back against the couch; however, Pete didn’t get far because both Steve and Ari shielded you against the couch, making Pete stop dead.
“Sugar. How much is in there?” Ari asked calmly.
“I just told you!” You cried out, hands thumping heavily in your lap as you squeezed your eyes shut to stop a fresh wave of tears from falling. Your fists found the fabric of Steve’s jacket, clutching it tight to your bare skin and sinking back into the leather of the couch.
Ari let out a breath before walking over and peering into the bag himself. He paused for a moment, shook his head, and then hauled the bag up and brought it over to you, opening it wide to show the stacks of bills— more than what you’d ever placed inside them. Your eyes widened as your pulse kicked up speed and your lungs refused to expand the way they should.
“No— This… This isn’t all mine. There’s no way,” You whispered frantically, shaking your head before swallowing the lump that formed in your throat. Your eyes darted between the men occupying the space in front of you. “Please, this isn’t mine,” You whined desperately. “Yes, I was working on the side. Yes, I was doing it with club clients. Yes, I shouldn’t have done it, but I have not made the amount that’s in here. This isn’t all mine.”
“Oh, so the money fairy came and put it in there while you were being screwed by my nephew,” Pete scoffed.
“It’s not mine!” You cried.
“How much do you think?” Pete asked, his attention back on Curtis as if you’d simply ceased to exist.
“Hundred thousand, easy. Want me to count it?” Curtis pointed towards the bag in Ari’s hands.
“Go.” Pete nodded towards another room.
“Ari, please, you have to believe me,” You begged, trying to find some semblance of the man you knew just a few hours before.
“I don’t have to believe anything.” Ari zipped up the bag and passed it off to Curtis, who threw it back over to Pete. “It’s above my pay grade.”
Curtis left the room for a moment, disappearing into a side door and returning with a money counter. You kept your gaze on Ari as the clunk of the machine hitting the table was followed by the whirring of money being funneled through the machine. The room was suffocating, and everyone stood in silence as Curtis loaded stack after stack onto the machine. Your stomach turned as the amount rose higher and higher. Your mind switched channel upon channel, trying to figure out just how a half-empty bag was suddenly bursting at the seams.
Had Pete set it up? Had Ari? Did one of the girls know? Was it a client? Who knew where you stayed? How did this happen?
“One hundred thousand…” Curtis began to read out, and a wave of cold nausea washed over you with every word. “Four hundred and thirty-two dollars.”
Pete whistled, followed it up with a short bark of a laugh, and downed the rest of the liquid in his glass, grimacing and shaking his head.
“Well, hasn’t someone been a busy little lamb, hmm?” Curtis taunted.
“And you said you didn’t fuck ‘em,” Ari scoffed bitterly, turning his nose up at you. “Who’s the liar now?”
“I didn’t—“ You insisted.
“Don’t fucking bullshit me,” Ari shot back.
“Some of them were generous! I didn’t do anything like that!”
“Yeah, bet you were too,” Ari huffed, shaking his head with a tense smile.
“Stop!” Steve barked.
“She good?” Curtis prodded towards Ari with a sick smirk as he began to load the remainder of the cash back into the bag.
“Not bad,” Ari shrugged.
“Talking about me like I’m a toy. I’m right here!” You cracked, fire bubbling out of your throat.
“That’s what you are now,” Curtis scoffed, glancing at his brothers like what you had said was ridiculous. “S’all you are, baby. A shiny new toy for me to break and you’re here for a while, Sugar, a lot of time to find all the ways you can break.”
“I’ll find a way—“ You attempted to plead with Pete. “You have the money, please. I can figure it—“
“Nope! You won’t— You can’t!” Pete cut off dramatically, leaning against the bar and giving you that sick, sly grin. “So, once again, the choice: I can either line up a buyer, hand you over and you can pray to see next month, or you can stay here and work it off by keeping us all company, however we see fit.”
“Be trafficked or be a communal fleshlight— Wow, incredible options she has—“ Steve mocked, shaking his head.
“Why the fuck would you put it like that?” The youngest one laughed, face scrunching up as they paced in front of the fireplace. “That sounds—“
“Wrong?!” Steve thundered, earning dismissive smirks and choked back laughs from his brothers. “Disgusting? Because that’s what this is, Jake!”
“She doesn’t have to do anything,” Ari attempted to sway, laughing it off like Steve was overreacting. “But the longer she doesn’t, the longer she stays and the higher the debt climbs.”
“That isn’t a choice—“ Steve let out a vexed growl, throwing his hands up before he headed towards the hallway, your eyes following his every move with a voice in the back of your head begging him to stay. “Fuck it! I’m done! I’m leaving, I can’t be a part of this—“
“Go ahead,” Pete dismissed. “Oh,” He said sharply, holding up a finger. “But, who’s gonna clean up Curtis’ mess?” Pete pointed out, stopping Steve in his tracks. “That’s why you’re here and everything.”
“See you Tuesday, Sugar,” Curtis drawled provocatively, making your face scrunch up and turn away from the shitshow before you. “Aw, the shy little baby,” Curtis mocked, honeyed and low, making your hands fist up and tremble. “Fucking adorable.”
“He won’t give her a choice,” Steve pleaded to Ari.
“That’s why you’re needed,” Ari stressed, standing and making his way over to Steve, hands on his shoulders, keeping him steady in place. “Your day counts no matter what she does. Fuck her, sing her a lullaby— who fucking cares? That’s the point. It’s up to us how it’s paid, and if she refuses then… Guess she’s got another day of the week to make it up—“
“What day is mine?” Jake piped up.
“Thursday,” Pete replied.
“Cool. I’ll leave you all to argue,” Jake said coolly, as if he’d simply asked when dinner was going to be ready and didn’t spare you a second glance as he made his way around the back of the couch and his footsteps faded with each step on the stairs.
“What’s the total with interest?” Ari asked, turning his attention to Pete.
Pete pondered for a moment, lips twitching from side to side as he calculated the sum in his head.
“Half a mil,” Pete said simply, turning to you with a cold glint in his eyes and a mocking smile. “Maybe just a little under.”
“And per shift?” Ari quizzed.
“Waiting for Lloyd to get back to me,” Pete answered. “But, I think it’s based on what you think she’s earned. He’s just gonna put a cap on it. She hasn’t actually decided yet what she’s doing.”
“What’s it gonna be, Sugar?” Curtis piped up. “Sold or stay?”
“You have the money,” You protested with a whine, letting out a huff and twisting your face up as you planted your feet against the floor and leaped up off the couch. Steve’s jacket grazed your mid-thigh as you clutched it closed against your chest. “I’m not staying here,” You bit out, eyes blazing and staring Pete dead in the eye. “I’m not being sold. I’m not being passed around. I’m not doing any of this. You can all go fuck yourselves.”
Pete’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes— amusement, maybe; perhaps interest, you weren’t sure, but you were sure of the fact you weren't staying with him for any longer than you needed to. You needed to find a way out– quickly.
“Brave,” Pete mused softly as he stepped closer to you. “Stupid, but brave. It’s a shame brave won’t serve you well here, Sugar. Submission? That’ll get you really far.”
"And just so we're clear," Pete adds, leaning in close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath, "the longer you fight this, the longer you stay. Every time you refuse, every time you make this difficult, you add time to your debt. It could be weeks. It could be months. It could be years. Up to you."
"Then I'll fight for years," you snarl. "I'm not doing this."
‘’She’s a fiery one,’’ Curtis laughed, a low, ugly sound. ‘’I like that. You’ll be more fun to break, Sugar.’’
‘’Take her upstairs,’’ Pete ordered Ari. ‘’Get her settled. You’ll like your room, Sugar. A helluva’ lot better than that hole you slept in.’’
‘’I’m not fucking staying here!’’ You cried out.
‘’You can get up, or I can get you up,’’ Ari said darkly, towering over you from the side of the couch, hands at the ready.
“You heard your man, Sugar. The choice is yours. You can walk out of here on your own two feet, or he can carry you out kicking and screaming.”
Pete stood aside and let Ari take his place, looming over you, his large shoulders blocking the view of the vast living room. He didn’t say a word, just stared down at you, with an expression that made your heart sink. He was actually enjoying this. He liked you trembling, cold, and scared. Ari’s hands flexed at his side, head tilted as he waited, just waited… as if he was waiting for the moment the reality of the situation burned out the fire inside of you and you were left with nothing but a crushed spirit— or, for the sick thrill he’d get hauling you, wailing, up the manor stairs and into the dark.
“Ari, please,” You whispered. “Just tell me this is a joke.”
“Why would we joke about this?” Ari’s voice was flat, devoid of empathy or regret.
He didn’t even blink; he just looked at you as if you weren’t a woman, but as an object that had been successfully delivered to its rightful owners. The silence that followed his words was a desolate suffocation, punctuated by the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in the manor. The betrayal was absolute. The man who you thought had seen you as you saw him was now looking at you as nothing more than a dollar sign.
‘’I thought…’’ Your voice wavered as you spoke. ‘’Oh, fuck.’’
“Oh, look at that,” Pete drawled, his voice dropping to a mocking cop. “You’ve broken her heart, Ari.” He let out a soft, sharp titter. “It’s a shame, really. Maybe we’re on the way to losing that spark that would’ve been so fun to snuff out of you.”
“I’d get all those pretty tears out now, Sugar… Before Lloyd gets home,” Curtis spoke, an ominous ring to his comment.
“Plus, tears don’t pay off the debt. Neither does disappointment,” Pete added.
“Well, there’ll be a good payment for Lloyd. He loves it when they cry,” Ari shrugged, his voice devoid of any warmth.
The comment was delivered with such a casual indifference that it felt more like a physical blow. Ari wasn’t just betraying you; he was willing to hand you over to someone who sounded far worse than himself, Pete— even Curtis. You prayed silently to never meet the man behind the name, but you knew it was feeble, inevitable. Ari gestured to stand with a crook of his neck, acting as the gatekeeper to a grim future you couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Ari stepped back just an inch as you hesitantly braced yourself to stand, his gaze remained fixed on you; expectant and patience waning. The luxury of the manor—the fire, the velvet of the curtains, the ornate rugs, and the expensive leather — felt more like a gilded cage. Every extra second you spent hesitating felt like a gamble with a debt that was already spiraling out of your control.
“How could you do this?” You whispered as you looked up at him.
“I’m a professional,” Ari offered, his gaze cold and his voice flat.
“You’re an asshole,” You corrected.
Ari didn’t flinch, didn’t show any offense; no malice, no amusement. The man who had just been whispering filth in your ear and pulling you into his chest was gone, replaced by a cruel stranger who looked at you as if you were nothing more than a piece of furniture he was getting ready to move. He shifted his weight with a heavy sigh, crossed his massive arms over his chest, biceps flexing as he created a wall of muscle that felt absolute, impenetrable. “You were a job,” Ari informed. “A way to bring you in without causing a scene, to stop you running. Please don’t mistake a few weeks of scattered pleasure for a friendship, a relationship. We don’t do that here. It doesn’t work. I’m getting tired, and you need to move.”
You let out a shaky sob, fingers flexing against the leather seat, and before you could even attempt to move yourself, Ari’s patience snapped. Hands grab you, rough and bruising, and you explode into motion. With a cry, you twisted and kicked in his grip as he spun you and hauled you up against his chest. You kicked into the open space as Ari began to walk you towards the stairs. You clawed at his forearms, nails raking across the skin, pebbles of red blooming in their wake, causing him to swear viciously.
“Fucking bitch—“
You screamed; a raw, primal sound, a sound torn from somewhere deep in your chest, pulled from the depths of your soul. You thrashed against his grip, bare feet kicking at his shins, hands slapping the meat of his arms. You fought with everything you had, but it’s no use. His grip tightened as he took the first step. You crane your head back, and your eyes lock with Steve’s. His face was pale, a hopeless worry creased into his forehead, his hands clenched tightly at his side; it looked like he could be sick, but he made no attempt to help you.
No one came to help you.
“Let me go! Let me fucking go!” You screamed.
Ari’s fingers dug into your side with enough pressure to leave bruises. You planted your feet against a higher step, attempting to anchor yourself to the cold marble slabs as you twisted your head, teeth gunning for his arms, but he jerked you sharply with a snarl.
“Fuck you!” You wailed, thrashing harder. “Fuck all of you!”
“Stop fucking fighting.” His voice was an eerie calm. “You’re only gonna make it worse.”
With a grunt of effort, Ari lifted you higher, your feet dangled in the air as you were manhandled up the rest of the stairs. You didn’t stop fighting. With each agonizing step, you screamed until your throat was raw, kicked until your legs ached, twisted your body until your muscles burned; screamed, cried, and wailed out every curse your tongue had memorized, but it’s no use. By the time you reached the second floor, you were gasping for breath, your body trembled with exhaustion and fury.
You were carried through the dark of the hallway, portraits watched you with judgmental eyes, and a row of doors taunted you as you passed each one. Ari didn’t say another word through your continued struggle, each moment making your bones scream, and your lungs beg for mercy. The silence from him was a wall, unclimbable; inescapable.
He stopped at the end of the hall, double doors towering above you both. He managed to keep a tight grip on you as he reached for the handles and pushed them open, revealing a bedroom that was staggeringly opulent. A luxurious space with a massive canopy bed with silk sheets, detailed dressers, ornate chairs, and gold accents peppered around the room. Any other time, the sight would’ve been welcomed, but the sight made you sick. He kicked the doors closed behind you with a loud thud and dropped you to the floor.
“Jacket,” He ordered with a snap of his finger and a held-out hand.
You clutched it tight around you as you scrambled to your feet and put as much distance between you both as you could; Ari was left standing at the door while you shrank yourself into the shadows of the towering windows.
“Steve gave it to me,” You sniffled. “How could you do this to me? You can’t do this to me!”
“I can, and I am,” He replied, an exasperated huff expelling from his chest, as if dealing with you was a chore he’d rather forget.
“You liked me, you did… I know you did.”
“No, I didn’t,” He said with a grim smile. “I like obedience. Give me the jacket, Sugar.”
“No!” You cried. “Fuck you! We had something, we were going to have something, you know it!”
A flicker of boredom flashes across Ari’s eyes. He made no attempt to move; he simply watched you with a detached curiosity, as if you were attempting to explain a concept that sounded deranged and tedious. The massive scale of his frame seemed to shrink the room around you as you waited for him to break his slice, like he was the only thing your mind could focus on. He didn’t look at you with hatred, that would’ve required an emotion he wasn’t willing to spare, but you had a clawing need to drag it out of him anyway.
He shifted his weight, the fabric of his shirt straining against the same shoulders you had clung to hours before. The silence, however, was broken, but not by Ari, but by the boisterous laughter of the family in the den below; a muffled reminder that your life had been meticulously, and maliciously partitioned into days of the week.
“Why are you all like this?” You whispered.
“Like what?” Ari challenged, his expression remaining flat.
It seemed like, to Ari, that the question seemed entirely illogical, as if you were asking why the rain was wet or why a predator hunted its prey. There was no guilt, no empathy, nothing in his eyes; no flicker of regret for the way he had used your body to bridge the gap between your trust and your capture.
“Twisted,” You spat. “Wrong.”
He took slow, calculated steps forward, his feet padding against the thick, piled carpet, the distance between you closing at an agonizing pace. His shadow swallowed you whole as you backed into the wall between the windows, trapped in the darkness. He didn’t touch you, but the heat radiating from him was palpable, a warning of the strength he could use to crush you if he ever decided to stop being patient.
‘’The world is twisted, Sugar. It’s how it works. We just know how to navigate the curves. You take what you can, and when you can’t take anymore… You pay the price. You thought you were playing a game with the house, and the house always wins, baby. That’s not twisted, it’s not wrong… It’s just math.’’ Ari paused for a moment, his eyes landed on your trembling lips as his words twisted around your throat, something flickered in his expression– not pity, but perhaps the ghost of a memory, something human– before the stone mask slammed back down. ‘’Now, give me the jacket.’’
‘’No, you said firmly.
‘’Sugar–’’
‘’If it's okay for you to take, why can't I?’’
Ari’s eyes narrowed slightly, a genuine amusement finding its way into them as he let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, though his face remained devoid of any real humor.
‘’Because you’re weak,’’ Ari answered. ‘’You thought you were playing the game. You thought you were clever, stealing pennies from a mountain. You thought you could get away with it. We know we can.’’
Your bottom lip trembled as Ari brought up a hand to cup your cheek.
“Now, stop trying to argue. I don’t know what gave you the idea that you’re even in a position to object, because the only position you’re in right now…” Ari trailed off, sliding a hand to the nape of your neck and then suddenly sliding it up to seize a sharp handful of your hair by your crown. “Is to obey.”
He gave a quick tug, forcing you closer to him; the sounds of your cries fell on deaf ears.
‘’You think I get to say ‘no’? ‘Sorry, Pete. Sorry, Lloyd, I don’t feel like doing that shit today, I’d rather go and… Bask in the sunshine, or whatever the fuck normal people do? We’re all stuck, Sugar, just some more than others. Get used to it.” His eyes shifted from yours to the leather that encased your frame. “Jacket. Off. I’m not asking again, and I’m really starting to lose my patience.”
The sounds of the ruffling leather were loud in the grim silence of the room. The clink of the zipper and the shaky breaths mixed together in a symphony of misery. Your fingers shook violently as you pulled the jacket sleeves and slipped it off your shoulders, exposing the pale, wavering skin that Ari had fraudulently worshipped.
It was only when you stood bare, completely exposed, your vulnerability stark against the backdrop of the room's calculated luxury, and held out the jacket in the space between you both that Ari released the harsh grip on your hair and snatched the jacket from your hands.
His gaze scanned your body with a cold, professional detachment; almost as if he was inspecting a new piece of inventory. He made no move to touch you, nor did his eyes show any sign of the hunger that had once pooled there. He wasn’t looking at you for pleasure; he was ensuring the total erasure of your old life. You tried to cover yourself under his intense stare, boredom settling in the deep blues, as if modesty to him wasn’t a virtue or a boundary; it was inefficiency. A delay in the process that the men of the manor had set forth.
Ari reached out, large fingers gripping your wrist and pulling it from your body; firm and capable, his voice dropping to a low rumble.
“You don’t have a right to privacy anymore, Sugar. Everything you are, every inch of this skin, belongs to the house now.”
Ari shoved your arm back at you before turning, jacket clutched in his hand along with the rest of your dignity, and walked towards the doors. He pressed the pad of his thumb against the handle, and with a beep, the lock clicked. You stared after him, unable to move as he opened the door. He paused for a moment, his silhouette blotting out the light from the corridor, and then looked back at you— naked, shivering, and wide-eyed.
The dynamic between you both had shifted completely; no longer potential lovers, but a stripped-down object at the mercy of its master.
“Get in the bed. Stay there. Someone will bring you breakfast in the morning.”
“As long as it’s not you,” You threw at him, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I won’t ever sleep with you again. I hope you know that. I’ll go to each one of them, but never, ever you.”
Ari’s hand freezes on the handle of the door. You can see the slight tension pull tight across his back and pinch at his jaw. The silence that enveloped you afterward was heavy, stretching out until the only sound was your own frantic heartbeat. The air thickened, and for the first time since you’d learned your fate, Ari’s composure cracked. He doesn’t turn, but his hand grips the handle of the door tightly, and a rumble, almost a growl, settles deep in his chest.
“Fine by me,” Ari spat back at you.
Then he stepped over the threshold, and without a second glance, he slammed the door shut, and the lock clicked.
For a moment, you just stood there; chest heaving, hands shaking, quick shuddering breaths before a white-hot fire ran through your veins, which made you lunge at the doors, slamming your fists against the wood.
“Ari! Let me out! You can’t do this! Let me the fuck out.”
You pounded until your hands ached, until your knuckles were raw and droplets of blood mocked your feeble attempt. You screamed until your voice cracked, until your throat felt like you had swallowed glass. You kicked, threw your weight, and pried at the seam, but it didn’t budge. You moved to the window next; the grounds were lit by scattered lampposts, intricate and dim. The round driveway beckoned you, the gates in the distance called your name, and the trees in the small woodland waved you over.
Freedom was right there, so close that you could almost taste it.
You didn’t bother trying the handles; instead, you grabbed the edge of the window frame and pulled, trying to pull it open from the hinges, but the nails didn't budge. You let out a growl as your hands slapped your bare sides before your eyes darted around the room searching for something— anything— to use as a lever. You moved quickly, pulling open drawers, looking under furniture, and finding bolts to keep them secured to the floor.
You grabbed a small wooden chair by the vanity, ignoring the panicked woman in the reflection, and moved to swing it at the window. The impact sent a jolt up your arms, but the glass remained intact; the reinforced glass wobbling as a middle finger to your efforts. You swung again, and again, and again. Until your arms were shaking and the chair legs cut into your hands.
You drop the chair, depleted, and sink to the floor, hiding in the shadows once again. You backed against the wall, the cool brick sending a shiver through you as you pulled your knees to your chest. Your whole body was trembling— rage, fear, exhaustion crashing over you in a series of waves that threatened to pull you under.
But you’re not done. Just resting. You’ll figure it out… You have to figure it out.
You let your forehead rest on your knees, taking a few deep breaths and exhaling slowly. When you bring your head back up to find your next plan, you spot two divots in the light that shines through under the door. You stared for a moment until you saw the shadows shuffle, and you sprang into action, practically flying across the room and slamming your hand against the wood of the double doors.
“Ari?!” You called out, pausing to press your ear against the door. “Ari, is that you?! Please, I’m sorry, please open the door!”
You waited for a response, but got nothing.
“Ari, please, please listen—“ You hesitated, pressing your ear against the door again, and listening closely. The shoes shuffle against the carpet, but not like Ari’s would. Ari’s heavy boots, his feet, crushed the piles under the sheer weight he carried; this was lighter, more careful…
It had to be Steve.
“Steve?” You asked softly, “Is that you? Please let me out. You know this is wrong, please, please, Steve, please.”
You hear him beyond the wood, a deep breath and a long exhale. You wait, and you hope, but nothing comes.
No words.
No movement from the handle.
No click.
No light.
Nothing.
“Steve!” You shout, slamming your hand against the door. “Open the door!”
But he doesn’t. He just stands there for a few more seconds, and then the shadows from his footsteps retreat from the light and leave you alone in the dark.
The morning came slowly.
Light filtered through the tall windows, casting amber and pink along the cream carpet. You hadn’t moved from the space between, back against the wall, arms hugged around your bare legs. Each time you closed your eyes, you saw Pete’s face, heard Curtis’s voice, and felt the vacant stare of Ari. Sleep wasn’t an option, and not something you wanted anyway.
The door’s lock clicking open rang out like someone pulling a pin from a grenade, and when it opened, Jake appeared. He was carrying a tray—eggs, toast, orange juice—and set it down on the dresser with a smile that made your skin crawl. His eyes were downcast on the tray as he ensured he settled it correctly before dusting his hands.
He was dressed in grey sweats and a black shirt that stretched across his frame. He wasn’t as big as the others, sure, but nothing to scoff at. His blond hair was tussled from sleep, and mismatched socks padded towards you.
“Morning,” Jake chirped brightly, like the morning routine was perfectly normal to him. “Thought you might be hungry…” He trailed off, and his face fell slightly as he finally laid eyes on you. “You know there’s clothes in here, right?”
You make no attempt to reply, no muscle twitches to move, your face set in stone, and your eyes boring into his.
“Come on,” He attempted to coax, waving a hand to get you to stand. “Let’s find something for you to wear, and then you need to eat.”
“Get. Out,” You bite out, voice hoarse from the screaming.
Jake’s smile fell slightly, but his tone didn’t “You should really—“
“I said get out.”
He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes didn’t harden the way Ari’s would’ve, he didn’t make a move to pull you off the floor; he simply shrugged and turned to walk back towards the door.
“Suit yourself,” He said calmly and left.
You sat there, eyes glued to the wood grain, and let out a long breath. You made no move to grab the tray. Not out of fear— out of defiance. The only power you had left was to refuse whatever they brought through that door, and you were going to use it until you couldn’t anymore.
The morning dragged on.
Muffled footsteps came and went, voices drifted from the rooms surrounding, you’d hear the occasional slamming of the door, and piece by piece you were gathering together the rhythms of the house— who’s where, when, and how often. Pete was downstairs most of the time, choosing to waste his day in the living room. Curtis and Ari came and went, taking it in turns to call out to each other to hurry up and Steve… Steve was harder to track, quieter, almost as if he was hiding.
Sleep was pulling at your eyelids, settling heavy in your bones. Your eyes fell on the silk sheets, and you let out a groan as you pushed yourself up from the floor. You walked to the dresser and found neat stacks of soft shirts and shorts, and picked the first set, slipping them on before trudging over to the bed. You pulled back the sheets and climbed in before lying down, facing the door.
You told yourself that you’d just have a rest, ten minutes, but a few hours later, the sun was setting heavy in the sky, and you awoke to the sound of the lock disengaging and the door swinging open. Your eyes slowly peeled open, and you found Jake, once again, standing in the doorway, with that wide, beaming smile and another tray of food in his hands.
“Oh! “Shit,” he cursed apologetically, “Were you sleeping?” I’m so sorry.”
He stepped further into the room, letting the door swing shut, and brought over the tray, pausing at the edge of the bed. His expression was open and friendly, which only made the whole situation feel more surreal and terrifying. He set the tray on the nightstand and looked down at you, and a grin of surprise set on his lips.
“And you’re dressed! Do you feel better? Is the bed comfy?”
Jake didn’t seem to possess the malice of the other men, or he was just more inclined to keep it well hidden. You shuffled yourself up, leaning back against the headboard as you simply stared at him, only giving a quick glance at the cup of steaming coffee on the tray. He grabbed the cup as he sat himself down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He held out the mug and gave you a small smile as you cautiously took it from him.
As you took a sip, he reached out, and you flinched back, earning a tut and a shake of his head as he ignored the action and flicked away a stray hair from your tear-stained cheek, catching the scent of citrus and expensive soap stuck to his skin as he tucked it behind your ear gently.
“You really need to eat, or Pete’s gonna come in here, and neither of us wants that, right?” Jake attempted to appeal as he leaned to pluck up the plate of pastries and place them on your lap. “I made sure they got the almond croissants; they’re stupidly good. I’d eat the whole box if Lloyd let me.”
Jake’s demeanor was an unsettling contrast to the horrors of the previous night. His eyes didn’t possess the predatory hunger of Pete’s, the manic intensity of Curtis’, or the coldness of Ari’s, but as he watched you, his gaze didn’t stop at your face. It drifted down slowly, lingering on the band in your shorts and the way the shirt clung to your frame. The kindness was there, but it was wrapped in the same possessive entitlement as the rest of the family.
“Can you stop staring before I lose my appetite, before I even get the chance to have one in the first place?”
Jake blinked, paused, and then let out a loud, delighted laugh, leaning back slightly with his hands raised.
“There she is!” He grinned. “I was wondering when some of that fire would come back. Welcome home, Sugar!”
Jake didn’t look offended, far from it. The snap of your tone acted like a spark, bringing a glimmer of genuine amusement to his expression. He didn’t rush to calm his gaze or apologize, though; instead, he looked at you with a renewed curiosity, as if you’d just performed a clever trick. It seemed as though, at least to Jake, that the more stubborn aspects of your personality, your defiance, weren’t just a boundary— it was entertainment.
“Sorry, Sugar,” he apologized sweetly, light and playful, as you reached for a pastry and inspected it. “It’s just… You’re really something. Most girls are just shaking and crying by the time they wake up here. You’ve still got a little bite to you. I really like that.”
Your head snapped up.
“Most girls?” You questioned. “As in… You’ve done this before?”
Jake’s smile didn’t waver, not even for a second, as he shrugged with a casual ease.
“Well, yeah?” He laughed. “You don’t pick up a new hobby like this overnight, right? Now, come on, you really need to eat.”
“I will— I just can’t right now.” You dropped the pastry back onto the plate and stared at his smile. “So, I’m not the first to stay here?”
“To stay?” He confirmed your questioning. “Yeah, like to actually stay, and be with us, but the girls who pissed Pete off tend to spend a night or two before whoever picks them up. Curt or Ari would give them a taste of what they’re in for, though—“
“Oh my God,” You groaned as your stomach lurched.
Jake’s admissions were delivered with a lightness that was bone-chilling. He revealed family secrets, their sordid activities, as if he were talking about nothing more than a mundane family tradition, like Sunday dinners or holiday gatherings. There wasn’t an ounce of shame in the voice, no hesitation. It seemed like, at least to him, that the cycle of bringing in women to the manor, stripping them of their lives and using them to pay off fabricated— or real— debts was simply the way the world functioned and you couldn’t help but hear Ari’s words from the night before, providing his notion about how this is how the world is was a shared delusion to all of them.
“Hey, Ari’s only following orders,” Jake attempted to fix. “He hasn’t done that in a long time, " he said. He was supposed to bring you in straight away and didn’t— Do you need me to grab the trash can?”
You shook your head and swallowed the lump in your throat before chasing it with the hot coffee.
“Why didn’t he?” You asked. “Bring me in right away?”
“Guess he liked you,” Jake replied, and you got the sense that Jake’s honesty got him in trouble a lot. “Said you were different. I just thought his head was like, all messed up from the divorce, but nope. Here you are, and he was right.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but Jake got there quicker.
“Hey, what did you say to Ari last night? He’s been in a mood all morning—“
“I want Steve,” You cut in.
“Is that what you said to him?”
“No, Jake,” You sighed as you pitched the bridge of your nose. “I want you to go and get Steve.”
“Oh,” Jake replied, sounding slightly wounded. His face fell slightly, and he nodded slowly as he got to his feet. “Yeah, sure, okay, I’ll… I’ll go do that.”
Without another word, he left. He closed the door firmly behind him, and the lock immediately engaged with a definitive click. The room fell silent again, save for the faint sounds of Jake’s retreating footsteps in the hall. You placed the plate and mug back onto the tray and smoothed down the sheets whilst staring at the door. You sat there for a while, waiting for the lock to click open again, but nothing— no one— came.
You sighed, threw back the covers, and crossed the room quickly. Your hand closed around the cold metal of the door handle. You twisted and pulled, but it still doesn’t budge. The lock held a firm, silent, unyielding reminder of your captivity.
You were well and truly sealed in. No matter how much you tried to be anything else.
You pressed your ear against the cool wood, straining to hear, but there was nothing but the heavy silence of the manor. Not footsteps, no voices, no slamming of the doors. You turned and placed your back against the wood and stared out the window, watching as the afternoon light set in. You stayed there, watching the trees and passing cars in the distance, until the sound of footsteps traveled up the hall.
The footsteps, cautious and familiar, paused just outside your door, and for a moment, you thought they’d disappear again; instead, a soft, hesitant knock followed. The sound was so surreal in a house of men that had shown in the short time you’d spent there that they’d found no need to knock. You edged away from the door, stepping back slightly as the lock clicked and the door cracked open gently.
Steve stepped into the room, eyes widening at the sight of you standing there, before what seemed like guilt settled heavily in the sea-blues of his eyes. He was dressed in simple, dark trousers and a soft grey sweater, his face etched with genuine concern, and he had shaved, which made him look years younger. His posture was slightly slumped as he closed the door and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking less like the usual predators that lurked in the doorway and more like a man who had been sent to clean up a mess he felt guilty about.
“Jake said you asked for me,” Steve said, voice soft and gentle. “I know apologies must mean nothing to you right now, but I am… I am so sorry. I tried to talk them out of it, but when Pete and Lloyd make a decision, they follow. No questions, no push back. I’m so sorry.”
Steve looked around the room, his eyes falling on the full trays.
“Have you eaten?” He asked. You shook your head, and he sighed. “You’ve had a really long night. You should try to eat something.”
He took another steady step forward, his eyes searching yours. He looked genuinely pained by your obvious fear, his brow furrowed with concern. He was a stark contrast to the brutal honesty of Ari, the upbeat chipper of Jake, and the cold calculation of Pete. He stood there, watching, waiting, his shoulders relaxing slightly as you nodded and moved towards the bed, and relief washed over his face as you took a small bite of the pastry.
Steve shifted his weight, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second before he looked back at you.
“You shaved,” You stated, really looking at him as you pulled a piece away from the pastry. “You look better without it.”
He gave a shy smile and a small nod.
“I know you hate all of us right now,” He shared quietly. “And you’ve every right in the world to, but… I want you to know that not everything here has to be a fight.”
“How can it not be?” You challenged.
Steve’s shoulders tense again, the weight of your question seeming to push down on him. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, a gesture that looked tired, almost defeated.
“What am I supposed to do? Just let you all use me?” You fired at him.
“Hey, I have no intention—“
“Would you do that? Would you just accept it? Well, I guess I have the answer to that, considering you're the ones whose finger works on that damn lock. And I'm the one stuck in the room.”
You threw the pastry back onto the plate and sat yourself down on the edge of the bed as Steve flinched, as if you’d struck him. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, unable to hold your gaze. The quiet of the manor felt louder now, pressing down on both of you. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing before he looked at you again. His voice was low and strained as he spoke.
“You think I like being the one who facilitates this? You think I enjoy this?” He gestured vaguely around the room, his hand trembling, eyes shadowed with a conflict you had seen the others possess. “I don’t like this, Sugar. I didn’t want this for you.”
“Then help me leave.”
Steve’s expression tightened, a war playing out behind his eyes. His gaze shifted between you and the locked door, his face a mask of conflicted agony, and you wondered if, and when, the kindness he showed was fragile. He shook his head, took a half step back as if physically recoiling from your plea.
“I... I owe them. Just like you. I can't just.. let you go. It's not my place to do so.” His voice was barely above a whisper, strained and heavy.
He looked down at his hands, his expression hardening further with a resolve that seemed to cost him something. “Look, Sugar,” He sighed heavily. “I know none of this is fair, but if you just… Cooperate, it’ll be easier. I'll make sure your time with me is easy; I’ll take care of you. If you wanna stay in here on Wednesdays and not see me at all, we can do that. I can offer you space, but that’s about it. At least, for right now.”
“I don't wanna be here. I didn't... Not all of that money was mine. You have to believe me,” You plead.
His face softened, giving a small nod, but it’s a sad, weary kind of softness.
“I believe you, Sugar, I do. But it doesn’t matter. If Pete believes it, then that’s the only truth that counts here. The numbers are whatever he says they are. Arguing about it will only make Pete and Lloyd dig their heels in deeper.” He stepped closer to you, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, intense and pleading. “Please, just… let me... let me try to make your time with me as painless as I can. That's the only power I have right now.”
Steve held your gaze for a long moment, and you searched his eyes for a shred of trust to hold on to; a hopeful solace in a house of horrors.
“Just give me some time to figure the rest out, okay?”
He said the last part with a grimace, as if the advice left a sour taste in his mouth. He looked down at his hands and then back at you, his face twisted with a mixture of guilt and a desperate need for you to understand the precariousness of your situation.
“Ari and Jake... they won't force you into anything you don't wanna do. Not really. Curtis and Lloyd... you're best just playing along with them. I know it'll be hard, but it'll keep you safe. And with Pete... he sighs, rubbing his temples, just grit your teeth and bear it. It'll be over quicker. It's easier to do than the others. Just get through it, the best you can.”
He looked at you with a pleading in his eyes, begging you to absorb his words, to understand that it was the only lifeline he could offer. The weight of his own powerlessness seemed to settle on him, making him appear older than his years; the youth that you had found on his face when he first came in seemed to vanish.
“Someone…” You started, hesitating for a moment. “Someone was outside my door last night. After Ari left. Was it you?”
His expression became unreadable for a moment, flickers of emotions scattering across his features until he settled into a weary resignation. The silence stretches, thick with anticipation.
“Last night?” He asked, voice low and cautious, before he shook his head. “No, Sugar, it wasn’t me. Maybe Ari felt bad—“
“It wasn’t Ari.”
“Pete, maybe,” He offered, scuffing a hand through the back of his hair and rubbing at the back of his neck. “He probably did the rounds, made sure the door was locked.”
He said the last words with a clear distaste, his jaw tightening, the muscle jumping under the skin. The admission hung heavy in the air, confirming your fears that your privacy here was simply an illusion, that you were constantly being watched.
“Definitely wasn’t Pete. No one tried the handle. They just stood there.”
“I don’t know then.” His eyes scanned your face, seeming to be choosing his next words carefully, almost weighing them. “Why don’t you—“
“I’ve been through so much shit in not even twenty-four hours. Please don’t lie to me,” You attempted to appeal.
The causal weariness dropped from his posture, replaced by a sudden sharp tension. His eyes darted from the door and then back to you before landing on the floor. You caught a flicker of alarm in his deep blues. He took in a slow breath, as if steadying himself.
The air in the room seemed to grow colder. Steve lifted his head, and his gaze had intensified; the previous softness had hardened into something more guarded. He studied you, as if reassessing you entirely. The fact that you could distinguish the footfalls of the various predators of the manor marked you as more observant, more attuned to your environment than he had perhaps presumed.
“You heard me screaming... And did nothing. And you come in here, being nice and giving me advice, and you do nothing to help me. When you had the opportunity to do so, and then you lied to me after spewing bullshit about wanting this to be painless.”
The accusation hung heavy in the air, sharp and absolute. Steve didn’t flinch, but the color drained from his face. The carefully constructed mask seemed to shatter, leaving behind the raw truth. For the first time, there’s no apology in his eyes; only a bleak, chilling acknowledgment.
His voice was flat, stripped of all pretense.
“You’re right.”
He made no attempt to justify it. He didn’t look away. He stood there, accepting the weight of your words, and the silence that followed was heavier than any that had come before, filled with the unspoken horror of what his inaction meant. He took a slight step backward, rocking slightly on his feet.
“I heard you, and I did nothing,” He admitted sullenly. “Because helping you was the one thing that could’ve gotten you hurt more… Worse, even. They wouldn’t have taken that out on me… It would’ve been you, and I won’t be the reason, I won’t give them a reason, for you to be hurt. I will not do it. You need to trust me, as hard as that will be, and trust that I want to help.”
You ponder for a moment, unable to find any more lies in his eyes. The longer you look at him, the more you wonder how a man like Steve could end up in a family like this, how a seemingly gentle soul wound up in a den of wolves. You relent, giving a small nod, needing to find something— someone— to hold on to in order to keep yourself sane, and Steve seemed to be the safest option next to Jake.
“Alright,” You agreed.
“Is there anything I can do? Get for you?”
You shook your head despite your stomach growling, protesting the lack of food in your system. It must have been loud because Steve’s eyebrow ticked up and he offered a small, knowing smile.
“I’ll grab you something light. I’ll be right back.”
You nodded, looked around the room, eyes falling on a small table by the window, and opted to take a seat, leaning back in your chair as Steve left. The afternoon light was slowly beginning to fade, casting long shadows across the carpet, the breeze outside picking up, causing the trees to sway; birds danced in the sky, and you envied their wings, and you couldn’t help but wonder if Steve envied them too.
It wasn’t long before he returned, a bowl balanced in his palm on top of a cloth, steam rising and releasing a rich, savory scent of soup. He walked over and placed the bowl carefully in front of you, revealing a simple, clear broth with a few pieces of chicken and vegetables. It looks plain, simple— honest. He reached into his back pocket to present and offer a spoon.
“Hopefully, this will be easier on your stomach. Eat what you can, and then I’ll find you something else later— Well, if you want,” Steve offered, tone light.
He stood back, hands hiding in his pockets again, and watched you with an expression that read as a mix of guilt and a grim sense of family duty.
“Thanks.” You smiled and took the spoon, sipping a little; the soup was surprisingly comforting.
Steve pulled out the chair across from you, the very same one you had attempted to break the window with, and sat down heavily, his gaze drifting out of the window to the manicured grounds below. For a long moment, neither of you spoke; the only sound was the mixture of your breaths and the clink of the spoon against the bowl.
“Jake said Ari was married.”
Steve’s gaze snapped back from the window and fell on you, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. He seemed thrown by the sudden breaking of the silence and the shift in conversation, especially by your chosen subject. He leaned back in his chair, a conflict pulling at his brows as if he was weighing how much he wanted, or could, share.
“Yeah,” He answered, letting out a slow breath. “He was. For a few years. His wife… She left, took the kid with her.” He looked down at his hands, folded on the table. His voice was low and tinged with something that didn’t seem like sympathy, more like a general weariness with the family’s dramas. “It’s part of why he’s… Well, why is he the way he is now? Closed off. He thinks he can’t trust anyone anymore. Thinks caring about someone just gives them a weapon to use against you later. Fails to see the part he played in it all.”
Steve nodded to himself, his eyes stuck on his hands. The admission hung heavy in the air, and you couldn’t quite find the words to reply as he shared a rare moment of candidness about the family’s grip on its members; the fading light cast long shadows across his face, emphasizing the lines of tension there.
“She wanted him out,” he continued to share. “To leave this all behind, but… I guess he was in too deep. I think we probably all are.”
He finally looked up at you, his blue eyes holding yours with a stark, unvarnished honesty, showing he was just a man who acknowledged he was trapped in the same cage you were.
“So, I take it that the club and trafficking girls is only the tip of the iceberg…” You attempted to pry.
Steve’s whole body seemed to tighten as he glanced around the room, as if checking for peering eyes and perked up ears. He rubbed at the back of his neck before his voice dropped quietly.
“The clubs the public face. Almost legitimate. Everything else happens elsewhere.”
“Everything else?” You probed, scooping up another spoonful of soup.
“If you can think of it, we’re in it,” Steve answered ambiguously. “If there’s a way to make a dirty dollar, we’ve got a hand in it. Pete’s Place is just… The prettiest part of the machine. Don’t ask me anything else, and don’t you even think about asking any of them, or you’ll really end up stuck here.”
Steve looked as if he had already shared too much; his shoulders tensed as he tried to lean back as far as the chair would allow, putting distance between you both. The brief moment of shared confidence was over.
“You don’t seem the type,” You said. “To do such things.”
Steve gave a small, wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if inspecting them for stains.
“I’m not,” He said quietly. “Not really. I— I have… I have a knack for finding things. I guess. Information, mostly. People, sometimes… but, my hands tend to stay… relatively clean.”
He let out a breath, his smile fading. His eyes drifted back to the window, the gold light of the fading daylight bled into the blue.
“Were you following me?” You asked bluntly, dropping the spoon into the bowl. “Is that how they knew?”
The question hung heavy in the air, sharp and direct. Steve’s posture seemed stiffened immediately, and for a moment, it didn’t look like he was going to acknowledge your questions, but he eventually met your gaze, the blue holding something complex, kind of like relief; as if he could finally give an honest, full answer. He shook his head, voice firm as he spoke.
“No, I wasn’t following you, Sugar. I’ve been… away for a while. Dealing with my own shit. I had no need to find you; Pete had already done that. He’d had his eyes on you from the start. He let you believe you were getting away with it, he let the debt build and waited for the right moment to call it in.”
He leaned forward slightly, expression earnest, as if willing you to believe this particular truth, which you did. The confession about his absence seemed to carry its own weight, a private burden he wasn’t ready to unpack.
“Do you promise that you’ll never ask me…” You paused, struggling to find the words. “That you’ll never want me like that? Like how they do?”
The question caught Steve off guard. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the weariness in his eyes seemed to deepen. He didn’t answer straight away, perhaps weighing the truth of his own desires against the promise you were desperately asking for— hoping for. His gaze softened, but it was a sad, resigned kind of softness, as you let out a breath of relief.
“Had this been any other situation,” He started, voice sounding sincere and soft. “In a bar, or a coffee shop— Hell, even the club…. I would’ve been trying every single shitty technique in the book to get you to come home with me. But this?” He gestured vaguely to the room around you. “This? I don’t want you like this. I won’t try a single thing. I swear to you.”
You pause for a moment, searching his face, his eyes, everything about him to try and find a shred of dishonesty; there isn’t any, or at least there doesn’t seem to be any. How you got lucky to find a bear in a wolf’s den you’d never know, but how grateful you were to have done so. You knew he couldn’t be there to keep them at bay, but he could be there to undo the damage and offer you rest in a house that was determined to keep you running.
“How do I deal with Curtis? With Lloyd? I know you already said to give in, but how? How do I give in to that? I can handle Pete; I’ve been doing that for months. Jake seems… Fine? I guess, if you can call it that. Ari’s an asshole, but again, easy to deal with. You were so upset about them, I—“
“Hey, hey,” Steve cut in, hand reaching out for yours hesitantly, and despite the pull for comfort, you slid your hand back. “Lloyd won’t force you. Not physically. But, he’ll make you feel like you wish he had. It’s a game to him. He wants to see you break, to give in because you want it all to stop. Just… Don’t cry. It spurs him on.” He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the advice clearly costing him parts of his sanity. “Curt… He’s a blunt instrument. That's the best way I can put it. He doesn’t play games the way Lloyd does. Don’t fight him; it’ll only excite him. The best thing to do is to give in and let him get bored. I’ll be there at his door wanting, and I’ll help you, I’ll care for you. It’s gonna be hard, and it’s gonna suck…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t find the words to finish explaining. “I don’t know what else I can do or say to prepare you.”
You nodded, unable to do anything else as you let the grim advice sink in. The soup sat unfinished between you both, growing cold along with your souls. Steve checked his watch as the sun dipped lower before he reached across the table and moved the bowl away from you. His movements were careful, like he was afraid that any sudden motion could shatter the fragile truce between you.
“Is there… Is there anything I can do for you?” Steve asked. “A bath, maybe? Let you clean up before… everything starts?”
“Ari’s fucking dreaming if he thinks I’m ever sleeping with him again.”
A short laugh escaped Steve, the corner of your own mouth ticking up slightly, a sound that surprised you both. It’s devoid of any real humor, more of a release of tension that you both desperately needed. He shook his head, an almost pitying smile tugging at his lips.
“Well, to relax then.”
He glanced towards the en-suite bathroom door, then back at you; a mixture of genuine concern and the grim understanding of what’s to come. “A hot bath might help? I mean, it’s better than just sitting here… waiting, and then you could try and get some more sleep.”
You nodded, knowing he was right, and drifting in hot water didn’t sound awful.
“A bath sounds good,” You agreed.
Steve nodded and got to his feet, the chair moving softly against the carpet. He crossed the room and disappeared into the bathroom, and soon after, you heard the faucet turn on, and the sound of running water filled the room. He returned a moment later, leaning against the doorframe and drying his hands on a small hand towel. He beckoned you over with a flick of his head and a small smile.
“It’s running, I’ll give you some privacy. I can leave—“
“Can you stay? Just for a bit longer?”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ll be right here. Call me if you need anything.”
You got to your feet and made your way across the room. Steve stepped aside to let you pass. You paused for a moment, staring up at him, and a sudden need for comfort clawed at your gut, but you pushed it down.
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” Steve replied, and stepped further into the bedroom.
You closed the bathroom door behind you with a parting smile. It was spacious, done up in the same gold and cream tones as the bedroom, with marble countertops and a deep, freestanding tub that sent over a luring scent of lavender as the bubbles inside climbed higher. The air grew warm and humid as you began to undress, realizing the smell of Ari and the sticky sickliness of the club still clung to your skin— a sordid mix of cologne, sweat, and smoke. You catch your reflection in the mirror; hair tangled and eyes wide with a mixture of fear, desolation, and the smoldering flame of your waning defiance.
You averted your gaze and stepped into the water, the heat a shocking comfort against your tense muscles. The cuts on your hands stung as they hit the water, acting as a harsh reminder that you were still here, still stuck. The steam rose around you, and for a few precious moments, the water washed away the grime of the club, the touches from Ari, and let you forget your cage. You leaned your head back against the cool porcelain, let your eyes fall closed, and allowed yourself to enjoy these last few moments of peace before the storm closed in.
You stayed submerged until the warmth had seeped deep into your bones, offering a temporary numbness. The water had begun to cool, and you reluctantly pulled yourself out; the air felt cool against your skin, making you shiver.er. You stepped out and reached for a thick, plush power and quickly dried yourself before plucking a robe hanging from the door. It swallowed you, sitting heavy on your shoulders and smelling faintly of clean linen.
As you stepped back into the bedroom, you found the space transformed. The trays of food had gone, the room was tidy, the bed neatly made up; the corner of the covers pulled back slightly to welcome you inside. Steve was perched on the window ledge, one knee drawn up; fingers clapped over his knee as he stared out at the darkening grounds. He turned as you entered, a soft smile touched his lips as he studied you.
“Feeling better?” He sought out. He nodded towards the nightstand, drawing your attention to a tall glass of water that now sat next to a small, wrapped chocolate. It was a small, almost childish gesture of care, starkly out of place. “Figured you might be thirsty.”
You nodded and grabbed the glass before sitting down on the edge of the bed. You drank the water slowly, the cool liquid a sharp contrast to the bath’s warmth. You felt Steve’s eyes on you from across the room. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable; it was the quiet of two people, both trapped in the same terrible situation, who had hoped to find a temporary peace. You heard Steve get to his feet as you placed the glass down, and you turned your head to meet his eyes as he walked around the bed's frame and came before you.ou. He offered out a hand, which you cautiously took, finding it warm and surprisingly gentle. He guided you up and led you a few steps back from the bed, his movement careful, almost reverent. He pulled back the heavy duvet and crisp sheets further.
He doesn’t say a word as he helps you into the bed, pulling up the covers as you slip underneath. He tucked the duvet around your shoulders, his touch lingering for a brief second before he pulled away.
“So?” He asked softly.
You wondered for a moment before realizing you hadn’t answered his previous question.
“Oh, um…” Your nose scrunched up as you offered an apologetic smile. “No, not really. Maybe for a moment.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve said, voice a soft murmur. “Get some rest. I’ll come check on you before… well, you know.”
He gave you one last, long look— pity, guilt, and something else you couldn’t quite name— before he turned and walked to the door. He paused at the threshold, hand on the handle until it clicked open, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the wood. Without turning back, he opened the door, stepped through, and pulled it shut; the sound was softer this time, almost an apology in and of itself.
You were left alone in the vast, silent room. The only light came from the moon outside the window and the short glare from under the door. The bed's comfort felt like a mockery. You closed your eyes despite sleep feeling like a distant country; the sounds of your own breathing and the creeping dread of what was to come were your only comfort, and as much as the logical side of you warned you to be careful, a deeper need begged for Steve to return quickly.
When your eyes next opened, the room was enveloped in darkness, and you found yourself lost in the time you fell asleep; however, where there should be silence, the sound of crisp burning filled your ears. You sat up, eyes darting to the corner of the room where you found Ari standing by the open window, smoke drifting around him.
“Get out,” You bit out.
Ari huffed out a laugh, almost coughing as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs.
“S’after midnight, Sugar,” Ari informed you smugly.
“I don’t care. I told you last night. I’m not giving you anything—“
“Yeah, that’s not gonna work,” He continued, as if you didn’t speak. “Fighting, screaming, attempting to starve yourself. All you’re doing is making it worse.”
"Then let me go."
"You know I can't do that."
"You mean you won't."
Ari’s jaw tightened as he took one last drag of his cigarette and threw the stub out of the window before pulling a small key from his pocket and shutting the window and locking it shut.
"You owe Pete. You broke the rules. This is the consequence,” He tried to embed, and you wondered if he was trying to convince you or himself.
"This is kidnapping," you spat. "This is—"
"This is survival," Ari interrupted,his voice hard. "Yours and mine. You think I want to be here? You think I want to do this?" He stepped closer to the bed, and you pressed yourself back against the headboard. "But I don't have a choice. And neither do you."
"There's always a choice."
"Not for you. Not anymore." He crouched down beside the bed so he was at eye level with you. His expression was cold. "You can keep fighting. Keep refusing. Keep making this difficult. And every time you do, Lloyd will add time to your debt. Every time you scream, every time you refuse to eat, every time you make Curtis or Pete or any of us work harder to keep you in line—you stay longer."
Your chest tightened.
"Or," Ari continued, rising up slowly to his feet, "you can accept it. Play along. Do what you're told. And maybe—maybe—you get out of here in a few months instead of a few years."
"I'm not going to—"
"Yes, you are." His voice is flat, harsh, and final. "Because the alternative is worse. Trust me. Today, you're mine— Whether you like it or not. And if you keep fighting me?" He leaned down towards the bed, fists pushing into the mattress as he glared over at you, something dark in his eyes. "You'll regret it."
And for the first time, the full weight of your situation crashed down on you like it hadn’t before. It sat deep in your chest and snaked around your throat. You weren't getting out; not by fighting, not by screaming, not by pleading. They had thought of everything. Every possible play you thought you had was already meticulously mapped out.
You found Ari was right about one thing:
This was survival, and you had every intention of getting out of there as quickly as you could.
